The Gantlet

by Linda L. Dunlap

  The small house the three lived in during the coldest part of winter was crushed, flattened, and exploded into miniscule pieces with one slam of the demon’s fist. But it was all for naught, for no one was there to be crushed or flattened by the furious assault. The witch was enraged to know her demon went awry, lost control, and broke the house without searching for the Qay girl. Because she knew she had been wrong in not taking ten-year-old Breanna’s memories when she had the child in her grasp, it galled her terribly, and made her more determined than ever to recapture and eventually destroy the girl.

  At that moment in time, Yahmara wanted the Qay girl alive, not flattened as a bug underfoot! The four-dicant demon had been made by a spell cast in fire with the blood of two goats, and the wing feathers of a giant Phoebus stirred into an unholy pot. But when six of Yahmara’s strongest witches made the potion, a tiny, trembling mouse had run from the Phoebus, and mistakenly jumped into the pot instead of to freedom. It was disaster for the mouse, but the spell also went sideways and produced the flawed giant that could easily have destroyed the girl and, subsequently, Yahmara’s plans for revenge.

  On the river’s edge where the three children stopped for the night, the shaking ground stirred the water and sloshed it against the banks. The ripples were high, with ridged edges, all the results of the witches’ spell, but they caused the children no harm. The huge demon disintegrated after destroying the house, its tasks done, but the aftershocks lasted for hours, reverberating up and down the river, causing distress to night creatures dependent upon the water. Hundreds of fish were deposited upon the shore, a boon to carnivores of all types. For the three sleeping snugly in their blankets under cover of a few branches, the fish meant fresh breakfast when the sun rose.

  The morning after the demon’s failed mission, Breanna rose early, determined to wash the smells of fire smoke and the sweat from the long trek from her body. The Tribon was waiting peacefully in the day’s light, all signs of the night’s terrors gone with the blue that filled the sky above. Heavy sleep from physical exhaustion had cushioned the night’s sounds, the result being that none but Breanna had been aware of the demon’s presence in that region. Her guard had been up, but it was quickly obvious that the mordant had missed its true quarry.

  Determined to get clean, Breanna searched the edge of the river for a proper pool to scrub her skin and wash her long hair. Grabbing a few soapwort plants from a damp spot near the trees, she first admired their pink flowers, which belied the utile cleaning qualities of the roots. She remembered Mathena bringing some of them home from near Everclear Lake when it was time for baths.

  Jumping into a shallow section of the river made her remember jumping into the Tribon her first year with the Vales. It was her first experience with swimming, for the water on Nore Mountain came from springs flowing to the valley, and then away, into the larger lakes too deep for a small one to jump in and play.

  Breanna stripped away her clothing, first the long britches with the hems now halfway up her calf. Their only good quality was their service against the brush of the forest. Next was the cloth shirt made by Alane Vale, a few days before she was killed by the mordant. The shirt’s long sleeves protected Breanna’s arms from the scratching vines. Her small clothes, one of two sets, were traditional farm clothing, made from homespun cloth. She had discarded the brown dress similar to Elida’s on the first day of their river travel.

  All her clothing badly needed a wash, but she was reluctant to wear wet garments against her skin. Maybe my knowledge of how to make fire could be used to dry the clothing, Breanna considered as she stood in the water.

  Looking at her reflection, she noticed her eyes were as deep blue as the river, and the lashes beneath and above them had darkened since she was younger. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, and a few freckles dotted the bridge of her small straight nose. The curve of her lips was generous, and, like her cheekbones, would soften more as she aged. The corkscrew curls of her childhood had become thick red-brown tresses she kept under control in a braid. Mathena had taught her to plait, and each day where possible, Breanna braided her and Elida’s hair.

  Tall and thin, Breanna was like most young women her age, neither over- nor under-endowed, but with her critical eyes, she saw only a skinny girl, with no attractiveness whatsoever.

  She ducked under the water for a moment, adding soapwort to her body and her long unbraided tresses, and she rose to watch the flow of the river pulling the suds and her hair downstream. Lying back floating, Breanna’s eyes followed the movement of the clouds over the sun, and she suddenly shivered from the cold and a feeling of being watched. From the corner of her eye she saw a figure standing, unhurriedly observing her movements.

  Quickly covering herself with water, Breanna yelled, “Sean, what do you think you’re doing? Go away and let me get out of the water.” She was furious with him for spying on her.

  He ran off, not looking back as she climbed from the water and put her wet clothing back on. The wind had grown even colder, and she was reminded it was still winter. Although the water had been chilled, it was warmer than the air, making bathing pleasant. Upset with the boy for watching her, she stormed to the shore, intending to tell him what she thought, but he wasn’t there.

  “Elida, did you see Sean run past here?” she asked.

  “No,” Elida replied absently, “he wasn’t here when I awoke. I think he had been in the forest. Last night he said he was going hunting early. He took your bow.”

  “Oh, a’right. Maybe he’ll kill some grouse. I saw some when we first landed the raft.” Breanna was afraid she had made a mistake, and possibly Sean had wandered up looking for her and, not knowing she was bathing, went to the river to search for her. She really hoped that was what had happened. Living on the farm had taught them all about animals mating, so they were not ignorant of male-female attraction. Breanna had never considered the likelihood the subject would ever arise between Sean and her.

  “Sean,” she called in a few minutes. “Sean, where are you?”

  “Shush. I’m over here,” he replied in a whisper.

  She found him behind a clump of trees, eyeing a flock of ptarmigan roosting under a giant oak, their bodies mostly white in their winter feathers.

  “Can you shoot them?” he asked, without any embarrassment over the past incident. “I’m afraid I’ll miss and they’ll fly away.”

  “I’ll try. Give me the bow and the quiver,” Breanna replied, her anger forgotten as she waited to take the fat birds.

  During the winter they had both practiced with the bow, but she was always the better marksman, hitting her target almost all of the time. Killing a creature was different; it required patience and care. To wound a bird or an animal meant unnecessary pain for the prey. Sean knew there was less chance she would have one fly away and die in the forest.

  After shooting, she said, “I got two of them. The others flew away, but maybe they left some eggs in their nest, making a nice breakfast with our fish. We haven’t had eggs for such a long time.”

  “I’ll get them. You wait here,” Sean told her. He started to get up, but she pulled him back.

  “Wait. I’m sorry for yelling at you. I thought you were watching me.”

  “I was. I kept watch for a minute to get you to notice me. Didn’t want to miss the birds.”

  “A’right. I understand. Just don’t watch next time.”

  “Sure,” Sean said, headed for the birds, his face red. He had watched her, amazed she was pretty, and he never had thought about it. Watching her also answered some questions he had about the female body. He smiled to himself, thinking an extra sister wasn’t all bad, for someday he wanted a wife and needed to know how they were made. He hoped the girl for him was made like Breanna.

  The fish on the bank of the river were still fresh as Elida pushed them into the water and washed away their scales and innards. She had become the cook—a natural selection, since she was too young to hunt. Cleaning the fis
h was part of her job, and she took it seriously, making sure they were scraped clean before she put the pieces on sticks above the fire. Little Kit stood aside waiting patiently for the scrap he knew was coming. Elida wondered why Breanna had seemed mad earlier when she was looking for Sean, but she didn’t think much of it. The two of them seemed to argue all the time.

  She was sitting beside the fire when the big ugly bird reached down and locked its talons around her shoulders. Elida screamed and screamed, but no one heard; only the giant, smelly thing looking at her with red eyes knew she was in danger. Poor Kit began running in circles, searching for his mistress, but Elida was gone; all sign of her had disappeared into the blue of the day with the Phoebus. The little fox was bereft for a moment, but quickly began pulling fish off the sticks above the fire.

  The hunters returned to the fire in a little while and searched for the younger girl. Both were concerned because Kit was there, eating the fish she had prepared. Something had gone terribly wrong, and both of them knew it didn’t bode well for any of them, especially Elida.

  “Sean, did you see anything? She was here when I went searching for you. Maybe she wandered off looking for us and told Kit to stay here.”

  “No, I didn’t see anything. What if she fell in the water? The river would wash her away.”

  “Wait, Sean, before you believe she is lost in the river, remember she can swim.”

  “But she couldn’t swim across if she fell in and got swept away.” Sean was growing louder by the minute, his yelling a way to keep from crying.

  For hours they searched with the fox behind them wherever they went, but there was no sign of Elida. Sadly, they stopped looking when it grew too dark to see their own feet. The night brought no peace, and no small girl, but darkness made searching not only useless, but dangerous. They found no signs Elida had struggled, nor had she left any last-minute notes written in the dirt. She was gone.

  The next morning, they rose, packed the camp, and moved downstream silently, with each lost in thought. Breanna considered the knowledge she had stored in her memory, and wondered if anything she knew might put them on the trail to Elida. She thought hard and called the little fox to her, determined to do something positive

  Anola, you can help me. Let me speak to this small creature and know what it knows. Breanna remembered the beast, recalling its horrid bragging voice. She knew she could speak to demons, but what of living creatures? She could only try.

  A fox’s bark is more of a yip, especially in the young, and without anyone to guide her, Breanna opened her mouth and made the fox sounds, asking the little one what had happened to her mistress. For a while Kit stared at her, but then the fox made the tiniest yips back to her and began to shudder. She petted Kit and made sure he wouldn’t fall off the raft before glancing over at Sean, who was deep in his misery. She knew the chance she was taking, but convincing Sean was more important than being fearful of the loss of her secrets.

  “Sean, I know what happened to Elida,” Breanna said, pushing the raft off the side of the Tribon where it had drifted.

  “What do you know?” He seemed unconcerned, as though her ideas were just that, ideas, and no better than his.

  “A Phoebus took her.”

  “A Phoebus? What is a Phoebus?” His irritation was also a sign of his distress.

  “It’s a giant bird of prey, a great raven, smelly and awful. One took me when I was ten summers and carried me under its wing. It’s the witch’s bird. The witch took her, Sean.”

  He turned from steering the raft to look at her, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “How do you know?”

  “I’m elven. I asked Kit. He told me. He was afraid of the bird. It scared him really badly.”

  “You expect me to believe you can talk to Kit?” Sean was incredulous. “How can I believe something so strange?”

  “How can you believe a demon spell killed your mam and poppa? It happened. The witch has her. The only reason she would have taken her was to get us to come to her. We have no choice, Sean. Elida is depending on us to save her. We must find Yahmara. I heard those at the cottage call her name. I hope we can cut her witch’s heart out,” she said under her breath, not knowing the Supreme Witch had already rid herself of the organ.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” Sean asked distractedly. “Or how we’re going to get there?”

  “Not yet, but we’ll know. She wants us; we’ll be shown the way.”

  They guided the craft downriver through hills and valleys, the forest always beside the water. Some nights they slept on the raft when the overgrown shore was too thick to break through, but those were miserable times. The water beneath the logs made sleeping cold, and the night bugs bit them incessantly. They built fires where there was clearance, but neither of them wanted to begin a blaze that might rage on and on, destroying the tall trees, home to many creatures.

  On one of their stops where the forest was clear enough for a shelter, the boy found a stand of yew trees, perfect for his needs, and cut one for making Breanna a larger bow. Her pull had grown stronger with practice, and she needed a longer bow for hunting. He intended to take the smaller bow as his own when she was finished making the new one. It made him feel better to know he would have another weapon in addition to his knife. Sean was sure he was never going to be as good as Breanna with the bow, but he knew he could wield a knife as well as most experts.

  After several days of travel, the two were weary of the river, and wished for the company of someone other than themselves and Kit. They both grieved for Elida, but kept it silent. Their days had settled into sleep, eat, clean their bodies and clothing, gather food from the water or the trees, practice with their pitifully small weaponry, break camp, and be back on the river while the day was still young. Little Kit stayed with them, growing daily. He hunted for his own food and sometimes brought back mice or voles he offered for the raft’s store. Sometimes when other foxes barked into the woods, Breanna would call on Anola to help her understand, hopeful the animal kingdom would know of the giant Phoebus’s savagery in taking little Elida, but nothing was ever gleaned from listening to the forest’s chatter. The headaches after passing through the language barrier were devastating, often taking her out of her job of poling downriver. She said little of it to Sean, hoping he wouldn’t ask more than she could tell him.

  Small pieces of river flint that had washed ashore from rocky ledges far upriver were easy to find along the sandy banks. The travelers utilized the rocks for both fire starting and arrow making. The result was the arrows from Breanna’s new bow were excellent for hunting; the sharp, dark points dangerous in flight and deadly in the creature she had targeted. She never missed anymore. When she could get away from Sean, Breanna used Sheela’s memory to get closer to small game and the occasional deer. She took her shots from above, rather than below, to avoid losing arrows. Sean no longer asked about the kill shots in the upper body of the animals; he seemed more comfortable knowing less as the days progressed after Elida was taken. Breanna believed it was his grief numbing him from caring. She was also reminded the boy was only thirteen years old, and devastated by recent events. The tragedy of so much loss was enough to overwhelm a fully grown man.

  On the tenth day after Elida had been taken, the forest cleared and signs of agriculture began to show. Fields with fences and small cottages set off in the distance became common; there was evidence of a road with true boundaries alongside the Tribon. The river widened and the speed of the water flow increased. The turbulence tore away two outside logs from the raft, making it harder to steer, leaving less space for them to stand with the poles.

  A short time afterward, they saw a gathering of buildings, some large and some small, and the occasional man on the road pushing a cart. Those who saw the raft stared with malice, causing Sean to plead with Breanna to keep going and not stop anywhere nearby. The raft, however, came to its journey’s end when one morning it broke apart piece by piece before they could bank it. Some of
their food supplies were lost, and Breanna was pitched into the swirling water.

  Her struggles to overcome the current and swim to shore were hindered by her clothing and the quiver of arrows on her back, but she was determined to hold on to her weapons and fought the deep water until she touched the sandy bottom of the Tribon. The days on the river had been self-teaching days; she had improved the arc of her arrow’s flight by adjusting her stance, and had gathered premium wood for the shafts. She was not about to lose them in an accident.

  Kit clung to the raft’s broken logs, and jumped along with Sean, all the while screeching the word danger. The fox searched the bank frantically for Breanna, but quickly found an unwary mouse that grabbed his attention. As his two-legged protector climbed onto the shore, Kit sat chewing, unconcerned that Breanna was soaked.

  On the shore after they lost their transportation, she and Sean gathered as much of their traveling goods into packs as they could carry, but sadly, they had to leave some of their camp gear behind. Little Kit climbed into the quiver and lowered his red head. Sometimes he would peek out to see what was around him. At a distance, anyone who saw the fox thought he was the part of Breanna’s red braid, for their colors were still almost the same. She spoke strongly, warning the animal to stay hidden from strangers.

  They still had the coins from the Vales’ house and from the neighbor, enough to buy a bed in an inn, and supper for them both with some left over. They found it in the middle of the township, surrounded by a market where men sold fish and turtle meat. Turnips and onions, milk, butter, and hard cheese were stacked on tables, sold by farmers to those with enough coin to buy. The goat cheese from the Vale farm had been soft and creamy, ripened with age, and eaten with hard bread. The memory made Sean’s mouth water as he eyed the tables.