The Feverbird's Claw by Jane Kurtz Page B

only crawled to a nearby tree. The beastie trotted over and curled on her feet. Figt seemed to fall asleep instantly, sitting up. Moralin took a step toward her, reaching out gingerly. Could she find the knife? She pulled back. Figt would no doubt wake at the slightest touch. The girl’s closed fists rested on her knees, fingers curled as though she were begging.
    The next morning Moralin ate yellow berries she had stored in her pouch, considering what to do next. Figt crouched nearby and watched. The beastie seemed to be laughing, its panting tongue hanging from its mouth.
    Figt was the first to break the silence. “Saw thee when the village was in flames. Saw what was in thy heart.” She glanced at Moralin with scorn. “Thy tracks were easy to follow.”
    â€œThee walked on the …?” Moralin made the shape of a bridge with her hands.
    â€œI have no fear of it,” Figt said stiffly.
    Moralin looked at her curiously. Why not? And what now? If she tried to leave this place, Figt’s knife could be out blink-quick. Even if she could somehow outwit the other girl, where could she go to survive the rest of the dry times? She closed her eyes, coaxing back memories of what she had seen on the journey to deep mother.
    The red forest was an impossible barrier between her and the Delagua city. Streams would be dry now, even if leaves hadn’t crumbled from the trees.
    She crouched and spread out the things from her pouch. A little food. Herbs. A beautiful but useless bead. She had run impulsively, grabbing sweet luck. Now, whichever way she looked, death stared back at her.
    Don’t despair. If she managed to get away from Figt and find a way to survive until the Arkera were on the move again in rainy season, she could silently follow one of the small groups through the forest and get back to the camp. Find her way from there to the city.
    Figt seemed lost in thoughts of her own, using a stick to make markings in the dirt.
    Moralin paced. Eventually she was crazed with impatience. She took one cautious step and then another in the direction she had been going. Three more. Her shoulder blades prickled. But Figt just stood up and fell in behind her, moving when she moved, stopping when she stopped.
    Today the slope was more gentle. Birds whistled. Here in the open she wasn’t likely to be startled by a snake with its wrinkled gait. In other circumstances she would like this feeling of walking freely under the sun.
    Soon they reached a rough place of thorny bushes. A few trees with gray bark spotted the landscape. Moralin paused, studying a rope-twisted trail in the dirt. “Garrag,” Figt said.
    The word sounded ugly.
    Pretending that she knew what she was doing, Moralin dropped to her knees and studied the pattern. The beastie trotted over and licked her cheek. She shoved him. What should she be looking for?
    The beastie gave a yelp and hunched miserably, scratching his ear with one left leg. As Figt bent over to examine him, the wind brought a faint sound of a growl.
    Figt froze with her hand still on the beastie’s ear.
    â€œGarrag?” Moralin leaped to her feet.
    Figt gave her head the shake that to the Arkera meant “yes” and to the Delagua meant “no.”
    No time to ask what to do or why. Figt started to run. Moralin and the beastie dashed after her. Sounds—growling, clicking—erupted around them. Her nostrils filled with the choking smell of fermenting fruit.
    A few steps ahead Moralin saw Figt scoop up the beastie and lift it into a crevice in the side of the butte. She scrambled after and managed to get her own shoulders into the opening by the time sharp claws stabbed her leg. She kicked wildly. The beastie began to bark with a coughing, frantic sound. Moralin dug her straining fingers into the dirt.
    She wiggled all the way into the trench and curled into a sitting position, looking over her shoulder. The ground below was a mass of