A Hero's Curse by P. S. Broaddus

of the world is lit by its brilliant radiance. It’s my dress. I am wearing the dress, and I don’t have to be afraid anymore. In my imagination I’m laughing, but I’m looking away; I can’t see my own face. My mind doesn’t know what to insert for a face. I shake my head bitterly and push the whole scene away. I immediately regret shaking my head. My hand drops to my pocket and hunts the piece of silk. There it is. The trembling stops. It is as smooth as ever, even soaked. The pain in my arm levels off for a few moments, but then as the excitement fades the white hot fire crawls from my arm into my shoulder and chest. My breath comes in short gasps, and I can’t think of anything except how badly it hurts. Tig has trained me to ignore hunger or cold or sleeplessness, but this is too much. My pain is the only reality.
    Tig hisses at me, and I catch myself. I pull in a long deep breath, whimpering as the water laps around my shoulder.
    “Where are we?” I mumble, just taking note of the soft whispering echo that has been playing around us.
    “The Valley of Fire,” says Tig wetly. “Or under the Valley of Fire,” he corrects himself. “Drowning in the Valley of Fire during a drought. That would have been ironic.” 
    My mouth twitches in spite of everything. “True.”
    After a pause he continues, “It looks like we’re in some kind of cave.” I can feel him looking around, craning his neck in different directions to get a good picture of where we are.
    “This is a pretty extensive pool. This room would probably be full when it’s raining,” he finishes.
    “I feel a current. Can you see where it is coming from?”
    Tig gets up from between my arms, and I hear him squish off a few steps. I almost panic again. I bite my tongue to keep from yelling, to keep from asking him to come back.
    “It looks like the river has carved out a tunnel,” says Tig. “It runs straight back under the rock.” He pads back over to me. I hear him start licking the water out of his coat with his rough sandpaper tongue. A vigorous operation.
    I feel the ledge. “Is this a good place to get out of the water?”
    “Sorry!” says Tig, and I hear that he means it. “I’m so—well, it’s just that when I get wet—” He is flustered. Then he’s quiet for a second. “I’m sorry I left you.”
    “I know. It’s okay.”
    He recovers quickly. “Over here, to your left,” he says. I move to my left, hanging on to the shelf, which is about chin high. “Right there.”
    I put both hands on the edge and am about to heave, when I think again about my throbbing head. “Nothing above me?”
    “Nothing,” says Tig.
    I heave and pull myself up on the shelf. My hands scream—I didn’t realize how torn they had gotten on the lava rock outside. The moment I drag myself away from the water I gasp and grit my teeth. The air hitting my arm reminds me of how bad it must be. Gritting my teeth makes my head split open again. I groan and pull myself into a ball, cradling my torn arm. Tig nuzzles my arm, but I jerk away.
    “Give me a minute,” I gasp. Tig sits down next to my head, and I hear him continue to dry himself, rasping with his tongue. He leans over and gives me a lick on the ear, and then he is back to washing. I try to play a game of finding somewhere on my body that feels okay not wet, or stinging, or throbbing.
    I sit in the dark and listen to Tig’s dry, scraping, coat washing. I wish I could just lick myself dry. I wish I could be a cat and see in the dark. I wish I could see anything at all. I wish, in the shadow of my mind, I could imagine having a face; but I am not of this world of color. It has been a long day, and before I can find a piece of me that is not hurting I drift into dark dreams of rebellions and fire and faceless dancers and a dress I can never wear.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 7
 
    I t is my strongest memory from before I lost my sight, and the one memory that keeps