Page 98 of Stealing Embers
Just then, the metallic sparks zoom in front of me another time. They loop and soar and spin. The effect against the backdrop of falling snow is dizzying, and I squeeze my eyelids shut.
“All right, I get it. I can see you. Enough already.”
Slowly opening my eyes, I find a ball of flickering lights about the size of my fist hovering in the air several feet away.
Its sparks quiver and shoot in all directions, like a Fourth of July sparkler. Crystal flakes whip in a vortex around the little ball of light, but it doesn’t move.
It’s like the thing is staring at me. It’s beginning to creep me out.
“I’m just gonna head back that way.” I jab a thumb behind me and shift, ready to get the heck out of Dodge.
The ball flies right at me, vibrating in front of my face.
With a squeak, I fall back on my butt. One of my legs skids along the path and dangles over the edge.
I wrench it back, contorting my body so that it is fully resting on solid ground.
The sparkler flutters in jerky motions, its color changing from metallics to an angry red.
The little thing is obviously agitated.
Picking myself—and my dignity—off the ground, I start to edge in the direction I’d been going and the little sprite, or whatever it is, seems to calm down. Flying in front of me, it lights and guides the way. Every so often, it jets out ahead of me, then comes back to make sure I’m still following.
Its mannerisms remind me of a family dog in one of my old foster homes. He behaved similarly when he wanted you to follow him. The light even bounces, reminding me of the dog bounding through a field.
“Is Timmy stuck in a well, girl?” I ask.
The spark, which flickers red before returning to its white-golden color, ignores my question and continues leading me farther from safety.
Eventually the narrow path along the cliff’s edge just disappears. There’s nowhere else to go except up or down.
Down is a straight drop who knows how far. I can’t see the ground in the moonlight.
Up is a severely sloped climb I’d only attempt with the right gear and a safety line.
“All right, little dude.” The spark is zipping around me in an obvious attempt to keep me moving. “This is the end of the line.”
I’m shuffling backward, determined to ignore the sparkler this time, when it swings around my body and nudges my butt.
“Whoa.”
The thing is corporeal.
Swatting at it with my hand when it comes back for another shove is useless. The little gnat is speedy—and strong. It drives me forward a half-foot and I almost lose my balance.
“Cut it out! You’re going to make me fall!”
It zips around me and rests on the perfect handhold only a foot out onto the cliff.
This little guy actually wants me to scale a mountain . . . in the middle of the night . . . during a snowstorm . . . in boots!
It drops down about five feet and rests on another small ledge—somewhere I can place my foot. Then it flies into the air and circles my head.
My head throbs. I open and close my fists a few times to make sure my hands are still working. Without gloves, I lost feeling in them ages ago. I really hope I make it out of this situation with all my appendages—even the minor ones.
“Oh, I just followed some fairy dust up a mountain.” I place my hand on the hold I’ve been shown. “No big deal. I wasn’t doing anything important so I figured, ‘Hey, why not? I haven’t had a life-threatening event in a few days.’”
Taking in a deep breath of crisp air, I shift my weight onto the foothold and pray I don’t plummet.