The Scourge (A.G. Henley)

CHAPTER Eight



Peree backs up. I move, too, one hand on his back.

“A tiger? Are you sure?” I whisper.

“Do you remember the story? It’s a big animal, yellowish-orange with black markings on its body. What else can it be?”

“What’s it doing?” Before he can answer, I hear other sounds. Whimpering and mewling. “Peree, it has babies!”

“I think that’s the problem.”

“You can’t kill their mother, they’ll die, too!” So few large animals are left. The idea of killing one—especially an unknown one, maybe even a tiger—leaving her offspring to die feels very wrong. “Can we go around her and still get outside?”

“The fleshies are out there.” His voice is dipped in dread. Now I hear the moans of the creatures beyond the cave mouth. “We’re trapping the tiger between us and them. There’s another passage, but she’s blocking the way to it.”

“Let’s go back,” I say.

The animal's scream rips through the passageway.

“She’s coming this way,” he says. “Go back down the tunnel—now.”

“No. I’m staying with you.”

“Don’t argue! I’ll be right behind you.”

“Peree–” The animal’s claws scrabble on the rock, maybe five paces away.

“Run!” he yells. My heart spasms with fear, but I don’t move, unwilling to leave him. “Get moving, Fenn!” He pushes me backward, and I finally run.

The animal snarls again, and Peree cries out. I clatter to a stop, unsure if I should keep going or try to help him. An arrow springs off the bow. The tiger whimpers. I take a few steps back the way I came, calling to Peree.

“Here,” he says, his voice strained.

“What is it? What’s wrong? Did you shoot her?” I hear the tiger whining, not far away. Her young still cry, and the flesh-eaters howl.

“Had to,” he says through clenched teeth. “She attacked me.”

I kneel down beside him. “Where are you hurt?”

He places my hand on the outside of his thigh. Blood slicks my fingers as I probe the wound. It’s shallow but wide, with ragged edges. I pull out the pouch Marjoram sent with me, squeezing and sniffing each smaller pack inside until I find the paste of agrimony and yarrow leaves. Peree hisses as I mop the blood and pat the mixture into place.

“This is my fault,” I whisper. “If I hadn’t said not to kill her, if you hadn’t had to push me away, you wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“Not your fault,” he says. “Should’ve . . . focused on my target.”

“That’s my point, you were focused on me, and you shouldn’t have had to be.” I dig Calli’s extra dress out of my pack and tear the bottom into strips. Fumbling with the cloth, I wrap it around his leg and tie it off. He moans, his body shaking. I hold his hand, wishing there was more I could do.

“Can you walk?” I ask, when the shudders begin to slow.

“One way to find out.” He makes a move to stand, and I put my arm around him to help. He limps forward a few steps. “I’ll manage."

I listen for the animal, but I can’t hear her ragged breath anymore. “Is she dead?”

“I think so.”

I bend down to find the body, and stroke her coarse fur. She smells of dust and scrubland, but of something far wilder, too. Where did she come from, and how did she survive the flesh-eaters and still feed her litter?

“Do you really think she’s a tiger?” I stand, supporting him again. He lays his arm across my shoulders.

“I’ve never seen anything like her.”

“What do we do about the young?”

“If we leave them, they’ll starve.” He pauses. “We could give them to . . .”

The flesh-eaters groan, like they know his thoughts. I tense. “No.”

“Starvation isn’t any kinder,” he says.

“No! The Scourge has taken enough. We’re not giving them this, too.”

He squeezes my shoulders. “Okay, then. Why don’t you go on? I’ll take care of them.”

I shake my head. “I’ll stay. We’re not separating anymore, remember?”

We walk toward the yipping babies. I know touching them will make what we have to do even harder, but I can’t help myself. I reach out and find a tiny warm body, cradling it to my chest. Its teeth prick my fingers like tiny sewing needles.

Tears fill my eyes. “Peree . . . ”

“We can’t leave them,” he says, “and we can’t take them with us. We barely have enough food between us.”

I place the baby back with its littermates and stumble down the passage. Sliding to the floor, I press my hands over my ears. A few minutes later, Peree leans against the wall next to me. His breathing is uneven.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I couldn’t do it.”

He doesn’t speak for a minute. “When I was first learning to hunt, Shrike and I came across a possum. He wanted me to shoot it. I couldn’t. I was ashamed, but he hugged me and said, ‘Never confuse compassion with weakness.’ I haven’t forgotten his words.” He shifts his pack onto his back. “We’d better get moving. I don’t know how long I’m good for.”

I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, and jump up. “We should go back.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Even if we find the Waters soon, which isn’t likely, we still have a long walk back.”

“Exactly, so let’s see if we can find something before we have to turn around.”

“Peree, I don’t–”

He limps away. I catch up and put my shoulder under his arm to support him. The groans fade behind us. Loathing for the Scourge leaves me trembling.

“I hate them. They ruin everything,” I say.

“I know.”

“I can’t help wishing . . . ”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I mutter.

He turns to me, his lips near my ear. “Tell me.”

I shrug, covering the little shiver that moved down my body. “Do you ever think about how things would be different without them? I know it’s pointless, but I can’t help picturing what it would be like if we could live wherever we wanted. Groundlings and Lofties, I mean. We could all live on the ground, or in the trees.”

“Would your people want to? Live with us, I mean?”

I consider his question. Some might be willing. Fox and Acacia. Bream, maybe even Aloe. Then I think of Adder or Thistle living side by side with Lofties, and I sigh. “Some would, some wouldn’t. There’s a lot of distrust.”

“What about you? Do you trust me?”

I hesitate. “I think so.”

He chuckles. “Honesty. Another quality I admire.” He stumbles, and grunts in pain.

“Are you okay? Do you need to stop?”

“I’m fine.” His teeth are clenched again.

“Oh, I can trust you? Really? You’re lying already! We should go back.” I pull him to a stop. He doesn’t argue this time. I’m about to turn us around when I hear something, something barely audible. Peree starts to speak, but I quiet him and focus on the sound.

“I think I hear water!” I say. “Can you hear it?”

“No, but your hearing is better than mine. Let’s try to follow it.”

“What about your leg?”

“Come on, Fenn, the Waters have to lead outside. And we’ve got to be close if you can hear it!”



Except we aren’t close. Hours, many winding passages, and a cavern later, and the sound of the water is still no stronger than a trickle. I can understand why no one has found the waters before. I have better-than-average hearing, but I can’t seem to get a consistent fix on the sound. It teases me, sometimes growing, sometimes almost fading altogether. Peree sits with his back against the wall of the tunnel. He’s had to rest often, and he isn’t even trying to hide the pain in his voice anymore. I sit beside him.

“What do you want to do?” I ask.

“Keep going.”

“Peree–”

“We keep going.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re stubborn?”

He sips from his oilskin, and passes it to me. “Once or twice.”

“We’re running out of water, the torch is almost gone, and we don’t seem like we’re getting any closer. We’ve got to get you back.”

He doesn't speak right away. “I’m not going back.”

I listen for the playful note in his voice, but it’s not there. “What do you mean? Is your leg worse?”

“I don’t think it was too good to begin with, but yeah, it’s worse.”

“Let me feel.” The cloth covering the wound is swamped with fresh blood, and the skin around it feels like a sun-baked rock. The back of my neck prickles. “We have to get you back.”

He speaks deliberately, like he’s explaining something to a child. “Fenn, I can’t. Even right after the tiger attacked me, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be able to walk two days back.”

“Don’t say that . . . please, don’t say it.” My eyes fill with tears for the second time today.

“Okay, let’s keep going as long as we can. If worse comes to worst, you can carry me.”

Joking again. “This isn’t funny.”

“I know.” He strokes my hand. “It’s okay, really.”

I explode. “What exactly about any of this is at all okay? You’re injured, we’re over two days into the caves, we can’t find the Hidden Waters, and we’re running out of supplies!”

“At least we’re together. It would be much worse to be in here alone, not finding the Waters, running out of supplies, and injured.”

I swipe at my face. “There’s a limit to my ability to look on the bright side.”

He pulls himself to his feet. I jump up to help him. “Come on, it’s not getting any brighter sitting around here.”



We walk on and on through the absolute blackness, saving the bit of torch we have left. The passages have been subtly sloping down, tunneling into the belly of the earth, or so it seems. I would have turned around long before, but Peree insists we keep going. I only agree because the sound of the water is stronger now, too. The trickle has become a stream, enticing us on.

I increasingly hold his weight as he weakens. I feel so guilty. Guilty for leading him on this wild-goose chase; guilty that he’s in the caves at all, instead of in his trees. A hard voice in my head whispers that none of us would be in the caves if it wasn’t for the Scourge and the Lofties, but I dismiss it impatiently.

We camp for the night in an unremarkable cave, much smaller than the massive caverns we’ve been passing through. I change the dressing on his wound, and he falls asleep the minute we finish our scanty meal. I lay awake, wondering what I’ll do when he can no longer walk.

I’m being consumed by the Scourge, torn apart slowly, every fiber of my body screaming in torment. The creatures pant around me, their fetid breath sickening me, as I finally succumb to them.

I wake, shuddering in terror, and realize the panting is real.

“Peree?” I whisper.

“Here.” His voice is slurred.

I crawl to him and feel his forehead. “How are you?”

“Nice and warm.”

I sigh. He can’t be too bad if he still has a sense of humor. My relief shatters when I touch his leg. It’s scorching.

“I was dreaming,” he says, “about swimming in the water hole. The water was warm, no flesh-eaters. You were there.”

“You swim?” I’ve never heard of a Lofty swimming before.

“Always wanted to. I watched you swimming with the others, wished I could, too.”

“The others?”

“You and your friends. Swim, work, cook, play, dance, argue, joke. Everything you did. Watching you for years.”

I’m stunned into silence. He’s quiet too, except for his labored breathing. When he speaks again, he sounds more lucid. “Years ago, you were lost in the woods. Do you remember?”

“That wasn’t exactly an uncommon thing for me,” I say warily.

“Your friends were looking for you. A boar charged you.”

I tense. “How do you know about that?”

“I was there, in the trees. I shot it.”

“I’ve always wondered . . . I should’ve died.”

“After that I watched you. Watched after you. I was the lookout, for the Scourge, for you.”

I think back to all the times I heard movement in the trees and knew a Lofty was there. It happened so often I took it for granted we were being watched, but “we” being the key word—not just me.

“Why did you watch me?”

“Curious at first, about you, your Sightlessness. How you managed.” He moves his leg, and moans. I want to comfort him, but I’m literally frozen. “After the boar, I felt responsible for you, worked hard at archery, hoping to be your Keeper. I wanted to protect you, even if we were separated by the trees.”

“I . . . I didn’t know.”

He takes my hand, fumbling for it in the dark. “Didn’t want you to know. I wouldn’t have told you, except it doesn’t matter now.”

“I’m not letting you die here.”

“Who said anything about dying?” His voice cracks in an attempt to laugh.

“I’m finding a way out.” I crawl to my pack, and pull it over to him. Then I tuck my bedroll around him, and situate my last oilskin sack and the rest of the food by his side.

“Fenn. No use.”

“Don’t say that. It’s not too late.” I take out the pouch of crampberries, weighing it in my hand. It’s almost empty. “I’m leaving my pack; I need to move quickly. Here’s the torch.” I place the piece of wood in his hand. “You saved my life once, Peree. Let me save yours. Please.”

He presses my cold knuckles to his lips. “If you insist.”

I allow myself to do something I’ve wanted to do since our night in the trees. I touch his face, exploring his features. I trace the ridged arches of his eyebrows with my fingertips, smooth his eyelids with my thumbs, and follow the firm line of his jaw. His cheeks and chin are forested in stubble. I memorize his face, both the beauty and the small imperfections, like a scar along one cheekbone where his beard doesn’t grow, a small lump across the bridge of his nose, as if it had been broken. He lies still, his breathing becoming more even with my touch. I smooth his hair back from his face, and find the feathers Calli said he wore.

I kiss his cheek, and whisper in his ear. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll try not to wander off,” he whispers back. “Be safe.”

Safe. All this time he was worrying about me, wanting to protect me. Now it’s my turn. I only hope I’m not too late.