He decided to wait for another gust, so if anyone saw, they might think the wind moved it. Several minutes passed and Graymon began to wonder if the wind would ever blow again, then a gust strong enough to rattle the wagon blew in off the water; he pulled the canvas aside a crack.
The scene outside his confined space hadn’t changed since the soldier dropped off his dinner. Eight dead men huddled around the fire speaking in low grunts, chuckling occasional laughs that sounded like a dagger pulled across a whetstone.
Can’t go that way.
He crawled back along the floor boards and pulled himself up onto the bench, his thigh pressed against the wooden rail on the other side of the wagon. He shifted the canvas aside an inch and peered into the twilight. A few yards away, a line of trees devoid of leaves stood beside the track. Low shrubs grew at their bases forming a thicket where a small boy might conceal himself. If they were still on the land bridge-and judging by the proximity of the shore on the other side, they were-then the Small Sea lay somewhere on the other side of the trees. The lone soldier posted to guard this side stood facing the trees, as though he was there to protect their captive from the forest, not to stop him from escaping.
They don’t think I’ll try to escape.
He had that to his advantage, but how to get past the guard? He didn’t have to wait long for the answer.
One of the men by the fire called to the guard and though Graymon found his gravelly voice difficult to understand, he thought he called him to eat. The man between Graymon and the trees threw a grunted answer back, then left his post to partake in the meal. Before his mind could assess the situation too closely, Graymon pulled the canvas open farther and reached back for the itchy blanket he’d need to keep himself warm.
His hand brushed the pewter plate sitting on the bench behind him and he hesitated.
What if they come to get the plate?
He paused a second, half-expecting the other flap to open and one of the dead men to catch him. His mind worked quickly and he knew immediately what a brave hero would do. He sidled across the width of the wagon, grabbed the plate, and pulled open the flap on the soldiers’ side.
“I’m done,” he yelled and flung the plate toward the group.
They growled at him. One poked his spear toward him, but none rose off their seats of logs and rocks as he dropped the canvas. Seconds later, they were laughing at his antics. Graymon returned to the forest side of the wagon, his breath short with nervous excitement.
I fooled them.
He waited another minute to be sure he had; blood rushed to his head and the meat in his belly became unsettled, churning against the sides like a ship tossed about by a maelstrom. He grasped the edge of the wagon to steady himself from feeling woozy and, after a deep breath to fortify himself, peeked over his shoulder. No decayed face had appeared to check in on him. He gathered the blanket, pulled back the canvas, and threw his leg over the wagon’s edge.
Please don’t come. Please don’t come.
He dangled half-in, half-out of the wagon, his foot searching vainly for the ground. Too far. He swung his other foot over and lowered himself as far as he could. With the wooden edge pressed painfully into his armpits, the soil below eluded him. He glanced at the far side of the wagon, convinced one of them would lift the canvas any second, or that he’d feel a bony hand on his shoulder.
Don’t come. Don’t come.
He kicked his feet, knowing that the ground couldn’t be far below, but panic began to well up in him. Settling himself, he closed his eyes and imagined the wagon. He’d needed one of the soldiers to lift him in when they embarked on their journey, so it was too high for him to climb into himself, but it was only a wagon. He gathered his courage and let go.
The short drop jarred Graymon’s teeth and sent him to the ground with a grunt. He shook his head to clear the impact and peered under the wagon. From his spot in the dirt, he saw the guards seated around the fire and counted them quickly, happy nanny had used his blocks to teach him how.
Nine.
They were all there. No alarm had been sounded, so they hadn’t seen him. He collected the blanket and shuffled away from the wagon, eyes fixed on the soldiers. They nodded and growled and laughed but none of them rose from their seats. He didn’t take his gaze off them until his feet rustled the brush and fallen leaves at the foot of the trees; only then did he dare turn away.
Two steps into the thicket, one of the horses hitched to the wagon whinnied, freezing Graymon in his spot. He held his breath, straining to hear over the wind flapping the canvas and rustling the foliage, but no sound of footsteps came to him. He crouched to see under the wagon-the dead men hadn’t moved. Graymon let his breath out slowly and eased into the brush.
When he reached the trees, he squatted and pulled the blanket around his shoulders and over his head for camouflage. It itched his cheeks and neck. He watched the soldiers, waiting to see if they’d check on him; his heart raced. They’d shown little interest in their charge so far; he hoped it wouldn’t soon change. The wind blew, seeming to come from all directions at once, and Graymon pulled the blanket tighter, hugging his knees to his chest to conserve heat.
What if they stay here for the night? I’ll freeze.
He clamped his jaw tight, worried the chatter of his teeth might attract the guards’ attention. Leaves swirled around him, whipped into a frenzy by the salty sea wind, so he buried his nose in the blanket, nostrils flaring at its musty odor. Even the heavy wool struggled to keep out all the chill.
As time passed, he wondered if he’d done the right thing. He looked at the canvas side of the wagon, longing for the protection it gave from the blustering wind. Maybe he could get back inside without them noticing. If they did notice, would they risk the wrath of the woman and kill him? No. But they’d punish him.
An especially brisk gust of wind shivered the trees and Graymon decided he’d made a mistake. No matter what a brave hero might have done, or might do now, he was cold and didn’t think he’d survive the night if he stayed in one place. He resigned himself to returning to the wagon and began looking for the best way back when he saw movement by the fire.
They’re leaving.
The soldiers were standing, collecting their weapons. Graymon tensed. If they were going to check on him, now would be the time. If they discovered him gone, then found him huddled, shivering in the woods, what would they do to him?
He didn’t want to know.
Two of the soldiers went to the front of the covered wagon and took seats behind the horses; one went to the rear while the other six arrayed themselves on each side. None of them approached the canvas. Graymon shrank to the smallest he could, careful not to rattle the dead leaves around him.
The nearest soldier stood close enough he heard him call out to let the driver know when he was in position and ready to go. Graymon’s pulse pounded in his throat. One of the dead men on the bench behind the horses shouted and snapped the reins; the horses neighed in response and began moving, the wagon rattling along behind.
Graymon stayed hidden until he no longer heard wagon wheels clattering along the track, then remained hidden a few minutes more. When he thought it safe, he crept out of his hiding spot, the blanket wrapped tight around his body. He didn’t know the area, but knew enough to realize that, if the wagon headed one way, he should go the other. He looked back down the track, dreading the walk into the darkness, but nothing in the forest lining the road could be worse than the dead men. At least in this direction, he knew his father was there somewhere, and his nanny. He took a step down the track, then stopped, his attention grabbed by the crackle of the cook fire the soldiers hadn’t extinguished.