The Wisterian

Chapter 4: Not Yet Dead

Bells ring insistently in Rowan's ears, reviving her. A sharp pinching ache announces the stitches in her side ripping open. Coughing, she winces as something digs further into her ribs. Dust motes float across her vision in the dim light.

Okay, maybe not dead, not yet anyway.

Light and snow spill from above, illuminating the rubble and fallen timbers. The walls appear hand scraped and smooth, the ceilings low. Two rails run the length of the floor, interrupted by a boxy shadow near her elbow.

Understanding dawns on her still frozen brain. A mine. She fell into a mine. And judging by the giant hole in the ceiling, at least thirty feet underground. Only she could manage to fall into an actual pit after the day she's had already.

Stale and musty, a hundred years' worth of dust burns in her lungs. A coughing fit reveals bruised or broken ribs and a busted shoulder. Tearing off the left sleeve of her tunic, she ties it snugly around her right arm and shoulder.

A partial collapse seals one side of the tunnel. It could have happened during her fall, but judging by the dust, it must be far older.

Rowan sways as she rises to her feet, legs stiff, but blessedly unbroken. Her hand snags on the mining cart, empty save for a broken shovel. A warm trickle runs down to her hip, her abdomen aches dully.

She stoops, bent over at an odd angle to consider her options, well the only option. Following the shaft and hoping to all the gods she doesn't believe in, that there's another entrance somewhere ahead.

A hollow moan answers her thoughts. The scraping of claws against stone echoes through the mine. Great. The forest couldn't even manage to give her the courtesy of alone time.

Her skin crawls as the noise intensifies. Low growls follow the haunting moans. Body tensing and crouching low, she draws an arrow from her quiver, nocking it as she scans the dim space.

Rowan stalks the noise, ducking under fallen timbers, squeezing over piles of rocks. Whatever creature lurks in the darkness, it is so not finding her first.

The growls end abruptly. Underneath a section of collapsed rubble, lay a portly raccoon, his leg trapped beneath a fallen rock. Round yellow eyes stare directly into her soul, either begging for help or asking for a fight. Both maybe.

She chuckles, laying her bow at her feet.

"Wrong place, wrong time, little buddy," She moves a step closer. "Caught in the fall too, eh?" Rowan reaches to free the unfortunate critter. "Don't bite me though, okay?"

The Raccoon gazes at her, eyes narrowing as her hand approaches, he grumps softly.

"Ready? We're going to get you out of there." She tugs on his round belly, and sharp little teeth sink into her wrist. He blames her for this, and boy does he hold a grudge.

A few bites and scratches later, she frees the plump and pissed-off ball of gray fur. He hops, three-legged and menacing at her feet. He holds his fourth paw up with indignation. Free but unwilling to wander away.

"Shoo," Rowan scolds him, "Go on. Get going, you ungrateful little monster."

He growls and snaps at her boots as she limps past, attempting to find her bearing.

"Yeah, I sure hope this is the way out too."

In the warmer air, she begins to thaw, her red skin chapped and itching. Chunks of ice break free from her boots, and she pauses to wring water out of her shirt and vest.

Running a hand absentmindedly along the walls and determined to discern the type of mine, Rowan shrugs at the portly raccoon. "I should be able to tell...right?"