“One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do
Two can be as bad as one
It's the loneliest number since the number one”
Nettle stretched her back, the early morning sun breathing warmth into her clay-cooled bones. Her partial burial had dampened her clothes along with her fury. Her anger died like the horse, falling into the pit of her stomach and getting crushed by inner turmoil.
The man watched her limber up, though watched might have been a strong term. He was still buried up to his neck and squinted blindly into the sun, giving him a pained expression.
Nettle lowered into a crouch, keeping one leg extended to the side. She switched sides, rocking slightly until the joint popped.
Of course, the man initially attempted his own excavation. He’d thrashed like a fish and scraped his chin along the ground. At the time, Nettle was busy digging herself out, only spared a similar fate by quick reaction time and a lifelong fear. When Nettle made it halfway through her unburial, he pleaded. His voice choked through stumbled excuses before he changed tactics into tripping apologies.
Now that she was free, he was quiet as a grave.
She studied the man, his hollow cheeks accentuated by the corpse-like gray foundation he’d unintentionally applied. He was young, probably younger than her, but his raggedness made him appear much older. He looked up at her, managing to look defiant despite his position. Nettle challenged him with the same listless, silent expression she’d been weaponizing the entire time. He broke, head flopping down like a marionette.
After stretching, Nettle rose, and the man perked back up. Nettle walked lazily towards him. Fear pulled piteously at his features. The man opened his eyes wide in the shade her approach created. Nettle lifted his chin with the outside of her foot until he met her gaze. Nettle hovered his face, ready to stomp down, then casually pivoted and strode past him.
She made it ten steps before he started doing his fish impression again. He craned his neck left and right.
“Hey,” he rasped, “Hey, where’re you going?” His voice filled with worry, “Don’t leave me.” His head lolled back as he repeated to the sky, louder this time, dread creeping in as his plea became more of a demand, “Don’t leave me.”
Unfettered, Nettle walked back to her campsite. The man called out a few more times, and she let him. If he wanted to get himself killed, it would save her the decision.
She packed her belongings, doing a mental pat down to ensure everything was there. Since she didn’t set up her tent, it was only a matter of strapping up her bedroll and putting on her shoes.
Before she did, however, Nettle sat down and massaged some warmth back into her frozen calves and feet. Then, she got up and dusted the dried clay from her clothes. Finally, she donned her old wool overcoat and checked its many pockets. Her bag was a bit too heavy now, its pilfered contents weighing on her in both meanings.
Out of curiosity, Nettle walked to the chasm-like kikizha and peered into its depths. Nothing within could have even constituted a horse. Her face contorted. There was a strip of something that Nettle decided was part of the saddlebag, for her sake. The tinny smell of the animal's blood hung in the air, assaulting Nettle's nose.
As a girl, Nettle witnessed a tree at the edge of the waste slowly tip into one of the things. The way the wood groaned and snapped, she had expected to find the unfortunate tree’s shattered husk in the pit, but the only thing it left to this world was a miasma of sawdust and the way Nettle would sometimes cringe at the creak of unbroken leather boots.
She turned her attention back to the man, shielding her eyes from the waking sun. He was still thrashing about like a rebellious sunflower.
When she was digging herself out, Nettle was confident she’d kill him. After her morning stretches, Nettle tossed around the idea of simply abandoning him to wallow in his grave.
She sighed.
Unfortunately, Nettle didn’t have the same luxury that protected these men while hunting Nobodies. Nettle would remember every sleepless night, the way she bashed his skull in with her shovel. No, it wasn’t possible, not without the heat of the moment.
Nettle approached the man, the grunts of his struggle masking her advance. She rounded the man and poised herself between him and the sun, stance wide, hands on hips. He cracked open wrinkled-shut eyes. Confusion and comprehension battled over the man’s face until understanding won. He hung his head in despair.
“Get on with it,” he said.
Nettle crouched into his personal bubble, causing the man to meet her eyes, jaw slack. She spoke condescendingly, stressing each syllable as one might do to a child.
“My name is Nettle. What is yours?”
His axels needed greasing because the wheels took a long time to turn.
“Um, Harrod.”
Nettle scooped a chunk of clay away at the man’s left shoulder.
“Good!” Nettle patronized, “See how this works?”
Maybe it was muddy, and a wheel was treading air. Harrod continued to gape like a fish, so Nettle continued, the condescension leaving her voice.
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“Did you come here to kill me?”
“What? No, we were just trying to get some easy cash.”
“Does it look like I’m loaded?”
“No, no, no, I was; I mean, we were . . .”
Harrod floundered, testing Nettle’s patience. Nettle smacked his face before she could stop herself. Harrod looked up like a kicked dog.
“Sorry, that was harder than I intended.”
Harrod searched her face, then turned away, murmuring, “There were these flyers in town. Sixty moss per Paper Person, fifteen if they were dead. We had one in our saddlebag but you saw what happened to Little Innocence there.”
Nettle freed his shoulder for the answer.
“And so you decided to try catching Nobodies in the place most likely to kill you for the courtesy?”
“Well, we thought since you’d be so easy to follow out here, we’d just have to be careful, and it would be easy money.”
“Mhm.” Nettle thought for a moment. “And who put out these fliers?”
“I’m not sure who put them out, but a man in Koelmus was supposed to pay us and take the people to a different location. I think his name was Leroy.”
Nettle shoveled a bit more. Koelmus was only a five-day walk south of Leylen’s, perhaps she’d pay there a visit next.
Harrod gained momentum, adding, “The posters looked like they were made in Augaminy, or somewhere else in Seebsil. The lines were super straight, you know the type, so I bet it was from their king. I’ve heard he does all kinds of shady stuff.” Harrod seemed to realize the irony of that because, after a second, he rationalized, “So, really, it's his fault.”
Nettle hit him again. This time exactly as hard as she intended.
“There was another person with me. Why didn’t you take his body?”
“A corpse? We didn’t find anybody else till we caught up to you.”
“I’m pretty sure you killed him.”
“Oh,” was all Harrod could say to that. “It’s pretty hard to breathe in here.”
“I know.” Nettle looked up and took a deep breath.
Nettle scooped out just enough of Harrod’s arm for him to pull it free from the clay with a splop. Nettle felt like hitting him again now that he could at least block, but chose to get a start on the trek to Leylen’s
She made it ten steps before he called to her.
“I’m sorry, you know?”
Nettle looked back at Harrod, who was slowly clawing out of his clay prison, and deadpanned, “Harrod, if we meet again, be a stranger.”
She didn’t look back as he softly affirmed, “I really am sorry.”
Nettle couldn’t tell if he was trying to convince her or himself.
Leylen’s was about a day southeast still, and Nettle wanted to sleep in a bed tonight. That is if anyone would receive her.
She walked lost in thoughts of the morning's events, which miraculously eclipsed that of the day before. Bounties were common enough, and despite their small population, Nobodies often found their way onto such posters. That being said, Nettle had never heard of this kind of manhunt. Surely someone would take offense at the prospect, other than Nobodies, that is. With such a high price on her head, living or dead, Nettle would have to stay on her toes, more than usual that is. Under normal circumstances, people left her alone, assuming she’d be more trouble than she’s worth. With coins tipping one side of the scale, there was no telling.
Maybe I could turn myself in.
Nettle’s legs thankfully wandered as much as her mind, as the horizon’s tasteful nudity had changed into a spattering of trees without her notice.
Not too long now. Then I’m back on normal ground, with normal plants and normal animals.
The people were unaccounted for.
As Nettle reached the threshold between the clay of the waste and the rocky soil of the forest, she wondered, as she often did, what kept the Kikizha from simply leaving the confines of their world. Perhaps their bodies are too weak to push through the deeper stone, or maybe there’s something specific about the clay that contains their essence.
As a girl, a fisherman told her how large sea animals occasionally found their way to the beach, stranding themselves upon the land, unable to move outside the water. The wrinkly man continued in a toothless grin, vividly recounting how their stomaches would bloat, filling with air until popping. Nettle imagined a large ovular Kikizha, caught partially in the soil, warbling as it expanded, blasting apart, its remnants swirling in a chaotic dance.
Maybe that’s how they reproduce.
Nettle’s shoes scraped stone, leaving those thoughts in the valley. She walked in place to remember the feeling. This ground felt solid, reliable even, despite its rough demeanor. This was ground with personality. Although Nettle supposed being empty was a personality.
Nettle followed the trees south until coming to a dirt road that divided the forest in half. The forest loomed claustrophobic compared to the vast nothing of the waste. The chatter of critters and the swaying rustle of plants enveloped her like a soothing blanket. Finally, there was something.
Nettle let her mind empty itself only to thoughts of the forest. It was pleasant. She strolled, feeling the icy hand that clutched her heart since yesterday ease its grip.
Eventually, Nettle reached a part of the forest where she thought she recognized the faces of the trees. Though, maybe they just had one of those faces. Nope. Nettle knew where she was. She sniffed at her armpit. In this state, Nettle was more likely to be hunted because of her resemblance to a wild animal than any bounty.
She clambered by a family of distinctly gnarled trees and hopped over a couple of burnt logs until the gurgle of a stream made its presence known. Nettle knelt at the brook’s edge and slung off her pack. A fat toad lazed by the water’s edge. Its eyes seemed to follow as she spun off her overcoat and held it at arm's length; Nettle grimaced with disdain at the gray and red smatterings.
The clear water iced Nettle’s hands as she attempted to return the well-loved wool to its usual unassuming black. She wasn’t going for a pristine clean so much as a not-a-murderer clean. She draped the waterlogged cloth over a nearby branch before removing her socks and shoes. She rinsed her legs and the outside of her shoes of the clay that clung desperately for life but kept her socks dry.
The toad sitting opposite the stream blinked one eye, languidly followed by the other. Now on all fours, Nettle held the thing’s gaze a second before dunking her head into the frigid water.
The chill water rushed past her ears, shocking her mind awake. Nettle basked in the feeling before opening her mouth underwater and allowing the current to fill her cheeks. She threw herself out, flinging water in a long arc. She kept her mouth full chipmunk style, breathing through her nose. Her neck-length mop framed her sodden face in clinging curls. She caught the toad’s eyes. Nettle smiled the best she could, cheeks bulging.
“The hell was that?” The toad spoke in a voice that smoked a pack a day.
