Wildwood Read Online Free Page B

All around him smaller Nereids disported in the water.
    ‘What for?’ I asked when I’d taken all this in.
    ‘No but, could you?’
    Several of the crowd with him sniggered and I looked warily at their faces. Some were familiar from the village, years back, though none were among those I’d counted as friends. Others were strangers, but from the same mould: all young, none sober, with taunting looks upon their faces. I looked again at the fountain. The whole thing was maybe thirty feet high. The metal wasn’t wet but it looked polished smooth. On the other hand there were so many rococo details – foaming waves and cherub heads and the like – that there should be no difficulty finding holds for hand and feet.
    I shrugged. ‘No problem. Why?’
    There were more sniggers.
    ‘Well, we’ve got this bet on, like,’ said Simon, grinning with undisguised slyness. ‘What with you being this big-shot lumberjack so you say –’ He broke off to allow space for several derisive snorts from his audience.
    ‘I’m not a lumberjack,’ I said, wincing at the word.
    ‘Whatever. An
arborist
then.’ He executed a clumsy, mocking bow of apology. ‘We were wanting to see if you could climb this, to the top shell there.’
    Actually almost all tree climbing is done with rope and harness, but I’d done plenty free-climbing on rock faces too. That didn’t worry me. ‘And what would I get for winning the bet for you?’
    ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’m betting against you.’
    ‘Really.’
    ‘But if you win I’ll buy you …’ He pulled a face. ‘A crate of bubbly?’
    ‘A new climbing rig,’ I countered. ‘With ropes and ascenders.’ That would set him back a bit and was currently beyond my pocket. I don’t exactly earn a fortune.
    ‘Fair enough.’
    ‘OK then.’ I don’t have an excuse. I wasn’t drunk – not really. I was just stung by the group’s air of derision. I was pissed off with Simon. I thought it would be a bit of fun. It’s no excuse really. Turning my back, I kicked off my shoes, crouched to shimmy off my tights from beneath my dress (to whistles and catcalls) and finally shucked the stupid jacket again. After considering my very inappropriate climbing attire I finally tucked one side of my skirt up into the waistband of my panties to free up my legs. That was received with appreciation too. What the hell, I thought.
    They made way for me at the lip of the basin, and I tried not to recoil when I found out how cool the water was. Luckily it came only to my knees as I waded across the slippery basin to the statue, feeling the hard discs of coins shift beneath my toes.
    Make a wish, I said to myself, teeth gritted.
    My audience was yelling advice and encouragement as I started the ascent, but I wasn’t listening. When you climb, concentration is everything; the world shrinks to include only you and the surface you’re battling. I laid hold of the beak of a sea monster, my first point of grip, and felt the metal chilly beneath my fingers. Getting my foot up onto the monster’s tail I pushed myself up, seized the arm of a flailing sea nymph, and suddenly was clear of the water. So it went on: from fish to shoulder to head to triton’s hip, my bare toes gripping the bronze scales. I had to grab his raised arm from beneath as if it were an oak branch and swing both legs up from below, hanging monkeylike before getting a thigh up so that I could haul myself up onto his massive bicep, then sitting astride it to catch my breath. That was the only tricky bit, really. My skirt rode right up to my waist as I hung there, and there were loud whoops from the watchers.
    I squinted into the triton’s huge, bearded face, wondering how he’d react if he could feel a human sat astride his arm. My pussy, separated from his skin only by the flimsiest cotton strip, must feel red hot on his bronze. ‘Sorry,’ I said, grinning. Then I knelt up, found my feet and, using his conch shell as a last stepping stone,