by Diane Rios
“Let’s get out of here!” implored Bings, almost crying.
“What do you think I’m trying to do?” snapped Blake, wrenching the gears of the ambulance and gunning the engine. The car groaned and coughed, and something clanked as it reluctantly dragged itself out of the ditch and back onto the road. Blake turned the damaged car, which was now belching blue smoke into the air, back toward town, his hands shaking on the steering wheel. The car couldn’t go very fast now, and he watched fearfully in his rearview mirror to see if any bears were coming after them.
“What in blazes was that all about?” he said to Bings, who answered that he had no bloody idea. Bears! Who would’ve thought it? What were all those bears doing there?
Neither Blake nor Bings had an appetite to try to return to Ashton House now, and headed back to the hospital instead. They would stash their stolen goods at the Mercantile, and drop off the damaged ambulance, claiming it had been wrecked in the course of their duties. They could get a good wash and some kind of dinner at the hospital, too. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than facing those bears.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AUBERON WATCHED THE LITTLE METAL machine rumble away and smirked with satisfaction. He had scared those odious little men out of their wits! Chuckling to himself, he dropped back to all fours and joined his people moving through the trees. He would allow the men to escape, for now. There were more important things to do, but the great bear was certain he would see those two again, and finish his business with them. He would make sure of it.
Auberon stopped on a rise to sniff the air. He could smell the sea, and the rich, salty aroma sat on his tongue like a treat. He closed his eyes and flared his nostrils, drawing the sharp, briny taste of the ocean air deep into his lungs. He liked it here, he decided. Along with the delicious smell of the sea, his delicate nose picked up the sweet smell of huckleberries, and . . . ahhhhhh . . . fish.
The bears moved in a quiet black mass through the woods, flowing like a shaggy river through the trees toward the hills. They had crossed the country swiftly, adding to their numbers as they went. They skirted the small town of Fairfax, avoiding the light, and were silently joined by a large group of deer. As the bears and the deer paused momentarily to look at each other, no one made a sound. After a moment of recognition, both groups moved on together. There was no need to speak— they all understood the common goal. Black and white against the trees, the bears and deer moved past the town, and up the hill.
All of the animals were on the move, gaining members to their mobs as they moved through forest, field, and air. None of the people in the town or at the hospital had any idea of the migration happening in the shadows just beyond the streetlights. The townsfolk huddled in their huts and houses, oblivious to the racoons, beavers, rabbits, mice, and foxes that tiptoed just outside their frosted windows. The shivering line of people waiting outside the hospital were huddled together against the cold night, and did not see the shadowy forms moving just past the tree line. The hospital workers, busy with their ghastly work, had no inkling of the army passing just outside the thick walls.
“North.”
“North of the hospital. Find the meadow.”
“Find the meadow and wait for word.”
“Silas is coming!”
“The Stargazer is coming to help us!”
The whispered call traveled far and wide, igniting fear and hope in every breast. The Stargazer was coming, and that had never happened before, in even the oldest creature’s memory. This was certainly the most important call in all their lives, and there was a flurry of preparation as the news spread.
The bravest of them—the young rabbits and teenaged raccoons, the yearling stags and the adolescent foxes rushed forward, forcing their elders to restrain them, and scold them for being rash. The young did as they were told, but their eyes flashed in anticipation of possible heroic scenarios ahead. The elderly voles and shrews, the mother mice, and the very youngest chipmunks stayed behind, and worried they would never see their family members again. Hurried, tearful goodbyes were held in every den, burrow, and nest as families parted, but there was no argument—they all understood that it must be done. Silas the Stargazer himself was coming. Man had gone too far. The animals had to act.
Mai the wolf had found them a gathering place that morning. It was a high place, carved into the hillside by a meteor that had fallen from the stars millions of years before. The crater had since become a beautiful green meadow, surrounded by pines. As soon as Mai stepped into the grassy space, after his long journey from the mountain, he had barked his discovery to the crows circling overhead, and they had flown east to report back to Silas.
Afra the doe and her people joined Mai soon after, followed by Auberon and the other bears. The crows kept circling and sending messages throughout the day, and the creatures of the land began to respond.
As thousands of animals mobilized across the country, answering the call, Auberon’s bears retreated higher, above the meadow to sit in the shadows of the pines there, while Afra’s small army of white does stood along the tree line, waiting to welcome the first arrivals.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SILAS LEFT THE COUNCIL AREA AND STARTED climbing. His bare feet were accustomed to the rocks and gripped like hands as he deftly pulled himself up the mountain to a favorite ledge, far above the valley. He needed to think. Then, he needed to speak to a friend.
Cross-legged on the ledge, Silas looked out over the forests and fields below. He scanned the horizon where the sky was a deepening indigo blue. The moon was just beginning to rise. A warm current coming up from the south turned the mountain breeze balmy, and it blew softly through the trees. Silas closed his eyes and settled back against the wall of rock. He made himself comfortable, and then spoke to the mountain.
“Wy’east,” the old man murmured softly, placing the palm of his hand on the sandy rock beneath him.
The air was still again, and nothing moved. Then a slight vibration could be felt, a gentle flutter in the rock, subtle, but perceptible. The old man smiled. The mountain was listening.
“I think we’ll need your help, old friend,” the old man said quietly, knowing the mountain could hear him.
THE MOUNTAIN COULD INDEED HEAR THE OLD MAN clearly. He could always hear the old man. He had listened to that beloved voice as it climbed his peaks and valleys for a hundred years. The mountain missed the old people, and Silas was the only one left. He had the stars and the clouds for company, but the truth was that Wy’east was lonely.
He had lost his love, the beautiful mountain Loowit, when he fought the terrible battle with brother Klickitat, and Loowit had gone to sleep forever. Since then the new people had come and driven out the old people, and now Wy’east was alone. He didn’t mind being alone that much—he was a mountain after all. He was made to stand alone, steadfast and solid, and he did so. But they had a special understanding, this old man and the great mountain, and Wy’east wanted to help him.
From deep within the mountain’s heart, below the volcanic rock, below the layers of basalt, below even a river of fire and molten rock that ran a mile beneath the top crust of the earth, Wy’east called up his voice. Though he could roar so loud as to deafen any ear, the mountain could also whisper, so that only the Stargazer could hear. What might be only a subtle tremor to the most sensitive, to Silas it made perfect sense.
The two old friends began to converse, talking over what could be done. Silas had a proposal for the mountain. At first Wy’east refused it, but when Silas pressed his case, the mountain reconsidered. As the hours went by, the stars came out in full force, the constellations gleaming and moving slowly through their nocturnal dance, the moon made her steady track across the sky, and an understanding was finally reached. Silas knew what he had to do.
THE OLD MAN STOOD, LOOKING UP INTO THE NIGHT sky. The space was not a single, inky black but a mixture of every raven hue, a complex palette of onyx and indigo, peppered with dazzling sta
rs. As Silas watched, the stars began to move. Swirling galaxies rotated silently in the sky, and one began to float toward the old man. It gathered stars as it turned, drawing toward it small planets and the edge of a nebula. The collection of celestial objects spiraled gracefully toward the old man. They hovered overhead, and then encircled the peak of the mountain like a halo. The bright objects illuminated the clouds around them, sending twinkling comets over the tops of the uppermost pines. Silas watched in wonder as the stars lit up the landscape in their beautiful dance, finally coming to a halt overhead. The glittering orbs hung in the air like a hundred chandeliers, bobbing gently in the atmosphere, and Silas sank to his knees under their glow.
“Stargazer,” came a fluting tune, a silvery voice from somewhere else, somewhere entirely unknown to mankind.
“My old love,” Silas whispered, with tears welling up in his eyes.
“I have missed you,” answered the Evening Star.
Silas began to weep, suddenly powerless to stop the flow of emotions that coursed through his heart. It was the effect of the stars. The energy field around stars was intense enough to disrupt an earth-dweller’s heartbeat, and any sudden movement in the heavens caused all kinds of feelings and thoughts to flow through human and animal minds. With the stars so close now, Silas felt waves upon waves of emotion crash over him. It was how he had fallen in love with the Evening Star so many years ago, when he had been a young man. She had utterly charmed him one night in his early stargazing days, but had disappeared one day, and he had missed her sorely ever since.
“Cygnus has warned us,” said the Morning Star, her silvery voice causing small clusters of stars to fall around the mountain. “And now Wy’east has called us.”
“We are fortunate to have such compassionate, powerful friends,” said Silas humbly. “We will of course gladly accept any assistance you choose to give us, my dearest Evening Star. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
All through the night the three friends discussed what could be done to help the battle brewing in the east. The old man, the mountain, and the Star wore away the hours while the country slept, oblivious to the dance of the stars overhead.
It was nearly dawn. The eastern horizon had a tinge of pink, and the smallest stars began to twinkle in alarm. It was time to go, daylight was approaching. Anxiously they signaled to the Evening Star to come along, it would not do to be there when Old Sol rose into the sky. The Evening Star twinkled her dimming light in farewell and followed her fellow stars back into the sky.
Silas groaned and stretched his stiff limbs. The old man had been sitting in the same position all night, and his hair and clothing were damp with dew. He shivered in the sharp morning air. Silas rubbed his hand together to warm them, and quietly watched the rosy glow in the east become a radiant mix of violets and pinks.
Silas got to his feet and rested a hand against the rock wall. “Thank you, my friend. I will go and tell the others.”
Silas turned to go back down the steep trail to the meadow. When he got to a familiar outcropping of rocks, the old man halted. His old eyes were still as keen as an eagle’s, and he peered into the distance, scanning the horizon. After several minutes of this, he finally saw what he was looking for. Out of the thin gray clouds in the west, a line of black shapes appeared. They were the crow messengers, returning from Fairfax. They would have news. Silas hurried down the path to the meadow.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE MEADOW WAS NEARLY EMPTY NOW, MOST of the animals having dispersed in different directions. The Artist, Lord Winchfillin, and the horses were still there, however, grouped around a small campfire. The meadow was a bit misty in the morning light, and the fire crackled cheerfully, spreading the comforting smell of home, and of breakfast. Breakfast was being served, in fact; the Artist just finished frying the last pancake and plopping it on Lord Winchfillin’s plate when Silas approached them.
“Good morning, Mr. Stargazer!” said the Artist brightly, wiping his hand on his pants, and offering the older man a firm handshake.
“Good morning to all of you,” returned Silas warmly, heartily returning the Artist’s grip. “I trust you passed a pleasant night? Not too cold, I hope?”
“Not a bit.” Lord Winchfillin laughed. “Considering we slept in the softest, warmest beds you could imagine.”
Silas looked surprised. “Oh? Beds, did you say? And what beds were these?” He glanced around for evidence of such soft, warm beds, but could see none. He gave the Artist a shrewd look, suspecting that he might be the one to explain.
The Artist felt suddenly shy under the old man’s gaze and looked down at the ground, twisting his hat in his hands as he said, “Well sir, those would be the beds that I . . . that is that they . . . I mean . . . well . . . that the trees made for us. Sir.” The Artist halted, feeling foolish, but the old man was nodding as if he understood. He asked the Artist softly, “Made for you, you say?”
The Artist said a bit self-consciously, “Yes sir, you see I asked them if they would, and they must have said yes, because in the wink of an eye there were three snug hammocks in the branches, ready and waiting.”
Silas’s eyes had an admiring look in them now. He said softly, almost to himself, “Well now! A tree-charmer. How long has it been since . . .” The old man looked wistful, his eyes clouding with old memories, and then he shook his head, smiling broadly.
“How wonderful,” he said to the Artist. “How perfect. Of course you are a tree-charmer, dear Artist! It takes a sensitive soul—as I said before. You are most welcome to our little crusade, my dear sir, most welcome indeed!
“It is a long-lost art, you know,” Silas said, now sitting down next to Lord Winchfillin companionably. The earl offered Silas a cup of tea, and the old man gratefully accepted it. “There probably isn’t another within a hundred miles who could do the same, if any,” said Silas, sipping his tea.
The Artist looked bashful. “My father taught me how. His father taught him, or so he told me. He said his great-grandfather came from people who all knew how to do it, people from far north of here.”
“Ah, I thought as much,” said Silas, happily. “It is the old traits, the old ways, popping up yet again. A shadow of another time. But a shadow is cast by something of substance, after all. There is definitely something there.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “And it seems that you aren’t the only one with ties to the old north.” He looked at Greybelle, who nickered back at him softly.
“This mare’s dam and sire were from the Valley of Bree,” said Silas wonderingly, patting her soft neck. “A place long-lost to most of us, unseen by humans for hundreds of years since the Bridge of the Gods was destroyed.” He looked keenly at the little group.
“I have spoken to the mountain,” Silas said.
The Artist held his breath and sensed that Lord Winchfillin was doing the same. What could Silas mean he had spoken to the mountain?
“Do you remember that at our meeting with the animals, I told all of you that Wy’east would help us?”
They looked back at him in silence. Then Lord Winchfillin said tentatively, “Erm yes . . . but, could you tell us how, exactly?”
“He will repair the Bridge of the Gods,” Silas said, a broad smile on his weathered face. His blue eyes beamed intensely from within their network of wrinkles.
Greybelle surprised them all with a whinny. “Oh, Silas!” she cried, tossing her silver mane up and down. “Does this mean . . .”
“Yes, my dear,” said Silas kindly. “Once the bridge is repaired, we will be able to go north again. You will be reunited with your family.”
The mare reared on her hind legs, whinnying her joy, and pawing the air with her front hooves in happiness. The Artist and Lord Winchfillin exclaimed at the news; although they weren’t entirely sure what it meant, it seemed like very good news, and they were delighted for Greybelle nonetheless.
“Oh! Oh, my!” said Greybelle, prancing with joy. “Let us begin! Le
t us begin our journey north at once!”
“Journey?” asked the Artist, becoming serious. “What journey?”
“A journey to get the help we surely will need,” answered the Stargazer.
“More help?” asked Lord Winchfillin nervously. “Do we really need more help? I’ve had quite enough with those dreadful bears already. I can’t imagine what more might come out of the north to ‘help’ us.”
“Oh yes.” Silas’s smiling face turned grave. “The brave and courageous animals we have sent west will do everything within their power, of course. They will fight valiantly, but . . . I’m afraid many will die. It is the inevitable cost of war. If I can make a trip north, I may be able to find the help we need to spare many lives. I must try, at any rate. However, before we go anywhere, we must see what our messengers have to say.” Silas stepped back and turned his eyes to the sky.
Caw caw! The long line of crows flying in from the west had reached the meadow, and were circling overhead, preparing to land. The noisy flock descended into the trees, flapping their wings as they arranged themselves, squawking at each other as they fought for the best positions.
Silas addressed them politely. “What have you to tell us, friend crows?”
A large raven with a gray wing replied, “King Cornix sends word that Mai the wolf has found a place to gather in the west. Afra and Auberon are there already, and others are arriving as we speak.”
The crows all sent up a chorus of enthusiastic caw caws! The men exclaimed in surprise to themselves. It was happening!
At that moment a sound was heard that made everyone freeze. It was an unnatural sound, and a sound that did not belong in the wilderness. The sound was rough and loud and coughed fire. It hurt the animals’ sensitive ears, and a choking smell hit their noses. Closer and closer it came, making them tremble. And then they knew what it was, and their blood ran cold. It was the sound of an ambulance.