The Stone of Courage

“NOW THAT WE’RE FRIENDS,” said Brisby, “I think I should help you.”

“Help me? How?” said Carling as she got set to start running again. She brushed her auburn curls off her sticky forehead, sucked in as much air as her lungs would hold, and set her eyes on the path ahead.

“I think I should carry you. I can run much faster than you can.”

Carling turned and looked up at Brisby. “You’d do that?”

“Sure I would. You’re my friend. I have to help you.”

“That would be wonderful,” said Carling, her muscles already at their limit, her lungs already aching for air, her heart already throbbing with fatigue. And none of this took into account the strain she was putting on her leg.

Brisby scooped Carling up as though she was as light as a breath of wind and set her on his shoulders. “Hold on to my horn,” he said.

Carling clasped the single horn that protruded out of the center of the Cyclops’ head. Her thin legs hung down his chest and nestled against his fur.

“Where to, madam?”

“Let’s follow the trail left by the Centaurs.”

“As you say,” said Brisby with a chuckle. He held on to her ankles with both hands and started running.