Under the Willow Root

Chapter 52

"The devil's finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist." ― Charles Baudelaire

"Ack."

I look down at the dead rabbit that appeared so suddenly in my lap and then at Pretty Girl. She looks so pleased with herself that I have to laugh. It's the first thing she's caught on her own.

"Good girl, Pretty," I say, ruffling her ears. "Good job."

Kirit puts his paws on my knee and whines, nudging my arm with his nose. I smile and give him a cuddle, too. I put him aside and get up to skin the rabbit. I make a face as I cut into the furry little body. I don't like it. I'll never like it. But I don't like being hungry, either.

"Look what Pretty Girl brought us," I tell Sadra when she comes back from the stream. "I feel like we should celebrate. Have a party or something."

"If only," Sadra says, and sits down with a sigh. "I can barely remember what a party is."

"I'm not feeling that festive, either," I admit.

"You're alright, though?" Sadra asks. "You were falling behind a little bit today."

"I'm fine," I assure her. "I'm just sore from the festival."

"That was four days ago," Sadra reminds me. "It's not just that."

"Well," I say, jamming Pretty Girl's rabbit onto the spit. "My legs are shorter than everyone else's."

Sadra smiles, but she still looks worried. "Yes, that must be it."

"Where is everyone?" I ask.

"Luca and Bard have finally decided to clean themselves," Sadra says with a snort. "Thanks be. You could smell them coming. I don't know where Ismeni is, but I'm sure she'll show up when the food's ready--and then disappear when it's time to clean up. Lazy pig."

"Be nice," I murmur.

"I don't know why you keep defending her," Sadra says irritably.

I shrug. I don't really know, myself. Part of it is that I still feel I owe her something for saving me from the oily man, but the rest...I'm not sure. I would never admit it to Sadra, but a small part of me just wants Ismeni to like me again. She treated me well when I was her slave, for the most part. She thought of me as a pet, but she still cared for me. I realize it's kind of--actually completely--disturbing and twisted, but I miss that.

Sadra turns out to be right. Not that I doubted her--Ismeni does have a habit of making herself scarce when there's work to do. And it is beyond annoying, but I can never bring myself to say anything about it. Not to her face, anyway.

Ismeni-bashing is one of Sadra's principal comforts after a long day of hiking, and I usually join in for at least a little while to vent my frustration. And then I feel bad about it and try to be nice to Ismeni and she makes it clear that she despises me and I sulk under my blanket and kick myself for giving in to my creepy inner fan-girl.

I try to break the cycle, but I can't. The pattern continues and even worsens as we make our way deeper into the mountains. The trail, if you want to call it that, is rough and uneven and never anything less than a forty-five degree incline whether going up or down. No one seems to have any energy to spare for being nice.

Food isn't a problem, at least. Game practically falls into our laps and Bard shows us some greens to look out for as we walk. We usually have quite a spread by the time we stop for the night. All the makings for a nice evening under the stars: cold mountain spring water, tasty food, warm(ish) blankets. Everything except good company. That's certainly thin on the ground these days.

Each day--each hour--is harder than the last. I start falling further and further behind until I'm trudging along just behind Ismeni, which does nothing for my ego. Especially because she seems so pleased about it. It's nothing I can call her out on, just something about the set of her shoulders and chin that oozes satisfaction. It reminds me of Pouter.

I'm glaring at Ismeni's back and not paying attention to my feet when a loose stone slips from under me. I pitch forward down the frighteningly steep slope and curl into a ball just in time to keep my head from splitting open on a small boulder twenty feet below. Instead my shoulders and back slam into it with a sickening thump. I keep my arms tucked firmly around my head to protect it from the stream of rocks that followed me down.

I lie stunned for a minute and then cautiously try to move. My back is on fire and my arms and sides sting where I scraped them coming down. I bite my lip, trying not to cry. I've been hurt worse, but the fall scared me. If my head had hit...I swallow and take a deep breath and try to extract myself from the rubble.

"Don't," Ismeni says, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder. I didn't even realize she was there. "Stay still. Did you hit your head?"

"No, my back," I say, trying not to whimper. I can hear the others rushing back up the slope. "It's fine."

"Just don't move until we're sure of that," Ismeni insists, and backs away to make room for Bard.

"What happened?" Bard asks, pushing Pretty Girl away as she tries to lick my face.

"I fell," I grunt. "Hit my back."

"Lie still for a moment," he says, and feels along my spine and neck. "Nothing broken, thanks be."

"Thanks be," Sadra breathes. "She needs to rest. You told her to tell you, but she won't. So I'm telling you."

"I'm fine," I protest. "I just tripped."

"You're not fine, and you could have died just now," Sadra snaps. "Don't be stupid."

"I'm not--"

"We can't stop here," Bard says, cutting us both off. "We need to make it down into the gully, at least. We'll discuss it there."

Bard and Sadra help me to my feet and we slowly pick our way down the slope. It was hard before. Now, with my back radiating pain and my knees trembling from shock, it's all but impossible. I want to sit down, but I know that if I do I won't get back up.