I spilled more air and surged like lightning.
The wobbyk reached desperately.
“Here!” he cried.
I snatched one paw.
The effect of his weight was like hitting a wall. Dairnes
cannot carry anything heavy in a glide.
I somersaulted through the air. I wobbled and plummeted. But momentum carried us forward as the sea retreated and there, there it was: the narrow, V-shaped patch of sand.
We plowed in a tangle through bubbling surf that grabbed at us both, tugging at our feet as though willing us to fall and be carried away into the depths.
But one foot somehow found a fragile grip on wet sand. Another foot, and to my amazement, I realized that I still had hold of the wobbyk’s paw, and he had hold of me.
I staggered and we fell into the surf. I sucked salt water into my lungs and coughed.
I wondered if I was going to die.
I wondered if my parents would be mad at me if I died.
The waves were quickly returning, gathering strength to crush us against the cliff face. The first fat drops of rain fell.
“Up!” I gasped. “Climb!”
Black rock lay before us, rock that in a second would be underwater, but we were all frantic claws, scrabbling, fighting for every handhold, slipping, banging elbows and knees.
I pushed the wobbyk up and away.
The wave crashed around me. I was helpless against its power. It lifted me, holding me as I paddled futilely, all sense of direction lost.
This was it.
This was how my life would end.
Foam covered me. Water filled my mouth and forced its way down my throat.
But then I felt it.
Something grabbing the fur at the back of my neck.
It was a tiny paw, a weak grip, and yet it was enough to buy me a moment more.
In the extra second I’d been given, I found a handhold and then a foothold. I windmilled hands and feet, panicked, indifferent to bruises and cuts, and my head came up and out of the water.
Air. Yes. Air.
I climbed. Just ahead of me the wobbyk climbed.
“Look out!” he yelled, and an arrow clattered against the rock, so close it parted the fur near my ear.
Seconds more, and all at once we were over the top of the rocky spur, falling down the far side where no arrow could touch us.
The poachers couldn’t reach us there, not without running their horses down the greensward and across a deep-cut channel.
A burst of lightning lit the sky. The black clouds ruptured, pelting us with icy rain.
I looked at the wobbyk. The wobbyk looked at me.
We breathed.
6.
And You Are a . . . ?
“Greetings,” said the wobbyk. “You’re so very kind to rescue me.” Wobbyks are known for being remarkably polite.
I was not feeling polite.
I was soaked, cold, trembling. And feeling far from safe.
I shook my head. I tried to focus.
The cliff. The poachers. The arrows.
My rattled brain replayed the details of my desperate dive. I had the feeling I would relive that scene many times in dreams, the kind that wake you up at night, gasping and sweating.
The downpour drenched us while lightning carved the clouds. Thunderclaps drowned out the sea’s roar.
I blinked away rain and stared at the wobbyk. He was small, perhaps a third of my size, and comical looking, especially in his waterlogged state. His silver-blue fur was
bedraggled, as were his three tails. Huge white oval ears extended from his head like giant wings.
Everything else about him was round: round head; round, protruding stomach; round eyes, big and shiny as river plums. Even his paws—white, like his ears and muzzle—were round as lily pads. The lower half of his face reminded me of a fox, with its black nose, long whiskers, and upturned mouth that looked perpetually amused. He wore a leather belt low on his sizable belly. Attached to it was a small drawstring pouch.
“We have to hide,” the wobbyk said. “They may still come after us.”
With a sigh, I forced my body, leaden with the dulling effects of fear, upright. The wobbyk was correct. We had to keep moving.
We picked our way down the rocks onto a stretch of sandy beach.
“Walk in the surf,” I suggested. “It will cover our tracks.” We dairnes are experts at concealment.
“I wonder if I might . . . if I might inquire as to whether you have a plan?”
“My plan is to avoid arrows!”
The wobbyk fell silent, head drooping. I felt a bit guilty, so I added, “Let’s make for the shale ahead. Hopefully, our tracks won’t show quite as much there. We’ll climb where
the cliff has collapsed and make our way through the forest. I have to get back to my family.”
“I don’t see anyone following us.”
“And I don’t smell them,” I replied, panting. “But this rain masks sounds and smells as well. We need to get out of here as quickly as we can.”
“My name is Tobble,” said the wobbyk. “I am most grateful to you. And I don’t wish to be a burden.”
“Too late,” I said, only half joking.
I reminded myself that the wobbyk hadn’t brought the poachers.
On the other hand, he certainly had tried to row a boat into a cliff.
“How, by all the Ancients, did you end up stuck in a rowboat?” I asked.
“I was taken prisoner by a pirate ship.”
I blinked. “Did you say—”
“Pirates,” the wobbyk confirmed.
“And how does a wobbyk end up with pirates?”
“The usual way.”
“The usual way?” I asked. “How can there possibly be a usual way to be captured by pirates?”
“If you’re fishing for sticklers and have a full coracle, well, pirates are certain to want your cargo,” Tobble said. He gave a little shrug. “Even pirates like grilled stickler.”
“Do they?”
“Indeed! My brothers managed to leap off the coracle, but I was tangled in the net and they left me.” He didn’t seem upset by this fact but, seeing my disapproving frown, added, “I’m the youngest. My brothers often overlook me.”
There we had something in common.
Tobble studied me. He tilted his head so far to one side, it nearly touched his shoulder.
“Would it be impolite if I were to inquire as to what kind of animal you are? You look like a dog, but you walk upright and you can speak—”
“Dog?” I repeated. “Are you joking?”
“So what are you, then?”
“Hungry, for one thing. Cold, for another. And wet.”
“I, too, am hungry. I am also a wobbyk.”
“And I am a dairne. Of course.” I said it with all the pride I could muster.
Tobble warbled a high-pitched laugh. Even wobbyk laughs are comical. “Yes, and I’m a four-headed wood sprite.” He narrowed his eyes. “Wolf family? Perhaps. But your fur is golden, much finer than a wolf’s coat. Hmm. You can glide, like a flying squirrel. You have a pouch, like a marsupial. You have hands with thumbs, but doglike paws for feet. You stand erect, and you’re a female.”