The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (16 page)

The girl has barely started to climb when a rumbling noise makes her pause. She and Mara look toward the sound. It’s a wall of churning, muddy water, tumbling down the mountain toward them.

Mara launches past Carella’s daughter up into the ditch. She scrambles over mud and stones, through skin-ripping branches, still looking for a place to tuck the tiny girl.

A head peeks down from around a boulder. It’s Reynaldo. “Hand her to me!” he hollers, reaching for her. Mara braces against the side of the ditch so she can lift the tiny girl with both hands. Reynaldo plucks her from Mara’s grasp, and Mara darts back down the way she came.

“Mara!” Reynaldo calls.

Below her, Carella’s daughter has slipped in the mud to her belly, arms and legs splayed. Her wide eyes are a startling white contrast to her muddy face and hair. “Help!” she cries.

The wall of water is upon them, and Mara has no time to be gentle. She grabs a nearby manzanita branch with one hand; with the other she lunges down, grabs the girl’s cold, slick arm, and gives it a tremendous yank.

The girl screams, but the sound is cut off by water filling her mouth and nose.

Mara’s arms threaten to rip from her sockets as water sucks the girl down, but she refuses to let go, pulling with all her might. Gradually, the girl’s soaked head breaks through the whitewater, then her shoulders. One final tug, and the girl’s body is more on the bank than in the water. She lies perfectly still. Blood pours from a gash on the side of her head.

The water level is still rising. Mara stretches farther, hooks the girl’s armpit, and drags her up even higher, until only her toes trail in the water. One foot is now bare.

Mara collapses on her back. Her arms are rubbery, and her temples have a sharp, squeezed pain from so much effort. She turns her head to regard the girl beside her, half expecting her to be limp and dead.

The girl convulses once, hard. Then she coughs, and something that is half floodwater, half vomit dribbles from her mouth.

Joy surges in Mara’s chest, as brilliant as a rising summer sun. She digs her heels into the mud bank for leverage, then helps the girl sit up. “That’s it,” she murmurs as the girl continues to heave. “Just cough it all out.”

“Is she all right?” It’s Reynaldo. He lowers himself to their position, using rocks and scrub for purchase.

“I think so. She has a bad gash on her head. And I may have hurt her when I pulled her out. But . . . I think so.”
I saved her
. The truth of this marvelous fact fills her limbs with tingling warmth. Maybe she can save them all.

“We should get moving,” Reynaldo warns. “The water is still rising.”

The sky chooses that moment to dump vicious streamers of rain, and Mara blinks water from her eyes. “The others? Did they . . .”

“All safe on the ridge.”

She breathes relief. “Let’s go, then.” To Carella’s daughter, she says, “Can you climb?”

The girl coughs one more time, but she nods, and Mara marvels at her bravery. She can’t be more than five or six, but she stayed behind to help everyone else. Now her lungs must be on fire, her head pounding, her shoulder stinging, but instead of fear or pain in her eyes, Mara sees only determination.

“What’s your name?” Mara asks.

“Teena.”

“All right, Teena. Let’s get up on that ridge, then we’ll let you rest.”

12

T
HE tiny girl’s name is Marlín. The brothers Reynaldo discovered in the cellar are Benito and Hando. There are also Alessa, Quintoro, Rosa, Marco, and Jaime. They sit huddled on the ridge, shivering in the rain, while Mara checks everyone over. The gash on Teena’s head is not deep, so Mara tears a strip from Julio’s saddle blanket and uses it to stanch the flow of blood.

“I’m not sure what to do about your shoes,” she says to the girl.

Teena shrugs. “I don’t need shoes,” she says, kicking off her remaining one. Then her face freezes. Her chin trembles.

“What is it?” Mara says. “Are you hurt somewhere else?”

She shakes her head, staring at the discarded shoe. It lies on its side, a leather tassel dragging in the mud. It is worn through at the heel. She has been walking in near-useless shoes the whole time. “Mamá and me, we went to the tanner to get my feet measured. Because I’m so big now. But the bad men came.”

“We’ll get you some new shoes. It might take a while, but we’ll do it.” Even as she says it, Mara knows it won’t be enough. It’s not the shoes that Teena misses.

“She let herself die on purpose,” Teena says, still staring at the shoes. “So we could get away.”

Mara’s throat tightens. “She loved you very much.” She can hardly get the words out. What must it be like to have parents who would sacrifice their own lives for you?

Little Marco has an ugly gash just below his knee. The others seem to be in relatively good shape, though they huddle together in shivering groups, waiting for the rain to stop. Mara grimaces. It’s safe enough to have a fire, now that clouds choke the sky. But unless they find shelter, the driving rain makes it impossible.

Quintoro wraps an arm around his little sister, Rosa, who has been quietly crying ever since they escaped the flood. Adán digs at the earth with a stick, poking and shoving in frustrated bursts. Julio sits propped against the trunk of a small cottonwood, eyes closed, his beautiful face raised to the rain. His breathing is shallow, his face pale.

“Everybody up,” Mara orders, getting to her feet. “It’s too cold to sit still.” And too depressing.

“We need rest,” Reynaldo says. “The little ones are exhausted.”

Mara shakes her head. “We’re exposed up here on the ridge. Once the storm is over, we’ll be visible to anyone within half a day’s travel. So we move now and rest when we find shelter.”

Everyone grumbles as they get to their feet. After she helps Julio stand, he wraps his arms around her and leans against her. His skin is feverish, and she can feel the pulse at his neck—fast and fluttery like butterfly wings. “I love you,” he says.

“Prove it by getting well,” she answers.

She and Adán help him mount the horse. “You should tie me down,” Julio says, even as he lists to the right.

Mara swallows hard. Then she mounts up behind him and puts an arm around his waist. He winces at the contact. “I’ll hold you” Mara says.

They set off down the mountain. There is no trail, so they must go carefully, slipping through mud and navigating outcroppings and stunted trees. Below them, the fault has become a churning river, thick with mud and detritus. Above, the sky continues to dump rain. Mara wonders if she’ll ever be warm and dry again.

She holds Julio close to keep him upright, feeling his heartbeat against her chest. There is no way to avoid the wound on his lower back, and though he is bravely stoic, the occasional jostling step of their mount makes him gasp. She buries her face between his shoulder blades and breathes his scent, wishing she could somehow send her own warmth and vitality into his body.

They walk for hours, until Alessa plunks onto the ground and bursts into tears.

Reynaldo hurries over to her.

“What is it?” Mara calls.

“Her feet,” Reynaldo says. “She’s been walking with blisters. Now her feet are ripped to shreds.”

“My feet hurt too,” says Rosa.

“Mine too,” says Hando.

Mara takes a deep breath. “Everyone’s feet hurt,” she says. “But we have to be brave. Alessa, if you promise to hold on to Julio and keep him from falling, you can trade places with me.”

Alessa brightens. “I can do that.”

The saddle isn’t big enough for two adults anyway, and the edge had been digging into Mara’s rear. She plants a kiss behind Julio’s ear and dismounts, then helps Alessa up behind him.

“Can I ride the horse too?” someone asks.

“Me too!” says another.

Mara is careful to keep her voice calm and patient. “When Alessa’s feet are better, everyone can take turns helping Julio.”

Hando eyes the other packhorse, but he says nothing. Mara will let the children ride the second horse if she has to, but she’s not sure the rest of them are up to carrying the supplies. Not without more food to give them strength.

She takes the lead this time, keeping an eye out for shelter as she goes, but her heart is sinking. She wants to save them. Every single one. She hoped a flash flood would be the worst they encountered. But maybe it will be something little that eventually kills them all. Something insignificant. Like blistered feet.

The clouds are beginning to break and the sun is low on the horizon when Mara spots a large overhang of layered sandstone. The ground beneath is not entirely dry, but it’s flat and littered with deadfall that has been trapped there by the wind. Some of it might be dry enough for a fire.

She sets the children to work collecting wood while she and Adán quickly line a pit. Within an hour, they are crowded around a cheery fire. Several peel off outer clothing layers and drape them on nearby rocks to dry. As the sun edges behind the shattered peak, Mara finds a bit of gladness inside herself, for they are nearly to the bottom of the mountain and will soon move into the desert.

Her flour sack is soaked, and the remaining flour will turn moldy and useless for baking, so she scoops out a bunch of the sticky stuff and stirs it into a potful of boiling water. At least water is no longer in short supply.

She adds bits of bacon and a few of her precious spices. The result is disgusting—more paste than soup, with a gritty texture that sticks in her teeth. But it’s nourishing, and even though the children wince and swallow quickly, they don’t complain. Everyone goes to sleep without the empty ache of hunger.

They wake to morning sun and screaming.

Mara launches upward, reaching for her bow and seeking the source of danger even before her mind is fully awake. Deep in the overhang, pressed against the sandstone wall, little Hando sobs, clutching his right arm to his stomach.

Rosa stands beside him, looking down in horror. She’s the one who is screaming.

“What is it?” Mara demands. “What’s wro—”

Something behind Hando moves. No, writhes. Several somethings. Twisting and sliding and . . .

Vipers.

“Be very, very still,” she says, though she knows it’s too late for him. “Everyone else get back. Now!”

As they hasten to comply, something black and hot clouds Mara’s vision. She led them here. She made them take shelter beside a vipers’ nest. She should have scouted the site thoroughly before bedding down.

Mara creeps toward Hando, who is as still as a stone though tears leak from his pleading eyes. “That’s it, Hando. You’re doing fine.” Behind him, the vipers mix and tumble like giant worms. She hears the hiss of a rattle.

“I’m going to reach down and snatch you up,” she says. “Ready?”

He nods.

Before her pounding heart can become paralyzing terror, she grabs his arms and yanks him backward. His feet drag as she darts from the overhang into a clear blue day.

They need to get farther away. Snakes can move with astonishing speed if they want to. But she only has moments left to save Hando. She compromises, dragging him only a few steps more.

“Show me the bite,” she orders. “Everyone else, keep an eye on those snakes! Grab some rocks in case they move toward us.”

Hando pushes up his sleeve, revealing a red, swollen spot with two tiny puncture marks just below the elbow. A small snake, then. Maybe he didn’t take much venom.

She grabs her knife from her belt, unsheathes it. “This is going to hurt, but I have to do it now. Understand?”

He nods, lower lip quivering.

Hando hisses as she sweeps her blade across the bite. The skin parts, and blood wells. She gives a quick thought to possible cavities in her teeth but decides it doesn’t matter; her larger body can handle the venom much better than his anyway.

She places her lips on his filthy arm, sealing the wound. Closing her eyes against revulsion, she sucks a mouthful of blood. Coppery tanginess bursts warm across her tongue as she turns her head to spit. She sucks again. Spits again.

Hando whimpers as she works. “Kill as many as you can!” someone yells. “But don’t get too close.” Rocks pound the ground nearby, and she almost looks up to see what’s happening, but she forces herself to keep sucking and spitting. The urge to swallow is almost unbearable, even though the taste is revolting.

At last she moves her head away. “Water!” she yells, and a water skin is placed in her hand as if by magic. She rinses and spits several times. Finally she lets herself swallow.

She pours the rest of the water over Hando’s arm, then pokes around the wound, encouraging the cleansing blood to flow.

Hando asks in a trembling voice, “Am I going to die?”

Yes, probably.
She reaches down to cup his chin and looks him directly in the eye. “If the bite wasn’t deep, if the venom was close to the skin, then maybe not. But it will hurt badly for about an hour. It will be the worst hurt you’ve ever had.” Of its own accord, her thumb sweeps along his jawline. “When the pain starts to go away, you’ll get sick. I’ll need you to be very brave.”