07. || someone new.

Finley watched through the window above the old apron sink as River knelt at the fire, strategically arranging the logs within. Alongside the crumbling stones of the pit, they'd stacked a half-dozen pine rounds—more than enough wood to keep the cabin warm tonight if Finley could figure out a way to sneak it inside instead. As silly as it would seem, she didn't want River to see how ill-prepared she was because she already knew they'd offer to help. And getting help always led to questions. And there was still the dress to tend to inside.

But ever since Finley had slithered out of its lace scales and into the arms of River's flannel, her mind had settled some and she got to thinking maybe it wasn't smart to burn your only clothes, even if they did reek of gasoline, stained with mud-that-wasn't-mud. She'd have to return River's flannel at some point and that cursed dress would have to get put back on.

Closing the kitchen cabinet, she set a pair of pink Depression-ware cordials down on the counter. Their cut crystal edges were chipped and their floral etchings worn smooth after nearly a century of usage. Not so much from drinking, but they held the perfect amount of ice cream according to Gram. Outside, River huddled close to the fire, holding their palms out to its flame. They must be cold, seeing as they had stumbled onto the patio without their suede fringed jacket, no coyote hooded cowl. So Finley hurried to the bedroom and dusted the seeds from the woolen blanket, draped it over her arm, and grabbed the glasses from the counter.

But really, River was just double checking that the blood beneath their fingernails had rinsed clean in the stream and any remaining brain yolk stains on their hunter green flannel had dried to an ambiguous brown that probably just looked like old car grease. It even had a little sheen to it in the fire's glare so who would know the difference? Likely not some strange woman who showed up out of nowhere.

Finley tried to step out onto the porch quietly, but the heels of her boots clicked across the floorboards and down the steps like the hooves of a timid doe crossing a blacktop road.

River's head tipped at the sound, but they didn't turn around. "The strangest thing just happened to me," they murmured as they dusted their hands off and stood up from the fire. "I was walkin' over to a line of trees that I've started to clear out, and as I grabbed my axe, I coulda sworn I heard a voice."

"A voice?" Finley laid the blanket over the back of her wooden chair and took a few steps closer to River. A breeze from over the hill carried that same smell of rot that had plagued her earlier, but she just bit her lip and told herself it was all in her head. Delusions and hallucinations were all to be expected. Her foot had healed months ago, hadn't it? And if the mud-that-wasn't-mud wasn't her own, well, it'd still be too soon for a dead body to be smelling.

A voice though, that could be a problem.

With a smirk, River finally pulled their eyes from the edge of the woods. "Now Boots, you didn't have to dust off the fancy crystal for a backwoods lush like me." Picking up the mason jar, River twisted off the lid and poured out a couple ounces of moonshine as Finley held the glasses.

"My gram would just be glad they're getting used."

"Aye, she would." River went to take one, but then pulled back and patted their chest down, searching their pockets. Their eyes narrowed on Finley, then dropped below her neckline. "Uh, pardon my reach. May I?" They gestured to her chest and Finley gave a little nod, unsure of what she agreed to. Hesitantly, River reached between the glasses she held, slipping their hand behind the strap of her suspenders and into the buttoned breast pocket of the flannel. Pinched like a cigarette, a stick of cinnamon emerged between their fingers. They broke it in half and garnished both glasses.

"I guess that explains why you smell so good. Well, your shirt, I mean. Your flannel." Heat rose to Finley's cheeks and she turned her face away from the flames as she held the glass out for River to take. "I'll uh, have it back to you by morning. I just had to wash the mud out of my dress. It's still wet. So I didn't have anything else to put on." With a quick glance down at herself in the yellow rubber fishing waders, she exhaled a sigh. "Clearly..."

"Oh, don't worry about it. It don't look half as good on me as it does on you," River chuckled, eyeing up her outfit as they cupped the glass in their palm. "But you're sayin' you came all the way out to Hemlock Holler for the weekend with no overnight bag or nothin'?" Their playful eyes sharpened with suspicion. "How'd you even get up here? I didn't hear a car drive up."

Finley looked past them to where the firelight grasped at the shadows before she met their eyes again. "You were saying something about a strange voice?"

River's scarred brow flicked as their index finger tapped softly against the rim of the pink glass. "Right..." Looking down at their drink, they swirled the cinnamon stick around a couple times. "As I was sayin', I picked up my axe and was about to swing on this little pine, but a cry I ain't never heard before stops my arms dead in the air. Damn axe nearly drops outta my hands. And I swear the sound came from right in front of me."

Finley's eyes left River again to peer through the wisps of smoke that threaded the hemlocks together with darkness. "Maybe it was a fox? I stumbled on one years ago, caught in a trap up here after they opened that hunting lodge on the far side of the mountain." Her fingers tightened around the glass stem at the memory. "I'll never forget its shrieks."

"I know those night cries all too well with the way the wind blows from over there. But this was neither furred beast nor man." River shook their head as they set their glass down on the arm of the chair. "Just to be sure, I waited a good minute or two to see if anything would scamper out of the brush before raisin' the axe back up." Pushing their sleeves up, they mimed the action over their shoulder with a subtle flex that popped their muscles. "But just as I did, that little voice barks out, 'Heyo, don't ya dare cut me down. I'm a talkin' tree.'"

Finley tipped her head with doubt. "A talking tree?"

"My thoughts exactly, a talkin' tree, huh? Well then, I say to it..." River's lips curved to a smile as they leaned closer. "You will dialogue." Their raspy laugh bellowed through the hollow, startling something in the limbs above. "Get it? Dialogue. Die a log. 'Cause it's your firewood now."

As River let out a snort, two green pine cones dropped from the branches and pegged them on the head. A dusting of yellow needles fell all around them. Glaring up at the tree, they ran a hand through their dark hair.

A smile slipped across Finley's face as her grip on the glass loosened. "You almost had me for a second, River."

"Pretty terrible, wasn't it?" With a chuckle, they lifted their glass to their lips. "I've been waitin' a long time for someone new to use that on. So you're welcome."

Finley followed, raising her drink, but paused as the glass kissed her bottom lip. "I guess you could say you've been pining away for someone."

River clinked Finley's glass with their own, flashing her a wide grin that creased the corner of their brown eyes. The kind of grin from high school bad boys that her mother had always warned her about ever since grade school. And she had listened, at least as far as her mother knew back then. But Finley learned far too late that bad never really looked bad. Bad disguised itself in layers of good. Good education. Good job. Good looks. Good sex. Enough good all around to make it easy justifying the bad.

"You're killin' me, Boots." River nodded down to her glass. The moonshine had yet to meet her lips. "I'm dying to know what ya think. I haven't shared this batch with anyone. Not that I planned to, but..." They quickly tried to shrug off their anticipation, but their eyes still pleaded for her.

"Why share with me?"

"Well, really, I just didn't wanna head home so soon n' be alone. I got kicked outta the bar in town for fightin'. Again. And seein' how you look about as roughed up as me right now, I figured you could handle a little shine 'stilled straight from this old spring. Got a good feeling about you is all."

A hint of pink warmed River's cheeks before they turned away, ambling around the backside of the fire. They all of a sudden had some great interest in the row of hemlocks that bordered the slate patio. Nudging exposed roots with their boot, they ran their hand up its trunk, focusing on the bark, but Finley could still feel them watching-but-not-watching as she raised the glass back up to her lips. Woody notes filled her nose, sweetened by the fusion of apples and cinnamon. Tilting it back, she let the moonshine run smooth over her tongue and down her throat. In its wake, a trail of heat ignited her chest, warming her from the inside out.

"Damn," she hummed as she rubbed her lips together.

"It's good, yeah?"

"Dangerously good." Already, a buzz thrummed through her head as she took another sip. Longer, this time. River continued to appraise the hemlocks, tapping the trunks as they walked behind the two empty chairs. Maybe waiting for further invitation. "You're welcome to sit if you'd like," Finley assured them.

River nodded and took a long drink as their eyes traveled up one tree in particular, but they made no move to sit.

"So it's just you up here, then?" Finley asked. "All alone?"

River chuckled at that as they walked back around the firepit. "All alone means something different in these woods. You'll learn soon enough that while you might be alone, you're never actually all alone." As they threw another log on the fire, fingers of smoke traced their lean outline against the orange glow. "But I suppose I'm more alone lately than I been in awhile. What with the scourge n'at."

"The scourge," Finley echoed, hiding a smile behind her drink. "You sound like my grandad. That's what he always called the 1918 flu in all his stories." Over the rim of her glass, she studied River a little closer. "You know, you remind me a lot of him and my gram, the way they used to talk. Beyond just the accent though, there's something old-fashioned about you. And something so strangely familiar. How long have you—"

"Oh, now I dunno about that," River's laugh caught in their throat. "I'm just some dumb, long-legged, back asswards hillbilly. We're a dime a dozen."

"You seem far from dumb. Or back asswards," Finley replied, taking a seat in hopes River would follow. "I guess I just mean you seem to have an old soul."

"Can't argue with that."

As she leaned back into her chair, she angled herself to better see River past the stone firepit and the smoke. "So what does a long-legged hillbilly do up here by themself all day?"

"I got autumn chores and stuff." Teetering at the edge of the patio and the trees, River inched back onto the slate towards the empty chair. "Chopping wood, canning, just reddin' up the cabin for winter."

<Don't wanna tell her you drink all day, plucking your banjo to the same Hozier songs on repeat?>

The Ghost Cat's voice was barely a grumble against the steady trickle of the stream, but Finley tilted her head in its direction. "Did you say something about Hozier?"

Picking up a couple creek stones, River whipped them across the brook into the darkness before turning back around. "I uh, was just sayin' it's much cozier closer to the fire."

"Oh right, you're probably freezing." Finley stood up with a buzzed sway and grabbed the blanket from the back of her chair. "It's not real big, but if we scooch in close, we can share. If you want. If that's not weird, I mean." She had vastly underestimated her tolerance level, unable to restrain the words that stumbled from her tongue. "Now that I'm saying it out loud, maybe it's best if you just take the blanket. I'm actually not all that cold. Anymore. I only grabbed it 'cause I saw you're not wearing your coat. So you're probably freezing..."

"I got something in mind that'll warm us both up." A glimmer caught in River's eyes that Finley quickly attributed to the glare of the fire because thinking it was anything more than just that was definitely not part of the plan. River turned back towards the hemlock and squatted down next to its trunk. Sweeping a layer of pine needles away from the roots, they uncovered a white enameled billycan. "You ever had Allegheny Smoked Tea?"

Finley slowly shook her head. "Did you know that was there?"

But River only answered with that sly smile, humming to themself as they stood and plucked a few green sprigs from the hemlock and tucked them behind their ear. Kneeling at the stream, they filled the can with water and then walked back over to the fire, placing it above the embers.

"We'll let that heat up good n' hot, but in the meantime..." River gently pushed Finley back down in her chair. Moments ago, any touch to her shoulder would've shot needles through her, but the pain had since dissipated and was the farthest thing from her mind. Instead, a flush of heat coursed through her as River leaned down to grip the arms of her chair. Sliding her closer to the fire, they hummed a familiar tune that vibrated softly along her neck up to her ear. Dark auburn hair obscured most of their face, but Finley could feel their coy smile, one that mirrored her own.

No longer waiting for any invitation, they dragged the other chair on over next to hers, then carefully pulled the billycan from the fire. Glancing around, they patted down their chest again and grasped at their pockets with a puzzled look that knitted their brows.

Finley laughed softly as River spun around. "The sprig's behind your ear."

Reaching up, they smiled and plunked it into the can. "See, I put it there so you'd remind me. Glad to know I can count on ya." With a wink, they clapped the lid on and set the can down on the arm of their chair to steep. "Actually, I got a bit of a favor to ask. It's a neighborly one, nothing too arduous. Maybe arborous rather."

"Arborous?" Finley's brow quirked. "Go on, I'm listening."

"Well, I'm having some trouble keeping the bears outta my apple trees. I keep reminding 'em it's officially huntin' season, but they know my threats are empty." River glanced down at Finley's glass and filled it half with moonshine, then topped it off with the hemlock tea. "Anyways, I seen you had a nice grove of galas in the field a ways—"

"Oh, of course. Help yourself, River." Cupping her hands around the warm glass, she watched as they poured some for themself. "Even if I'm already gone by then, feel free."

"I just need a splint or so, just enough to brew some cider. It's the perfect drink for the season, you know. Hot or cold. Sweet or hard." Finally, River took a seat and Finley handed them the blanket. Stretching it over the arms of the chairs, they tucked it across her lap before laying it over their own. "I'll gladly bring some over for ya."

"I'd love that."

Both raised their drinks, eyes fixed to the flames, watching-but-not-watching one another while the crackle of the fire filled the silence between them. And it was a comfortable silence, something she had almost forgotten could exist. The mulled apple pie moonshine now had a gentle heat to it and Finley sipped it slowly to savor its warmth.

"River, this is even better mulled," she finally said, turning to them to meet their gaze. "I wish I was sticking around longer so you could show me all your homesteading skills. God knows, I could use some."

"Gotta get back to work Monday?"

"Oh, no. I'm not actually working at the moment."

"Got family or someone to—"

"No." And that came off sharper than she meant so she tried to laugh it off. Shaking her head, she toyed with Gram's ring on her finger. "It's not that."

"What's your rush, then?"

The plan had been to keep moving. Pack a bag and use cash to keep moving. But she'd been caught on her way out, just like the time before. But this time, like the little red fox caught in the trap all those years ago, she was going to chew her own foot off or die trying. Her plan had literally crashed and burned, but somehow she ended up here, where she needed to be. She had prayed to the ancients afterall. The fox however, chose to run off, instead of denning down to lick its wounds clean, leaving a trail of blood behind it. The moon had barely risen that night before his cries filled the forest with the howl of hounds hot on his tail.

Like an echo of the memory, a yipping cry bounced through the hollow from every which way. Finley curled deeper into her chair, stealing a glance over her shoulder at the edge of the trees where the howl had been the loudest. "They always sound closer than they really are," she murmured into her glass.

"You don't gotta worry about that little song dog," River assured her. "She ain't gonna hurt ya."

"That was just one? I thought coyotes ran in packs?"

"She used to. The pack fed on some tainted deer about a year back. Hell, maybe it was longer. I tend to lose track of time up here. Anyways, I started finding 'em barely alive, all ate up with some nasty infection. Worms, maggots, beetles—I'll spare ya the gory details." River finished their drink and set it down on the slate alongside the mason jar and wooden caddy. "I had to put her mate down last winter shortly after Yule. She's been runnin' alone ever since, but at least she survived."

"What do you think was wrong with the deer?" Finley asked. "Something like Chronic Wasting Disease?"

"Who knows. It was one of them juiced up trophy bucks those flatlanders raise up at the lodge. Hand feed 'em their whole lives then charge an arm and a leg for an inexperienced jagoff to walk up n' shoot 'em in their pen. That's not hunting." River shifted uneasily in their chair, picking at the cuff of their sleeve. "The buck got his rack tangled up with their wire fence near our property lines. Someone had cut a piece of it back, maybe tryin' to let the game go. Most folks in town think I did it, but if I had, I woulda finished the job. The idea still tempts me once a month or so."

"Was it a white stag?"

River sat up a little straighter as that suspicious glint returned to their eyes. "Yeah, I believe it was." Leaning over the arm of the chair, they tucked their end of the blanket back over Finley's lap. With a sway, they stood up, wobbling at the edge of the fire before Finley shot up to catch a hold of their belt. Their laugh melted to a hum as they steadied themself against her. "Mighta over-did it tonight."

<As usual.>

"Maybe I should walk you home," Finley suggested.

"And then have you walk back by yourself? I couldn't allow that. Which means you'd have to stay at mine. And good lord, what would the neighbors think of that?" River laughed again and started heading towards the road, but Finley followed.

"What neighbors?"

"Exactly." River stopped and turned back to face her. Taking the blanket from her hands, they wrapped it around her shoulders and guided her back a few steps til her heels clicked against the slate. As they slid their hands down her arms, their thumb brushed against the garnet ring and seemed to linger. "You just keep to this side of the patio tonight and the two of us will be fine."

As they tucked their hair back behind their ear, their lips parted like they were going to say something more, but a gust of wind pushed between them and seemed to take the words away. The new breath of air rekindled the embers in the firepit, igniting a flame that lit up River's face.

"Your bruise..." Finley reached out to touch their cheek just to be sure. "It's gone."

"As is yours."

She brought her hand back up to her own face, feeling along her cheek, then down to her lip. "It's supernatural, isn't it? The spring."

"Now you're the one startin' to sound like your grandpappy." River gave her that grin one last time before stepping beyond the glow of the fire and into the dark woods. The shuffle of their boots against the dirt road faded into the stillness of the night and Finley was alone once more.

Or not alone.

Because as she turned back towards the fire, the crunch of gravel sounded louder in her ear. Less like the shuffling of River's drunk gait, these were sharper. Smaller. As she stepped towards the edge of the patio, her own heels clicked the same against the slate. Like an echo, the steps along the road clicked twice.

Her heels sunk into the mossy ground, making no noise this time as she took a few steps towards the road. "River, if you're trying to scare me..."

But the smell of warm iron and rot wrapped heavy around her and she knew it wasn't River.

A wet snort behind her shot hot breath down her spine. Turning as slowly as she dared, she stared up at a bloody rack of antlers and a pair of black eyes that shined like coal in the fire's glare.