by Diane Rios
Blackberry jumped in surprise and almost fell off the branch. He began dancing along the tree limb with glee, kicking small bits of pine needles and bark to the ground, and squawking to himself. Imagine! He, Blackberry had found the girl that everyone was looking for and he had found the legendary Brisco Knot! He would report it to the Badger himself! He would be famous! More famous than his brother Poole, at any rate, which was the most important thing.
Brisco Knot was known and beloved by all crows. Though a quiet and humble man, he was famous in their circles far and wide, for a great kindness he had done their king years ago. King Cornix had been only a prince then, a fledgling who had toppled from his nest. One wing broken, the young prince lay helplessly on the forest floor, becoming weaker and weaker, and would have certainly died had the carpenter not found him.
The legend went that at first the two royal crow parents had attacked Brisco, taking him for an intruder. But the carpenter had understood their distress, and spoke gently to them, assuring the crows he would not harm their child—and then he had wrapped the crow chick in his large, soft handkerchief, and carried him home.
After a week of expert care, the chick’s wing had mostly healed, and Brisco had carefully returned him to the nest, to the great joy of the parents. Prince Cornix grew strong and was able to fledge properly along with his siblings, and from then on was devoted to Brisco.
Grateful he had saved their king, all of the other crows and ravens loved the man too and would do anything for him. And Brisco had a curious effect on the crows—they became a bit silly in his presence. Many became quite besotted, cooing and cawing, and fluttering down to sit on his shoulder. He could often be seen with a crow or two following along, through the trees, or even hopping in a rather undignified way on the ground behind him. There was just something about Brisco—he had a quiet charm all his own. And of course, he had some mysterious abilities of his own as well—quite wondrous abilities.
Brisco could make anything out of anything. Blackberry himself had seen him once build a bridge across a river in three minutes flat, made only out of things he found on the ground around him. Unbeknownst to the crow, Brisco had also made an exact replica of the dangerous ambulances out of wood, which was how they all had escaped to the tree house from Mrs. Goodweather’s cabin in the woods. And it was he who had built the marvelous tree house, again out of found items.
Brisco can do anything, thought Blackberry, with a sigh of adoration.
The carpenter returned the crows’ affection, always welcoming them, feeding them some of his own dinner, and helping them whenever he could. As a result, he had become crow legend, and all crow and raven chicks were sung songs of Brisco Knot’s great act of kindness to their king.
And he had found him! Blackberry was so excited about his discovery he completely forgot about the sparkling glasses he had coveted so badly only moments before, and with a final hop and a squawk the young crow flew off quickly to find his family, and to report his find to the Badger.
CHAPTER SIX
THE ARTIST LED THE WAY UP THE MOUNTAIN riding Greybelle, lost in his own thoughts. What a strange adventure he found himself on, one of the strangest in his long life, he thought. He reflected on the days that had led to this moment. It wasn’t long ago that he had been driving Raja and the cart to Tillamook Town, on his way to his old acquaintance Mr. Nell’s hotel. After an excellent dinner, the Artist had joined a poker game in a back room. He liked playing cards from time to time, and he had recently been paid for some portraits, so he was ready for some amusement.
There were two shifty fellows sitting at the poker table that night, and the Artist did not like the look of them from the moment he sat down. The one who called himself Mr. Underwood was a horrible fellow. Passing himself off as a “gentleman,” while that word could not be further from the truth. His clothes spoke of money, but his demeanor was that of a wild man. Gaunt, greasy, and rude, he and his companion Bings drank more and more, and became wilder and wilder, and by the small hours of the morning had bet everything they had in the world. For his part, the Artist had been ready to call it a night then, and go to bed, and laid his cards down on the table to fold, only to find he had won it all.
That had wiped the leering smiles off the two men’s lips. The Artist remembered how the table went silent, and how Underwood and Bings stared at the huge pile of winnings, the reality sinking in. With that one hand, the Artist had won all of their money, and their horse, and . . . the girl.
Mr. Nell, unbothered by the loss of a girl he had owned for less than twenty-four hours, had stood up and congratulated his friend.
“Well, Artist, you got yourself a maid.” Nell roared with laughter. Never did someone need a maid less, than the Artist. “You can get her to clean your cart!” the little hotelier guffawed. “Come on then, time for bed, boys.” He began straightening the chairs and motioned for a servant to clear the table.
Blake Underwood, Chloe’s uncle—for that is who it was— and his driver Bings sat watching the Artist sweep the winnings into his hat. Gradually his bloodshot eyes focused, and Blake glared at the Artist. “You . . . you artist,” he sneered. “You . . . old man, just watch yourself. You just better watch”— Uncle Blake tottered and grabbed the edge of the table to keep from falling—“yourself, that’s all I’m sayin’!”
“Come on, now, sir,” said Bings, as drunk as his boss. “Let’s get to bed.”
“Stupid old fool . . . better watch himself that’s all I’m saying,” burbled Uncle Blake as he staggered out of the room, leaning on Bings’s shoulder.
I won a . . . child. The Artist felt ill. He hadn’t even realized that Mr. Nell had bet a person—how despicable that she had been used as a commodity in this way. God knows what had happened to her thus far.
He had risen early the next morning. He had not slept well. The Artist knew those two men from the poker game wished him no good. He feared they might try to get back what they had lost. If he could make his departure before they woke up and bring the child along with him—then perhaps he could save himself, and her. And, hold on—hadn’t they told him he’d won a horse, as well?
That horse was Greybelle, who he was now riding. And the girl, of course, had been Chloe.
After only three days together, the old man and the girl had become fast friends. The Artist loved the child dearly and wanted nothing more than to help her return to her family in Fairfax. Then the ambulances attacked, and now they were climbing a mountain to try to save her again. He shook his head sadly and rode on in silence.
They heard it before they saw it. The path had narrowed, and the sounds of gushing water grew louder and louder, until they turned a corner and were met with the sight of a waterfall carving its way through the boulders. The aqua-blue water frothed and churned over the rocks, widening into a mountain river. The icy waters rushed over fallen trees that spanned its width and roiled in eddies along the edges. Spray from the falls blew out over the gleaming rocks, turning everything slick and wet, and walls of green ferns clung to them, drinking in the nourishing mist.
The sound was deafening. As they stood there, staring at the churning water, the Artist had to shout to be heard. “Looks like there’s no way to cross but to swim it!” he yelled at his companions.
“What? Swim that?” screamed back Lord Winchfillin.
Greybelle and Raja eyed the fast current apprehensively. It was true: the path ended on one side of the falls and picked up on the other. There was no way to cross the fast-moving river besides swimming it. But how? The current was so fast it would surely sweep the horses away, and it was cold. Straight from the heart of the mountain itself, the river was made of melted snow and fed from an ancient underground aquifer. The current was extremely strong and could easily hold one underwater until they drowned. There were logs in the river too, with branches that could hook clothing and hair. The little group stood on the banks, looking uneasily up and down for a better point to cross. Whitestone scampe
red downstream to scout for a good spot.
The Artist shaded his eyes and looked after the squirrel. Squinting, he could see two dark heads in the water, slowly pushing toward the far shore. Was it more deer . . . no, it was other horses! Two strange horses emerged on the other bank, shaking the water from their sides in great, shivery shakes. Raja couldn’t help himself and whinnied at them.
The two horses lifted their heads in surprise and whinnied back a greeting.
“Those are not talking horses,” said Greybelle.
“Maybe they’re wild horses, heading to the mountain, just like we are,” speculated the Artist. “And I think they’ve found the best place to cross. Let’s follow their example.”
They all moved down to where the other horses had entered the water. The river still looked deep and fast, but they could also see two shallow places toward the center where they might gain a foothold against the swift current.
The two horses on the far bank whinnied their encouragement.
“Well, here goes,” said Greybelle, stepping carefully into the water.
The Artist held tightly to her sides with his legs. The water was so cold that it burned. He knew that if Greybelle stayed in it for any length of time, she would seriously weaken and then the icy waters would numb her body so that she couldn’t swim. The mare went in deeper and deeper until, snorting, she touched the freezing water with her belly. Then she had to swim. The Artist gasped at the shocking cold of the water. Greybelle pumped her legs powerfully through the current, propelling them forward. They were swept downstream a little way before the mare’s hooves touched a shallow spot and she was able to push against it. In this way she made it across and climbed out of the water, blowing hard.
Raja took his turn. He stepped gingerly into the water and then leapt in the air when Lord Winchfillin shrieked at the freezing water on his legs. Snorting and blowing nervously, Raja pushed on into the river. When the old gelding started to swim, the little earl bobbed like an apple above him, moaning at the cold. Raja struggled valiantly through the rushing water and then finally he too was across.
After they had all shaken off as much water as they could and caught their breath, the little group turned toward the two new horses who had been watching them with ears pricked forward. Raja sniffed noses with them and Greybelle did the same, all of them snorting gently and whickering under their breath at each other.
“They say they are from a farm,” said Greybelle. “They heard from a raven that there was going to be a gathering of animals, and they wanted to come. They have a hard life on the farm—all of the animals are hungry and overworked, and they thought perhaps Silas could help.”
“Well, we’re all headed the same way,” said the Artist cheerfully. “We might as well travel together. Did they say their names?”
“The brown is called Ned and the black is Tinker.”
“Well, Ned and Tinker!” said the Artist agreeably, spreading his wet arms out wide. “Welcome to our little group. Let us all travel to the mountain together! And as we walk, we will dry ourselves in the sunshine.”
The group of shivering horses and men moved away from the river. The afternoon sun dried their coats and their clothing, making traveling easier. The little band of horses and men made their way up a narrow path, following Whitestone as he led them by leaping through the trees overhead.
The Artist, feeling very clean and merry after his dunking in the river, began to sing a song.
In 1803 we sailed out to sea
Out from the sweet town of Derry
For Australia bound if we didn’t all drown
And the marks of our fetters we carried.
In the rusty iron chains we sighed for our wains
As our good wives we left in sorrow . . .
“I say, my good man!” broke in Lord Winchfillin. “Can’t you sing something a bit more . . . cheerful? Optimistic? I don’t want to hear words of drowning, fetters or iron chains, or sorrowful wives, if you don’t mind.”
The Artist laughed. “Forgive me, my friend!” he said with a grin. “I will sing something more bolstering to give us heart for whatever lies ahead.”
“Much appreciated!” sighed the earl.
The Artist then sang another song—of a long-ago battle that was honorably and bravely won for king and country.
Heart of oak are our ships, heart of oak are our men;
We always are ready, steady, boys, steady!
We’ll fight, and we’ll conquer again and again,
Ready, steady, boys, steady!
Lord Winchfillin knew the words and sang along. The rhythm and uplifting tune helped them forget their worries for a little while, and the aching of their muscles.
The little group continued in this way for another hour until the sun began to set behind the trees and they were forced to halt for the night. Whitestone assured them that they would have plenty of time to get to the meeting in the morning, so the men dismounted from Greybelle’s and Raja’s backs, and turned them loose with the two newcomers, Ned and Tinker. The four horses moved off companionably together to graze, and the men made a small fire and put a kettle on to boil for tea.
Soon, the smell of the Artist’s famous flapjacks wafted through the trees, and there was silence in the little camp while the men ate their dinner. After they had satisfied their hunger and the last pancake had been eaten, Lord Winchfillin pulled out a long, ivory pipe from a deep pocket in his coat and puffed it contentedly next to the fire, while the Artist softly sang a few more lines from the song.
We’ll still make them fear, and we’ll still make them flee
And drub ’em onshore as we’ve drubb’d ’em at sea:
Then cheer up, my lads! With one heart let us sing
Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen and Queen.
Heart of oak are our ships, heart of oak are our men . . .
The Artist trailed off, his eyes lifted to the heavens, and gazed back at the stars that stared down at him. Heart of oak are the animals, he thought. But I am a man. Which side am I on?
The stars shone brightly on the mountain, illuminating the trees around him, the grass on the ground and the forms of his companions, and it comforted the Artist with its quiet light.
A soft snore made him look at his companion. Lord Winchfillin had fallen asleep, his empty plate still in his lap. The Artist smiled to himself. His old friend had come a long way since that fateful birthday party. Tattered, bedraggled, and uncomfortable as he was, the little earl was showing a strength and courage he could never have guessed he had. And, the Artist thought gravely, he would need every scrap he could muster.
The Artist was very tired, his heart still full of worry. Until he knew Chloe was safe, he could not fully relax. And what would be waiting for them tomorrow, he could only guess. Whatever it was, he knew it would be difficult, if not deadly.
He sighed and rested his back against a tree. Finally, his snores joined that of Lord Winchfillin’s, and the two men slept awhile. Around them the forest was quiet, the sky above was clear, and in its inky depths the stars reached out over the land, their twinkling lights pointing the way.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MRS. GOODWEATHER HURRIED DOWN THE path toward the hospital. A siren could be heard approaching, and she waited behind some trees for it to pass on its way to the big doors. When it was safely past, Mrs. Goodweather emerged from the trees, adjusted her kerchief, and continued on around the corner of the building.
The sight that greeted her was shocking. The crowd of people outside the hospital had been waiting for days, and the evidence was everywhere. Trash and discarded items lay scattered about, people sat on the ground, or laid on the ground, babies crawled about, and children dashed back and forth, chasing each other while their parents stood in line. The parents, grandparents, and all the people in the line were grumbling. The tension in the air was palpable, and only heightened by the sounds of sirens.
Mrs. Goodweather walked alongside t
he line, and up to the front doors of the hospital where she plainly saw the notice Brisco had described. She went up the steps and read:
GRAND OPENING GALA
Welcome the new Fairfax Hospital!
A grand opening gala will be held on
Friday, November 28, 1908
7:00 p.m.
By Invitation Only
Mrs. Goodweather realized with a start that Friday, November 28, was the day after next! Could that be true? She thought hard, counting the days since she and Chloe had been on the road, two . . . three, yes—tomorrow was the twenty-seventh and so the gala was the day after tomorrow!
The woman almost skipped with joy right there on the steps before she could stop herself. This was exactly the opportunity they needed! Surely the head of the hospital would be present at the Grand Opening Gala. If they could only find a way to get into the kitchen, or better yet get close to the table where the hospital head was sitting, maybe . . . just maybe they could slip him the pies!
Mrs. Goodweather’s heart was pounding with excitement, her head was full of promising thoughts and barely begun plans as she stood thinking of what to do next.
A shout got her attention and she snapped out of her reverie.
“What’s going on in there?” shouted someone in the line.
“We demand to know what’s happened to our families!” shouted another.
The crowd rumbled angrily. From somewhere a woman started chanting the words, “Let us in! Let us in! Let us in!” It was picked up by the people around her, and then more people down the line until the driveway reverberated with the words. “Let us in! Let us in!”
The noise grew and grew, the people getting more riled and angry with every second. The chanting had warmed them, and when one person had started yelling, it galvanized the entire group. They were sick and tired of waiting! They wanted action. Mrs. Goodweather stood nervously on the steps of the hospital as the crowd screamed in front of her.