by Diane Rios
“Are you there?” she whispered.
Shakespeare gave two low squeaks in reply.
“Can you take me to the girl? To Chloe?”
Shakespeare squeaked again. He scampered off, back the way he had come, pausing in the shadow of the hedge, waiting to see if Celeste could follow. Acting as if she were only stretching her legs, Celeste walked up the road along the line of people and then stepped over to the hedge and stood looking for the rat. She saw Shakespeare run around the side of the hospital and disappear into the trees. She followed, expecting at any moment for someone to ask her where she was going, but no one did.
Shakespeare led Celeste under the trees, where they were immediately immersed in another world. The sounds of the people in line dimmed, and all was hushed and peaceful. The white rat ran down the trail, jumping over twigs and rocks and around fallen logs and waiting for Celeste to do the same. Finally, they came to the clearing where stood the old oak that held the tree house.
Shakespeare immediately leapt up the stairs, expecting Celeste to follow, but when he reached the porch, she was not behind him. The rat looked down to see the woman standing still beneath the huge tree, gazing up at the tree house in wonder. Golden light glowed from the windows, falling on Celeste and illuminating the area in which she stood. Suddenly Chloe burst out of the door and joined Shakespeare at the rail. She squealed with excitement at the sight of Celeste and called out to her.
“Miss Hart!”
“My dear!” Celeste called back up to the girl happily. “Is it really you?”
Chloe laughed delightedly and ran down the stairs, followed by Mrs. Goodweather, and a somewhat bashful Brisco. Shakespeare watched his dear mistress run to Celeste who opened her arms to embrace the child. The white rat hugged himself with his small white paws as he watched their reunion, knowing he was observing the special understanding that happens sometimes between strangers, who have met only once before but instantly recognize a friend.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THERE ARE MEN IN THIS MEADOW RIGHT NOW!” A hair-raising chorus of outraged growls and roars, barks and shrieks greeted this statement, and all eyes in the meadow turned on the Artist and Lord Winchfillin. The animals closest to them drew back, snarling fearfully.
Lord Winchfillin pressed as closely as he could against the Artist’s coat. Greybelle and Raja stamped their hooves defensively, prepared to defend their friends if necessary. One bear reached out his muzzle to sniff at Raja’s flank, and the old gelding screamed in fear and kicked out, making the bear roar, and frightening more rabbits who veered crazily off into bushes at the sound.
Silas looked at them directly over the heads of the animals. “I have noticed these men,” he said calmly.
“Do not threaten them, do not harm them,” he entreated the animals who still would not stand any closer to the men, and who bared their teeth at them. “Not all men are evil. Am I not a man, after all?”
The animals could not argue with this and muttered amongst themselves.
“Let us allay our suspicions for the moment and see why they are here. Perhaps they are known to someone and can be vouched for. Is anyone here to vouch for these men?” Silas called out to the meadow.
A small but strong voice called out, “I will vouch for them!”
“And what is your name, pray tell?” Silas asked.
“Whitestone, sir!” answered the squirrel, coming forward.
“Good to know you, brother Whitestone,” said Silas. “And tell us, how do you know these men?”
Before Whitestone could answer, another deeper voice said, “I sent them.”
The flat black-and-white head of the Badger emerged from the grasses.
“Greetings, Badger,” Silas said. “It is good to see you again. These men are known to you?”
“They are known, though not by me,” said the Badger.
“How are they known?” asked Silas.
“They are friends of a child who is with a woman known to me,” explained the Badger. “The child is also known, but from a different place. She only became known to me when her pet rat—”
“Pet rat?” interrupted Silas, surprised. “That is unusual.” “Yes, it is,” agreed the Badger. “And he used the call to get help for her.”
“Her pet rat used the call?” said Silas, leaning forward. “That is most unusual.”
“Nevertheless, I felt that I had to answer it,” said the Badger. “Quite right,” said Silas. “That is what the call is for.”
He looked up at the crowd in front of him. “Will the men please step forward.”
The animals in the meadow parted, creating a clear path to the boulder where Silas stood. The men and horses filed uneasily down this path, trying not to look at the ranks of unfriendly faces. Silas might be protecting them for the moment, but they did not know how long his protection would last. At any moment the animals might decide they didn’t care to follow an old man’s instructions and would rather these intruders be ripped to pieces and gobbled up. Raja pranced along in a cold sweat.
When at last they reached the boulder where Silas stood, the Artist removed his hat and held it respectfully in his hands. Lord Winchfillin didn’t have a hat, but he bowed his head and stammered out a courteous, though quavering, “How do you do.”
The animals around them laughed loudly and called out taunting remarks. A rabbit blew a raspberry and a young vole threw a pebble, which hit Lord Winchfillin on the shin. Raja whinnied shrilly when a jeering elk shoved him in the rump with his antlers.
“Greetings, my fellow men,” said Silas. His words were welcoming, but his tone was not overly friendly. The old man’s eyes were very steady on them; he exuded quiet strength, and it seemed to Lord Winchfillin that he could read every thought in their heads.
His simple clothes of soft, stained buckskin and his weathered hands, bare feet, and long gray beard all spoke of a life lived under the open sky. His attire may have been unremarkable, but there was nothing unremarkable about the power of Silas’s gaze. His clear blue eyes beamed down on them from the rock, and it seemed to the three men that an electrical current flowed out of him, through his hands to the air and through his bare feet that gripped the rock as sure as any mountain goat. His eyes glittered, not with the warmth of a friendly candle flame, but with a cool, detached white light, much like the stars.
“You are welcome here, if you have come to help us,” Silas said to the men.
“We would like to help you, Mr. Stargazer,” the Artist replied earnestly.
“Did you come here with the express purpose of helping the animals stop this evil that has come to the land?” asked Silas, his blue eyes more piercing than ever. “Or did you have another reason? I know the hearts and minds of men, and there is always another reason.”
Lord Winchfillin quailed under the gaze of those eyes, their hold like a truth serum, erasing all thoughts of dissemination. It would be impossible to even get the words out, he thought, if one did try to lie.
Luckily the Artist had no intention of lying, and he answered honestly. “No, sir. We didn’t know what the meeting was about in particular, but we were led to believe that if we came and offered our services to you, you in turn might be able to help us.”
“Help you?” said Silas. His eyes opened wide with surprise. “You have come here, to this gathering of wild animals, on the side of the great mountain Wy’east, to see what we can do for you?”
The animals screamed at this arrogance, and some begged to dispatch these brazen intruders at once, as an example to all others. Every beast in the meadow and both men waited breathlessly for what might come next.
Silas looked at them incredulously, his lips slightly parted as though he were about to say the word to let the animals swarm forward to overtake the men, and then he just . . . laughed. The old man threw back his head and laughed a deep, rolling laugh that started in his belly and came up through his nose. He fell forward and slapped his knees and laughed harder. The Art
ist and his friends all smiled nervously and chuckled along, hoping that this was a good sign, and all would yet turn out well.
The animals in the meadow were confused and angry, and some still growled menacingly. They found nothing funny about this at all, and they were not surprised by the selfish intentions of the humans. It was to be expected, they whispered to each other, they were men. They always thought only of themselves.
Silas finally stopped laughing and looked at the Artist with genuine curiosity.
“My dear man, that either takes great courage or great stupidity. And something tells me it is most likely the former. You don’t look like a stupid man. Tell me, why should we help you?”
“Because she is a human who cares about all of you, as much as her own kind,” said the Artist.
The animals in the meadow fell silent.
The Artist hurried on. “And, she loves the forest like it was her own home. Believe me, Mr. Stargazer sir, Chloe is worth a hundred humans, and she is worth every effort we can make to find her.”
Silas was watching the Artist’s face. He said, “And you’ll go to these lengths to help her . . . amazing.”
The Artist said softly, “Yes, sir. I mean to do everything I can. If that means riding miles out of my way and climbing a mountain, and even putting myself in the path of wild animals to try to win their trust to do it, then that is what I simply must do.”
“Your devotion is touching, my friend,” said Silas in a warmer tone than before. “And you are correct—it is indeed that kind of person that we need on our side.”
The animals grumbled, some still upset that men were present at their meeting at all, known or not. Others looked skeptical that humans could help their cause, others as though perhaps they could be convinced, and a few others agreed the men might be useful. All the animals trusted Silas the Stargazer, and they would respect his decision about the men, however strange it felt to do so. They knew he had their best interests at heart, and that he was powerful. And no one could deny that humans—even stargazers—were the best weapons against their own kind.
Silas turned back to the meadow, and said so that all could hear, “Tonight, after sundown I am calling a special council. I will meet with the animal leaders and these men and decide what to do. I advise you all to stay close, until we have come to our decision. We will all meet again here, tonight. That is all for now, my friends. Take your rest now, and we will speak again soon.”
Silas turned and, in a surprisingly agile, fluid motion, jumped down from the rock. He motioned to the men to join him and walked behind the tumble of boulders to a smaller, grassy area. The Artist and his friends followed, and sat on a fallen log with Greybelle and Raja alongside them.
Silas picked up his walking staff where he had left it against the rocks. “I must go gather my thoughts. You can wait here until the council. Don’t worry—you will be quite safe.” He directed this last at Lord Winchfillin, who looked distressed at the old man’s departure.
“Thank you, sir,” said the Artist. “We will wait here.”
Silas nodded and, just as silently as he had arrived, disappeared into the trees.
Alone behind the boulders the friends settled down to wait. The Artist patted Greybelle’s neck and said, “I wonder where Chloe is right now.”
Lord Winchfillin had no answer to that question. The Artist went on, “It keeps me awake at night. I worry she was picked up by the ambulance back there on the road, but I also know that she had little Shakespeare with her, and that rat is more resourceful than you or I know, I suspect. If we could only get going, I don’t like waiting another day.” He scuffed his boot in the dust.
“Don’t worry too much, Artist,” Greybelle tried to comfort him. “We are among the most powerful friends we could hope for. After tonight’s meeting I’m certain that Silas will allow us to travel to Fairfax, and indeed I’m almost sure he won’t send us alone. We came to find help and I think we’ll get it.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the Artist.
The day wore on into late afternoon. The Artist made a foray into the forest to hunt for blackberries. He brought back a hatful and they feasted on berries and some of the bread he had left in his pockets, which had some fuzzy lint stuck to it, but was still delicious.
At last it was dusk. The shadows lengthened over the meadow as the sun descended behind the mountain. A lone wolf climbed to the top of the rocks and raised his muzzle to the sky. A thin, wavering howl rose over the meadow and was carried away on the evening air. It was a mournful, yearning sound full of the hardships and the joys of a life in the wild. Every animal that heard it knew its story well, for it was their own. When the last note of the wolf’s howl died away, it was time for the council.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHLOE AND CELESTE WERE EACH A BIT TEARY at the end of their embrace, and both tried to talk at the same time. Laughing, they tried again, until Chloe gave up and told Celeste to speak first, and to tell them how she came to be here, and where was Avery, her brother?
Mrs. Goodweather interjected, inviting them all back up to the tree house where she would make a pot of tea, and everyone could tell their story in comfort.
Celeste climbed the stairs to the little porch of the tree house and stood for a moment marveling. She exclaimed over everything—from the carefully shaped shingles on the roof, to the delicate wooden scrollwork around the eaves and sparkling stained-glass windows, to the tiny kitchen, dining table and chairs, and the three cozy beds. She concluded that it was the most beautiful little house she had ever seen.
Brisco’s face turned beet red at the compliment, and for an alarming moment Chloe thought he actually might burst with pride.
Mrs. Goodweather, by way of introduction, declared that it was all the work of their dear Brisco Knot, that he really was the cleverest man in all the world, and that he could make anything out of anything, in no time flat.
Celeste turned to the carpenter, saying in her gentle voice, “You are a very talented artist, Mr. Knot.”
“Please, call me Brisco, ma’am,” Brisco said shyly, twisting his cap in his hands.
“Brisco, then,” said Celeste, smiling sweetly. “And you must call me Celeste.”
Brisco said, his face still red, “All right . . . Celeste.”
The kettle began to sing, breaking the spell, and everyone laughed and sat down for tea. Mrs. Goodweather filled their cups with the fragrant brew, and placed a plate of orange and current scones on the table. As everyone sat eating and drinking, and dunking their scones in their tea, Celeste began her tale of how she and Avery had come to Fairfax.
She began at the place she had met Chloe, at the Cobbly Fair. She told how after they had been run off by that awful man holding Chloe prisoner, she and Avery had gone straight to the police. She told of how they had returned to the Cobbly Fair, only to find the nefarious Quick Sell booth had disappeared. She described their return to Tillamook Town and how they had found out from the police there that there was an “Eleanor Ashton” at the hospital in Fairfax. Remembering that was the girl’s last name, she and her brother Avery had decided to go immediately to Fairfax to make inquiries about Chloe.
“Eleanor Ashton—that’s my mother!” burst out Chloe, unable to contain herself.
“Yes, my dear it was.”
“You saw her? You saw my mother?!” Chloe clutched Celeste’s arm.
“Yes, my dear, we saw her, but she was just like all of the other patients inside the hospital—unconscious.”
“But she is alive! My mother is alive!” Chloe burst into tears. Celeste put her arms around the child and hugged her.
Then Celeste went on to tell the sad story of how Avery had fallen ill at the hospital and had been taken inside, not to be seen again.
When Celeste had finished her account, Chloe began her own. She told the woman how she had been sold by Mr. Malick to a hotel in Tillamook Town, and how her Uncle Blake had taken her there. She told about how she was su
pposed to begin work as a maid and servant at the hotel, but had been won in a poker game by the Artist, who had also won her uncle’s horse Greybelle.
Chloe took a deep breath, drank some tea, and went on. She told about how the artist took her and Greybelle to Lord Winchfillin’s house, about the birthday party and the ambulance attack, how they had fled on the horses into the forest and how she had fallen off and accidentally been left behind. Chloe told of how Shakespeare had saved her life by finding help, which turned out to be Mrs. Goodweather. Then she told of their meeting with Brisco at the cabin and their subsequent journey to Fairfax.
It was a fantastic tale that took some time to complete. So engrossed were they in each other’s stories that they didn’t notice at first a sound coming from the window. The sound became louder and a repetitive crack, crack, crack came from the glass, making them all turn in alarm.
A large crow peered in through the window, turning his bright eyes from side to side to see the people within. He pecked at the glass with his sharp beak. Crack! Crack!
“What in the world . . .” said Celeste.
“Why would it . . .” said Chloe.
“For heaven’s sake! Let the poor bird in!” cried Mrs. Goodweather, jumping to her feet and rushing over to the window to open it herself.
Blackberry hopped in, landing awkwardly on the edge of the sink. He squawked at Shakespeare, who glared back suspiciously at the stranger. Then Blackberry saw Brisco Knot. The crow stopped shuffling and cawed softly at the man. Chloe could swear she saw a smile on the crow’s face, and her mind raced back to that gull on the cliffs near home, so long ago . . .
Blackberry flapped across the short space to land on Brisco’s lap. Brisco chuckled and stroked the crow’s glossy black feathers affectionately. Blackberry’s eyes closed, savoring the man’s caress. For a moment the young crow forgot his mission entirely and went into a blissful trance on the carpenter’s knee.
Everyone else sat dumbfounded, except for Mrs. Good-weather, who knew all about Brisco’s special love for crows, and theirs for him, but finally she couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Well, aren’t you going to tell us why you’re here?” the woman asked.
