Free Out of The Woods by Patricia Bowmer

chin cut deep, the square jaw with its promise of strength. She saw with surprise that his face was absolutely and strangely symmetrical. His eyes were a light ice-blue. The white color of his hair contrasted sharply with the deep tan of his skin. The darkness she’d sensed during the night was not there. At least not in his face.
    He didn’t speak, only nodded slightly as if to acknowledge that she was following him, before turning again to lead the way.
    Later, when she had settled into the pattern of his footsteps and was stepping carefully over tree roots, when she was feeling more at ease with him, she happened to look up again at the back of his head. Just at that moment, he’d turned to look to the left. She felt a deep unsettling in her stomach. His ears . They were oddly out of proportion, too small for his head. The ears of a predator , she thought.
    She tried to ignore how she felt. She didn’t want to distrust him, didn’t want to face the action such distrust would require. It would mean she’d have to leave him. Then she’d be alone again, lost. She just couldn’t face it. They were only ears. And yet they make me feel frightened again…like that white snake braid.
    Trance stopped and turned around again. For the first time, he smiled at her. It was a broad smile, open and warm. But his even, perfectly white teeth made a caricature of his faultless smile, made it seem unreal. His thick lips moved slowly and un-hurried as he spoke for the first time that morning.
    “We’re nearly there,” he said. “Soon, we’ll be at the river. We can take my boat and we’ll be out of the woods in no time.”
    Was he watching her for a reaction? He seemed to be.
    “Don’t worry,” he added. “I know the way.”
    She smiled back, but the smile was false, as if she were willing the muscles around her jaw to lift, but not quite succeeding. He didn’t seem to notice, and to her, it felt the same as all her smiles; forced from a deep place inside that was not smiling at all.
    He turned to lead again, and she followed, carefully avoiding looking at him. It struck her that she had been watching him as she used to watch Fernando – from behind. Following. A surge of anger flowed through her.
    “These woods can be dangerous you know,” he said ominously, without looking around. “I’ve heard of people who came here for day hikes, and were never seen again. No one finds their bodies or their bones. It’s as if they just disintegrate, out here alone.”
    She was silent, and he stopped to look back at her.
    “Oh – I’ve frightened you. I’m so sorry,” he said gently. “And you’re cold too – look, you’re shivering. Here, take my jacket.”
    He slipped the canteen from his shoulder, and placed it carefully on the ground. With the movement, the long white braid slipped free from his collar, and hung loose down his back. It was at least six inches long, braided tightly and with precision. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. Removing his jacket, he stepped close to her.
    She hadn’t noticed before, but the color of the jacket was ambiguous; it might have been green or grey or even black. For some reason, this ambiguity, this un-graspable-ness alarmed her. Cape-like, he swung it over her. She watched it settle down over her body, as if in slow motion. The jacket was on her, over her shoulders, hiding her orange windbreaker completely. Her nostrils filled with a dank, stagnant smell – the smell of him. It was a smell remarkably out of place in someone with such clean, fresh looks, with his blond hair and blue eyes and small white teeth. It was like the jacket had been put away wet, left to grow moldy in a wardrobe without enough airflow.
    He rested his hands on her shoulders a moment too long, as if to comfort her, but the weight of him, the weight of his jacket, was oppressive. The pressure of his hands was so great that she imagined herself moving into the earth, towards dampness and