Return of the Evening Star

by Diane Rios

  A giant mudslide had ravaged the side of the mountain. To their right, where they had come from, nothing was left except rivers of fallen trees, wet earth, and tumbled boulders. Even as they looked at the wide swath of destruction, more earth moved past them, cascading to the river below. A huge boulder crashed down, and another. The man and the horses watched the boulders fall.

  But what was that? There was movement—something was alive among the rocks down there. What was it? The horses strained their eyes to see.

  It was bears. A group of black bears were there, moving about among the tumbled rocks. The horses did not understand what they could be doing. They were not running from the falling boulders; they did not even seem surprised that the mountain was shaking, and the earth falling. The bears seemed to be taking positions along the river. And then Greybelle and Raja could not believe their eyes.

  As the boulders fell, the bears rushed forward to meet them. They placed their huge shoulders against the rocks and rolled them. Together in teams of two and three, the bears worked to move the boulders together. They pushed and rolled the huge rocks on top of each other, and then the horses understood—the bears were building.

  The bears were building a bridge.

  Finally, the mountain began to calm itself. The earth gradually settled, shifting and groaning, and all the trees stopped their violent swaying. The boulders stopped falling, and after a few moments the mountainside and ravine were quiet once more.

  Silas smiled. “We’re still here!” he said cheerfully, dusting himself off. “I told you Wy’east would keep us safe.”

  Below them the scene was utterly transformed. The rocks had fallen into great piles along the river, and the bears were hard at work. As the little group watched, they organized into a highly efficient team and soon had the feet of the bridge repaired. All the materials they would need the mountain had given them, and the great bears were finishing the job.

  “Is it the Bridge of the Gods?” Greybelle asked Silas breathlessly.

  “It will be, once again,” said Silas, emotion in his throat as he watched the great bears do their work. “A new version of it, anyway.”

  The stone bridge was rough but solid, the boulders piled higher and higher, until the final layer of rocks were rolled into place, their tops fitted smoothly together. It was a monumental bridge, the work of the mountain, the Stargazer, and the bears of the north. The Bridge of the Gods hadn’t been crossed in three hundred years, and as the little group watched, the first bears began to cross it.

  “Come, my dears,” said Silas to the horses. “We must go and meet them.”

  When they reached the south end, Silas halted. The group of bears crossing halted too, and observed him. One bear broke away from the group and came down the rest of the way, to meet Silas at the edge.

  This bear was even larger than King Auberon. He bent his huge head down and growled softly at the old man in greeting. “Stargazer.”

  “I am honored,” said Silas humbly, bowing his head in greeting.

  “I am Arthur,” said the bear. “And it is I who is honored. I know it was you who spoke to the mountain.”

  “And it was you and your people that rebuilt the bridge,” said Silas gratefully.

  “We did our part,” answered Arthur. “But we needed the mountain.” The great bear shifted from foot to foot. “I have family in the south, that I want to see.”

  “I know them well.” Silas smiled. “King Auberon is a great friend of mine. In fact, that is why we are here, Arthur. Your brothers need your help. Even now, Auberon and his family are waiting for word to go to war. And, I’m afraid that it is war they won’t win, in the end, without your help. It is why I am here.”

  “What can we do, Stargazer?” asked Arthur.

  “Gather what animals you can, and come with us,” said Silas. “Spread the word that the bridge is open and get as many northern creatures to cross it as you can.”

  “Can you send word to my family?” asked Greybelle, gathering her courage to speak directly to the huge bear.

  “Where is your family?” asked Arthur.

  “They live in the Valley of Bree,” answered Greybelle. “Can we go there, Silas?”

  “It is too far for us to go and get back in time to Chloe,” Silas said to the mare. “But we will send messengers.”

  Silas cupped his hands around his mouth and made a clear, low whistle. He repeated the call, and in a few moments several large mountain ravens flew up to land in the trees overhead.

  “My friends!” called Silas to the ravens. “Now you will do your part! I and my friends have done what we could, the bears have rebuilt the great Bridge of the Gods, and our friend Wy’east has done his job masterfully. Now it is your turn! Fly! Fly to the north! Spread the word that the Bridge of the Gods has been repaired! Now is the time to come down from the hills and take back the land! Tell all who will listen to come to Fairfax! Tell them we have an army, an army of animals! Rally them to our cause, my dear ravens! In the name of King Cornix and Queen Fay, in the name of all the old ways and, in the name of the north, fly! Fly!”

  The black rooks screeched and rose into the air. Wheeling overhead, they flew off across the river, over the great bridge of stone, and into the shadowed purpled lands to the north, cawing out the news as they flew. The little group watched the crows disappear, and then Silas knelt where he stood, and placed his hand on the ground.

  “Thank you, my friend,” he said to the mountain.

  Then the old man got to his feet and turned to the horses. “Now we must travel back to our friends, as fast as we can.”

  Silas climbed aboard Greybelle’s back. He bade goodbye for the time being to Arthur, who promised to follow with his people. The mare understood they had no time to waste, and moved off at a brisk trot, with Raja following. Silas the Stargazer, and the two horses traveled swiftly westward, to Fairfax.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE MORNING OF THE GALA DAWNED BRIGHT and clear. Chloe had gone to bed the night before certain she would never sleep, but the next thing she knew Mrs. Goodweather was rattling the teapot.

  Now Chloe sat at the little tree house table in front of a large stack of pancakes Mrs. Goodweather had just placed in front of her, but she wasn’t hungry. Nerves sat in the pit of her stomach like rocks. Tonight is the night. Tonight is the night.

  Mrs. Goodweather read the girl’s thoughts and reached across the table to gently squeeze her arm.

  “There, there child. Don’t fret. It will be all right. The worst they can do is discover us, and throw us out, eh? And they might not even do that. Cheer up, now, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Chloe smiled back at the older woman gratefully, though she wasn’t entirely convinced. If they were discovered, well . . . the hospital might very well do more than just throw them out.

  It was early, and there wasn’t much to do but wait. The Artist and Brisco had left the tree house before dawn to scout around the hospital. The pies were cooled and packed neatly in the basket Mrs. Goodweather would carry down to the hospital that evening. The two uniforms hung neatly on pegs by the door. Thanks to Mrs. Goodweather’s sewing skills, the fit of each was now perfect. The black dresses, white aprons, and caps were fresh and crisp, and looked professional.

  “I can’t wait for Brisco and the Artist to come back.” Chloe sighed.

  Lord Winchfillin was still in bed. He had stayed up too late the night before, and now he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  “Is there coffee?” he croaked. “Good morning!” Chloe said brightly.

  Mrs. Goodweather chuckled. “There’s a fresh pot ready for you. I’ll get you a cup.”

  Lord Winchfillin sat up carefully, arranging his bedraggled lace and smoothing his hair, and when Mrs. Goodweather came over, accepted the proffered mug gratefully. Chloe came over to sit by his bed.

  “Did you really meet bears?” she asked, curiously.

  “Oh yes, I certainly did,” answered Lord
Winchfillin. “And I hope I never meet another one! However, the way things are going, I fear that may be unavoidable.” He took another sip.

  Chloe said excitedly, “I think they are so majestic, don’t you?”

  “It isn’t the first word that springs to mind actually, no,” answered Lord Winchfillin dryly.

  Shakespeare jumped onto the bed next to the earl, frightening him and causing him to spill his coffee.

  “My goodness!” Lord Winchfillin gasped. “A rat!”

  “That’s only Shakespeare,” said Chloe hurriedly, blotting at the spilled coffee with a napkin. “He’s my best friend!”

  “Is he?” said Lord Winchfillin tentatively, straightening slowly back against his pillow.

  “Oh yes,” said Chloe, scratching the rat gently on the head. Shakespeare closed his eyes in pleasure.

  “You see?” she said, continuing to scratch. “Once he decides he likes you, he’ll do anything for you. He’s extremely loyal.”

  “Well, well,” said Lord Winchfillin nervously, reaching out to the rat. When it caused him no harm, the earl took courage and carefully scratched behind Shakespeare’s ears, just as Chloe had done. Shakespeare surprised them both by hopping onto the little lord’s lap and settling in for a good ear rub. Lord Winchfillin obliged him, only a little nervously.

  The sound of feet on the ladder outside announced the return of the two men. Brisco and the Artist trooped in, greeted the others, and sat down at the little table. Mrs. Goodweather placed another platter of pancakes on the table. The little tree house smelled deliciously of maple syrup and firewood, coffee, and a hint of the sea that the new arrivals brought in with them.

  Mrs. Goodweather hung her apron on the back of a chair and sat down. “Now, just to make sure we all know what we’re doing, let’s go over it one more time?” she said, looking around the table, and they all agreed.

  The Artist began. “Brisco and I go up the hill and find the animals that Silas sent from the mountain—Brisco says he knows where they are.”

  He looked at the carpenter, who nodded back. “The crows will lead us.”

  “And, once we find the animals, we wait for your signal,” the Artist concluded.

  Mrs. Goodweather picked up the thread. “Right. Meanwhile, Chloe and I will get into our disguises, and take the pies down to the back door. Hopefully, we can blend in with the other workers, and find our way to the dining room. Then we will serve the pies. That’s when we’ll send the signal.”

  “That’s when I will send it, you mean!” said Lord Winchfillin, seeming delighted to stay in the tree house to play his part. “You will wave the white tea towel, and I will send the crow to Brisco and the Artist!”

  “That’s it,” said Brisco.

  “And then we bring the animals down,” said the Artist.

  “Yes, you bring the animals,” said Mrs. Goodweather.

  “Will we be able to control them?” asked Lord Winchfillin.

  “No, of course not,” said Brisco. “That is the whole point. They won’t be controlled, but don’t worry—we will be safe. Animals for the most part are far more loyal than humans. They know we are on their side. We have nothing to fear from them.”

  Lord Winchfillin looked skeptical but said nothing.

  Chloe said softly, knowing it made all the difference in the world, “We are known.”

  They all looked at each other silently. That was the plan, and beyond that, there was no planning. Nobody could know what would happen after that.

  “Keep in mind, Silas ought to be arriving any time now,” said the Artist. “I don’t think we should think too far ahead or worry too much . . . yet.”

  “The worst part is waiting,” said Chloe, feeling the butterflies in her stomach.

  “Agreed,” said the Artist, wiping the last of the pancake crumbs from his beard with a large handkerchief. “In fact, I think it’s time for us to get moving?” He looked at Brisco. “Don’t you?”

  Brisco nodded and rose from the table. “Yes, it’s time we got up the hill and found out what’s going on up there, if there are any messages yet from Silas. But don’t worry, we will be ready when the signal comes. And you can send a crow with any messages, any time. But we do need to get going.”

  The two men put on their coats again. Chloe jumped up and hugged the Artist tightly. “Be careful, dear Artist!” she said.

  “Of course, dear child,” said the Artist, hugging her back. “And you do the same.” He added, “I would worry more if you weren’t in the best possible hands. Mrs. Goodweather will look out for you. And you for her, I’m sure!”

  “I’ll see you soon,” promised Chloe. “And just think, we’ll see Greybelle again soon, too!”

  The Artist shook Mrs. Goodweather’s hand, slung a bag of provisions over his shoulder, and went out the tree house door. Chloe and Mrs. Goodweather went out on the porch to watch them go.

  Outside, Brisco looked up to the sky and whistled. A crow appeared and landed on the carpenter’s arm. Brisco said something to the crow, and it squawked before rising into the air, and flying off toward the north. The carpenter doffed his cap in farewell, and the Artist waved, then they turned to follow the crow.

  FOR THOSE AT THE TREE HOUSE, THE DAY WORE ON tediously. Waiting to do something difficult can be more difficult than doing the task itself. Those left behind busied themselves with jobs they had already done. Mrs. Goodweather checked every stitch on the uniforms and packed and repacked the pies in her basket. Chloe watched the back of the hospital and called out the arrival of every new van or wagon with gala supplies.

  Lord Winchfillin spent the morning snacking on cold pancakes and sharing them with Shakespeare, who had taken a liking to the little lord. After they’d eaten all the pancakes, the earl and the rat went for a stroll around the base of the tree house together, Lord Winchfillin stopping here and there to point out different flowers he knew to Shakespeare, who rode companionably on his shoulder. It was almost like old times when the rat used to ride in Chloe’s pocket through the gardens of Ashton House.

  Finally, the long afternoon came to an end, and shadows fell across the ground. Chloe, Mrs. Goodweather, and Lord Winchfillin sat on the tree house porch and watched with growing nerves as a long line of wagons arrived at the back of the hospital to begin unloading party supplies. A host of delivery men began bringing in food, and people moved freely in and out of the big back doors.

  It was time to get dressed. Chloe and Mrs. Goodweather went into the tree house to put on the uniforms. Though their hands shook, they zipped each other up and stood back to admire the effect. Mrs. Goodweather picked up the basket full of pies and draped a fresh white towel over the top.

  “Well! If we don’t look like we belong there, I don’t know chamomile from a chameleon.” She nodded at Chloe in satisfaction, and they went back out on the porch.

  Below, the hospital was also transformed. Lit by a hundred candles twinkling from the windows and lining the drive, it looked like a different place entirely. No ambulances were in sight now, being hidden away for the occasion. Earlier that day the hospital staff had hastily erected a wooden barrier that shunted the people waiting in line aside, hiding them from view. It would not do to have the disheveled bunch visible to the arriving dignitaries—nothing could disrupt the magnificent events of the evening—so the hospital hammered the wooden wall into place and covered it in festive bunting. A brass band was placed at the doors to cover any noise the crowd might make. Now, just before the gala was to begin, the hospital looked magnificent, dressed for a party, and not at all the place of horrors it had been only hours before.

  Wagons were still arriving at the back doors as Chloe and Mrs. Goodweather prepared to descend. A cart of black-coated musicians arrived, and they climbed out with their instruments, and went up the steps into the hospital. Another cart with a stout chef and three sous-chefs pulled up, the first chef shouting at the others in French.

  Chloe watched all this with her heart
in her throat, thinking What if I ruin this somehow? What if I let everyone down? She couldn’t bear that. She took a breath and gathered her courage. The plan must succeed, but it wouldn’t succeed if they didn’t get started.

  Mrs. Goodweather gently touched Chloe’s elbow. “It’s time to go down, dear.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE ARTIST SAT ON A FALLEN TREE HIGH ON the hillside. His legs dangled over the massive root system that rose like a wall from the forest floor.

  He shifted his seat, trying to get comfortable. It had been a very long day. Tired of waiting, he and Brisco were in the middle of a checkers game. The board was scratched into a piece of bark and the checkers themselves were rocks and pinecones. Brisco cackled triumphantly as he jumped three of the Artist’s pinecones and took them.

  The Artist complained, “That only happened because I’m distracted.”

  “But it happened,” answered Brisco, grinning.

  After the two men had left the tree house that morning, they had followed the crow, and had no trouble finding the clearing on the hill where the animals were gathering. It wasn’t that far of a hike, and they began to see signs before they reached the clearing.

  As they approached, they were surprised by the sight of a large white deer stepping out of the trees to greet them. It was

  Afra, come to escort them to the clearing. She could not speak to the men, but they remembered the white deer from the animal council, and after a wordless greeting, followed her to the meadow.

  Waiting there was a gathering that looked very much like the meeting on the mountain. Wolves, bears, foxes, herds of deer and elk, several mountain lions, a handful of lynx, and hundreds of smaller animals waited uneasily in the clearing. Flocks of crows, jays, robins, starlings, and finches perched in the trees, nervously rustling their wings and shifting about for space. Several dozen hummingbirds buzzed their wings anxiously, annoying the others by asking repeatedly where they should go.