Angel in the Woods

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  “Do what you must, because you love her,” the Giant said. He almost smiled at the look on the Poet’s face. “Yes,” the Giant said. “I do believe that you do. It is about time we met face to face, you and I. From now on you are welcome here, always.”

  He turned to me and laid his great hand on my shoulder. His stern, dark-browed face looked down on me. “Do it, Hawk, because it is right.”

  I nodded.

  “Let me go, too.” The three of us turned as one. Nora had stood, and her eyes were fixed on the Giant. “Please, Angel,” she said.

  He frowned. “The Castle needs you.”

  “The Pixie can take care of things here,” Nora said. “Please.”

  The Giant looked away. “I do not want you in danger.”

  “What if Illyrica is hurt?” Nora asked. Her voice quavered, whether at the thought of her friend’s danger or because she was challenging the Giant, I did not know. “They cannot help her as I can. I have nursed her through injury before. Angel, she will need me.”

  I thought I knew what thought lay unspoken beneath Nora’s words. She had to be there. She had to see it all for herself. If something went wrong and we did not return with Illyrica— somehow I knew that Nora could not bear to hear about it from a distance. Whatever horrors might await us, she would rather live through them than by haunted by imagination.

  Finally the Giant nodded. “You are right,” he said. “You may go.”

  The Pixie stirred. I thought she was about to ask permission to come as well. The Giant turned his compassionate eyes on her. She was still flushed. Emotion lay behind her eyes like a ceaselessly disturbed well.

  “Take care of the children,” was all he said to her. With that, he stalked out of the kitchen. “Hawk!” he called over his shoulder.

  I looked at my travelling companions before stepping out after him. “I will hitch up the wagon,” Nora said. “Poet, the Pixie will help you pack us something to eat.”

  I followed the Giant out onto the snowy lawns. He waited until we had walked a good way from the house and turned to me. “Take care of Nora also,” he said. “She loves very deeply and is very easily hurt.”

  “I will do my best,” I said.

  “I will come as soon as I can,” the Giant said. “It will be hard to wait, but you must do so if you possibly can.”

  One final time he laid his hand on my shoulder. His eyes searched out my soul. He nodded, as if satisfied with what he had found there, turned, and walked away into the woods. I watched him go before I turned back to the Castle.

  * * *

  We found the caravan by midday. They were traveling slowly, almost luxuriously. We left the pony and the cart by a stream and followed the villains on foot, keeping far enough back that they would not detect our presence. We could only trust that Illyrica was with them, and safe for the moment. There was no way we could get close enough to them now to know for sure. We followed in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts, and yet entirely unified—more dedicated to one another than ever human beings have been, for the common cause we shared.

  Toward evening, the caravan at last came to a halt. Men and women of evil exterior crawled down from several wagons and began to set up camp. The carnival consisted of four or five garishly painted wagons, smeared with dirt and extra paint, and a few other carts containing cages and strange contraptions. In the cages were exotic beasts, ill-favoured and badly cared for. A few mangy yellow curs ambled and fought around the wagon wheels, shying away from curses and kicks whenever a human came near.

  “I shall go into the camp,” the Poet said. I reached out and laid my hand on his sleeve, meaning to prevent him.

  “Should we not wait until they are asleep?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “They don’t know me. I am but a wandering minstrel, a performer as they are. At worst they will turn me away. I do not want to wait any longer to find her.”

  “Go,” Nora said. “Go, and tell us what you find.”

  I was not happy about splitting up, but I nodded. The Poet crept out of the bushes and stood up straight in the road, brushing himself off and flicking bits of dirt and bark out of his hair. He still bore the marks of his fight at the tavern. One of his sleeves was torn and the collar of his winter vest was bloody. He slung his lute carefully over his back and headed into the camp. The yellow dogs greeted him with howls and snarling. He sidestepped them very bravely and greeted the little Gypsy who had come out to meet him. The sight of the man filled me with anger. When I had seen his face that first night in the woods, I had not imagined how much grief and harm he intended to bring on us. I could almost wish I had killed him—but no. Somehow it was right that I had not, just as it was right that I was here to face him again if need be.

  The wagons had been pulled into a circle. The Poet disappeared on the other side of them. We could hear voices, but could discern neither words nor tone. Nora had been crouching beside me in the bushes at the side of the road, but now she moved back with a sigh.

  “We may as well make camp ourselves,” she said. “The Angel will not be here until tomorrow night, and heaven knows when the Poet will return to us.”

  She was right. I followed her farther from the road, into a nearby hollow where the light of our fire would not likely be seen by the carnival. Nora began to gather sticks for a fire immediately. I moved quickly alongside her.

  “Let me,” I said.

  “Please, Hawk,” she said. “If I don’t keep busy I will go mad.”

  I nodded and stepped back. “I will build the fire.”

  “The sun will not set for another two hours at least,” she answered. “We shouldn’t waste fuel.”

  “Then tell me what I can do!” I burst out. I looked down at my hands. I had no right.

  She stopped, straightened, and looked up at me, her arms full of sticks. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I don’t really know why the Giant sent me on this mission.”

  “He sent you because he believes in you,” Nora said. There was a large stone in the center of the hollow. She sat down on it slowly, lowering the sticks onto the ground. I didn’t know how to interpret the look in her eyes as she regarded me. When I had first come to the Castle she had treated me with thinly veiled hostility. Over time, that had given way to silent acceptance. Now she seemed to look on me with strange compassion, and I did not know why. Had I not done more than anyone else living to break up the home she loved? But then, perhaps she did not know what I had done.

  I lowered myself down on the ground across from her, avoiding her gaze. “He has chosen you, Hawk,” she said. “And I… I know that he does not make his decisions lightly. I have not been a friend to you since you came to the Castle. I’m sorry.”

  An apology was the last thing I expected from her. I looked up at her, taken aback by the genuine sorrow in her blue eyes; by the tentative friendliness. I did not know what to say.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I answered at last. “I have only brought grief to you.”

  Nora shook her head. She had tied her golden hair back in a bun earlier that day, and strands of it were coming loose now. She brushed a long strand back. “If I had trusted the Angel as I should have, perhaps you would have trusted him more easily yourself. I should have welcomed you.”

  “You should be angry with me,” I said.

  She smiled sadly. “When so much is at stake,” she said, her eyes turned toward the carnival, “only a fool takes the time to be angry.”

  “You sound like the Giant,” I told her.

  “I ought to,” she said. “I have been with him long enough.”

  I had never expected to hear the mystery of the Castle explained simply—certainly not from Nora. From the first day I heard of the Castle, I had given my imagination free reign. As I had fallen under the spell of the Widow’s influence, my wonderings turned to doubt and the fair mystery became black and dreadful. But Nora was de
termined now that she would trust me as the Giant did. She told me the story.

  “My father was a fisherman in a country east of here,” she said. “The Angel was a blacksmith in the village where my parents lived. He was my father’s oldest and dearest friend. Many nights he would come and sit by our fire. He frightened me then, with his great dark face and his hands always black with soot. I can still remember looking up at him from my mother’s knee, though I was only a tiny child then… no more than three.”

  Nora looked down at her hands. She held a twig and rubbed her fingers up and down its smooth bark.

  “It was the same year that plague struck our village. It killed both my parents. Before he died, my father asked the Angel to care for me. He promised that he would. He carried me away from the village that same night. I rode in a sling on his shoulder, and clung to him for days. We journeyed together until the Angel found the Castle in ruins. He spent years fixing it up, making it livable again, and roaming the woods for our food and livelihood—even then, the Angel sold furs so that we could eat through the winter.

  “When I was six, the Angel and I went to the border of the province, selling furs. We came across a ruined caravan. We could not tell who they had been—the wagons had burned to ashes. The passengers had all been killed by robbers. All except one. A little way off the road we found a baby, playing with an old bit of cloth.”

  “The Pixie,” I said.

  “Yes,” Nora answered. She smiled, and her eyes shone as she spoke. “She was the most beautiful child. I thought I had gone to heaven when the Angel said she could come and live with us. A few years later, we began to take in others. Some were orphaned by plague, others by fire or thievery. Isabelle’s parents brought her to us. They had heard that there was a haven in the darkwood for abandoned children, and they asked us to take her, for they were starving. They said they would come back for her in a year or two, but they never returned.”

  “And Illyrica?” I asked.

  Nora’s face clouded over. “Illyrica was the only child we ever took from an unwilling family… if they are her family. They have papers to say so, although I believe her parents are dead. It was only seven years ago—Illyrica was eleven. The Pixie snuck out of the Castle one day. A carnival had come to the town, and she wanted to see it. When she came back she told us that there was a beautiful little girl there who could not speak, and she always looked frightened. She said the carnival owners kicked her and called her names, and made her feed the half-wild animals though she was terrified of them. It upset the Pixie so much she could hardly tell us about it. The Angel went out the same night and tried to convince Illyrica’s family to let her come with us. They would not give her up. They are cruel people, unimaginably cruel… in some shows they would do dreadful things to her, because it entertained the crowd that she would not scream. We don’t believe it was an accident that her vocal chords were cut.”

  I closed my eyes. The whole story was horrible. Nora’s voice was taut, and it trembled slightly as she spoke. “Before they left town, the Angel went to them one last time. While he kept them busy, the Pixie and I snuck into their tents and stole Illyrica away with us.”

  She fell silent. I looked up at her. She was looking off toward the caravan again. “I hope the Poet is all right,” she said.

  It grew dark, and I lit the fuel Nora had gathered. The air was cold. We sat near the fire, wrapped in our cloaks, and once Nora wordlessly passed me a small loaf of bread. I could not eat.

  From the wagons came the sounds of coarse laughter and music, and I thought I heard the plunking sound of the Poet’s lute. At least they seemed to be on friendly terms. I stared into the fire, trying not to imagine in too much detail what the camp was like at that moment, or where Illyrica might be. When I looked over at Nora, I saw that she had pulled her knees to her chest and sat with her head bowed on them, eyes closed. Whether she was sleeping I could not tell, and did not ask.

  A sudden crashing in the trees startled us both. Nora lifted her head. I was on my feet, sword in hand. The Poet’s voice came through the trees, and we both relaxed.

  “Oh dear,” he was saying. “Dear, dear…” He burst into our little clearing, flustered and grimy with smoke. I could smell alcohol hanging about his clothes, though he did not seem drunk. He mopped his brow with relief as he took in the sight of us. “I feared I would not find you,” he said. “They have let me go for the moment… I told them I needed to, er, relieve myself. They are most insistent, most demanding! And they have no taste in fine music. The ballads they want to hear!”

  “Is Illyrica all right?” Nora asked.

  The Poet nodded. I saw pain in his expression and wanted to look away. “They are not kind to her,” he said, “but they have done no real harm.”

  “Did she see you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I have never seen eyes so full of hope.” He was crying. I bowed my head. I had been ashamed to cry for my own sins, but I knew that there was nothing shameful in this man’s tears of love.

  “Where is she?” Nora pressed.

  The Poet nodded in the direction of the camp, mopping again at his forehead with a handkerchief that had once been white. “The yellow wagon,” he said. “It is full of props and costumes. She sleeps there. They let her out only when they have work for her to do.”

  Nora nodded, looking away to hide the pain in her own eyes.

  * * *

  The Poet returned to the camp, and the fire died down to embers. I stayed half-awake, half-asleep; awake just enough to keep the fire from going out. Sometime late in the night I heard a sound that brought me fully to my senses. Someone was moving in the camp.

  Slowly, silently, I opened my eyes and rolled over so that I could spring to my feet at a moment’s notice. I looked around me. Nora was gone.

  I arose just in time to see Nora slipping away through the trees, wrapped in her cloak. I followed on silent feet. The Giant had taught me to move through the forest as quietly as an owl in flight, and my feet fell into the old familiar patterns now. If Nora knew I was behind her, she did not show it.

  I followed her through the woods to the camp. The wagons stood now in eerie silence, broken by the muffled sounds of snoring and animals moving. Nearest to us was the yellow wagon, its paint chipped and grimy. In the moonlight its colour was sickly.

  Nora crept up to the side of the wagon and ran her hands over it, looking for some kind of door. I hung back, keeping to the trees, moving just enough that I could keep Nora in my sight. She circled the end of the wagon, and I swung myself up into a tree branch to get a better view.

  From where I was now, I could see that a sliding door on the other side of the wagon had been left open. It gaped big and black in the night. Below it, on the ground, a shadowy figure rested with one arm on the wagon floor and her head resting in the crook of her elbow. Nora stood still for a moment when she saw the figure, and then stepped forward carefully, laying her hand on Illyrica’s shoulder. I saw Illyrica awake and raise her head. Nora knelt beside her and slipped her arms around her. I wondered for a moment why they did not run for the woods, and then I saw by the way Illyrica sat that she was not entirely free to move. I guessed that her arm was tied or chained to something in the wagon.

  Nora pulled her cloak off her shoulders and wrapped it around Illyrica. I wondered if I heard her whispering, or if it was only my imagination.

  They remained together until dawn. I spent the night shivering in the tree branches. Our fire, long since dead, tantalized my imagination. But I had seen Nora give her cloak away and knew that she, too, was cold—and somehow I could not complain, not even in my own thoughts. Just as light began to streak the sky, I climbed down from the tree and stretched my stiff and aching muscles. Keeping a wary eye open for dogs, I crossed the clearing to the wagon. Nora and Illyrica were both asleep, leaning on each other. Somehow they had contrived to share the cloak between them. I could see now that Illyrica was indeed held to the wagon, by a short
chain attached to a post on the inside.

  I hissed Nora’s name. She opened her eyes and looked at me almost immediately. Without a word she rose, tucked the cloak firmly around Illyrica, and followed me out of the camp.

  When we reached the ashes of our dead fire, I said, “The Angel will free her.”

  “He will,” Nora said. “Or I will take her place.”

  She added the last words so quietly that for a moment I wondered if I had imagined them. I knew I had not. Nora had come to rescue Illyrica, and nothing would stand in her way.

  Chapter 20

  the angel strikes a bargain

  The morning was cold and incredibly clear. I was afraid that the caravan would pack up and move on, taking us farther away from the Giant, but the occupants of the wagons were hung-over and disinclined to travel. This, and a torrent of oaths and curses accompanied by the howls of the dogs, alerted me and most of the camp to a problem with the front axle on one of the wagons. The Poet was still with the carnival people somewhere, sleeping in or under a wagon. Nora and I, wide awake, found ourselves places in the surrounding woods from which we could watch the camp and hear most of what was going on.

  Illyrica appeared before long, carrying a load of wood on her back. She put it down in the center of the camp and began to build a fire. Her hands and head were bare, and I imagined that her fingers were nearly numb as she worked to get the fire going. At last a tendril of smoke appeared, and a tongue of flame licked its way up from the wood. The evil little gypsy stepped up beside Illyrica and shoved her away.

  “Keep out of my way, brat,” he muttered, holding his gloved hands over the fire to warm them.

  The fire attracted other denizens of the camp. Before long many of them had left their wagons and stepped into the light of day. There were twelve or so. The little Gypsy appeared to be the leader, seconded by an aging woman whose face was hard and cruel. They were a rag-tag bunch, all of them dirty, unkempt, and miserable in their ways. There were no children among them. The youngest of the band was a long-haired boy of about seventeen.