“I never liked them from the beginning. They were mean to Ma and Pa, always threatening and even stealing our cattle. I guess someone will pay them back for all that one day.”
Shell refused to smile, although he felt like it, but the events of the previous day were too traumatic, and he vowed to keep the story from Henry unless he was forced to share it. At the most, the boy couldn’t be older than fourteen. He was not old enough to take on the responsibilities for what had happened, even though none of which was his fault.
Still, Shell felt like he managed to draw misfits and outcasts to him like a herder who gathered the weakest and most helpless sheep to his flock. He got swept up in their problems like trees and branches getting swept along in a river current until they jammed up at a bend. He felt his life a log jam. He had become more involved in the problems of others than his own.
Not that he blamed any person or animal, but when he thought of himself as the only person without major problems in his life, he realized that somehow he managed to make the problems of others his. While they walked, his mind wandered and sorted out the issues. He concluded, helping others was not so bad. Their problems made his seem petty.
He reached out with his mind to the wolf as if it were normal, and he’d done it his whole life. The wolf sent back the impression it was happy and enjoyed the mountains and ample food more than the grasslands. It seemed to enjoy exploring the thick forests as it trotted up one hill and down another, never tiring, always interested in what it saw next.
They descended deeper into the canyon to follow the lay of the hills. The walls of the hills on both sides of the valley sloped down to a small, fast-moving river. There was no valley floor as on the other side, no flat areas, no farms, and little evidence that anyone had ever traveled that way before.
A disconcerting thought leaped into his mind that contradicted him, and at the same time told him the wolf was listening to him. Both thoughts jarred him, and he didn’t know which was worse. He questioned the wolf for more information.
Images and impressions formed until they formed a single word in his mind. Camilla.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He had forgotten the wolf had her scent and would recognize it when he came across it again. Like the red leaves Myron had explained, the wolf must smell scents left by Camilla. “How long ago?”
He asked with his mind, but must have spoken out loud because Henry said, “What?”
“Just thinking.”
The wolf sent an impression of a sun rising and setting. One day. That was good because he didn’t wish to catch up and encounter her again. She’d think he followed her and she would make more accusations. Better to move slow and let her gain some distance. Besides, Henry was struggling to move quickly and needed rest to heal.
In Henry’s condition, we should have stopped long ago. Shell said, “Hey, I’m tired. Do you mind if we find a place and rest for the afternoon? Dry our things?”
Henry took a few more steps and said, trying to sound reluctant and failing, “Okay, if you want to.”
“We can make up for it tomorrow.” Shell looked ahead and noticed an opening in the trees that might be a clearing. When they reached it, he found a small meadow not far from the river, and rocks placed in a circle with black ashes inside. A small pile of firewood lay beside.
The girl? He asked the wolf.
The confirmation contained a hint of humor of irony. It seemed to ask, who else?
The mid-day sun was almost hot, the sky clear. As Henry sat and rested, Shell took the time to empty his backpack and spread everything in the sun, including the three wet blankets. He removed all but the shirt that hid his dragon mark, spreading them to dry in the sun. He placed his boots there too, making a mental note to buy or trade for oil to soften and make them waterproof again.
He turned to Henry to help him undress and found the boy fast asleep. His clothing would dry in the sun, although not as fast. As he silently wished Henry happy dreams, like his mother, had taught him to do, he realized that he hadn’t been having the dreams of the night whisperer calling to him anymore. It hadn’t happened since he’d first encountered the red dragon.
Had the small red dragon been the one calling to him for all that time? Did it know it called to Shell? All Shell knew for sure about it was the adage of members of the Dragon Clan calling down dragons to help them when they were in trouble. Even though he had intended to take on the entire Smithson family, the rage that first seethed, then boiled over, had perhaps called the dragon to his rescue. The five of the farmers would have beaten him as senseless as they had beaten Henry, or worse, without the appearance of the dragon.
No, that was not completely true. If the dragon had not appeared, the wolf would have charged into the fray and probably done as much damage, or more. So, he somehow had two animal protectors. He pulled on pants that were dry and tucked his shirt, then spread himself out on his blanket, confident that the wolf would wake him, if needed, and surprised at the confidence he had in the animal after knowing it only a few days.
He slept until late afternoon. When he woke, Henry was still out, snoring softly. He gathered more firewood than would be needed for one night, but more was better than less. He cut a green stick and roasted venison that gave it a smoky taste and warm texture. At the river, he drank and went back to his backpack.
The pouch with the barbed iron hooks and thin, woven hand-line were one of his prized possessions. He carried a strip of venison to the shore, baited his hook with it, and tossed it into the water. It floated down with the current, sinking slowly.
He felt a slight tug on the line and reared back, setting the hook. He pulled in a perch, reflecting yellow and orange in the bright sunlight. Soon he had six of them, all small but the numbers would make up for that.
He rebuilt the fire just before dusk and used green sticks with the bark removed to skewer the cleaned and scaled fish. Henry woke, either from his movements from the aroma of him cooking the fish. Shell watched him painfully sit and asked, “How are you doing?”
“Better,” he winced when forced a partial smile.
He didn’t look better. The bruises had spread and turned darker colors, from pale yellow to the darkest reds and blacks. His one eye was still swollen shut, the cuts and scrapes on his forehead were scabbed over, and his nose bent slightly to one side. Shell knew he should try to move it back into place before it set in that position, but the thought of the pain it would cause the boy prevented him.
But if he did nothing, Henry might never breathe through his nose again. “Your nose is crooked.”
“Broken. You can say it.”
“You know.”
“I feel it grind when I talk or chew. It hurts all the time. But I intend to eat some fish.”
“I saw a boy get his nose reset one time about ten years ago.” Shell kept his eyes from giving away the rest of the story by looking out at the darkness as if there was something interesting out there.
“Did it hurt him?”
“Oh, yes. He screamed, but it worked. He said it hurt less right away after it was set, but he’d never want to do it again.”
Henry paused, his voice choked, and he said, “You didn’t have to tell me that last part.”
“A true friend would.”
A silence fell between them. Henry opened his mouth and worked his jaw, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Do you remember how it was done?”