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gue: he’d stick it out at the tiger when it finally made its appearance. The thought gave him strength.
On two three…tug.
And the stake gave and shifted in his hands.
One more pull and the stake came out of the ground, slick as a sword sliding out of a stone.
He pulled the ropes toward him, and held the stake in his hands. It was about three feet long. One end had been sharpened to go into the ground. He pushed it out of the loops of rope with numb hands. Ropes dangled uselessly from his wrists. He hefted the stake in his right hand. It would do. And he knew then that he was being watched: that it had been watching him for some time now, like a cat watching a mousehole.
It came to him in silence, or nearly, insinuating its way toward him like a shadow moving across the day. The only movement that caught the eye was its tail, which swished impatiently. Otherwise, it might have been a statue, or a mound of sand that looked, due to a trick of the light, like a monstrous beast, for its coat was a sandy color, its unblinking eyes the green of the midwinter sea. Its face was the wide, cruel face of a panther. In the islands they called any big cat Tiger, and this was every big cat there had ever been—bigger, meaner, more dangerous.
Spider’s ankles were still hobbled, and he could barely walk. Pins and needles pricked his hands and his feet. He hopped from one foot to another and tried to look as if he was doing it on purpose, some kind of dance of intimidation, and not because standing hurt him.
He wanted to crouch and untie his ankles, but he did not dare take his eyes off the beast.
The stake was heavy and thick but was too short to be a spear, too clumsy and large to be anything else. Spider held it by the narrower end, where it had been sharpened, and he looked away, out to sea, intentionally not looking at the place the animal was, relying on his peripheral vision for information.
What had she said? You will bleat. You will whimper. Your fear will excite him.
Spider began to whimper. Then he bleated, like an injured goat, lost and plump and alone.
A flash of sandy-colored motion, barely enough time to register teeth and claws as they blurred toward him. Spider swung the stake like a baseball bat as hard as he could, feeling it connect with a satisfying thunk across the beast’s nose.
Tiger stopped, stared at him as if unable to believe its eyes, then made a noise in the back of its throat, a querulous growl, and it walked, stiff-legged, back in the direction it had come, toward the scrub, as if it had a prior appointment that it wished it could get out of. It glared back at Spider resentfully over its shoulder, a beast in pain, and gave him the look of an animal who would be returning.
Spider watched it go.
Then he sat down, and untangled and untied his ankles.
He walked, a little unsteadily, along the cliff edge, following it gently downhill. Soon a stream crossed his path, running off the cliff edge in a sparkling waterfall. Spider went down on his knees, cupped his hands together, and began to drink the cool water.
Then he began to collect rocks. Good, fist-sized rocks. He stacked them together, like snowballs.
“YOU’VE HARDLY EATEN ANYTHING,” SAID ROSIE.
“You eat. Keep your strength up,” said her mother. “I had a little of that cheese. It was enough.”
It was cold in the meat cellar, and it was dark. Not the kind of dark your eyes get used to, either. There was no light. Rosie had walked the perimeter of the cellar, her fingers trailing against the whitewash and rock and crumbling brick, looking for something that would help, finding nothing.
“You used to eat,” said Rosie. “Back when Dad was alive.”
“Your father,” said her mother, “used to eat, too. And see where it got him? A heart attack, aged forty-one. What kind of world is that?”
“But he loved his food.”
“He loved everything,” said her mother bitterly. “He loved food, he loved people, he loved his daughter. He loved cooking. He loved me. What did it get him? Just an early grave. You mustn’t go loving things like that. I’ve told you.”
“Yes,” said Rosie. “I suppose you have.”
She walked toward the sound of her mother’s voice, hand in front of her face to stop it banging into one of the metal chains that hung in the middle of the room. She found her mother’s bony shoulder, put an arm around her.
“I’m not scared,” said Rosie, in the darkness.
“You’re crazy, then,” said her mother.
Rosie let go of her mother, moved back into the middle of the room. There was a sudden creaking noise. Dust and powdered plaster fell from the ceiling.
“Rosie? What are you doing?” asked Rosie’s mother.
