“It's gotta be a vegetable, right?”

  “If it is, it’ll be a flower first.” Tamas and Xochil were both inspecting the planter on the windowsill of his dormitory. It was still the only personal possession he had in the austere lodgings. The plants had grown to about eight centimeters. Still leafy, but plump ripe beads of green had begun to weigh down the ends with something to come. “Probably just another week now,” he breathed with a confidence he knew to be unearned. He broke his focus when he noticed Xochil watching him.

  “You’re like… really into these plants,” she observed, leaning against the doorway.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are so intense you when you talk about these things.”

  He still looked perplexed.

  She rolled her eyes and glanced out into the hallway, then back to him.

  “...I mean, you dragged me in here to show me flowers that haven’t even bloomed.”

  He felt his cheeks getting hot. “I’m just curious, aren’t you curious?”

  “Well, sure, but what exactly are you expecting to happen here?” She sauntered into the room and sat down on the corner of his bed. “They were seeds from your own pocket, they’re just going to end up being like tomatoes or something.”

  He let out a laugh but immediately felt how forced it sounded. “Yeah I know. It's not like I’m expecting magic beans or something…” He found the other seeds in his pocket, feeling both embarrassed it was still there and grateful she couldn’t see him rolling it between his fingers. Her expression didn’t break. She waited for him to say more. “I…” he pulled his hand out of his pocket as it was starting to feel clammy, “This doesn’t feel like my life, you know? I’m just…focused on what little there is of me here.”

  Her expression softened. He internally relaxed, knowing in that moment it was the right thing to say.

  “Of course, I know exactly how you feel. I’m saying that like all the time in group.”

  He changed the subject by lifting a cloth bag of game pieces from his desk drawer. He offered it toward her with a shrug. She sighed with tired acceptance as he set the cross-shaped board on his bed and began setting up the game.

  They got through a few rounds, but Xochil always had a way of circling back to topics he thought put to rest.

  “We should check out for the day sometime, check on your crops. You know they don’t mind if you do that, you just have to tell them where you’ll be.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “But you do,” she snorted, “You haven’t said a word about it all month, but it's high summer, the growing season.”

  The strategy game used small polished stones, painted black on one side and white on the other. He wasn’t familiar with the game at first, but after a few tutorials found himself easily able to beat her, as well as most people around the hospital who challenged him. He turned out to be something of a marvel at it.

  “The rains have been good,” he said absent-mindedly, studying the board instead of focusing on the conversation, “I’m sure the rice is fine.”

  “Corn.” Xochil responded with a raised brow, “you grow corn, don’t you? Who the fuck grows rice out here?”

  “Hm? What did I say?”

  Xochil rolled her eyes, “you’re zoning out again.”

  “We’re playing here,” he looked up annoyed, “you’re the one distracting me from our game.”

  “You should be able to do both.” she made a quick move on the board after his long deliberate one.

  “Maybe that’s how I keep beating you,” he smirked, finishing off her final pieces. He crossed his arms in triumph.

  She crossed her arms in an altogether different meaning, “alright, so the farm.”

  “Fine,” he said with a sigh, “Let’s go check on my crops tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll be thrilling for you.” He scratched at his chest. “Maybe it’ll be good for me.”

  “It’ll be good for your livelihood, certainly.” She was already cleaning up the game pieces and preparing to leave. It abruptly occurred to him that despite having won the game, Xochil was the true victor. She came to this room with a goal, and left when she achieved it.

  The following day he and Xochil signed out of the front office to make the day trip down to Veruan, the small village he came from. It was an easy journey using one of the monastery carts. They were in the business of charity and seemed to have little problem allowing their patrons to borrow them. He gave a small gesture of thanks as they passed the mural of the God on the way out. Xochil snorted.

  “Superstitious?”

  “You’re not?”

  She seemed to consider this, and gave a half-hearted gesture similar to the one he saw Coyopa do the week before. “Can’t hurt I guess,” she muttered.

  The two rode easily through the empty dirt roads of the countryside. The space between the monastery and the down was mostly patches of forest, with small plots of farmland carved out here and there in the areas or relative flatness. After a few hours the houses became closer together, until it was clear they had entered the village proper.

  “I can help you, you know water stuff, or put down fertilizer or something. It’ll be fun,” Xochil commented, tugging at the reins for the mule to turn down the village main street. She had taken control when Tamas looked puzzled by the animal at the stable.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked in response to her offer.

  “Because I’m going fucking stir crazy in there, isn’t is obvious?” She looked around at the houses as they passed, “You’re not the only one having a full-blown identity crisis in that place. I just had to get out of there for the day.”

  “Couldn’t you just go for the day back to your own home?”

  “Naw my parents would make a fuss, they’re totally freaked out about this whole thing. I’m better off not showing myself until I’m all good to go.”

  “Wouldn’t they want to see that you’re getting better?”

  “They’re just...a lot. Seriously, it's better to wait.”

  Xochil had arrived at the monastery a few weeks after him with her injury. Prior to that most people assumed he was rather unfriendly. He spoke very little in the first few weeks. But Xochil was the kind of person who would talk to anyone she was thrown in a room with. And wouldn’t you know, the two were one day thrown in a room. It was only after befriending her that he got to know the other patients and doctors. Even now, he didn’t strike up much conversation with anyone. But at this point most seemed to know him.

  “Feel good to be back to your old stomping ground?”

  They were deeping in the village now, past the farms and homes and more in the main street. The center road was hard red clay and crowded with carts like theirs as well as bicycle and foot traffic. The buildings and people made the summer air feel stagnant and made the smells jump out all the more. They were foreign smells to him, fish and smoke and something bright and vegetal.

  “Um...yeah,” he eyes were fixed on the food and grocery carts they passed.

  “Searching for something?”

  He broke his focus and looked back at her, “just...familiar faces I suppose.”

  “Did you ever have any of your friends visit on the weekends?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Tamas shrugged, “no one’s come so far.”

  “That's shitty,” she remarked with a tone of sincerity he appreciated. It seemed every weekend Xochil’s friends dropped by, bringing sweets and fruits and little toys to entertain her.

  “Your parents haven’t visited, have they?” he jumped in before she could press further.

  She shook her head, “I told them I was quarantined,” she flashed a smile at him before returning her gaze to the road, “I still write them though, sometimes.”

  “You don’t seem to like them very much.”

  Her expression of hurt made him immediately reget the observation.

  “I love my parents,” she responded, “but I'm almost twenty, and they still treat me like a child.”

  “I’m surprised they let you be a soldier then.”

  “Well, an archer is always far from the action.” she gestured with her bad elbow, “They might not after this though,” she snorted. “A random forest accident has awakened them to all the things that could happen to their daughter, far from the action or not.” He pointed at a hill in the distance as they came to a crossroads and she turned her cart to follow. “You’re pretty young though right? When did you inherit this thing?”

  “You mean the farm?”

  “Yeah, obviously.”

  Tamas shrugged, “few years, I suppose.”

  “And you’re good just doing it all by yourself?”

  He tipped his head a bit, “It's fine.”

  She was quiet for a moment, glancing at him as she waited for him to expand. When he didn’t, she rolled her eyes and refocused on the road. “Damn you’re cagey.”

  By this point they were turning down narrow streets again, between small clay and wood family dwellings. Clay walls waist to shoulder high separated residences from the dirt road. Within walls some had large manicured gardens, or simple patches of kitchen herbs. Some were painted with red and yellow ochre, with whitewash highlights. Especially ornate homes had tile around their doors and windows in brightly colored geometric patterns. He could see some children behind the walls, playing in the grass and gravel in front of their homes. He watched as women stood outside pinning their clean linens to broad, fragrant rosemary bushes. It was the kind of sight which brought people comfort. He wished it did to him.

  After a few minutes they exited the town, now entering back into farmland.

  “Okay, we’re northwest of the town, where to now?”

  He looked around the rolling crops and farm houses, “Uhm… its…” his eyes searched the horizon for the familiar landmark he pointed to previously, “on the side of the hill...”

  “Helpful.” She shot him an impatient glare, but her expression softened when she saw a genuine look of panic in his eyes. “Hey...you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he responded mechanically. He plunged his hands into his pockets. He forgot to take a seed before they left in the morning. He felt suddenly unanchored without it, like the whole afternoon out of the hospital was a dream.

  She gave a tug and the cart began to slow down, “God, I’m sorry,” she started, oddly free of any sarcasm that usually dripped from her words, “I didn’t even think how weird it must be to come back here after what happened.”

  “I’m fine,” he insisted, alarmed by her tone, and the pity seeping out of her words.

  “Do you…need a minute? I know if I were back in that forest-”

  “I’m not you okay,” he snapped, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “It's over there,” his hand pointed out to a raised strain of forest on his left, “on the other side of that hill.”

  The cart started up again. His face went flush.

  “I’m sorry I...I don’t know why I said it like that…that was-”

  “I get it,” Xochil responded softly, following the direction he had gestured to.

  By the time they made it around the thin sliver of forest separating the farms on the hill, Xochil’s expression was back to normal. They turned a corner and saw before them the destruction of his former home. “Thank God,” Tamas’ whole body heaved with relief.

  “Weird reaction, but whatever,” Xochil mumbled. They pulled up the gravel path leading to the house, which could no longer be called that.

  It would be difficult to imagine the original size of the home in relation to what was in front of them. At the center of the plot was a sphere of carbon-black rubble, with the remnants of a few walls and other larger materials, presumably erstwhile furniture. Outside of the locus, the destruction was even more strange. It seemed as if the trajectory of the blast burst from the center. There was more debris on the outside, but it was warped in a bizarre pattern that no dynamite or fire would cause.

  Xochil gave him space as he got out of the cart and took a few steps towards the structure. He thought at first the ground was covered in gravel, but on closer inspection, it was debris. He saw various materials as he pushed his boot across the rubble- glass, clay, wood, metal, were all uniformly broken into equal size pieces, like a miniature puzzle, and mixed together like how the different colors of shells mixed together to make ocean sand. He picked up a pile, and the debris ran through his fingers, strangely smooth, as if cut with precision.

  His stomach heaved as he thought of the other components of this sand. “A curse,” he thought, “unclean, festering.” As his eyes focused on the debris they seemed to swirl together, “Growing. Moving.” As he blinked, they stopped. He felt a voice inside him that was not his own, “rot,” it said, “grow in your rot.” There was another sound. A low, persistent screech, like cicadas. But it was too late in the season for that.

  Xochil took over a few steps towards him. His eyes were fixed on the ground, trying to identify something from the tiny pieces of a life shattered.

  "Something smell funny to you?" she remarked behind him

  He immediately lunged towards a crumbled wall and vomited behind it.

  In the distance, a howl.

  A shadow passed over them as her eyes shot up. “Was that a fucking owl?” The large creature perched on the tree behind the wreckage of the house. "Nuh-uh fuck that, we’re getting out of here.” She grabbed him by the shoulder and ushered him away, back down the road toward the crops. “Bad fucking omen, no way, in broad daylight too.” She kept muttering as they hurried down the road. “Let's get to the crops.”

  He didn't speak for a few moments. Xochil kept looking over at him with an expression of concern, but wouldn't say anything herself. Upon arrival, it seemed his eyes were searching everything, now they just looked forward, barely taking in its surroundings at all.

  "It can’t remain like that. It has to be cleansed." He said finally, after a few minutes of them silently walking along the dirt road between the fields.

  Xochil shook her head, "you can hire someone to clean it up. Besides, there's nothing there anymore. What, you want to build a new house on top of it?"

  "That's not what I mean," he muttered.

  "What do you mean then?"

  "I..." His voice got even quieter, "I'm not sure."

  They were silent again. The dirt and gravel path divided two unplanted lots, left to recover from the previous season with wild grasses. It led to a copse of tall, thin trees shielding a third, final field. The trees were in a narrow layer not even two trunks deep in most places, but packed so tightly that little light could pass through.

  Tamas' eyes stayed on the ground now. He didn't like being here. Everything felt wrong. He didn't once look over to Xochil since they got out of the cart. Though he did find her presence strangely comforting.

  "Should be about shoulder high by this season right? You're lucky it's summer. As long as any pests haven't gotten into it, the crop should be fine on its own." She pointed towards the tiny canals along the road with her boot, "nice watering system." After a beat of silence she added, "I'm talking out of my ass, I don't know shit about farming."

  Tamas laughed, despite himself. His eyes broke from the ground. For a moment he was back in the present, with his friend, completing the very ordinary task of checking his fields. No voices. No danger.

  The two turned the corner of trees into the final plot of land. For a moment Tamas felt a swell of relief when his eyes fell on a perfectly mundane looking field. It was only when Xochil spoke that he realized the problem.

  "Tamas...where's the corn?"

  In his relief to find nothing there that shouldn't be, he didn't notice what was glaringly absent. He said nothing. Xochil stepped around him and raised herself on her toes to get a better look past the trees, "you only have these three fields right?" She turned back to him, "I don't get it. These look abandoned."

  Tamas' eyes were fixed on the field, which was dry and overgrown with weeds. He promptly turned around and walked back to the other two fields. He studied them closer, as if tiny corn shoots would suddenly make themselves known between the wild grasses and pea vines and penny-weed.

  Xochil stomped after him, "Tamas? Hello?"

  "I guess... " he looked out to the fields, truly puzzled, "...I didn’t plant this year."

  "It looks like you didn’t plant the last several years." She watched him, accusingly. “This is your farm right? Did you lie? What did you think would happen when we got here?”

  “I didn’t lie,” he snapped. “I just…I…I don’t know…”

  He stared at the fields. She was right. It didn't look like the wild growth of a single season of dormancy, as he assumed passing them by. It looked as if these plots had not been tilled for quite some time. Wordlessly, he began walking with a clipped pace back to the cart. The screech seemed louder again, like they were screaming at him for the trespass. "I shouldn't be here." He mumbled to himself. Somewhere far away Xochil gave a confused "what?" But he couldn't process it. His eyes were set on the cart. All he felt was that he had to leave. Everything was screaming at him to leave. He felt a pulling in his chest that he knew, instinctively, to fight against; a strange voice that wasn’t his saying strange things.

  Adding to the cacophony of sounds was now the mule, agitated by something and beginning the stomp and buck away from the post it was tied to. He looked past it, back at the ruins of the house, twenty meters out. There was some kind of movement. When he blinked, it didn’t go away this time. At first he thought his vision was blurring, but he quickly realized the ground around the house was vibrating. He felt nothing on the road, beneath his own feet. The strange debris surrounding the black center, each no bigger than a single red berry, began to rise just barely off the surface, in rippling waves, like sand on a drum. They acted individually and in tessellations, but never rose more than a hand's length off the ground. The noise around him got louder. The chirping insects turned to screams. It rose to such a furious pitch he for a moment thought he might be hearing nothing at all, that maybe the complete absence of sound was playing a trick on his mind. He was overwhelmed by it.

  His eyes were fixed on the black center. It was late afternoon, the sun was low and piercing into his eyes just beyond the homestead, but he couldn’t look away, as if the focus was the only thing keeping him from losing himself entirely. The ground seemed to swell, gently, like a living being.