Chapter 6
The bow was doomed to fail. Cutting down a whole apple tree would take days, and even the thickest branch yielded light, cracked wood. It was like stringing a toy bow with metal chains.
The arrows were worse. Made from hastily-straightened branches of an unknown bush, they were light and brittle. Gemma had no feathers to spare for fletching, and no flint for arrowheads.
She had stood watch all night, and could not find the courage to venture outside until the sun was high. The thief had taken most of her supplies. Without a tent or water skins returning home was no longer an option. The Goldenhands were four days away at best, but she entertained that option for quite some time.
I can go four days without eating. I’ll just keep running. Anywhere is better than here!
But to flee the city required leaving the house, and when Gemma saw the cloudless sky she felt her hope renewed. If nothing else, she would need a water skin. With her father’s tools added to her own set she was by no means helpless.
Find a water skin and go home, she told herself. Don't spend another night.
The bonfire had burnt out on its own. Water had flowed back over the ashes, forming a circular slab of dirty ice.
“Papa?” Gemma called as she approached the city.
Everything was silent once more. Flying up to the rooftop, Gemma again found fresh footprints. They were not her father’s, and Gemma hovered for some time wondering if she should follow them. In the end curiosity won, and she flew west according to the tracks.
Just south of the city’s centre the footprints ended abruptly. Gemma stopped there and surveyed the street below. The pavement was cracked and weathered. Some of the windows were broken, and she could see big blocks of ice inside the rooms. There was no sign of Gus anywhere.
As Gemma’s eyes swept over the scene she caught a glimpse of motion. The house across the street had a green wooden door hanging by its top hinge. Gemma stared at it intently, trying to reconstruct what she had seen.
There were marks in the snow around the door, like it had been forced open recently. Gemma lowered her head and backed away from the roof's edge.
It knows I’m here.
Gemma checked over her shoulder. All seemed as it should be.
With her father’s knife in her beak Gemma dropped down lightly onto the street several houses down from the green door. She approached with the gentle steps of one stalking a deer, hugging the wall so that whatever was inside the house could not see her until she was ready to strike.
Gemma burst through the door with knife in hand and immediately heard something scampering about upstairs. It was heading for the window. She turned to the door and readied her bow…
It was almost dark. Much of her body was numb, and Gemma was completely relaxed. Her mouth was open, and a sizable pool of drool had collected on the dusty tile floor. She got up and ran a hand down her neck.
A large feathered dart dropped onto the floor. Its slender steel needle was a full two inches long, connected to a fat metal syringe that no amount of fletching could conceal. She jumped, fell down, and put both hands on her neck like she was holding a fatal wound.
The trap turned out to be nothing more than a simple tripwire. Gemma was too groggy to be properly scared. She remained in the house for a while, staring in wonder at the syringe. It was full dark when she came to her senses.
Gemma ate a handful of snow before setting off towards the farm. Several times she checked over her shoulder and saw a flash of movement far behind her. Once she thought she saw a pair of ears on the rooftop. The creature was only tailing her for the moment.
Past the last row of houses Gemma turned around and sat down. From there her line of sight was open. She had not one but two tails, one markedly bigger than the other. They seemed a little surprised by her action; the smaller one ducked close to the roof on which he was standing and covered his face with his hands.
Gemma tightened her grip on her bow. It could stand being drawn a few times before breaking, if she could shoot that far with the arrows that she had.
The bigger of the two figures spoke. It was a boy, but Gemma could not understand its pony language. Nevertheless his civil tone gave her courage.
“Hey! You!” Gemma called in her own tongue. “Come down here! What did you do to my papa? I know you have my stuff! Come down here and talk with me!”
The boys on the roof stood close together facing her. Gemma released the bow and let it slide off her lap.
They turned around and headed back into the city.
“Wait!” Gemma yelled, leaping into the air.
The bigger boy pounced from the roof. Instead of manoeuvering Gemma reached for a knife, and was grabbed dragged to the ground.
He had the yellow hands and brown body of a Goldenhand, but no beak. His face was covered in tan fur, and he had a braided mane. On top of his head were two triangular ears. His muzzle was hot and damp.
Gemma screamed and kicked him into the air. Then she rolled over in the snow and extended her wings once more, but an overwhelming feeling of fatigue overtook her. She raised a hand to her neck and felt a tiny patch of sticky blood.
Not again.
The boys were gone. Gemma managed to turn away from the city before the tranquilizer took over.