Mista Jones's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

Wim could not stay in the lean-to. The boy needed walls and a door, not branches and rope. Mista lifted him carefully, the doll still pressed to his chest, and carried him along a quiet path he had not walked in weeks. A gray squirrel watched from a low branch, then darted off into the leaves. The cabin sat tucked between mossy stones, its roof green with growth, a heavy lock on its sturdy door. Smoke had never risen from its chimney while Wim was near. Mista had kept this place ready for someone, though he had not known who. He set the boy on the hammock outside and unlocked the door. Inside was small but dry. A cot. A blanket. A shuttered window. Mista carried Wim in and settled him on the cot. The boy's eyes tracked every movement, but his grip on the doll loosened. That was enough for now. Outside, Mista built up the stone ring he had laid long ago. He hung the iron pot from its wooden tripod and fed the fire small, dry sticks that gave little smoke. Soon broth bubbled inside, thickened with dried roots and a strip of salted meat from his pack. He brought a bowl to Wim and helped him sit up. The boy ate in slow, shaky spoonfuls, then faster. Color crept back into his face. When the bowl was empty, his eyes began to close. Mista pulled the blanket to his chin. He waited until Wim's breathing went deep and even. Then he stepped to the door and looked out at the dark trees. Three nights. Men with dogs. The boy was safe now, fed and warm behind a locked door. Tomorrow he would ask which way they had gone.