The Scourge (A.G. Henley) - By A.G. Henley Page 0,24
your father?” I ask. “I thought he might be when we first met. He sounded so proud of you.”
“He just wanted credit for his coaching abilities,” Peree says, his voice warm again. “He’s impressed with you. He thinks you’ll be a strong, reliable Water Bearer, like Aloe. Others agree.”
I flush at the compliment. “I’m not sure my people have so much faith in me.” My voice drops. “I’m not sure I have that much faith in myself. When do you think the Scourge will go?”
“I wish I knew. It can’t be much longer though, can it? Speaking of the creatures, let me see the bite.” I offer my arm to him. He unwraps the bandage and moves closer to look at it with only the illumination of the moon. “How does it feel?”
“It still aches, but not bad. Why do you think I didn’t change?”
“Because you’re protected? Because it didn’t break the skin? I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m just glad I don’t need this anymore.” I hear him sheath a knife that I didn’t know he had. The sound is chilling. He rewraps my arm. “So, why did you ask me about the fleshies’ hair?”
I fidget with the worn hem of my dress, reluctant to tell him what I heard.
“What is it, Fenn? What happened down there?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I won’t. Tell me.” He leans closer. That succulent, honeysuckle smell again.
The words tumble out. “I thought I heard one of them speak to me. She asked me for help. It sounded like the partner of the man you shot.”
He whistles softly. “Are you sure? Could you have misheard?”
“Maybe.” I draw my knees up under my dress, hugging them to my body. We always thought someone couldn’t change back, once they began to change. But what if that was Rose I heard? Could we have saved her? Does it take longer to change than we think? Does that mean there’s still a chance I could change? I touch my arm.
“Will you tell Aloe?” Peree asks. I’m not sure if he means about Rose, or the bite.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what any of it means yet.” And I don’t know if I can trust Aloe anymore. I’m ashamed by the thought. Of course I can still trust her. Can’t I?
“Our Councils will need to know if you hear anything like that again. It might mean something’s changing with the Scourge.”
I rest my chin on my knees and rub my eyes. They’re even grittier now.
“You should sleep,” he says. “Would you like me to tell you a story? A bedtime story?”
I smile, and slide down to lie on my side, resting my head on my good arm. “What animal will it be this time? You said you’d tell me about the sheep.”
He laughs. “I have a different story in mind. This was one of my mother’s favorites. Have you heard of a cassowary?”
“Tell me.” I close my eyes, listening to the hum of the crickets in the trees. The fleshies don’t bother them, either. Lucky Lofties, lucky bugs.
“The cassowary was a bird, an unusual bird, that once lived in the forests. It had thick black feathers on its body; a bare, bright-blue head and neck; and it wore a crown. It was as tall as a person, fast, and a fighter, but it couldn’t fly. It made its home on the ground.”
“A fighting, flightless bird as big as a person?” I snort. “That’s impossible.”
“Maybe so. It’s a story. Who knows which ones are true and which aren’t? But this is the story Mother told me.” He settles back against the tree next to me. “There once was a hunter who could take down any animal in the forest. He would sit in the trees for days, waiting for prey, without stirring or even blinking. At first the animals avoided him, but eventually they forgot he was there. When they came a little too close, he’d raise his bow and arrow and strike.
“One day, the hunter went into the forest to hunt for game. He found a tall tree next to a water hole, and prepared himself for a long wait. At midnight he saw his prize. Five giant cassowaries came to the edge of the water hole and circled around it in a happy dance. Very slowly, the hunter took aim at the plumpest bird. Suddenly, all five birds slipped off their feather coats to swim, revealing themselves to be five beautiful sisters. The hunter, who’d trained himself