Vol. 2 - Part 2

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As Birke approached Vireo carrying a crate of supplies, he noticed someone climbing off the sailboat onto the dock. From their neat attire and the worn mahogany leather bag they carried, Birke inferred they were Calum’s doctor, whom he had never met. Birke knew Calum had been expecting another visit to check on his healing rib. 

Birke set the supply crate onto the dock beside Vireo. As he leaned forward, a strand of light brown hair fell in front of his light beige face and he pushed it away.

“How’s he doing?” Birke asked the doctor. In his tiredness, the question came out in a mountain accent.  

“Much better,” replied the doctor. “Whatever he’s doing, it’s certainly helping.”

Though Birke was glad the healing tea he had made for Calum regularly over the past week was working, he only had two kinds, and one was running low. Thinking of adding variety, he said: “Maybe I’ll make some clover tea to-” but the doctor held up their hand.

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The doctor’s eyes narrowed as they said: “What Calum’s doing now is working, alright?” 

“I’m only trying to help,” said Birke, stung. 

“The tea, your accent, it’s obvious who you are.” A nerve in the doctor’s jaw twitched. “And I know you’re not back here to help anyone but the trade.”

“I’m not part of the trade,” said Birke. “Wait, back? I-” 

“Canby’s better without you around.” Then, not sparing another glance at Birke, the doctor strode away.

Birke went into Vireo and unpacked the supplies, his mind lingering on the doctor’s words. Calum looked up from the book he was reading.

“Thank you for helping me with errands again,” said Calum.

“Yeah,” said Birke, distractedly.

“Everything alright?” asked Calum, with a frown that scrunched the white lines on his dark beige skin closer together. 

“Do you like clover?” asked Birke.

“Yeah,” said Calum. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” said Birke. 

Calum’s eyes, one bright green, the other dark blue, thoughtfully searched Birke’s light hazel eyes. The swelling and bruising around Calum’s green eye, though still visible, had decreased significantly since his attack by the trade group. Most of his lines remained.

“I see you’ve decided to add cabbage again.” Calum indicated the vegetable Birke had set on the counter. The original recipe was beside Calum, who tapped it while grinning. The Adney Island recipe did not include cabbage.

“Says the person responsible for the addition of steamer clams to one of my grandmother’s classic recipes,” said Birke, thinking of the lunch they had during their previous visit. “A meal, as you may recall, that had absolutely no cabbage,” he added, with a laugh.

As Birke wiped the counters to begin meal preparation, he noticed the group photo taken in front of Vireo had been replaced. The new photo only included Calum and his two siblings when they were children. The boy in the centre was unmistakably Calum, his curly dark brown hair long even back then.

When Birke started getting food ready, Calum helped as much as he could without endangering his healing rib. In the past week, Birke had taken a liking to one island herb in particular. When he added a bit extra to the mixture, Calum simply laughed and shook his head.


An expansive sunny afternoon awaited Birke when he left Vireo. Leaves dancing in the light breeze beckoned as he made his way off the docks. He decided to answer their call and turned toward the old cannery site, to access the forest beyond it. 

As he passed a long brick building, he saw a row of its windows had been hastily covered with cardboard. Two overall-clad dockworkers stood nearby, smoking, with worried expressions on their faces.

“I’m still surprised they didn’t steal any money,” said one worker, before taking a drag on their cigarette.

“Not much money, anyway,” said the other, tapping the ash off their cigarette onto the asphalt. “But yeah, tons of shattered glass, and nobody saw or heard anything?”

“Well, they seemed to know how to avoid every camera.”
 
“True.” 

Birke walked on. He passed two more identical brick buildings. In the shadows cast by a third, he found a grumbling dockworker surrounded by overturned crates.

“Need help?” asked Birke.

The worker ignored him. 

Birke helped stack the crates nearest him; the worker did not complain. 

While lifting the last crate, Birke spotted a shiny circular object underneath it. As Birke was setting the crate onto the stack, the worker picked up the item. “Did you drop this?” they asked.

Birke saw it was a silver pocket watch, snapped from its chain. When the worker turned it over, Birke glimpsed the symbol engraved on the back. “Yeah,” he lied. “Thanks.”

The worker handed him the watch, then went toward a boat waiting to be unloaded. 


In a forest clearing dappled with sunlight, Birke found a lush patch of clover interspersed with mountain herbs. As he picked clover, it became clear to him the herbs were aligned in neat rows. He was grateful for the arrangement since it made collecting clover and healing herbs effortless. What was harder for him to appreciate were the unnerving similarities to a trade garden.

The trade resemblance became weaker when he discovered a cottage. Covered in tangled overgrowth, the river stone structure was simply an old house, not a trade building. Beyond the cottage, he found a river stone foundation, and slabs covering what he figured was an old well. Near the foundation, he found a collection of rare mountain herbs. As he stowed a few rare herbs with the others, he heard the sound of a stream not far away.

Beside the stream, Birke relaxed on a mossy rock. He watched small fish swim in the rippling water. Opposite where he sat, the sun danced off droplets cascading down the cliffs. He caught a whiff of sea salt and brine every so often, but for the most part the setting made him nostalgic.

Though it was hard to leave, he did at last pull himself away from the stream and onto a meandering forest path. He recognized the scents of certain plants and trees he encountered, but then also the voices that floated toward him. He ducked into a dense section of trees and kept quiet. Four people passed by the spot he was hidden; two of them had taken part in the attack on Calum the week before.

Birke discreetly followed the quartet. In time, they led him to a river stone hut beside the stream – a Crafting Hut. They merged with those gathered outside the Hut. The entire group from the attack was present. Birke’s body tensed as he watched them casually talking and laughing with their coworkers.

After a brief conversation, the group locked the front door and crossed the stream, disappearing into the forest. Once their voices faded, Birke crept over to the Hut and peered inside. The Hut was empty; all trade members had vacated the area. 

Birke was surprised to find a spare key in the usual spot near the back door. Upon entering the Hut, he found a vat of fresh silver waiting to be formed into mirrors. He hated how he knew just by the silver’s sheen that three hours remained until it would be fully set. Though similarly instinctive, he was glad he knew to explore the shelves for what he needed. To the left of the vat he found a clay pot brimming with slender, silver-blue leaves. Though his hands were sweaty and shaking when he placed the pot on the counter, not a single leaf was lost.

While preparing to pour the clay pot’s contents into the vat, he hesitated. A broken mirror had been discarded beside the vat, another on a stool. Though he had never made the Melter’s mixture, the vat before him appeared to have a similar consistency. He placed the closest mirror into the vat and waited. When nothing negative occurred, he went to find more mirrors.

Any mirrors in the Hut were found and added to the vat. Yellowish bubbles formed on the substance’s surface; it had spoiled. As Birke added globs of metal, tins of herbs, and other mirror ingredients, the bubbles grew and pools of yellow blossomed. The ruined mixture let off an acrid scent, which made Birke cough. His experimentation had reached an end; it was time to add the silver-blue leaves.

Holding his breath to avoid coughing, Birke took the clay pot from the counter and dropped it into the vat. the surface bulged; a large yellowy bubble threatened to pop. Just as Birke reached the door, the first splatter hit the window over the vat. As he returned the key to its spot, a silver-yellow blob hit the window beside the back door. He took a moment to admire his handiwork. 

The peace was ruined when the window above the vat shattered. He jumped back and heard a clink of metal beneath his foot. Though he managed to stifle his shout, his heart was beating fast. Looking down, he saw what he had stepped on. In the grass beside a discarded burlap Gathering sack lay a pile of broken mirrors. Some were missing handles, others had no glass. None of that mattered to Birke – all went in the burlap sack. Then he slipped away with it into the forest.


When the overgrown cottage came into view, Birke breathed a sigh of relief. He stepped into the clearing without hesitation. A twig cracked under his foot and the sound echoed off the trees. Then he noticed the person kneeling nearby with their back to him.

The person’s back tensed and they stowed something away with a flash. When they turned toward Birke, their expression was guarded. Then their face relaxed, out of recognition. They smiled in relief and walked toward him. They came to a sudden halt, however, when their gaze fell on the burlap sack. Even in the fading light, a glint of silver could be seen through a small hole in the bag.

“What are you doing, Birke?” asked Al. “I know damn well you haven’t joined the trade.” Fire shone in his deep brown eyes, but his light beige skin had lost its vibrancy. His dark brown hair had lost the waviness it possessed even a week before; it had become long knotted tendrils. 

“No, I haven’t made that mistake yet,” said Birke. His grip on the burlap tightened.

“I helped make those mirrors you’re stealing.”

“What pride, making torture devices you can’t even feel.” Birke shoved past Al. 

Al grabbed Birke’s arm and held tightly, while also trying to wrest the bag free. The sleeves of Al’s denim shirt were rolled to his elbows; on his left arm was a certain arrangement of silver-brown freckles.

“I feel the pain the same as anyone,” Al hissed. 

“Yet you still make mirrors,” said Birke. Sensing Al’s grip slacken, he pulled away. “You’re no better than the rest.”

Al moved in front of him. “I’ll tell them,” he said, desperation in his voice. 

“Then I’ll tell the police whose pocket watch was found at the docks,” said Birke.

Al’s eyes widened in fear. “A watch – it could be anyone’s,” he said, his voice shaking.

Birke indicated the broken silver chain dangling from Al’s chest pocket. “Perhaps,” said Birke.

Al stuffed the chain in his pocket, then went red. 

Birke tried to leave, but Al blocked him, helplessly looking at the burlap sack. 

“Move, Albion.”

“Why would the cops believe a mountain person like you?” asked Al. 

“So they could arrest a mountain person like you,” said Birke. 

Al’s resolve drained from his face. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and broken. “Take the mirrors, I can’t stop you. But I need to last a little longer without the cops finding out. Please don’t ruin that for me.”

Birke walked past Al without answering. He had reached the opposite side of the clearing when he heard Al speak in their mountain language. 

“This isn’t our village, Birke. The trade members here won’t go out of their way to protect you.”

“They didn’t in our village and I don’t expect them to here,” said Birke, in their mountain language.

“I’m not strong like you; I couldn’t survive in prison.”

Birke turned toward Al to reply. “I don’t know if I could, either. But, even out here, you don’t have to be strong like me, you only have to be strong like you.” 

The short exchange was the most Birke had spoken his mountain language in months.

Before Al could say anything more, Birke had slipped into the forest. 

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part 1

part 3

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