A Hero's Curse

by P. S. Broaddus

  Cheep is stiff and formal and barely says a word. He really is hurt that we aren’t doing something to save Crypta. Tig isn’t talking to Cheep because he thinks the Urodela are being rude cowards for asking me to do something they won’t do. His words, not mine.

  “Goodbye, Cheep,” I say. “Thank you for—” I stop midsentence. I don’t want to say, “saving my life,” because then I’ll really sound ungrateful for not trying to do anything for Crypta.

  “—for everything,” I finish. I pat him on the head.

  “Goodbye,” says Cheep. I shrug my pack a little higher and slip out of the tunnel mouth.

  We’ve only gone a few steps when Cheep calls out, his tone apologetic. “I know you can’t save Crypta.” He pauses as I turn to face him. “It’s just . . . we didn’t have much hope left before you came. And then . . . take care of yourself, Essie Brightsday. May you reach your destination safely.” I hear him slip back into the tunnel and his soft shuffling footsteps soon disappear. Tig flicks me with his tail, and I turn to follow.

  The tunnel mouth doesn’t open up at the cliffs. We have to trek another half hour to the edge. It might not sound like much in theory, but this is rock basilisk country, these are lava fields, and I’m blind. Ten feet can be a long way. With every step my heart is in my throat. I hear scrambling, but it is my own new boots in the lava rock. I wiggle my toes in the boots. Like my leggings they feel made for treks through the Valley of Fire: soft skin on the inside, tough hide on the outside. They feel good, but then I’ve only been wearing them for an hour. Also, I can’t feel through them like I could my soft leather shoes. I am a bit awkward, and I even lose my balance once. Even though it’s only been a few minutes it feels like we have been trekking for hours when we reach the edge.

  I haven’t sensed anything around us. No hunters. Except for a group of arcus vultures a long way off to the east and north, Tig hasn’t spotted anything. We’re safe for the moment. When we reach the Red Giants we pause on a ledge. It feels good to have the hot sun on my face again. I enjoy the feeling of the wind whipping my hair and tunic, trying to throw me off balance.

  “We’re too high to feel it here, but down in the valley the dust looks terrible,” says Tig. “I can’t even see the floor in a lot of places.”

  I groan inside. Yay. Just what I love: dust in my nose, grit in my mouth, and dirt caked around my eyes. Maybe I finally have an advantage over those who can see, though. I can’t see the terrifying nothingness between myself and the ground, far, far below. I can’t see the dangerous dead ends, the crumbling shards at precarious angles, the dark and menacing shadows tucked in the red-black rock that might house creatures unknown. I can’t see the dangerous winds that alternatively suck and push against the cliff face, blowing arcus vultures off their course. I can’t see the floor of the desert far below, strewn with house-sized boulders, fallen from the cliffs in terrific rock slides. I could be facing a field of wildflowers. Tig assures me that I’m not and describes every detail.

  We sit for a while on the edge of the cliffs, just getting used to the feel of being out in the open again. The sun gets uncomfortably warm on my back. It’s still rising, meaning we must have left earlier this morning than I thought. I can feel the breeze change temperature and shift as the hot air moves in for the day. I taste the dry saltiness of the desert and the bitter taste of lava dust. It tickles my nose and hints at ash. “Is something burning?”

  “The whole plain in front of us was burnt a long time ago,” says Tig. No sarcasm. “It’s just gray now. I welcome you, Essie Brightsday,” he says in a triumphant voice, “to the Gray Wastelands and the Cliffs of Utter Despair.”

  “The Urodela called them the Red Giants,” I say.

  “Hey, the Kingdom of Mar doesn’t have a name for them, I think we can name them whatever we want, and they’ll sketch it into the maps as soon as we get back.”

  “Okay,” I concede. “In that case, how about, The Giant’s Step?”

  “How about Death Rising?” says Tig.

  “How about Red Fire Cliffs?” I ask.

  “How about Suicide Turn?”

  “I think I’m done.”

  “Right,” says Tig.

  “The sun and the wind feel good,” I say.

  “The sun is rising,” says Tig. “It’s a red ball of fire behind us, and the dust below is scattering the rays in a hundred different patterns and swirls. It looks like there were trees down there at one time.”

  I try to imagine that much of the color red by amplifying the blur of red from Mom’s dress. It must be incredible. “It sounds beautiful.”

  “It is.”

  “Deadly though,” I say.

  “I’m sure. I’m glad we have the hard part behind us.”

  “Really?” As soon as the word slips out I could kick myself for responding. I know better. I can feel his smirk.

  “Tig, stop being irritating.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Oh, that’s right. So what do you see? Spare no detail, and don’t go easy on me.” I hear Tig stop licking his paw.

  “Okay. It’s an oasis—without the water, flowers, or birds. We’re in luck as far as sand and trees. Unfortunately it looks like the trees have all been burnt or something, they almost look like stone—”

  “The Stone Forest,” I whisper, recalling Uncle Cagney’s stories told about the battle of the same name.

  “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression,” continues Tig, “there probably are animals there. Just not the kind we want to meet. The cliff itself is a work of art. A dark wall of red and black stone that juts up out of the desert like a shipwreck. I would be cautious on this deathtrap, and I’m a cat.”

  “Thanks, Tig. That’s better. Although you shouldn’t color everything to make it sound nice for me. Just tell me how it is in the future.”

  “Right,” says Tig, “no pampering the girl. Got it. It’s a burning sand and petrified rock wasteland with terrible creatures, and you wouldn’t last a day trying to cross it.”

  “Well, we better not try to cross it then.” I think back to the Urodela’s request—it probably would have involved trying to trek this thing if we knew that was how to find the king. I still feel guilty. The desert proves we can’t do anything about it. It makes me feel better, but only slightly. I think of the long way down the cliff, and how much easier it would be if I could see. I shrug off the feeling. It can’t be helped, and I can’t let myself think that way.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I say.

  “I’m not,” says Tig.

  That makes me grin again. “Let’s go. I don’t want you to get sunburnt.”

  “Me first,” says Tig. So we go over the edge. A little slowly, but then, I don’t think I want to take the quick way down these cliffs.

  Chapter 13

  Cheep told us that the Urodela spotters have seen other animals, including rock basilisks, use the cut that used to be Watangau Falls to climb the Giants. That wasn’t encouraging. Apparently their spotters hadn’t seen anything use it lately; however, he said it could be because a rockslide had made it impassible. That wasn’t encouraging, either.

  They knew of no other conventional way down the cliffs. The only other option they knew to get to the Gray Wastelands is to go around the cliffs to the north. But there the cliffs meet the Smoking Mountains, where dragons live. That’s what Cheep said, anyway. I wonder if King Mactogonii climbed the cliffs here or if he went north. The Urodela said he took a tunnel that would have emptied north of here. I wonder if we’ll wish we had taken a chance with ogres before it’s over.

  For now we’re stuck with the narrow gap in the cliffs. Sometimes a trail appears, sheltered from the wind blowing up from the desert, but most of the time we are exposed to the dry gusts. I feel like a speck, clinging to the face of the cliff, with the wicked wind incessantly blowing, pulling, teasing, and laughing at us. The climb down the cliff trail seems painfully slow. I may not be able to see how far we’ve come,
but I have a pretty good idea. I slip so often my knees are bruised and hurting by midmorning.

  My hand runs along the rough cliff face wherever possible—it helps me keep away from the crumbling edge of the trail and gives me extra balance against the buffeting wind. A rock in the trail forces me to leave the cliff face. I listen for Tig’s instructions over the wind. Hearing nothing I assume he went around to the right so I struggle forward. My foot finds the edge of the trail, and I pause. The entire trail disappears into nothingness.

  “Tig!” I yell.

  He answers from above me. “Sorry, Ess, you have to climb over this one, not around.” I take a deep breath partly because I’m frustrated this is so hard, and partly so I don’t yell at Tig. I scramble back to the cliff face and proceed to crawl over the rock, inching along its dusty surface. The sweat on my hands makes the rock slick. I drop back down on the trail on the other side and give myself a second to breathe again.

  “Tig, what about the string?” Tig has worn a collar and string several times. As he keeps tension in the line, he helps my balance and orientation. He hates it slightly more than I do, but especially in unfamiliar territory it is an immense help. He doesn’t say no, but I feel his tail slap against my leg the way it does when he is irritated. I dig the string out of my pack and loop it around his neck.

  For the next few hours I let my hand follow the rocky wall on my right, changing to my left hand at switchbacks, all the while trying to keep enough pressure in Tig’s collar to sense his lead. Tig is good at keeping just the right amount of pull and slack in the line. The direction and stability the line adds help me feel safer, even if it’s an illusion.

  By noon my lips are dry, cracked, and stinging with every grain of dust the wind pushes in my face. The gale around us suddenly dies, and I feel slack in the line as Tig halts. I stop and feel for a seat.

  “The falls lead through a crack in the cliff face here,” Tig explains. “It might be a good place to stop and rest.” I only nod. Tig sits on my foot with his back to my leg. “Let’s get some water.”

  I pull out our pouch of water and let some of the precious fluid trickle down my throat. I immediately feel better. I don’t taste the lava at all anymore. I gently lower the flask to Tig, and I feel him lick the spout for a few seconds.

  “Need more?” I ask.

  “No.” I put the stopper back and shoulder the water. We both continue to sit for a few moments, listening to the wind whip around the face of the cliff outside our temporary shelter.

  “You should do something about your face,” Tig says.

  “You sure know how to compliment a girl, Tig. Finally get to the point you can’t stand to look at me?”

  “Your lips are bleeding,” says Tig, offhanded.

  I lick my dry lips and taste the saltiness through the dust. Fresh pain from the moisture. I dig through my backpack, finding a chunk of moist moss from Crypta. I pull it out carefully, feeling to make sure I don’t drop anything from my pack. I carefully wipe my whole face, especially my eyes, which already ache with the dull throbbing I know so well.

  “Okay?” I ask, offering the moss.

  “I’m fine.” Tig chuckles. “You have blue streaks all over your face.”

  “My eyes already feel better. The wind makes them sting, even when there isn’t dust in the air.” I replace the moss and tie up our pack. I feel dizzy as I stand, but after a slow breath my balance returns.

  “Okay?” I hear Tig ask.

  “Let’s go.” We have been traveling for another hour before Tig speaks again. I feel him stop and turn, so I tilt my head to catch what he has to say above the wind.

  “Stop grinding your teeth. It’s an annoying habit.” I didn’t even realize I was grinding them. How did he even hear that over the wind?

  “It’s not a habit,” I retort through the wind.

  “Yes it is,” Tig responds, in his teacher voice. “You have several irksome habits.” He turns and pulls on the line again.

  “So do you!”

  The line goes slack. “No, I don’t. If I had a bad habit, that would be a character flaw, in which case,” Tig pauses and turns his voice toward me, “I’d work to fix it.”

  “Oh, please!”

  “Name one.”

  “Well,” I pause for a long moment, thinking. “I know you have them, I’m just drawing a blank right now, but they’ll come to me eventually.”

  The line goes tight again without a reply. I try to focus on not grinding my teeth, but in a matter of seconds I am back to focusing on every piece of information coming up to me through my boots and through Tig’s line.

  Tig stops again. I halt abruptly. I don’t want to go careening off the face of the cliff because I’m trying to be in front. “This is a three-foot jump,” says Tig. I let out some slack, and I feel him hop away from me. “Right to me,” he says. I try to judge how far away his voice is, but it’s difficult in the howling wind. I measure my steps carefully, and jump—too far. I know the moment I leave the ground. I’m scared of jumping short, so I go far. I slam into the rock face and topple backward. I instinctively drop my body to whatever ground is underneath me and clutch for a handhold. My fingers find rock that holds, but my legs continue their momentum out into nothingness. I dangle for a second, waiting for my breath or Tig’s instruction.

  “I said three feet not three miles!” screams Tig, close to my ear. “Up. To your right! Get a foothold, now forward a couple of steps.” I crawl forward. I am shaking from the scare, and my arms are exhausted.

  “You’re helpless out here. You’re going to kill yourself! You have to stop being so independent. Do exactly what I say!” spits Tig in a yowl that pierces the wind. I know he’s just as scared as I am. We both know I almost died. I feel like crying, but instead a ball of anger rolls up out of my chest.

  “I know I can’t see, Tig! I don’t need you to remind me! You remind me all the time already! Do you think I forgot? Do you think I like this? Do you think I want to have to depend on a cat to tell me where to step?” I scream, putting all the derision I can in the word cat. I’m sorry I said it like that. But I am not helpless.

  He ignores me. Never mind about being sorry. I wish I had said something really cutting. “A piece of the trail has broken off ahead of us,” says Tig. “Probably not that difficult to jump, but . . .” Tig leaves the rest unfinished. Fuel to the fire. I seethe.

  I am hot, tired, and frustrated with myself, so I snap again, “Well, how are we going to cross then?” Tig is silent for a moment. I want to say something nasty about him. Why does he always have something negative to say or hint that something would be easy if only I could see?

  I feel Tig pull back to the left, toward the sheer drop I nearly went off. I turn and follow, almost crawling. “What are you doing now?” I yell over the wind. “We have to keep going, I’m not turning back just because of one break in the trail. Do you hear me?”

  I jerk on the line and feel Tig yank backward. I know that was too far. I shouldn’t have yanked him like that. I feel slack in the line and stop. We have come about ten or twelve steps, but I can feel we are right on the edge of the trail. I wish I could have the reassurance of the wall beside me. “Mind letting the blind girl know what we’re doing?” Hot tears dry before they can fall. My eyes burn from the dust. I close them hard.

  “We have to jump down to the trail below us,” yells Tig. “The trail breaks at the switchback. We’re only about eight feet above the trail below.”

  I feel my cheeks blush. I shouldn’t have yelled at Tig, and I shouldn’t have jerked the line. I stuff the feeling down inside me. He deserves it.

  Tig comes back and puts his paw on my foot and leads me forward. Two taps. That’s the edge. Tig starts talking me through the jump. “Okay, you can sit on the edge now.”

  I feel the monster inside me, the monster that has fed on my hatred of my dependence on Tig, my fear, Mom’s overprotectiveness, Dad’s pushing me away. It claws its way out. “I can do
it! I told you I don’t need a cat helping me.”

  I grit my teeth. Literally. There’s a lot of grit in my mouth. I do the jump mentally, like Tig has taught me. The ledge is eight feet above the trail below. Knees flex to fall back into the wall, not over edge.

  “Level or flat?” I say. I’ll take this. It’s not help really. It’s just facts.

  “It slopes to our left,” says Tig.

  I sit down and feel for the edge, kicking my feet off into the nothingness below. I am about to swing my arms around to let myself down when Tig interrupts.

  “Untie me first?”

  I blush at myself again, but a hot wave of anger passes over me and washes away any embarrassment. Where is all this anger coming from? And why am I taking it all out on Tig? I know that Tig is my truest friend, and I need his help here, but I in the same moment I can’t stand that I always need him and his constant reminder of that fact. I untie the tiny knot with shaking fingers and toss the loop away.

  Gripping the edge with my right hand I twist my body around so I’m facing the cliff with both hands on the edge. I lower myself down quickly until I’m fully extended on the cliff face. Usually I would have waited for Tig to let me know more about my landing and the terrain, but instead I let go. I am surprised at how long I seem to fall. Then comes the bone-jarring jolt. I fall in a heap and pain in my knee stabs me. I feel my knee, feel the metal plates sewn into the leather. A gust of wind blows dirt into my face, and I feel another sting like ice on my arm. I jerk and feel the arm sticky with blood. Then I feel Tig come trotting up to me.

  “Ess, are you—”

  “Go away!” I scream. “I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone! I’m fine!” I don’t feel fine. I feel dizzy. I hear Tig a little to my left and in front of me.

  “Do you not understand?” I yell again. “Are you deaf and dumb, cat? All you do is hold me back!” I feel for a rock with my right to throw at him. I find a fist sized stone and hurl it where I think he might be. I hear it hit something and feel for another rock. I throw stone after stone in the direction he must have been until I am so dizzy and exhausted I can hardly pick up my arm.