Point taken.
We plodded forward because one does not trot, canter, or even manage a respectable walk in such weather. In less than a mile, however, the character of the rain changed. Instead of a proper downpour with respectable drops, it became a splattery, aggressive mist that couldn’t decide which direction to fall. It whipped me in the face from both directions and did its best to fall into my ears and leap up into my nostrils. It argued with cold, implacable determination that there was no clothing I could wear that would allow me to be even mildly comfortable. And something else happened in terms of pressure; my ears popped. We must be under the fog that Ogma had mentioned.
The temperature dropped as well and the trees along the road did not seem to be the sort that would hide a band of merry men. They rather offered a surplus of gloom and rot underneath their canopies. The sky was nothing but a diluted wash of ink, gray swirling brushstrokes of moisture. I felt miserable and unwelcome and began to wonder if I had made an imprudent decision. Apple Jack expressed similar sentiments. Repeatedly. We were slowly turning into frozen avatars of anxiety. Dreadsicles. Doompops.
The forest rustled at nightfall. Growls from predators and shrieks from prey were followed by cracks and wet squelching noises and very loud chewing sounds. I built us a makeshift shelter between two trees, binding fallen branches into a rough roof that bridged the gap and kept off the worst of the rain.
<Can you just go ahead and build me a stable?> Apple Jack asked. <Or how about surrounding us with a nice stockade?>
This will do just as well, I said, building a fire underneath the roof. I’ve asked the local elemental to keep the hungry animals at bay. Now all you have to worry about are unnatural predators.
<Hey, what? What kind of predators?>
Ghosts. Witches. Goblins. The usual.
<The usual?> Apple Jack tossed his head and stamped nervously. <Goblins are the usual here?>
Hey, calm down—
<That puny fire won’t protect me from goblins! Have you seen a goblin before, Gawain? Tiny eyes but large teeth and nostrils. They wear horsehide leather! ME-hide leather! Let’s get out of here!>
Settle down! There aren’t any goblins! I was only joking!
Apple Jack’s ears flattened against his head and he showed me his teeth. <You are NOT funny.>
Sorry. I know it’s spooky out there but we’re not in terrible peril yet. I’m sure that’s a few days down the road at least.
<Still not funny.>
I got him a couple of apples and a bag of oats to atone for my teasing and I spent some time brushing him down. I told him the legend of the Fine Filly Fionnait, the white mare of Munster, and that comforted him enough so that we could both get some sleep. Before shaking out my wet blanket, however, I spent a wee bit of time modifying the sole of my right boot. I cut a hole in it so that I would still be able to maintain contact with the earth and draw on its magic, but hopefully it would not be the sort of thing that people would notice or, failing that, remark upon.
The rain stopped sometime during our slumber, but promptly began again in the morning once we emerged from our temporary shelter.
<It’s a conspiracy,> Apple Jack said. <They want mold to grow in my ears.>
Who are they?
<Them.>
Usually I’m the paranoid one.
<Why? You have a sword and opposable thumbs. I can only run away and look delicious to predators. Paranoia is my specialty.>
I’m guessing you’re not Goibhniu’s war horse.
Aside from the rain and our collective fears, we had little to complain about that day. In the afternoon we chanced upon an inn with a stable and decided to call the day’s ride early. We weren’t in a terrible hurry and a bit of comfort would be welcome. After I’d put Apple Jack up in a nice stall with plenty of feed, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen anyone taking the road out of the area. No one had passed me in either direction. Yet the stables were quite nearly full, which meant the inn—called the Silver Stallion, according to the shingle outside—must be packed with travelers. Perhaps they were all waiting for the rain to end?
No. That’s not what they were doing. I quickly discovered that the reason no one was leaving the area toward Gloucester was that they couldn’t.
“Here’s another one!” a salty old codger said when I walked in the door. “Welcome to hell, good sir.”
I quickly scanned the inn. It didn’t look hellish, nor did anyone’s body language suggest that they were going to give me hell. The customers simply looked depressed as they lounged at tables and benches with flagons of ale and stared at plates of half-eaten cheeses.
“Thank you,” I replied, keeping my voice low. “Why is this hell, though? I missed it.”
“We’re condemned to stay here for eternity,” the old man explained, “and it’s certainly not heaven.” Medieval logic.