Meadow's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

Meadow steadied herself and started down the hidden path. The buffalo would not follow into the hollow. It stamped and snorted at the smell of rot. She left it above and went on foot. Vesper walked at her side, his root hands twitching. His pumpkin face glowed faint in the dark. Two days ago he had barely spoken. Now he stayed close, a step behind her, and that comfort was enough. The path narrowed between rotted trees. Black sap dripped from the bark. Then the smell grew worse, and Vesper grabbed her arm. Two creatures blocked the way. Once they might have been wolves. Now brown rot split their skins. Their ribs showed. Their eyes ran milky and wrong. One let out a wet, grinding growl. Both crept toward her, low and fast. Meadow had no blade. Her healing gift could not fight them. She knew what she had to do. Her legs still shook from the stag. She dropped to her knees and pressed both palms to the dirt. "Please," she said. "Once more." The ground answered. Roots stirred under her hands. She felt them like her own fingers. She pushed her gift down into the soil, into the living wood beneath the sick things. Roots burst up. Vines whipped around the creatures' legs. They snarled and thrashed. Meadow poured everything she had through the roots. The vines wound tighter. They pulled the creatures down into the earth. The soil closed over them. The growls stopped. Green shoots pushed up where they had stood. The cost hit her at once. Cold spread up her arms. The dark hollow tilted. She tried to stand. Her knees buckled and she pitched forward. Vesper caught her before she struck the ground. His root hands were rough but gentle. He eased her down and knelt over her. His pumpkin face dimmed, then flared, as if searching hers. "Meadow," he rasped. One word. Fear in it. She wanted to tell him she was fine. Her mouth would not form the words. Her eyes closed. The last thing she felt was his hand on her shoulder, holding her steady in the reeking dark. When the world went black, Vesper did not leave. He crouched beside her, root fingers curled around her arm. He turned his glowing face toward the path ahead, then back to her. He could not carry her up. He could not fight what might come. So he stayed, and he watched, and he waited. Meadow lay still on the cold ground. She had cleared the way. But she had used her power twice too fast, with no training to spend it safely. It had emptied her. The source of the rot waited somewhere below, close now. And Meadow could not stand.