by J. A. White
They didn’t fly, exactly, but climbed higher in a series of giant jumps, as though the sky were composed of landings that only they could see. Just below Rattle, one of the golden ostriches ran at blinding speed along ground that wasn’t there. Kara noticed that its two-toed feet, black at the start of its leap, were now the precise blue of the sky—either an intrinsic part of its magic or a meaningless side effect. The ostrich bent its thin, powerful legs and vaulted to another invisible landing, its brethren right behind it.
Running on thin air should have been impossible. But these were Rygoth’s creatures, and the laws of nature were not for them.
Lucas turned so he was facing backward and aimed his glorb-bow. His first arrow missed, but the second one took an ostrich in the neck. The strange bird and the witch on its back fell in two different directions.
“Higher, Rattle,” Kara said. “Maybe we can get out of their range.”
As though anticipating this plan, one of the witches read from her grimoire. The clouds above them turned dark. Lightning cracked across the sky, followed by a great peal of thunder. A torrent of rain drenched Kara’s hair.
“I got another one,” Lucas said with a flat, pragmatic tone that made it clear he took no pleasure from the act. He reached for a new arrow. With a sinking feeling, Kara saw that there were only three remaining in his quill.
“I’ll get help,” Kara said, reaching out with her powers. There are some vultures in the distance—good fighters, but too far. I need someone closer. Maybe those sicklejays. Not as strong, but they can be here in—
Rattle suddenly reared in pain.
Kara struggled to hold on, feeling Rattle’s rising panic as she continued to jerk and twist frantically in midair. What’s going on, girl? Kara asked. And then she saw. One of the ostriches hung upside down from Rattle’s torso, its claws sunk deep. The rustle-foot was desperately trying to shake the creature free. The witch on the ostrich’s back smiled with malicious glee as she withdrew a serrated dagger from her cloak and raised it above Rattle’s stomach.
“Can you tell her to stay still for a moment?” Lucas asked, leaning dangerously over the side while drawing back his bow. “I can’t get a clear shot if—”
The witch plunged her dagger home.
A screech of pain filled Kara’s head. Rattle shook more violently than ever.
The ostrich fell. The witch fell.
Lucas fell.
Kara threw herself across the rustle-foot and managed to grab his satchel before it vanished out of sight. Lucas’s weight jerked her forward, and Taff wrapped his arms around her, pulling back with all his strength. Kara peered over the edge. Lucas was dangling with both hands grasping the satchel, his legs kicking empty air.
“Hang on,” Kara said. “I’m going to pull you back up.”
“No!” Lucas exclaimed. “It’s too dangerous! You’ll fall!”
Rattle, delirious with pain, was climbing upward toward the black clouds. Kara tried to send the rustle-foot calming images but could not think of any right now. It was taking all her concentration to hold on to Lucas. Just beneath him Kara saw the last two ostriches, running on their invisible platform. The first one leaped at Lucas. He saw it just in time and stomped down, his boot striking its neck with a satisfying thwack. The animal tried to land, but the sky below it, blue when it leaped, had turned black, and the color of its feet no longer matched. It tumbled through the sky, striking one invisible surface after the other. The witch on its back screamed as they vanished out of sight.
One more left.
Grunting with effort, Kara pulled Lucas a few inches higher. The clouds grew preternaturally dark, a black fog making it difficult to see. Wind whipped her hair. Lightning flashed.
Stay still, Rattle, she pleaded, feeling the lifeblood pour out of the creature, her panicked thoughts a swirling maelstrom to match the sky. Please.
Somehow, Kara’s calming words made it through to the creature. Despite her agony and fear, Rattle managed to steady her flight.
Thank you, brave friend, Kara thought.
She pulled Lucas higher, his hand just beyond her reach now, and heard a tearing sound: the strap of the satchel.
NO!
“Kara,” Lucas said, his face suddenly calm. “Stop pulling. It’s going to break. If the grim falls, Rygoth will find it. We can’t risk that.”
“It won’t break,” Kara said, even as the satchel slipped lower, the weak fibers holding it together tearing apart. “Just hold on . . .”
“You’re the only one who can stop her,” he said.
Lucas let go.
Kara screamed as he vanished into the dark mists.
“Lucas! Lucas!”
Desperately she called out for help—Someone catch him!—but her thoughts were too chaotic to create a workable mind-bridge, and her loss instead became an incoherent shriek of pain felt by all the animals of Sentium. In the forests of Auren, owls jerked in their sleep, beset by unexplainable fears; Luxian piglets cuddled closer to their mothers; beneath the Windmill Graveyards of Ilma a single gray wolf howled in sorrow.
“Rattle!” Kara shouted, sitting up, forcing herself to remain calm. “Down! As fast as you can! Down!”
Kara felt the brave rustle-foot, weak and dazed as she was, gather her senses, ready to rocket toward the ground like an arrow and catch the falling boy, when a bolt of lightning struck her wing. The creature’s body went lax as she lost consciousness and fell lifelessly through the air. Kara clung desperately to her neck, Taff beneath her, holding tight. “Don’t let go,” she whispered in his ear. While spiraling downward, Kara saw white pages fluttering through the darkness and realized that she had lost her grip on the satchel.
They continued to fall, in blue sky once more, the ground approaching far too fast.
Kara closed her eyes.
She awoke to find a one-eyed bird staring back at her.
“Watcher?” Kara mumbled, not believing her eyes. Her head was pounding fiercely, and her left shoulder felt swollen and out of joint. The ground beneath her was strangely rough and warm.
Where am I? What happened? She tried to recall, but her mind felt empty. All she wanted to do was go back to sleep.
She closed her eyes.
Watcher pecked her hand.
“Ow!” Kara exclaimed.
The bird’s single eye rolled out of sight and was quickly displaced by eyes of various other colors, reminding Kara, as always, of marbles on a track. The subtle variations in hue each represented a different word or feeling; it was Watcher’s way of communicating with her.
Up! Fast! Bad witches come soon!
Kara should have reacted with horror to this news, but instead she was overwhelmed by the marvelous fact that she could understand what Watcher was saying. She hadn’t been in possession of her powers the last time she had seen the bird, rendering its colors a language she no longer spoke.
“I’ve missed you,” Kara said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to hurt you that time in the Thickety. I’m so sorry. Please . . .”
I forgive you, Witch Girl. Cry later. Brother need help.
Those last three words, conveyed with the brown of burned butter, jerked Kara to life as effectively as a smelling salt. Ignoring her pain, she pushed herself up and realized that she was not lying on the ground at all.
“No!” she gasped.
Kara reached out with her mind, but Rattle was gone; the rustle-foot had used her own body to break their fall, sacrificing her life to save theirs. Noble protector, Kara thought, the tears coming freely now. Until the very end.
Taff, groggy but unhurt, had managed to sit up. There were tears in his eyes as well.
“Rattle?” he asked. Kara crawled over and took him in her arms.
She started to remember. Their flight from Kutt. The lost satchel.
Lucas.
Her initial reaction was to blame herself. If I had acted calmly, been in control of my powers, I could have saved him. But Kara kne
w that there was nothing to be gained from that sort of self-pity. The true fault for every misfortune that had befallen them was Rygoth. She pictured the wexari’s face, as cruel and beautiful as marble, and molten rage gushed through her veins.
I hate you, she thought, knowing that mindless anger led nowhere but choosing, for just this one moment, to bask in it. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. In her mind’s eye she saw Lucas fall, heard his last words: You’re the only one who can stop her.
I will, she promised.
“We need to go,” Kara said, forcing back any further tears. Once she started to grieve for Lucas she wouldn’t be able to stop, and right now she needed to get Taff to safety. “They’ll find us if we stay here.”
Taff buried his face in her shoulder. His tears dampened her neck.
“I’m so sorry about Lucas,” he said.
“We need to go,” she repeated.
Kara helped him to his feet and together they slid off Rattle’s body. They had landed in the middle of the swamp; the marshy ground rose up to her ankles. Low-growing trees provided cover for now, but Kara was certain the witches would find them soon enough.
“Why’s Watcher here?” Taff asked. A long gash ran beneath his left eye and along the side of his nose. It wasn’t bleeding much, but it was certainly going to leave a scar.
“I don’t know,” Kara said, awkwardly using her left sleeve to clean the wound; her right arm hung uselessly at her side. She faced the one-eyed bird, who was perched on a nearby branch. “How did you find us?”
A flash of colors: Always find you. Kara. Watcher. Connected.
“Because we’re friends?”
Connected. I am part of you. You are part of me.
This line of inquiry was only making Kara’s head hurt more, so she tried a different angle.
“Why are you here?”
Take.
Watcher shook its left claw. Kara saw that a small pouch had been tied to it.
Take. Use.
“Kara,” Taff whispered. “I think I hear someone coming.”
Watcher hopped up and down.
Quickly! No time!
Kara reached out, intending to unhook the pouch, but Watcher stepped back.
Not for you.
The bird swiveled to face Taff.
With the sounds of their enemy now undeniably close, Taff quickly pulled the pouch off Watcher’s foot and opened it. Inside was a simple wooden whistle. Taff brought it to his lips.
“Don’t,” Kara said. “They’ll know exactly where we are!”
“Don’t worry,” Taff said, grinning. “This can only be from one person.”
He blew the whistle.
It didn’t make a sound, not that Kara’s ears could hear, at least, but she felt an almost painful sensation in her teeth and the fetid vapors of the swamp were replaced with the comforting smells of sawdust and burning peat. Taff blew the whistle again, harder this time, his face turning red and his cheeks puffing out. The smell of burning peat strengthened—Kara could even feel its heat on her skin!—and then the swamp vanished altogether.
They stood in a small workshop.
A thin layer of smoke hazed their surroundings: peat burning in the stone fireplace. Tools hung from the wall and hundreds of jars lined the shelves. These were filled with all manner of colored beads, springs, pegs, cogs, tiny bells, and wheels of every size. All sorts of wooden toys, some only half finished, stuffed the shelves to overflowing: finely carved animals, boats, play food, dolls, and more whistles than Kara had ever seen. The workshop, as a whole, did not appear to be overly organized, but Kara had the impression that its owner would be able to find anything she wanted.
Watcher, who had made this impromptu journey with them, sailed out a window just as a door opened and an old woman with short gray hair rushed into the room.
“It worked!” Mary Kettle exclaimed, throwing her arms around the children. “I wasn’t certain. Risky thing, transporting you here with magic, but I had to chance it. There was no need for you to be risking your lives one moment longer, now that we—” She drew back and took in their faces. “It’s so good to see you. You both look so much older. Taff, I’m cutting your hair tonight.”
Mary was crushing Kara’s bad arm, sending slivers of pain down her shoulder, but she didn’t care—the pain meant she wasn’t dreaming. They had first met Mary Kettle after fleeing the villagers of De’Noran and entering the Thickety, though Kara had heard about her long before that, the legendary witch who used children’s souls to enchant her wicked toys. At first Mary had lived up to her evil reputation, but in the end she had overcome the darkness within her and saved their lives.
She looked at Kara now with deep sympathy.
“There’s sorrow draped across those beautiful eyes of yours,” she said. “What happened?”
“I lost someone.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mary said, “but hold those tears at bay just a little bit longer, if you can. Right now you’re expected. Come.”
She opened the front door.
“Whoa!” exclaimed Taff.
Kara’s legs trembled, the breathtaking beauty of the forest overwhelming to behold. Leaves of all colors—pumpkin orange, apple red, brilliant hues of gold—complemented one another in autumnal harmony. A crisp breeze caressed her cheeks, carrying with it the smells of honeysuckle and cinnamon.
Exhaustion, both physical and psychological, drained from her body. She felt instantly and totally at peace.
“Kara,” Taff said, smiling. “Look!”
Dozens of animals were approaching them, some as small as chipmunks, others as large as elk. Most bore wounds that had been imperfectly sealed over with scars or misshapen fur. Though many were fierce-looking, with long fangs or sharp talons, Kara knew they were not dangerous—not to her, at least.
“This is a big day for them,” Mary said. “They’ve been waiting a long time for your return.”
Kara bent down and allowed the nearby creatures to nuzzle her hand.
“What is this place?” she asked in wonder.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Mary asked, laughing. “It’s the Thickety, my dear! Welcome home.”
As Mary led them past rows of huts and awe-struck villagers, Kara gathered as much of the story as she could. After she had used Niersook’s venom to strip Sordyr of his powers, and thus turn him back into a man, the curse on the Thickety had been lifted. Over the past year and a half the forest had returned to its original state. Black fronds transformed into colorful leaves, poisonous flora withered away, and the animals shed the evil influence that had infected them. Safi’s home village of Kala Malta, along with several other communities scattered throughout the forest, had banded together. Mary had recently been elected as their leader.
“I used to have nightmares about this place,” Kara said, petting a bulbous-eyed paarn walking by her side. “Seems hard to believe now.”
“There’s good in all places,” Mary said. “People too.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I do.”
“Then why is there so much evil in the world?” Taff asked.
“Because it’s easy,” Mary said. “Easier to destroy than to build. Easier to blame than forgive. Evil corrupts. Tempts.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Anyone can do that—Rygoth’s nothing special. But good? Good heals. Redeems. That’s hard.” She looked at Kara. “That takes someone truly remarkable.”
Kara shook her head, unwilling to accept the praise.
“I’m happy to see how things have changed, of course,” she said. “But let’s not forget what else happened. When I undid the curse on this place, I freed Rygoth. She’s hurt so many people since then. Was it worth it?”
“You did what you thought was right,” Mary said as they reached a large hut in the center of the village. “We can only control our actions. The results?” She shrugged. “What happens, happens. And who knows? Even bad things may happen for a good re
ason.”
She opened the front door.
“Father!” Taff exclaimed.
William Westfall stretched out his arms and Taff leaped joyously into them, Kara right behind him. They stayed that way for a long time, until Mary snapped her fingers and said, “Psst! Graycloaks coming!”
Father pushed the children away.
“They still believe I’m Timoth Clen,” he whispered. “Forgive me for this.”
Two graycloaks entered the hut. Father’s kind face hardened into a mask of severity.
“My lord,” the first man said, kneeling. “We’ve completed our rounds, and—”
His mouth fell open when he saw Kara.
“That’s the witch of De’Noran!” he said, raising his bow-staff. “What’s she doing here?”
Father stepped between the graycloak and Kara.
“As you know,” he said, with Clenian arrogance, “this witch fought Rygoth herself and saved my life. She is a useful tool, and I will wield her as I see fit.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I don’t understand,” the man said, his head bowed. “‘Magic is the vilest of sins, beyond forgiveness.’ It says that in the Path itself.”
“The Path also says, ‘Magic can be wielded for the greater good.’”
The graycloak looked confused.
“I don’t remember reading—”
“Do you claim to know the holy book better than me?” Father asked, stepping forward.
“Of course not, sir.”
“Leave us. Now.”
The two men scampered out of the hut. Taff stared at his father with shocked admiration.
“You lied about the Path!” he said.
“Shh,” Father said, kissing him on the forehead. “Hopefully he won’t look it up later.” He smiled at Mary. “Thanks for the warning. Do you think you could linger just outside, make sure we’re not interrupted for a little while?”
“My pleasure,” Mary said, slipping through the door.
“Sit,” Father said, indicating a small table laden with bread and fruit. Taff immediately grabbed a handful of berries and shoved them into his mouth. He grinned with blue teeth. “Hungry,” he said.
“I have so many questions,” Kara said. “I don’t even know where to begin.” Father watched her tenderly, as though he couldn’t believe she was actually here. His beard had grown fuller since they last met, brown salted with white. Kara liked it.