Return of the Evening Star

by Diane Rios

  It was Whitestone, the squirrel who had told Greybelle about the meeting. He had been following them for some time, and now chattered animatedly at the mare, who pricked up her ears to hear.

  Whitestone chittered and chattered, on and on, until the Artist gently interrupted, “I’m sure you’ll translate for us, Miss Greybelle?”

  “Of course,” said the mare, cocking her head to catch the squirrel’s last words. She turned back to her friends and explained, “Whitestone has been sent to accompany us to the meeting.”

  Lord Winchfillin looked at the Artist and guffawed. “A squirrel?” he said skeptically. “We need a squirrel as a guard? I find that hard to believe—” The little lord choked off his words at the outraged look he got from the squirrel himself.

  Greybelle said somewhat reprovingly, “Whitestone has been sent by the Badger, who is an important leader in this area. We are lucky he was sent to guide us, we will need his introduction at the meeting. Without it we would never be allowed to go, and indeed”—she looked meaningfully at Lord Winchfillin—“without a guide—or guard—we would surely not even survive the attempt.”

  “Do you mean . . .” asked the little lord, his eyes wide.

  “You would both be killed,” Greybelle said simply.

  A shocked silence followed.

  Then Greybelle said gently, “Although technically the Badger has already invited you, you are still human and so must have an animal to vouch for you. Whitestone has volunteered to do us that kindness.”

  The Artist bowed his head in thanks to the squirrel respectfully. “You do us a great service, friend Whitestone, I thank you.”

  Mollified, Whitestone nodded his head politely at the Artist but gave Lord Winchfillin a final glare before jumping back up into the trees to wait for them.

  “Whitestone says we should go on a little farther, but we won’t be able to reach the high meadow tonight,” said Greybelle to the men. “It’s about a four-hour climb, so we’ll have to make camp on the mountain. He will show us where to sleep tonight.”

  “Does he know this Silas fellow?” blurted out Lord Winchfillin, as they made ready to leave.

  “Nobody knows Silas the Stargazer,” answered Greybelle.

  The Artist added, “I heard a song about him once, but I thought it was just a legend.” He swung up on Greybelle’s back, and Lord Winchfillin led Raja over to a fallen tree so he could mount the old gelding’s back.

  Greybelle said, “The old man lives alone, far up on the mountain, and speaks to no one except for the animal leaders at council, which doesn’t happen often. This is the first time in anyone’s knowledge that he has addressed all the animals at once. And let me warn you all—at the meeting, take care what you say.” Greybelle stopped so Raja could catch up.

  “The wild animals will be united for a time, but they won’t be tame. It will be a large gathering of both predator and prey, all pressed close together. It will be a very dangerous situation at best, and I would not trust the peace to be kept, even in front of Silas. Try not to go out of your way to antagonize anyone.”

  The mare’s gentle gaze turned on Lord Winchfillin, who swallowed fearfully. “I . . . I won’t,” he said meekly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He gulped.

  AFTER THEIR REST AND LIGHT MEAL, THE TRAVELERS continued more quickly. Greybelle followed the flashing underside of Whitestone’s tail as the squirrel leaped through the trees ahead of them. The way wasn’t too steep yet, the incline ascending gradually past stands of pine that grew closer and closer together until once more they were enveloped by forest.

  “How much farth—”

  A loud crack just behind them cut off Lord Winchfillin’s question. The horses halted. A vibration in the earth traveled up their legs, a pounding, a drumming—what in the world was it? Raja whinnied and whirled in circles, nearly unseating Lord Winchfillin, who clung to the gelding’s wispy mane and cried out, “Stop! Stop!”

  A great herd of elk came through the trees. They were led by the most magnificent stag the Artist or Lord Winchfillin had ever seen. He was huge—at least ten feet high at his nose, with another five feet of antlers crowning his head. At the sight of the humans, the great elk stopped short, and stared at them, his huge black eyes shining. He silently looked them up and down, and the men felt he knew exactly why they were there, and that he did not approve.

  The great elk lord, for he must be a lord judging how dignified his look was, how regal his brow—this great lord of the forest stamped his front hoof on the ground, producing a deep thrum in the earth. He blew out a loud blast from his flared nostrils, and at that signal the entire elk herd stepped out from beneath the trees. Ten, twenty, thirty, sixty—at least a hundred—elk stepped out and walked past the men, eyeing them distrustfully. They were each as large as the horses, some with racks of antlers towering above them, their sharp tines gleaming in the afternoon light. The men and horses froze in place, and waited for the great herd of elk to pass.

  When the last one had moved by, the elk leader raised his nose into the air and blew a high, bugling cry. The sound carried far out over the valley and up the side of the mountain, sending shivers up all their spines.

  Greybelle looked around at her companions. “We must go on!” she said urgently.

  As Whitestone led the way, more and more animals joined them. They seemed to be coming from everywhere. Flocks of birds alighted on trees around them, and more filled the air. Families of rabbits, groups of squirrels, small packs of coyotes, and a large group of opossums all passed by the slow-moving humans and horses.

  The Artist and Greybelle weren’t very disturbed by this, having seen many odd things in their lives, but for Raja and Lord Winchfillin it was a different story. The poor old horse’s nerves were stretched as tight as a wire, and sweating and blowing, he pranced like a colt. Lord Winchfillin slipped in the saddle and grabbed at the reins, muttering, “Consarn it you fool horse! Just stand sti—”

  Raja suddenly shied violently to the side, nearly throwing him. Something—something huge—was moving in the bushes. The little earl gripped the gelding’s scrawny mane as tightly as he could, his face white as he stared at the spot.

  The bushes around them seemed to sigh. The ferns and bracken lifted and fell as one, as if they breathed. The next minute it became apparent that many large somethings were all around them. Even the Artist gasped and a small scream escaped Lord Winchfillin when a huge, square black head appeared through the screen of ferns.

  Small, fierce golden eyes peered at them suspiciously. Chuff! came a powerful grunt of fishy breath.

  An enormous black bear emerged into the little clearing. At the sight of him, both horses whickered in fear. As the strong scent of the bear filled their nostrils, it was all the men could do to keep them from bolting.

  Behind their leader, eight more enormous bears stepped through the trees, their towering shaggy sides as black as night. For all the rustling of the bushes, the huge bears were remarkably agile and able to move quietly through the forest. Their smell was anything but subtle, however—the pungent scent of dead fish, old mud, oily hair, and a sickly-sweet undercurrent of honey was so strong that it made the men’s eyes water.

  The bears in turn could not see very well, which irritated them, and they were made further upset by what to them was the very bad smell of the humans.

  Chuff, chuff! they blasted, tasting the mixture of scents on the air. Then, as if called by an invisible signal, the bears dropped to their four feet and moved off as silently as they had come through the underbrush. Before he too disappeared, the leader turned to give the men a final look. He raised up on his hind legs, as tall as a tree, and swiped the air with one of his massive paws. Growling a warning, he too dropped to all fours, and with a mighty shrug of his great black shoulders, followed his family up the mountain.

  The little group sagged with relief at the bears’ departure.

  “No, indeed,” choked out Lord Winchfillin shakily to Greybelle. �
�We won’t antagonize anyone—especially them.”

  Whitestone chirruped brightly and leaped off in the direction the bears had gone.

  “The world really has turned upside down,” said Lord Winchfillin mournfully. “In the old world I would say that one should always go in the opposite direction of bears, but in this new, strange world we are going to follow them. To meet them. To gather with them! It really is too much, I tell you.” Lord Winchfillin’s teeth chattered from his fright.

  “Don’t you want to get your castle back?” the Artist asked him practically.

  “Oh yes, yes I do.” The earl nodded. “I most certainly do.”

  “Well, believe it or not, my friend,” said the Artist, grinning at his friend. “Those bears might be the ones that help you get it.”

  “Now, I really do not see how that is possible!” snapped Lord Winchfillin irritably. “Do you really think that those . . . those . . . predators, those carnivores, are going to help me get my beautiful house back?” he demanded. “I think the road is finally beginning to get to you, my friend, you’re stark raving bonkers. How could bears help me get my castle back? We could never control them!”

  “Indeed not!” interjected Greybelle. “That is the very thing we are fighting against! The bears will not be controlled. They would never allow it, you must know that.” She tossed her silver mane.

  “Are we fighting then?” asked Lord Winchfillin woefully.

  “In one way or another, I believe we will have to,” answered the Artist softly.

  Greybelle agreed. “I think you are correct. If this many animals are going to see the Stargazer, then I know they will demand satisfaction. They will not have come all this way for nothing. But I also know that we can trust the Stargazer to give wise council, whatever the outcome. If we are careful, I believe we will be safe.”

  “Nobody is safe in a war,” said the Artist sadly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BODIES!” WHISPERED CHLOE, HORRIFIED. “You mean the bodies of patients? Patients who have died?” “Or . . . patients they have killed?” whispered Mrs. Good-weather, aghast.

  The same chilling realization swept through Chloe at the same time. This was the logical conclusion, once they’d seen the long pine boxes sliding down the chutes to the sea. There were too many for it to be a coincidence. The hospital was killing people.

  A stunned silence surrounded them, broken only by the distant sound of regular splashes from the boat, as it dumped the boxes’ contents into the sea.

  “What . . . what if they’ve killed my mother?” sobbed Chloe quietly, her small shoulders shaking.

  “Oh dear, oh dear, don’t cry, Chloe.” Mrs. Goodweather put her arm around the girl, giving her a firm hug. “We will find her. No matter what happens, we will do whatever we can to find your mother, and to help the others. Don’t cry, my dear. We can’t give up hope now!”

  Chloe knew Mrs. Goodweather was right, and she dried her eyes. They could not give up hope. They had to stop the hospital. Everyone in Fairfax was in danger. Everyone in the land was in danger! Chloe felt a steely resolve flow back into her heart. She sat up and tried to smile. She made her voice steady as she addressed the others. She was ready. “We have to find out how to get inside.”

  Back at the tree house, they discussed what to do.

  “What if one of us goes down and joins the line?” suggested Mrs. Goodweather. “We could chat with the people and see what they know. Maybe we can see an opportunity down there that we can’t see from up here.”

  “I’ll go!” said Chloe.

  “No,” said Mrs. Goodweather and Brisco at the same time.

  “It’s too dangerous for you, my dear,” said Mrs. Goodweather. “What if your uncle comes by and sees you? You could be hurt, or at least our entire plan could be ruined.”

  Chloe nodded and gulped, thinking of what it might be like to run into her awful Uncle Blake again. She hadn’t seen him since she had escaped the Hotel Nell with the Artist, and she was in no hurry to do so, especially alone.

  “Why not me?” asked Brisco. “I think I should be the one to go, and you ladies can stay here, safe in the tree house.”

  IF HE WAS COMPLETELY HONEST, BRISCO HAD ANOTHER reason for wanting to go down to the hospital. Very early that morning, as he was scouting the grounds, looking for any way to get inside, he had stopped to observe the line of people camped on the hospital’s front lawn.

  These were the loved ones of those who had been taken by the ambulances, in town and all over the countryside. None of them knew what was happening or why their loved ones had been so suddenly and viciously taken away and brought here. Many of them had been waiting for days for any word of their family members’ fate.

  At first a single line of people, the number had grown until now there was a small village camped out on the hospital steps and driveway. Brisco was shocked by how many people were waiting, and in what conditions they waited. The nights were very cold. Here and there were small fires that the people warmed their hands over, but there was no avoiding the bitter chill of the night.

  Brisco’s own breath came in white puffs as he crouched behind a hedge, taking in the miserable scene. He was just about to turn and start back to the tree house when a slim, dark figure detached itself from the line and walked toward the steps of the hospital. A woman in a faded and patched purple dress, wearing a thin shawl, stopped in front of the doors where he noticed for the first time a large white notice was posted. The woman appeared to be reading the poster. From his hiding place Brisco could not see what the poster said, and he was watching the woman’s reaction for clues when she turned toward him, and he caught his breath.

  She was beautiful. Her smooth, pale skin and large brown eyes plucked at the carpenter’s heart. Her soft brown hair was tucked neatly under the hood of her cloak, but curled wisps of it hung free here and there, utterly beguiling him. As she read the poster, her beautiful brow knit slightly and she looked thoughtful, and even more beautiful, in Brisco’s opinion. For a moment he forgot everything else—the plan, Mrs. Goodweather, even Chloe—and he almost jumped out of the hedge to introduce himself. Just in time Brisco came to his senses and blinked at his own stupidity, and near miss. What was he thinking? What in the world was wrong with him? Had his head actually been so turned that he would leap out of a hedgerow—in the middle of an important mission no less—just to meet a pretty woman? He would probably frighten her out of her wits anyway, leaping out of the bushes like that. Brisco remained where he was, and watched the beautiful woman walk back to the line.

  The carpenter guessed that she must know someone inside the hospital and he felt a wave of anxiety that it might possibly be a husband. As the thin figure walked away, Brisco noted her worn dress that looked as if it had once been fine, and felt a resolve to help her, even if she did already have a husband. He promised himself he would not forget her and would try his best to find her again. First though, there was a plan to be laid, and the best thing he could do to help himself, Chloe, Mrs. Goodweather, and the beautiful woman was to finish his scouting and get back to the tree house.

  JUST NOW MRS. GOODWEATHER WAS REASONING WITH him at the tree house table.

  “Now Brisco, an old woman will attract far less attention than such a handsome, strapping young man as yourself,” she said wisely. “Why, that magnificent mustache alone will have every young lady looking at you. I am much less memorable. An old woman can get around virtually unnoticed.”

  Brisco thoughtfully twisted the ends of his mustache, wondering if the beautiful woman he had seen would like it.

  “I will wear my kerchief over my head and no one will be the wiser,” Mrs. Goodweather said briskly. “They will think I am some poor old country woman who is looking for her husband and they won’t suspect I’m really a spy.” She winked at Chloe, who giggled. “And then when I come back, we can make the pies.”

  They all agreed that Mrs. Goodweather should be the one to go down to the hospital. Then Br
isco told them about the sign posted to the front doors of the hospital that he had been unable to read. He suggested she might try to read it herself— it might be something that could help them. He did not mention the beautiful woman he’d seen.

  Mrs. Goodweather tied her kerchief on her head. When she had placed her basket over her arm, she looked exactly like any old granny walking to market. No grannies were walking to market today, but many of them were in the line out front, and Mrs. Goodweather would fit right in. She left the tree house and walked down the hill to the hospital. Brisco, Chloe, and Shakespeare watched her go down the little path. When she disappeared around the corner of the hospital, Brisco brought out a pack of cards for a game while they waited.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ON A BRANCH OUTSIDE THE TREE HOUSE perched a crow named Blackberry. He was a very surprised crow—he hadn’t expected to find people in a tree. It was the stained-glass windows of the tree house that first caught his attention, flashing in the sun. Their colorful sparkle intrigued him irresistibly, and Blackberry had flown down for a closer inspection. That’s when he found the tree house, and then he noticed the people inside.

  Blackberry watched the people hold up sparkling glasses and clink them together, and his eyes glinted with desire. He wanted those glasses. They sparkled so beautifully, he would be the envy of all his brothers if he had one in his nest! While he thought about a way to get one of the glasses, Blackberry noticed that one of the humans was a child. A girl child.

  The crow felt a tug at his memory, something important about a human child, what was it? Oh yes! He remembered now! There was an alert out for a child—his brother Poole had told him only that morning to be on the lookout for a girl child, a woman, and . . . Blackberry’s breath caught in his throat. Was that . . . Brisco Knot! Oh, my goodness!