It was hard to measure the passage of time spent beneath the fallen tree, so hypnotic was the pelting of the rain, the aural assault of the storm, the body-numbing effects of the cramped space, and the high level of fear induced by having a murderous archer at large. Gretel had time to ponder her brother’s not unreasonable question: who was shooting at them? And why? Something struck her at once: either their assailant was a poor shot—in which case why had he tried to stick them with arrows in the first place?—or he was an expert shot and had not meant to kill them, only to scare them. In which case, job done, but again, why? The pixies had been friendly and surely had no grievance against them. The witch? Could Zelda be living still and out for their blood? It was a possibility, but even if true, Gretel could not imagine the witch using anything so pedestrian as a bow and arrow with which to hunt them. No, such a choice of weapon suggested a pursuer who wished to remain at a distance, to remain unseen. Could the sorcerer have received word that he was being tracked and be out to prevent the progression of Gretel’s investigations? It was a thought that could not, at this point, be dismissed. And yet how would Herr Arnold (assuming he still lived) know of her plans? And again, such a weapon, such a method of deterrent, did not fit with what she knew of the man. So who, then? And why? And what was to be done? For they could not stay huddled in their damp, gritty hiding place forever.
After an interminably long time, which was not enough to bring nightfall, but more than sufficient to render Gretel’s left leg completely insensible and her wig all but melted into the leafy forest floor, there was a subtle easing of the rain. The storm itself had moved on, leaving only the irregular fall of raindrops from the leaves above, and allowing the return of sunlight fractured through the boughs overhead. There was a strong aroma of wet woodland: pine bark, nettle, earth, and fungi. Gretel was about to suggest that they emerge, before all feeling was lost in her other leg and she became unable to do so, when there came the sound of footfalls. They listened hard. The footsteps came closer. At last, a pair of feet, clad in tough, sensible boots, strode into view. The owner of the feet came to a halt beside the remains of the wig. The figure crouched down to examine the soggy mass of hair and silver. As Gretel and Hans held their breath, a young, lithe man stooped further to peer in at them. A smile as cheery as a sunflower spread across his handsome face.
“Fraulein Gretel?” He held out a hand. “Cornelius Staunch, at your service.”
Having extricated themselves from their hiding place and observed the briefest formalities of introductions, Gretel appraised their new traveling companion of the fact that they had come under attack.
“Jolly nasty it was too,” put in Hans. “Had to abandon my hat. Most likely ruined. Shall not see its like again.”
“We have all lost something dear to us,” Gretel told him, picking up the sorry remains of her wig. Madame Renoir would have to work a miracle to save it. “However, we escaped otherwise unscathed, and for that we should be grateful.”
“But if our unknown assailant should return … ?” Hans shook his head gloomily.
Herr Staunch put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “In times like this, we pull together,” he said in a voice that was at once both calming and bolstering. “It’s the challenges we face, the tests we overcome, that make us strong. And that strength will see us through, have no fear.” He was a pleasant-looking young man, fresh-faced and vigorous, with a cheerfulness about him that managed to be perky without being tiresome. A rare and fragile talent, in Gretel’s experience.
“Yes, but what are we to do to defend ourselves?” Hans asked.
Cornelius dropped flat to the floor to sniff the ground like a bloodhound. He spent so long with his nose pressed into the leaves that Gretel and Hans exchanged baffled glances. At length, he picked up some of the soil and rubbed it between his fingers. Next he sprang up onto his feet again and bounded off into the trees. Gretel and Hans stood and watched and waited, and moments later he reappeared, clutching an arrow. “Looks like our fellow has gone back the way he came.” Here he gesticulated with the arrow. “His tracks lead south, and he was moving slowly, not chasing or searching, merely trekking out.”
“How can you tell?” Hans asked, rubbing his bruised eye, which had set up a near constant itch as it healed.
Cornelius gave a shrug. “Depth of the footprints. Spread of the disturbed undergrowth. Distance between the footfalls suggesting the pace he was traveling. Simple stuff. No, I don’t think he’ll be bothering you again today.”
Gretel gave a nod of respect. “I see you are, like myself, a person who uses facts as the foundation for deductions. A method of investigation of which I wholeheartedly approve. Now, my brother and I are a little damp and weary. Would you be so kind as to assist us in constructing some sort of shelter so that we might rest, and perhaps a fire to dry out our damp bones?”
“Nothing better for raising morale than a good fire!” Cornelius declared. “Gotta keep morale up. A strong mind and a strong heart mean a strong body. That’s where true strength comes from,” he tapped the side of his head. “Here, and here!” He placed his hand firmly upon Hans’s chest above his heart. Hans’s expression was that of a patted dog.
They returned to their camp of earlier, where they were able to retrieve Hans’s hat, which was in a considerably better state than Gretel’s wig. The fire had been extinguished by the deluge, and the food ruined, but they found the rucksack and its contents untouched, clearly not being of any interest to their attacker.
“We can rule out theft then, sister mine,” said Hans. “We were not shot at by highwaymen after our loot.”
Gretel didn’t think the highwayman existed who would trouble himself to steal Hans’s soggy playing cards, even soggier cigars, and a few bites of pixie pastry, but she resisted saying so. Cornelius was right. It was important to keep spirits up. She didn’t want Hans getting ideas into his head about assassins creeping around in the night, or the possible reappearance of witches, or he’d be off scurrying for home as fast as his legs could carry him. They needed to rest, recover, and resume their quest.
Cornelius proved to be the capable adventurer Hans had promised. He laughed gently at their choice of campsite, pointing out its many obvious flaws and disadvantages, led them a short distance to an altogether superior spot, and then set about building a fire. He and Hans gathered armfuls of wood, but it was all so wet Gretel could not imagine it ever burning. Cornelius assured them it was only wet on the outside and would soon dry out in the heat of the flames. He eschewed Hans’s lighter in favor of demonstrating how wood twiddled in the hole of another bit of wood could produce first smoke and then fire. Hans clapped with delight and declared it better than any magic trick. Gretel couldn’t help thinking there was a bit of showing off going on, but then the man had to prove his worth.
He did so splendidly. Within an hour she and Hans were seated on log stools beside the cheeriest of fires. Within another hour Cornelius had strung up three hammocks, all situated beneath a roof woven of leafy branches, security against any further downpours. Satisfied with their accommodation, he came to join them at the fireside.
Hans smiled at him, completely won over. “I say, Herr Staunch, you certainly know your stuff. Beds all ready and set.”
“Preparation is key to survival, every time. Get prepared for the night in good time. Good sleep is paramount to good humor.”
“Can’t argue with that,” said Gretel, though she was beginning to feel she might like to.
Cornelius dug inside his own capacious backpack and pulled out a tin pot, which he proceeded to suspend above the flames. From a flask he tipped water into it, and then from a tiny tin caddy spooned dark grains.
“Coffee!” exclaimed Hans, breathing in the aroma. “What a treat.”
While they waited for it to brew, Cornelius handed around food from his supplies, which consisted of strips of dried beef and chunks of stale but filling black bread. Hans had rescued some of the pixie chutne
y, and they all chewed happily for some time, reveling in the warmth of the fire, the gentle steaming of the woods around them, and the abundance of tolerable food.
“Tomorrow I’ll show you how to catch meat for the fire,” Cornelius said. “The satisfaction of catching your own food, the joy of a hot meal, and that protein hit,” he closed his eyes briefly at the thought of it, “nothing like it. Gives you steel in the blood and iron in the will,” he assured them.
As they ate, and eventually savored the simple but delicious coffee, Gretel outlined her plans to their new guide and helpmate. She was careful to give him only information necessary for him to be of the utmost assistance to her. It was not her habit to share the details of her investigations with another, particularly when they were at an early stage. She reasoned that Herr Staunch would have little interest, in fact, in the minutiae of the case, and had no need to concern himself with details not pertinent to their journey through the forest. Even so, he did have one or two questions of his own.
“Do you, perhaps, have a theory, Fraulein Gretel, about who might want to kill you?”
Hans inhaled his coffee.
“We don’t know he was trying to kill us,” said Gretel quickly.
“He nearly got me with one of his nasty little arrows!” Hans wailed.
Cornelius nodded, “He loosed off quite a number of the things.”
“My point exactly. He skewered Hans’s hat, but otherwise missed us entirely, while placing arrows frighteningly near. I believe he was not a poor marksman but a skilled one, and that his purpose was just that: to frighten us.”
Hans gave a harrumph. “Well, he certainly did that. Never run so fast in my life. Well, not since we were chased by that murderous witch, of course. Showed a fair turn of speed on that occasion too.”
Herr Staunch raised questioning eyebrows at Gretel. “Murderous witch?”
“Her grievance was an old one,” she told him. “Nothing to do with the case.”
“But she was still trying to kill you?”
Hans choked on a bit of dried beef, recovering noisily.
“She won’t bother us again, I assure you. Do not concern yourself with what is in the past, Herr Staunch. It is important for my investigation that we keep moving forward.”
“Always a good plan,” he agreed. “Keep up the momentum. Keep the energy flowing. Keep confidence high and push on through.”
“Quite.” She held out the tin mug he had provided for a top-up of coffee.
“So why did somebody go to all that trouble just to frighten you?” The man was quite dogged in his questioning.
“I assume he was attempting to put us off our pursuit of the sorcerer’s possible hideout, whereabouts, or whatabouts.”
“And who would want to stop you?”
“Who indeed, Herr Staunch? Who indeed.”
THIRTEEN
That night, after the startling effort required to climb into and stay in the hammocks, Gretel fell into a fitful sleep. Although tired enough to slumber through a bugle call, she stirred at every owl hoot and badger snort, her subconscious on the alert for danger. She told herself that being shot at by a mystery archer can do that to a person. She further told herself that it was not a natural state, for her, to spend so much time outside, and that sleeping in the forest was not conducive to a peaceful night. The place was full of sounds, not all of them easily identifiable. She told herself very firmly that the witch was dead, the archer was gone, and now they were guarded by the alert senses and boundless energy of Herr Staunch.
While she had her own attention, she told herself that, contrary to appearances, her investigations were progressing, so that success, and crucially payment, remained likely outcomes and recompense for her current discomfort. What she failed to tell herself, what herself would not have wished to hear, was that her state of disturbance came not from her wild surroundings, not from concerns regarding the case in hand, not even from the possibility of imminent attack. No, what was keeping her from her much-needed sleep was in fact her preoccupation with Ferdinand. Every time she closed her eyes, there he was. Ferdinand on his proud black horse. Ferdinand smiling his handsome smile. Ferdinand close enough for her to smell the sandalwood cologne he wore. Ferdinand racing off to help his king. Ferdinand galloping through the woods, burgundy cape flying, his new, slender, young, beautiful, titled fiancée floating along beside him elegantly seated on her snowy white horse.
“Hell’s teeth!” Gretel muttered into the night air, causing Hans to snortle mid-snore and Cornelius to sit bolt upright in his hammock for a few seconds. When all had settled down again Gretel lay staring into the darkness, cross with herself for wasting precious sleep over a man. Particularly one who had clearly chosen someone else over her. She had work to do. She would do it. She would return to Gesternstadt, submit to the ministrations of Madame Renoir, and then make her entrance at the concert of Herr Mozart. Until then it was really no good at all dwelling on the matter. “No good at all!” she told Jynx as he swooped past.
The next day the sun was up early, setting the woods to steam. Gretel tried to leave her hammock in a dignified manner but the only discernible way to dismount the thing seemed to involve a sudden tip that threw her to the ground. She found Hans there, having been similarly ejected from his own swinging bed.
“Morning, Gretel.”
“I am surprised to see you up so bright and early, Hans.”
“I am far from bright, but I do smell coffee,” he said.
Cornelius had rekindled the fire and already the pot was simmering atop the flames. The three of them breakfasted on coffee and more cured beef and berries. Hans soon revived beneath the warm sunshine of Cornelius’s disposition, but Gretel found such enthusiasm for life and living it a little wearying at such an hour. She sipped and supped in surly silence, nurturing the faint hope that a brisk walk and applying her mind to her work would improve her humor as the day matured.
What she had envisaged as a purposeful but undemanding stride though the forest, however, Cornelius saw as an opportunity to impart his many skills to his new charges. Not content with reading the map and keeping an eye out for risks, hazards, or unwelcome company, he seized every chance to demonstrate some talent or other, and encouraged both her and Hans to have a go themselves. Gretel demurred, but Hans took up each and every challenge with gusto. While Gretel trudged, muttering darkly about schedules and objectives, the two men set snares, walked up gorges, dug up tough roots and declared them food, plaited vines to make rope, and even presented her with a grub the size of her thumb and suggested she might like to snack upon it. It was a tiresome day indeed. It occurred to Gretel that they were not moving with anything approaching stealth, and could be followed by the most inexpert tracker. She actually started to comfort herself with this thought, deciding that any would-be attacker would surely have made his move by now, they had made themselves such an obvious target.
Which only demonstrated, she was later to think, how wrong a person could be. Cornelius had engaged her in a conversation regarding the merits (few, in her opinion) and demerits (clearly many) of feeding oneself on the insects of the forest, and Hans had gone trotting off ahead, infected with his new guru’s enthusiasm to the point of fever, when there came a loud shout of alarm.
“Hans?” Gretel called after him. “Hans!”
She and Cornelius hurried along the path and rounded the corner, whereupon Cornelius grabbed hold of her.
“Don’t take another step!” he warned. “It could be booby-trapped!”
This assumption was not a wild one. Here the path widened a little, and in the small clearing the leaves, needles, and twigs upon the ground had been scuffed and disturbed in an unusual pattern, suggesting sudden and unusual activity. The result of this was the unusual sight of Hans, suspended twenty feet in the air, his feet ensnared in a rope that had caught him and whipped him up to dangle undignified and breathless above them.
“Hans! What in the name of all that is
sensible are you doing up there?” she demanded.
“Erm … spinning, currently.”
Cornelius crouched low, inspecting the ground around them. “Nothing else here. Looks clear. Hans must have stepped into a single trap. A simple rope and spring mechanism. Common type of thing. Straightforward and effective.”
“All the blood is running to my nose,” Hans informed them.
“We’ll get you down,” Gretel called up to him, and then, more quietly to Cornelius, “How will we get him down?”
“Not a problem,” he assured her. He took a loop of rope from his backpack and shinnied up the tree trunk with the ease of one who might have been born in its boughs. He sat upon the branch from which Hans swung, tied a knot in his own rope and then secured the other end to the tree. Lowering it down he instructed Hans to take hold and put it under his arm. There was a fair amount of struggling on Hans’s part, but eventually he was securely tied. Much to his alarm, Cornelius then scooted along to the rope that had him by the feet and took his large knife to the knot.
“I say!” Hans called up. “Are you certain that’s wise?”
He didn’t get an answer and was not in a position to protest further, as suddenly his feet were cut loose, causing his body to right itself with some speed. He ooofed as Cornelius’s rope took up the slack to bear his weight. Cornelius was then able to slowly lengthen the rope and lower him to terra firma.
Gretel picked up his hat from among the leaves and handed it to him. “What happened, Hans? Did you see anyone?”
Hans stooped to untie the rope from his ankles. “Sister mine, I did, but you will not believe me when I tell you who … or rather what I saw in the seconds before I was so brutally taken up into the trees. Ouch, these are nasty rope burns, look.”
“Hans, it is important you tell me who you saw.”
“What.”
The Sorcerer's Appendix Page 12
