Maya and the Forty-One Planks
The rope bridge over Thistle Gorge had exactly forty-one planks, and Maya had counted every one of them from the safe side.
"You don't have to," said Bramble, settling onto her shoulder. The little fox-bat had a way of saying things that made them sound optional even when they weren't.
"I know," Maya said. Her hands were doing the cold thing again, the thing they did before spelling tests. Below the bridge, the fog moved like something breathing.
Last night she had walked to the edge and stopped. That was all. She had been fairly proud of that, actually.
"One plank," said Bramble.
"One plank isn't crossing."
"Nope," agreed Bramble. "It's one plank."
Maya put her foot down. The rope shifted under her and she made a small noise she hoped nobody heard. She stood there. Nothing terrible happened. The fog kept breathing. Her hands stayed cold.
She took one more.
On the far side, so far off it was barely a shape, something small and orange was waiting. It had been waiting for three nights now. Tomorrow, Maya thought, she might get close enough to see what it was.
She stepped back onto solid ground and let out a breath.
"Two planks," said Bramble.
"Two planks," Maya agreed. She was smiling, and she didn't entirely know why.