Merrin stopped at the creek to water his horse. The animal drank gratefully, and Merrin walked downstream and relieved himself, then walked upstream and filled his canteen. He took a swig and grimaced; the water tasted sour. He figured there was something dead further upstream, but not knowing what or exactly where, he kept drinking, emptied his canteen and refilled it. He could feel his stomach tensing, but he knew he hadn't drank too much and so waited until the feeling settled.

When he turned around there was a little girl near his horse, about eight or nine years old. Her back was to him, her white dress yellowed with dirt and grime. Her hair was tangled; he couldn't tell what color it was, maybe dark brown, maybe a deep red. Her legs, what little of them showed, were pale and scratched. She was barefoot.

When he spoke, he tried to keep the rasp out of his voice. He'd never been much good with children, and he didn't want to scare her into screaming.

"Howdy, miss."

She wasn't scared. She wasn't even surprised. She didn't turn to him at first, just kept petting the muzzle of his horse. Then she slowly turned her whole body, her feet nimbly stepping over one another. Her face was pale, smeared with dirt and something else, and there was a look in her eyes that made his throat go dry. She was there, and yet she wasn't, like a person who had fallen asleep with their eyes open.

She didn't smile, either, just looked at him and said, "I like your horse."

He nodded. Her voice was sweet, musical, and it seemed so unlike the rest of her that he was caught off-guard. She waited for him to say something, and there grew a si-lence between them that seemed impossible to breach, too thick to penetrate.

The girl turned away from him, back to the animal. "She's beautiful."

Merrin cleared his throat. "Yes. She…she's been with me a long ways."

"The man owns this land, he don't like horses."

"He don't?"

"No. A horse kicked him once. He ain't talked right since then. He don't like horses. Shoots them for fun, he does."

"Thanks for the warning."

Her hand drifted along the horse's flank. The animal didn't seem to mind her—just kept drinking, its tail twitching at the horseflies that darted around.

"You'd be best to go north," she said. "He don't own the land north. Go to the oak tree that looks like a thundercloud and turn back east. Then you'll be okay."

Merrin nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "You know this man well? He your pa?"

"He ain't nobody's pa. Hates children too."

A horsefly landed on her neck. She had to've felt it, the size of the thing, but she didn't move, didn't react, and just as he was about to say something, the fly buzzed off, darting towards Merrin and past his ear.

"He the one…" Merrin's mouth went dry. "He the one…treated you such?"

"The tree's not hard to miss," she said. "You'll see it right quick. From far away, too. Just turn east when you get there. Then you'll be okay."

"Can I…can I give you a ride somewhere?"

She shook her head. "I like it here."

She turned from the horse and knelt by the river. She glanced in his direction briefly, not really at him, and he saw a scar running down her cheek, dulled with age and paler than the rest of her flesh. Then her hair shifted and covered that half of her face, and she was looking at the water again, running her hands through it, not drinking, just staring down.

Merrin walked carefully behind her and mounted his horse. The animal grunted but turned away from the creek.

"North towards the oak that looks like a thundercloud," Merrin said.

"Yes." The girl's hand dipped through the water, her little fingers spread. "Then turn east. You'll be safe."

"My thanks," he said, and hesitated a moment, then turned his horse north and road harder than he should have. He didn't ease up until the oak tree was long past him, and he was heading against the setting sun, feeling its lingering rays on his back, and the coolness of the coming night against his face.