The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [91]
“Oh!” Laura Glue exclaimed. “I almost f’rgot!”
She hastily unpacked her bundle and instructed the others to do the same. Inside were red cloaks with hoods, which she explained must be worn before they could enter the forest.
“It’s part of the Law of the Forest,” she said, fumbling with the tie strings.
“She’s right,” John said, flipping through pages in the History. “There’s a caution here in ancient Greek, and it mentions the red hoods. It relates to some Spartan legends, apparently, and refers to the red hoods as ‘shields.’”
“Humph,” said Charles, who had wrapped the thin red cloth around his shoulders and was now helping Laura Glue with her own hood. “It doesn’t seem sturdy enough to protect us from a drizzle of rain, much less shield us from anything.”
Jack was scowling and examining his hood with a look of distaste. “This is a girl’s color,” he complained. “Don’t we have one in green? Green would be best, but I’d even settle for blue.”
Laura Glue shook her head. “Red is the Law color,” she insisted. “No other color will work.”
John, again consulting the History, concurred. Jack muttered a few more words of protest, but nevertheless did as he was asked. He draped the cloak halfheartedly over one shoulder and fastened the ties with a slipknot.
“All set?” Bert said, examining the others. “Then into the woods we go.”
The children, that is, Jack and Laura Glue, wanted to take the lead, but Aven wouldn’t hear of it. She scouted the path about twenty paces ahead of the rest of them, followed by Jack, Laura Glue, and Charles, with John and Bert bringing up the rear.
As they walked, none of them noticed that they were being watched from high within the canopy above, and by more than one set of eyes. They were focused on the path, which for all practical purposes neatly bisected the island. The path was uncluttered and had once been neatly lined with golden cobblestones, but most had been worn down with use and age, and only traces remained of the yellowish pigment they once bore.
Every little while they would find a spot that had been clear-cut, all the lumber having been taken out long before. There was no obvious evidence of the woodsmen who had cut the timber, save for something Charles glanced out of the corner of his eye. It was what seemed to be a figure of human proportions, some distance into the wood, away from the path. Statuelike, the figure’s arms were upraised as if it had been frozen midswing and then had the ax taken from its hands.
Charles thought he caught a flash of metal underneath the vines that had grown up around the figure, strangling it from view, leaving little exposed except for the rictus of terror frozen permanently on its face.
None of the others had seen it, and Charles saw no benefit in pointing it out, so they moved on.
“The principal use of the History,” John was explaining to Bert, “seems to have been to equip travelers against whatever dangers there were on the islands. And it always uses stories as examples, like parables.”
He thumbed through several pages, and then stopped. Near the back was a section that seemed to have been ripped out.
“Maybe that’s why Daedalus dismissed any talk of the ninth island,” said Bert. “He had no reference materials addressing it—or the dangers that we might encounter.”
“Or maybe he knew they were ripped out,” suggested John, “and chose not to tell us.”
“Quiet!” Aven whispered, holding her hands out to her sides. “Don’t speak. Don’t move.
“We’re being tracked.”
Slowly, carefully, Aven indicated with a slight nod of her head the dark masses up ahead that the companions realized were living creatures. Up ahead, coming closer, and, they realized with mounting horror, also coming up the trail behind them.
They were wolves.
Massive, shaggy behemoths that stood as tall as racehorses, and carried the bulk of bulls.
The wolves moved out of the trees, silent as a child’s prayer. They did not look at the companions directly but slowly moved in