by Diane Rios
Mrs. Goodweather hurried away from the silver pantry. She had to go to Chloe, but she didn’t want to go alone. They would need more help than one old woman could provide, and that meant going back to the dining room to find Brisco and the Artist.
The dining hall was still a war zone, and it was still unclear who was winning. There were casualties on both sides. All around the vast room, men and animal alike lay in piles, dead and wounded. Many had been felled by flying medical instruments used as weapons or knocked to the ground by the big silver canisters. The fire had spread upstairs, and was so hot that windows were shattering, and the crashes could be heard coming from the rooms above. All the while, the alarm sounded on and on, calling nobody, and only added to the mayhem. Screams of animals and of men rose over the siren, and the floors were slippery with a mixture of water, wine, and blood.
A flash of something white caught her attention, and Mrs. Goodweather saw Afra, the great doe, fighting off half a dozen ambulance drivers who threatened her with canisters and clubs pulled from their waistbands. Afra flashed out her sharp hooves fiercely, catching the drivers’ coats and ripping them to shreds, sometimes catching the flesh underneath it, as was evidenced by the red stains that appeared.
King Rei appeared at Afra’s side, easily tossing a driver into the air with his sharp antlers. Mrs. Goodweather crouched down, hoping desperately to catch a glimpse of her friends. She had no time to waste! Chloe needed them now!
From her place behind the pillar, Mrs. Goodweather saw a curious medical unit made up of field mice, shrews, rabbits, and squirrels who ran out to the injured, and did their best to drag them to safety. The small animals pushed and pulled and dragged whatever animal they could to the relative safety of the wall, where they administered first aid. The animals too large to move remained where they were, while the bravest of the small ones stayed with them and provided what care that they could.
Mrs. Goodweather couldn’t see the Artist or Brisco anywhere through the smoke and chaos. A huge crash over her head made her scream and duck, and she was showered with silverware and utensils from a cart hurled by a bear. Mrs. Goodweather thought in a panic they might be losing the battle. They needed help. Where was the Artist? Where was Brisco? And where was Silas?
A wolf howled in pain, and Mrs. Goodweather saw that it was held down by two drivers, who were preparing to place a mask over its face. As she watched fearfully, a small, furry form flew out to the wolf, followed by others. It was Remington and a band of his rabbits. The old hare screamed a rabbit’s battle cry and led his group toward the drivers, surging between their legs, tripping them, scratching them, and biting them wherever they could. With his teeth, Remington himself grabbed hold of the leg of the driver holding the mask and held fast. The driver screamed in pain and jumped around, but the old rabbit prince held on.
The room was becoming more and more choked with smoke and flame. It was difficult to see anything clearly, but Mrs. Goodweather finally spotted the Artist. He was on the staircase leading to the landing where the orchestra had been, and he was fighting off several drivers. For such a peaceful man, the Artist was a very good fighter. Despite his gray hair, he was strong—his outdoor lifestyle had toughened him—and he easily fought off the men below him on the stairs. It didn’t even look like he was breathing hard as he handily swung a broomstick, dislodging two of the drivers and sending them tumbling down the stairs.
The third driver was a good fighter too, however, and he pushed back hard against the Artist, forcing him to retreat backward up the stairs, until he had reached the landing, long since abandoned by the musicians, and had nowhere else to go.
Mrs. Goodweather saw two more drivers climb the stairs. It would only be a few minutes before the Artist would be overcome. Desperately, the Artist threw chairs at the advancing drivers, but was forced backward until suddenly he was pushed up against an abandoned cello, which made an unexpectedly loud squawk!
“Now is not the time to play a tune!” called a jolly voice from nearby.
Brisco Knot stood only twenty feet away on another landing facing the Artist. He held a cable that hung from the ceiling. As they all watched transfixed, the carpenter leapt into the air. The cable caught him and swung him gracefully over the distance to the Artist’s landing, where he dropped nimbly beside him.
“But you never could resist a good song!” Brisco laughed.
The Artist laughed with him. The two men faced the drivers with nothing but their fists to defend themselves.
“You take that one, I’ll take this one!” called the Artist to Brisco, and he darted to the side, confusing his driver and getting a good solid punch to the man’s jaw. Brisco did the same thing and his driver fell stunned to the ground. The other drivers moved in, several carrying knives picked up from the dining tables.
Caw! Caw! Caw!
A cloud of screaming crows flew through a broken window, and descended on the men fighting on the landing. They had seen their beloved Brisco in trouble. The crows fought viciously, pecking the drivers with their long, pointed beaks, beating them in the faces with their powerful wings, and ripping their clothes and skin with their sharp talons. The drivers stood no chance at all against this flying foe. They fell to the ground with their hands over the heads as the birds descended on them in a black, flapping heap.
The Artist and Brisco ran back down the stairs to where Mrs. Goodweather was crouched behind the pillar. Breathlessly the three friends took cover behind an overturned table against the wall and held a quick conference.
“Where is Chloe?” gasped the Artist.
“She is looking for her mother!” answered Mrs. Good-weather. “I must go help her! Can you come with me?”
JUST AS MRS. GOODWEATHER AND THE ARTIST WERE about to leave the dining room, a great cry was heard—a surprisingly loud cry, as if from a hundred throats—coming from just outside the hall. It was a swelling sound made of many voices, but not the voices of animals. It was a different sound, familiar, but strange. And so powerful! All those that fought inside the hospital heard the sound reverberating through the walls and the broken windows. What could it be?
It was the townspeople from Fairfax. They were breaking into the hospital. Sick and tired of being shunted outside, waiting for days in the line, hidden behind the wooden barrier, they had decided to finally take action. When the first screams could be heard, and the sound of breaking glass, the people had all looked at each other in fear. What could be happening inside? Then, when flames appeared in the windows, the line finally broke, and the people surged in one great mass to the doors, broke them open, and poured into the hospital.
Panicked by the sight of the flames, fearing that their loved ones would surely be killed by the conflagration, the throng of angry, frightened citizens shoved their way through the waiting room, picked up the front desk, and threw it aside. The stony-faced nurse had long since left her post, and there was no one to stop the crowd, so it continued its headlong flight through the double doors and into the hallways of the hospital.
The people ran swiftly through the hushed, white tiled hallways, looking through the doors and small windows for their loved ones, looking for anyone. But the rooms and halls were empty. The crowd continued its race through the corridors until it reached the east wing of the hospital, and the dining room, where it joined the already furious fight in progress.
It was hard to tell who was fighting for whom. It was no longer man against animal, now it was also man against man. Fishermen struggled with drivers, some of the women of the town stood throwing dishes, cups, champagne bottles—anything they could find—at the doctors. Some of the townspeople were so shocked at the sight of the animals they could not fight at all, but stood stock-still in horror, making them easy targets for the gas masks. It was still anyone’s fight, and as the throng poured into the smoke-filled room, the Artist and the others fought and pushed their way out.
Down the stairs they ran, pausing only to gulp the fresh air that
came in through the open back doors. Outside a great struggle was going on as several ambulances were trying their best to get away and a great wall of bears was preventing them. King Auberon had his great shaggy arms wrapped around the front of one ambulance, and both drivers were hanging out the front windows screaming as he lifted the entire front end of the car above his head and squeezed it, crumpling it as if it were a toy. The other bears were rocking the other ambulances back and forth, back and forth, until they flipped them completely over on their sides.
Mrs. Goodweather filled her lungs with the blessed fresh air and turned to go back inside, to find Chloe. She was halted by a tug on her arm, and she looked at the Artist who was now pointing up, toward the hill.
Squinting her eyes to peer through the smoke, past the bears and the ambulance drivers, Mrs. Goodweather saw something. Something was coming.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE HILL OVER THE HOSPITAL WAS DARK, THE pines silhouetted against the midnight-blue sky. Something was moving down the hill, but it was impossible to see what it was. Mrs. Goodweather anxiously scanned the blackness.
There. There over the trees, a silver glow.
A growing white light danced from beneath the dark trees, lighting up the forest as it approached the hospital. The brush beneath the trees began to shake and a rolling vibration made the ground tremble. Breathless, Mrs. Goodweather clutched the doorway for support. What in the world . . .
BESIDE HER THE ARTIST AND BRISCO WATCHED IN fascination. The forest was illuminated, and a rush of wind came blowing down the hillside, making all the tree limbs dance, and sending the last autumn leaves swirling in clouds down to the hospital where they fell thickly around the back doors.
Silver forms appeared in the light under the trees, and as the friends watched from the door, the forms became horses.
Horses! Silver horses! Iridescent in the light of the moon, a vast herd of shining horses galloped down the hill. Long manes and tails flowed together like quicksilver, making them seem like liquid pouring down on the burning hospital.
“FOR THE NORTH!” A familiar voice made the men’s eyes light up, and the Artist cheered.
It was Silas! The Stargazer sat astride Greybelle, who ran at the head of the herd. The mare was utterly transformed from the horse who used to pull Uncle Blake’s carriage. Her head was high, her ears laced back, and her brilliant eyes wild as she led the great herd of silver horses to the door. Silas’s white hair was unbraided and swirled about him like the horses’ silver manes. He rode the mare without bridle or saddle and seemed a very part of her as they raced down the hill and across the drive, skidding to a halt in front of the open back doors.
“At last!” cried the three friends at the sight of the old man and the silver mare.
“We came as soon as we could!” called out Silas from Greybelle’s back.
Greybelle wheeled in an excited circle, pirouetting on her hind legs. She whinnied joyfully at the sight of her friends and looked around anxiously for Chloe. The herd of horses from the north circled nervously, eyeing the bears who had stopped rolling the ambulances at the sight of the horses.
A final clatter on the drive announced the last arrival, who was none other than Old Raja. The old gelding hopped awkwardly down the embankment and stood on his thin, trembling legs, head held high, and his eyes bright with happiness at the sight of the Artist. He whinnied loudly, and the Artist went to him, petting his old comrade’s sweating neck.
“There, there old man,” he said to the horse. “You made it!”
“Tell us where to go!” urged Silas from Greybelle’s back.
“In there! In the dining room!” said Mrs. Goodweather pointing into the kitchen. “And take them with you!” She gestured to the bears who had gone back to happily mashing the ambulances.
Silas raised one arm as Greybelle half reared. “To arms, my friends!” he called.
The herd of silver horses answered him, their whinnies like a thrumming, melodic chord struck on strings. Greybelle reared again and Silas beckoned to the bears. “To arms! To arms! In the name of your ancestors! In the name of the north!”
Greybelle galloped up the stairs of the hospital with Silas on her back, and into the fight. Kicking and screaming, the mare fought as hard as she could, throwing drivers and doctors to the right and to the left. Behind her raced a silver wave of destruction. Driven by a hatred and distrust that ran back for centuries, the horses from the north took their vengeance on the men. They knocked them down, then bit and struck at the men with their silver hooves, cleaving their skulls and breaking their bones.
But the most chilling thing of all for the men was that the horses were talking as they wreaked havoc upon them. To the drivers’ complete and utter horror, they could hear the horses speak to them as they came down in a deadly deluge. And, like their predecessors so long ago, the men could not accept this, and so they went insane, even as they fell.
Silas rode Greybelle into the battle. His long gray hair mingled with hers, and they were a silver blur as they rode through rows of drivers and doctors, mowing them down like toys. The old man had not raised a hand in anger for a century, but he didn’t hesitate now. Sure-footed as a deer, Greybelle carried him where he was needed, and they joined the silver herd on the front line of the fight.
A NEW CRASH WAS HEARD AT THE DOORS OF THE hospital. The northern bears had arrived. After rebuilding the Bridge of the Gods, King Arthur and his people had followed the silver horses across it, and to Fairfax. Now they came down the hill to join their southern kin for the first time in three hundred years. The huge bears tore into the room like armored tanks. The ambulance drivers didn’t stand a chance against this terrifying onslaught and ran screaming from the talking horses and bears.
Slowly, brutally, the tide finally began to turn, and the wave of animals began to turn back the men. The remaining elk, King Rei among them, formed a line, their heads lowered and their antlers making a deadly wall. They advanced on one of the last groups of drivers and forced them out of the hall.
Several foxes and the only mountain lion still alive worked together to take down two more orderlies, grabbing the gas canister out of their hands and chasing them from the room.
“All for one and one for all!”
There was Lord Winchfillin, making his first appearance astride Old Raja. The earl had been detained by a bear that had taken a dislike to the little man, and had held him captive outside, holding him to the ground with one great paw. Finally, King Arthur himself had ordered the bear to free “the small friend of Silas,” and Lord Winchfillin had gotten up angrily, dusted himself off, and spied Raja, who obligingly came when called and allowed the earl to mount.
Now, finally inside and astride the old gelding, Lord Winchfillin was ready for battle. Coatless, wigless, and smeared with dirt, the little lord held a broom in one hand like a sword, and he raised it over his head as the old horse plunged forward. Raja’s eyes flashed fire as he began knocking down ambulance drivers, and Lord Winchfillin looked the picture of a battle-scarred cavalryman as he rode the old gelding masterfully, using his broom to sweep aside the enemy. Raja galloped this way and that, biting at the drivers that got in his way. The old horse reared up on his spindly legs in triumph, looking for a split second almost like a magnificent warhorse, his thin red mane whipping straight up in the air.
The animals cornered the last of the drivers and forced the rest of the men out of the room. The scene they left behind was an inferno. The roof of the hospital was almost completely engulfed in flames. One end of the dining room had been reduced to rubble, the windows shattered, and holes broken through the walls by the northern bears. Crushed and broken ambulances were strewn about where the bears had thrown them. Bodies of both men and animals lay everywhere, some still groaning. People still ran here and there, trying to find their loved ones. The medic squirrels and small creatures were kept busy treating the wounded.
The west wing of the hospital had not yet been
touched by fire, and black shadows could be seen at the windows as the people searched frantically inside. A curious green light appeared at the far side of the building, pulsing in the darkness over the ocean. And though it wasn’t visible from the front of the hospital, from the west side it was clear that a door was slowly starting to open.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHLOE HEARD THE DOOR HANDLE TURN. THE people on the other side were coming through. She had nowhere to hide, and nothing to defend herself with. She backed into one of the rolling tables, frightened of who might come through that door, and not sure what she would do when they did. Chloe almost jumped out of her skin when the door behind her flung open instead, and a crowd of angry townspeople ran into the room.
“Where are they?” screamed one woman, rushing forward and grabbing Chloe by the arms. “Where is my daughter?”
The others swarmed forward, crushing up against the front door and inadvertently preventing it from being opened. Once the crowd heard indistinct shouts from the other side of the door and realized that there were people there, they went crazy. A collective cry of rage went up, and the mob rushed forward, wrenching at the handles themselves. As the big door crashed back, it revealed a group of doctors and drivers grouped around rows of gurneys holding unconscious patients. The doctors and drivers were armed with masks and canisters.
“Get them!” screamed an ambulance driver.
The white coats raced forward to attack. The two groups clashed, and Chloe ran past them, into the west room. All around her were gurneys holding unconscious patients. Were they unconscious? Or were they dead? Chloe began to panic as she ran back and forth, looking for her mother. She saw that some patients were still alive and taking shallow breaths, but all had been made unconscious by the gas, and they lay completely inert, their faces pale. Chloe went from gurney to gurney, trying to see if one of them was her mother. She wasn’t there.
