Mista Jones's Arc

Chapter 5 of 6

Mista sat at the lean-to's opening and watched the boy's chest rise and fall. The shelter blended into the trees, its branch frame wrapped tight with rope and crowned with dried leaves. From three paces out, it looked like nothing at all. But inside slept a problem Mista could not build around. He spotted something in the dirt beside the mat. A small wooden sword, its handle wrapped in worn cord. The boy must have clutched it through the fall and let it slip when sleep took him. Mista picked it up and turned it slowly. A child carried a toy blade into the Grim Forest alone. That meant running, not wandering. Mista reached into his pack and drew out a pale birch doll he had carved months back for no one in particular. He set it within arm's reach of the sleeping boy, beside the wooden sword. Then he moved to the opening and waited. The boy stirred near dusk. His hand found the doll first. He froze, eyes wide, breath caught. Mista did not move closer. He spoke low, the way he might to a spooked animal. He said his name. He said the boy was safe. He said the ankle would heal. The boy clutched the doll to his chest and began to cry. Between shaking breaths, he spoke. His name was Wim. Men with dogs had taken his sister three nights ago. He had run and run and fallen. Mista listened, and the shape of his next task settled hard in his chest. The workshop was no longer a someday thing. It was a tomorrow thing, and now there were two children who needed it.