The ghostly form bounded into the fog. Bridget staggered after him.
Passing by a hill of grass, the little silver figure sprang through sharp weeds as tall as John’s knees. Tiny needles pierced Bridget’s flanks as she followed. Then Sebastian dove into a wall of dense shrubbery. Limping from the weed spurs and her broken pads, Bridget paused at the brush line. The stiff leaves were so thick, she couldn’t see ahead.
Sebastian was gone.
“Lord, protect me,” she whispered. Then she jumped in, and plummeted.
You see, the thicket had been a natural wall atop a steep hillside. Bridget rolled through stubborn branches that cut like sharp blades into her thighs and calves. Now understand, the brush had endured regular trims, so it was kept no wider than one of Bridget’s mightier jumps. Even so, it seemed like a stabbing eternity before the young cat came to a rough and tumble halt in a bed of freshly mowed grass, sweet with dew. From somewhere nearby she heard a rush of water.
Bridget tried to stand. Her head rocked about as if it was still twisting over and over down the slope.
“Youh awlwight?” came a shrill voice.
The ailing cat tried to leap to an alert stance, but in her weary and broken state, only her back legs responded. Bridget ended up flipping through an awkward roll onto her back, plopping into the soggy grass.
“Youh awlwight?” repeated the call.
“Obvioudly she awlwight,” answered another.
“She not sayh so,” replied the first.
“Youh teacht me that?” said still another. “Oh yes, yesss, I think she teacht me that. It looked fun, it did. Yes, oh yess!”
To Bridget’s surprise, the pain of her fall helped settle her dizzy brain, and that allowed her to identify the voices. She’d heard such speech before from the mice in Jessica’s pantry. That’s how she halfway understood what this group was saying. And yet there was something different about it.
She glanced about. The fog was thin at the base of the hill, giving her a bigger field of vision, and yet she couldn’t find the tiny black eyes or stringy flopping tails that usually gave away hidden mice. But there was a shuffling in the grass, a visible movement in the stalks and clippings – and it was heading towards her.
That struck her odd. Mice wouldn’t dare approach her. They wouldn’t move at all, unless she was chasing them.
The whole thing grew through her lingering fears into a troubling dilemma.
“Hold there!” she cried out. “Come no closer!”
Four heads popped up, staring at her with curious eyes. Then four more heads appeared. Then five. They looked like mice, but they were huge – about half Bridget’s size – with big, fidgeting teeth and peculiar wiggling noses.
“Rats!” Bridget screamed, leaping away.
“Heyh, where’s she going?” a newcomer called.
Huge trunks of elm, oak, and walnut loomed around her, upholding a canopy of countless green, brown, and red leaves. Bridget left the grassy field behind for their misty shadows. Glancing back, she saw a multitude of shapes the size of John’s hands, all of them scurrying after her.
“Sebastian!” the frightened feline yelled. “Sebastian, where are you?”
The earth rose before her. Through a pile of dead leaves and twigs she ran, when all of a sudden the ground gave way, and she fell into a pool of marsh sand. Beyond it swirled a gurgling channel of cold water, its girth and depth surpassing the tub Jessica used for Bridget’s irregular immersions.
A black shadow charged over Bridget’s head. She glanced up but did not see the swooping form. By the whistle of its wings, she recognized it as a bird, though it had been like no flier she’d ever witnessed. From its dark outline, Bridget suspected it must have been twice her size.
“Lord have mercy,” she whispered.
A harsh, piercing call tore through her. It came from the winds, like the robin’s song, but had no grace or harmony. Even so, Bridget knew it for what it was – the scream of a hunter.
She huddled against the bank, staring into the misty treetops. Somewhere up there, she knew, was a great bird of prey.
Again she felt the wellspring of panic and dismay bubble forth inside her, but this time Bridget fought it down. She understood the ways of the hunter, so the young cat knew that if she gave in to her fears, if she turned her back and fled, the attacker would have her. But if Bridget moved with caution and care, keeping her eyes alert, she had a chance.
A squirrel started chattering above her. Bridget located the critter hanging from an elm branch, clutching an acorn in her front paws as her thick, bushy tail curled about the limb above. The little squirrel took a bite of the shell, then tossed the piece onto Bridget’s head. It landed with a soft smack and slid down her back to rest on her tail, even as another slab of shell impacted her ear.
Though irritated, Bridget said nothing. She didn’t know squirrel speech, and she had no wish to call more attention to herself. But when the squirrel threw a bit of acorn shell hard into her left eye, Bridget gave in to her anger and charged up the slope. At least she tried to, only to feel something latch hard onto a patch of her tail hair. To Bridget’s fortune, the trap didn’t hold; her surge had been strong enough to yank free the snagged fur. Still, it hurt like anything.
Bridget twisted about, set to teach this unwanted interloper a lesson. Her anger wilted before what she saw. For down on the sand was the strangest thing the cat ever imagined. It looked like a circular bone extending out of the water. Its wet gray-green form sat where Bridget had been, its frame curled like her old food dish turned inside out. But its stiff, shiny surface rose and fell in great, rippling spikes. Along its crest lay three great holes. From the center one extended a piece of bone with two hard, fearless eyes and a beak the size of Bridget’s head. In its mouth lay the cat’s lost fur.
Chirping in anger, the squirrel tossed an acorn bit at the water monster. The chip struck the shelled serpent’s snout and bounced away. To Bridget’s amazement, the creature did not respond. The bony head slid inside its bowl-like body and disappeared.
“Old Snappy! Old Snappy!” cried a rat, one of many that had appeared around Bridget on the crest.
The squirrel gave a long squeal.
“She warned youh,” a rat told Bridget. “Gott to listen. Yes, yessss! Ghot to listen.”
“Watch Old Snappy,” said another.
Not knowing what to say or do, Bridget charged into the woodlands. What was this place God had led her to, with big giant birds and herds of rats and attacking squirrels and bony water monsters? Was this hell? Her own private little hell?
A giant shadow loomed before her. In sudden fear Bridget slid to a halt. This new thing dwarfed her, the hill, even the trees! It was horrendous, rearing like a mountain, with four lofty arms stretching out in all directions! But then the winds changed, and she caught its scent. It was deadwood! Real deadwood! Bridget sprang forward with glee. Sliced and assembled deadwood meant but one thing – shelter! For this place had been made by hairless giants!
As she drew near, Bridget could smell the giants’ presence, but it seemed faint and old. This deadwood also differed from what she’d known before, lacking the oil coats, colors, and dusty eddies that marked Jessica’s home. The grayed boards and planks supporting this massive structure seemed bare to the wind and rain, and thus suffered from far more decay. But that didn’t matter, Bridget decided. It still promised shelter.
Bridget circled the circular edifice, checking it out. On three sides it bordered the trees and grass, but along the edge with the sealed wall hole, she found a dragon’s dead zone. That space was empty now, though Bridget could still smell the burned oil and acid drool in the soft rock. Dragons must have slept there, at one time or another.
Unlike Jessica’s home, Bridget found no places where she could escape beneath the structure. It appeared solid all the way around, despite its age and decay. But on one side the deadwood sides had been pulled back, though the top remained. It reminded Bridget of what Jessica’s front room would have been like if the transparent wall had not even existed. She stepped beneath the cover to find no path down to the deadwood floor. The earth simply plunged, so she jumped down. At once she noticed the air warmed, its movement slowed to a crawl. This change thrilled her. These deadwood sides protected her from the cooling breeze!
Falling in love with the place, Bridget thanked God for bringing her there. She curled up in a dark, secluded corner under a sturdy bench. Though dusty, with a few cobwebs, the shelter warmed her, and its isolation helped her block out the horrors beyond. She felt at peace.
As her eyes drew to a close, she spied movement in the far shadows.
Bridget stiffened, focusing on the darkness. The black specter approached with slow, cautious steps, its body hanging close to the drop-wall.
Uncertainty gripped Bridget. She couldn’t make out what the thing was, since it stayed clear of the light, and she couldn’t hope to escape, as it crept ever between Bridget and the outer world. So the cat laid there, trying not to tremble, hoping whatever it was wouldn’t see her. And yet she knew that was impossible – each stride proved it knew her location!
On came the intruder, step by step. Bridget fought to contain her boiling frustrations. Why doesn’t it charge? Come on, she almost called – end this! Rush me! Give me an opening! Oh, come on! Make a move! At least give me a chance to flee!
At that moment the fog must have broken, if only for a second, but it was enough for a moonbeam to fall upon that cavity in the deadwood. It illuminated two huge, flopping ears of rich, brassy fur, hanging from a shaggy head bigger than Bridget’s entire body.
With the light upon him, the rust-red hound realized he was exposed and rose up, issuing a low growl that pulsated from wall to wall.
Bridget knew that she was about to die.