Then the goat pushed her nose through. “Bah!” she said.
Leo only just stopped himself from swinging his pole. He stared at the goat, which stared back at him, and the accusatory gleam in her eyes made him feel very stupid.
“Dragon-eaten beast,” he growled. “What are you doing out here all alone? You’re not even wearing a bell. Did you wander away from your flock?”
“Bah,” said the goat, stamping a cloven hoof.
It was embarrassing how fast his heart was still drumming. Leo bent down to rub his leg where the nettles had caught him, muttering to himself about goat stew. What a waste this afternoon was turning out to be! He’d have been better off with chess pieces in the dirt like a stupid little boy rather than all this adventuring nonsense. Monster indeed! Nothing but a stupid goat.
Something cracked behind him.
Leo turned.
There it stood, not ten feet away. Swathed in veils, white and incorporeal and horrifying in the shadows cast by the tallest trees.
Leo did not wait for a second look. Pushing past the goat, he crashed headlong back through the forest as fast as his feet could carry him, leaving his beanpole behind.
2
HEROES DID NOT ABANDON their weapons.
The following morning was a mess of drizzle. A fine excuse to huddle inside all day, Leo told himself. But excuses were for cowards and children.
His nursemaid was busy, and Foxbrush was amusing himself by solving long algebraic equations and hadn’t time for a game of chess or a romp up and down the stairs. Nothing suggested itself as a distraction from his nagging conscience, so Leo sat in turmoil before the library fire, rolling marbles back and forth without ever settling on a game. His thoughts plagued him.
What had he seen on the hillside? When he thought back, he could not even give it a specific form. He remembered being terrified, but what had terrified him exactly? It certainly hadn’t been a monster in the traditional seven-foot, slavering-jaws sense. Which left him feeling silly. What excuse had he to run?
And to leave his weapon.
He thought of the heroes that peppered his history textbooks. Most of the stories were complete nonsense, he knew, but even so! Had not King Shadow Hand bargained away his own two hands to a powerful Faerie queen for the sake of protecting his kingdom? Had not the child Sight-of-Day stood up in the face of the Dragonwitch even when those around her surrendered? Had not Maid Starflower—the nation’s most famous and beloved heroine, for whom half the girls were named to this day—had she not done battle with the dreadful Wolf Lord and, well, if not lived to tell the tale, at the very least lived on in reverent memory?
And those last two were girls, no less!
Leo felt ashamed. Faerie queens, witches, and giant wolves were about as terrible as they came. He couldn’t pretend that whatever he had seen in the forest was anything so frightening as they. Especially when he couldn’t even say what he had seen. How could he ever hope to number himself among heroes if . . .
It was more than he could stand.
Leo got up. Foxbrush did not raise his eyes from his equations, so there was no need to offer an explanation. Leo found an oiled coat and a hat, both a little large for him, and slipped out the back door. No one saw him save that bush-bearded gardener, who was still about his work on the lawn, even in the drizzle. Leo waved to the old man but did not address him as he made his way to the garden gate and out to the path beyond.
Yesterday that initial hundred yards had been easy enough to walk, for the sun had been shining and the birds singing. Today the path was gloomy, and when he came to that turn into the deeper forest, his heart nearly gave out. His memory conjured up images of that wafting, shrouded thing, and he thought for a longing moment of his marbles by the fire, and even of Foxbrush and his wretched algebra.
But real heroes don’t leave their weapons behind. Perhaps he’d not hunt a monster, but if nothing else, Leo would retrieve his beanpole.
Pushing through the thicker growth caused dollops of accumulated water to splash on his hat and roll from the brim. Some went down the back of his coat, ice-cold. His boots were clumped with mud and wet leaves, and his adventurous spirit was long since dampened to death. Nothing but pure stubbornness propelled him forward. At least his misery distracted him from his fright. It was difficult to be scared of a supposed monster when suffering the agonies of cold water down one’s collar.
He vaguely recognized bits of the trail. There was that spot where the trees opened up and he could glimpse the sweep of the mountain down to the valleys below. There was that odd tree that bent at a right angle three feet up, then grew straight to its topmost branches. There was that boulder that looked like a goblin’s ugly face, either leering or smiling; it was hard to say which.