Baby Penguin's Arc

Chapter 10 of 10

The wind outside the shelter changed pitch. Baby Penguin lifted its head from its mother's feathers. A low scrape ran along the outside wall, slow and heavy, from one corner toward the door. Something big was dragging a claw across the wood. Trailbreaker sat up. He put one finger to his lips. The father froze. The mother pulled Baby Penguin tighter against her chest. The scrape came again, higher this time, above the door hinge. Whatever it was stood taller than a penguin. A huff of breath pushed under the door. It smelled like wet fur and old meat. Snow puffed in through the gap and settled on Baby Penguin's foot. The door shook in its frame. A claw hooked the bottom edge and pulled. The wood groaned. "It smells us," Trailbreaker whispered. "Storm drove it in." He looked at Baby Penguin, then at the door. The gap at the bottom was wide enough for a paw. Baby Penguin was the smallest thing in the room. Baby Penguin was also the slowest. The father stood and put himself between Baby Penguin and the door. The mother pressed Baby Penguin into the back corner. Trailbreaker reached for the driftwood board leaning against the wall. His hand was not steady. Then a sharp bark cut through the wind outside. Not a growl. A bark, clean and hard, the kind that meant business. A second bark answered it, closer to the door. The scraping stopped. The thing on the other side of the wall grunted. Something small and fast moved past the door, snapping and snarling. A voice followed the barks. "Off. Off, you great lump. Go on." The words were clipped and old and unafraid. The heavy thing outside shifted its weight. Baby Penguin heard it back away from the door, then heard it break into a lumbering run across the snow. The barking chased it a short distance and then stopped. A knock came at the door. Three taps. "Travelers inside," the voice called. "I'm coming in before I freeze." Trailbreaker set the board down and opened the door. A small white fox stepped in, shaking snow from a tan coat and a checked scarf. His ears were up. His eyes were pale blue and calm. He shut the door behind him with his hip and stamped his boots on the packed floor. "Frost Whitepaw," he said, nodding to Trailbreaker. He looked past him at Baby Penguin in the corner. "Bear was tracking your smell. Won't come back tonight. Not with me here." Baby Penguin's mother let out a long shaking breath. The father sat down on the floor. Baby Penguin looked at the door, then at the old fox, then at the board Trailbreaker had almost lifted. Its flippers were still curled tight. Outside, the wind kept blowing. Inside, there were four of them now, and the door was shut.