Angel in the Woods

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  They were as indolent as they were dirty, and though Nora and I did not move from our posts for the better part of the day, not one of them did anything worth noting. The Poet sat outside one of the wagons, looking as though he did not know what to do with himself. The people of the caravan ignored him, apparently too thick with laziness to care that he was among them. Illyrica carefully kept her distance from him. He was careful not to watch her too obviously, but more than once I saw them exchange glances. His presence in the camp was a silent promise to Illyrica that she would not be abandoned.

  The old woman brought out a kettle full of some vile porridge. Calling them all by various and unfriendly names, she poured out a bowl for each of her travelling companions. The Poet was given a bowl, which he choked down with the best will he could muster. Illyrica was ignored.

  The day wore on. The Giant might arrive at any time. Though he had promised to be there by sundown, I knew that he would have given himself extra time. Perhaps, after all, he would not need it. But he did not come. The gypsy and a hulking young man of indeterminate age went to work on the axle, swearing and complaining, and doing a poor job of it. Noon arrived, and once again the old woman brought out food. It was better fare this time: bread, meat, cheese, and a great deal of drink. Nora crept back to our own encampment and returned to me with a loaf of bread and dried venison. Once again, Illyrica was given nothing. Desperately I wished that she would come near us so that we could give her of our own lunch, but she did not go beyond the wagons. She had been with them all the day before, and I wondered if she had eaten anything since leaving the castle.

  When they had eaten their fill, the carnival people called to the Poet to give them some music. While he played, they continued to drink. As the day wore on, I grew increasingly nervous. If the Giant hoped to reason with these people, he was likely to be disappointed. The sky began to darken. Still the Poet kept the villains entertained; still Illyrica moved only when she was commanded by the old woman to fetch something and cursed for her trouble. There was no sign of the Giant.

  By the time the sky had grown well and truly dark, the Poet seemed ready to collapse with exhaustion. He finished a country ballad to raucous laughter and applause from the group, and then the Gypsy stood and began to decant, telling stories of the carnival’s journeys across many a province, and of the wild shows with which they did their own share of entertaining. He punctuated his tales with calls for food and drink, which the old woman produced with the help of Illyrica. Once I saw the Poet make a move to offer his meat to her, but the old woman pushed her beyond the circle before he could manage it.

  Nora grabbed my arm suddenly. “Hawk,” she said.

  I looked where she was pointing. Illyrica had come around one of the wagons and was leaning against it with her eyes closed, faint with hunger. The smell of food and wine was strong in the air, and I could only imagine how weak it made her feel. But it was not Illyrica’s hunger that alarmed Nora. The hulking young man who had worked on the axle was also coming around the end of the wagon.

  Illyrica opened her eyes just in time to see him. She started back. He held out a hunk of bread. “Take it,” he said. “I know you’re hungry.”

  Hesitantly, Illyrica stepped forward and reached for the bread. Before she could react, he grabbed her wrist with his other hand. The glint in his eye made me sick to my stomach.

  “Well, look at you, brat,” he said in a low voice. “Haven’t you grown?”

  Where she found the strength I don’t know, but Illyrica wrenched her arm free. She ran. Nora’s grip on me tightened as I tensed to follow. “Not yet,” she said. We watched as Illyrica stumbled into the circle by the fire.

  The gypsy was in high dudgeon, a bottle of wine in one hand as he told his stories. Illyrica’s sudden entry into the firelight knocked the bottle from his hand. He hardly missed a beat. He grabbed hold of Illyrica’s arm and shoved her forward, where everyone could see her.

  “Now here’s a story!” the gypsy cried, slurring his words. “After all these years she comes back to us! And we’ll use her right well, won’t we, eh?”

  He moved too quickly—we didn’t see it coming. Before anyone could move, the gypsy had taken up a cane. “We’ll teach you!” he cried, his face purple with wine and sudden anger. “Don’t you never run away again!” He brought the cane down across Illyrica’s neck and shoulders. The crack resounded in the clearing. She gasped with pain and fell to her knees.

  The gypsy raised the cane once more, but before he could bring it down, the Poet’s hands were at his throat. The Poet was in a hot rage, his lute flung away, his eyes blazing. I could hear the gypsy gagging as the Poet bore him to the ground, fists and feet flailing.

  Everything happened so fast that I cannot be sure how any of us ended up where we did. Several of the ruffians reached for the Poet, but I was at his side in an instant, and I fought them all back at once. The old woman apparently decided that Illyrica had not been punished enough. She snatched up the cane and raised it to strike, but before she could, Nora had wrenched it from her hands and dealt her two strong blows with it.

  There were only four of us, and the fight turned against us quickly. I ceased to fight when I felt a knife at my throat. The teenage member of the carnival had half climbed up on my back, and held me captive. Two others dragged the Poet off of the Gypsy, and from the corner of my eye I saw the hulking young man bearing down on Nora and Illyrica. He pulled the cane away and threw Nora to the ground.

  “Stop!” I heard myself shouting. “Stop it, all of you!”

  For some reason, they listened. The gypsy appeared before me, sweating and breathing hard. He snarled at me as he approached and slapped me across the face.

  “Why should we listen to you?” he growled. “Who are you to give orders in my camp? I know you, you traitorous little whelp!”

  “Let them go,” I said, nodding toward Illyrica and Nora. “You have no right to keep them here.”

  “The girl is mine,” the gypsy hissed. “My own brother’s girl. I have papers to say that she belongs to me, and I’ll do whatever I like with her.”

  The Poet spoke this time, trembling with rage between the men who held him. “Do not touch her again!” he said. “I will not allow it!”

  The Gypsy glared at him and turned back to me. “It seems,” he said, “that you are all in a nasty way of pretendin’. You are not the victors here. That’s me.”

  “What do you intend to do with us?” I asked.

  In answer, he half-turned and held out his hand. The young man handed him the cane. He slapped it against his hand, just to hear the sound of it. “What sounds good to me,” he said, “is I’ll beat you all within an inch of your lives and leave you and your flunkies out in the road to crawl home on your bloody ‘ands and knees!” He grinned, the gold in his teeth flashing in the firelight. “And just to make it interesting, I’ll start with that runaway girl of mine. Just to prove to you who’s lord in this camp!”

  He jerked his arm, loosening it up, and turned. “Bring her here,” he said.

  The young man reached down and pulled Illyrica up by the arm. I could see the red streaks of blood on her neck.

  “What is she worth to you?” I demanded.

  The gypsy turned back to me. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “What is she worth to you?” I repeated. “She’s only a girl, not strong, not even whole. I can give you better.”

  “What can you give me?” the gypsy asked, leaning in closer. His breath reeked. I set my jaw to keep from wincing.

  “Myself,” I said. “I’ll stay. I’ll sign papers; keep me for a bondslave. But let her go, and the others.”

  The gypsy appeared to consider it for a minute. But then his upper lip curled. He turned back to Illyrica, raising the cane.

  “What is she worth to you?” I cried again. I strained against the arms that held me, heedless of the knife that still pressed against my throat.

  A deep voice, from somewhe
re outside the light of the campfire, boomed out in the night. “Answer the question.”

  I turned. We all did. A massive shadow stood between the wagons, arms folded. I closed my eyes in a moment of relief. The Giant had come. He was only one man, but the force of his presence was undeniable. The people of the caravan stepped back. Nora reached down and took Illyrica’s hand, pulling her to her feet beside her.

  The Giant stepped into the light of the fire. Dressed in bearskin and heavy fur, he looked like a wild and ancient spirit of the woods. His face was magnificent to behold. Towering over the base creatures of the carnival both in spirit and in power, he had never looked more like a legendary giant—nor had he ever looked more like an angel.

  The boy who held me captive loosened his hold and made to step away, but the gypsy saw him and held up his hand to stop him. “Hold the prisoners!” he commanded. He was still drunk, and the drink made him bold. He stepped closer to the Giant, dwarfed in every way, and looked up at him with a yellow-eyed sneer.

  “You’re on my territory now,” he said. “You saw the papers; you know my rights.”

  The Giant glared down at him. “You have no right to hold my friends,” he said. “Let them go.”

  Cowed a little by the power of the Giant’s voice, the gypsy backed away and nodded to his cohorts. “Let go of them.”

  The knife at my throat was pulled away. I stepped to the Giant’s side. The Poet and Nora joined me—but Illyrica was still with them, still one of them by every legal tie. She looked at us with a sweet sorrow in her eyes, and desperation built like bile in my throat. We could not leave her—not if it meant breaking every law in the land.

  “You have not told me,” the Giant said. “What is the girl worth to you?”

  The gypsy was still backing away. He stopped when he reached Illyrica and stepped half in front her. “She’s not for sale,” he said. “You think you can come here and take what you want just because you’re bigger than we are. Well, you’re not bigger than the law.”

  The Giant nodded at me. “This man offered you his life for her,” he said.

  The gypsy sneered. “I don’t want him.”

  The Giant reached into his coat and pulled out a heavy bag. Even in his hands it looked large, and it jingled when it moved with the unmistakable sound of coins. He weighed it in his hand a moment and threw it at the Gypsy. The little man scrambled to catch it. The weight of it nearly pulled him down to the ground. Struggling to hold it, he opened the bag. His eyes grew wide. The firelight glinted off the contents. We all saw it.

  It was gold.

  There was a small fortune in that bag—more than I had ever seen. I heard Nora gasp, and the ruffians murmured together. I looked up at the Giant, my eyes wide.

  The gypsy was obviously battling within himself. Never again would he see so much money, yet taking it meant bowing to the Giant’s will. Pride and greed shone in his face, twisting his features so that they were even more hideous than before.

  He looked up at the Giant and licked his lips. “You would buy her for this?” he said.

  The Giant lowered his dark brows. “I would not buy any human being,” he said. “But I will buy the papers that give you a right to her.”

  The gypsy looked back down at the money. He ran his fingers through the coins, muttering to himself. And then he waved his other hand in the air. “The papers,” he said. “Give him the papers.”

  Someone scurried off and returned with the papers. The Giant took them, and with great care tore them to shreds. He looked up, frowning. Illyrica was still held, by the hulking young man and the old woman.

  “Release her,” the Giant said.

  The gypsy nodded, and the scoundrels let her go. Almost unbelieving, Illyrica rubbed her arms and moved forward, looking to every side as though someone would prevent her at any moment.

  As she moved past him, a strange rage overtook the Gypsy. He reached out to stop her, swinging her around to look at him. “Devil take you!” he swore, and swung the cane at her.

  The Giant caught it. He ripped it out of the gypsy’s hands and struck him one heavy blow. The gypsy screamed and clutched the bag of money to him. The Giant stopped abruptly and broke the cane in two. He threw it away and looked down on the gypsy without saying a word. Then, with a sad shake of his head, he turned to Illyrica. She reached out for him with both hands and ran forward. He caught her up and nestled her head against his chest. Exhausted, she fainted in his arms.

  I looked over at Nora. She was smiling, her eyes alight with tears. Illyrica was safe. The Giant had worked a miracle.

  Chapter 21

  changes

  Whether it was the abuse she had suffered or the hopelessness of staring into a future without love that affected her most, no one could be sure—but Illyrica was not quick to recover. Life around the Castle was hushed and solemn for days after we returned. The Giant carried her up the stone steps to her room high in the west turret, and there in her bed she lay for days, never entirely waking. She was never alone. The Poet sat with her often, at the end of the bed, leaning forward with his chin on his hands. His lute was draped across his back, always silent. His eyes were worried and his manner distracted. There was no music in his heart now… there could not be until Illyrica awoke.

  Nora was by Illyrica’s side whenever her work around the Castle would allow, which was often. I saw to it that most of the outdoor work was done, and that there was always water and firewood in the kitchen. The Pixie had not done a marvelous job of housekeeping while we were away—I did not blame her, for I could see along with everyone else how tormented she was over the whole affair. She avoided me as much as she had immediately after the Christmas ball, but I kept myself too busy to notice overmuch. Even so, Nora seemed content to let household matters alone more than usual. She delegated much of the work to the Pixie and Isabelle, and sat by Illyrica’s side, reading to her though she did not respond.

  The Giant was away from the Castle almost perpetually. He seemed to have increased his vigil in the woods. Yet, every night I would hear him enter the house, and I knew that he was going to stand over Illyrica’s bed and look down on her with his dark eyes—to wrap her somehow in his heart and will her to wake.

  I met the Poet one day as he marched down the stairs. He had been so little away from Illyrica’s side that his appearance alarmed me.

  “No, no,” he said when I asked him if something was wrong. “I think… I hope… she will awake soon.”

  Without another word he continued down the stairs and out of the Castle, to return two hours later with a trio of unplucked chickens slung over his shoulder. He tramped into the kitchen and sat down on a low stool, his long legs angling out awkwardly, and attacked the chickens with a vengeance. Feathers flew, and before long the succulent smell of chicken soup was drifting through the Castle. I met the Poet once again as he made his way back up to Illyrica’s room, cradling a bowl of soup in his hands, trying without entire success to keep from spilling hot drops of it and burning his hands.

  Perhaps it was this act of faith of the Poet’s that did it. I don’t know. But it was only a short time later that Illyrica did fully awake, and before long Nora called for me.

  Illyrica was sitting up in bed, smiling. Two little girls had climbed up into the bed next to her, and another stood leaning into the blankets with Illyrica’s hand on her head. Nora sat on her other side, clasping her hand, while the Poet stood in the corner, an empty bowl on the table beside him, unable to keep himself from smiling.

  Illyrica was very pale. The ugly gash on her neck from the gypsy’s blow was bandaged. The gash would scar despite Nora’s best efforts to prevent it, leaving Illyrica twice-marked as one who had escaped.

  She looked up as I entered the room. Her eyes were a deeper, more serene blue than I had ever seen. She reached out for me, and I crossed the room to take her hand. She smiled radiantly up at me—saying “thank you.” I bowed my head—in part to show my deep respect, and in les
ser part to hide the tears in my eyes.

  Illyrica released me. She leaned back and frowned. She looked up at Nora and made a sign with her hand which I knew meant “Pixie.”

  Nora nodded, stood, and crossed the room to the door. I think she meant to call for the Pixie, but it wasn’t necessary—she was already there. She entered the room with a tearful smile and went to Illyrica’s side with a self-consciousness that was very unlike her. Illyrica opened her arms, and the Pixie laid her head down on her shoulder. There was a lump growing in my throat. I found myself leaving the room.

  It was not only the tears welling up in my eyes that drove me outside, nor the feeling that I was intruding. It was the fact that the Pixie’s distress indicted me. I knew what she felt—what she heard. She could not erase the memories of her own recent opposition to the Giant, of the hurt she had caused to those who loved her. Moreover, she knew that the Widow’s soldiers, accompanied by the Gypsy and his awful band, had literally followed her to the Castle door.

  I burst out of the front door of the Castle into the cold air of the day. I had taken a bow and arrow from my room, and I made for the woods now, my thoughts whirling. Somehow, in trying to free Illyrica, I had managed to forget that it was I who had put her in danger in the first place. I had no right to forget. The guilt that was plaguing the Pixie should have been plaguing me. My own lack of penance made me angry. I charged into the forest in search of prey, found none, and realized I was near the hollow tree which the Widow had used to summon me.

  At first I meant to ignore it, but curiosity got the better of me. I approached the tree—and found a summons waiting.

  As usual, it was a handwritten note on parchment, requesting that I attend upon the Widow at my nearest convenience. It had been delivered the same day, probably late in the morning.