Ivory and Bone (Ivory and Bone #1) - Julie Eshbaugh Page 0,30

and sticky. Still, I have other cuts and scrapes on my arms and chin from my fall, and as I work the salve in, these calm and cool and some of the pain eases. Finally, I pour a few drops of honey onto my tongue before I force myself onto my feet.

I decide against pulling on a clean parka. The cuts across my back still throb with pain, and the thought of a hide pressing against them sends a wave of nausea through me. Instead I stay stripped to the waist, my tattered parka tied above my pants. I sling my pack and the extra spear over my arm to leave the wounds on my back exposed to the warm, dry air.

Standing in the murky shade, I notice for the first time how long the shadows have grown since I first became aware of the cat on the other side of the water. The sun is already low in the sky, its rays fading to pale light.

No wonder I’m hungry. At home, my clan has finished eating the evening meal by now. Seal, most likely. Seal served with arrow grass and nettle gathered in the meadow. Right about now Roon is collecting empty mats and Kesh is playing his flute.

I let my eyes fall closed for just a moment, searching my memory for the sound of that flute. A songbird in the tree above me sends out a tune, startling me out of my reverie.

I climb up out of the valley using the blood-soaked spear as a walking stick. The terrain on this side of the river has turned rocky. The ground rises to a broad ridge, and at the crest I overlook a long stretch of rolling land, dotted with clumps of tall trees of all colors—varieties of trees I’ve never seen before. Some have branches that hang down like the fronds of ferns, glowing pale green in the sharply angled light of evening. Others have leaves shaped like open hands.

My eyes sweep over the sprawling view, taking in tree-covered low hills to the east, and to the west, the sea. Near the sea, from a clearing surrounded by trees tall and thick enough that a canoe could be dug out of a single trunk, a wisp of blue smoke rises into the air, before being scattered by the breeze.

I have reached your camp.

I trudge back to the spot where I’d left the dead cat at the side of the river. I realize I can’t leave the carcass here; it’s too close to your camp to risk attracting other predators. Instead, I search the area for fallen limbs, long and light enough to fashion into a makeshift travois.

After collecting two long poles and a shorter one, I set to lashing them together with the cordage I carry in my pack. Lifting the cat is impossible, so I slide the limbs under him and secure him to the poles. The cat’s blood, thick and slippery, soaks my hands, and I’m forced to return to the river to wash them before I can get on my way.

Before leaving the woods, I drape my tattered parka over my shoulders, tying the sleeves around my neck so I can strap the front ends of the travois poles around my waist. In this fashion—my pack over one shoulder, the cat dragging behind me, my back exposed to the air under the shredded remnants of my coat—I start downhill, my eyes locked on the rising smoke, my mind locked on the warm hearth at its source.

About halfway down the slope the clearing ends and the woods begin again, but at the edge of the trees I discover a worn trail. It’s not wide, but wide enough for me to drag the cat behind me. The closer I come to the bottom of the hill the denser the forest becomes, and everywhere I look I spot another unfamiliar plant—crawling vines, broad-leafed ferns, thornbushes covered in tiny white blooms that smell as sweet as honey. The closeness of the trees creates a pocket of silence—the wind dies and a shiver of dread creeps along my spine. I keep my eyes open, but I see nothing but a few squirrels chasing each other from tree to tree. I listen, but I hear nothing but a distant gurgling—somewhere ahead there’s a brook.

Then, not loud but clear, a sound comes from behind me—the snap of a twig. I stop and spin as well as I can in my makeshift harness,