Battlesaurus by Brian Falkner Page B

his chores, helped with the baking, then left the house as soon as he could. Not so much to avoid her gaze as to avoid showing her the fury in his own eyes.
    He went around to the Delvaux house to see if there was anything he could do to help, but a sharp glance from one of the old women of the village warned him off. He is not wanted there either.
    In the end he helped some of the women tar wood for the fire pits, and when that was finished came to sit on the bridge and wait for the others to return.
    The winged saur thrashes around in the reeds for a moment or two, squealing in pain, and as it does, Willem sees the huge gash along one of its wings. A clean cut, made by a knife or a sword. Inflicted by man. Flying through the forest the little saur has had the misfortune to come across one of the woodcutting parties. Someone has slashed at it with a sword, crippling it in a way that can never be mended. Winged saurs do not attack humans. They pose no danger. But in the aftermath of an attack any saur becomes a target.
    The saur goes quiet, but still makes pathetic struggling movements. Half of its body is in the water and half is out, the water pulling at it, dragging it into the river.
    He should do something, Willem knows, but he can’t bring himself to. The creature is beyond saving; the wing cannot be repaired. He should cross the river and wring its neck, but although he knows it is wrong to just sit and watch it die, he does not want to be the one to end its life.
    Jean and Fran ç ois emerge from the forest together as Willem is watching the dying saur. They look sweaty and tired. Each holds an ax. They do not notice the winged saur and Willem does not mention it to them. Fran ç ois would try to save it, and he wouldn’t be able to, and it would upset him. There is still a fragility about Fran ç ois. He seems, to Willem, like a spinning top, delicately balanced, with a brittle equilibrium.
    â€œIs the fence finished?” Jean asks.
    Willem nods. “And the tar pit is replenished.”
    â€œGood,” Jean says. “We shall sleep safely in our beds tonight.”
    The saur-fence, newly repaired, stands strong and sturdy a few meters from the riverbank. The newly sharpened spikes of the crossbracing that extend through the fence make a jagged row of teeth.
    In front of the fence lies the long black line of the tar pit, a ditch that surrounds the entire village.
    Behind the fence rise the stone walls and thatched roofs of the river cottages, and behind those is the church with its tall steeple.
    â€œAny sign of the raptor?” Willem asks.
    â€œNone,” Jean says. “It is probably long gone by now.”
    â€œOr waiting its chance for another attack,” Fran ç ois says.
    There is a silence at the memory of the congealing pool of blood on the river path. Jean lays down his ax and sits on the edge of the bridge beside Willem. After a moment Fran ç ois sits too.
    â€œWe have brought this upon ourselves,” he says.
    â€œThat is stupid,” Jean says with some venom. “You are stupid, cousin.”
    â€œYou don’t even know it is the same saur,” Willem says.
    â€œIt does not matter,” Fran ç ois says. “This is a punishment from God.”
    â€œFor what?” Jean asks.
    â€œYour tongue did wag too much, cousin,” Fran ç ois says, “and all of us gazed upon the form of the girl in her night frock.”
    â€œAnd you think God sent a raptor to punish Ang é lique because we said a few words in jest about her,” Jean says.
    â€œNot Ang é lique,” Fran ç ois says. “She rests with Him in paradise. It is we who are punished. We who must live with this guilt.”
    â€œQuiet your mouth, cousin,” Jean says, glancing back toward the village. “Look who comes.”
    Through the open saur-gate the mayor and the priest walk with the schoolmaster, propping him between them. Monsieur Delvaux