A Hero's Curse (4 page)

I try to jerk my arms out of his grip. I feel betrayed by those closest to me. Again. Uncle Cagney pins my arms to my sides. “Lady Ess, I know you’ve been hurt.” His beard brushes past me as he looks over his shoulder again, and then back at me. He continues in the same gentle voice. “Some people say there are no heroes in the face of pain. That if the hurt is bad enough, the hero will break. They’re wrong. That’s just what makes a hero. They’re the ones who take the pain. Stand in the gap. Take on more hurt than they deserve and then take on others’ pain as well.”

I feel a tremor in the ground through my soft shoes even before I hear the sound of hoof beats. “The heroes and old Champions have heard the crack of the whip and folks pleadin’, and they’ve come to stand in the gap.” He grips my shoulders hard and pulls me into a hug. I stay stiff and turn my face away.

“Someday you’ll have the choice to stand in the gap, Lady Ess. We all do. I know it’s hard to stop thinking about your own hurtin’. It’s hard to put it aside. But that’s what a hero does. It’s what’ll make you a hero.”

I shake my head again
. I will never let go of my hurt. It’s part of who I am.
I redirect my thoughts to what I’m hearing. Hoof beats.

Uncle Cagney squeezes my arms. “I’m going to take this group back toward Plen.” I feel him jerk his head toward the coming troops. “You and Tig make your way out of sight and off the road the best you can back to the farm. Stay hidden there until one of us comes for you—”

“That could be weeks!” I interrupt, panicked.

“It should be the day after tomorrow,” says Uncle Cagney. “We’ll make it through by then. There’s still a bit of war blood left in the heroes.” The hoof beats sound close enough that someone will surely see us. “It’ll likely be Keira coming for you. Stay hidden. I know you can, you know more than you let on. Use the cat door in the back to get into the house. I know that’s how you’ve been getting out at night. Your parents told me.” I fail to hide my surprise that my secret is such common knowledge. “You shouldn’t have any trouble. Even mercenaries won’t go so close to the Valley of Fire if they think they’ve no prize to catch.”

Uncle Cagney lifts me and carries me in three great bounds to the western edge of the road where I feel him set me behind a prickly bush. “Demon’s Claw” we call it. “Rub the shiny for luck,” he chuckles. He takes my hand and rubs it on his head. “Now, go!” he whispers fiercely. He bounds back across the road. I hear the sound of metal on metal, and my stomach does a flip. He has drawn his sword. I hear him running toward the horses, and he lets out a roar that sends chills up my spine.

I expect any moment to hear the sounds of battle, but instead I hear Tig whisper in my ear, startling me. I’d forgotten he’s here. “He’s running.”

“What?” I say, almost in a yell.

“Quiet!” hisses Tig. “He’s taking off around to the east of the troops.” As if on cue I hear the faint yell of someone shouting, “Catch him!” I hear the horses change direction and the inarticulate yells of more men. The sound of hoof beats leaves the hard road and pounds into the valley off to the east.

“Tig?”

“They won’t catch him before he makes it to the tree line,” says Tig, “and they won’t be able to follow him in that scrub on horseback.” We wait a moment longer, until I can barely hear the sounds of horses and men. “He made it,” says Tig. “We better get home.”

Chapter 4

I
know Mom and Dad don’t tell me much about days in the palace, or being First Champion, or old battles—especially Dad—but this is a war that they planned, and I’m going to be caught in it somewhere,” I vent to Tig as we walk across the dry rolling hills, between the road and the Mar. “And I deserve to know!”

“Sounds like your uncle and parents have been planning this little rendezvous for a while,” says Tig.

“Why didn’t they tell me?” I seethe. I don’t know whether to feel angry or sad or unimportant that they kept this a secret. I decide not to discriminate by choosing just one. I feel everything at once.

“Probably because you would have thrown a fit if they had told you they were planning on reuniting the heroes and engaging in war and open rebellion against Brogan without you,” says Tig in his most annoying casual voice.

“I would not have thrown a fit,” I sputter. Am I that immature? Is that how my parents see me?

Tig continues all in one breath, in a matter of fact, sing-song voice, “Then you would have insisted on going, which wouldn’t keep you safe, or give your parents, and especially your dad as former Champion, the time he needed to assess the situation and organize the heroes against Brogan.”

I think about that for a minute. Maybe it is immature of me. “I still think they should’ve told me.”

Tig chuckles. He announces when we pass the Jorgenson farm for the second time that day, keeping well out of sight in the low hills. The Jorgenson farm may be the last farm on the road before our own, but it is still a couple of miles to our house. The lower valley folks think the Jorgensons are asking for trouble, living so close to the Valley of Fire. They’re a nice family, but really poor. I think they moved here because it was cheap. Jensen is the exception to the nice part. He is their oldest son; I think he’s eleven. He thinks it’s fun to throw caterpillars at me because I can’t see. I hate the way hairy caterpillars feel when they crawl on my skin, but I dislike even more squishing a caterpillar accidentally because I didn’t see it. Jensen had better take good care of Sassafras, or I’ll have to beat him up again after this is all over.

It was between the Jorgenson farm and our farm that I found Tig almost eight years ago. I let my mind wander back to that day. I had already been blind for a couple of years. I was walking with Mom and Dad back from the valley market. “Essie, do you want to ride?” Mom had asked.

Of course. I always wanted to ride. Mom and Dad stopped to rearrange their packs. We hadn’t brought the cart because the axle broke that week. Dad was picking up steel bands to fix the axle. It wasn’t bad. I liked walking. I liked riding better, though. Dad was wearing a big leather pack, but he put me above it, on his shoulders. I liked the breeze on Dad’s shoulders and the easy way he walked. We had only been going for a few minutes when I heard it. A meow.

“Dad, stop!” I said. He didn’t hesitate. He probably thought I needed to find a bush. He set me down, and Mom took my hand, but I pulled away and trotted off to the left side of the road.

“What is it, honey?” asked Mom.

I heard Dad set his pack down in the road.

“Cat,” I said.

“A what?” asked Dad. His tone told me he was tired.

“Cat. Shhhhh.” I stood still for several seconds before I heard it again. A scuffle in the dirt. The tiniest meow. I dropped to all fours and quietly followed the sound. I heard Mom coming up behind me, but I waved her off. The scuffle stopped, and I had to sit for a few seconds.

“What do you hear, Essie?” said Mom over my shoulder.

“Do you see it?” I asked.

“See what, Essie?” She asked.

“Cat.”

“No honey, I don’t see a cat.”

I listened hard. There it was, a scuffling again. It was coming from underground. “It’s underneath,” I said.

“Underneath what?” Mom sounded like she didn’t believe me.

“Underneath the dirt.”

“A cat is underneath the dirt?” Mom sounded incredulous.

“Please Mom, it’s trapped!” I pleaded.

“Keira, let me.” Dad’s heavy footfalls came right up next to me. “Where is it, Brightstar?” I pointed where I had heard the dirt shuffle. Dad knelt and put a hand on my shoulder. With the other hand I heard him moving the grass and dirt in front of us. “Well, well, good ears, girl. There is a hole here.” He took my hand and guided it to the hole. “Feel the hole and the dirt. Tell me if it’s fresh.” 

I felt the hole. The air was soft and cool coming out of the ground. “I don’t know,” I said.

“The ground here is hard. This hole is old. It’s been abandoned. That doesn’t mean nothing lives here—there could be vipers here or some other creature that’s looking for some shade—” Dad said.

“Cat,” I interrupted.

Dad was quiet for a moment. “Hm. you think so huh? Well.” He picked me up and set me aside a few feet. I heard him start to move dirt and smelled the dry dust in the air.

“Don’t hurt it. It’s little,” I said.

“Okay,” grunted Dad and he continued to paw for a couple more minutes. “Keira, come here.” I heard Mom walk over to Dad. “Look at this little guy.” 

Mom sounded excited. “Essie, come here.” She took a couple of steps over to me, took my hand and helped me trot back. Dad was still on his knees. I felt his great, dusty hand take mine and guide it to a little ball of fur in his hand. The ball of fur hissed and spit and then sneezed.

Dad chuckled. “Good ear, Brightstar.”

Dad cupped my hands together and put the ball of fuzz in them. I cradled it to my chest.

“You were right, it looks like a cat,” he said, “but this wasn’t its nest. It must have just crawled in here when it heard us coming by. I don’t know where it might have come from. I don’t think it could have come from the Jorgensons’. That’s quite a ways for a little guy like this. It looks like it just opened its eyes a few days ago,” he finished.

“What color are its eyes?” I asked.

“Green,” said Mom. “Very green. But they might change. Some kittens’ eyes change color as they grow older.”

“I like that his eyes are green,” I declared. “Can I keep him?”

“I think you should,” said Dad. “You rescued him. He wouldn’t have made it through the night out here without a nest or a mama.”

“What color is it?” I asked.

“Gray. And dusty,” said Mom.

I cradled the little gray ball all the way home. That night “Tig” spoke. He cried for his family and asked for milk. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad. I was too excited, and a talking cat was so strange I was worried they might take him away.

I know others can hear and understand Tig if he’s careless—I’ve been blamed for his sarcastic remarks more than once. Tig and I keep his ability to talk a secret. It’s too unusual to share. I don’t know any other animals who can talk. I’ve spent many luckless hours with Sassafras, trying to get her to ask politely for an apple core. Maybe it’s magic. I like the mystery, and it makes both of us feel special.

Tig bumps against my leg, bringing me back to the present. “Excuse you,” he says absently.

We find the trail that follows the meandering path of the Mar and stick to that, making the going just a little faster. The river Mar is the defining feature of our realm. It’s even what our kingdom is called: the Kingdom of Mar. The river snakes out of the Valley of Fire taking rich black dirt into the whole province. It used to flood once a year, but that hasn’t happened in a long time.

The gravel is hard and packed under my leather shoes. The new soles feel perfect. I like the softer leather. The shoes don’t last as long, but they mold to my feet so I know more about the ground. They also help me keep my balance or stay quiet during a hunt. Not that I make the kill. That’s Tig’s expertise. Tig sneezes. He’s a few feet ahead of me and a little to the right. “When do you think we’ll hunt again?” I ask, breaking the silence that has only lasted a couple of minutes.

Tig grunts in response. “Maybe tonight. I don’t know about taking you along, though. You made so much noise last time.”

I grip my stick a little tighter. “Oh really? I wasn’t the one sneezing every few seconds.”

“Well, I wasn’t the one kicking up dust everywhere,” Tig retorts.

I stop in my tracks. “Excuse me? You were upwind. I had to sift through the smell of cat during the whole hunt.”

Tig stops, too. “You mean the wonderful smell of Tigrabum? Lucky you. I wondered why you were hanging out back there,” he says, ending with the “rrrt” that I know is his chuckle.

That makes me grin inside, but I keep my voice dry. “You think pretty highly of yourself for a little guy. Conceit is a weird disease—you’re the one who has it but it ends up making me sick.” It sounds like he wants to respond, but he sneezes again instead. “You should grow some legs and get up out of the dust,” I say.

“Grow some legs? What if they get too long and gangly like yours?” he asks in mock horror.

I poke toward him with my stick, but he has already moved to the other side of the trail. It’s true that I am tall and a little on the bony side. I’m not clumsy—but it is one more thing to make me feel self-conscious around others.

“Wish it would rain,” Tig says in a muffled tone that tells me he is rubbing his nose with a paw.

“Really?” I ask, my tone incredulous.

“Yes,” he says, “as long as I’m inside and there’s no chance of getting wet.” I start up the rise in front of us again, feeling the crunchy gravel turn to swishing sand and then back to bigger stones.

“Oh, it doesn’t have to rain for you to get wet. I could always throw you in the river . . .” Tig lets out a low yowl. My mouth twitches. He hates wet. I guess I don’t blame him. His coat is full of rich, thick fur—the kind that gets completely waterlogged, adds ten pounds, and feels like a big lump of living slime.

With my stick I consciously brush the coarse sage that clings to the side of the trail ahead of us. Assassin vipers like to crawl under the sage during the day, and they can strike if they’re startled. If they’re around, I like to let them know I’m coming. I top an embankment and get a blast of dust in my face. I splutter and rub my eyes. My eyes run and the dirt cakes around them on dusty days like today, which is most days. It doesn't seem fair that even though they don't work, they still sting like crazy when dust gets in them.

The trail finally curves sharp to the right, leaving the Mar and following the pipeline Dad built to bring water to our holding tank. We have followed the pipeline in silence for a moment when Tig utters a low growl and bounds off to the right. He does that a lot. Sometimes he’s gone for minutes and sometimes hours. It bugs me when we’re doing something and I don’t have his eyes to guide me, but he is a cat after all.

Something interrupts my wandering thoughts. I freeze, my stick hovering in the air. I push my senses out around me, listening, feeling, smelling . . . A change has made me pause. I grip my stick tighter and adjust my feet to a more balanced stance. I try to identify what it was.

Grasshoppers—they had been singing off to my left. Now it’s quiet.

Tig. I whirl and swing my stick in a low arc, but he has already pounced on my shoe. I shout and kick out, mostly as a surprised reflex, but he’s gone.

“Nice one, but you have to admit you messed up by letting me hear you before you were ready to spring,” I say.

Tig answers from behind me. “This. Little guy. Just. Killed. Your. Shoe!” he says in short breaths. He’s probably licking himself.

“Fair enough,” I say. “Watch out for those hoppers next time. They’ll give you away.”

I have the little pack Uncle Cagney had carefully filled for me, and despite its small size, I am looking forward to taking it off. I stuffed too many of my treasures into this bag for a two-day trip. I swing my stick carelessly in front of me. It’s a wonderful piece; Dad carved it from a willow branch for me last fall on my eleventh birthday.

It is late afternoon when we finally top the familiar ridge between the river Mar and our farm. Unbidden I think of how different this climb was just a couple of days ago, before Uncle Cagney came and our world broke. I hear the water from the pipeline trickling into the ancient wooden holding tank we use for irrigation. The water in the tank has a low hollow sound. I can imagine our fields and house, and wish Mom was on the porch, telling us to hurry up.

“Uh oh,” says Tig. Before I can ask him to explain, I hear the shout.

“There she is!” The thud of people moving reaches me. My heart is already racing. The smell of horses, strangers, and sweat reaches me. I hear the pounding of boots and the swish of dry corn stalks as someone runs toward us through the field. This is all wrong. I can’t move. I try to tell my body to act, but my muscles are frozen. I can’t even make my voice work.

Tig grabs my leg with a claw. Feeling returns—sharp, painful feeling. “Let’s go!” he yowls.