A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.31: The Final Set

The last day of the festival seemed to come around faster than the boy thought. It may have been his weakness from his lack of food or perhaps just that he was enjoying himself so well. He had been his version of bed-ridden for the past few days, cramps in his stomach from hunger so bad that he was nearly unable to walk. Each morning he stayed in his camp, only dragging himself out to practice with his knife weakly and breathlessly. After his weeks and hours of practice, he was nearly as good as the man. The day before he had stumbled to watch the man throw his knives before sinking onto the trunk of an oak tree to hear the familiar and memorized songs of Parsley, Sage, and Thyme.

The final day began as each day had begun. He stumbled to watch the knife-throwing musician throw his knives so evenly before sinking beneath his tree and waiting for the show to begin. He passed out several times, although went unnoticed, for he had grown so dirty that all just assumed he was a performer meant to be there. His bare feet were caked in layers of mud and dust, his face matching.

He awoke to the music, the final set, and smiled weakly with cracked lips. Bast was curled up in his lap, a rare thing, for she was afraid of all the bustle about. He knew it was a sign. He was dying. He decided then, that tonight when the festival was over and no one was to return until next year, he would find his way back to The Woodshop on The Bluff. He would crawl if he had to. But that was where he would die, clinging onto a life that treated him well.

As the sun fell and Bast had escaped to hunt, he was able to see through his fading vision as everyone disappeared around him. All except for Parsley, Sage, and Thyme. He could not hear clearly, but someone had lost something, and he stumbled to his feet, his satchel nearly pulling him over. With ever-weakening bones, he stumbled to the King's Gate, escaping into the dreary quarry. The festival's joy was washed over him now, leaving him behind as it once again laid in dormancy, awaiting next year.

He staggered, pain shooting through his torso. He pressed forward, coughing out a weak cry of desperation. Faintly, he heard a voice behind him, perhaps calling out to him. He could not tell, his knees were hitting the ground and even as his chest heaved fraily, he could not lift himself. His shoulders fell, his body falling to the stone-riddled road.

He did not see the knife-throwing musician rushing to his side, feeling for a pulse and worriedly shaking the boy. Nor did he feel it when the man lifted his light frame and carried him to his car, placing him gently in the back seat with the man's backpack as the boy's pillow, the satchel staying around his shoulders, as the man himself slid into the driver's, glancing back worriedly every few minutes as he sped, challenging the speed limit, to the hospital, cursing his phone for its low battery death.