The preacher had seemed a nice enough fellow, but when he arrived at the village, he would probably speak of having seen me in passing. I worried that someone might be interested enough in coming after me, not because they’d want to apologize or make it up to me for throwing rocks, but because they might want to steal Frey. With that in mind, I decided that it would be better to leave the path behind and slip into the woods.
I turned Frey to the right. Leaving the well-traveled route, we headed down a bit of an incline, threaded through a section with ferns and redwoods, and moseyed back toward the sound of the babbling brook, which I could still hear, although faintly, in the distance. Frey, eager to explore a more interesting section than the dusty trail, swung his ears forward and began to prance a bit until it was necessary for me to lay my hand on his shoulder and calm him down.
Although the sun had already colored the sky and been well on its way to creating some heat, as I rode under the trees, its light turned into shadows with patches of dark. A coolness permeated the air, allowing the scent of redwood bark to tease my nose enough to make me sneeze. A witch’s sneeze was often a sign of danger.
I tightened my grip on the reins and scanned ahead, even more diligent than a moment before. Before I could spot what had caused my apprehension, Frey alerted me. His muscles clinched and trumpeted a warning, then he pawed the ground while spinning his head to the left.