Dreamwalker by J.D. Oswald Page B

schooled him in how to deal with emergencies, but faced with the real thing, he could only stare stupidly at the cold, still form.
    ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ the dragon voice said to him, shocking his mind from the stupor it was falling into. ‘Her lungs are full of water. You’ve got to get that out. Roll her over and pump her arms up and down.’
    Bemused, Errol did as he was told, marvelling at the pints of water that spewed from Martha’s mouth.
    ‘Now you’ve got to get some air into her,’ the voice said and as it did, so Errol remembered what he was meant to do. Working as quickly as his cold muscles would let him, he bent over Martha’s head, lifting it back slightly. Then he pinched her nose closed, opened her mouth and breathed deep into her. Like ice, her lips burnt his and she lay so still he was convinced that she was dead. He was too late.
    ‘Don’t stop now,’ the dragon voice said to him. ‘Check if she has a pulse.’
    Errol had seen his mother take pulses before; that much he could do without instruction. Martha’s was weak and fluttering, but it was there. Now all he had to do was make her breathe. Taking her head in his hands once more, he put his mouth to hers and blew. Her chest rose then fell again, staying down. He was about to try once more when with a great wracking cough, Martha spewed up even more water, rolled onto her side and started taking in ragged, gasping breaths.
    ‘Thank the Shepherd,’ Errol said quietly, pulling Martha up to him and hugging her tight, trying to give her some of the warmth he could ill afford to spare.
    ‘I don’t think he had anything to do with it, actually,’ the dragon voice spoke in his head. ‘But I’ll allow you such platitudes, given the circumstances.’
    Martha opened her eyes at the words.
    ‘You met Sir Radnor then,’ she said, her voice hoarse and deep, almost adult. And then a bizarre smile spread across her face. ‘Hey, you kissed me Errol Ramsbottom. Does that mean you’re my boyfriend?’
    Errol was going to protest, but instead he just laughed as they shivered there on the damp sandy beach. Then a shout from the trees behind them broke the moment. Turning, Errol could see torches coming up the path at speed, the flames flickering with promised warmth. Tom Tydfil the smith was at the head of the line, his face creased with anguish. Godric Defaid and his son Clun were not far behind, with Trell reluctantly following his father bringing up the rear.
    ‘Where is she?’ Tom shouted at the top of his voice, then spotted Errol on the beach. ‘What have you done to my daughter, Witch Boy? By the Shepherd, I’ll flay you alive if she’s hurt!’
    Errol tried to protest, but he was too tired and Tom too strong. The smith pushed him roughly aside and pulled Martha up into his arms. She seemed to be fighting him off, but she too was weak and cold, collapsing into his arms eventually with a sob and a sorry glance in Errol’s direction.
    ‘He was darin’ her to stand on the edge, I saw ‘em both,’ Trell shouted in a high-pitched, weedy voice of desperation.
    ‘Is this true?’ The smith demanded, and evil malice in his voice.
    Errol looked at the three men who made up the village council. Only Godric had some glimmer of sympathy in his eyes.
    ‘We were near the edge, yes,’ Errol said, a shiver quavering his voice. ‘But we wouldn’t have fallen in if Trell hadn’t clouted me with that great stick.’ He pointed up at the flat base of the rock where a stout branch, cudgel-shaped and cleaned of twigs lay discarded.
    ‘That’s preposterous, Alderman Clusster said, bristling at the accusation to his good name. ‘How dare you accuse my son after he tried to save you!’
    ‘Save me,’ Errol laughed. ‘He wanted to kill me. He only got scared when he realised Martha was here as well.’
    ‘And just what were ye doin’ wit’ my daughter, Witch Boy? How dare ye bring her here, of all places?’
    Errol frowned at the smith. He