"Off, Arlen. Get off me," she said.

One moment there was just Arlen, then the grove was full of hounds as the r
est caught up. They sniffed the ground, tracing the boar's movement. Then one of
the dogs howled. He had caught the scent. He plunged back into the forest and o
n to the trail of the boar. The rest of the hounds followed. Arlen, with a backw
ard look at Morg, went too.
The grove was empty. Morg could hear the hunting horn in the distance, and
the yells of the huntsmen as the hounds picked up the scent. But they did not co
me into the grove. No-one saw her victory over the boar.
Morg sat flat down. She thought for a moment of finding the hunt, of tellin
g her father what had happened. But she'd never catch them, and anyway they woul
d not believe her. When the boar had turned and gone back into the forest she'd
thought that the goddess had answered her prayer, that the boar was a test. The
boar was, after all, a sacred animal. Maybe the goddess had taken on its form. S
he had hoped it was a sign that she would be allowed to go on the hunt. But now
the hunt had moved on and she knew that no-one had heard. Her voice was too smal
l, too unimportant. Probably the goddess was angry with her.
Morg was hungry. She had forgotten to bring any food with her. She did not
even have the chunk of flat bread her mother would usually send with her into th
e fields. She cupped her hands and drank some of the water from the goddess' str
eam. Perhaps it would bring her fortune. She needed it, she thought.
Suddenly she shivered. It was getting colder. All the warmth had gone from
the sun and it would not be long in the sky. The nights were squeezing the days
hard at this time of year. Morg slung her cloak around her shoulders, and starte
d to scramble back down the bank.
< 11 >
*
Morg was tired. Her legs were as heavy as the trunks of trees. Her stomach rumbl
ed with hunger and misery. She dragged herself on, eyes to the ground. The path
to the sacred grove was usually well-used by the tribe, but there had been no ce
remony there for some time. In places the way was not always clear. So Morg did
not notice that she had strayed off the path, and that now she was walking along
a new track.
Morg was thinking about the cold in her toes and wiggling them as she walke
d when she heard a rustling in the undergrowth to her left. She hesitated. She s
hould go on. It was getting late. She did not want to be in the forest in the da
rk.
Morg heard the rustling again. Curiosity overcame her. She had to know what
was in the bushes. The noise was coming from a group of low thorns. Walking rou
nd she saw a space that she could slither through. As she slid along on her fron
t, she heard thin squeals. Something knew she was coming.
The thorns opened out and she came upon a clearing in the centre of the bus
hes. A shallow bowl had been scraped away and lined with leaves. On the leaves w
ere four little wild boar piglets. They were each the size of three of her hands
, and they were squealing and tumbling over each other to get to her. They can o
nly be days old, thought Morg. Pale brown and cream stripes ran from the tips of
their snouts to their tails, which were twitching with excitement. They're just
like bumble bees, she smiled. But it was late for a boar litter. She knew that
they usually had babies in the sowing season, that was when boars were most dang
erous. Perhaps this was a second litter.
Then she frowned. Where was the piglets' mother? Female boars stayed close
to their babies, to protect them. Which meant it was not far away. Which meant t
hat Morg needed to get out of the bush quickly. She hesitated. She'd had an idea
. Everyone was going to be cross with her when she got back to the village. But
if she came with some boar piglets....
< 12 >
She reached out for the nearest one. It slipped through her fingers. She cr
awled slowly towards another and tried to grab its tail, but it twisted away fro
m her, then looked back over its shoulder. This is a good game, it seemed to say
. She ground her teeth. She threw herself on to the third, but somehow it squeez
ed from under her. It was like trying to catch water. Then her cloak hooked on o
ne of the thorns and she had a thought. Holding the cloak on both edges, she thr
ew it over the nearest piglet, and then threw herself on top of it. The piglet w
riggled and squiggled under the brown wool cloth. Standing on two of the corners
with her feet, Morg scooped the other edges under the piglet and grabbed all fo
ur corners into her hands. She had a brown wool bundle with a piglet squirming i
n it. Triumph!
She looked around. The other three were nowhere to be seen, hiding in the u
ndergrowth. She felt the weight of the piglet. It might be young, but it was hea
vy. One was quite enough. She'd better get moving before the boar came to find h
er offspring. She started to crawl along another tunnel out of the thorns when s
he bumped into something soft.
It was a dead boar. She must have been the piglets' mother. Morg realised t
hat was why she'd been able to catch the piglet - it was exhausted and hungry. M
org crouched over the boar. She'd been killed a couple of days ago, Morg reckone
d. She looked harder and a chill ran down her spine. She saw that the boar had b
een killed by a wolf.
Morg scuttled out of the bushes as fast as she could. It was only when she
was back on the path and walking a walk that was nearly a run, that she realised
she did not know where she was. The path started to drop down through a steep s
ided gorge she had not seen before. Her throat tightened. She was lost.
For a moment Morg panicked. It was almost dark and she was lost in a forest
full of wolves and no-one knew she was there. Then she took a deep breath. Then
another. She decided she had two choices. She could go back, and hope to join t
he old path. Or she could go on and hope to recognise something.