by Pete Prown
* * *
So far, Wyll and Orli had made a good start of it. The night before, the runaways raided the library’s storage shed and came up with heavy blankets, some tools and fishing gear, and enough food to get them started. As planned, in cover of darkness they worked their way towards the river and spent part of the night huddled under low-swaying boughs of pine.
Though Wyll had some experience in outdoors survival, he wasn’t very good at it, as he recalled during the long sojourn from his late mother’s caravan to Thimble Down. He’d nearly starved to death more than once.
Orli, on the other hand, was a seasoned hunter—he’d been on many journeys with his father and uncles, living off the land, learning to build shelter, and finding food. To get going he next morning, the pair made a fresh start of it, devouring some jars of pickles and beets, and a loaf of mildly stale bread.
“I can bring us some trout for lunch I think, despite the cold,” said Wyll. “The water is cold, and the fish have gone deep, but I know where they’re hiding. It’s all a matter of going really slow with the bait and dragging it along the bottom of the river. I’ll give the line a few teases, and that should do the trick.”
“If you say so.” Orli looked amused. “I know nothing of your river-angling arts. If we fish at all, it’s in a subterranean lake, and our prey are hungry and willing. For my part, I’ll explore the shoreline for shelter and gather us nuts, roots, and snails—they can be rather tasty when you cook ’em. I’ve got my bow, too, so… Wait!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Orli espied something moving. Slowly he grinned. “I’ll be back later, Wyll. I think we shall be adding some fresh coneys to our supper as well. Happy hunting!”