When the Village Watched

Chapter 10 - When the Village Watched

Morning in Greyhollow moved as it always did.

People rose before the sun fully cleared the roofs. Wooden doors opened one by one. Thin smoke slipped from low chimneys. Kitchen fires caught with short, dry cracks of splitting wood. An old cart rolled along the same dirt road as every other day, its left wheel still louder than the right.

A deer hung near the storage shed, covered with a thin cloth tied in a hurry. The fabric shifted slightly whenever the morning wind passed through. No one stopped there. Someone walked past carrying a sack of grain, glanced once, then kept moving without slowing.

Zio stepped out of the house. The morning air was cold, clinging to his skin. A few people looked his way, then returned to whatever they had been doing.

An old man who usually complained about poor hunts gave him a nod that morning, then bent down to retie his sandal strap. A woman who normally passed without looking offered a brief greeting while adjusting the basket on her arm. Children kept running and shouting, chasing each other between houses, but their paths no longer crossed in front of Zio’s door.

No one mentioned the hunt.

Zio helped Trod move firewood behind the house. The logs weighed the same as they had yesterday. The grain of the wood scraped rough against his palms. Trod let him work without correction, only shifting the pile now and then so it would not lean.

When they stopped to drink, someone passed along the back road and asked Trod about supplies for the coming week. Trod answered briefly, without turning around. The man nodded, took two more steps, then glanced at Zio before leaving.

Zio looked down at the ground.
For a few seconds longer than usual.

Someone left a basket of bread by the fence outside Trod’s house.

The bread was still warm. The cloth covering it was folded neatly. There was no note. No sound of footsteps waiting for a response. When Zio stepped out briefly to draw water, the basket was already gone.

On the main path through the village, the carpenter who usually stopped to complain about warped boards only gave a short nod. His hands stayed on the beam balanced across his shoulder. He did not slow his pace, as if the nod were a decision made a moment too late.

Two hunters from the northern trail crossed paths with Zio near the intersection. They paused briefly, just long enough to ask about the forest. Wet ground. Morning wind. Zio answered with what little was needed. One of them listened with his head slightly tilted, as if weighing something, then shifted his foot and walked on first. The other followed without looking back.

The village head came near midday.

He stood beneath the edge of a roof, talking about weather and grain stores. His voice was calm, his rhythm steady. Midway through a sentence, he mentioned the night watch. The line was left hanging. The village head did not leave right away. He waited one breath longer than necessary, then gave a small nod when Zio remained silent.

In the afternoon, a child ran up to him.

“Are you going to the forest again tomorrow?”

The child’s mother pulled him back before Zio could answer. An apology was offered while walking away. The child looked back once, then disappeared between the houses.

Night fell without any noticeable change.

Zio sat on the doorstep, looking toward the darkening forest. A hammer still rang somewhere in the distance. Doors still opened and closed as they always had. Only the distance felt different.

---

Zio entered the forest while the light was still low.

His steps were steady, unhurried. Damp soil swallowed the sound of his boots, wet leaves covering his trail. The morning air was cold, carrying the smell of earth and untouched sap.

He moved without a predictable pattern. He did not follow old paths. He did not head for familiar hunting grounds. Each small decision was made in the moment, based on what he heard, what he felt, and what he chose to ignore.

A deer appeared between the trunks, paused for only a moment, then vanished again. Zio took half a step forward, then stopped. The wind shifted. He eased back slightly and let the distance close again.

A branch snapped somewhere deeper in. Not loud. Not faint. Too clean for an ordinary animal.

Zio waited.

He let curiosity pass without following it. He changed direction before his thoughts could settle on what should be searched for. He descended a shallow slope, following a narrow streambed nearly dry, where old scents tended to linger longer than fresh tracks.

There, the ground had been disturbed.

Old tracks, nearly erased. Not fresh, but not dead. Someone had passed through carrying weight, pressing the earth deeper than an empty stride would.

Zio knelt and touched the mark with his fingertips. Cold. No vibration remained.

He stood and marked the direction without leaving a mark.

There was no fight. Nothing emerged from between the trees. The forest remained as it had been, quiet and indifferent.

Still, the route changed.

Zio turned back before going too far, carrying information rather than prey. When he stepped out from the trees, the sun had climbed higher, and the forest closed itself again, as if it had never been touched.

Zio returned to the village with empty hands.

He passed the storage shed without stopping. A few people glanced his way, then went back to their work. No one asked why he had returned early, or why his steps were light.

Behind Trod’s house, the meat still hung.

The sound of a knife resumed.

Trod was cutting meat behind the house when two people slowed as they passed the fence.

They did not stop completely. One stepped closer by half a pace, enough to see the metal hooks still wet.

“So that’s the kill people were talking about. That human kid’s haul,” he said, his tone more curious than impressed.

Trod did not look up. The knife moved steadily, separating sinew from flesh.

“The kid who’s always going into the forest alone?” the other added with a snort. “Isn’t he supposed to be unable to use magic?”

“That one. And the forest doesn’t hand out deer that size easily. Not even to grown hunters.”

“Hm. That makes sense,” the first replied after a pause. “More sense than him bringing it down himself without magic.”

Trod’s knife stopped for a moment. He moved a cut aside, then continued without a word.

“I just find it strange,” the voice went on. “If that’s the case, why stay quiet about it? Kids that age usually can’t shut up.”

“Maybe he didn’t want attention,” the other said. “Or he knew no one would believe him.”

They fell silent. Then one of them chuckled softly.

“Either way. Not our business.”

One of them laughed and said something about tracks on the western trail. The other replied with a comment about the wind starting to shift.

Their voices faded as their steps carried them down the dirt road.

Trod’s knife struck bone with a dull sound. He paused, adjusted a piece that had gone out of line, then continued.

---

Zio stopped at the edge of the small clearing in the center of the village.

The ground there had been packed down over many years. On one side stood an old wooden post, its surface darkened and chipped from repeated impacts. Small stones lay scattered around it, some cracked, others worn smooth from being picked up and thrown again and again.

Children ran across the clearing. Some chased one another, others gathered stones along the edges. Their voices overlapped, loud laughter mixed with sharp shouts when a throw missed its mark.

One child ran toward Zio, breath coming fast. When only a few steps remained, the run slowed. It turned into a quick walk. The child glanced sideways at another group, then veered off before reaching Zio and joined them without a word.

Near the post, two children arguing over whose turn it was to throw fell silent. One of them glanced at Zio, then tugged the other’s arm. They walked a few steps away and resumed their game from a different side.

A girl who usually sat on the wooden fence stood up. She still held the small rope she often swung in her hands. Her gaze lingered on Zio longer than the others. From a distance, her mother called out. The girl did not move at first. After the second call, she ran off, the rope swinging wildly at her side.

A stone struck the wooden post with a dry crack.
Another followed.

Laughter returned. The game continued with the same rules, only the positions slightly changed.

Zio stood at the edge of the clearing.

After a while, he turned and walked away.

He left the clearing and followed the dirt path between the houses.

The sounds of children faded behind him, mixing with the hammering from the carpenter’s shop and the clink of metal from near the storage sheds. A few adults passed without stopping. No one greeted him. No one slowed his steps.

Behind Trod’s house, the smell of raw meat still lingered. The cutting table had not been fully cleaned. Several tools lay where they had been left, as if the work had been paused midway.

Zio went inside, hung his light coat, then reached for the bow resting in the corner.

He began tightening the bowstring.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind him.

Near evening, Zio was tightening the bowstring when Trod stopped behind him.

He did not speak right away. He simply stood there, watching the knot Zio was forming.

“Don’t use that bow,” Trod said at last, his tone flat. “Put it away starting tomorrow.”

Zio stopped pulling the string. He turned. “Why?”

Trod let out a short breath, like someone weighing whether a long answer would be worth it.

“Because people judge results based on their own habits,” he said. “And I don’t need them judging you.”

He stepped forward half a pace, took the bow from Zio’s hands, and hung it back on the rack.

“Use a dagger,” he went on. “Closer. Louder. And not everyone can do it.”

Zio stayed silent. His hand hovered in the air for a moment before dropping.
“What if it runs?”

Trod gave a small shrug. “Then you chase it.”
He picked up a cloth and began wiping his hands. “If you don’t catch it, that’s fine too. You’re not a hunter who has to succeed every time.”

Zio stood there a few seconds longer than usual.

Then he took his dagger from the table, weighed it briefly in his palm, and slid it into his belt.

“What matters is that you come back without filling other people’s heads.”

Trod turned away.

The next morning, Zio left the village without a bow on his back.

A few people noticed.
No one asked.

He followed the dirt path down toward the forest’s edge with the same pace as always. Not faster. Not more hesitant. But something was missing from his silhouette. Something that had once been visible from far away.

Beneath the trees, he stopped.

Zio drew in a breath and lowered his body. His hand touched the ground, searching for signs that barely showed. Claw marks. Grass pressed halfway down. A thin scent of blood nearly swallowed by morning dew.

Closer than he remembered.

He moved slowly, circling, letting the distance close little by little. No drawn string. No hiss of air. Only breath, footsteps, and the pulse at his wrist.

When he finally saw the deer between the brush, it was close enough for him to hear its breath.

Zio did not move right away.
He waited one count longer than necessary.

Then he took a single step forward, fully aware that everyone was watching now.