To keep going was to ignore the blisters on his feet, the wolves howling in the distance, and his pursuers following each indentation his bare feet made in the uncut summer grass. It was the middle of the night in deep summer, but Torv kept walking in spite of the pain, both physical and psychic. He could no longer remember the last time he knew what day it was or how long he had been on the run, but he knew it had been early springtime then, and he’d been out for a row with Daisy.

-Fancy a whack at it then? He teased Daisy, offering up the oar.

-I was only saying that it seemed to me we’ve been drifting for quite some time over here in the shade of the willow. I’m liable to get cold.

Torv held his corncob pipe in the corner of his mouth and smiled as he picked up the oar and put it to water. To tell the truth, he’d been hoping perhaps the calm, shady waters might have led to a rather more amorous afternoon than the one they had thus far passed together.

-Torv. Torv, what’s that?

-What’s what, Daisy?

-You know I don’t like it when you and your brothers have fun at my expense.

-Daisy I--

Torv froze as he sensed movement over his shoulder on the stream’s edge. He followed Daisy’s gaze.

He could not linger on the memory for long, as it drained his mental resources and he needed to stay sharp. For the briefest of moments, he stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a tree wider-round than he was tall. It was covered in dark moss that ran down the trunk and into the loamy soil without any break. Creepers and vines hung around him like a curtain, waiting only for the main player to take the stage. Stay sharp. Stay alive.

The words were first spoken to Torv in a tavern hundreds of leagues North in Umlea.

The old trader approached his table with an uneven gait, one leg noticeably shorter than the other, but held his ale aloft with a skill that suggested his condition was far from a new one. Without asking, the grizzled man took a seat across from Torv and drew deep from his glass. Wiping his wine-dark beard across his sleeve, he said

-Ought to be a little more careful.

-Do I know you?

-No, and there’s your problem. I’m in this inn every night. Have been for more seasons than I care to mention.

-What’s your point?

The man took another pensive sip of his ale and scratched at his chin.

-Way I see it, man trying not to be found, man running from something...that sort of man ought to stay out of establishments where the regulars are as well known as the taps.

-I’m visiting my cousin.

The trader laughed quietly to himself, his upper body shaking gently as he reached into a greasy shirtpocket.

-Here, he said. Free of charge.

He threw a small drawstring bag on the table and pushed it across towards Torv.

-Little pork and a fair handful of smoke. Your hands are shaking something fierce. Have the look of a fellow with a new missus that don’t like the smell of his pipe.

-Thank you, Torv said, quietly pocketing the small bag. I’ve little to offer in return.

-I’m not taking from you anyhow. It’s clear you’ve got nothing to give. But while you’re in the taking mood, here’s some advice. Stay sharp. Stay alive.

Torv left the tavern shortly after his conversation with the old trader. They never exchanged names, but he was often on Torv’s mind while on the run. There was little doubt his life had been saved by the old man untold times, and his mantra was never far from Torv’s lips. Stay sharp. Stay alive. When his breathing had returned to normal, Torv continued onwards through the creepers and the vines, over the crooked, upturned fingers of the forests’ roots just waiting to trip him up and offer him to the enemy. There were bogs too, in the forest, and they appeared as if out of nowhere, hiding in the deep shadows of a dense canopy. A quiet grave they would make, too. Even they couldn’t find me down there, he thought.

It was long since Torv had taken any routes that included signposts or towns along the way, but back home he had been enormously-proud of his lettering on his post box that read Torv Mannold. Back in Luxan, his post box was empty, and a soft rain pitter-pattered against the roof of his cottage. Weeks had passed since the search party had returned empty-handed and discouraged. Daisy had not been allowed to go along on the search, but had waited each night as dusk came on right at the edge of town where the stone path rutted to dirt and wound away into the hills. On the night when Torv rested against the mossy tree far away, as the rain fell on the roof of his cottage, she watched his window.

There was the barest of flickers and then...light. Mellow, but unmistakable light was visible through the foggy cottage window. There was a fallow field between Daisy’s own window and Torv’s, but she was certain of what she saw.

-Daisy what’s got into ye? Where are you going?

The young woman did not answer her mother, but bound through the puddles in the field in the direction of Torv’s cottage. She was out of breath as she passed the empty post box with his proud, fading lettering. She leaned against it and looked up the path to the window as the light was snuffed out, and the curtains rammed close.