Once upon a time…

They met by the river that cut the plains like a slow knife. One wore a faded sash of the manor guard. The other had the peat-stained hands of the marsh folk. Between them lay an old boat carved with a serpent. They had once carved it together as boys.

It was the night of Lantern-Drift, when villagers set bowls of fat and ash on reeds and floated them downstream. People believed each bowl carried a quarrel away, unless two bowls touched, which meant the quarrel must be faced.

Their bowls touched at once, turning in a small circle. The guard spoke first of the winter raid, when the manor seized grain and he stood in the doorway. The marsh man told of his sister’s fever and the empty bins. The river made a soft clicking sound, as if counting.

They set the serpent boat on the water and pushed. It did not drift. It moved against the current, slow and steady, back toward the village. They followed. At the churchyard it stopped. The boat tapped a stone with their mothers’ names side by side.

They untied the sash. They washed their hands. The river’s counting stopped.