Baby Penguin's Arc

Chapter 9 of 10

Halfway across the flats, Baby Penguin's flippers began to shake. The board had grown heavy. The stub branch pressed into the soft skin between its flippers, and each gust punched the wood back into its chest. The wind had not slowed. Trailbreaker walked steady beneath the pouch, chin down, one boot after the other. Behind him the rope creaked as the parents kept pace. Baby Penguin squeezed the branch harder. Its flippers were already going numb. A gust hit the board sideways. The wood twisted in Baby Penguin's grip. It caught the edge just before it slipped. Trailbreaker felt the shift and glanced down. "Still got it?" he asked. Baby Penguin nodded against the wood. It did not trust its voice. A second gust came harder. The board wrenched loose from one flipper. Baby Penguin lunged and pinned it back with its beak. Ice bits sprayed over the top edge and stung its eyes. If the board went now, the wind would tear it out of the pouch too. Trailbreaker stopped walking. He had felt the scramble against his chest. He turned his head into the wind and searched the flats. "There," he said. Ahead, a low hump broke the white. A drift had piled against something solid, a small shape roofed with snow, a dark door set into its front. An old shelter, half-buried, forgotten out here for other travelers. Trailbreaker leaned into the wind and walked. The father grunted and pulled the rope tight behind. Baby Penguin held the board with both flippers and its beak, eyes shut. Twenty steps. Ten. The wind screamed across the top edge. Trailbreaker reached the door and shouldered it open. He ducked inside. The parents crowded in after him. The father kicked the door shut with his heel. The wind cut off. The silence was so sudden Baby Penguin's ears rang. Trailbreaker knelt on the packed snow floor. He lifted the board carefully out of Baby Penguin's flippers and set it against the wall. Baby Penguin's flippers stayed curled in the shape of the branch. They would not open. "Easy," Trailbreaker said. He took one flipper between his rough palms and rubbed. "You held it the whole way. That's the whole flats behind us." The mother pressed close and tucked her head against Baby Penguin's. The father sat down heavily and let out a long breath. Baby Penguin's flippers began to sting as the feeling came back. It did not mind the sting. The sting meant the board was down and the wind was outside. Trailbreaker looked at the door. Snow was already piling against the base. He looked back at the three penguins. "We're not walking out of this tonight," he said. "But we don't have to. We're inside." Baby Penguin let its flippers fall open in its mother's feathers. The board leaned quiet against the wall. Outside, the squall went on without them.