Loyalty

The river ran backwards on the day the queen vanished.

Misty Teague was frogging in the water and making quite a splash when the current reversed and swept her off her feet. Were it not for her most loyal mutt, Lion, gripping her calico dress stalwartly between his teeth, ever careful not to allow those canines to graze the skin of his small mistress, she would surely have been lost downstream, and swiftly.

Towing the thrashing, flailing tangle of wiry limbs and red hair to the bank, Lion deposited his beneficiary upon the grass. Muddy, but unharmed. He was satisfied.

Misty sputtered for a moment, brushing her damp mop of hair away from her eyes in time to spy something carried in on the tributary. Something large and awkward was floating atop the water.

Ever undaunted, Misty plunged herself back into the water. Lion heaved a sigh, rolling his brown eyes ever so slightly. He was more or less used to her antics, but he didn’t wish to see her drown. Bravely, he followed.

Misty was gripping a large basket, raftlike, covered in pitch. A storm was brewing inside the basket -- a squall, if you asked Lion. He knew the sound from the days when Misty’s own body, much smaller at the time, had produced the same horrid racket.

This was how he knew what to do when she plunked her find upon the grass. Lion hurriedly removed the lid of the basket. Misty gasped, throwing her hands to her mouth.

The sunlight distracted the creature, but only for a moment. When the wails returned, they were louder with the lid off, and Lion made haste. Snatching the tiny bundle by the corners of its blanket, he gently rocked it, back and forth, the afternoon breeze caressing its rounded cheeks, drying its tears. Soon the infant sighed, gave a shudder and a small yawn, and drifted back to sleep.

“Lion, you’re a good mama!” Misty exclaimed, squeezing his neck. He didn’t bother correcting her but peeled the blanket gently away from the small slumbering face. Large, leaf-shaped ears appeared from beneath the wool, wide at the bottom, tapering to a point at the top. Lion creased his brow as Misty giggled with delight. “It’s an elven baby!”

She scooped the little one into her arms and spun in a circle, but paused then, frowning at Lion. “Bumpy said elves were extinct! Bumpy’s never wrong.”

Lion was busy picturing the look on the grandfather’s face when his charges returned home with a baby. He’d cared for Misty from the time she was abandoned in the forest at about the same age. He’d cared for Lion from the day an unfortunate run-in with a dragon had lost him his first master along with his left front leg. Bumpy would care for the child, even though it was an elf, wouldn’t he?

Lion couldn’t be sure. Magic-kind had long ago been purged from the land. The queen had made it her mission. There were no more elves, no fairies or sprites, bards or wizards. Not since the war. Queen Ishilda’s brutal forces had left no stone unturned, no flower unplucked from the earth as they set the forest ablaze in their bloodthirsty campaign. None had survived, this was the final report. The law held that any who harbored a survivor would be put to death, but even those had been eliminated long ago.

Lion wasn’t one to shrink from danger. He certainly wasn’t one to throw an infant into a rushing river only to spare himself.

He pondered their situation, considering his options. The Queen had vanished today, and the kingdom was fearful of what this meant. Some said she’d gone on a journey to the mountains and would return even wiser and more powerful. Some said her horrible deeds had finally caught up with her and she had met a grim fate in return for her cruel reign of bloodshed. Lion hoped it was the latter, but either way, there was only one option that would allow him to sleep tonight. With all the unrest, they’d better get the child inside quickly.

He tugged on Misty’s skirt urgently, leading his pair of young charges into the woods. They would make their way to Bumpy’s secluded hovel – home. The old man was compassionate. If he kept it well-hidden beneath a layer of self-preservation, Lion couldn’t judge him for it. Bumpy had lost his first family in the war, he spoke of them little. Only whispers in the ear of the loyal old dog on certain sleepless nights. The old man might have presumed that Lion couldn’t comprehend what he heard, but no matter, his secrets were safe, his pain well-guarded.

Lion hoped he could keep this newfound secret safe in these troubled times, but one question nagged at the back of his mind.

Misty stumbled over an exposed root and fell to her knees. Lion placed his head beneath the bundle, offering support, and the uninjured but startled baby jolted awake and resumed its squalling.

How would they keep it quiet?