Drowning In The River Of Time



The world came into focus slowly, in fragments. Katheryn lay sprawled on a bed of dirt and grass, her body wrapped tightly in thick, pelted blankets, her skin bru shed by the remnants of warmth from a small bonfire beside her.

Her lungs ached, her muscles felt heavy, and she shivered under the blankets.

As she took a breath, the smell of smoke, damp earth, and pine filled her nose, grounding her in a strange mix of discomfort and confusion.

She pushed herself up, clutching the pelt blankets around her, and scanned the surroundings with a wary gaze.

Across the fire, a young man lay asleep, his face softened in slumber, framed by long, muddy blonde hair that slid past his shoulders. His features were striking, almost regal, though Katheryn instinctively kept her guard up.

After all, she was naked and alone with a stranger.

Her eyes darted around, seeking anything familiar, and then she spotted her backpack a few feet away, half-buried in leaves. She reached out, but a deep voice made her freeze.

"I wouldn't hurry to leave if I were you," the young man spoke without opening his eyes. Though she understood his words, his accent was odd.

Not Czech, she thought, perhaps Polish? There was a calmness to his tone, a smooth steadiness that unnerved her.

"Did you save me?" she asked, her voice hoarse but edged with suspicion.

He nodded slightly. "Yes."

"Thanks, but you should've called an ambulance or the police," she replied, eyeing him cautiously. "And… why am I…naked? Are you some kind of pervert?"

For a moment, he was silent. Then he smirked, finally opening his eyes and meeting her gaze.

"I've never heard of the Pervert tribe, and I'm certainly not from it," he said, his tone flat and serious.

His eyes were clear and sharp. "What tribe are you from, then?"

She looked at him incredulously. "Stop kidding around. I don't know what you're playing at, but I don't have time for this." His brow furrowed, and he watched her thoughtfully.

"You don't look Frankish… or Slavic," he muttered, as though mulling it over. She scoffed, taken aback.

"That's… racist. But whatever. My father's Romani, if you have to know," she added, folding the blanket more securely around her.

At that, his expression changed, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Best to keep that to yourself," he muttered, his voice softer now.

Probably just a racist weirdo, Katheryn thought, swallowing her irritation. He stood up, stretching as he looked around, his movements smooth and unhurried, then, with a casual yawn, he said, "We should eat and set out before the sun rises too high. Wait here." With that, he disappeared down a muddy forest path.

Katheryn sighed, trying to process his odd demeanor. Her hand crept to her backpack, digging into a side pocket where her phone rested, relieved, she pulled it out—thankfully waterproof—and tried Marcel's number.

It didn't ring.

She stared at it, her anxiety rising, and then tried calling her mother.

Still nothing.

Frustration made her teeth clench as she dialed Tereza's number, but it was the same eerie silence, she huffed and, desperate now, dialed the emergency number, her fingers tightened as the call refused to go through.

She threw the phone back into her backpack, her heart pounding with anxiety.

A cold morning breeze brushed her bare shoulders, sending shivers down her spine, hugging the blanket tighter, she felt the first pricks of tears.

She whispered, quietly to herself,

"I don't know where I am or who this guy is…I'm stuck in Šumava with a weirdo, and I can't call anyone."

She swiped her fingers across her eyes, forcing herself to stay composed.



The young man soon returned, leading a gray horse and carrying her clothes in his arms. His gaze flicked over her, assessing, but he said nothing, tossing the clothes to her before mounting the horse.

"I'll be back shortly," he said, giving her a last glance before disappearing down the path again.

As she clutched her clothes, she realized they were dry.

Maybe he wasn't all bad—but trust was another matter, she dressed quickly, wrapping herself in the remnants of warmth from the fire and carefully adding more sticks to keep it alive.

An hour crawled by, and just as she started to feel both restless and cold, he returned.

This time, he had something in his hand—a wild rabbit, its soft gray fur ruffled, she recoiled, taken aback, a flash of disgust crossing her face.

"We're not… eating that, right?" she managed, eyes wide.

He frowned at her. "It's sufficient."

She watched in muted horror as he set about preparing the animal, when he began skinning it, the reality of her situation crashed down on her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, shielding herself from the sight.

She could hear the blade slicing, the quiet efficiency with which he worked, and it made her feel both squeamish and strangely aware of the gulf between them.

After a few tense moments, she peeked, watching him in silence, every motion he made was practiced and purposeful. He worked with a kind of ease that hinted at years spent living this way, navigating the wilderness with instincts as honed as any animal's.

A part of her wanted to ask him questions, find out who he was and why he spoke as if they were living in some medieval time, but she bit her lip and kept quiet.

Eventually, he looked up and caught her gaze.

"It'll be cooked shortly. You'll need strength for the journey."

She rolled her eyes, though her stomach growled in spite of herself, she stayed silent as he stoked the fire, skewering the rabbit and roasting it over the flames, and eventually, the scent of roasting meat filled the air, despite her initial revulsion.

They sat across from each other, both quiet, the crackle of the fire the only sound.

The morning light had started to filter through the trees, casting long shadows on the ground.

Katheryn glanced at the man, whose gaze was fixed on the fire, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, she tried not to think too far ahead, uncertain what was happening or how she would get home, but she took a small measure of comfort from the warmth of the fire and the strange, quiet companionship of the man before her.

She cleared her throat softly.

"What's your name?"

He looked up, his piercing grey eyes meeting hers with a calm yet intense expression. He paused, as if weighing whether to answer, and then replied in a firm voice,

"Samo."

The name hung in the air between them, grounding her in a strange mixture of intrigue and uncertainty.