CHAPTER SIXTEEN: AFTERMATH
The gray otter felt faint (probably from loss of blood) as he stumbled weakly up the rise and found where he'd dropped his walking stick before he'd charged. Riverwyte leaned heavily on the stick and sniffed the air. Sensing running water off to the west, he hobbled unsteadily in that direction for nearly a quarter mile before reaching the River Moss. He'd made it across the sandy bank when his legs finally gave out and he collapsed into the shallows. With churned-up bottom mud flowing across his wounds, Riverwyte gritted his teeth and allowed strangled whimpers of pain to escape his throat. The gray otter lay there a long time, enduring the agony dumbly. As he lay there half-conscious, a thought slowly crossed his mind. I could end it right here. He watched the river flow by through half-closed eyes. I could get in the water, dive down, and never come up.
Several minutes passed by as he digested this thought. Suddenly, he raised himself up on his forepaws and knees with a decisive fire in his pale eyes. Kicking off with his footpaws, he entered the water. Ignoring the stinging from his cuts and the numbing pain from the place his rudder had been, he swam listlessly around, waiting for his breath to run out. His eye caught something green on the riverbed. It was a waterweed used by otters to clean wounds.
The sight awakened a voice within the otter. It told him of the joys of life and implored him not to give up. Riverwyte shook his head. What was he doing? Drowning himself in the river?! Idiot! He struck out for the waterweed with all his power and determination. It was hard to swim without his powerful tail to help propel him; the otter kicked his footpaws strongly but wasn't getting anywhere fast.
Finally he uprooted a large pawful and kicked frantically to get back to the surface. Once there, Riverwyte dragged himself painfully ashore and manipulated the bunch of waterweed until he'd woven the mass into a spongelike pad. Gingerly he used it to wash his injuries and clean dried blood from his fur. Slightly refreshed and energized from his swim, Riverwyte limped up the bank and searched the woodland fringe for medicinal plants. After obtaining them, he pulled a roll of bandages from his knapsack that he'd found near his walking stick. Mixing juices from crushed plants with powdered dock leaves, the otter dabbed the mixture painfully onto his tail stump, wincing hard but not making a sound. Riverwyte then wrapped the full bandage roll over the wound and around his waist until it was sufficiently bandaged.
He stood there on the riverbank for almost an hour, leaning on his staff and watching the uncounted gallons of water gurgle by. Never again would he be able to swim with other otters. He thought for an instant about returning to Camp Willow where he'd be safe, then dashed it from his mind. He could never go back there to live, for he knew how he'd be treated. Some of the meaner-spirited creatures might whisper and point behind his back. Worse, the others would show pity for him. He admitted to himself that it is good to take pity on others, but he hated being pitied himself. He knew that eyes would always stray to where his tail had once been.
Riverwyte stroked his chin and an idea popped into his head. He could find a place to live alone in the forest. His brother would be allowed to visit, but few others. While there, he could put his skill of disguise to work. There were many vermin roaming the woods, many who would also take a creature's life, freedom, or rudder for the sake of fun. Many who deserved to die.
On that riverbank, Riverwyte forgot his old name and declared himself the Mask, slayer and infiltrator of vermin!