Neema zipped overhead, stopped about twenty feet later, and held both arms out in front of her. A crackling orb of yellowish lightning wreathed her hands before streaking off and striking the fox carrying the howling faerie.
The animal leapt straight up, as if it had stepped on some manner of spring trap, and flew sidelong into a tree. On impact, the faerie popped free of its mouth and limped airborne.
Naraja! Emma growled under her breath, trying to force as much speed as she could out of her legs. “Naraja, spirit of cats, please let me run faster than these foxes.”
Emma didn’t expect much, since she hadn’t tried to talk to her before… but within a second, the faint roar of a cougar echoed in the back of her mind. The forest became a blur in varying shades of green. Hair whipping out behind her, Emma pumped her arms and legs, goosebumps rising from a tingly energy wrapping around her from behind.
She gained ground on the foxes, which sensed her coming and ran harder. The bewitched animals flowed like liquid fur between the trees, drawing together in a tight group. Since Neema’s spell had freed the faerie, Emma’s intention changed from catching a single fox to save one life to following the pack to save all the Silverbells. If she could find out where these enraged animals came from, perhaps she could do something. Emma would not make the same mistake as she had with the thieves. If whatever these foxes ran to looked dangerous, she’d leave right away and fetch help.
Low-lying branches made her duck a few times, but she kept right on the foxes’ tails. They yipped and snarled at each other, noises the spell didn’t translate. The group of foxes flowed over a fallen tree. Emma hurdled it and landed in ankle-deep green muck on the other side, which reeked of pungent moss.
The foxes raced across a small clearing covered in the same mossy-mud mixture, leaving shallow footprints. Emma struggled to chase them, but only four strides later, her foot found nothing solid under the muck. She screamed as she plunged chest deep and bobbed to a halt in a spongy, sticky mess neither warm nor cold. The foxes vanished into the shadows ahead, not bothering to even look back.
“Neema,” yelled Emma.
She grabbed at the ground, raking up handfuls of frothy mess but getting no traction. Any damage she inflicted to the surface smoothed out in seconds. Grunting, she tried to get her right leg to move, but couldn’t budge it. The foamy mud adhered to her skin wherever it made contact, but didn’t cling to her dress. A moment of love and gratitude for Nan bottomed out to heartsick worry that she’d never be able to go home.
The more she struggled to grab on to anything, the more she thought she’d be stuck in this bog forever. Her breaths came rapid, trying to outdo her pounding heartbeat.
Neema rushed over and grabbed her arm. She concentrated for an instant, and a tingly feeling spread over Emma. A focused blast of silver-white energy sprayed downward from Neema’s wings as she seemed to be attempting to fly in reverse as hard as she could. The little woman grunted and strained, pulling on Emma’s arm, but couldn’t dislodge her.
“Can’t…” Neema panted. “Can’t I… Too are stuck you.”
Emma grunted and struggled to free her right hand from the surface. The goblin’s snare traps had been far stickier than this muck. She took some small comfort in that she didn’t seem to be sinking. As much as the bog wouldn’t let her up, it prevented her from going deeper. If she had only stepped one foot in, she could’ve pulled away with ease. Up to her ribs in it, she couldn’t move.
“What is this?” Emma tried not to throw up at the feeling of spongy snot clinging to her body. “Is it going to hurt me if I stay in it too long?”
Neema shook her head. “Moss and tree blood, dirt and water.”
“So I shouldn’t be too scared?”
“Eat you may something for while flee you can’t.” Neema bit her lip, as if regretting saying that. “Heavy not foxes sink enough to.”
A nervous whimper leaked from Emma’s nose. She eyed the forest around her, shaking at the idea of some awful creature happening upon an easy meal. Her feet could move around, but she couldn’t push herself upward, more like stepping on a sponge than swimming in goopy mud.
She searched for a stick or vine to grab. Behind her, a giant tree stood at the edge of the bog, split open and leaking dark emerald sap into the froth, the likely cause of it being so sticky. The dying tree appeared ancient, but had no roots or branches anywhere she could reach. The fox tracks had all vanished, the foamy morass in front of her again appearing like flat, safe ground.
“I’m going to try something.” Emma didn’t like the waver of fear in her voice, and fought to push worry aside.
“What?” asked Neema.
She gestured at the closest tree. “Something Mama did.” Emma closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying to convince herself she did not need to be scared. Again and again, she envisioned the way her mother had thrown a thorny root at that horrible wizard. She didn’t need it to move so fast, or be so full of sharp points… but she did need a bigger vine than what she’d made Tam’s horse from. “Linganthas, I need your aid. Please bend the roots to your will and send your strength to help me.”
Eyes open, Emma thrust her arm at the tree, focusing on her desire. Something brushed the outside of her right leg, rising upward from below. A second later, a dark brown root as thick as her arm shot from the bog nearby and stretched over fifteen or so feet to the tree, where it coiled around and tightened.
“Goodness,” said Neema. “Growing so fast a child the roots does?”
Thank you! Emma spent a second radiating gratitude toward the spirit of the woods. She grasped the wooden tendril with both hands and struggled. Her body rose a little up from the sticky, elastic muck, but she couldn’t pull hard enough to break its grip on her. As soon as she stopped straining, she snapped back into the bog exactly as she had been before, bobbing up and down for a moment.
“No,” she whispered. After an angry three seconds, she sighed. “At least I’m not going deeper.”
Neema rotated to face back the way they’d come from. “I get―”
Six snarling, growling foxes rushed out of the undergrowth all at once, padding over the pale green muck without sinking in.
Emma screamed, “Go away!”
The animals slunk closer, growling, not responding.
“Why are you angry? Please… we don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want you to hurt me. Go back to your den.”
The foxes in front of her snarled louder. She forced a smile and reached out as if to scratch under the chin of one, but yanked her hand back with a squeal when it snapped at her.
The Wildkin Whisper didn’t do anything; the noises coming from the glow-eyed foxes did not translate into any sort of speech. The unexpected loss of her ability to talk her way out of a dangerous situation shattered her confidence.
“Mama!” screamed Emma. “Da!”
Neema shot a bolt of energy into the bog in front of the advancing fox, which exploded in a bubble of green smoke. That fox stopped short, but the other five leapt at Emma. One went for her face, but she grabbed it by two handfuls of its cheek fur. Another bit her on the left forearm, a third sank its small teeth into her right shoulder. A fourth tried to bite her left ear, but she twisted so it bit her on top of the head. More tiny teeth pierced her left side.
“Help!” screamed Emma. “They’re biting me!” She wrestled with the one snapping its teeth at her face and yelled, “Mama!”
The faerie chattered in her native language, her tone dark. A crackling sizzle built up in the air before a yellow eldritch bolt struck the fox trying to bite her ear. The animal let out a wounded yelp and darted back. Emma threw the fox she had a grip on to the right, bashed her elbow into the head of the one gnawing on her side, and grabbed the ear of the one chewing on her left arm, squeezing until it cried out in pain and let go.
Causing an animal to yowl like that filled her with guilt, but she knew something had gone quite wrong with them. Another bolt from N
eema sizzled in the air somewhere behind her. A puff of warm dog-breath washed over her hair; the one biting on her skull let out a wounded yelp. It let go of her and backpedaled, whimpering, smoke peeling from its back.
The fox she’d thrown rolled onto its feet and charged at her, murder in its glowing crimson eyes.
“Linganthas, lend me your wrath!” Emma yelled the same phrase her mother had, and flung her arm forward as if throwing a knife. The image of Mama trying to kill that wizard had burned itself so deep in her memories, she pictured it as clear as if it had happened mere seconds before.
A cracking like trampled underbrush surrounded her as a streamer of thin, wooden vine covered in sharp thorns sprang forward from her palm. The whip-like length of root sliced the leaping fox in half and zipped away into the trees, making an eerie scratching whoosh. Before Emma could scream at watching a live animal torn in two pieces, the fox exploded into a cloud of pink energy.
No blood.
Not even one hair remained.
She stared at the dissipating mist, mouth agape until a flash of searing yellow light going across from left to right dragged her attention to another fox, which also burst into a pink cloud when Neema’s spell hit it. Three foxes continuously lunged at Neema, leaping into the air and snapping their teeth within inches of her feet.
The fourth fox sprang at Emma from the right, trying to bite her on the face again. She managed to catch it, and held it down on the bog in front of her chest, right hand gripping the scruff of its neck while she clamped her left around its muzzle.
“Stop!” yelled Emma. “Why are you doing this?”
It made no attempt to talk, merely thrashing and snarling in effort to continue attacking her.
“Great Strixian, please grant this poor animal freedom from whatever curse it has; give him the wisdom to realize he should not be angry.” Emma desired what she had done for Mawr, but no magical energy surged forth from her. “What’s wrong?”
“Silly beasts,” yelled Neema, a split second before a loud eldritch bang shattered the air.
Emma cringed and glanced up to her left. The foxes that had been attacking the faerie remained only as fading clouds of pink mist, and the air had taken on the taste of a thunderstorm. She glared at the one she continued to hold down. “Stop trying to bite me. I don’t want to hurt you.”
It growled, but ceased trying to wriggle free.
“I’m going to let go now. Go to your home.”
It growled.
“Not trusting the fox,” said Neema. “Biting you when you do the letting go.”
Emma pouted. “I can’t kill it.”
“Hold it forever can you not either.”
Grumbling, she examined the exhausted-looking animal. Aside from eyes made of bright red light, oversized pointy ears, and an abnormally fluffy tail, it looked like an ordinary fox. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you so angry?”
It snarled.
“Fox throw. Will I magic so hurt you cannot it do.”
“You’re going to kill it,” said Emma. “I don’t―”
The fox burst into a cloud of pink mist.
“Aaah!” Emma screamed in surprise. “I didn’t do anything! It just popped!”
“Being strange.” Neema glided down. “Getting help. Here wait you.”
Emma scowled while making a half-hearted attempt to move. Where would I go?
Neema zipped off, leaving a graceful, curving trail of white light into the endless green.
“Ow.” Emma cradled her bleeding left arm to her chest and sniffled. A tickle in front of her ear made her grab for a bug, but her fingers came back with blood on them. Bites on the top and side of her head flared with pain, but her arm hurt the most.
Stuck to the middle of her chest in a sticky mess, alone, and in pain, Emma lost her battle with bravery, and cried.
inutes passed in silence, save for Emma’s sniveling sips of air. She coughed to clear her throat and wiped her eyes. Each breath caused the gummy morass to tug at her stomach under her dress. She wondered if the Druid’s Step would have let her walk across the bog like the foxes, or if the magic would only make it less sticky.
Deciding not to look around, Emma stared at her bloodied forearm, and held her hand over the wound.
“Uruleth, please grant me the gift of life.”
Green energy manifested beneath her palm. She willed it into herself, and the burning pain of a deep fox bite became cool. When she lifted her hand away, the wound had gone. Emma repeated the spell, thinking about the healing magic mending her head and side. A pleasant chill spread over her scalp, as refreshing as a swim on a muggy summer day.
“Linganthas, please grant me the Druid’s Step.”
The faint tingle and telltale essence of mint in the back of her mouth told her he had heard her request. She struggled at the bog, which did feel less sticky. Under the effect of the spell, the muck behaved like normal thick mud, without the glue-like quality of enchanted tree sap.
Emma grasped the large root she had summoned, which true to Mama’s word, had remained permanent. Grunting, she pulled, but still couldn’t free herself from the spongy mire. The rubbery mud refused to let go of her. She struggled and pulled on the root for several minutes until she slouched, out of breath.
Every small snap or pop from creatures moving around in the forest became threatening. Those foxes had been small. What would happen if something bigger―like one of those cats Neema mentioned―found her here. Or worse, another bear like Mawr still enraged by the magic. Stuck in a bog, she wouldn’t have the time to ask Strixian for help before it got her. She whimpered, but her weary arms could barely move her.
Deep thuds in the ground grew stronger and louder. Something huge crunched among the trees, heading toward her. Emma held her breath, staring with dread in the direction the sound seemed loudest.
Oh, Mythandriel, please let whatever’s coming be smart enough for me to talk to!
Emma trembled, biting her lip to stop herself from screaming for her parents as the snapping of twigs and leaves got louder and louder. Maybe if she stayed quiet, it wouldn’t notice her. A great shadow shifted behind the trees. She raised her hands in a feeble attempt to defend her face.
Mawr’s huge silhouette emerged from the darkness, the bright silver-white spot of Neema’s light orbiting his head. He emitted a low, sorrowful moan.
Emma exhaled with relief, and asked Strixian for the Wildkin Whisper. “Mawr!”
He crept up to the edge of the bog. “The scent of blood is in the air. Are you hurt?”
“I was.” Emma wiped at her arm. “Not now.”
Neema glided over and grabbed the root. She grunted and tried to fly upward, her wings glowed with a near-blinding brilliance from her effort to fly. “Ground in the root is?”
Emma tugged futilely at it again. “Yes. I thought I could pull myself out with it. Oh! I’m being forgetful.”
At the thought of asking Uruleth for strength, a sudden exhaustion came over her. Have I used too much magic too soon? She thought back to Nan explaining how Mythandriel’s healing magic would drain so much power from her at once that it would make her sleep on her feet. Perhaps the same held true for the thornvine she’d hurled at the fox. She hoped for an instant that Mama would be proud of her for being able to do it at all, but her mood crashed into a mountain of fear and guilt.
“I may be stuck here for a while.” Emma grumbled. “I need to rest before I can ask for strength.”
“I am here.” Mawr attempted to smile. “I am strength.”
Emma wiped her tears and grinned.
Mawr ambled around the edge of the bog and picked her root up in his mouth. He took two steps back, pulling until a sharp crack resonated in the muck. Neema dragged about six feet of slime-covered root out of the bog. She flew it around behind Emma’s back, making a loop, and brought both ends over to the bear.
Emma wrapped her arms around and held on as Mawr eased himself backwards. The hard ro
ot dug into her back and armpits, but she rose up from the swampy mire with a deep slurping sound that would’ve surely made Tam laugh. Mawr pulled her clear and dragged her a little farther onto solid dirt. If Tam didn’t laugh at noise the mud emitted when she slipped loose, he would have howled at what came from the bog a few seconds later when the hollow she’d made closed: a noise like Da after he’d had beans and onions broke the silence with a fluttering gasp.
It made Emma smile, but only for a second or two. Sticky slime coated her, all up under her dress to the middle of her chest. It felt as if she wore pants and socks made of ooze. She sat for a while scraping her hands down her legs and throwing glops into the foliage.
Why did those foxes pop into puffs of pink light? Nan would know.
Much to her relief, none of that awful mud stained the dress her grandmother had made.
“Is there a creek or stream close by?”
“Far not that way.” Neema pointed.
Emma got up, cringing from the sensation of having slime everywhere, and walked. Moving made it even worse, as if she’d been dipped in glue that had started to dry. She crept forward, reflexively holding her arms up and to the side out of disgust.
Less than a minute later, she found a small stream sunken in a channel where it had carved a path in the earth. The water ran about six or seven feet below the level of the ground, lined on both sides by large rounded stones as well as slabs. Emma sat on the edge and braced her hands on the grass behind her. She stretched her leg until her toes found a rock, and lowered herself before turning to put her back to the water. Once she had both feet on the stone, she eased her weight down to another ledge. From there, she hopped to a rocky shelf that touched the creek’s edge.
A toe test found the water warm.
Emma didn’t bother taking her dress off, and jumped in. The stream only came up to the middle of her thighs, so she sat neck deep and got to scrubbing at the mud with her hands. Water dissolved it with ease, and soon, the sensation of being coated in stickiness faded. Hundreds of tiny silver fish appeared to find it delicious, and swarmed in the haze of green trailing away from her, snapping up particles of plant matter.
Emma and the Silverbell Faeries Page 11
