Chapter Text
Blake stopped to catch his breath in the late summer moonlight. He slumped against a nearby tree, feet sliding out from beneath him in a controlled fall. His backpack hit the earth beside him and the clank of canned nutrient paste and SynthTubes felt like it echoed for miles. He just had to hope the weeds couldn't hear him all the way out here.
It had been a week since the "Affini Compact" had moved in, and the place was already unrecognizable. The homeless population had vanished overnight, no doubt ground up to feed the weeds' biofuel generators, and the bad parts of town — most of it, to be frank — had been entirely replaced. In their place, shining monuments to the city's new botanical overlords stood among tangles of green. They kept saying they were there to help, and like any freethinking Terran, Blake wasn't buying it; if there was one thing he knew, it was that the help they were offering never came cheap.
As if changing the city wasn't enough, they'd been changing people too. Turning them into "florets" — pets in name, but Blake knew a slave when he saw one. They all looked happy, sure, but he'd learned from his go-to independent news source — the guys at CredsCast— that it was mind control. Now he couldn't stop seeing the signs, glassy eyes, vacant smiles, you name it. Blake refused to believe anyone could actually be that happy.
…
…they'd gotten Ang from Logistics the other day. Just waltzed right into the office and snatched him up. Blake tried to stop them, he really did, but one of the things just held him back with nothing more than a vine. Damn thing just giggled like he was some weak little- He wasn't weak, though! They were just stupid strong. Ang kept saying it was "fine", he "chose" this, and that's when Blake knew he was a goner. The Ang he knew would never just abandon work like that, come hell or high water. Stars, he still showed up to work almost a week after the plants made work illegal or whatever.
Admittedly, Blake was never entirely sure Ang didn't live in that conference room, but it was still pretty clear they mushed his brains. A lesser man might have been thwarted by the invaders' closure of every bank under the pretense of "ending a predatory economic model" and "abolishing systemic inequality," but Blake was no lesser man. He fished every last chit of airwalled crypto from under his mattress, laughing at everyone who had called him insane for the stash, and bought as many rations and supplies as he could carry.
The new grocery depots were a fool's errand — the gleaming, perfect, delicious-looking food within was no doubt drugged, or microchipped, if not both — so Blake's chits found themselves in the shadowy pockets of the first black-market ration-seller he could find. Snagged himself a wicked knife — the type where the handle and blade curled inward — while he was at it. A sharp edge would be invaluable against the unforgiving wilderness, plus he thought it looked pretty badass the way the blade's color shifted like an oil slick. He tucked it into its faux leather sheath so it could rest snugly in the outer pocket of his pack.
He'd set out that night. Figured that, if he was lucky, he could get well clear of the city before the weeds thought to look for him. Blake took a swig of premium tap water and swished it side to side, savoring the faint tang for a moment. His throat pleaded for another, but he had no idea when he would find more fresh water, he'd have to hold off. Best make it last.
Weary legs levered him to his feet and he shouldered his pack once again. A stifled wince came and went as the flimsy straps dug into his shoulders, and he set off up the mountain, away from the city he used to call home.
There was… something akin to a trail leading over the mountain's ridge, and Blake figured that was his best bet. From its crest, the vantage point would give him the information he needed to plan his route forth. But, what if there is nowhere safe? He shook his head to dismiss the thought. There'd be somewhere; a bastion of people like him, united against the oppressors, too strong together to ever be swayed. And if there wasn't, Blake supposed he'd just have to create it.
Blake Gould, Mayor of Last Hope. A smile bloomed between his cheeks, that had a nice ring to it. Although, if he was going to restart civilization, then maybe he'd change his name while he was at it. …to something a bit more authoritative, of course. His mind drifted as he imagined life on this new frontier. Hunting for food, farming to survive, constructing defenses to stave off the weeds and their floret thralls, cuddling in the same bed to conserve heat in the winters—
…woah. Where did that thought come from? He wasn't… he wasn't gay, but like… if it was for warmth, it wouldn't be that gay, right? Right, yeah. And besides, there's no reason they couldn't be women too, which would make it straight. Though, the idea of being the only man in a room full of women made his stomach turn sour. He didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable. Maybe it would be best if—
The sun peeked above distant ridges and Blake immediately shelved the thought. It was best not to travel without the cover of night, so he set about finding a spot to get camp put together. For once, he was grateful that his father put such stock in "traditional masculine activities." The hiking and camping were torture in the moment, sure, but he probably wouldn't have gotten this far without them. Blake had kept pretty fit even without his nagging, what with running at least three times a week.
Even still, hands met knees as he hunched forward for an oxygen break. Eyes flicked across the landscape, searching for a good spot to set down camp. There was an outcropping maybe a couple dozen yards ahead that looked promising, but, hell. He took a drag of crisp, cool air, hiking up a mountain all night would take it out of most any Terran. Even the future president of the Gould Republic wasn't that fit, so he allowed his breathing time to steady.
He could still see the city from here, hard not to when Freedmont ate up half the valley. The Affini ship, though, it must have been miles long in any direction. The damn thing had been hanging there like a… spider? Yeah, a spider sinking its talons into the beating heart of the system. Rings upon rings upon rings, all cocked at various angles and silently spinning around its floral center. It reminded him of a trip his class had taken to the Terran History Museum, gazing up at the clockwork model of the Sol system. Leaves splayed out behind them in a backdrop of every color under the sun, hundreds of fronds crisscrossing like an angel's wings. Then, there were its eyes. Every surface, every square inch the weed shipsmiths could find was plastered with glowing, shimmering, f-flickering…
Blake's eyes scrunched shut as a yawn tore from his throat. "Guess'd better get settled for the night," he muttered, gaze trained on the loose stones underfoot
"Fuckin'-" his hands clutched an overhead branch for balance, "Gotdamn roots!"
He was, at present, following a faint divot in the forest floor that implied someone came by at most once a decade. This was the third time this hour he'd nearly eaten dirt, and it had been the same foot every time; his toe throbbed in protest, and a groan slipped past his lips when he checked his cheap digital watch.
The sun wouldn't be up for another three hours. His legs ached and lower back protested; he was close to the summit now, but it had been four grueling nights of walking. His intermittent three-mile runs hadn't prepared him for such an incline, and he was learning it the hard way.
He swung his gaze across the depthless dark between trees for the for the fifth time in as many minutes. It'd been days, and while he hadn't seen hide nor hair of the weeds, he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes plastered across his back. That damn ship wasn't helping, even if there was no way it could see him way out in the sticks. He did his best to put it out of mind, a problem for him and his as-of-yet-hypothetical allies to solve later.
That wasn't even getting into the strangeness that the forest took on in the dark, an odd tension strung throughout leafless canopies. He'd heard tales of the dangers of hiking at night, but none had included the feeling of cold fingers down his back. Blake shook his head once, twice, and pressed through it as best he could. Another backward glance, it wasn't as if he had a choice anyway.
He knew he'd seen a rather inviting looking path that would have let him crest at least a day sooner. To his dismay, the trail had seemingly evaporated in the gloom of night, or, perhaps, it had been less of a trail than he'd first thought. At first he'd tried to reach it in the dark anyway only to be rewarded with a bruised shin, skinned elbow, muddy socks, and half a night of lost progress only to wind up right where he started. Despair clung to him like mud, but he decided he was lucky he hadn't gotten completely lost, and stuck to the road ahead of him from then on.
Despite the harshness of the hike and his fraying nerves, there was still something deeply meditative about it. Blake hadn't applied himself so thoroughly to anything in years, and all those podcasters were really onto something when they talked about embracing the pain. The air was cool at night and the breeze wicked away his sweat; when he really hit his stride, his breath and heartbeat and footsteps and even the aching throb in his muscles all seemed to sync up. That deep in the zone, he was almost surprised when he crested the ridge. He was surprised by what he saw beyond:
A… farm?
Nestled in the valley between this mountain and the next were swathes of rolling foothills. Nestled within those were swaying fields of pale brown crops. At the center of it all rested a sizable farmhouse. Massive, even. It was two stories tall, painted a dull red and fitted with every bit and bob one might expect to see. A dinner bell, white picket fence, even one of those metal chickens on the roof.
It was as if it had been plucked right out of a storybook, and Blake couldn't help but gawp from on high. His eyes flitted about, drinking in the baffling compound. Beyond the home, a river cut the valley in two with a greenhouse sat on the near side, and a barn on the other. Both were comparable in size to the home, but the greenhouse edged the others out by a hair. A fence comprised of wooden slats surrounded the barn as well, hemming in a gaggle of puffy, white animals.
Some kind of exotic livestock, no doubt.
Come to think of it, he wasn't sure what the crops were either. After careful consideration, Blake figured it was some kind of grain, but he decided to let any further plant stuff to the weeds. Far more importantly, how had folks never talked about the farm all the way up here? They would have taken a field trip up here at some point, or at least, heard about one of the nicer schools going on one.
A deeper sigh than he expected rush past his lips, but there was no use dwelling on it. If he was to sow the seed of Terran independence, he would have to keep his eyes, and his thoughts, forward.
The slopes on this side were less severe, and that made for easier going. Easier going made for time to think. Was he… making a mistake? Could he be waltzing onto some trillionaire's plot to ride out the plantpocalypse? He kept low in case of any snipers, it wouldn't do for his revitalization of Terran society to end before it could start. Blake had never actually seen a field of grain before, except maybe in pictures, of course. He decided rather quickly that he was a fan; it was nice to watch it flitter about in the breeze, a welcome distraction.
Despite his lacking botanical knowledge, however, there was one thing he was pretty sure of. Fresh produce and livestock meant wealth, and wealth meant danger. Blake suspected that whoever lived here almost definitely had a ridiculous, shoot-first-ask-questions-never security system, not to mention the money to back up the "ask questions never" part. Besides, he had never been one to rely on charity.
On the other hand, the existence of the farm implied habitability. He could lay low here for a while and at least fill up his water bottles before moving on. A nearby boulder made for a good excuse to catch his breath. Faint glimmers of dawn burned the clouds above a pal orange, but this deep in the valley, he had some time yet until sunrise. This, he reasoned to himself, would make it safe to conduct at least a little reconnaissance.
Then again, he was exhausted. The last uphill stretch had been just enough to tire him out, and by the time he was within striking distance of the expansive farmland, his legs cried out for rest. Still, the most promising campsite, a dense thicket of trees that would keep him hidden from any guards or prying eyes, was on the other side of the field of grain. With a groan, he set off for it, figuring that he could at least use the easier home stretch to assess the farm for threats.
Speaking of guards, the first strange thing he noticed — aside from the existence of the farm in the first place — was that there were none. Usually, for the ultra-rich who could afford land like this, a healthy security presence was the first way they threw their wealth around. Proximity teargas mines and "nonlethal" autoturrets — bizarrely also missing from the premises — were all well and good, but in Blake's opinion there was nothing like the threat of being caught by a flesh and blood Terran to get would-be tresspassers like him to think twice. Despite keeping his eyes peeled, he didn't notice a single soul, though the paranoid feeling of being watched kept him sneaking along the edge of the woods, ready to dive behind the trees at the slightest sign of movement.
The second strange thing he noticed while cresting the final knoll, was me.
I suppose now would be a good time to introduce myself to you, dear reader; I am sure you have been holding your breath, waiting to learn who your charismatic narrator is. I hope that it won't disappoint you to learn that I am no more than a humble scarecrow. I was tasked with looking over those selfsame fields of grain, and as close to harvest as it was, I had my arms so full that Blake almost surprised me when he first came into view!
Unfortunately, I did surprise him. He let out a rather undignified yelp and jumped back, scrambling for the flimsy knife the black market merchant had sold him, only to fall victim to the night's fourth hidden root and stumble to the ground. He swore at the clatter of his dwindling supplies, swore again as he remembered he had already been caught and the noise didn't matter, and forced himself to look up. If he was going to die here, fallen to some bazillionaire's underpaid security detail, he would at least face it with dignity. He lifted his eyes, lowered them with a soft whimper, and then raised them again in defiance of his own terror, only to realize that I hadn't moved an inch.
I mean, I'm a scarecrow. Was he expecting otherwise?
Acute fear faded into embarrassed realization. His would-be captor was nothing more than a straw-stuffed, Terran-shaped figurine, and while he almost approached me for a better look, the mournful cry of doves stole his attention. His heightened gaze revealed the dawn's imminent arrival. An hour away, perhaps even less.
He made good time to the thicket, and even in his dire circumstances, the undeniable beauty of the farm and surrounding scenery gave his aching body a much-needed boost as he pitched his tent. He chose a shady spot well out of sight, and allowed himself a whole SynthTube as a reward for making it through the night. Blake washed it down with a sparing gulp of water as he watched the sun finally rise over the mountains, grateful for the lingering summer warmth eliminating the need for a campfire. Exhausted by the hike, he crawled into his sleeping bag, and fell asleep in minutes.
It was still light when Blake next awoke, which meant he was stuck in his blind for a little longer. His pack was in disarray after several days of rummaging, so he used the quiet, twilight hours to tidy it as best he could. Of course, he made sure to seat the knife in the topmost pocket in case of... well, just in case.
He hadn't really put together much in the way of a plan by his third time reshuffling tins of synthesized protein. This farm before him remained a mystery, and one that made his neck itch. Something was off about this place, even if he couldn't put his finger on it. The strange lack of alarms the previous day seemed to suggest he was free to spy on the place and its owner. So long as the owner — or some schlub behind a camera — didn't spy him back, that is.
He decided to use the remainder of his time to try and iron out a plan of attack. The farm was, as he found during his first expedition, entirely surrounded by swaying grains. He figured this would give him plenty of cover for his approach — even if he'd still need to keep an eye out for bear traps or landmines or whatever. Once he was through, he could pick his way along the inner edge and get a good look at the place. If he was lucky, the rich folks that owned the place might have just tucked tail and ran when the weeds showed up.
The limp little thing he called a sleeping bag slid neatly into his pack just as the last hints of day slipped past the ridges above. Night had come to the valley, and with it his time to act. The poles fought him a little while tearing down his tent, but in a testament to his unmatched cunning and survival acumen, Blake corralled them into his pack all the same. Those podcasts're finally paying off, he mused, at once vindicated in every premium subscription.
He… probably didn't really need to break camp, but he knew he'd wish he had if it came time to hoof it. It was just as he was stuffing everything back into his bag that night finally fully fell across the valley. Quiet as he could, Blake picked his way to the copse's edge, eyes sweeping across the perimeter. It looked about the same as he last saw it, if a bit better lit by the clear-
Movement.
A shift in his periphery sent a jolt down his spine and he crouched low on instinct, sidling himself against a sizable oak. He struggled against the retreating gloam to locate the the distant smear of color. Counter to some, perhaps, ill-formed assumptions, Blake was somewhat surprised to, in lieu of a gray haired CEO, spy a woman of rather diminutive stature.
She moved at a brisk pace, practically skipping through the night. Braided hair swung wildly with each step, dark, but the exact hue eluded him in low visibility. A dress hung from her shoulders, a layered, plush thing buttressed against the waxing nip in the air. It looked heavy, durable like the muddy boots beneath, and yet it flowed as easily as the breeze.
Weightless.
One didn't grow up in Freedmond without encountering a person like this at least once. She moved with carefree abandon, an ease in her stride wielded only by those with the capital to afford it. Someone who owned so much of the world that surrounded her that she never had to lay eyes on something she didn't put there. Something she didn't want there. His breathing deepened, cold blooming at the nape of his neck. He was staring down the barrel of one of the Milky Way's nameless movers and shakers, a fact that by its own merit should have had him turn tail and run.
But it wasn't the only thing to send icy fingers down his spine.
No. He'd learned how to slip beneath notice, to maneuver underfoot. Blake could stay out of big money's way when it was brought to bear. But this? This was a realization so sweeping in its implications that it sent his mind awhirl. Tires spinning in the mud. Gears slipping. The thing that set his hackles alight, what dumped a double shot of adrenaline into his crashing bloodstream, was that in the instant his eyes slid above her shoulder, he saw it:
That was one big fuckin' dog.
It was hard to get the exact scale at this distance, but even so, it stood shoulder to shoulder with her. The hulking thing loped along beside, its gaze repeatedly sweeping out over the property. He squatted low. Shit. Looked like the place was occupied, security and all. Blake sat for a moment, watching the pair as they made their way from barn to house.
In the dusk, colors were indistinct, muddled by shadow. The hound's coat, long and dark with lighter splotches throughout, blew in the wind. Blake had always thought of himself as a hunter, but at that exact moment, he felt like… Prey? No, the beast was attached to her by the hip, this was not a hunting dog, this was a bodyguard.
Blake didn't feel like some skulking threat; he felt like quarry.
A sharp shake cleared his head. He couldn't think like that! The thing hadn't even noticed him yet — it hadn't noticed him, right? He peeked out around the trunk to make sure… the absence of snarling, gnashing, and rent flesh meant he was all clear. He suppressed a shudder. Blake was not the prey in this equation, he was, if anything, the alpha wolf.
The hope of Terra incarnate.
Tension drained, leaving little more than a cool tingle in his fingertips. It wasn't like he'd be sticking around long enough for it to matter overmuch. Though, come to think of it, his pack was a a lot lighter than he thought it's be by this point. The path forward loomed overhead, steeper than even the first leg of his journey. Some extra water might not cut it; he was going to need raw calories to scale that monster.
His brow furrowed. What right did that girl have to deny him food? With money like that, she'd just gotten some locals to plant everything for her so she could pretend at some idyllic farm fantasy that hadn't existed in centuries. He scowled at the thought. He had just as much right to it as her, in that case, and with his supplies draining quicker than he liked, Blake could absolutely see himself exercising that right.
The dull thunk of an oaken door swinging shut echoed far and wide, dancing amid earthen peaks. They must have gone inside, he figured, and rose to his feet. Then, as he slung the pack onto his shoulder, he was reminded of just how heavy a sack full of enriched protein slurry was. This would only slow him down if he needed to high tail it, but then, if he left it here someone might stumble on it. It wasn't likely, as any normal person wouldn't be slinking around without good reason, but something still didn't sit right in his gut.
What to do, then?
Oh! Early autumn had placed the solution at his feet already! Blake scooped pile after pile of leaves onto his pack until a sizable mound lay before him. He turned once more to leave… but what if he needed to find it in a hurry? He wasn't familiar with the landscape, and so Blake did not trust himself to pick the right pile on the first try.
The obvious solution presented itself after a moment's deliberation: he'd mark the location with a stone. He located the nearest one, lugged it a few dozen steps, and it soon settled onto the pile with a muted crunch. There. His contingencies in place, Blake descended the slope with a smile. It wasn't a long trek, the open space between bark and barley, but it certainly felt that way. He couldn't fully shake the image of the towering hound from his mind until he was safely ensconced in grain.
It would have only reached his shoulders had he stood, and so he adopted a low crouch, his hands almost touching the ground. Safer that way. Careful steps picked his path through the tidy rows, his eyes straining for any indication of buried munitions. By eye or by foot, he found none. Had they really not booby trapped their fields? The way rich folks spoke of their wealth, it always sounded like they'd rather burn it to ash than let a dirty commoner get their hands on it.
He was too busy fuming about the violence inherent in the system to notice me standing squarely in his way. I'd have moved, but, well. You know.
Thumpf.
He jumped, of course, but it was a much more subdued reaction than our last meeting. "What the…! Oh, s'just you again."
He stared up at me and frowned. "What're you for, anyway?" he muttered to himself. "Gone t' the trouble of making you all nice and tall, n'for what? 'S not like they need all this food. If a bird wants to hop on down n'eat, I say let em!"
He circled me, studying, appraising. "…overstuffed ya a little too." He prodded at a tuft of straw sticking out of my side to prove his point. "Not that I'm complainin'!" He puffed, "I don't mind my gals a lil full bodied, if'n ya catch my drift."
He chuckled at his own terrible joke, then fell silent for a moment. "M'losin' it," he finally breathed. "flirtin' with a damn scarecrow."
While flattering, his flirting didn't last long. There was a rustling to his left, and he froze. His eyes snapped to the disturbance, peering out into the endless depths sprawling around him. A silent, breathless moment. Then another. No lunging jowls sprung from the darkness, no slavering beast tearing him limb from limb. Blake Gould, future mayor of Last Hope yet drew breath; shallow and tense, but breath all the same.
A groan slipped free as fleeting adrenaline made its retreat; he needed to get ahold of himself. He was taking a risk stepping out of the woods at all, let alone coming this far into the field, or jabberin' at a wad of straw, for that matter. His eyes widened. Wait, shit, he'd been so preoccupied watching for traps that he'd entirely forgotten to cover his tracks.
Torn up produce could lead them back to his hidey holes, a surefire way to earn himself a rabid, snarling wakeup call. Fortunately, when he looked back on his trail, the stalks had closed back without a trace. No trail of damage for curious eyes to find later. Blake pressed one knee into the soft earth, his other leg coiled like a spring beneath him, ready to bolt at the drop of a hat. But it still was early, and he was practically invisible, so he took his time in my clearing, carefully picking stalks at random so there wouldn't be an obvious swath of grain missing.
Grain, he knew, had supported humanity on the old world for thousands of years, and he'd even learned in class that it was responsible for much of Earthian civilization. It had been a while since those days, but Blake figured a rugged survivalist like the future mayor of Last Hope would have no problem uncovering that latent part of himself. That kernel of flame in the Terran heart intimately familiar with the intricacies of farming.
This dream was somewhat quashed when he, in the following hours, returned to his campground and actually tried to eat the things. The seed head he popped into his mouth to bite down on was covered in a thin, papery layer, which he quickly spat out, glaring at his crop as if it had personally slighted him. Rubbing the seeds together in his hands proved effective at removing the wispy chaff, but when he tried one of the newly cleaned grains, much the same thing happened. Upon biting a seed in half, closer inspection revealed his bounty was locked away under a second, much harder layer; one which, despite his best efforts, proved almost impossible to remove.
This was bad. He'd chanced getting caught for this, and he couldn't even eat the fruits of his labor? “God, fuckin’... shit.” He muttered, trying to remain calm and quiet despite himself. “Maybe I could boil ‘em? No, can't risk a fire… Can't waste the water, either. Damn it.”
Eventually, a very disgruntled Blake decided that he'd be better off eating the barley raw than not at all. A few minutes and as many tiny splinters later, he had pulled all of the grains off of their stalks and dropped them into his pocket, except for a handful which he popped into his mouth, chewed diligently, and swallowed. The texture was unpleasant, and the taste was nothing to write home about, but it was food, and more importantly it was food he didn't have to take out of his steadily depleting supplies. He took a sip of water to wash down the woody meal, and began on another handful.
The idea of water got him thinking, though. The place had to get their water from somewhere, and the river, while pleasant to look at, could have any manner of toxic runoff. Maybe he could use the rest of the night to find their source? Stuffing his coat pockets with two of his empty water bottles and clipping the final half-bottle to his belt. He checked that his pack was still tucked away and returned to the treeline, taking a fresh look over the property.
Blake was pretty sure he was looking for something called a “well,” a hole in the ground lined with rectangular red stones. For some reason, these holes apparently had water at the bottom. While he wasn't sure on the specifics, the fact that he and the homeowner apparently had the exact same mental image of a farm at least counted for some reassurance. Maybe they'd read the same storybooks his mother had read to him, back when-
He stubbed the line of thought.
Blake… hadn't noticed any wells around the near side of the farmhouse, so that just left the backside. If there even was one, he could only hope it wasn't too close to the house; he wanted to keep as much distance between himself and that thing as possible. A deep breath. Blake banished the hound from his mind and hooked right, starting off around the barley fields at a careful pace. He kept close to the forest’s edge, keeping his eyes and ears peeled, the bright moon a two-edged sickle: easier to see, easier to be seen.
This angle also happened to give him a better view of the greenhouse he'd seen the night prior. It was absolutely enormous, looming over the hemisphere of barley, the plants within casting silhouettes against tinted glass. Blake froze. Movement within clamping his attention like a vice.
A beat.
Then two.
Nothing more than the gentle sway of… some kind of flower? Hard to tell from so far out, but it certainly wasn't a person. Probably. He took a step closer before hesitating. The field wasn't booby trapped, but that didn't mean the greenhouse wouldn't be. Certainly there would be at least an alarm if he stepped, or stars forbid, broke inside. No, if he was going to approach the greenhouse, he was first going to be very, very sure it was safe.
He took his time, scanning the dirt path that had sprung up as he walked. There were no traps as far as he could see. No lumps of hi-ex pretending at mounds of dirt. He couldn't be sure of the manicured lawn, though, and decided not to test his chances. Water would tide him over until the next day at least, and then he could decide how to proceed. There was no sense in rushing now when he had already come so far without getting caught.
“Get to the other side of the clearing” seemed like a simple goal at first, but it soon became clear that the property was even bigger than Blake had first thought. With the vast fields of grain on all sides of the house, and the even larger perimeter the soothing safety of the forest required, it was an hour before he came in sight of the fourth and final side of the house. When he did, he sighed in relief. Right there, a little ways from the house, was the telltale shape of a storybook well. It was sidled up closer to the house than he'd have liked, but water was water, and he knew by now he was quick and quiet enough to pull it off.
He first made sure he didn't have anything hard that might make noise as he moved. Then on soft, padding feet, he began inching towards the well. He realized his second challenge once he reached it: the well was covered with a heavy-looking wooden lid, hinged but rustic, the kind that didn't look like it would open without a sound. He bit his lip. This couldn't be the end of the well idea! It had gone so smoothly, he couldn't give up now.
He thought about his options for a minute or two. Opening the lid would probably make it creak, but what if it wasn't that loud? He hooked a few fingers under the wood and pulled up a fraction of an inch. The door was heavier than he'd expected, and had to stifled a groan as the wood shifted about its axis, but the hinges didn't immediately squeal an alarm.
Still, he had one more idea, just to be safe. Crossing his fingers, he spat once onto each hinge. Oil would have been preferable, but maybe water would do in a pinch. Holding his breath, he yanked up on the lid, prepared to book it at the first sign of movement.
The well cover swung open without protest beyond a soft creak, and Blake suppressed a cry of triumph. Pulling the bucket up and filling his bottles proved easy enough, and soon as the well was re-lidded, Blake set off back to his campsite with water in tow, crunching on barley seeds the whole way.