Chapter 4
Chapter Four
I’m a tech support worker by day and a gamer by night.
No matter what time it is, I’m sitting at some desk somewhere.
Hiking is not my thing, and nature belongs on my computer screen.
I am not made for this. On top of that, my heart is pounding a million beats a minute because I’m freaking the fuck out about suddenly being in a forest. No matter how much I pinch or slap myself, I can’t seem to wake up.
My legs and my brain aren’t equipped to get me out of this forest right now.
My only other choice is to sit around hoping someone will rescue me, though.
Since it seems my cell phone has run off to wherever my wallet and headphones are fucking hiding, I don’t have any way to reach out for help.
Even then, could I tell them where the hell I am?
So I head where the most light filters through the leaves.
Not even thirty minutes into this, I’m already regretting this plan. The hard ground gives way to murky patches of swamp, exposing the trees’ woven and gnarled root system. So, of course, a woody knot introduces itself to my toes.
“Holy fuck!” I scream as my clumsy ass falls into the mud, intense pain radiating up my twisted ankle.
Panic floods me to the point of hyperventilation for a spell. But then a strange peace settles over me. It’s like someone popped a Xanax into my mouth and made me swallow. I’m fuzzy all over, wanting to touch and taste everything I can.
Did someone at the store drug me? Is this all a hallucination?
Another bolt of pain shoots up my ankle.
I’m not imagining that!
When I was a teenager, I took a job as a lifeguard at a community pool to make enough money to buy some games on my wish list. To get the job, I had to be first aid certified. Ten years later, I still remember everything I learned.
“R.I.C.E. Rest, Ice, Compress, and Elevate,” I mumble to myself. I look around at my swampy surroundings and call out, “My kingdom for an ice pack!”
Well, I’ll do what I can for now and then see what I can manage if I get out of here. Rifling through my purse produces some breath mints, a few crumpled receipts, a broken hairpin, and a plethora of other useless items. There is aspirin though, and I swallow two pills dry.
There’s nothing to ice this sprain and nothing to compress it…Except…
I groan at the cliché solution.
I’m not attached to the t-shirt I’m wearing. It’s just what I wear when I’m behind on laundry. It was a misguided gift from Doug—or maybe a thoughtless one is a better way to describe it.
Early in our relationship, he’d somehow gotten it into his head that I was a big fan of this anime about girl superheroes labeled by their favorite flowers.
I’m not sure if I said something that got blown out of proportion, or if he just thought I was a fan because all the girls he knew loved it.
So, across my chest is a picture of the show’s main character, Star Lily, winking and flashing a peace sign with hearts and butterflies forming a halo over her yellow hair.
Sorry, girl. It’s you or me.
I attempt to tear my shirt, but the material is thick. As ugly as the shirt is, it’s made from high-quality cloth. I can’t tie the whole shirt around my ankle, though, so I keep trying, and it finally tears…right down the middle, exposing my bra and stomach.
Goddamn it! Now I’m injured and my boobs are out.
I know I can tear the cloth now, though, so I take the shirt off all the way and tear at it until I have a reasonable length of cloth to wrap around my ankle.
I’m tempted to throw the shirt away, but the light coming through the forest is starting to dim, and there’s a chance I could fall again, so I stuff the tattered thing into my purse.
With great effort and a lot of swearing, I get up and hobble on as best as I can. Because of my injury, I move at a snail’s pace. By the time I finally break free of the forest, it’s tar black outside, save for the bright stars in the sky.
I haven’t seen a night sky like this since I was a kid.
Being a homebody means that I’m seldom out at night. Even when I do go out, I live in a light-polluted city. The constellations above me now aren’t familiar at all. They’ve become strangers since I stopped caring about what was in the sky. I wonder why I did. They’re breathtaking, almost unreal.
I scan the area and laugh when I see the glow of lamplight through a house’s window, knowing someone there might be able to help.
This last part of the trek was the most painful.
My swollen ankle desperately needs to be elevated and iced, and my aspirin has worn off completely.
That strange sedation that calmed me before has vanished.
So when a burly man with a mop of brown hair and a friendly smile opens the door, I cry with relief.
“Oh, thank God,” I say, wiping the tears off my cheek. “Sir, I need your help. I’m injured.” I motion to my ankle, which now looks like a red balloon.
The man doesn’t look. Instead, he moves out of the way and says, “Please, come in.”
Because it was so dark outside, I hadn’t gotten a good look at the exterior of the house, but the interior isn’t what I expected at all. It looks as though someone built it from mud. There’s a fire in the clay fireplace and a pot of something bubbling over the flames.
It’s all one room, too, with a bed in the corner and what looks like might be a kitchen next to the fireplace because there’s a table with some fruit on it.
“Lovely home,” I say, trying to mean it, or at least sound like I do. I don’t want to be rude to this gracious man.
After another glance at my host, I realize he’s a little odd like his house. He’s wearing a tunic made of what looks like burlap, cinched with a leather belt.
He must notice the questions in my eyes because he says, “Sorry for the way I look. Farming makes me sweaty.”
Oh, he’s a farmer. I guess that’s why everything’s so rustic.
“I haven’t had a guest in a long time,” he continues. “I’m not used to making myself presentable.”
These words remind me that I’m standing in his house without a shirt on, and I cross my arms over my chest.
The man doesn’t seem to notice, but I’m sure he’s just pretending. I don’t want to brag, but my tits are hard to ignore, even when they’re under a t-shirt.
“I’m Celeas,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. Can I sit down somewhere?”
“Make yourself comfortable.”
There are only two places to sit: on a stool by the table or on the bed. Seeing as I need to elevate my leg, the bed seems the more reasonable choice. It feels impolite, though.
“Is…is it okay for me to sit on your bed and prop my leg up?”
“Make yourself comfortable,” the man says again, as he stirs the liquid boiling over the fire.
“Okay…”
There’s a small, lumpy pillow on the bed. It feels incredibly rude to use it to elevate my foot, but Celeas told me twice to make myself comfortable. I lay back with my foot propped up the two inches the pillow can provide. It isn’t much, but it’s worlds better than traipsing all over the forest.
“I hate to intrude on you any further, but do you have any ice?” I ask.
“You can buy supplies at the temple,” Celeas answers.
“Yeah, it doesn’t look like you have a fridge. Thanks, anyway.”
Celeas moves from the pot and sits on the stool where he stares through me silently. I feel a strange tug of familiarity in that action and the tilt of his head.
Déjà vu.
“Can I use your phone? I just need to get a ride home so I can leave you in peace.”
“Make yourself comfortable,” Celeas says again.
His response gives me the creeps for no reason I can explain. I take a steadying breath, trying to shake away the strange feeling that something’s wrong. This is the only person around as far as I can see in the dark. He’s done everything he can to, well…make me comfortable.
“You don’t have any tech? Are you Amish or something?”
“I’m a farmer by trade,” Celeas answers.
“Yeah, you mentioned that earlier.”
I swallow down an anxious lump in my throat. Every true crime podcast I’ve ever listened to is playing through my brain. Staying at this man’s house until daylight doesn’t seem like a good idea, and walking around in the dark hoping for a ride home is an even worse one.
I’ll lie down for a bit to rest my ankle. Maybe it’ll feel somewhat better soon, and I’ll have a solution.
I lay my head down, and the fuzzy feeling from before washes over me again. It helps with the pain in my ankle, but it’s making it so I can barely think at all, and my eyelids grow very heavy.
Within minutes, I’m dreaming of a beautiful woman caressing my cheek. “You’ve done well,” she says. “Bring me an offering, and I will reward you.”
Then a disembodied but clear voice says, “Cleric of Aphrodite: Level 1. Spell Gained: Healing of Minor Wounds.”