Dawn came soft and thin over the river. They woke to the same light they had left under—clear as glass, patient as a breath. Arowsa was already half-standing when the first sheet of color bled across the low horizon, shifting the quicksilver in its flank into a slow, waking shimmer. Luffy tested his ankle with careful, clinical motions: a toe, a half-step, a small hop. It complained less than the morning before. He smiled, the kind of grin that was a measurement as much as a mood. AO sat straighter when he saw it, like a man who reads a ledger and finds a small credit where he expected more debt.
Uta still saved her voice. She hummed a short rhythm while she packed, barely more than a pulse, and Arowsa settled to have its harness checked. The camp was tidy; nothing in their leaving had been careless. They had learned that the island did not forget footprints, but it forgave reasonable thrift.
They moved before the sun warmed the stones. The valley's morning air tasted of riverwash and grass. The path ahead sloped gently down at first, then rose into a low, wooded ridge that separated the river from a wide plain. From up there they could see more signs of habit: small clearings, neat rectangles of tilled soil, smoke that rose in thin threads. People lived ahead; the land showed it in tidy geometry. Fusha was no longer a smudge, just a seam of roofs and a wash of scent where bread and wood smoke braided.
The walking was kinder that day. The terrain rolled; there were no edges that demanded careful toework, no knife-thin terraces. The island let them move in a slow, steady rhythm. They kept to the beaten track, the sort of track made by packs and carts rather than wild feet. There were footprints of other travelers in the dust — boots, woven-soles, the shallow fouling of a small cart — and whoever had gone that way did not leave anything dramatic behind: no roaring, no traces of alarm. Life here had the casual patience of people who woke to work and whose land answered in bread.
Luffy walked with a new gait, modest and cautious. The ankle still twitched; he hissed once when he misjudged a root, but he did not slump. AO carried the smaller kit: the sharper instruments, the needle-case (empty now), a strip of oilcloth where he kept the black-stain cloth folded under a clean layer. He had taken to checking that cloth like a priest rechecks a talisman. Uta kept a small sachet of dried herbs and a bit of the quicksilver pebble in a leather wrap — tiny relics of the hollow that they had agreed should not be wasted on superstition.
They passed through a belt of low trees where the early sun made veins of gold across the leaves. Small animals darted between roots and the occasional herder tended a string of goats that grazed in the thin light. People looked after their own business; the children saw the three and glanced with the immediate curiosity of kids who see someone with a bandage or a strange animal and know the two are both good excuses to come closer. Nobody bowed. People exchanged glances, shrugged, and then offered small hands. That is the way of human kindness in villages: not ritual, not a ceremony that folds you in, but a series of small, practical services that say — you are one of many who pass through my field; take water, and may your step be light.
A woman with a basket stood near the path as they came by. She had a towel over her shoulder and the smell of fresh bread about her. She called out in a tone that was practical rather than startled. "You three look tired. Food? Water? We put something on for travelers."
Luffy's mouth split into a quick, grateful smile. "Yes," he said, as if the word itself were a blessing. AO inclined his head only a little and accepted the bread, breaking off a piece with a motion like cutting a line. Uta asked for only water and then sniffed the steam from a little pot the woman uncovered. The broth was thin, bright with herbs. The woman — a farmer, or the farmer's wife — handed a cup to AO without asking, her fingers knowing the gesture.
People gathered in small ways. A man with a sun-hardened face and a child on his hip asked where they were headed. When Luffy said "Fusha," the man nodded and pointed toward the wide plain. "Two more ridges," he said. "If you keep steady you'll be in before night." His voice said nothing about what had happened in the hollow; he only offered the map his life could give.
They accepted the food, ate slowly, and the small kindness changed the feel of the day. Luffy chewed with the attentiveness of someone tasting the world: bread, salty fish, a smear of honey. AO drank the broth and closed his eyes for a breath, as if letting the hot liquid push cold out of his bones. Uta pressed the cup to her lips and let it steam. The heat eased the sore in her throat like a quiet hand.
Walking on, the landscape opened to fields where people were at work. Women bent over rows of low plants; a small boy, maybe six, chased a stray lamb while laughing. As they passed, a child ran up and offered a handful of soft, warm corn as a gift — the greatest generosity a child can muster in a farming place. Luffy accepted with a grin the size of the boy's offer and handed a third of it to Arowsa, who chewed with a careful, grateful motion that sent a small plume of metallic-scented breath into the air.
There was a natural friction to the human presence: conversations that circled around well-worn topics — weather, seed, the price of salt — and the intruder clause: a question asked in a voice that might have been curiosity or might have been rumor. "Were you at the hollow?" someone asked, not with accusation but with the slow interest of a town that keeps track of odd goings-on.
Luffy's reply was a small, sideways thing. He shrugged. "We were where the ground was loud," he said. It was not untrue and not a confession. AO added nothing. Uta only smiled, small and honest; she did not want to make the place an object lesson. People murmured and returned to their work — the village had a thousand stories and one more filtered into the ledger and did not change the day's rhythm.
As midmorning moved into afternoon the path crossed a shallow ford that the villagers used to move carts across. The river here ran wider and slower than the one by which they had camped; the banks had small sheds and a plank bridge with a handrail, the sort of human building that made travel less of a gamble. Arowsa stepped into the water and the cool lapped its legs, a small relief for everyone. Luffy had AO help him into the shallows so he could wash his hands properly; the water drew the dried crusts from his knuckles and softened the scab into new skin. He let his fingers soak until the tenderness in them eased. That afternoon, the first clear signs of healing appeared: knuckles closing over, ankle swelling down a touch, AO's wound drying into a steady scab that did not flare with the hot, angry color it had first had.
The village's benevolence extended in practical ways. An old woman, who introduced herself as Mara, had a small satchel of herbs she'd been drying for the coming cool months. She pressed a composted salve into AO's hand — a bitter-smelling cream that would draw out infection and encourage healthy tissue. AO accepted it in silence, wiped his forearm carefully, and applied the salve with the exacting motions of a man who treated stitches for a living. The salve sitting on AO's skin looked like paste; after a moment it blended and cooled, and the black-ink smear of his blood lightened into the gray of a thing that is convalescing. AO said "thanks" without the weight of something owed; the old woman nodded as if the act was currency.
Dadan's name came like a warm current, tacked inside a hundred small remarks. "Dadan's out near the low ridge," a cart-driver offered when they paused to rest. "She's had a lean week. I heard she's got a small fire going for travelers on the plain; if you're headed to Fusha, she'll put you on her list for stew and a lap to sleep." The way the village spoke her name made sense: Dadan was not an authority figure in the formal way of a magistrate; she was a known, a hard-proven presence — someone who would, given reason, lay out a tarp and a pot for children coming over the ridge. The three of them exchanged a look; Luffy's grin widened like a map opening.
They continued, the plain giving way to a low, cultivated rise where the soil smelled of turned earth. The trail rose and then fell, and the sky flattened into an early evening pall. People worked late here; the warmth of afternoon stretched into slow labor. A few women had set out drying racks and had bread cooling on flat stones; they waved the three closer without a show of curiosity: it was the sort of gesture that says, you are welcome, take what you need, no questions necessary. The scene felt homely in a way that left Luffy's chest light.
AO's arm had stopped bleeding in earnest. The black fluid that had oozed like ink when he tightened a grip had congealed into a thicker scab. The salve helped. AO still kept one hand steady over the area as a reflex. He walked and tended it in quiet ways: compress, bind, check. He spoke little of why the blood had been black; confession was not his style. The wound was a fact; the tending of it was another. The village did not press.
The sun lowered and the plain grew cool. On the horizon a small stand of smoke moved like a marker, and they knew, before they could see her, that Dadan's camp was close. Her reputation had traveled ahead of her not through announcements but because people told stories about who would take a tired child in, boil a pot and set out a blanket. The thought of a prepared fire was not a miracle. It was the work of a person who chose to keep things ready for the island's small emergencies. Dadan, in the voice they had heard in a dozen places, was known for this.
When the trail crested a low hummock, they saw the smoke in a thin trail and then the shape of a camp: not a tent city but a small ring of tarps and a cooking pot hung over a low, deliberate fire. A few people moved about—hands that knew how to set a meal for several in a hurry: an old man carving the last of a pumpkin, someone else splitting bread. The place smelled like warm meat and onions and the solid comfort of broth. Children ran circles around a post and a dog barked and then scampered away.
They should not have been surprised to see Dadan there; they knew her. She stood as if the years around her had not softened her edge; she carried the dignity of someone who had raised more trouble than most and had survived. Her hair was gathered back, her aprons dirty with flour. She squinted as they approached, then grinned in a way that showed both amusement and the readiness of a person who has been expecting something like them. "You look like you came out of a storm," she said without ceremony. "Sit. Eat. Tell me if anyone's broken for good."
Luffy, who had a child's perfect talent for reading shelter for what it was, dropped his pack like a weight and moved closer. He slipped an arm around Uta's shoulders and did not bother to explain more than that. Dadan waved a hand and piled a portion of stew into a bowl, handed a wooden spoon to Luffy, and added, for AO, a smaller bowl with a strip of cloth rolled next to it and a cup of hot tea that steamed in the chill. "You've got mud on your boots," she observed. "Wash. Bring it here. We dry while we eat. There's a bedroll for the injured."
The camp was not large, but it had the architecture of the practiced helper: a low table, an oilcloth spread for drying, a row of simple bandages flapping on a line. Dadan did not offer to be sentimental about wounds. She carried the pragmatic tenderness of people who had to act instead of feeling. AO accepted the tea and the cloth. He washed with the basin they offered and set his arm into a position on his lap so that Dadan could look at it. She did not blink at the blackness; she had not been raised among people who were given to surprise. Instead she hummed a phrase and did something quick: fetched a pot of hot water, softened a strip of clean linen in it, then mixed it into a poultice with more of Mara's salve and a pinch of crushed root that smelled like iron when exposed to heat.
"Sit harder, boy," she said to Luffy, who had tried to curl his ankle under him in an attempt to stay comfortable. She pushed a hand to his shoulder with the authority of a person who would not be argued with. Luffy flinched, then sat up straight. Dadan wrapped his ankle with a practiced hand and then probed gently at the knuckles. "You went and scraped your hands," she noted. "Those will scab. Keep them clean."
Uta sat quietly near the fire, letting the warm steam fill her throat. Dadan slid a small cup of thick, sweet broth into Uta's hand and told a child to fetch a warm scarf. Uta accepted and wrapped it about her neck with the small smile of someone who had just been offered a fragile, crucial kindness. The scarf smelled of dried cherries and woodsmoke. She took a sip, and the warmth eased the rasp in her voice like a balm taking the edge off a knife. The village herbs and Dadan's simple cooking were honest medicine: steam, salt, warmth. It did more than the hollow's loud rituals had.
The animal at the edge of the camp — a smaller local beast that looked like a cross between a dog and a porcupine — sniffed at Arowsa's flank. The two passed small, measured greetings; the local animal accepted a favor — a scrap of bread — and scurried away with the air of a creature who had been paid its due and had no appetite for ceremony.
Dadan's camp had more people than at first glance: a couple of hands from Fusha, a laughing girl who moved deftly in serving spoons, someone who kept boiling water to refill the basin, and a man whose eyes measured AO's arm and nodded when the poultice was applied. The man had the face of a healer — not a learned physician in a white hall but a village surgeon who had sewn more limbs than he could count. He had a thread and a steady hand; he laid out a needle and then paused, aware of the larger question in AO's wound. "What did this to you?" he asked quietly.
AO's face folded inward for a moment, then hardened into the privacy he preferred. "Needle," he said. "Lesson." That was both true and a half-truth. The healer did not press. In such places people knew when to let a man keep his ledger closed.
While the healer worked, Dadan set another pot on the fire and rattled a spoon with a habitual comfort that sounded like a house's voice. Luffy ate until his bowl was empty and then asked for more, as if he were testing the world to see whether it would keep giving. The stew was simple — root vegetables, chunks of fish, a few wild greens; it tasted like the plain and the people who grew it. Dadan listened to the boy's short, stumbling report of what had happened in the hollow and then only asked one pointed question: "Did anyone else get summoned?"
"No," Uta said. "Just us."
Dadan glanced at AO in a way that felt like a checkmark. "Keep it quiet," she said. "You don't need neighbors making raids on trouble they don't understand. Stay a night. You get warm beds and you get people who know how to make a poultice." Her smile was rough but not unkind. She moved in a way that said she would have rigged something even if the village had not told her. That was the sort of practical kindness this place offered — not awe, not ritual, but work done for the sake of work. That was the kind of help Luffy needed.
The night Dadan laid out for them was deliberate and generous. Luffy got the blanket nearest the pot and was fed until he fell quiet with the weight of food. AO had a narrow pallet and a bowl of hot tea beside him; the healer loosened his bandage enough to let the salve work and then tied a lighter strip so his arm would not knuckle in sleep. Uta had a cot with a pillow stuffed with dried herbs; when she burrowed under the blanket she could smell lavender and the faint mineral trace of quicksilver that clung to her small pouch. They slept with human noise nearby — the low conversation of people who live together, the scrape of a ladle, a child's cough. There was no supernatural hush. There was merely the ordinary, repaired ritual of a town taking in children who had come from a place nobody quite spoke about.
In the last hour before midnight, while the fires died into coals and a watchman walked the camp, Luffy moved to the fire and sat with Dadan. Neither spoke much. He thumbed at the bandage on his hand until the edges frayed and then asked, "Will you come with us?"
Dadan looked at him as if reading an odd map. "Where would I go that would be better than right here?" she said. Her voice was sardonic in a way that only people who loved someone in a rough way could be. "You're a stubborn lot, Pipsqueak. You find a boulder to sleep under and I'll find the stew to make out of it."
Luffy laughed, a small sound that felt like a bell. He looked at Uta, then at AO. "We'll be careful."
Dadan grunted and threw a scarf over his shoulders with a softness that seemed to come from a place she kept for things she would not say aloud. The three of them lay down, wrapped in Dadan's blankets, and for the first time in days they slept under the kind of human watch that had nothing eerie about it. The island kept moving around them: a muffled odd song from a distant tavern, a dog's bark, a baby crying and then hushed by a mother's hand. They did not sleep long, but the rest was honest. Luffy's hand had stopped bleeding in earnest. The knuckles were a patchwork of new skin. AO's arm rested easier under its lighter bandage, and his breathing came less shallow. Uta's throat warmed and caught on easy phrases.
Morning would bring the next day and the end of their travel, and with it whatever the village would make of them. For tonight, the wound-keeping was human and pragmatic and perfect in its smallness. Dadan's fire burned low. The stew pot sat quietly on a stand and the linen hung damp from the line. They were, at last, inside the human world again: not marked for ritual, simply helped. They slept. The island kept its weather and its stories; the people kept their hands ready. That was enough to let healing begin.