Chapter 3: The Night is Old

Martin and I walked for quite some time before he needed to stop and rest. I was amazed that he could travel such long distances without breaking a sweat, but he managed. I, on the other hand, was drenched.

By the time we found a grove to settle in, the sunset was creeping along the horizon. Martin's shirt, which he had long since taken off to expose a tan, chiseled abdomen, was full of berries, mushrooms, and nuts. He was the one who set our pace and led, jogging the entire time we headed toward the falls. Along the way, he picked out the berries and mushrooms, but he ate them hours before he let me have any. It wasn't because he was hogging the food—no, he was much too nice for that.

When I asked him why he was doing it, he said, "You're young. You need to make it out of this place and survive. I'll be eating them because, if they're poisonous, you'll be able to move on uninhibited."

It was the first time a stranger had done something so nice for me.

"Not used to exercising like this, are you?" Martin asked.

"No," I grunted. My breath came in ragged, uneven gasps; his, on the other hand, stayed in perfect rhythm. "The last time I ran this hard…was from the police."

The old man laughed. "Troublemaker, eh?"

I put my hand out and shook it side-to-side. "So-so," I grinned. "A little bit goes a long way."

"That it does." He looked down at the small pile of wood between us, eyeing two rocks he'd found when we first started setting up a place to rest. A small pile of dried grass, tinder, sat in a pile atop the dried sticks. It wasn't going to be a big fire, but it would be warm.

Martin struck the two rocks together. His hands glided with experience. It was like watching a lifelong chief knead dough or an experienced harpist plucking chords. Sparks flew. In no time, a small fire was roaring, crackling, and eating away at the wood.

He leaned back with a deep, satisfied sigh. "Did you learn anything?"

"From what?"

"From the fire." Martin inched closer to the flames. He pointed a gnarled finger at the wood. "Wood can't be wet if you want it to catch fire. The drier your tinder, the better. In starting fires, moisture is your first enemy. The second is how you get sparks, or how you make the flame."

I listened intently as he explained what tinder was good, where to get it, how to know which rocks could be used in starting a fire.

"You learned all this in the army?" Wonder crept into my voice. Martin must've heard because he jabbed a thumb at his chest and gave a confident nod. He made a silly face—something he'd done to his grandson, no doubt—but it made me smile, nonetheless.

Martin's smile soured quickly. "My grandson, he and I used to go camping. It was during a rough time in his life. He was in high school when his parents divorced. That's why he came to stay with me." He rummaged through the grass, plucking small twigs and launching them into the inferno. The embers danced, devouring the wood hungrily. "We would practice making fires together. I got pretty good at it. Him, he was always invested in a book, trying to puzzle something out of a passage or chapter."

My fingers picked at the grass, uprooting blades before splitting them in two. It came to me why Martin felt so familiar. He reminded me of my mother.

"Any books in particular he liked?" I asked.

Martin laughed. "A lot," he answered with a nostalgic sigh. His eyes shimmered with joy at being able to recall happier memories. "If there were dragons in it, he read it."

"Really?" I couldn't contain my smile. It broadened my lips until the grin nearly split my face and I could feel my cheeks burning. "Perhaps your grandson and I have more in common than I thought."

"No, no." He shook his head remorsefully. "You do remind me of him, but…how should I put it…. You're younger, for one. You're kinder. My grandson is involved in all sorts of shady dealings. He…I love him, but he has a long way to go before he can become someone truly great."

I reached a hand up to my ear. Two studs of silver penetrated the lobe on the right and an ornate ring pierced my left. Martin blinked, eyes widening in shock. I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, showing him all the tattoos on my arms, hands, and lifted my shirt to show him the ones on my chest.

"I keep them hidden," I explained, pointing to the small, spider-shaped lily below my navel. "I used to be part of a gang. My father wanted me in it. I've done some bad things, too."

Martin was speechless. He looked at me with newfound familiarity and what might've been a touch of respect interwoven. We talked a while longer after that, me explaining bits and pieces of my past and him relating it with his own experiences.

Just as I brought up my mother, describing her tender kindness and protectiveness, the snapping of a branch brought my attention elsewhere. Immediately, my eyes darted around the forest, looking for any sign of threats.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Bundled up in my lap was my sweater, and beneath that the pocketknife I always kept in case of emergency as well as my journal. I wrapped my hands around the knife, ready to pull the blade out at a moment's notice.

We sat around the fire in silence, both of us watching the forest. I couldn't shake off the creepy sensation that it, too, was staring back. The shadows, elongated by the setting sun, stretched their tendril-like hands toward the fire. Darkness settled in all at once around us, cold and oppressive.

QUEST UPDATED: SURVIVE THE NIGHT.

The system's subtle beep drowned out the crackling fire. I read the message once, then double-checked to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. It wasn't the quest update that sent shivers down my spine. It was the passage beneath.

THE NIGHT IS OLD, AND YOU ARE FRAIL AND NEW. FIRE IS THEIR ANCIENT ENEMY. PROTECT THE WARMTH. IT IS YOUR ONLY WAY TO SURVIVE.