Vetta composed herself and considered her situation rationally. Back in Buckle, Seltie had mentioned that Feyar City was only another ten miles, and they’d walked for over an hour since then. That left maybe six miles more to go, or even a bit less. A slow pace would get her there in four hours or thereabouts.
She repacked her backpack, discarding everything not essential to hiking the last few miles. She kept only a change of clothes, the diary bundle, the tinderbox, her water bottle, and a small folding knife. She had no more food. Exhausted from the morning’s activities, she fell asleep next to the baby and slept until mid-morning.
The throbbing pain in her shoulder awakened her after only a couple of hours. Well, if I can’t sleep, I might as well be on my way.
And so it was that on the twenty-seventh day after fleeing Lone Island, Vetta, with her baby girl, set out to cover the last six miles northward to Feyar City.
She gathered her backpack, her baby, and every last bit of inner strength she could muster, and pressed onward. When she passed a young willow tree growing by the stream that ran along the roadside, she cut some of the tender inner bark and chewed on it, the way that Seltie had taught her. It seemed to help a little with the pain and the fever, but the relief didn’t last long.
An hour passed, then another. Vetta had no idea how far she had walked. She was making slow but steady progress. The sky had turned cloudy and a brisk, chilling wind arose. She tucked the baby inside her blouse, just as she had on the boat. She wished she had brought her light jacket, but it had seemed too heavy this morning. Shortly after noon, she retreated a few yards off the highway and into the brush and laid out her blanket. She nursed the baby, then they both slept.
When she woke again, her fever seemed worse. The baby was restless. “Poor little baby, you know your mother’s not feeling well, don’t you? Don’t worry, just a little while longer and we’ll be safe and sound in Feyar City. Everything will be okay, then.”
Vetta stumbled and staggered, fading in and out of consciousness as she pushed on. She approached a crossroad, paused to listen, then hid in the brush by the roadside. A tall, thin, old Sevro man accompanied by a goat pulling a little cart approached the intersection from the north, then turned eastward down the crossroad. He was alternately singing and whistling a little tune.
She waited until the old man was out of sight, then went to the intersection. In the center of the intersection was a strange sort of figure made of sticks and old bones, vaguely resembling a Fessal soldier. Several small dead animals were stuck in it. It smelled of death. Vetta gave it a wide berth as she continued northward. She passed by some ruins, the foundations of buildings long decayed.
Suddenly, the forest opened into meadowland, revealing that Vetta was on a ridge above a beautiful green valley. The road rapidly descended into the valley in a series of switchbacks. Through tear-filled eyes, she saw a small town less than a half-mile away. “We made it, baby girl, just like I told you we would. A few more steps and we’ll be… wherever this is—Feyar City, I hope.”
On the outskirts of the village, Vetta approached a small farmhouse. She stumbled up the cobblestone path, then fell against the front door, where she lost consciousness.