17

 

SARA HAD NO idea how much time had passed when noises penetrated the fog of exhaustion surrounding her. She wasn’t sure how long the sounds had been approaching while she toiled on, unaware of anything other than placing one foot in front of the other, but this was not the background noise of moisture and furtive life that was so natural it could be ignored.

She stopped in her tracks. It sounded like the progress of a large creature. And it was getting uncomfortably close. Could Saylish and Malora have recovered from the cold-burr’s numbing power and be pursuing her? Could they travel quickly enough to overtake her? Sara had to admit that the burden of Froggy had slowed her considerably. She also had to acknowledge that the Muckles were long-time residents of the swamp and likely had antidotes for cold-burr at their disposal, too. Swamp-craft was where she herself was sorely lacking. It could be that the Muckles had all manner of ways and means of which Sara was woefully ignorant.

Once again she kicked herself for her arrogance in assuming she could wander off half-cocked and set everything right on her own.

No time for regrets now. If I ever get through this and see Granny again, I swear I’ll listen more and think more and dive in head first a lot less.

Exhaustion and the strange acoustics of the swamp rendered Sara’s hearing directionless. She couldn’t tell from where the sounds were coming. She looked around for someplace to hide, but there was no way she could conceal both herself and Froggy before whomever or whatever it was would be upon them.

Moving as quickly as her tired limbs and tired mind could manage, she released her grip on the travois boards and grabbed the rubberized pouch still hanging in a limp lump from her belt. She widened its opening, tilting the dark interior toward the sunlight. Deep inside, bright reflections winked as the sun’s rays glanced off the remnants of the shattered bottle that had contained lemon-weed tea.

With ginger care, Sara reached into it and extracted a particularly long, jagged shard of glass. A bit of silver filigree that had ornamented the bottle was still fastened to one end. She gripped it like the hilt of a dagger. Straddling the inert form of Froggy, feeling grim and protective, she brandished her weapon before her. Unsure of where her opponent might materialize, she scanned in all directions. Impromptu dagger held high, Sara bared her teeth, trying to look fierce and formidable. She tried to ignore that she was bedraggled, begrimed, and just plain scared.