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Mt. Ebott wasn't nearly as terrifying as the villagers made it seem.
It was covered in dense forest that grew lighter as the altitude increased, sunlight-speckled leaves littering the ground as the occasional wind traveled through the branches. The pleasant sound of a bird chirping nearby could be heard from the canopy, and if you really listened, there'd be a responding call of love from another bird.
Beau never considered himself to be odd for appreciating the relaxation of nature, but he suspected that the particular taunt might have a grain of truth within it. None of the other kids his age from the village had any interest in climbing the mountain, or even venturing into the forest beneath it at all. As much as he wanted to be able to enjoy himself in front of his family and friends, he couldn't shake the contentment that overtook him whenever he was truly alone on the mountain, with only the spirits of the forest to judge him.
It became something of a routine a couple months ago, these visits to Mt. Ebott. He'd slip out in the afternoon, saying something about going to meet with his friends, and then bolt into the forest and up the mountain.
He'd never cared for the old wives' tale of whoever climbed Mt. Ebott being said to disappear, after all, there'd only been one other kid who had climbed it before. At least, he remembered hearing something like that from the old ladies' gossip in the village marketplace. He chose not to let it bother him, basking in the sun in one of his favorite spots underneath a tall oak near the mountain's peak.
Beau would often dance in these pockets of his alone time, stuffing his old pointe shoes and tutu into a satchel that looped around his shoulder. He kept his steps light against the soft grass, relishing in the feeling of weightlessness that the movement of performance brought him. Sometimes, a butterfly would soar far above its usual spot on a flower and land on his finger as he held his arms in the fourth ballet position. The light touch of the butterfly's legs against his skin made a smile stretch over his features, warm against the summer sun.
When he wasn't dancing, he'd sit up against the bark of one of his favorite trees, a journal full of poetry spread open on his lap. He liked to spin each new word he learned into a ribbon of a poem, flowery language curving prettily onto paper line-by-line.
This particular afternoon, Beau lazed against a tree after a rather tiring practice of pirouettes, the eraser of his pencil pressed to the corner of his mouth in concentration.
Effervescent, he pondered. In what way could he fit this word into his next line? He loved when a poem used extravagant words and still managed to sound beautiful, but how could he manage that when he couldn't think of—
Beau's thoughts were interrupted by a loud rustling of leaves nearby, startling him into dropping his pencil. He swiftly shut his journal and slipped it into his satchel, standing up. The leaves continued to rustle as he slowly made his way towards the noise, stepping cautiously. As he got closer, his ears singled out a voice bellowing alongside the leaves' incessant crunch.
"Y'gosh-durn wild thang! L-let go'a thuh dang chick'n!" The mysterious voice sounded like a boy's, the heavy accent and sound of a struggle drawing Beau's attention further. Peeking out carefully behind a nearby tree, he was met with the sight of a boy ferociously tussling with a coyote in the foliage, leaves being kicked up and around with each fighting movement.
The coyote held the twisted neck of a chicken in its jaws, its teeth clamped around the bird's body tightly, feathers and drops of blood flying as it fought to get out of the boy's slipping grasp. The boy's arms were hooked around the coyote's torso, flinching as it tried to bite and snap to get away.
Beau watched, a bolt of fear and bewilderment keeping him still. What on earth had he just found? Would the boy be okay? There wasn't possibly something he could do to help him at all… was there?
Taking a deep breath to stabilize himself, Beau reached down to the dirt and searched for a rock. He found a jagged stone right next to the roots of the tree he was hiding behind. Running his thumb smoothly over the rock's grainy surface, he narrowed his eye and clutched it hard, aiming for the coyote's head.
He threw the rock as hard as he possibly could, letting out a small grunt of effort.
The rock flew directly over the coyote's head.
The animal seemed to be completely unphased by this, continuing to struggle in the boy's grip, while the boy's eyes followed the rock as it soared above him, his arms jolting up as he yelped with a sudden shock. The coyote took the opportunity and freed itself from his arms, but not before the boy regained his wits and grabbed for the chicken in its mouth. The boy and the coyote were stuck in a sort of tug-of-war for a few moments before the boy eventually won, having been dragged through the leaves and soil, left face-down holding the mangled chicken while the coyote ran into the woods.
Beau rushed out from behind the tree, running up to the boy. He dropped to his knees, turning the boy right-side up with his hands on the other's shoulders.
Beau looked at him, breathless from adrenaline. The entire side of the boy's face was looking to bruise, dirt and blood running from his nose caked onto the expanse of his cheekbone and jaw. His wheat-colored hair shone blond in the sun filtering through the trees, tousled and falling over his eyes in light spikes. There was a dark brown bandana tied around his neck loosely, which Beau was untying the knot of, hoping to help the boy clean up his injuries if he could.
"M'I finally hittin' th' hay fer good?" The boy mumbled after a minute, the barely audible words escaping his lips as he started coming to, blinking hazily. Beau said nothing in response, continuing to tenderly wipe the dirt from the boy's bruises, kneeling a bit over him. Silently, his gaze trailed down the boy's smile lines on his cheek, and he was struck with the odd yet strong wish to see the way a grin fit onto his face.
"I mus' be dead…got'n angel tak'n cares uf me," The boy mumbled again, and this time Beau couldn't help but crack a smile, a small laugh escaping him as he felt a warmth rush up to his face.
"Not quite. I'm glad you're not dead, frankly," Beau said quietly, his eyes locking onto the boy's as he took the other's hand to help him sit up. Although the boy's bruises were gradually darkening and one nostril still had a slow stream of blood running down to his upper lip, his eyes were lively. Beau's hand holding the bandana fell from the boy's cheekbone to his lap, gingerly placing the cloth in his palm.
"Well durn, that's real kind o'ya, stranger." The boy said heartily, a bright smile lighting up his face. There was a splatter of freckles over the boy's cheeks that Beau hadn't noticed before, and one of his front teeth were visibly chipped as he grinned. Beau's chest felt light, his heart skipping.
"My name is Beau. It's very nice to meet you. May I have your name?" Beau asked, feeling his own smile settle into the rare position of something bigger than his usual placid expression. The boy grabbed Beau's limp hand from his lap, covering it with both of his hands in a vigorous handshake full of spirit.
"It's mighty fine ta meet'cha, m'own name's Yale! 'M real grateful for ya bein' my save-yer." Yale said jovially, his hands still holding Beau's own even after they'd stopped shaking. Beau was acutely aware of the warmth of the other boy's hands, and his own heartbeat growing steadily in his ears.
"There's no need to thank me, Yale. I'm just glad I could help you." Beau responded, and he found that he meant those words in the most wholehearted sense. Yale flushed and averted his eyes, letting out a small chuckle of bashfulness. He reached up to his own forehead with a pulling gesture, but his fingers met empty air and his smile fell.
"M'hat!" He jumped to his feet, his head whipping around in every direction until his eyes caught on a brown cowboy hat nestled in the leaves of a bush at the edge of the clearing. He ran towards it, plucking the hat out of the bush's tendrils and fitting it onto his own head, finnicking with adjusting its position. Beau had stood up, eyes still following Yale patiently.
Beau fiddled with the tulle of his tutu, a small bout of nerves welling up in his chest.
"Are you a sheriff?" He spoke, unsure of what to say.
Yale perked up, his attention snapping away from his hat.
"Yess-irr-ee! Finest durn cowboy this side'a Mount Ebott! Ain't none other justice like me," Yale beamed once more as he struck a pose, one of his hands grabbing the gun from the holster attached to his belt. Maintaining his smile, Beau eyed the gun with a hint of alarm, but chose to ignore it. Yale seemed to maintain an air of carefulness with the weapon, despite his clumsy enthusiasm, and Beau couldn't help but feel safe with him.
Beau tilted his head questioningly in the direction of the abandoned pile of leaves nearby, scuffed with dirt and feathers. He was still curious about what Yale had been doing when Beau had found him, after all.
"So, why were you…err…" The thought of him saying wrestling with a wild a coyote for a dead chicken was awkward, the words left unspoken on his tongue as Yale looked confused for a moment at his question before he walked up next to Beau, their shoulders brushing.
Beau felt a warmth settle in his chest as he looked at Yale, who was eyeing the pile of leaves with an almost comedic amount of distaste.
"Them wild critters loves t'steal the chick'ns off th' farm a whole heck uf'a lot, 'n it's s'posed to be my job to help with takin' care of everythin' as best I can," Yale said proudly, bringing his fingers up to give a quick tip of his hat with a wink that made Beau's smile stretch further. He continued, gesturing to the small white shape of the chicken's body laying among the leaves below them.
"My ma says if I let 'em take a chick'n to their critter pals, they ain't never gon' stop thievin' from us, so I gots 'ta chase after 'em even if th' chick'n ain't livin' no more." A trace of something solemn wormed its way into Yale's voice at the end of his sentence, and Beau's heart squeezed in sympathy. He kneeled once more beside the pile of leaves, his shoulder regrettably leaving the touch of Yale's.
"Shall we give this life a proper sendoff, then?" Beau spoke reverently, plucking leaves from the disheveled pile and placing them over the chicken's small body with a gentleness reserved for the quieter moments of life.
"That's real sweet of ya, I oughta help y'out." Yale murmured quietly, his response almost a whisper as he joined Beau in covering the chicken's body in leaves. Beau's eye caught the movement of a tear traveling down Yale's cheek, and he fought the urge to reach forward and wipe it away with a soft swipe of his thumb.
The silence between the two boys was not something heavy that required words to snap any threads of tension, but rather a moment of peace that coursed through the air like the waters of a slow-moving stream. Every now and then, their silence was broken by a sniffle from Yale. Once they were out of leaves to pick up, they fit their hands together in hushed prayer for the small life below them, gone through the claws of nature's hunger.
After a few minutes of quiet honor were bestowed upon the small bird's life, the boys' gazes locked as they opened their eyes. Beau found himself studying Yale's face, his eyes moving worriedly over the bruising on the other boy's cheekbone and the thin smear of dried blood from his nose to his lip. How long had Yale been chasing after that coyote, he wondered. The other boy had insinuated that he helped out on a farm—maybe he was used to these kind of injuries. Despite the temporarily relieving thought crossing Beau's mind, he noticed his heart twisting with an odd amount of concern for Yale's wellbeing.
Yale swallowed and dipped his head downwards, his hat slipping off and into his hands, which he was now using to cover his face.
"Are you alright?" Beau asked, the beginnings of a small frown making its way onto his face. The hat lowered a bit, revealing Yale's averted eyes and the rosy line of a blush on his cheekbones, visible even through the forming bruises.
"M'fine, yer jus'…uh, starin'…" Yale's response was low and muffled through the hat's brim, embarrassment making his fingers twitch.
"Oh! I'm sorry ab—" Beau caught himself, immediately dropping his gaze and moving a pace backwards before his wrist was grabbed by the other boy.
"No! No, s'uh…nice. I-I swear it to ya," Yale interjected, his voice falling into something quieter after his sudden exclamation, a nervous stutter creeping its way into his words. His skin was soft around Beau's wrist, old callouses smooth against its more delicate counterpart. Beau's wrist felt as if someone had dipped it in a warm spring, and even through his surprise, he didn't want to pull away.
As the two remained still, a butterfly flew from behind and landed gracefully on Yale's fingers as they were still wrapped around Beau's wrist, and a miniscule part of Beau would have found the scene extraordinarily poetic in the most beautiful sense if his own stomach was not full of butterflies in that exact same moment.
Yale's hat was completely lowered into his other hand now as his expression was frozen, face gradually growing redder. The boy looked as if he was about to faint, and Beau's heart stuttered with how endearing he found the sight to be.
Summoning up a lightning-quick bout of courage to overpower his nerves, Beau moved his hand, slipping it into Yale's and interlocking their fingers gently, not missing the tiny gasp from the other boy. The butterfly took flight at the movement, rising above and away. Internally fumbling for words to continue with, Beau said the first thing that came to mind.
"There's a stream nearby we can go clean your injuries up at,"
Really? He mentally cursed himself for his lack of eloquence in the choosing of words, but Yale clearly didn't seem to mind the obvious verbal change of subject, a small grin growing on his very red face.
"If you'd like, of course," Beau added politely just in case, primarily distracted by the brush of Yale's palm against his own within their conjoined hands.
"Tha's a real good idea," Yale mumbled, voice warmly hesitant.
The shuffle of grass underfoot and birdsong filled their ears as they made their way towards one of Mt. Ebott's few bubbling streams, hands linked together in something new, its fragility sweet. Beau was never one to speak quite frequently without thinking carefully about the way his words would slip off the tongue, but Yale was proving himself to be quite the conversationalist. He spoke with such excitement about things that one would consider painstakingly casual, expression alight, and Beau listened happily.
As the two kneeled beside the stream and Yale allowed Beau to clean the bruises on his face with tender swipes of a dampened bandana, Beau's mind returned to his earlier dilemma. It wasn't bothering him nearly as much as it had been before, he found, the word effervescent at the forefront of his thoughts as his gaze slid over Yale's blinding smile, his ears catching the tail end of a heavily-accented anecdote.
Beau made a mental note to pencil the word into a poem later, blissfully leaning ever-so-close to the other boy as the daylight burned slowly and lovingly.