It was a very large, very heavy plank. Knots twisted through the grain like rippling muscles.
“I’ve never moved anything this size before,” he confessed. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Only one way to find out,” said the armadillo, plopping himself down on Oliver’s feet.
Oliver nodded. He fixed his gaze on the plank, murmured “Pushme, pullme…” and concentrated.
The plank rattled against the fastenings, but didn’t move.
Oliver gritted his teeth and pushed harder. He could feel his blood pounding inside his head. He had to lift at least one end of the plank up and over the metal hook holding it.
It was a lot heavier than anything he’d ever tried to move before. It felt like the plank was inside his head, a big, immovable object between his eyes. The bar jumped in its fastenings and landed again with a thump.
“Unnnngghhh…”
The far end of the plank started to rise.
“Unggh…!”
Something gave. Whether it was in the wood or inside his head, he wasn’t sure. There was a loud mental pop! and the spell snapped.
Oliver sat down hard and clutched his temples.
The armadillo gave him a brief, friendly poke with its nose, then trotted away to shove its head through one of the chinks in the wall. It was back a moment later.
“You got the bar lifted, but it turned in the socket. It’s hung up on the fastener. Can you try again?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” said Oliver. His brain felt swollen, like a raw red sponge inside his skull. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t hurt in a way that indicated a whole lot of hurt lurking underneath. “I think I broke something.”
The armadillo eyed him for a moment. “Hmm. You don’t look so good. The blood leaking from the corners of your eyes doesn’t help.”
Oliver moaned. This was worse than the time with the elemental.
“Maybe we can just push it,” his familiar said, putting his shoulder against the door.
Since the strength of an armadillo is negligible, Oliver staggered to his feet and braced his shoulder against the door. It creaked, but held fast. He pushed harder, feeling the pulse start up in his head again, and heard the bar grinding in the socket.
“Easy, now,” said the armadillo, patting his knee with a small paw. “You’re brains, not brawn. Sit down and rest a minute.”
“If we wait, the Bryerlys might come out,” said Oliver weakly, although he wanted very much to sit down and rest.
“We won’t wait. Sit down.”
Oliver sagged to the floor. The books in his pack dug into his back, but he was too tired to rearrange them.
The armadillo trotted across the dusty boards to the pigpen. He scrambled awkwardly up the fence—armadillos are not noted for their climbing skills—and flipped the latch with his nose. The gate creaked open.
“You’re letting the pigs out now?”
“Relax,” said the armadillo.
Easy for him to say, thought Oliver. The black-and-white sow was bigger than he was, and the boar, an immense dirty white pig with tusks like fence posts, was nearly twice that. He hugged his knees nervously.
The armadillo walked briskly up to the boar, without showing the least fear, and pushed the pig’s leg with his nose. The pig looked down at him. The armadillo scampered away, three or four lengths, then turned and looked over his shoulder at the pig, jerking his snout towards the door.
It was hard to read emotion on those faces, particularly in the dim light, but Oliver could swear the boar looked baffled.
The armadillo repeated the gestures—snout touch, run, look back. The boar scuffed his hoof on the floor thoughtfully. The armadillo tried again.
Oliver’s familiar was gearing up for the fourth try when the black-and-white sow lumbered out of the corner, grunted irritably at the boar, and followed the armadillo to the gate of the pen.
“Right,” said the armadillo. He scooted under the fence and pushed the gate partway open. The sow got her head around it and shoved it the rest of the way.
They crossed the floor, the sheepish boar bringing up the rear. Oliver discovered that he did, indeed, have the strength to get up and get out of their way.
Once they reached the door, the armadillo approached the sow. He pushed her leg with his snout, jerked his head at the door, then shoved himself against it, legs scrabbling for purchase. It creaked slightly.
The sow grunted thoughtfully and pawed at the ground. She went up to the door, put her shoulder against it, and began to push.
The wood groaned. She grunted at the boar, who took up a position at the other door and began to push. The armadillo got out of the way, sitting up on his hind legs to watch.
Wood splintered. The boar started to drop back, but the sow grunted irritably at him, and he threw himself into it again.
There was a sudden, painfully loud screech of metal—Oliver cringed—and the doors swung open.
Jumping forward, Oliver saw that the wood had held, but the screws hadn’t. The pigs had ripped the metal hooks right out of the wood.
“They’ll have heard that!” said the armadillo. “Run for it!”
The pigs needed no urging. As soon as the doors opened, they bolted across the yard.
A shout went up from the farmhouse. Oliver saw a lantern swinging wildly, throwing a spray of light across the broken ground, and had the useless thought that it was the first light he’d seen the farmers use.
Oliver sprinted around the corner of the barn, into the safety of the shadows, his weariness forgotten. He raced for the edge of the barn, in the direction of the road—and halted.
The fields were bare, the stunted crops only knee high. There was no cover anywhere from the barn to the road, unless he could reach the drainage ditch, which would be so obvious that the Bryerlys were sure to check it. If he ran for the road, he’d stand out like a horse in a pigpen, and then it would be a footrace.
With his skull still throbbing like a shattered star, he wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to walk the distance, never mind running.
There was only one place to hide, one place they might not check.
He had to hide close by the farmhouse. The thick shrubs would provide cover until the Bryerlys gave up looking. Then he could sneak away before dawn.
He knew it was the logical hiding place, but his stomach roiled at the thought.
Squeals of rage came from the yard, with a hoarse yell of pain. Mr. Bryerly had apparently tried to grab one of the pigs.
Oliver ran along the back side of the barn, towards the house.
He peered around the corner of the barn and saw the farmer’s back. Mr. Bryerly was limping after the racing pigs, the lantern held high.
Oliver winced, biting his lip, but there was no help for it. He scurried across the open space, bent nearly double, waiting for a shout of alarm.
It didn’t come. He could have wept with relief, but he didn’t dare stop. He ran crouched, staying low, until the farmhouse loomed in front of him.
Distant squeals indicated that Mr. Bryerly was probably still occupied. Oliver hoped the pigs would get away safely.
The chimney side of the cottage was the farthest from any doors, and the most thickly overgrown. An ancient lilac bush had nearly eaten a corner of the cottage. It was long since out of flower, but the leaves made a dense screen of dappled light and shadow in the moonlight.