Beyond the Fringes

A Tale of Solitude and Self

They call me a hermit. Or at least, they used to, when people still ventured into these woods. But those days are long gone. I haven’t seen a human soul in many turnings—and I like it better this way. Safer.

My days are clean and uneventful. I wake up to the sound of birdsong when the first rays of filtered sunlight peek through the window. I get up and kindle a small fire in the hearth. Go outside to meditate and talk to the critters.

Some days it’s just the forest hens, clucking their cheery good mornings, but today, the two-tailed ikorn honours me with a short visit and gifts me a handful of fresh nuts before bounding back to her den and flufflets; her second litter this turning.

I love them all, these creatures of the forest. They don’t judge. Don’t call me names. They don’t hurt me.

They are my friends.

I take the nuts inside and place them on the small round cutting board, the one I use for chopping nuts and dried herbs. Never for anything else.

The oats have soaked up almost all of the water I added last night, so I add a little more from the kettle and set the dented pot over the fire. While I wait for the heat to do its job, I chop the nuts and get some dried berries from the glass jar in the nook by the door.

As I eat my breakfast, I ponder the day to come.

I need new clothes. My garments are so worn, I can no longer patch them up. I’ve thought about weaving fabric or tanning hides, but that’s too much work. There’s only so many hours in a day, and a person needs to eat.

Though I shudder at the thought, I only have one option left. I need to venture into the human world and figure out a way to get some clothes—or at least fabric—without having to interact with people.

Reluctant to leave, I take my time rinsing my bowl and spoon in the stream behind the house. As I put them away, I realise I forgot to clean my cooking pot. A rare omission that makes my heart pound against my ribcage—until I realise it buys me a little extra time.

I smile at my own foolishness and take the pot to the stream, enjoy the rush of cold water on my skin, and then just sit there. Breathing. Watching. Listening.

But time doesn’t wait for me, so I make my way back into my home, my world, and place the pot on the small wooden cabinet next to the stove. I pack some provisions in a soft, worn cloth and tie it to my walking stick.

Then, with leaden step and aching heart, I close the door behind me and set out on my trip into the unknown, praying to all the gods that I’ll be back by nightfall.

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The trek towards the human world takes too long, and I left home too late in the day. When the trees’ shadows lengthen, I start looking for a place to spend the night. A hollow tree perhaps, or even a mossy patch beneath a small outcrop.

I shiver as a gust of chill wind blows through my tattered garments. If only I’d had the foresight to take my blanket with me. Too late for that now, though.

It takes a while; dusk falls and fades into twilight, but just before it becomes too dark to see, I spot it: the perfect shelter. A large tree—felled by a storm, no doubt—with mud and leaves caught in the tangle of its gnarled roots.

As I pick my way into its embrace, a surprise welcomes me: a shallow hole in the ground, smelling faintly of must and damp fur. A long-abandoned den. I curl up into its protection, covering myself with some leaves and twigs, and close my eyes.

I barely sleep though, the environment too strange, the cold too sharp, and the damp dirt underneath too uncomfortable. When I crawl out of my sepulchre, my entire body screams in agony.

Hunger gnaws at my stomach and mingles with fear as I wander through the thinning woods towards hostile territory. There are fewer animals here. Birdsong modulates from joyful and lively to muted and melancholy. The wind carries strange, unsettling scents.

The world beyond the forest’s edge is too loud. Too bright. Too busy. It hurts to even look at it from my hiding place beneath a broad elder bush pregnant with ripe berries. Tart, but perfect to still the hunger pangs.

Just beyond is a little farm house, with white chickens cooped up in a wired cage. Poor things, to be held captive like that.

I’ve been watching this place since sunrise, trying to get a grasp on the routines of the people who live here. It’s hard. There’s so much busyness, but so little structure.

A man comes out and leaves in a motorised vehicle—I’ve forgotten what they’re called—children run around in the yard, yelling at each other. A woman dressed in man’s clothing bustles about, seemingly without purpose.

When the autumn sun is at its highest, the woman calls the children—there’s five of them—inside, and finally there’s peace and quiet. Are they enjoying a meal now? In their warm, homely kitchen? Maybe with a cat snoozing by the fire and a dog begging for scraps?

I eat some more berries. Retrieve the last strip of dried rabbit meat from my travel cloth. Rub the smooth grey surface of the pebble I’ve carried with me for as long as I can remember. It feels good. Comforting and reassuring.

When the woman emerges from the house again, she carries a wicker basket. One of the children, its movements slightly out of kilter, flutters around her legs as she walks with a steady gait towards the lawn that stretches before me.

There’s a washing line there. That’s why I chose this spot. Even so, my heart thumps in my throat as she approaches. Will she see me? Guess what I’m up to? I don’t want to do this, but without proper clothes, I might freeze to death this coming winter.

But I’ve come prepared. I brought my precious ikorn skull and will leave that as a gift to her. To thank her for the clothes I need to take.

I wipe a stray tear from my cheek. The memories of all the nights spent caring for my sweet companion as fevers ravaged its tiny body are too vivid, the pain too acute.

The gods know how much he meant to me. They’ve counted my tears as I skinned my poor little dead friend, and scraped its skull clean of all flesh. They’ve seen me boil the skull to sterilise and preserve it.

But I cannot take these people’s possessions without payment. I am no thief. I sigh once more. Wipe another tear away and look up. Straight into the child’s face.

They blink, and I blink back. A smile plays around their lips, and the corners of my mouth lift in answer. They bring a finger to their eye and mimic a tear trailing down, then point their finger at me, their face curious.

Boy or girl, I wonder briefly, then drop my gaze in embarrassment. Why would this even matter to me? Or to anyone? Isn’t that part of why I left the human world behind? Because they could not accept my otherness?

Now here’s a child that’s other, like me, and I want to fit them into a box?

I look up at the child again. They are still there. Still staring at me. Asking a thousand questions without speaking a single word. But I know. I understand.

And I am torn. The human world is cruel. It’s no place for a child like this one. Already, I feel their loneliness. Their longing to be amongst kin. But how can I take them away from their family? It would not be right.

The child reaches their hand towards me, and I reach back. Our fingertips touch for just a moment, then break apart.

‘Hille!’ the woman calls. Wicker basket bobbing on her hip, she strolls across the lawn towards the house. She barely even glances at the child. Eyes wide, they jump up and give me one last look, pressing a finger to their lips, then skitter back to the mother.

An eerie stillness settles over the man-made landscape as the sun descends lazily towards the horizon. It’s as if the world has died. My skin prickles. The rushing sound of my own blood swells behind my eardrums.

I pick a handful of berries and line them up, counting them in a low whisper. ‘One, two, three…twelve.’ Twelve berries. I gather them in the cup of my hand and line them up again, counting once more. Again and again, until my skin is stained red with their sap. Only then do I eat them.

The sour taste lingers in my mouth. Keeps me awake and alert. I want more. Need more. But my stomach curdles in protest, and the elder bush doesn’t have much more to give. Most of the berries haven’t ripened yet.

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As dusk falls, the man returns and parks his vehicle on the rock-paved square adjoining the house. The children flock from the building and throw themselves at him, yelling eager welcomes in their shrill voices.

The man laughs. A deep, rumbling belly laugh. He picks them up, one after another, making them scream with laughter, as he twirls them around and around in his strong arms.

The child called Hille, however, is nowhere in sight.

They disappear inside, and all’s quiet again. I watch, and wait a moment longer, then steal towards the line where clean, whole clothes still flap in the wind. I know what to take. Just a pair of working slops, a shirt, a woollen scarf, and that warm, hooded cloak.

I won’t appropriate the finest garments, of course. Just the plain ones, that already have some patches. As I liberate them, I notice they’re still damp, but I don’t mind. I layer them on top of my own duds.

When I kneel in the grass to leave the skull of my little friend behind, I spot them: socks. Thick, warm woollen socks, laid out in rows on the mossy lawn. Too many to count. I pick two that look to be the right size and put them on my feet. I feel instantly warmer.

One final glance at what’s left of my friend. A silent prayer to Dru’eth, guardian of the wild. Then I slip back into the shadows.

Soon, I enter the safety of the woods and, despite the loss, my spirit lifts. The air is cleaner here, the sounds familiar, the ground underfoot softer. But my stomach is still uneasy from eating too many elderberries, and now I need some real food.

Lucky for me, the forest is generous, especially in early autumn. I find a white puffball. Beautiful, firm, and unblemished. I pull the knife from the pouch I wear on the cord around my waist and cut it open. No spores. Safe.

It’s a bland meal, but satisfying enough, and it calms my stomach. As I hike deeper into the forest, I gather nuts. Hazelnuts, beech nuts, and—best of all—chestnuts. Once I’ve got a decent amount, I settle on a stump and pry them open with my knife.

I savour each nut as I chew. Slowly, carefully. The luscious creamy texture of the hazelnuts contrast nicely with the earthy bitterness of the beech nuts. The chestnuts, I save for last. Soft, starchy, and with just a smidgen of sweetness.

I’m about to continue on my way, deeper into the forest, when I hear a twig snap behind me. I freeze and hold my breath. When nothing happens, I slowly let go of my breath and inhale deeply, yet inaudibly.

A few steps later, another sound makes my heart jump into my throat. Someone is out there. Following me. And it’s not an animal. Is it the people whose clothes I’m wearing? Have they come to take them back? Will they harm me?

My fingers close around the hilt of my knife. It’s small, but sharp. Its cool metal feels comforting against my skin. I can defend myself. I won’t be a victim. Never again.

Never.

I turn around slowly.

There, just a few paces away from me, is the child. Hille. They stare up at me, their eyes pleading. And I know what they’re asking, even before they speak.

‘I come with you?’

It’s not really a question. They will not take no for an answer, I know this. I was like this child, once. Only, I had no one. I went alone—and nobody, not even my own mother—ever came looking for me.

I nod.

‘Hille,’ the child says, then points at me.

I hesitate. My name—the name my parents gave me—was one I despised. I abandoned it when I ran away. Since then, I only ever thought of myself as other.

I nod. I know my real name now.

‘Other.’

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This one is for those who are gaslit, ostracised, and chewed out by society: the gender diverse, neurodiverse, and mentally ill.

I see you. I hear you.

You belong.

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