Hammered

and think through the problem set.
    Flidais cannot want to kill me—if she did, I would already be dead. Atticus said she’s a master archer and can pull off true invisibility; she can shoot me any time she wants and I’ll never see it coming. She is also supposed to have complete control over animals, which means she can force these creatures into the water if she wants. The fact that she hasn’t means she wants to either trap me in the water or see how I deal with the obstacles. The latter makes the most sense. I recognize it as another test; Atticus does this sort of thing to me all the time. Not threaten me with wild animals, I mean, but spring tests upon me without warning and without telling me I’m being tested.
    But why now? Irrelevant to solving the problem, come back to it—
    What   now? Better question. The javelinas, seeing a predator on the opposite shore, aren’t retreating as they should. They still guard the riverbank against my egress. And I am getting awfully cold. Breathing hurts.
    I cannot use magic since I am not yet bound to the earth—and the earth has already told me I’m on my own. Flidais must know this. She’s presented me with two choices: Stay in the river to avoid a fight and eventually lose myself to the cold, or fight for my life without any weapons. I know that calling out to her and begging for mercy is not an option. That would be an automatic fail.
    I’m not built for pig wrestling, especially eight at once, so what—?
    The answer is underneath my feet as I approach the shore: rocks. I’m going to rock those pigs. Big, smooth river rocks will crack a skull or two. And if Flidais has them come after me, well, I can swim better than they can.
    I dive down and pry a rock about the size of my head out of the mud, though it is fairly flat, almost like flagstone. It’s heavier than I thought it would be, but it’s ideal for the job. I wrestle it to the surface and gasp for a fresh breath. The javelinas erupt into new clamoring at my appearance. I walk forward on the river bottom until I’m only waist deep, and I raise the rock in both hands above my head, choosing a target. And there I pause, assailed by doubts.
    Killing any of these poor creatures seems a shame. They would not have been this persistent without goading. Wounding them would be the same as killing them, just more painful and cruel. Perhaps this test is truly a test of my compassion for animals and not a test of survival after all. Perhaps I will fail if I harm them.
    But I don’t see another way out. My teeth begin to chatter and the rock twitches above my head as I shudder involuntarily, my body trying to warm itself up. I have to get out and stitch up my wet suit—and very likely my leg as well—but the javelinas won’t respond to a polite request. Or will they?
    » Please move on and leave me alone. I don’t want to hurt you, «   I say. They continue to squeal angrily at me, and I’m actually a bit disappointed, then disgusted with myself. Hanging around with Oberon has conditioned me to think that all animals will naturally respond to modern American English. But it was worth a try, I suppose. I send a thought to Sonora: //Regret deaths / Blame Flidais//
    I get no response. And the rock isn’t getting any lighter. Channeling my rage at the situation, my desperation to get out of it, and my worry over Oberon’s whereabouts, I hurl the rock as best I can at the herd of javelinas, aiming for the closest one. My aim is a bit off, and the rock sails high to hit the javelina behind him square on the back. The blow breaks something, and it collapses, shrieking in agony. I nearly collapse myself with the guilt.
    Whatever’s holding the will of the other javelinas breaks, and they scatter, leaving their crippled companion behind. The mountain lion on the opposite shore also stops prowling and roars.
    I turn in time to see it leap into the river and begin to swim in my direction. I don’t know if Flidais is forcing it. Big cats rarely swim; they are not that buoyant, so this is extraordinary behavior. The piteous cries of the javelina might be an irresistible dinner bell, however.
    I will not let the javelina suffer any longer. If the mountain lion wants to eat it, fine, but I’m not going to let its throat be torn out. My legs surge through the water and carry me back to shore. The rock I threw lies near the javelina. I pick it up and, crying over the necessity, bring it down on the poor