A Hero's Curse by P. S. Broaddus Page A

me anchored to this world of color: that elegant red dress. My mother is in the memory. I can see her profile; she’s beautiful wearing the dress with her sleek brown hair pulled back in an ornate braid. They say my hair is the same chestnut brown. She’s standing with a tall burly man who has short glossy hair, almost black in my memory. He is facing away from me. In my memory he leans in to whisper something to my mother, and I catch the murmur of his deep voice as she laughs. That’s my dad’s voice. Mom brings a white, gloved hand to her mouth. She turns and looks at me. Her eyes sparkle from the bright lights high above, and she blows me a kiss with the soft white glove.
    There are many other colors that swirl and mix with the sounds and people flowing through the blurred background of my memory, but the red dress drowns them all with its intensity.
    I love to sit and think about that memory. If I concentrate on the red dress I can see the silk the dress is made of, the jewels sewn into the fabric. If I concentrate on the background sometimes the people and colors become a little clearer. I might catch some detail in the memory I hadn’t noticed before. Mom tells me I’m lucky the image I can remember is one so beautiful, and I suppose it’s true. But I would take any memory to keep me tied to the world of color.
    I wake with a start. I must have bumped my arm in my sleep because the searing pain jerks me out of darkness into darkness. Sleeping has not helped. I feel worse than I did before. I groan.
    As I try to move Tig’s whiskers brush my face. “I wondered if you were going to wake up. We’ve been here for about six hours.”
    I only half hear him. I am trying to will myself into a sitting position, but my bad arm refuses to obey commands. It hurts with every motion. I whimper again and try to cradle my arm. I scream when I touch it. I feel crusty blood down my whole left side. Tig puts a paw on my good shoulder as the echoes of my scream bounce around the room. I think of the rock basilisks again. They would have gotten us hours ago if they could get in here.
    “That good?” asks Tig.
    “I can’t move it,” I say. Tig comes around my side. I can feel him very close to my arm. I’m shaking again. At least I’m mostly dry. Still damp underneath. He brushes his whiskers on my arm, and I jump.
    “Easy, Ess,” he says. “I won’t kid you. It’s bad.” His tone is serious, with none of the usual dry humor left. “You’re going to have to move it, though. We have to try to get out.”
    I clench my teeth and nod. I turn and gingerly lift my arm. The burning sensation runs up the arm and into my head as I dip my fingertips into the water. New levels of pain shoot up the arm. I pull the arm back like it was bitten. I rock back and forth for a second, and then I try to sprinkle a few drops of water on the cut with my good hand. I yell again, and I feel my eyes watering from the pain.
    “It hurts to put it in the water, Tig.” I’m almost hysterical again. “I can’t do it.”
    “No problem,” says Tig. “Maybe there’s another way out. Those rock basilisks are probably waiting out there anyway.” I can tell he is trying anything to get me to move. We have to move or we’ll die. He’s saving us. That and he hates water.
    I struggle to my feet. “Which way?” I am afraid to move, because I don’t have my stick, and I don’t want to fall into the pool. I can hear it running gently behind me, but the echoes throw weird sounds around the room, disorienting me. I feel Tig pad over, and his tail brushes my leg.
    “Two steps forward, then two steps right,” says Tig. “And then just follow me.” I put out a hesitant foot and feel my way across the smooth floor. My foot bumps my pack, so I stoop and grab it with my good hand. The rock is rippled, as if it had been a gently flowing river that hardened overnight. I feel a cramp in my stomach. I try not to think about how long it’s been since