Page 42 of Mongrel
Bowie interrupts my inspection. “Come along, before the rain.”
Only then does it occur to me that we’ve outrun rain. We’re yet again ahead of the advancing storm. Though if the thunder is any indication, we won’t be for long.
I trudge behind him through overgrown plants and tall grasses. Thorny vines prickle and scratch my legs. I hiss, and Bowie spins.
“Oh, dear.” He reaches for me. “I’ve set you down too soon. So sorry.”
In the span of a heartbeat, he swoops me off my feet and into his arms. I hug his neck, feeling slightly less ridiculous the second time around. He walks us through the dense brush, shoves open a giant timbered door with his shoulder, and once we’re safely inside, sets me down.
I lift the satchel from around Bowie’s neck and pull on my clothes. He turns his back politely, which draws a chuckle from my throat. He’s just carried me stark naked through a field, but now he shies away?
As I dress, I scan the barn. One side is entirely taken up by four giant mounds of spoiled barley, damp with rot. A set of horse stalls stand at the far end, and above us, a loft spans both sides and connects above the stalls, though I wouldn’t trust the rickety staircase that leads to it. Decaying hay covers the loft and most of the ground. Not much is left in the way of tools and equipment, so whoever abandoned this barn must have taken their things with them.
But where will Bowie sleep? Though the barn is in decent shape, it’s clearly not light-tight. Sun will pour in through the cracks between beams on all sides. I open my mouth to ask when he answers the question as if he’s read my mind.
“There is a cellar in the forward half where the barn was built into the earth. It’s not in great shape and smells of rotten vegetables, but it will do. I wouldn’t blame you if you preferred to sleep up here.”
I doubt the smell on this level is any better, but I’ll reserve judgment. Regardless, I want to sleep where Bowie sleeps.
A crack of thunder so strong I feel the boom in my chest startles me. Bowie is at my side in an instant.
“Are you afraid of storms?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, but that was close. Should we head below?”
“You may regret it.”
“Let’s go anyway so I can find out.”
He’s not wrong about the smell. As we descend a stone ramp into the barn’s bowels, the scent arises like mist after rain on a hot day. Sweltering to my nostrils, the aroma of spoiled apples, onions, potatoes, and beets, all mixed in a mockery of what vegetable stew should smell like.
I scrunch my nose.
Bowie grants me a look of sympathy. “I did warn you.”
Above us, the rain finally hits, pounding the roof like a thousand fists banging to be let in. Perhaps the cellar will be fine after all. Glancing around, I don’t see the piles of rotten food I expected, just a few remnants here and there. I suppose animals, then bugs made off with anything edible long ago.
Stone floor, stone walls, and a flat timber ceiling make up the cavernous space. Aside from some dirt and a few onions, it’s empty.
Bowie sits on the hard ground, his back against the wall, legs stretched in front of him, hands clasped in his lap. “It’s going to be a long day.”
I nod my agreement. Compared to past accommodations, this is a dungeon. But I’m well and truly exhausted. My bones ache from shifting so frequently, my left arm is throbbing from where the beaver bashed me, and my spirit is battered from thinking of the girls and Cecily and how scared they must be. It’s a lot to bear.
Sinking to the ground next to Bowie, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble sleeping. I want to lean into him, to take his arm and cling to it, but it’s impossible not to second-guess these urges, so I remain still. If I’m having a hard time coping, Bowie must be too.
“How are you holding up?” I ask.
His answer comes by way of a long sigh and a slow turn of his head in my direction. He smiles, but it’s a grim smile, not his charming grin. “I’ve been better. But I’ve also been worse.” A small shrug. “I have hope.”
“Me too.”
“Tell me more about the consequences of this weather,” he says with dull resignation. “What will the rain do to the scent trail?”
The last thing I want to do is bring down our depressed mood even further, but I must be honest. “Mostly, the trail will be washed away.”
“Mostly?”
“I can still pick up stray whiffs, enough to know we’re on track, but not enough to follow. We’ll have to continue on our course and hope for the occasional affirmation it’s still the correct one.”
