12 – Mungo To The Rescue
Joe forced his legs to move. He wobbled along the forest trail in feline form. Had to get to Mungo. Save her from her father. Her mean brothers. From a marriage she didn’t want.
Thoughts flickered through his mind, a slow-playing roll of images. He’d witnessed the blaze of delight on Mungo’s face on her father’s arrival. Then, the man’s brutish, callous words had murdered her happiness. Joe had seen her break, observed her submission, her unwilling acceptance of the truth.
Her father didn’t love her, didn’t value her.
The man was a fool for overlooking her vibrant character, her determination, her skill with animals. Her beauty even in her men’s clothes. Her feistiness.
He stumbled, his legs heavy and non-responsive. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Due to his feline genes, his wound had already healed, although it was still tender to the touch. But the area around the injury had grown numb. He lurched forward again, his limbs refusing to follow his instructions. His rear legs dragged and jerked in irregular spasms. The numbness writhed through his extremities and into his torso. Fatigue ate at him, and he battled the desire to curl into a ball and sleep.
If it weren’t for Mungo…
Find her.
Abduct her again.
Keep her for always.
He’d show her how life could be. He’d show her a family who supported growth and ambition and togetherness. He’d show her love.
Then, he’d ask her to be his forever mate, to live with him and be his love. To have children if that was what she wanted. Together, they’d breed cattle and work on their farm.
They could be happy if only she’d give him the chance.
Joe dragged his body forward and inhaled to ascertain the Scothage had traveled this way. One particular scent trail attracted him more than the others. Mungo. He inhaled, and the anxiety hovering over him lifted a fraction. Another familiar scent pulled at his mind. Harriet.
Lethargy tugged at him. Needed to rest. No. No! He must catch up with Mungo.
He heaved his body onward, continuing for another half an hour before he surrendered to his need for rest.
A cat nap. He’d sleep before he seized Mungo. Joe tottered off the track and curled up beneath a sweetly perfumed bush. Hidden here, no one would see him while he recharged.
When Joe awakened, confusion stole his thoughts. Where the devil was he? He took long, sluggish moments to recall his purpose and what he’d been doing earlier in the day. He crawled from beneath the bush, the sharp pain in his side forcing a groan to escape.
God, he’d never catch Mungo at this rate, let alone rescue her. Fear and desperation forced him to place one paw after the other. He staggered before he corrected his balance, but he still wavered along the path like a drunken man on a Saturday night binge. His rest had done nothing to aid him. In fact, now his vision had gone wonky and shapes no longer held crisp edges. His breaths came in hoarse gasps and while his mind was willing, his numb hindquarters refused to go as fast as he wished.
He tottered with the motor skills of an infant, only determination propelling his limbs.
A large black shape appeared without warning in the middle of the path. It snorted and a blast of fear had the hair along his spine rising to attention. What was it? Where had it come from?
The black shape morphed into two, and he blinked. Once. Twice. Still, his befuddled mind refused to make sense of what he was seeing.
“Joe?”
Joe blinked again, panting so hard, his sides rose and fell like bellows. Mungo?
The other black shape snorted. Harriet, his befuddled mind supplied. How had Mungo escaped her father? Satisfaction filled him. He’d sensed Mungo’s resourcefulness and intelligence. And he’d been right. His girl had freed herself and returned to him.
“Joe, is that ye?” Mungo sounded worried.
He needed to reassure her. Joe ordered his legs to move toward her, but instead of an elegant prowl, he staggered. He fell at her feet and licked her hand before everything turned black.
Panic roared through Mungo. The arrow. She hadn’t seen which warrior had fired the arrow that had struck Joe, but given Joe’s condition, she suspected it was her brother Cinead. He’d been experimenting with arrowheads dipped in venom made from the juice of the ragwort plant. The toxin caused physical exhaustion and eventually, muscles and limbs went numb and refused to function. Anyone hit with a poison-tipped arrow died within two or three cycles.
Joe was still alive.
She tried to take encouragement from the fact, but the only treatment was to swallow a handful of ragwort berries. Something in the berries counteracted the venom from the leaves. She had seen no ragwort bushes for days. If the arrow had belonged to Cinead, he’d have berries with him because handling the poison was dangerous.
Should she go back and try to find his stash of berries or push on in the hope she’d find some soon?
No, she’d continue. She had no idea how long the slumber drug would make the men sleep. If they caught her and Joe, they’d both be in trouble.
Decision made, she crouched beside Joe and shook him. He issued a groggy croak. She’d never move him on her own. Although she was tall and strong for a woman, Joe was bigger and solid muscle, especially in his feline form.
“Joe. Joe!” She spoke in a fierce undertone, shaking him to emphasize her urgency. “Wake up. Ye have to shift.”
Joe blinked.
“No. Joe, ye must shift. I cannae lift ye on my own.”
Joe dinnae react to this.
“Gowk! This willnae work.” Mungo glanced around, seeking inspiration. Harriet bent her head and nudged Joe. He dinnae move.
Perhaps she could roll him onto her plaid and use Harriet to drag him? She discarded the idea almost straightaway. Her plaid was thin and worn and she doubted its durability on the rough path.
Harriet nudged Joe again, rolling him a fraction. Aye! That might work.
Mungo led Harriet onto the lower ground beneath the track. This made Harriet’s back almost level with the path. As if she guessed the importance of this maneuver, Harriet remained where Mungo had positioned her. The steed nickered as Mungo forced her aching body up the slight hill to reach Joe. She sucked in a deep breath and shoved at him. He dinnae budge.
“Joe.” She shook him. “Wake up.”
Joe grumbled.
“Joe, ye dobber. Move.” She pushed against him, gratified when he struggled in the right direction. She cajoled and goaded and heaved and cursed him. Sweat ran down her spine. She swiped lank hair from her face and repeated the process. She shunted and threatened and propelled and insulted and rolled him. Time passed, increasing the probability of her father or one of his men waking and noticing she’d vanished.
“Please, Joe. Clot-heid! Help me.”
He avoided her insistent shunt, thankfully inching in the right direction.
“I have never met such an eejit male in my life,” she snapped.
A protest came from Joe as she manhandled him toward Harriet’s back. She pinched, poked and jostled him until he crawled where she wanted out of self-defense.
“Yer fault,” she panted, her muscles protesting the abuse. “If ye werenae such an eejit clot-heid we could’ve been on our way.”
Joe growled.
“Aye, dobber. Climb onto Harriet’s back so we can leave for yer imaginary land bridge.” Surely the news of such a crossing would’ve reached the clan if such existed? But Joe believed it and she would too.
Joe issued a hard sigh.
“Move.” She pushed at his furry side, squashing the guilt that rose when he groaned in pain.
Finally, finally, she had Joe draped over Harriet’s back. If he fell, she’d be in trouble. She studied him and decided they’d move faster if she rode Harriet and held Joe in position. Mungo clambered onto Harriet’s back and pressed her thighs against Harriet’s sides to signal the steed should move.
They made steady progress but not as much as Mungo wished. If Mungo kenned her father, he’d come in pursuit the instant he awakened. His pride and determination to get rid of her would force him to swiftness.
During the return journey to the coast, Mungo scanned the countryside for signs of the ragwort with its red foliage and bright yellow berries. Worry became her constant companion, riding on her shoulder with the clinginess of a tick. Joe’s shallow breathing kept her hope alive, even as she wondered how he clung to life. Was it his feline genes? She dinnae ken but urgency kept her searching for the life-giving berries.
This cycle seemed hotter and her shirt—Joe’s shirt—clung to her back and chest. It was almost blacklight when they reached the rocky shore. She clambered off Harriet and petted the steed. From what she understood, she needed to walk farther down the beach until she reached the fine sand. Mungo dinnae ken what sand was, but she led Harriet off the track, instinct making Mungo walk close to the water. The fewer tracks she left the harder for her father to follow.
A cool breeze stirred, lifting her hair from her back. Mungo trudged, concentrating on placing one foot after the other. Gradually the larger rocks gave way to smaller and soon there were no rocks but a fine gritty substance that made walking tiresome. She steered even closer to the water where the surface appeared firmer. The only sounds were the swish of the water and Joe’s raspy breathing. She hadnae seen a single ragwort plant and that concerned her. Fatigue stooped her shoulders and fear roared through her mind.
At least her father hadn’t caught her.
Yet.
She scanned the water, despair tightening her chest. There was no bridge. She walked and walked, blacklight shrouding the sea. This was useless. Joe would die, and her father would recapture her, her punishment a swift cuff. If she was lucky. A snort escaped her. Her father couldnae bash her too hard for the Grantlach might reject a battered betrothed.
Mungo blinked. Wait! She peered through the inky black and made out a track of the fine grit. The water swirled on either side of the bridge of grit. She swallowed, fear creeping through her gut and prickling on her arms and legs. She couldnae see much of the path. What if the grit ended and the water trapped her?
Indecision warred inside her. A berserker holler from farther down the beach made up her mind. Gritting her teeth, she climbed aboard Harriet and nudged her toward the bridge. She pushed Harriet to a canter. A groan came from Joe, and she took heart from the sound. He was alive. There was still a chance she might find the ragwort bush on the island.
Behind her the roars from her clan increased. The water swirled and bubbled and boiled on either side of her. Mungo gasped, her mind screaming at her, questioning her sanity. Harriet picked up on her terror and shied at one of the larger waves that splashed them. Her surprising jig almost unseated Mungo and Joe.
“Easy, girl,” Mungo croaked.
Swallowing, she urged the steed onward.
The gritty bridge became narrower, the water washing across in places. Dread lay in the pit of her stomach, making it roil in tandem with the waves.
“Go, Harriet. Go!” She squeezed her thighs against the steed’s sides, urging her to speed even as every part of Mungo screamed. Idiot for believing Joe.
Mungo dinnae glance back. She’d made her choice. Now committed, she pushed forward and prayed as she’d never prayed when the water splashed her face.