Free Grayling's Song by Karen Cushman

Desdemona Cork. Urged by Auld Nancy, Grayling, who still stood at the entry, related the story of their capture and escape. Pansy interrupted, saying, “Auld Nancy thinks Grayling was brave and a great help to us, which I could have been also, if I had wanted, but Grayling likes telling us what to do, so I let her do it.” She snuffled loudly as she removed her boots and wiggled her dirty, blistered feet.
    They all turned to look at Grayling. She blinked. Pansy had nearly gotten herself and Grayling drowned. Twice. Pansy whined and grumbled and complained at every turn. And she thought she could be brave and helpful? Grayling gritted her teeth. She had not wanted to lead, but who else was there?
    â€œThat is all over, and we have survived. Now I believe we must hurry away before we are discovered,” she said, reluctantly, because of the warmth, the soft cushions, the aroma of the roast meat . . . and the still-missing Pook.
    Auld Nancy, her face weariful and wan, said, “Desdemona Cork, be useful. Use your wiles to delay our pursuers for a time. Long enough for us to eat and to rest.”
    Desdemona Cork looked confused, as if the idea of being useful confounded her, but she nodded slowly. “You will be safe here until dawn. I can make it so.” So Grayling, too, sat, choosing a cushion the green of the fiddlehead ferns in her valley.
    Suddenly from outside the pavilion came the sounds of men shouting, the clanging of weapons, and the snorting of horses. The soldiers! Grayling jumped to her feet, her hunger gone.
    Desdemona Cork stepped outside, and Grayling could smell roses. She moved closer to the entry and heard snatches of conversation.
Have you seen
. . . and
Whither the witches
. . . and
South. Due south, in a coach with four horses running fast.
    At a sudden shrieking, Grayling pulled back the silks and peered out. One of the soldiers was thrashing about, shouting and tugging at his clothes. Was he in the midst of a fit? Possessed of a demon? Out from a sleeve fell not a demon but a toad, brown and warty. Desdemona Cork squealed as it crawled over her foot and into the tent.
    â€œGray Eyes, this mouse has found you,” said the toad to Grayling.
    Grayling’s chest swelled with joy. “Pook? ’Tis really you?” Although she much preferred Pook as a mouse or a raven or even a goat, she lifted Pook the toad and patted him gently on his bumpy back. “You are truly a remarkable creature to have found me,” she said.
    â€œI could not have walked such a far way, so this soldier carried me,” said Pook the toad, “though he was unaware of his assistance.”
    â€œBy my reckoning, you have now saved me twice,” Grayling said, bowing her head. “My most grateful thanks to you and your mouse accomplices.”
    â€œNay, the mice did what mice do: chew. ’Twas great fun for a mouse.” Pook quivered, and Grayling, disinclined to put a toad in her pocket, held him gingerly on her palm.
    After a few moments of shawl twitching and veil fluttering by Desdemona Cork, the soldiers, bowing and scraping, left, heading south as she had instructed them. The man in the high-heeled black leather boots still stood unmoving and unaware. Grayling gestured questioningly toward him.
    â€œI grew tired of his attentions,” said Desdemona Cork with a shrug.
    Inside the pavilion, Desdemona Cork handed something to Grayling. It was her basket, left behind when the three were captured. She put Pook inside, where, in true toad fashion, he hid himself beneath the few remaining herbs, now limp and brown but welcome cover for a toad.
    Grayling kicked off her soggy shoes, curled herself onto a soft cushion, and ate her fill of beef and apples and bread with honey. What a day she had had! Would she survive another like it? She combed her still-damp hair with her fingers and pulled it into a braid, then fell into a deep and dream-free sleep.
    Dawn sun,