Foxheart

Chapter Thirty-One

'Esme Dupont but Spirits call me the Bloxham Sprite.'

The Spirit bowed his head sagely. 'This one has heard of the name. The god of the Everwoods has spread tales of it.' His white eyes stared at Esme with a very bored expression. 'The whistle it blew, it called to this one. Willow heard the magic in its tuneless cries, the hidden demands for a Spirit to come forward. It is made by one like Willow. Who made it?'

'River Oak.'

She didn't know if she knew the name, he gave no indication, but it was likely. The Willow and Oak rivers joined at two different points and shared the same Mother River, River Redwood.

River Willow tilted his head and reached out to touch the whistle. His pale long fingers brushed the mix of wood and metal and the fabric of the pouch. His bored features were broken by stark surprise but it was only briefly. He pulled away and folded his arms over his thick chest. Esme was worried he wasn't going to help her after all but she was wrong.

'What does the Bloxham Sprite have need of?' He drawled.

'A man and a Watchful Sprite fell into your river. The man was bleeding badly. I need both returned to me.'

River Willow pulled a face. He didn't seem to like things asked of him. 'Yes. This one recalls the bloody human with flaming red hair. This one got rid of it. It was upsetting this one's children.'

Esme's features perked up instantly and she pushed herself awkwardly to her feet. 'Take me to him.' When the Spirit's bored eyes narrowed, she paused, realising how rude she was being and bowed instead. 'I request the Spirit Willow to take me to the wounded man, if it so pleases him.'

Willow seemed appeased but annoyed. He huffed then pulled himself out of the water, revealing the entirety of his lengthy tail and its fiery scales. Very slowly he swam above the waters up stream. Esme followed hurriedly, not having a care for her nakedness at all. All that she cared about was her dear Absolon and her wounded guide.

She belted through the trees, stumbling over roots and pebbles, scrabbling against the mud and gravity that tried to pull her into the river's grasp again. Twigs and sharp rocks dug into her soft feet, making her wince, but not stopping her. She fought hard to keep going and not fall behind Willow's swift pace.

Eventually, growing closer to the edge of Alton, Willow stopped. He came to curl above something further upstream, peering down curiously. At first Esme thought it was nothing but a bundle of cloth until she noticed the tell-tale red hair.

It was Fox. He was motionless and face down on the bank, sodden and filthy from mud and blood.

'Fox!' She cried as she hurried to breach the distance between them.

She dove to his side and, very gently, pulled him onto his back. Instantly her heart sunk. His skin was grey and sickly and burned to the touch, his expression slack. Blood was congealing in his shirt, turning it black from gore, and she couldn't tell whether it was sweat or river water that covered his skin. She pulled away his shirt as carefully as she could, ripping it in places, and her hear sunk further as she scanned his body. The wound on his shoulder was ugly; ripped through and weeping yellow puss. She pulled his sodden bloodstained shirt away further. The second wound was worse. The bleeding had slowed but the skin was decaying quickly, brimming with purple veins and fussed over by flies.

'Oh gods.' Esme whispered and placed a hand against his forehead. He was boiling. She watched his chest and how slowly it laboured, how his eyes flickered beneath his eyelids wildly. She gently took his face between her small hands and rubbed his cheeks with her thumbs. He felt so clammy beneath her skin.