Wet Fire

Nothing More than a Rock (E13)

Petronel

Petra fell just as her foot snagged on one of the branches of thorn bush. She nearly cried out as she went, elbows first, into the warm mud. Dots splattered onto her face. Her sleeves were now not only filthy, but grossly wet. 

As she got back up onto her feet, she adjusted the things on her shoulder and let out a long breath. It smelled absolutely awful out here in this...mire. But the smell was tolerable. She would have endured the foulest stench ever, if it meant being able to breathe clear air, the air she breathed in now. Air that did not feel as thick and soupy as water. Air that did not try to suffocate you with each breath.

Thoughts raced through Petra's mind as she tried to grasp everything new she saw. As she ventured further from the edge of the Flats, the sky became clearer and the sun brighter. Who would have thought that the sky was actually blue! On top of that, she could see so far into the distance it felt like a dream. This whole place felt like a dream. And she longed so much to share it with someone—to show them everything.

And the water. There was so much water out here. To her surprise, most was quite murky and undrinkable. Animals even lived in the water. The strangest creatures Petra had ever seen swam in the depths of small ponds, with paper-thin translucent tails. Others had bumpy green skin and would hop in all directions as she stepped though the brush. Feathery birds with long, thin legs waded through the shallow water, searching for food. And swarms of insects, the worst of all, would hover around her head. If it was not for her long sleeves and pants, she might have been eaten alive.

Walking a few steps forward, Petra glanced back behind her. She had a strange feeling all of a sudden, a feeling that she was being watched. She shivered. There was no one there, nothing. Just the rolling, swampy hills and scattered gnarled trees. The only things that moved were the flies, and the knee-high brown grasses in the wind.

That feeling did not go away, and it became worse as she rounded the top of a hill. The land before her ended abruptly in a cliff face, which slanted downward into a gully, which was hidden in shadow. Out of breath, she clutched her thick woolen shirt over her stomach. Real food sounded too good at the moment. Her stomach cramped so badly--those pickled yams would not suffice for much longer. Only about four or five jars remained in her sack, which, if rationed, would last about two more weeks. That was if she didn't die of sickness first.

With goosebumps all among her arms, she studied the terrain ahead, leaning against the trunk of a barren tree. Everything was the same--the same mud, the same murk, the same forest...if you could call it that. The swamp stretched far until, out in the distance, it was swallowed by a layer of retreating mist. She hoped that it would end soon, that she would see something, or someone. It reminded her too much of the Volcanic Flats. The Flats were home, yet she was in unknown territory, and it felt right. Somehow it felt--

A loud howl echoed though the valley. She spun around. Something moved, large black shapes darted between the brush at the foot of the hill. Her heart gave a jump and she staggered backwards, letting go of the tree. Wolves? She had heard stories of wolves before. Wolves and their much larger, much grizzlier cousins, which the traders called prowlers. Had they been the ones watching her? No. The gaze of the creatures below seemed faint as candlelight compared to the feeling that was upon her now. She felt cornered between two rock walls. Whoever was out there, if they were a friend, needed to come now, before she was dinner for the wolves. If they were her enemy, then she might surrender anyway rather than be eaten.

Petra nearly laughed with frustration. What an unfortunate thing to come all this way, carrying so many valuables, to be killed by a bunch of wolves and forgotten in the swamp!