Free The Writer And The Witch by Robin Sloan Page A

as long as I sit in this spot, without
moving, it will be sated. Lend me some branches to make a shelter, will you?”
    The woodcutter’s cart was piled high, and the
story was settling in. “Yes, I suppose I can spare you some cuttings,” he
said. “I’ll even nail them together for you.”
    So he built the writer a simple, sloping roof.
    “ Good luck to you, pilgrim,”
the woodcutter said when he started back down the road. “And thank you.”
    # # #
    THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED were very
difficult.
    The writer ate every scrap of edible or
nearly-edible matter in the radius of his reach. He lured a
squirrel into his lap and wrung its neck. Stretching down towards the river,
he tried, and failed, to catch a fish with his bare hands. He choked down slimy
snails.
    He begged for food from passing travelers, but
there weren’t many of them, and most passed him as silently as he’d passed
the witch.
    But with patience, things improved.
    When a fisherman came whistling across the
bridge, first the writer begged for food. Then he thought better of it, and
asked for a hook and a line.
    He honed his begging. His survival depended on
it, with so few people on the old road. The story of the
river-spirit grew more elaborate; now there were images of children
whisked away in the night, of whole towns suddenly flooded, and when the water
washed away, no one was left.
    Slowly, the story was spreading. One day, two
monks from a forest temple came out of the trees, eyed him up and down, and
then—satisfied—they bowed and left two baskets full of fresh vegetables and
dried fruit. It was a feast.
    # # #
    WEEKS PASSED .
The writer’s entire body had shrunken, his legs most of all. They were in danger
of withering. He began a regimen of stretching, squatting, and running
in place. Sometimes, as he was pumping his legs, he thought of leaning forward,
of letting his feet dig in. He would race down the riverbank, grow old and
fall down and die, and it would be over. But he couldn’t. Even though its circumference
was so tiny, he had a life, and he couldn’t give it up.
    He became adept not only at begging, but at trading,
too. A cart would clatter to a stop, and he would offer a tiny treasure—a
shell he’d snagged from the river, or a decorative band woven from grass and
reeds—in exchange for some material to improve his shelter. Now he had tattered
canvas flaps to keep the rain out and a tiny fire-pit, along
with a small, dented iron cooking pan.
    # # #
    FINALLY , HE PAID A PASSING MERCHANT to take word to his father. His father, who
had warned him about his ambition. His father, who hadn’t come in from the
fields to say goodbye on the day the writer left home.
    His father, who came running—running!—down the
road days later.
    His father, out of breath, carrying a huge
brown sack. It was full of seeds: tomato, cucumber, potato, and kale. Mint and
rosemary, too. His father, who sat down right there beside him and used his
fingers to rake furrows in the black earth. His father, who reminded him what
he’d learned on the farm, and explained the seeds he’d brought, one by one, and
showed him how to grow a garden in that little disc of dirt.
    His father, who took his face in his hands and
said, “You look just like me now.” And then, smiling, “You’re a farmer
after all!”
    His father, who slept there with him, under the
stars. Who would not leave his side until the first harvest, such as it was,
had come in. Who, even as he returned to the road, because his own harvest was
long overdue, was saying: “Don’t forget to rotate your crops, or you’ll wear
out the soil. Treat it right, and it’s all you need.”
    His father.
    # # #
    IT WAS MORNING , months later.
    The writer woke to find his garden ravaged, all
of his food and small treasures stolen. There were footprints in the wet
ground. His heart sank. Almost a year of work, all gone. And it had been so
easy. They’d taken everything while he slept,