The Man In the Forest Part 6

She was eager to get going the next morning, and forced herself to sit and eat breakfast. She packed her bag hastily, paying little attention to the paints and brushes she was shoving in it.

When she was ready at last, she stood outside looking at the forest, hesitating. She wasn’t sure where to go, or whether or not she should take Ichibod. Laknir had said he would find her, but how could he if even she didn’t know where she was going? Ichibod, though he seemed no worse for wear after their long journey yesterday, nonetheless appeared rather content to graze in the paddock with Flora, so she decided to head out on foot.

She looked for Ranth, but, seeing no sign of him she hoisted her bag over her shoulder, turned north and started walking. The forest seemed more alive somehow, and she wondered if her encounter with Laknir had made her more sensitive to the power about which he’d spoken.

She walked for hours, enjoying the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, feeling the earth under her feet, listening to the birds sing and fly and rustle the leaves on the trees. Eventually, she came to a small clearing in which a single old tree stood tall against the sky. Immediately, she stopped, knowing that this was the place. She dropped down onto a fallen tree and swung her pack off her shoulder gratefully. Stretching, she looked around her, taking in the clearing and breathing deeply. Her legs ached and she drank deep from her water flask, content for now to just sit and recover her strength. She tried not to look for Laknir, but found herself scanning the tree line nonetheless, and, as the minutes ticked by, disappointment set in.

What is wrong with me? she asked herself, frustrated, what spell has this immortal cast on my poor mortal heart that I long for him as a drowning man might long for air? She’d never been the sort of mooning, romantic girl she’d despised in the town. Above all, she had always valued her independence, vowing that no one would touch her heart without her permission. She didn’t want love, she never had. She loved her mother and her sister, and that was enough. Or so she thought until…

She stood up abruptly, cutting off her own thoughts. Mechanically, she began unpacking her art supplies, setting up the collapsible easel and placing a fresh canvas on it. She took a breath, and studied the tree. It was an oak tree, a very sturdy species, and much higher than the surrounding trees. It stood alone in the clearing but for bunches of wildflowers growing at the base of the trunk. In pencil, she began to lightly sketch the outline as she started to see the painting in her mind. Without knowing why, she set the tree just off center, leaving the focus of the painting blank.

It was hours later before she paused. She’d moved on to paints, mixing them carefully to get just the right colors, and the work had progressed well. She sat on the fallen tree again, wiping at her forehead and drinking deeply. Her stomach growled suddenly, bringing to her attention just how hungry she was. She rummaged in her pack until she found the sandwich she’d made. Ravenous, she tore into it, her hunger seeming to intensify as the flavors of the greens she’d put in it hit her tongue. They were all vegetables from her own garden, with just a hint of mustard on the hearty grain bread, and so much more flavorful than the greens she’d slathered with butter and cheese as a child.

It was a moment before she noticed that he’d arrived. He seemed to appear between one blink and another, but she supposed it was only because he moved so quietly. She was just washing down the last of her sandwich with another cool drink of water when she looked up and saw him. A part of her wanted to leap up and run into his arms. Thankfully, she still had some dignity. She smiled at him instead, and he looked at her with that same peaceful contentment he’d shown the day before. He was leaning against the tree like it was an old friend, exactly as if he’d been leaning there since the beginning of time and would still be there at the end. Looking at him, she realized suddenly what had been missing in the painting.

Without speaking, she went to her easel and began to paint again. She worked for another hour picking out the details of his form, his clothing, his face and committing them to the canvas in a fever. But try as she might, she couldn’t get his face right. Just when she would think she’d got the line of the jaw, she would notice the eyes were all wrong, and then she would get them sorted and find that the nose wasn’t correct. She hadn’t painted many people, preferring landscapes and wildlife instead. She had been commissioned to do a portrait once, but the subject had greatly objected to her honest portrayal of the subject’s aging appearance, and threw a tantrum when Ryan refused to alter it, insisting stubbornly that she would only paint the truth, and if the woman wanted a portrait of a young, foolish girl she could buy one at any market fair. The woman had screamed at her then, and Ryan vowed never to do another portrait. So now, here she was, unable to capture the face before her, cursing her lack of skill.

She was on the verge of tears from frustration when he moved. He came around the painting without even glancing at it, and took her into his arms. She let her hands fall to her sides, afraid to get paint on him, and buried her face in his chest. She breathed in the scent of him (like crisp morning air, or warm sun after rain) which relaxed her immediately, and he tipped her face up to kiss him. His kisses were sweet and rich, awakening a need that frightened her. Later, after he’d left her, she felt his loss keenly.

The kisses didn’t stay with her this time, leaving her with a feeling of emptiness as she walked home. She had asked to see him the next day, but he’d said no.

“You must go into town,” he’d told her, “It is your market day.” She didn’t ask how he knew what day she usually took her produce to market.

She was distracted at the market. She usually harvested what she wished to bring the day before, but since she’d spent the day before in the woods, she was only able to bring as much as she could harvest that morning. Also, she was short with one of her best customers, Mrs. Eversmyle, who eyed her sharply but didn’t say anything. It annoyed her, the way Mrs. Eversmyle looked at her, as if she guessed something of what had happened. But how could she, Ryan assured herself, who could possibly dream up something like Laknir? Still, it worried her, for she did not wish anyone to know who she had met in the woods, and she compensated by being extra nice to Davey Phillips who blushed and stuttered because he had always been a bit sweet on Ryan and had never seen her smile so brilliantly at him.

Her mother and sister came by to visit her stall, as they always did on market days, and when Ryan snapped at her mother when she noted how little Ryan had brought to market her mother looked at her with a similar expression to Mrs. Eversmyle’s.

“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Mother said casually, as she was helping Ryan pack up her baskets and count out her profit. As much as she would have liked to refuse, she knew she couldn’t. Her mother could be very stubborn when she wanted to be, and if she believed there was something wrong with Ryan, she would make the trek out to Laknir Lodge every day for a month if she had to, just to get to the bottom of it. So Ryan had dinner with them, only half-listening to her sister describe Elsie Louise’s birthday party, and how when she turned 12 she wanted to invite every boy in the neighborhood and have a 12 tiered cake.

“One for every year,” Heather finished with a nod.

“You are not going to have a 12 tiered cake, Heather, unless you choose to bake it yourself,” Mother said wryly. “And you don’t turn 12 for another year, so I think we can leave off planning for a little while yet.” There was silence as Heather sulked, stirring her stew unhappily. “I saw Tom the other day,” Mother mentioned casually, without looking up from the bread she was buttering.

Ryan’s spoon clanked against the side of her bowl.

“He’s home for the summer to help out his father,” Mother continued. “Maybe you should go see him?”

Ryan frowned at her stew. “Why would I do that?” she mumbled.

“I thought you were friends,” Mother replied, eyeing her daughter shrewdly.

“We are,” Ryan said, her voice sounding strained and slightly defensive.

“But?” Mother prompted.

Ryan looked up finally. “I’m just busy, Mom. I’ve got my garden, and the barn roof needs patching, and I’m supposed to take Flora to Apple Ranch to be bred, and I still haven’t painted the house…” she trailed off.

“Still,” her mother said, “I’m sure Tom would like to see you sometime before he has to go back to the university.”

It was late by the time Ryan set off for home. Her mother had asked her repeatedly to stay the night, arguing that it was too dangerous to travel so late, but Ryan refused. She had her gun, and it was a full moon. They argued right up until the moment Ryan mounted Ichibod and threatened to leave without saying goodbye.

Reluctantly, Mother watched her go.