Quebite's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The nettle ring held, but the trail did not hide. Quebite stood at the top of his hill and looked down. A line of bare dirt ran from the base of the slope right to his door. He had torn it up himself, dragging nettles. Anyone could follow it. He needed to cover it before someone did. He looked for something to spread over the dirt. Near the slope grew a broken tree stump, hollowed out in the middle. He climbed inside and found it packed with dry pine needles. He grabbed a handful. The needles were brittle and curled and the color of the dead leaves all around. If he scattered them over the trail, the bare dirt would blend into the forest floor. Quebite worked fast. He hauled armloads of needles from the stump down to the base of the hill. He sprinkled them along the torn earth, then packed more on top. He covered the trail one step at a time, from the bottom of the slope up toward his door. His arms itched with needle dust. His hands still burned from the nettles. He was halfway up when he heard boots on the gravel below. Quebite dropped flat. Someone was coming. He scrambled back to the hollow stump and squeezed inside. He peeked through a crack in the bark. A stranger walked the base of the hill, slow, head down, studying the ground. He stopped where the trail began. Quebite's chest pounded. The man crouched and poked the dirt. Right there, the pine needles lay thin. The bare line still showed through. The stranger stood. He stepped onto the covered trail and started up the slope, following the dirt line with his eyes. Each step brought him closer to the slanted stone and the door below it. Quebite held his breath inside the stump. Then the man reached the fresh needles, where Quebite had packed them thick. The trail vanished under a brown blanket that matched the whole forest floor. The stranger stopped. He turned in a slow circle, searching for the line he had followed. It was gone. He kicked at the needles, found only more needles, and frowned. He walked a few steps sideways, then a few more, and lost the hill entirely. After a while he turned and tramped back down toward the gravel. He did not look up at the slanted stone once. Quebite waited until the boots faded. Then he climbed out and finished the job. He covered the last stretch of bare earth right up to his door. When he stepped back, no dirt line showed. His hill looked like every other hill. But as he smoothed the final needles, he saw the stump. He had emptied it. A bald patch of scraped ground now circled the hollow trunk, and a thin new trail ran from the stump to his door, worn by his own feet.