Petunia shrieked, instinctively throwing what she held in her hands at the stranger — branches and twigs showered to the ground like a waterfall — and, without taking her eyes off the terrifying dark figure, jumped back.
The movement slammed her back into a tree that had suddenly appeared behind her.
The unexpected impact knocked the wind out of her, and she froze.
Trembling like a small animal, she pressed herself against the tree trunk, almost wishing she could turn into a little mouse and run away.
Silence descended.
The first evening insects began their chirping songs.
The terrifying ghost continued to stand outside, as if there were a closed gate before it instead of a flimsy arch of three logs, and the part that should have been its face was turned toward Petunia.
She, neither alive nor dead, huddled against the tree in fear.
The situation wasn’t moving anywhere.
The ghost, for some reason, wasn’t entering.
Petunia couldn’t find the strength to peel herself from the tree and run.
Maybe even screaming and yelling for the whole area to hear.
Whatever.
Finally, the cloaked figure stirred and moved slightly closer — not a single blade of grass bent under it, and a branch from the nearest bush passed through the tatters of its cloak without meeting any resistance.
It extended from under the cloak thin hands wrapped in rags and reached toward the arch.
Petunia squeezed her eyes shut in terror.
There was no doubt the monster meant to enter, and she tensed internally, bracing for the inevitable, terrible fate…
…but it didn’t come, and it didn’t come.
Petunia dared to open one eye.
The ghost stood with its hands raised, as if its palms were pressed against an invisible but insurmountable barrier, and the rags wrapped around its hands were quietly smoldering in the darkness.
That must hurt, flashed through Petunia’s mind like lightning, and she involuntarily cried out: “Your hands!” and bit her tongue.
But the ghost heard her.
It withdrew its hands from the magical barrier and shook them, scattering tiny fireflies of kindled sparks onto the ground, then pressed its palms together in a prayerful gesture and froze in that position.
Petunia was puzzled.
He…
it wasn’t praying to her, was it?
Then…
a letter from Mr.
Cory, received the day before yesterday, suddenly popped into her memory.
As far as she remembered, the fourth point stated: “‘If someone comes to the farm, try to help them, whatever the request.'” Mr.
Cory!
Couldn’t you have hinted at who might need help?!
Petunia complained mentally, and the absent but vividly imagined Mr.
Cory raised an eyebrow and replied something like “not in your case to be picky,” thereby completely dismissing her objections.
Unable to hold back, Petunia hissed a couple of curse words under her breath, for which her parents would have washed her mouth out with soap.
The ghost continued to stand with its hands clasped in supplication.
The rags showed scorch marks from its contact with the protective barrier, and pity for this creature thawed in Petunia’s heart.
“Listen,” she tried to say, but her voice wouldn’t obey.
She cleared her throat and tried again: “Listen!” She decided not to peel away from the tree.
The ghost didn’t change its stance, but tilted its hood slightly, indicating it heard her.
“What do you want?” she asked directly and immediately rephrased: “I mean, how can I help you?
I can’t do much…” She fell silent.
The ghost’s hands moved again.
He cupped his hands together and raised them to his face several times, as if…
“You want water?” Petunia asked incredulously.
The ghost hesitated and then nodded affirmatively.
And nodded again.
There was water.
It was in the pot where Petunia had poured the boiling water that morning and had already cooled.
But the pot was in the cottage, and to get to the cottage she’d have to walk, leaving the monster behind her.
She looked at the ghost again.
It stood obediently in place, still holding its hands cupped together.
Like a beggar humbly asking for alms.
“Alright,” she shook her head, making a decision.
She said, “I’ll bring water now.
Wait here for me.
Understand?” The ghost nodded again.
Like a bobblehead.
Petunia gathered her will and literally pried herself from the tree.
Losing her support, she felt weak and helpless, and even more frightened.
And turning her back to the ghost…
She slapped herself across the face and went for the water on legs that stumbled from weakness.
At the porch, she collapsed right onto the steps.
Through the single window of the cottage, she could see the warm glow of the fireplace.
She imagined how nice it would be inside right now — warm and cozy, she could reheat yesterday’s soup, add a little water, and finally have a proper meal.
And have nothing to do with the horrors lurking in the night.
She didn’t know the magical world was so scary!
Lily had never…
Petunia clicked her tongue.
Lately, she’d often thought of her sister, with or without reason.
But really, should she assume the magical world was scary for Lily?
She was one of them there!
Just as abnormal as all the others.
She, Petunia, was not like that.
These thoughts suddenly made her disgusted with herself.
As if they allowed her to do base things, hiding behind weakness.
For example, forgetting the request she had promised to fulfill.
No, she definitely wasn’t like that.
She didn’t want to be like that.
“You asked for this yourself, Tuney,” she hissed angrily, forcing herself to her feet.
Her legs trembled and felt like jelly.
“Now don’t cry.
Remember?
You need to last a year.
Three days have already passed.
There’s almost nothing left!” She flung open the door with a crash, went inside, poured boiled water into a mug and headed back.
It was almost dark.
The shadows deepened among the trees, and from the bushes the sounds of jumping iron began again, but the ghost waiting obediently by the gate — a bottomless stain against the darkening landscape — frightened her more than anything else.
Petunia glanced at him only once and immediately looked away.
She had to slap herself with another stimulant to force herself closer to the gate.
Stopping at arm’s length, she held out the mug to the ghost.
“Here.” The hood — black emptiness beneath it — slowly tilted.
He’s going to hit his head on the magical barrier now…
well, whatever he has under that hood, and catch fire, Petunia realized, and with an effort of will made herself take another small step forward.
The mug in her hand extended past the barrier.
The ghost rippled, as though stirred by wind, and backed away slightly.
Perhaps he sensed Petunia’s fear and meant to calm her that way, or maybe he was just uncomfortable.
He lowered his head over the mug, and then in the evening silence Petunia heard a faint, thin whistle.
Like a bicycle tire going flat.
The ghost straightened slowly and again gestured with his hand-boats.
After a couple of minutes of staring blankly at this monotonous pantomime, it dawned on Petunia.
“Oh — you can’t take the mug.” She carefully tilted the mug and poured a little water into his cupped hands.
The water, of course, passed right through the ghostly hands and splashed to the ground.
Petunia stared at the mug in her hands and realized there was only one possible way left to give the ghost a drink.
Only she really didn’t like it.
But backing out now would be too embarrassing in her own eyes.
“Wait.
I’ll be right back.” Her attempts to pour water into her own palm only resulted in drenching herself, and the mug quickly emptied.
Fear gave way to irritation at her own failure and at how much effort such a simple task required.
With a lot of noise and stomping, she ran back to the house and brought the whole pot.
Scooping water with both hands, she brought it to the ghost’s hood, almost stepping out from behind the protective barrier.
The water slowly seeped through her fingers, ran down her arms, and fell to the ground in heavy drops.
“Drink, hurry!” she urged.
The ghost trembled.
This slight motion was different from his earlier movements when he’d backed away from her.
This time Petunia herself had come close, almost pressed against him, and felt the otherworldly cold emanating from the cloaked figure.
From beneath the hood came a barely perceptible sigh; the ghost tilted his head, and something cold and unpleasant touched her palms.
At that touch, cold spread through her hands, binding them together in an improvised cup.
The cold was tenacious — even if she wanted to, she couldn’t have shaken off its shackles.
The ghost drank the water from her hands in one gulp and made a soft, wet sound.
Then he signaled with his hands that he needed more.
Petunia scooped water several times and let the ghost drink, each time feeling the cold he emitted sink a little deeper into her body.
By the time the pot was finally empty, not only were her hands numb — even her lips and the tip of her nose were covered in a thin crust of frost.
When the ghost indicated he’d had enough, she sighed in relief and lowered her arms.
To her surprise, the ghost thanked her with a bow and retreated a few steps.
“Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” she mumbled, not quite sure what she was saying.
“Glad to help.
See you around.” She picked up the pot and trudged back home.
She didn’t even look back to check, but somehow she was certain the ghost watched her go, then dissolved without a trace into the darkness.
Petunia stood by the fireplace for a long time, holding her hands out to the flames, warming herself.
When the warmth made her palms prickle intensely, she even started crying — from the pain and from relief that this horrible episode was finally over.
After forcing down a few spoonfuls of cold soup — the spoon slipped from her trembling fingers several times — Petunia fell onto the bed without undressing.
She had time to think: “Is all I got just a simple thank you?” and then she sank into sleep.
How long had he been wandering alone now?
Memories blur.
Visions of peaceful life give way to the horrors of war.
He hears the whistle of arrows and hides behind a tree, then realizes it’s just the wind.
He hears a growl, but it’s only a wolf.
He looks the beast in the eyes; it crouches, taking a threatening posture, and he leaves.
No point tormenting animals.
Sometimes he catches snatches of other people’s conversations, but doesn’t understand a word.
He hurries toward those sounds, but when he arrives, no one is there.
Even the trees don’t speak to him.
The trees here are all young — they know neither the light tread of the Quendi nor the heavy axe of the Naugrim.
Their bark is thin, their leaves too green.
When he presses his ear to a trunk, he can hear the rustle of life flowing through it.
But no matter how he calls, his voice growing hoarse, the trees don’t hear him and don’t respond.
He walks and walks and walks.
Day turns to night, cold replaces warmth.
When the pangs of hunger become unbearable, he gathers the fruits of the earth — plucks ripe berries from bushes, digs the ground for edible roots, carefully twists mushrooms from the soil.
But the longer he wanders, the less hungry he becomes.
His clothes fray and tear; his boots fall apart.
His quiver has long been empty, the bowstring rotted away.
Only a dagger still hangs on his frayed belt, striking his thigh painfully with every step.
But in time, even that pain fades.
One day he looks at his hands and sees the stars through them.
He tears his rags and wraps the strips around his hands, bundles himself in his cloak.
He looks like the dreadful ghosts he once heard terrible stories about.
He can’t remember when or from whom anymore.
It doesn’t matter.
He wanders through young forests, and they age before his eyes and die, giving life to new trees, until he finds shelter in an abandoned city of other Quendi — those who came from across the sea.
There he stays, and there he falls asleep.
Without memories.
Without dreams.
Without regrets.
Until one day a horn’s call brings him waking and a strange thirst that he must satisfy.