way through it. How would we ever get out of there again, even if we could figure out where out was?
Not that I was in any great hurry to do that just then. I could hear the Famishers padding around and squealing eagerly outside the brush. As Kevin had promised, they werenât getting inâa definite plus. But if one more thorn raked me across the neck I was going to scream. I hoped the seelims had run far, far away by now. By the look of those teeth, Famishers could eat anything.
We scrambled into an open space and both collapsed, spitting out dust and twigs. My skin stung all over. For a second I thought I must have gone blind as well: then I realized that the brush grew so tall here that it closed over our heads, drowning us in brown gloom. We were completely enclosed by interlaced branches.
âI feel like Iâve been through a Cuisinart,â I said.
âWeâre okay,â Kevin said. âFamishers canât move around in here.â
âWho can?â I said. âIâm bleeding to death. Where are we, Kevin?â
âIn the Brangle,â he said in a tone of satisfaction, slapping dust off his clothes with both hands and coughing. âAnglowerâs creatures have burned up whole forests all over the Fayre Farre. Brangle is all that grows back. The thorns hate him and keep out him and his.â
âLucky them,â I growled.
âYou donât understand.â He had lost his cap and his hair was a dusty tangle, though not as awful as mine. He rubbed at his scratched forehead with his sleeve. âThis is where weâve been heading all morning. See, the Branglemen can talk with the Oldest Ones. Theyâll get us the prophecy Sebbian lost, the one we need, if we can find them and get them to cooperate.â
âWe just met one,â I said. âAnd he took off.â
âHe was just a sentry posted at the Brangleâs edge,â Kevin said. âHeâs gone for the others, more important ones. Iâm their only hope, they all know that. But Iâm no good empty-handed; I need the prophecy that will lead us to the sword. They know that, too. If the White Oneâs minions chase me to the Black Cliffs and I havenât got the Farsword when I meet him there, everythingâs lost.â
âMaybe your Branglemen donât care about your sword and your battle,â I said. âI mean, they live in here, right? Then whatâs all that to them?â
Kevin bristled. âHey, I know what Iâm doing, okay?â
âWell, excuse me,â I said. âIâm just a miserable, expendable flunky without whose help you are probably chopped liver, right?â
âSorry,â he muttered.
âSo how do I get home from here once weâve got this prophecy?â I said wearily. I felt some sneaking sense of embarrassment, which I didnât want to let Kevin see. Here I was, a lover of Tolkien, living in a magic world that really workedâand all I could think of was getting myself back out of it again.
Kevin examined his scratched knuckles. âThereâs an arch in here someplace that the Branglemen keep. Youâll use that.â
My eyes were now used to the dimness. I could see that a lot of tunnel-like openings shadowed the walls around us.
âWell, letâs look for these Branglemen, then,â I grumbled, getting up. âWe canât just sit here.â
Something whizzed past my head and stuck into the brush beyond me. Someone said, âStand still or youâre food for thorns!â
It was the Brangleman againâor another one, I couldnât tell. He was still (or also) shorter than I was, but he had lots of authority. In one hand he held two sticks of polished wood the size of a carving knife: throwing clubs, perfectly appropriate to people low in the pecking order in a sword-and-sorcery world (accent for the moment on âswordâ).
Keeping his eyes on us, the Brangleman
Jessica Fletcher
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