Free Percival's Angel by Anne Eliot Crompton

breast and side.
    Trees and shade gave way.
    There stood the bower in full sunshine. Alone. Fearfully exposed. Its solid-woven back to Alanna.
    She staggered out into the open. Across to the bower. Around the bower. Every labored breath now a loud agony.
    Ivie sat cross-legged in the shadowed entrance. She had laid her reed-braiding aside to hold three-month-old Percy upright between her knees. They laughed together, Ivie softly, Percy crowing like a rooster. Alanna had not heard his crowing through her own rasping, tearing breath.
    Now they heard her gasps. Two human faces turned to her. They were safe, alive. Both of them.
    Alanna caught hold of the bower’s wicker frame and hung from it, panting.
    Percy yelled joyful greetings and held out his arms.
    Ivie’s jaw dropped. Blue eyes widened.
    She said only, “Where’s your berry basket?”
    Alanna could not yet speak to answer.
    â€œYou had a berry basket.” Ivie reminded her. “Hung on your neck. Percy and I, we were just talking about those berries.”
    Percy jumped up and down in Ivie’s scarred, hardened hands.
    Alanna looked at her own hands. Purple. Scummy. She must have been picking berries.
    Aye. I was picking berries. And then…
    She sank down beside Ivie. Took eager Percy into her lap. Bared breast for him.
    She said, “I saw…I saw…”
    Ivie’s eyes widened yet farther.
    â€œCap…fox eyes…”
    Firmly, softly, Ivie said, “Hush.”
    Again, a few days. Then Alanna led the way up the bank and home from the sunset-tinged river. They had bathed Percy. Alanna had wished to bathe, herself; but then she thought of the little brown fox-face in the blackberries and clutched her ragged gown close.
    She went first, brave hand on the knife at her hip. Ivie followed with clean, wide-awake Percy in her arms. Shadows deepened ahead. Better get home fast…no dawdling…no being out in the woods at night…
    Alanna slowed, and stopped in shadow. Ivie stopped behind her. Percy jumped impatiently in her arms.
    It’s only my fear, showing itself. Only my shivers.
    Red slanting sunlight pooled between two pines ahead. Did a quiet figure stand in that light?
    Alanna gripped her knife hilt. It’s a trick of light. And my shivers.
    Percy fussed louder.
    Must get home!
    Alanna stepped forward. Stopped again.
    Holy Mary, it’s real!
    The figure raised a greeting hand, palm forward, and took clear shape. A small, dark lady stood in the trail. From under a crown of wildflowers her long, black braid dropped down her long, embroidered gown. Black as her braid, her keen eyes met Alanna’s with a…kind…glance.
    Behind Alanna, Ivie gasped.
    Alanna planted herself like a tree between the small, kind lady and Percy.
    The lady smiled—slowly, carefully, showing no tooth. But Alanna guessed at hidden, fox-sharp incisors. She drew her knife halfway from its sheath.
    Haltingly, with strange inflections, the lady said, “I Lady of Lake. Nimway. All know I.” Her gentle, husky voice froze Alanna’s hand on the knife.
    The lady said, “I let you come. Guard you. No harm. Yes.”
    She moved from red light into shadow. Stepped closer. And close, raising her eyes to hold Alanna’s own.
    Alanna tried to grip the knife hilt. I’m falling asleep! Can’t move!
    Couldn’t fight, anyway. She’s not here alone! There’s little skin-capped men behind every tree, pointing poisoned darts at us.
    Her numb fingers slept on the knife hilt.
    The Lady of the Lake stopped before Alanna. Smiled up at her, close-mouthed. Looked past her.
    Alarm tingled up Alanna’s spine as those deep, keen eyes fell on Percy behind her. If I could move! Must move!
    Despairing. She doesn’t need men with poisoned darts. She is her own army.
    Behind Alanna, Percy suddenly cooed and laughed.
    Soft, friendly, the lady said, “Greetings, Percival.