Seeing his reluctance, the young girl dropped to her knees. "Please, sir," she begged, holding up clenched hands, "with your muscles, it will take but moments to move the log that traps my mother."
Bram squinted again over her shoulder, looking for a cottage or any other sign of life behind the girl, but all he saw was a path much narrower than the one on which he stood, as dark and confining as a tomb. "Where's your father?" he asked her.
"He's in the forest, beyond the sound of my voice," she said. "The forest is thick and dark near our cottage. He left to chop some holes to the sky."
Bram could make no sense of any of this. "How did your mother come to fall beneath a log?"
The girl had begun to wring her hands. "She wanted to help my father by trimming some trees near our cabin. I warned her not to, for fear a log would strike our little home, but she wouldn't listen." She looked frantically over her shoulder yet again. "It's not very far to our cabin, just around that first bend."
Torn with indecision, Bram ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the road beneath her feet, a path of sorts. He'd been warned to take the third fork to the left, not the first. Somehow he knew the reason Thistledown had not mentioned any exceptions to the rule was because there were none.
"Please, sir," the girl beseeched him, palms pressed together. "I fear this hesitation may have already made it too late to save her. We could not survive without my mother."
Bram looked into her pale golden eyes and found them strangely unmoved, considering her desperate words. "Have you any rope?" he asked suddenly.
The question surprised her. "I suppose that we do."
"You'll need a long piece, more than twice the length of the thickest branch nearest your mother," he said quickly. "Throw one end of the rope over the branch, then tie both ends around the log that pins her. Establish a good foothold, then tug the rope sideways with all your might. The log should lift enough for your mother to roll to safety."
"But I told you I'm not strong enough to lift the log!" Her eyes were narrowing in anger.
"The pulley will supply enough strength," Bram reassured her, "but if you still have trouble, hitch the rope to a farm animal and let it help you lift the log." Bram watched her closely. "It is all that I would be able to do, I'm afraid." He thought for a moment. "I could give you some herbs that would ease the soreness your mother will feel, if you'd like."
The young girl stomped a rag-covered foot peevishly, her helpless demeanor gone. "What I'd like is for you to come and help me!"
Startled by the change, Bram backed away. "I'm sorry, but I'm in a great hurry," he said. Hastily wishing her luck, he nodded his head politely. When he looked up again, he saw something that nearly froze his feet to the stone path.
On the dark and narrow branch to the left was an enormous, buglike creature with six legs that ended in razor-sharp hooks. Above its fearsome facial mandibles were eyes the color of shiny amber. The thing was at least twice Bram's size. Beneath its yellow shell, its belly was incongruously pink and soft-looking.
Bram turned and ran down the main path. He couldn't be sure if the pounding steps he heard in his head came from the monster in pursuit or his own pulse pumping in his ears. He wanted to look back but dared not. Rounding a curve around a thick tree, he stole a half glance over his right shoulder. The fork was again obscured by shrubs, and the enormous thing was no longer in sight.
Bram bent at the waist, grabbed his knees, and drew in great gulps of air to catch his breath and slow his heart. He had a stitch in his side, and beads of sweat ran from his forehead and puddled above his lip. He quickly reached for the coin in the pocket at his waist and sighed in relief to find it still in place.
Bram continued on for some time. The road seemed to go on forever. The next bend was always just a few dozen paces ahead, holding out the promise of a destination. But around each bend was another bend, in a pattern that soon became monotonous, then tedious, and finally, downright irksome.
Hunger began to rumble in Bram's stomach, then slice clean through to his backbone. Without stopping, he pushed up the flap on his pouch and withdrew a rubbery carrot. Using his trousers like a strop, he wiped the root to remove the fine gritty dirt that hid under bumps and defied even a water washing. Bram wrenched off a too-soft bite of the root. It was tasteless and did nothing to ease the gnawing pain in his gut.
He spit the mouthful into the shrubbery and tossed the rest of the carrot after it.
Rounding another gentle bend, he scrubbed a finger to his teeth, wishing he had even a swallow of water to wash the grit and small, tasteless pieces from between his teeth.
"Yoo-hoo!"
Bram's head snapped up, and he was instantly on his guard. He followed the voice to his right and blinked in surprise at the sight. A stout, apple-cheeked elderly couple sat on the stoop of a quaint little cottage. Their wrinkled and pleasantly weathered faces were ringed by long yellow hair that showed no signs of gray. Both wore simple but colorful homespun clothes, adorned with beautifully embroidered suspenders, waist belts, aprons, and stockings. The man appeared to be carving faces on the handle of a large serving spoon while the woman shelled peas.
Bram stood in stoop-shouldered weariness and could not keep a jealous sigh from escaping his lips as he looked upon the food and the handsome cottage of neatly tuck-pointed stone and plaster. The thatch atop it was clean and yellow-new, with gentle arches above curved, stained-glass dormers. Before it, the shrubs had been cleared away to make room for beautifully tended raised beds of vegetables and flowers, with all the variety of Nahamkin's garden and none of the chaos. Yellow and white moths fluttered above flowering sweet peas, lush, ripe tomatoes, and minty-green cabbages the size of small boulders. Climbing roses of every color scaled the walls to encircle the second-floor dormers. The air smelled strongly of sweet-burning cherry wood and meaty stew.
"Hello, stranger," said the couple in unison.
"You look near to dropping," the woman observed kindly. "We have plenty of stew, fresh-baked bread, and dark-brewed ale, though we are not blessed with children to share it. You would be most welcome to join us for a moment or an hour to ease your journey, wherever you may be headed."
'That's very kind," Bram said, "but-"
"They say I'm a pretty fair cook," the woman coaxed, a modest smile lifting her fleshy cheeks and crinkling shut her eyes.
"Fair?" boomed her husband, patting his round stomach. "There isn't a better one for leagues, I'll wager. Actually, there isn't another cook for leagues," he confided with a chuckle. "This is a lonely stretch of road, but my Gorsha would be the best cook even if the path was littered with a dozen cottages."
Bram suddenly felt as if he'd been traveling without food for days. He shook his head sadly. "I can't tell you how much you tempt me, but to be honest, I was told not to leave the path for any reason, and-"
The man waved his hand as if to dismiss the notion. "That's just a myth the brownies spread to frighten folks and make themselves laugh," he said. "People leave the trail all the time. Unlike the brownies, who are always taking a person's food, my wife and I ask for nothing but the pleasure of giving sustenance to weary travelers like yourself."
Bram was jarred by the man's use of the dreaded 'brownie" word. Suspicious, he looked back to where he'd come from, remembering the bug creature. "Perhaps," he said slowly, so as not to offend the couple, "but I've had a close call myself, without even leaving the path."