Free Tale of Birle by Cynthia Voigt

reaching down to pull her knife from her boot, no word, no cry nor curse, no human voice. She heard only the dog, at its prey.
    The roiling, dark mass she came upon was like the sight of a fish fighting the hook that brought him to the surface. It was all movement, and she couldn’t see what was happening. As she ran into that mass, she saw more clearly—the dog had leaped, and in leaping had brought the man down. They rolled like wrestlers. The dog bit, snarling, for the throat as the man tried to fend off the jaws and teeth, with his hands and arms. Birle fell down across them, reached her right hand underneath the dog’s chin, placed her left hand down its muzzle and into its mouth to pull the head up and, before it could think to close its teeth on her hand, she drew her right hand back, across, and slit its throat.
    Silence fell over them. The dog’s head fell limp. Her hand and knife were wet with the rush of hot blood. She couldn’t catch her breath, lying heavily there. She drew back to her knees and hauled the dog’s body away.
    The Lord scrambled to his feet. “Come on,” he said. His voice was weak, filled with the air he struggled for. “The river. Can you find it? The boat? Get up!”
    Birle stood up. “Aye, but—”
    â€œArgue later,” he told her. “The men—if there’s another dog—”
    Birle hadn’t thought beyond the immediate danger. His words frightened her. She set off running, and he came crashing along close behind her. She led them to the river and then—knowing they had come in upstream from the island—down its bank, across the shallow stream. There, he stepped out ahead of her, his cloak loose now. He reached back to haul her up over boulders.
    The boat was a dark shape floating out in the water, held to land by the rope. The Lord bent over to catch the rope and pull the boat to shore. “You get in,” he gasped, “hold the oars. Where’s the knot?” he cried.
    Birle clambered into the boat, which rocked dangerously under her feet. She shed the sack and sat down, facing the island. She held the oars ready. As soon as he had his feet in the boat, she lifted the oars, dipped them into the water, and pulled, as strongly as she could. The boat shot away, into the river.
    The sudden movement knocked his feet out from under her. He tumbled down onto the floor, facing her. Birle rowed backward until they were safe at midstream, then lifted her legs and swung around in the seat. She continued rowing, down the dark, southward-flowing river.
    Overhead, the sickle-shaped new moon shone peacefully among stars, and after a while Birle’s heart slowed, and her breathing slowed. She didn’t know about his heart, but she heard his breath grow steady, until she couldn’t hear it at all. “Are you hurt, my Lord?” she asked.
    His answer came from behind her. “I don’t think so, but—I’m covered with blood. Some might well be my own, but I don’t feel any pain.”
    â€œAye, the blood’ll wash out,” she assured him.
    â€œAnd you?” he asked.
    â€œI’m not hurt.” She could have complained of fatigue, this night’s work after the day’s, but she didn’t think she had anything to complain of.
    â€œI couldn’t get my knife. Couldn’t get my hand to my knife. Or my sword,” his voice told her. “You were handy with the dog.”
    â€œIt’s how pigs are slaughtered.”
    â€œI’m going to move to the seat.”
    The only answer she gave was to hold the oars out of the water. He climbed past her and sat down carefully, facing her. He rested his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. Birle rowed steadily, along the quiet river with its dark, distant banks, closing safe around them like walls.
    When the Lord raised his head it was to say, “You saved my life. The creature would have chewed