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“Keep up.”
“Our legs are tired,” Webber complains. Maxwell holds his tongue and doesn’t comment; the little monster had only themselves to blame if they’d worn themselves out chasing butterflies. It was one thing to hunt them down for the curative properties of their wings, as many of this wretched island’s inhabitants had been forced to do at times, but quite another to do it purely because they liked the taste.
“If you don’t hurry, we won’t make it back to camp before dark,” Maxwell informs him. It works, but only temporarily; soon he’s lagging behind again, kicking restlessly at pebbles and watching them bounce ahead over the cobblestone path.
“Webber.”
“We’re coming! Our backpack’s heavy.” The whine in his voice grates on Maxwell’s ears. The two children (three, counting the ghost) in this realm are generally solemn and serious; they understand that this world is simply no place for immature antics, and on the whole Maxwell prefers them that way. This complaining and dragging of feet is certainly one aspect of childish behavior he doesn’t miss. “You carry some of it, if you’re in such a great hurry.”
“My backpack is just as full as yours.” Talking about it makes him sharply aware of something digging into the small of his back. He adjusts the crude woven-grass pack as best he can and tries to ignore it.
“We should’ve brought Chester.” Webber scuttles to catch up, claws clicking on the cobblestone road, passes Maxwell. The petulant scowl twists their mouth into something even more nightmarish than usual. If it had been up to him Maxwell would have been more than happy to leave Webber behind, but the others watched their former puppetmaster like hawks for any sign of misbehavior, and that went double when he was interacting with the children. Abandoning one to fend for itself overnight would certainly be a faux pas.
“Chester is already in use. We are not the only ones gathering supplies.” Webber already knows this, surely? Maxwell’s not sure why he bothers.
“Your shadow-man’s not carrying stuff.”
Maxwell glances behind him, although he already knows he’ll see; his shadow, a black void against the forested background, trotting along dutifully behind its master. It was the bodyguard-type, sword perpetually drawn, summoned as insurance against hounds, tallbirds, any other hazard they might encounter along the way. So far the journey had been uneventful and Maxwell had mostly forgotten his looming double. The possibility of one bearing a load hadn’t really occurred to him.
“It won’t carry anything,” Maxwell says, although he’s turning the possibility over in his mind just in case. “It isn’t designed to. They just do one thing at a time. It won’t let you get the backpack straps over its arms, it wouldn’t understand what you were trying to do.”
“Then put us up on its back and we’ll hang on,” Webber suggests. In fact, the mere idea seems to cheer the little monster up immensely. Maxwell is inclined to deny him outright, but if this is the only way to get back to base in a timely fashion…
What an undignified waste of magic. Maxwell stops short and lets the shadow catch up. It continues forward at the same steady pace as always and halts a few feet away, blank face regarding its master incuriously. Maxwell considers it for a moment, he’s not sure he can force the thing to squat or bend over -
Webber solves the problem by simply grabbing on and beginning to climb up, all eight limbs scrabbling for purchase on barely-solid shadow. Maxwell bites off a startled exclamation and moves to assist, getting his hands on Webber’s sides in time to give him a boost when the initial rush falters. Then the spider’s legs are hooked over the shadow’s shoulders, and Webber manages to haul themselves the rest of the way up, perching easily on the back of the thing’s neck.
Maxwell watches warily for any reaction from his shadow. If it decides this is an attack, the consequences will be - unpleasant, all around. But it stands ramrod-straight and apparently unbothered. He’s just grateful he recently worked an exception into the spell to make sure his constructs didn’t perceive Webber as a monster; it looks like this one is prepared to ignore the boy entirely.
“Are you holding on?” Webber nods, lips parted in a toothy smile. “Fine. We’re going.”
The rest of the hike is mercifully uneventful; nothing happens that would require the use of the bodyguard’s blade, and Webber stays quiet. Maxwell keeps glancing back surreptitiously to make sure he’s managing. It doesn’t look like the most comfortable way to travel, because the shadow hasn’t adjusted its stance in the least to accommodate him, but Webber has plenty of limbs to cling with, and seems to be enjoying himself.
They reach the low wall around camp (no more than a token gesture of defense, really) late enough that shadows are gathering, but early enough that they can still see. Willow and Wickerbottom are bundling grass onto sticks to make crude torches. Wendy is toasting a kebab over the fire, her sister by her side. Both women straighten up when Maxwell comes into view, setting their tasks aside.
“Ah, welcome back,” Wickerbottom says. “Your timing is impeccable. We were just about to venture out in search of you.” Maxwell blinks, taken aback for a moment; well, they wouldn’t want to leave Webber alone with him, he supposes.
“Thank you.” He slides his overstuffed backpack off his shoulders with a sigh of relief. His shadow lopes into camp behind him, still bearing its arachnid burden.
“Hi, Ms. Wickerbottom. Hi Willow!” Webber waves a spiderlimb in enthusiastic greeting, hands still occupied clinging to their perch. “Hiii, Wendy! Hey Abigail!”
“Webber! You got so tall!” That makes him laugh, and Willow, smirking, steps up and holds out her hands for Webber’s pack. She grunts at the unexpected weight when it drops into her arms. “Oof. Nice work, kiddo.”
Abigail drifts past Maxwell, up to Webber’s eye level, and whispers something indistinct. Maxwell keeps half an eye on them as he makes his way toward the fire, sits down. Wendy hasn’t gotten up - she fiddles idly with her kebab, watching silently. Wickerbottom is attempting to talk Webber down from the shadow’s back, with Abigail bobbing nearby all ghostly merriment. It takes Maxwell a moment to place the expression on Wendy's face as .. jealousy. Honestly. He should have told Webber to get down and walk for the final stretch into camp…
“Yes, you may have a turn,” Maxwell sighs. “Once it’s morning.”