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

we ate. My feet do their work, and I find my way back to Tig’s waving tail. I lurch once, bumping my arm against my side, and I feel a wave of nausea wash over me.
    “Good,” says Tig. “We’re at the mouth of the river tunnel. I suggest we try to find if it goes anywhere else, maybe another exit that feeds the Mar.”
    I give him a halfhearted “Okay,” and we start off. Some piece of my self-preservation insists Tig is right—we do need to move—but we have nothing to return to. No plan. No hope. Just keep moving. I know the hunt. I know that there is a moment when the prey gives up, lays down to die. Not yet.
    Tig occasionally lets me know if there is a change, a dip or low ceiling, but the going is mostly smooth and feels almost level. It must be slightly uphill due to the water gurgling past.
    We stop and drink after a little while, and the water is fresh and cool, but has a rusty taste—the lava.
    “Maybe I can see now,” I say after a long stretch of silence. My feet pick their way along the smooth rolling lava floor.
    “Maybe I can see whenever it’s dark. My eyes just can’t stand the light.” I’m holding my arm at an angle, bent at the elbow. It throbs too painfully to let it hang. I still won’t let it touch my body.
    “Maybe,” says Tig. “How many paw-fingers am I holding up?” I aim a smack at him with my good arm.
    “It’s not completely dark anyway. Even I can’t see in that. There are some glow worms on the ceiling—not a lot, but enough.”
    After another stretch the throbbing in my arm spreads into my whole side. “How much farther, Tig?”
    “How far can you go?” His question doesn’t scare me. He has just said aloud what I already know. We aren’t looking for a way out. We’re wandering until we can’t go any farther.
    It’s getting close for me. My pack dangles uselessly, bumping the tunnel floor with a regular rhythm. The irony of the idea of the darkness consuming me, swallowing me, is not lost. I hate the idea. It keeps me walking.
    My thoughts try to escape the dull shuffle of my feet and the gurgle of water by reaching out to my family. Where are they now? Are they safe? Is the revolt in progress? Did Uncle Cagney escape? Will Mom try to come back to the farm? Will she be caught? I let the questions tumble through my mind like a noisy stream over rocks. I welcome the noise. I don’t try to catch the thoughts, analyze them, and answer them like I usually would. I let them run, and they carry a part of my pain away.
    Dad. An often repeated memory jumps out of the flow, and my mind focuses. The memory is recent. Within the past year—last winter—there was a fire in the hearth. I can hear the cracks and pops from the wood burning and the sharp, sweet smell of cindertree in the house.
    I’m in my room, supposedly asleep—but I can’t sleep. Dad is talking, his low voice rumbling out of our kitchen and into my corner bedroom.
    “We’ve said before that we shouldn’t talk about it with her.” I immediately prick my ears and strain to hear more.
    I hear Mom sigh. “We said we shouldn’t talk about it then. Now is different. Things are moving, picking up pace.” There’s a pause long enough for me to wonder if I have fallen asleep accidentally. I am listening so hard, her voice, not loud, makes me jump. “How will we explain it then? Eventually they’ll ask us to be involved, and what will we say? Will we take her with us? Where will she be safe? You can’t wait until it’s all over to tell her.”
    “Why not?” Dad’s voice is low and earnest.
    “Listen to yourself!” Mom’s voice has risen, and I can imagine Dad making some hushing motion. She drops her voice to a whisper, and I have to lift my head to catch the next words.
    “You act like you’re afraid of her, instead of afraid for her.” There is question and accusation in Mom’s voice. There is silence for a few moments. My head is spinning. I thought they were talking about me until that