Page 43 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
I stop, listen. Is that water? A trickling sound, faint but distinct, threading through the wind and the birdsong?
I tilt my head. Yes. I think it is. Up ahead, maybe higher. If I keep climbing, I’ll reach it. And if I get high enough, maybe I’ll also find a lookout point. Then I can see where I am.
“Onwards and upwards, Luna,” I mutter.
The land gets steeper, the soil looser. I have to use both hands and feet to scramble, skirting boulders, sliding on gravel. At one point, a rock gives way under my boot and skittersdownhill, knocking more stones loose in a miniature avalanche. My heart lurches into my throat as I freeze, waiting until the clatter fades and silence returns. Jesus, that was close.
I slow down, more cautious now. The crutch I’d brought along is abandoned somewhere below—it was useless on the slope, leaving me no hands free to steady myself. My ankle throbs with every step, a warning that I’m pushing too far, too soon.
But the sound of water grows louder, surer, until finally I crest a rise and find it.
A small spring seeps from a crack in a rocky outcrop, maybe eight feet high. The water splashes into a shallow pool before trickling down into the thirsty soil. In winter, I bet this is a proper waterfall. For now, it’s barely a trickle. But it’s enough.
I crouch, leaning close. Not the pool—that could be filthy, anything could be in it. I know better than that. I reach higher, cupping my hands beneath the fresh flow where it bursts straight from the rock.
The water is cool, clean. I sniff it. Nothing. Tentatively, I sip. It tastes fine. Pure, even.
Hell, I’m thirsty.
I drink deeply, filling my hands again and again until the hollow ache in my throat eases. Then I splash some across my face, sighing with relief as the heat leaves my skin.
Better. Much better.
So… what now?
I sit down on a flat stone near the spring, ankle throbbing, chest damp with sweat. My thighs tremble from the climb, my body reminding me just how far I’ve pushed it.
I’ll stay here for an hour. Rest. Let the ankle settle, let my strength return. Then… then I’ll figure out my next move.
"What? Where am I?"
I wake with a start, blinking in confusion. Then it comes back to me—the argument in the kitchen with Luke, storming out, my hike into the forest, the long climb up the hill to the spring, and finally lying down to rest.
Shit. I must have fallen asleep.
The sun is much lower now, and in the forest that’s bad news. Light only filters through the canopy when it’s high overhead. Here in this rocky clearing, it’s still bright enough, but once I start down, the shadows will swallow me. Dark. Spooky.
Oh well. Nothing I can do about that.
What Icando is worry about the fact that going down is harder than going up. A person’s center of balance leans the wrong way, and one bad step… yeah. I hadn’t thought of that before. I think about it now.
I push to my feet, testing my body. My ankle throbs, but it’s more of a dull ache than a sharp pain—I can work with that. My wrist feels fine. I yawn, stretch. At least I’m rested. Plenty of energy.
Time to move.
But which way?
I sigh. My only real plan is to try retracing my steps, following my own trail down. If I do that, eventually I’ll end up where I started.
Logical enough. What could possibly go wrong?
I decide not to answer that question. Instead, I square my shoulders, step forward, and start singing to keep my spirits up.
"I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter, dancing through the fire, ’cause I am a champion…"
It works. For a while.
Then I misstep. Land awkwardly. My already injured ankle twists, and white-hot pain explodes up my leg. I scream, lose my balance?—
