The Short Way Across
"The inn was all the way on the other side of the forest. Our homes, mine, Blue Tom's, Ned's, Alice's, were all scattered about the hills on the other side, where the fens yawned and the wolves cried. We'd meet by the lonely birch and head by the one road, which curved like a sickle through all that darkness, walled with mossy bark and crumbling, wet stone. Once you got out it was like gasping in the light, and there, down the hill that rose up to meet you, was the inn. We'd drink and we'd joke with the carters and take comfort in something that wasn't our homesteads. One foolish night when we were all staggering for the wine soaking out of our stomachs, Ned said, hey, wouldn't it be faster if we just went through the forest where it was narrowest and straight through. The road was long and we ached for our beds so we took him up on it. We were too drunk for good decisions. Alice had her flintlock, after all, Ned said. Should anything cause us troub...