Hunting Ghosts
Jane Geist stowed her pack, taking only her knife, bow, quiver, and the black cloak
that had worn grey on the fold lines. She tied the horse in a thick grove of ash and
set out for the camp on foot. She could see the campfires’ glow from below
where the mountain rose up to form a step. She knew this was the camp she
wanted because there was no other camp this large in these mountains. She hoped
Daniel was in one of those tents. If not, she would have to try to track her father
halfway across Ramas.
The watchman on the path would probably be sleeping. No one ever attacked these
people, but they set a watch, even so. She matched her movements to the night
sounds in the mountains, taking her time until she had climbed up to the edge, just
outside the glow of the fires. She removed her cloak, re-tying it around her waist,
as if it were an awkward sash so she would look like just any other of the camp’s
young girls, who wore their clothes any way they wanted. Until she had joined
Baron Granger’s Court at Morrow, Jane had also worn her clothes any way she
wanted.
She slowly worked her way along the edge, finally spotting the tent she needed.
Like all the other tents, this one was in a circle that faced a campfire. She kept her
left eye closed against the light as she took in the layout.
One of the boys at the crackling fire could barely control his anger. They were
arguing about some girl, but not fighting over her.
With her open eye, Jane scanned the area for wanderers, trying to decide whether
to act nonchalant and enter the tent from the front or to risk having her head
chopped off as she stuck it under the back of the tent. Then Jane remembered her
hair and realized that the boys by the fire would never mistake her for one of their
clan’s girls.
She crept to the rear of the tent and looked for the stakes, now using only the left
eye, which, even though it had been shut against the campfire, had so little light to
work with back here, that she had to mostly feel her way to the lesser stakes that
ran along the tent’s edge. She slid her knife out and carefully pried loose one stake
after another. She took a calming breath and slipped under, feeling her way with
her hands, staying as close to the side of the tent as possible.
She could hear the man snoring as she lay on the floor there, propped on her side
with her knife at the ready. She murmured, “Asil, it’s Jane.”
Nothing.
She dared not touch him. She murmured a little louder, “Asil, wake up. It’s Jane.”
The snoring continued. She had taken such care for nothing. She sighed. If she
woke him roughly he would have his dagger in hand and might kill her before he
realized she did not want to hurt him.
She tried to make out the arrangement of the tent, moving her head along the back
wall to silhouette the room’s contents in the thin streams of light that came through
the front of the tent. That must be the cot. She crept slowly forward. Asil's head
was always away from the tent’s door. She quietly sheathed her knife. She
reached out her hand. Asil’s dagger would be ...
His hand clamped her wrist.
End of excerpt of short story
Ghost Hunting , (c) John Arkwright 2007
Jane Geist stowed her pack, taking only her knife, bow, quiver, and the black cloak
that had worn grey on the fold lines. She tied the horse in a thick grove of ash and
set out for the camp on foot. She could see the campfires’ glow from below
where the mountain rose up to form a step. She knew this was the camp she
wanted because there was no other camp this large in these mountains. She hoped
Daniel was in one of those tents. If not, she would have to try to track her father
halfway across Ramas.
The watchman on the path would probably be sleeping. No one ever attacked these
people, but they set a watch, even so. She matched her movements to the night
sounds in the mountains, taking her time until she had climbed up to the edge, just
outside the glow of the fires. She removed her cloak, re-tying it around her waist,
as if it were an awkward sash so she would look like just any other of the camp’s
young girls, who wore their clothes any way they wanted. Until she had joined
Baron Granger’s Court at Morrow, Jane had also worn her clothes any way she
wanted.
She slowly worked her way along the edge, finally spotting the tent she needed.
Like all the other tents, this one was in a circle that faced a campfire. She kept her
left eye closed against the light as she took in the layout.
One of the boys at the crackling fire could barely control his anger. They were
arguing about some girl, but not fighting over her.
With her open eye, Jane scanned the area for wanderers, trying to decide whether
to act nonchalant and enter the tent from the front or to risk having her head
chopped off as she stuck it under the back of the tent. Then Jane remembered her
hair and realized that the boys by the fire would never mistake her for one of their
clan’s girls.
She crept to the rear of the tent and looked for the stakes, now using only the left
eye, which, even though it had been shut against the campfire, had so little light to
work with back here, that she had to mostly feel her way to the lesser stakes that
ran along the tent’s edge. She slid her knife out and carefully pried loose one stake
after another. She took a calming breath and slipped under, feeling her way with
her hands, staying as close to the side of the tent as possible.
She could hear the man snoring as she lay on the floor there, propped on her side
with her knife at the ready. She murmured, “Asil, it’s Jane.”
Nothing.
She dared not touch him. She murmured a little louder, “Asil, wake up. It’s Jane.”
The snoring continued. She had taken such care for nothing. She sighed. If she
woke him roughly he would have his dagger in hand and might kill her before he
realized she did not want to hurt him.
She tried to make out the arrangement of the tent, moving her head along the back
wall to silhouette the room’s contents in the thin streams of light that came through
the front of the tent. That must be the cot. She crept slowly forward. Asil's head
was always away from the tent’s door. She quietly sheathed her knife. She
reached out her hand. Asil’s dagger would be ...
His hand clamped her wrist.
End of excerpt of short story
Ghost Hunting , (c) John Arkwright 2007
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