Ice Princess

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Ice Princess Page 27

by Judith B. Glad


  "I thought about his words a long time and listened to folks talk. One day I hear about a place they call Orygun, how it be green and rich, how any man willin' to work for hisself could have a piece of land to call his own. That place sure 'nuff sounded like the kingdom the preacher was talkin' of." For a moment he was silent, as if thinking back to his long journey.

  "So I come."

  She waited but he said no more. "You shame me, William. I sought freedom from fear, yet I have always been free. You had to risk your life to be free, and I jeopardized your freedom out of my fear."

  "This freedom thing," he said, almost as if he were thinking to himself, "we talks about it a lot. But I reckon it means something different to you and me. To most everybody, maybe.

  "You was so took up in being scared, you was a slave to it. Nobody can ever make me a slave again, even if they chain me up like a wild dog, 'cause I ain't scared no more. I's...I'm free inside, where it makes a difference."

  His arms tightened around her. "Flower, we is free tonight. Tomorrow we might be dead. I want to show you how much I love you whilst I still can."

  His kiss spoke of a now that could end at any moment. It spoke of forever.

  His kiss melted the chains of fear that had bound her for what seemed like an eternity.

  "Oh, William," she sighed against his mouth, "I...I..." but she could not say the words. Not yet.

  "Never mind," he told her, spreading kisses across her cheeks and upon her eyelids. "Just don't tell me no."

  She answered by framing his face between her hands. "Yes, William. Oh, yes. Please."

  He had taught her how a man could pleasure a woman, how he could cherish and thrill and excite her. Now William taught her how he could make time stand still.

  Their movements were restricted by the resilient stems that surrounded them, enclosed them, but William simply lifted her atop him. He eased her buckskin dress up and helped her pull it off. When she was naked, he smoothed his big hands over her skin, until every inch of her quivered with wanting. He pulled her up so that she sat astride his thighs, his rigid staff cradled against her. But he would not let her touch him there, try as she might.

  "I wants this to last," he told her, his voice a hoarse growl as he held her hands away from him.

  "Oh, yes!" she breathed. She traced the strong lines of his chest, scraped her fingernails across the ripples of muscle defining his belly. "How I wish I could see you," she said, peering through the darkness. In the faint starlight, he was merely a dark shape against the even darker tangle of salal. With her fingertips, she traced his mouth, his broad nose, circled the shell of his ear and found the long tendons extending down his strong neck. At the base of his throat she touched his pulse, deep and heavy, beating faster as her fingers lay upon it.

  Leaning forward, Flower trapped his manhood between them. She twisted her torso, heard his gasp. Then his hands were on her waist and she was lifted above him. With exquisite care, he lowered her, letting her fit him to herself, letting her control his entrance.

  Heat rose from her belly, suffusing her chest, filling her head, warming her cheeks until she wondered they did not light the darkness.

  Then she thought no more, for the heat became raging flames.

  William felt her stiffen, pulled her tight against him, burying himself in her precious body. He felt the first contractions of her passage around him, then he lost himself in the need to drive deeper, ever deeper into her soft, welcoming depths.

  When she collapsed upon his chest, he wrapped his arms around her and relaxed.

  Tomorrow be damned. Tonight was enough for him.

  * * * *

  Morning came. William woke quickly at the sound of quiet footsteps. He listened, holding one hand over Flower's mouth. If she was to cry out when she first woke, they could be dead the next minute.

  Then a soft "Whoof?" sounded from just outside their thicket.

  "Beowulf," he whispered, "here, boy!"

  The dog slipped between the intertwined branches with far less trouble than either him or Flower. He carried a small critter-- some kind of squirrel, William reckoned. Tail wagging, he dropped it beside Flower, as if to say, "Look at me. I found breakfast."

  While Flower dressed herself, William skinned and gutted the critter. There wasn't much of it, and they daren't have a fire, but he'd eaten raw meat more'n once.

  He carefully divided the small carcass, handing Flower the larger half.

  She refused. "I am smaller than you," she said, her voice almost soundless. "I need less."

  She's right. He took the larger portion. Both their lives might depend on his strength and agility today. He bit into the still-steaming meat.

  About all he could say about it was that it was food. Too bad it only reminded his belly how empty it was. I'll fill up on water. Then I won't feel hungry.

  He sent Beowulf out to scout and the dog returned shortly, acting as if there wasn't a soul for miles. What if there's not? What if we worried over nothing'?

  The hair on his nape tried to stand up, and he knew they was back there, somewhere. Whoever they were.

  Flower must have been thinking the same thing, because after she'd been to the river to wash up, she said, "Perhaps we should go back."

  "I'd just as soon we didn't. We can hole up for a day or two if you want to, or we can go on, looking for a way over the mountain. But if they're after us, goin' back would be like a rabbit hoppin' right into a trap"

  She nodded. "I am ready, then."

  He looked ahead, couldn't see much of anything for the big trees, with sky above. The snow-covered mountain was up there, he knew. And there was a way across it. There had to be.

  William led Flower across both creeks and headed up the trail. He hadn't seen a deer or elk yet could go where he couldn't. A little while later, maybe an hour, they came to yet another creek, sitting up close to the bottom of a steep hillside. The game trail led along its bank. He looked back at Flower.

  She shrugged. So William went on along the trail. Beowulf trotted on ahead.

  Along about the middle of the afternoon, William thought he heard a shot. He stopped walking, motioned for Flower to do the same. The only sound was the whisper of wind among the branches of the giant firs above them and the faint gurgle of the creek. They's back there, though. And they's comin' this way. He didn't have any doubt in his mind they was after him and Flower. Sure hope there's a way over. Two knives and a wood spear ain't gonna do much good against a rifle.

  The trail got steeper and the hillsides moved in closer. Pretty soon they was walking through a narrow canyon, right beside the creek. And then they was looking into a cut not much wider than a man's two arms outstretched. It was filled with tumbled tree trunks, with branches and small, whole trees stuck in for good measure. William looked up the tree-covered slopes on either side. He couldn't see far, because the woods was so thick, but he could see enough to tell him that the canyon walls went right straight up.

  "Let's go back to where the two streams come together," Flower said. "We can see if the other one offers a better path."

  "You heard the shot this afternoon, didn't you? They're back there, on our trail."

  "And this is a big mountain. We have left no tracks. How could we, in this?" She scuffed one foot in the thick duff. "If they see where we crossed the streams, they could think it was a deer."

  He looked again up the hillsides again. "I reckon it's worth a try," he said. "You lead."

  They stayed back from the water's edge as much as they could, even though it meant they had to walk carefully in near-darkness. The trees here were enormous, their massive trunks wider than a man's arm's could span. Their branches were so intertwined that they shut out all sunlight, except where one had fallen and, in doing so, created an opening. Moss covered every surface, even the huge boulders that lay scattered among the trees. Flower gave silent thanks that the weather had been dry for almost a month. If it had rained in the past few days, the drip
ping trees would make them feel like they were walking through a waterfall.

  She kept close to the hillside opposite the one they had followed upstream. Another game trail, this one cutting across the slope without climbing or descending, curved away from the narrow canyon in the direction of the second creek. She had no idea what was ahead, but it could be no steeper or more rugged than what was behind.

  They paused occasionally to gather both red and blue huckleberries, stripping the bushes of even the hard, green ones. Flower also picked mushrooms as she saw them, the reticulate-capped ones Everett had claimed were a gourmet's delight in England. And when she found a patch of kinnikinnick, she stripped those branches of their fruit as well.

  We will not starve, but I would like to have time to fish. She wondered if she could still catch them with her bare hands, as her father had taught her to do. Her toe caught on a vine and she almost fell. Pay attention! If you go careening down the mountain, you will do yourself no good.

  The game trail descended, then continued across a more-or-less level area to cross another creek. "We are practically back where we began," she told William, with disgust. "But perhaps this new trail will lead to a place we can cross a divide. Once we get to the other side, we may be able to make our way back to the road."

  She wished she believed her own words.

  The found a hidden glade some distance up the gentle slope beyond the second creek. William gathered fir branches to serve as their blankets, while Flower sought more mushrooms.

  They ate well that night, even without the meat they both craved.

  "I have a premonition about tomorrow," Flower told William as she lay in his arms. He had kissed her with tenderness, but seemed content simply to hold her.

  "What's that?"

  "A bad feeling. I think they will catch up with us soon. We will have to fight."

  "I've been thinkin' the same thing." His arm tightened around her.

  "Promise me you will not let them take me, William."

  "Woman, don't you know I'd die first?"

  She shivered. "I think that is my greatest fear. That you will die, and I will not."

  "Lawd a'mighty, Flower. You know I'd not let that happen. I'd kill you myself, 'fore I let them bassards have you."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Morning came with a gusty wind and the threat of rain. Clouds lay low over the mountain, catching on the treetops and leaving wisps behind as they scudded across the leaden sky.

  Flower shivered as she washed her face and hands in the stream. As long as the rain held off, they would be warm while they were moving. But as soon as their leather clothing got wet, they would be miserable.

  "I can smell it comin'," William said, correctly interpreting her worried glance at the clouds.

  "So can I." She divided the rest of the mushrooms and the last handful of berries. William ate his quickly, washing the sour berries down with a cupped handful of water. She forced herself to chew and swallow hers, but tucked the mushrooms inside her dress, for later.

  Before they set out, William climbed a low rise where an old blow-down had left a long, narrow clearing. For a long time, he stood, looking back down the mountain, as if he could see the lay of the land through the dense forest that covered rock and soil.

  At last he faced her. "We got two choices. Up or down. Let's try sneakin' by 'em first. And if that don't work..." He shrugged.

  Beowulf stayed close as they made their way through the trees. Twice he growled, low in his throat, but he never warned them of immediate danger.

  The going was slow, for each step had to be careful, lest a snapped twig or tumbled rock give them away. Flower thought she heard voices once, but could not be sure, even though she paused and listened with all her concentration.

  Perhaps they had walked another mile when they came to a narrow ridge that separated two creeks. It was an open, exposed area, boulder-strewn and mossy. Flower paused, just inside the woods, and listened, but all she could hear was the chuckle and babble of water. That and a faint sough of wind in the treetops. Soon it will rain. I can smell it.

  William had been walking a parallel course to hers, staying just within view to her left. Now he came up behind her and whispered, "See anything?"

  She started to shake her head, when Beowulf growled again. She looked in the direction his nose pointed.

  Movement. Motioning William to retreat, she carefully stepped back, into the deep shadows. The dog stayed where he was, sniffing the air, still sounding that low-pitched warning.

  From across the creek came the sound of dead wood breaking, loud enough, close enough to be heard over the water noise.

  Something large, making no attempt at silence. Bear? Elk? Or man?

  In the next moment her question was answered, when a horse stepped into view. A mounted horse.

  She motioned William back, slipped between low branches after him. Running was difficult, for the ground was strewn with boulders, mounded with rotting logs, but they ran anyway. She stopped worrying about noise--right now their pursuers were close enough to the streams that they would not hear anything but the loudest of sounds.

  A good long run took them back to where they had begun their morning's journey. William caught her arm and pulled her to a halt. "We got a while," he said. "I don't think they knew we was there."

  Gratefully she sank onto her knees. While she could, and had, run for miles, it had been in open, easy country. She was winded, as if she had run for hours, uphill, instead of only minutes.

  "Your leg's bleeding," William told her.

  "It's only a scratch." Flower was pleased that his breath came as quickly as hers, that his face was shiny with sweat. As if that matters! You should be thinking of how you will escape.

  Looking around, William said, "Where's that dadblamed dog,"

  "He stayed, I think. Perhaps he did not realize we left him." Her breathing was normal now. Leaning over, she wiped at the smear of blood on her ankle. She probably got the scratch when she stepped onto, and through, a rotten log. "I hope he does not alert them that we are here."

  "Doubt it. He ain't stupid." William used his spear to push himself upright. "I think they's lookin' for us, but ain't certain sure we're up this way. They wasn't takin' any trouble to be quiet."

  "Perhaps. Or they know that we cannot escape them and they have no need to." She followed him as he moved uphill, knowing that the chances of their finding an escape route in that direction were impossibly small.

  If they turned back, capture was certain. Flower was not surprised that the men had found their trail along the river, for concealing their footprints had been impossible in the sandy substrate left by spring floods. But how had they followed through the woods?

  "It's almost like they knows something we don't," William said, as if answering her question.

  Had one of them been with the road-building party? That possibility had not occurred to her. They may know better than we what is ahead. Are they herding us into a trap? Was that why they were making no effort at stealth?

  The ground rose more steeply now. They had a choice of following the creek bank where it had cut a channel at the base of the slope to their right, or of staying on higher ground where they could seldom take more than two or three steps in a straight line. William stayed by the creek until they encountered another barricade of tumbled rock and wood that forced them away from the water.

  Before they retreated to the high ground, both drank deeply. "If only I'd brought the water skin," Flower mourned. Despite the continuing threat of rain, she worried that they might be unable to get drinking water if they strayed too far from the stream.

  "You stop for that, we might be there yet," William said. "Here, let's go this way." He lead her up a steep incline and onto a flat area where enormous boulders enclosed a mossy-carpeted half-circle.

  William leaned his spear against one of the boulders--it was higher than his head--and sat beside it. "We might as well rest here. I grabbe
d me some of them fat blueberries whilst we was walking this mornin'. They'll do us for a while." He upended his possibles sack and poured a good handful of salal berries into her cupped hands.

  Flower carefully laid them on a flat stone beside her. "I have mushrooms," she said, reaching into her bodice, "and I will be happy to put them outside my body instead of inside." She wriggled. "They itched."

  William grinned. "I be happy to scratch," he said, his eyes upon her buckskin-covered breasts. But his tone lacked enthusiasm.

  She felt a brief, warm glow anyway.

  William wished he'd just slung her over his shoulder and carried her back to Cherry Vale, that first day he'd found her. If he had, they'd be all settled in by now, with a good crop of corn and beans ready to harvest and meat hanging in the smokehouse.

  Now it didn't look like they'd ever have anything like he'd dreamed. Sometime soon, today, or maybe tomorrow, they was gonna be fightin' for their lives.

  They was more'n likely gonna die.

  He just hoped he could take care of Flower while he still had strength to do it.

  And he feared he'd do it too soon, while they still had a chance to get away.

  Can I kill her? Even to save her?

  He'd given her his word, but he wasn't sure, when push came to shove, that he'd be able to do it.

  The rain started sometime after they'd stared walking again. At first William didn't notice it, but when the first big drip went down his neck, he realized that the whispery noise he'd been hearing had been going on for quite a while. The trees was so thick above that they kept the water from coming through, until it ran together and gathered in droplets big enough to drown a horsefly. He hunched his shoulders and kept walking.

  Pretty soon they was inside of the clouds. Leastwise that was how it looked to him. He'd seen fog a'plenty in his day. Back on the plantation there'd sometimes been ground fog so thick a man couldn't see past the end of his arm, yet could look up and count the stars. Comin' west, he'd got caught in fog along one of the big rivers, just before he holed up for the winter. It had froze to his whiskers, frosted his raggedy wool coat white, and turned the muddy ground into sharp knives of ice.

 

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