by Sandra Elsa
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Shadows swept up the steep slopes of the ravine as the sun sank in the west. Damp clothes and mountain chill brought her back to a frigid consciousness, forcing her to move.
A finger length at a time, she crawled her hand through the bundle, clamping her lips tight over the moans that tried to escape with every motion. She pulled out the slave’s dress, removed the tattered men’s clothing, and wriggled into the dry warmth of the despised garment. Then she wrapped her blanket around herself and settled back down on her uncomfortable bed of stone.
Morning brought golden light filtering through thin twisted branches. She stretched cramped muscles, as warmth seeped into her bones, tortured throbbing sang across raw nerve endings. Fresh scabs broke and bled when she flexed her arm.
Everything hurt and nothing moved willingly. The early morning singing of the mountain birds was incongruous with the way she felt. But she far preferred their music to that of the hounds.
She reached into her pack and grabbed a crust of bread, forcing herself to eat. Water would have to wait until she found another stream. The leather flask she had brought with her had disappeared at some point the day before. She didn’t even know if she had dropped it or if it had been snatched from her shoulder by a grasping tree. Either way it was a small price to pay if that was all she lost.
By noontime she had worked enough kinks from her muscles to convince her legs to carry her along the bottom of the ravine in the downhill direction it traveled. She was sure it wasn’t the shortest way to cover distance, but she couldn’t imagine climbing the steep sides to continue in a straight line.
Hours later, throat swollen with thirst, she dropped gratefully to her knees to drink from a trickle of water which tumbled down the shale slopes of the ravine to form a rivulet in the bottom of her prison. Thirst slaked, she dug through her bundle, searching through packets of herbs stashed in the bottom.
She unwrapped goldenseal and chewed on it, swallowing some of the bitter plant. When it was moist, she made a poultice for her arm and bound it in a strip of the rags that used to be a chemise. There would be time for better care when she was certain the hunters were gone and she could brew teas and tinctures. For now, she hoped her efforts would stave off infection.
As twilight once again draped itself across her ravine, she put the pants and tunic on under the dress. Wrapped in the blanket, she settled into a bed of leaves.
The following day started earlier and she worked her way up the sides. Might as well have stayed in the bottom for all the good being able to see where she was did her. Wincing in agony with every step, she journeyed as straight into the rising sun as possible. The weather forced her to keep moving. If she was still in the mountains when winter struck, she was as good as dead.
