MERCY BOUND

The blackened dust of spent embers coughed upward as the last great limb of their fire gave in, collapsing with a brittle sigh and shooting a burst of sparks into the sky. The fire had burned hot briefly, the dry fields around offering little in the way of fuel, and only luck had granted them a log hollowed by termites enough to serve as the heart of the hearth. A dead paperbark tree leaned nearby, what remained of its snapped limbs reaching like pleading hands. What kindling it had provided was long stripped away. There would be no more warmth drawn from it. Gathering a small hill of fine dirt on the edge of her boot, Harlie swept her leg forward, smothering the coals. The fire hissed in reply, giving one last breath of smoke before it was gone. She steadied herself, careful not to spill her coffee. Across from her, the old man named Salinger was carefully manoeuvring his lips over the cup's rim to avoid getting the white hair of his wiry moustache steeped in the drink. Harlie did not drink. Her amber eyes were fixed on the ground between them. Two hares danced there.

They bounded and circled one another in the dust, stopping just shy of collision to sniff each other's fluffy pelts, then crouching low so they could scratch their necks using broad hind feet. Under the pink morning sunrise, she was almost sure they were real despite the rough pebbles and dried grass that could be seen through their translucent bodies. Their borders became frayed and blurred for a moment as the man's eyes drifted from them to the horizon, only to sharpen once more once they had his full attention. The hares seemed to mirror his focus and mood, their spectral forms shifting in response to his gaze. Salinger held a free hand above the animals, a mixture of puppeteer and conductor as his old, warped fingers stretched and pulled in unison with the creatures. 

“So,” he said at last, “how long have you been in Berge?” looking over curiously at his partner, who was by all means a stranger to him.

Harlie glanced at him. “Two days,” she replied, her attention now split between the man and the hares which had begun to settle down beside each other, curling their bodies as if ready to slumber through to the next season. “Long enough to rest my horse and refill my pack. Much obliged for the room.”

“Of course and I'm glad you've chosen to join me going forward.” The man smiled, lifting himself from his seat just enough to make room for the traveller to sit beside him. As Harlie lowered herself down, the morning sun struck the piece at her hip. The revolver was silvered, well-kept, untouched by rust or ruin. What was far more intriguing was the iron clasp wrapped around the grip, chaining the gun into the holster, and a heavy lock in the middle keeping it so. “That’s a fine thing to keep muzzled,” Salinger said. “Seems a shame. If you don’t mean to draw it, it might fetch a fair price elsewhere.”

Harlie’s smile came easily, but stopped short of her eyes. “I pray I never have cause to lose it.” Pausing for a moment, hoping that the silence might be filled by her friend until it became too much to ignore. “It was my father’s.” The words trembled slightly.

Salinger nodded, slowly. “I once had one,” he said. “Fine balance. Sang true and almost as beautiful as that.” He paused, brow furrowed. “Can’t say where it went,” he murmured in what seemed confusion until, at his feet, the hares rose. They faced one another, ears pinned, bodies tensing. One lunged. Claws tore free a chunk of the other’s flank. The attack fed on itself, frantic and senseless, until fur and form blurred together in a tearing frenzy. One hare broke away towards the old man. Its claws raked across his wrist, a thin line opened, bright red against his weathered skin. Blood welled and slid down toward his palm. Salinger gasped, stiffening as though brought back to the present and causing both animals to freeze. 

“I don’t know why they…” he started, voice tight, “I ain’t a cruel man. I don’t–”

“You’re kind,” Harlie interrupted, less a suggestion than a confirmation. “You seem kind.”

Salinger flinched, lifted his hand sharply, and the hares unraveled, drawn back into nothing as though they had never been. After a time, he spoke again.

“You ever think about what a man gives his creations?” He stared at his hands and the blood cascading over them. “His temper. His fear. His forgetting.”

He swallowed. “I know I’m an old man and old men forget.” A dry, humorless smile tugged at his mouth. “Ain’t got much to fear in that.” He looked at the empty space where the hares had been.”

“But if what you say’s true,” he said, voice roughening, “and I am kind… what if I forget that too?” His shoulders shifted down. “With gifts like these,” he murmured, “what if I make things that ought to be feared? Things that don’t know they should be kind?” He was quiet for a beat, then asked the question, though it pained him too.

“Should an old man like me hope he one day summons a coyote to take his throat? To devour him and end the figments ‘fore they roam loose and ruin folk?”

His jaw tightened. “Can a man ask a creation to undo its maker when the time comes? Can he and still call himself kind?”

Harlie did not answer at once. When she did, her voice was gentle, unyielding. “Kind men may ask this, Of those they love.”

She met his eyes. “They may ask their creations to be kind to the world even when it won’t feel kind to do so.”

Salinger studied her then, truly like he had not before. The set of her jaw, the familiar line of her brow, the dimple that sat higher than most on her left cheek

“Harlie…” he whispered. His breath caught. His hand lifted, half-reaching. “Did I…ask…”

A new hare blinked into being at his feet, and the moment was gone. Salinger’s attention fell to it at once, wonder softening his face. “Well now, Ain’t you a curious little thing?”

Behind him, Harlie closed her eyes. “I love you, Dad,” she said softly.