Between Nowhere and Not Yet #4
He rummaged through his cutlery until he found his smallest knife.
A few days earlier, he’d stumbled on a cache of mushrooms tucked beneath a fallen log—stout, meaty, and fragrant.
He wiped them clean with a damp cloth, then sliced them into thick ribbons.
Two generous handfuls went into the pot; the rest, he tucked away for another day.
Steam rose as he dipped the spoon into the pale broth. He blew gently across its surface before tasting.
The flavor was everything he’d hoped—salty, clean, layered with the early hints of ginger and bay.
The seaweed would take time to soften, and the clams would need another few minutes to open.
Still, it was already a meal worthy of any sailor’s praise.
If only he had some hardy bread to sop it up, though flatbread would do.
He added water to a bowl of coarse flour—brought against his better judgment, and only because of his mother’s firm insistence.
As he whisked the batter with a fork, breaking up stubborn lumps, he silently thanked her and smiled.
Once the batter smoothed, he set the soup aside and placed a pan over the fire.
A spoonful of lard melted quickly, sizzling in the heat.
He poured in the batter and lifted the pan to swirl it evenly.
When bubbles formed, he slid a fork beneath one golden edge and flipped it deftly, revealing a crisp, browned surface.
His father had taught him to make it—simple peasant bread, born from hunger and resourcefulness.
Water, flour, heat, and time. Nothing more.
A few morning’s ago, he woke to find the tide licking at his tent, he’d moved his camp inland to the pool’s protective embrace. The winds at the cove had grown violent, the waves unpredictable. It was only luck that spared him and his belongings from being swept away.
Now, beneath the granite cliffs, life was quieter. The waterfall had dwindled to a silvery trickle, but the stone walls held back the wind, and the overhang kept most of the rain at bay. Still, there was one flaw—sunlight.
The pool sat in deep shadow. On bright days, there was only the faintest light. On cloudy ones, the hollow felt like twilight at noon.
But here, with a bubbling pot and warm bread crisping in his pan, Nic let himself revel in the simple joy of making something good with his hands. Between the pulse of stone and steam, the meal tasted like comfort—like home, if only for a moment.
Nic tore a strip of flatbread and dipped it into the simmering broth, the crust softening in the heat.
He lifted his gaze to the waterfall—now a mere wisp gliding down stone, delicate as spun glass.
Only weeks before, it had been a roaring curtain of white, regal and wild, like the veil of a mountain queen commanding her realm.
But now, in the heart of midwinter, it had transformed.
The cascade had softened into gossamer threads, trailing like lace from the hem of a woodland maiden's dress as she danced unseen through the forest.
He glanced at his watch—just a few more minutes. The sky was clear save for a few pale wisps, and soon the descending sun would reach its perfect angle.
He turned back to the fall, heart quickening.
He had discovered this quiet miracle after relocating his camp to the shelter of the cliffs.
He wasn’t a scholar, but he knew enough of nature’s rhythms to mark the dance of light and season.
Each day, the beam shifted—minute by minute, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Soon, the moment would pass entirely, lost until next winter.
And then, unless another pair of mortal man’s eyes stood exactly here, it would go unseen. Forgotten.
He tightened his grip on his spoon. His breath caught. His heart raced as though it were not the sun but Helen leaning close, her lips poised above his.
He had missed the light show yesterday—the sky too heavy with clouds. But today, he would see it. He needed to see it. As he once basked in Helen’s kiss, now he waited to be touched by this fleeting magic.
And then—it happened.
Sunlight struck the granite like the stroke of a god’s brush.
The stone walls ignited with molten gold.
The entire chasm filled with warm firelight, chasing away the shadows.
The trickling waterfall blazed alive, transformed into a living ribbon of flame that tumbled toward the pool in waves of liquid amber.
For a breathless instant, the water's surface turned to goldleaf.
Nic could only stare. He drank in the sight with desperate hunger, his soul aching from its beauty.
The sheer miracle, unfolding in silence, lit an ancient ember in his chest. He had never left Crimisa, but he could not imagine any other place on earth holding something so sacred, so secret.
How had no one ever told this story? How could such splendor go unnamed, unknown?
Perhaps no one had seen it. Perhaps it waited just for him.
And then—like a sigh—the sun shifted. The light slipped away. The fire faded. Shadows returned, quiet and complete. The cascade dimmed, once more just water over stone.
Nic raised the bowl to his lips and drank. The broth was hot, briny, rich with sea and earth. It filled him with heat, sank deep into his belly, soaked through his limbs. He sighed, content.
The air was already cooling. Here—in Elysium—in the hollow beneath the cliffs, day never lingered long. Night would fall hard and cold, but for now, he carried fire inside him.
Nic closed one eye and took careful aim. He drew back his elbow, the bowstring humming softly with tension. High above, the turkey shifted in the branches—restless, but not yet alarmed. He released. The arrow flew swift and true.
With a wild flurry of wings, the bird gave a panicked leap—then tumbled, struck, crashing down through limbs and leaves before vanishing into the thicket below.
He stood, brushing stray needles from his knees. “That’s supper,” he shouted with a triumphant grin, then plunged into the undergrowth to retrieve his hard-earned prize.
The turkey had landed deep in a thorny bush, and he had to wrestle his way through brambles to reach it. A few scratches bloomed red along his knuckles by the time he pulled the bird free—large, dark-feathered, and heavy with promise. He whistled low, half in admiration.
He hadn’t seen a wild turkey since leaving the summit.
When he’d first heard the distinctive, throaty call of a tom echoing through the trees, something instinctive stirred—an old memory of family hunts, of campfire meals cooked slow and savory.
It took hours of tracking, inching through the woods, matching pace with the bird’s wary movements.
His first arrow had missed. After that, the tom had grown cautious.
Skittish. Nic had waited—silent, unblinking—for the perfect moment to try again.
Now, it had paid off.
He crouched beside the tom, respectfully turning it over in his hands. It was a fine bird—substantial, well-fed, a harvest that would feed him for days. With practiced ease, he began to pluck and dress it, setting aside feathers and scraps for the woodland scavengers.
“Nothing wasted,” he murmured. “Circle stays unbroken.”
He wrapped the meat carefully, his fingers moving with the quiet satisfaction of a man who knew he’d earned his meal—and perhaps, in some small way, his place in this wilderness.
He lay sprawled across the smooth stone, gazing dreamily at the narrow sliver of starlit sky framed by the encircling cliffs.
The trickle of the waterfall murmured beside him, easing the tightness from his joints, coaxing breath into deeper rhythms. The gentle pace of the pool’s lapping edge softened his thoughts until they slipped loose—floating beyond the cove, beyond the mountain, into the velvet-darkness of the sky.
He had feasted that evening—roasted turkey crackling at the edges, mushrooms earthy and rich.
Between gluttonous mouthfuls, he'd tossed bones into a pot to simmer a fragrant stock. It wasn’t wise, not after days of modest rations, but hunger had led and he had gladly followed.
Full to bursting, sleep crept up on him like mist, softening him from within, until even the stars above blurred at the edges.
Nic’s mind wandered far, unmoored from weight and weariness. He felt as though he were gliding, a bird borne on moonbeams. He soared above the cliffs, through flurries of stardust, guided by the silent pull of the moon. But to where?
He rolled to one side, eyes tracing the inky shimmer of the pool’s surface.
Stars blinked back at him in reflection, scattered and unreachable.
The flight continued in his mind—drifting upward, toward snow-laced trees.
Cold air met his lungs. Below, the North Town Lake stretched wide and frozen, glinting like obsidian glass.
There, nestled on the hill, Helen’s villa slumbered beneath a quilt of snow. Smoke plumed from the chimney—quiet, soft, a promise that she was home, waiting.
He longed to pause, to press his hand against the familiar doorframe. But the air tugged at him, and he drifted on.
Reaching blindly, he found the figurine he'd carved—the rough little man born of granite and idle hours. He hadn’t meant to make himself, but the echo of his own sorrow had shaped its flawed form, the jagged scars across the face left where the stone refused to yield.
He held it aloft, letting it travel with him beneath the stars as he sailed now toward the coast.
The sea stretched infinite and lightless, a mirror to the void above. He wanted to stop, to turn back for home, but the current of his dream pulled him forward, swift and unstoppable.
And then—the land.
Unfamiliar, broken.
Charred trees clawed skyward. Fires devoured buildings he didn’t recognize.
Smoke bloomed thick and choking, veiling the moon.
Was this Nesaea? It couldn't be. He’d never seen those roads before.
But he felt it. Dust and ash and devastation.
He raised his arms against the storm of flame, shielding eyes that could not unsee.
He gasped awake, his whole body jolting upright. His chest heaved as though he'd been drowning. Sweat chilled his skin despite the still night. The peace of the cove felt suddenly fragile—like a dream he could fall out of again at any moment.
In his fist, the figurine.
His palm was damp, skin indented by the shape of it. He looked to the pool, its surface now unmarred, but in his mind, the fires of a war still burned beneath the surface. Without thinking, Nic stood. Drew back his arm.
And threw.
The figurine sliced through silver moonlight and plunged into the black abyss.
Water surged up in a spray, then fell into concentric ripples, breaking the quiet in slow, widening rings. The reflection of stars fractured and swayed. And Nic stood motionless at the edge, haunted by something he couldn’t name—only feel.