The Huntress ✓

09. A Rock and a Hard Place

Bronte stood on the beach inside the little harbor they'd discovered. It'd be the perfect hideout. She stood silently as she pictured the scene.

The ship's contents would be piled at the tree line, removed so the empty ship could be careened. The men would haul the ship onto its side. Bronte pictured them cleaning barnacles off the hull and putting new pitch on, after repairing any damage to the ship's bottom.

The cove, littered with reefs and shoals, would have to be successfully navigated in order to reach the harbor. She drifted across the beach toward the bottom of a cliff face. Bronte smiled with anticipation as she stared up the cliff side. She'd carry only a small leather satchel, her dagger, and a single pistol. Her long cutlass she'd leave hidden in a cleft at the bottom, for it'd make the climb too difficult. She really didn't expect to have need of the weapons anyway. With a brief wave at Sam, who was near the tree line, she began to climb.

The climb proved to be a challenge and helped keep her mind off her worries, at least for the time being. She concentrated on each placement of her hands, finding a good hold and then pushing herself higher with her feet. When she was two-thirds up, one of her handholds gave way, sending a shower of small rocks tumbling to the ground. She held tight with the other hand and searched frantically for a second handhold. Finally finding one, she held tight and caught her breath. As she rested her face against the warm stone, a large white bird flew inches from her head, so close the wind from its wings tousled her hair and blew sand in her eyes. Carefully turning her face the other way, she waited for it to pass by, blinking the irritating specks from her eyes. The bird must've thought she looked very strange clinging to the cliff. She continued without mishap until she reached the top; there was a rustling noise directly above. She held her breath and concentrated on determining the cause of the noise. Perhaps the large bird had flown to the top and settled. The noise stopped and she waited a moment before slowing raising her eyes over the edge.

Hot stinking breath washed over her face as she came nose to nose with a large, long tusked boar. It grunted menacingly at her as she met its wicked gaze. With her body pressed against the cliff she couldn't reach her pistol, but she eased one hand slowly to her back and grabbed the hilt of the dagger tucked in her belt. If she could get one good swipe at its tender nose perhaps it'd back off enough for her to get over the edge and draw her pistol. She'd only have one chance to kill the beast and she silently cursed herself for not bringing along another pistol. She quickly swiped her dagger across the creature's flaring nostrils, creating the desired effect. It backed off, squealing angrily at the bite on its face, and she quickly climbed over the side and leveled her pistol. The animal retreated a few yards but instantly turned to face her and bore down full speed, blood-red eyes glaring. If she missed, his charge would force her right over the edge. Bronte took careful aim, not wanting to blow her only chance. It closed rapidly, hooves throwing up billows of dry soil. She squeezed the trigger.

Time slowed as the bullet traveled the short distance toward the boar and hit the beast directly between gleaming red eyes. The boar stumbled, falling to the ground, but momentum carried the downed beast still forward. Bronte realized she might end up being bowled off the cliff anyway and leapt over the boar at the last moment, tucking her shoulder and rolling on the gravelly surface. The beast halted in the very spot she'd vacated. Bronte coughed, sitting a moment as the dust settled, then scanned the surrounding area in case the beast hadn't been solitary.

Satisfied she was alone, Bronte drew a parchment and pencil from her satchel and settled near the edge of the cliff, facing the open sea. The height provided a perfect view of the reefs and she began sketching. As Bronte studied the shoals she observed a narrow, nearly indiscernible, passage through the reefs. She painstakingly copied every detail so they could maneuver through them when they checked the depth to be sure they wouldn't run aground. Bronte thought of the many hours she spent sketching from the crow's-nest of Capt. Bertrand's ship. She'd gone aloft to escape the men's crudeness often and enjoyed the solitude one could only find high above everyone else. Then she nursed a childish desire to be a cartographer. But, like most childhood dreams, it seemed too far-fetched to be a reality. For now, she was content with her lot.