Fox Hunt; Chapter 8

I jog through the forest, just out of sight of the road. Thankfully, there was a town that I could be in by tomorrow evening, and it wasn't the one I was heading for. If I traveled fast enough, I could reach my destination in three days and be gone before they thought to check any of the other surrounding towns when they started looking for me. No, if they started looking for me.

I don't think they were looking for me. No one had tried to stop me when I had left the town. That militiaman hadn't seemed to recognize me. All signs that pointed to the fact that they weren't looking for me. I don't want to consider what it meant if they weren't looking for me yet. I needed to focus. I needed to get Tiberius's work to Sorchal.

The sun sets, and I keep moving until I feel exhaustion creeping in. If I didn't stop soon, I'd be liable to pass out. It takes a couple minutes, but I find a spot to rest where I'll be out of sight from anyone passing on the road. My plan is to be awake with the rising sun and get back to moving, but with how tired I am, I'd rather take precautions. I don't need some passing stranger to find me. I was already leaving a trail I didn't want to. I don't bother making a fire either. It's not cold so it's not worth the risk.

By the time I wake up, the sun is past the horizon. Getting up, I do my best to stretch, ignoring the lingering ache in my limbs from the hard traveling. I do give myself a small break, walking at a slow even pace while I eat a breakfast of jerky and wild berries and then holding the pace for a little while after to give the food time to settle.

It's nearing noon when the sounds of the forest are disturbed by another sound. It takes a moment, but I manage to place the sound. There's a cart approaching.

I slow, pulling further into the forest for cover. Once I find a good hiding spot, I crouch down to ensure I'm not level with their eyesight. Though, when the cart comes into sight, it's easy to tell the crouching was unnecessary. The man driving the cart is locked in deep conversation with the woman beside him. When his attention does shift from the horse, it's to look at the woman. The woman is similarly paying very little to the forest surroundings. I'm not sure why, but the sight leaves an odd feeling settling over me. It lingers long after they've disappeared from sight.

It lingers and grows as I continue to make my way through the forest. By the time I settle down for the night, I've realized what it is: loneliness. Maybe that's what drives me to make a fire. Maybe that's why I pull Tiberius's journal from my backpack, resting it on my lap.

I sit in the circle of light made by the fire, staring down at the journal in my lap, fingers gently brushing across the cover. The leather is soft beneath my fingers from years of use. I had never seen Tiberius use it, but he had told me about it. He had had it for years; used it to write down things he didn't want others stumbling across. He had shown it to me once when he had first told me that someday, someone would come for his life's work. After that, it had sat hiding in the backpack with the box in the trunk. For years, it had sat, hiding there. I had never opened it. . . Until now.

I pull the leather cord around it free, opening it to the first page.

The writing is familiar. It's scrawled across the page in his name and a series of random numbers. I assume it meant something to him.

I begin to flip through the journal. Every page is written on; some bear little more than a single line while others are nearly completely filled with writing. Notes, formulas, equations.

About halfway through the journal, another handwriting appears, mixed in with Tiberius's. There are even a couple pages just in the other handwriting. My eyes are drawn to the notes scribbled across the top of some pages or in the margins, almost like a small conversation between the handwritings.

Stop writing in my journal. Stop leaving it in my space.

An arrow pointing down to a circled 'Li' in an X-ed out formula. Use H instead. Don't tell me how to do my work. And below it: Bad rxn, DON'T USE. Told you.

I study the other handwriting. Could it be. . . hers?

I remember asking Tiberius one time if he had any family. He had just smiled sadly at me.

"We're both alone, Sylvaine. Bound together by the fact that we have no one."

"But I had someone. Did you have someone?"

He studies the window for a moment before nodding. "I was actually married. She was the most amazing person I had met. Brilliant, stunning, incredibly stubborn," he finishes with a small chuckle and shake of his head. His eyes focus on me. "She would have loved you." His smile turns sad again before he sighs deeply, rubbing his forehead.

She must be dead. Like my mother. "Sorry."

Tiberius blinks, looking at me once again, a slight weariness in his eyes. "For?"

"You don't have to tell me about her."

"No, it's alright," Tiberius assures me, rising from his chair to head for the kitchen. He pauses by me, reaching out to ruffle my hair. "It's good to remember what you've lost. Makes what you have in the moment all the more precious."

Tiberius continued on. I was quick to spring up to follow him, more questions rising to the tip of my tongue.

That had been the only time I had gotten him to open up about his wife. Any questions after that day had been met with either silence or a redirect. I think her name had been Annabelle-Lee, but I wasn't sure.

I study the notes again. How would things have been different if she hadn't died? If she had found me with Tiberius?

I blindly thumb through the rest of the journal. My mind pulls back to the present when I turn the last page to find a folded note tucked into the back of the journal. Curious, I open it. Tiberius's scrawled handwriting lies on the page.

Sylvaine has what you need. My work is yours now. All I ask is that you take care of her.

-Dr. T. Smith

I stare at the note. This note had to have been in the journal all this time. He must have put it there before it was stashed away. Had he been sure even then that he wouldn't have been able to flee with me when the time came?

I quickly refold the note, tucking it back in place. I shut the journal, pulling the strings tight as my eyes begin to sting. I ignore the stinging as I shove the journal back down into my bag.

I tuck myself into a ball, staring intently at the fire, willing the stinging to go away. When I fail to hold it back any longer, I let my eyes shut.

Wherever he is now, I just pray he's not in any pain.