Vera Ashwood's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Vera followed the smoke until the trees thinned and a clearing opened in front of her. A cabin stood in the middle of it. Bark-covered walls, a steep roof, a stone chimney pushing gray smoke into the cold sky. The windows were dark. The door was shut. She crouched behind a fallen log at the edge of the clearing and watched. Her knee throbbed under her hand. The baby did not move. She counted to two hundred. No one came out. No sound from inside but the low pop of a fire. A cabin like this, alone in the woods, with a fire going and no one watching the road — it could be a trapper's place. It could be bait. She had seen men use fires to draw the living in. She had also seen people hide because hiding was the only way to stay alive. She could not tell from here. She had maybe six days left. She could not waste one being wrong. Then she saw the lantern. It hung from a hook beside the door, black metal with glass panels. Three candles burned inside it, steady and bright in the afternoon gray. Someone had lit it and hung it out in daylight. Someone who wanted travelers to see. Vera stared at the flames. A trap would be quiet. A trap would not waste candles. The dead did not light fires, and the dead did not keep watch. She stood up. Her legs shook. She crossed the clearing slow, both hands open at her sides so anyone watching from inside would see them empty. Halfway across she smelled herbs — something dry and green burning in the chimney smoke. Not pine. Not trash. Medicine. She stopped at the door and knocked twice with the flat of her hand. The door opened a crack. An old woman looked out at her — gray hair, a knife held low and ready. Her eyes went to Vera's belly, then to the soft gray skin along Vera's jaw. The woman did not flinch. She opened the door wider. Behind her Vera saw stone walls, bundles of dried plants hanging from the beams, a kettle on a low fire. Jars on a shelf. A cot with clean blankets. The room smelled of crushed leaves and woodsmoke. "You're turning," the woman said. "And you're carrying." "Three weeks in," Vera said. "She has about one left. I was told there's a bloodline in Eucalypt. A cure." The woman looked at her a long moment. Then she stepped back from the door. "Come inside before something else smells you," she said. "I can't give you what you came for. But I know who can, and I know the road." Vera crossed the threshold. The door shut behind her. For the first time in three weeks, she was indoors.