by Vered Ehsani
The root moved.
I glanced down. The small snake glanced up.
“Gads,” I shouted, flinging my arms about. I grabbed onto the thick vine above and yanked myself upward. My parcel tumbled to the forest floor, the snake slithered into a crack amongst the rocks and I hung there, twisting about, my feet flailing in the air, trying to find a surface away from the snake’s hole.
As I pulled myself up the U-shaped vine, I heard a ripping sound and felt the ropey plant shudder as a section of it began to tear away from the boulder it had suctioned onto. My feet slipped off their purchase. The vine, now only attached to one point above me, twisted about. My view alternated: rock, tree, rock, tree, snake on rock.
I wrapped myself around the vine and began to shimmy down. My hands ached. I could feel blisters forming. My tender feet were hardly better off. And my stomach grumbled. Of all my organs and body parts, my stomach really had the least to complain about, but that didn’t stop it from its noisy protestations.
Something creaked and snapped above me.
I didn’t look up or down or in any direction that would reveal snakes, breaking vines or…
The vine broke off.
I didn’t bother to scream, in part due to my aversion to such overly dramatic reactions, but mainly because my fall lasted less than the time it took to open my mouth. I fell back onto a cushion of leaves and hardly felt the impact. The same can’t be said about the vine: the thick cord of woody material smacked across me with quite a wallop, leaving me momentarily breathless and blurry eyed.
But alive.
Yes, there was always that to be grateful for, I thought as I peered up through the vine, waiting for my vision to clear up.
More than that, I had no broken limbs and I was free. I couldn’t help but gloat, normally a behavior I abhor except in special circumstances. And this most certainly qualified as special, and so I felt a bit of gloating to be entirely warranted.
I wiggled out from under the vine and stared up at the cave. As expected, it didn’t look so far away from the safety of the ground, nor did the slope look so terribly steep.
“And now for my next trick,” I announced to the vine. “Finding a way out of here.”
Upstream or downstream? I washed my hands, face and feet in the stream as I pondered the choice. While I wouldn’t swear on the life of my firstborn child (which is never a good idea, even if there is as yet no child to swear on), I had the sense that I was upstream of the camp. And as my intuition was the only compass I had to guide me, I chose to let it do so.
It must be pointed out that a plan often seems so much easier and straightforward in words, while the implementation is considerably less so. This was the case with following the stream. Thick trees, gangly roots, moldering leaves, termite-infested logs, inconsiderately placed boulders, an irregular terrain: all these conspired to push me away from the watery guide. On countless occasions, I had to beat a path back through unruly undergrowth. Without the benefit of my walking stick, this was no easy task.
I was further hampered by Lilly’s fancy party shoes and my flouncy dress that by the minute was less flouncy and more bedraggled. As for the shoes, I decided that if they did as good a job at killing beasties as they did killing my feet, I was perfectly safe.
After a miserable passage of time, I took a break on a suitably flattened stone large enough for me to sit on and dangle my bare feet in the cool water. While the thick tree branches overhead provided shade, the humidity sapped at my energy. I almost groaned in relief and was contemplating staying in that delightful spot for the rest of the day when the background chatter of birds and monkeys noticeably ceased.
My eyelids, which had fluttered shut, popped open.
Run, Drew. Run home.
A familiar pattern, a memory, surfaced: water; forest; abrupt silence; something lurking in the shadows. A younger brother begging his sister to take him home.
How I yearned for my stick by my side and a bow and quiver of arrows on my back. Instead, I had Lilly’s shoes.
Bones crack underfoot.
I shuddered and quelled the memory. But from upstream, large branches snapped, a gunshot sound in the dense quiet. The rustling of leaves and branches moved upwards as a tall, slender Eucalyptus tree growing by the water’s edge swayed deeply, a motion I could detect through the gaps between other trees.
I couldn’t however discern the cause of all the motion.
The shrill, agitated cackle of monkeys echoed through the forest, and a number of them sprung away from the trembling tree and dashed from tree top to top, a furry cloud overhead. One monkey however shrieked horrendously, the depth of its anguish slashing through the forest. Just as abruptly, the cry ceased with the finality of a tragedy.
The silence lasted one long, drawn-out breath. Softly, the sound of the living slipped back into the spaces between the trees.
My gaze was fixed upstream to the swaying tree. The top of it shuddered as a long shadow moved down its lengths.
Color in the stream caused me to look at my pale, water-wrinkled feet. A rivulet of red floated along the surface until the forces of dilution took hold.
I rapidly re-assessed my plans and decided cool, unblistered feet were terribly overrated. I stuffed my wet feet into the killer shoes, stood up shakily and stared at the Eucalyptus tree.
The shadow now lay in a sizable clump at the base of the tree. I couldn’t see many details through the foliage, only enough to ascertain that the creature was nothing I would want to study up close.
As I turned to go, my ankles wobbling with the uncertain footing, the shadow reared up… and up… until a serpent’s head the size of my torso peaked through the shrub and branches, its unblinking, cold, glassy gaze fixed on me.
“Miss-s-s-s-s Bee-e-e-e-e.”
I glanced around. “Mr. Timmons?” I whispered hopefully.
“Miss-s-s-s-s Bee-e-e-e-e,” something hissed again.
“Oh,” I said, staring up at the giant, talking snake. Jonas had warned me about snakes that could imitate human speech, but who could’ve imagined it?
Its tongue — as long as I am tall — flickered in the air as if sampling my shock and fear. The part of my brain that generates random, irrelevant (and often irreverent) commentary wondered if it recognized me. For I certainly remembered it, unless the giant snake had a twin roaming about the forest. Perish the thought. But when Mr. Timmons and I had been hiding in its nest, not that long ago, I hadn’t truly appreciated its size.
It was at this juncture that the survival part of my brain woke up and said, “Pardon the intrusion into this fascinating and rather useless discourse, but you need to RUN.”
So I did. I spun about and crashed through the forest in my ridiculous, feet-killing party shoes. I could hear the long form slithering easily behind me, skin rasping against tree trunks, flattening shrubs and gaining on me.
In hindsight, I’m not convinced running was the best course of action. Perhaps standing as still as a tree would’ve been safer.
That is neither here nor there, for the fact of the matter is that after having been kidnapped by a Popobawa, spending a night in a cave, scaling a steep slope, falling from an undisclosed height and marching most of the day through jungle, I was now being chased by an impossibly gigantic serpent. Standing logically still was simply not an option.
Of course, the party shoes couldn’t possibly keep up with all this excitement. Designed for delicate dances, they didn’t too much appreciate stumbling over rocks and roots. One heel snapped with the sound of finality or disaster. I tilted mid-run and fell flat to the ground, my forehead smacking hard against a thick, exposed tree root.
I lay there, my brain thoroughly rattled into silence by the fall, my body too bruised and tired to drag itself into a vertical pose. And my feet… I shan’t elaborate on what they were saying to me, except that it was in words that did little to praise the shoes or the person who gave them to me.
So I remained there on
the forest floor, a prettily wrapped entrée waiting for the inevitable. I fervently hoped that Mr. Elkhart would experience such agonizing guilt regarding his role in my unfortunate demise as to bestow on him a horrendous case of gastrointestinal disorder.
Something splashed in the creek nearby.
This is it, I thought and closed my eyes, praying it would be quick. Death I can deal with. It’s the unpleasant and often painful details of dying that cause panic and distress.
The splash turned into a squelch and I sensed a presence by my side; it poked my back. Further away, something heavy flopped against the earth.
“Bee-e-e-e-e?”
I dared to open one eye.
“Burr?” I asked, staring at the Tokolosh.
“Brr-r-r,” she agreed.
Raising my head slightly and pushing back a clump of hair, I glanced about. The giant snake was coiled around a nearby tree trunk, its unflinching gaze still fixed on me, but it didn’t move.
“How…” I mumbled and stared at my little rescuer, wondering how she’d come to be there. I looked toward the river and the pool of water where I’d bathed my battered feet. “Of course. You’re a water sprite.”
Burr trilled.
I glanced again at the snake and said, “And somehow that allows you to control monstrously enlarged killer snakes.”
“Brr,” she said, turned and waddled away on her stumpy, hairy legs.
“Wait for me,” I called as the snake shifted its coils slightly.
I pushed myself up, kicked off the shoes and tried to ignore the coating of mud and leaves that decorated what was left of my dress. Compared to the hungry snake, the ghastly dress was manageable, barely, and I did my best to maintain a dignified albeit muddy pose as I hurried after the Tokolosh.
For a little beast with short legs, Burr certainly could waddle fast. When we crossed the shallow river at one point, the speed at which my unusual friend moved was startling. The water shifted and flowed under her large feet so that Burr floated rather than waded across.
I on the other hand did anything but float. I stumbled and clomped and tripped along, my shoeless feet cringing at every pebble, branch and suspiciously squelching blob of substance they encountered.
While I’d given up wearing the shoes, I did keep them and the broken heel safely tucked into my blanket roll. Lilly wouldn’t be able to complain I hadn’t returned them, at least. By this point though I couldn’t summon energy to imagine or care about her complaints or anything else.
We followed the water’s edge as night took hold of the land and still we continued. Glimmers of moonlight flittered through the branches, barely enough light to see the ground but not enough to avoid every root and hole. My feet were as bruised as they were muddy. My legs shook as I trudged behind Burr, the adventures of the past night and day beginning to take their toll.
Just as the forest began to seem familiar, we passed by a small rocky overhang that led into a cave. Something about it made me pause. The soft ground around the entrance was covered in large footsteps and judging by the indent, it was a heavy man.
Or automaton.
I stepped toward the cave and studied the footprints carefully, fighting past my exhausted stupor. The edges of the prints were sharp and clear, the size about right.
“Bee-e-e, no,” Burr said, hopping about me and waving at the shoe-shaped indentations. “Ba-a-ad.”
“Is this from an automaton?” I asked. “A metal man?”
The Tokolosh shook her head, rolled her eyes in agitation and shuffled away. As I made to follow, something fluttered. It was a piece of fabric. I snatched it off the thorny branch and rubbed it between my fingers.
“Liam’s suit,” I murmured, glancing around as if I might see Gideon and Liam at any moment, for I was certain they must have come to this cave at least once. But nothing stirred, or at least nothing that was metal and pigskin with a ghost inside.
I stumbled after Burr who seemed in a great hurry to vacate the area. As if distancing herself from the cave wasn’t enough, a few moments later Burr stepped into the river. Staring at me and chattering, she pointed at a path off to our left and sunk into the water. Or more accurately, she dissolved into the water, for the river wasn’t so deep as to be able to cover her head.
I sunk to my knees, staring at the spot where Burr had vanished, wondering wearily if she would return or if I should press on or if I had the energy to do so. The ground appeared remarkably attractive as far as horizontal surfaces go. Certainly I’d slept on less comfortable material in my investigative profession.
Just as I was about to give gravity permission to embrace me in its heavy grasp, I heard noise. It was coming from the path Burr had pointed at. Was it Liam?
Bleary eyed, I watched as the noise coalesced into the form of a horse that spoke with Mr. Timmons’ voice.
That can’t be right, I thought. Why would any horse want to imitate Mr. Timmons?
The horse was asking me something as it approached. I craned my neck back and saw beyond the horse’s nuzzle a familiar face that better matched the voice.
“That makes more sense,” I mumbled before letting gravity have its way with me.
Chapter 15
When I awoke, I thought there surely must be some mistake, closed my eyes and promptly fell back asleep.
When I awoke again, the mistake was very much there and staring me in the face.
“Mr. Timmons,” I said, except it came out mumbled and muffled as if my mouth was stuffed with marbles. It certainly felt like it was. “Mr. Timmons,” I tried again with only a modest improvement but I persisted. “This is most inappropriate.”
Mr. Timmons sighed — a great, exaggerated sound — and maintained his gaze straight ahead, staring between his horse’s ears. He also maintained his grip around my back and knees, which led me to wonder how he was guiding the horse.
“Well, Mrs. Knight,” he said with a display of insincere patience, “I did consider dragging you behind the horse, but felt that might be slightly less appropriate, particularly in regard to your health.”
“My hero,” I muttered.
He glanced down at me, a slight smile softening his features. “Perhaps it would be best if you remain unconscious, so as to protect your feminine honor. I can assist in putting you back into that wonderfully quiet state, if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said and closed my eyes, putting on a fairly decent show of unconsciousness.
Convincingly pretending to be comatose or even dead is a valuable skill. I highly recommend its acquisition. It has assisted me in a few sticky situations and I felt sure it would provide me with an appearance of innocence should anyone come upon us.
“If it is at all possible,” Mr. Timmons said after a few moments of this pretense, “could you mumble in your sleep and tell me what the hell happened to you?”
“Mr. Timmons,” I reprimanded him in a stern tone, “such vulgarity is unwarranted. Unless battling a werewolf or such, in which case it’s perfectly appropriate, given their stench.”
I paused as I resettled my features and limbs, wondering how much to tell him. I was certain that should he learn of Mr. Elkhart’s role in my disappearance, he would take it upon himself to confront my kidnapper, if for no other reason than to absorb his shape-changing powers. Given Mr. Timmons’ energy absorbing ability and his fascination with shape shifters, I had no doubt what the outcome would be, and I didn’t fancy a batty Timmons flapping about.
And while any romantic inclinations toward Mr. Elkhart on my part had been well removed, I still wished to question him further in regard to his knowledge of the Society.
“I was kidnapped by a giant bat,” I said, deciding on a less informative explanation. “It left me in a cave and I managed to escape.”
“A bat?” Mr. Timmons sounded dubious.
“Yes,” I said. “A giant one.”
The horse clopped along, keeping its opinion on the matter to itself.
“Didn’t you see it take me away from the party?” I asked.
“Hm,” Mr. Timmons breathed out. “I’m not sure what I saw. So who gave you the blanket?”
I silently cursed his observation and my omission. “You do realize you’re talking to an unconscious lady who is being held in an inappropriate manner?”
“You’re free to walk if my manner of assistance is so offensive,” he said with a knowing chuckle. “So who was it?”
“The bat didn’t feel inclined to leave me his calling card,” I retorted.
Mr. Timmons made a noise that could’ve been a suppressed laugh, a garbled curse or just a cough, but he desisted in his line of questioning. That was admittedly one of his better qualities: knowing when to accept the half-truth offered.
“Since you’re quite awake,” he said after a pause, “let’s see if your legs function as well as your tongue.” Before I could protest, he added, “We aren’t so far from your home.”
“Please do,” I said, as eager to remove myself from the compromising situation — as innocent as it was — as he seemed to be.
He forthwith lowered me to the ground and to my surprise joined me there. We walked on in silence with only the steady clop of horse hooves to punctuate the lack of conversation. We had been near the forest edge when we dismounted, so it wasn’t long after that we found ourselves approaching the Steward residence. Color smeared the horizon as the sun began its ascent. The house was just stirring into life.
“Thank you,” I said, looking up at him, wishing I could say more in the remaining few minutes we had together.
He provided a weary smile. “My pleasure, as always.”
I was struck at how charming he could actually be when he put his mind to it and I was tempted to blurt out the full truth. Before I could foolishly entrust my secrets to him, I heard a happy shout.
Jonas had been stooped over, using a collection of thin reeds to sweep, which amounted to shuffling dust from one corner of the veranda to another. He now straightened up with the African broom in hand, his grizzled face relaxed into a face-splitting grin.
