by Rhett DeVane
“I’ve seen it before,” Jondu said in a low voice. “That owl will digest everything except for the bones and fur, then puke them back up later.” She’d found owl pellets and dissected them. Found tiny teeth, vertebrae still connected in a line, even bits of straw and sticks. Fact of mountain life. Everything had to eat.
“Yuck.”
Jondu held a finger to her lips.
“What? That’s a Pensworthy, right? They don’t eat one-spirits.”
The owl pivoted its massive head. Jondu gasped and clamped a hand over Jen’s mouth. The large avian head swung the other way. While they watched, the owl continued to hunt, repeating the swoop, drop, kill, and swallow. Five times. How much could one owl hold?
A faint call sounded in the distance, filtering through the trees. The owl swiveled its head, then lifted off again. This time, it didn’t hunt.
Jondu watched the owl until all she could see was a fine wiggling line.
“That was dumb.” Jen picked her way from the briars. Thorns tore at her jacket and pack.
Jondu joined her.
“We could’ve signaled that owl.” Jen plucked briars from her sleeves. “Gotten a ride to the base, instead of all of this exhausting duck-walking.”
“Couldn’t risk getting caught up in the feeding frenzy,” Jondu said. She secured one of the pine-branch snowshoes that had slipped askew. “With these thick jackets and packs, we might look more like a couple of fat rodents than skinny one-spirits.” She took a moment to check their position against the boulder archway. “C’mon. Let’s move. We’re burning daylight.”
Chapter Twelve
Several hours passed before Taproot stood at the edge of the landfill with Elsbeth perched on one shoulder. Other than a hawk sweeping the area from high above, nothing moved.
Elsbeth untied her scarf and used it to cover her head. A brisk breeze whisked ice-glitter from the evergreens. The dump didn’t ooze its usual noxious odor. Instead, the chilled scent of pine boughs filled the air. She removed one glove long enough to use two fingers between pursed lips for the one-spirit call. Fee—fee—feeeee!
No answer.
“If any one-spirits were here, they’d answer.” Fresh alarm clawed its way up her chest and lodged around her heart.
“Time to signal for help,” Taproot said. “Might want to protect your hearing, Princess.”
Elsbeth wiggled her chapped hand back into the glove and covered her ears.
The mountain man cupped his hands around his mouth. Wooo—hooo! Woooo-hooo-hooo-hooo!
The owl call rang out across the landfill and faint hoots echoed back. Silence again.
Wooo-hoo! Wooo-hoo-hooo-hooooo! Taproot repeated.
“Bet that scared the beejeebies from the dump rats.” Elsbeth lowered her hands. She loathed rats, with their nasty coats and hard black eyes. And those teeth! Too many times, back in New Haven City, she had cowered in back alleys infested with rat packs. Now that she was much smaller, she liked them even less. Elsbeth favored anything that would send them deep into the garbage and away from her.
“Upsetting the rats is not my goal. If there’s a Pensworthy prowling its territory, I might arouse its curiosity. They protect their hunting grounds.”
Elsbeth pondered. “I don’t get it.”
Taproot walked over to a boulder, scraped aside the crust of snow, and sat down. “We need another set of eyes, ones that can watch from above.” He took a handful of chopped hickory nuts from one pocket, offered some to Elsbeth, then popped the rest into his mouth. Frost painted the hairs around his upper lip. “Four one-spirits don’t just disappear.”
Elsbeth stuffed down the edgy feeling prickling the skin on her neck. A huge bird sailed from the evergreens, barely moving its wings. Elsbeth instinctively dove back into Taproot’s pack.
“You can come out, Princess.”
She peeked over the edge of the pack. A majestic owl—clearly a Pensworthy—perched on a low branch and settled its wings.
Taproot bowed. “Genevieve. Thank you for answering my call.”
The owl blinked, pivoted her head, and scanned the boulder field before replying, “My pleasure. Though I’m surprised to see you,” the owl focused yellow eyes on Elsbeth, “and the little one-spirit, out before the spring thaw.”
Taproot pulled at his beard. “If not for our current dilemma, I’d be snug and warm until this ghastly last breath of winter blew past.” He supplied the story in a few sentences. Pensworthy owls seldom had patience for drawn-out tales.
“Haven’t seen any of your one-spirits. A few fox, deer, rabbits.” The owl hesitated. “There was a lowlander through here a couple of days back. Spotted his camp smoke.”
From Taproot’s expression, Elsbeth gathered the old man didn’t like the sound of a rambling lowlander and four missing clan members.
“Could you pass the word amongst your peers?” Taproot asked. “I’d be in your debt.”
Genevieve opened her beak, and then closed it. “Tapswillowipahzkroot, there is no debt between friends.”
Elsbeth seldom heard anyone attempt to pronounce Taproot’s real name, proof the mountain man and Pensworthy owls’ bond extended many years.
The owl tipped her head once, then lifted off. Gone, in seconds.
“What shall we do now?” Elsbeth asked. The last weak beams of sun filtered through the trees.
“What would you have us do, Princess?” Taproot asked.
Oh, no. Time to dig within again. Last time Elsbeth did that, her decision hadn’t turned out well. “I don’t . . .”
“When I’m gone on my walkabout, you must think for yourself.”
“Why can’t you use your magic, find out where they are, and zap them back to the clangrounds?” Elsbeth asked.
“Doesn’t work that way. But . . .” He picked up one rounded rock and studied its slick surface. “I might be able to sense them.”
Taproot held his hand over the rock’s ice-slick surface. “Sim,” he intoned. The ice shimmered. Strips of wire came into hazy focus for a beat, then went black. “Grant,” he said. The surface remained black. The mountain man took a deep breath. “Jen.” An image appeared—a view through trees thick with snowdrifts. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. “Jondu. Show me Jondu!” The image shifted, but looked much the same. Acres of evergreen and barren hardwoods and snow.
“What does it mean?” Elsbeth asked. And why hadn’t the old magician used this talent earlier? As soon as the question appeared, Elsbeth knew the answer. Because Taproot used magic as an aid, not a prop. Best to lean on one’s natural senses. Magic could mislead. But it sure would be easier.
“Sim and Grant . . .” He hesitated. “Jen and Jondu seem to be traveling.” He swept his hand across the frozen landscape.
“Let’s go find them!” Elsbeth jiggled.
“Think, Princess.”
It would be dark soon. Even now, travel would be hard in the woods. Elsbeth touched her jacket over the spot where Jen’s birth crystal rested. Should have left it with someone, back at the clangrounds. No, it was up to her to protect Jen’s spirit-daughter. “We’ll have to build a fire. Make camp for the night.”
“And then?” Taproot prompted.
When they left the landfill, which direction should they take? “Back to the clangrounds.”
Taproot nodded. “Good call.”
Elsbeth’s eyes burned with tears. “But Sim and Grant, and Jen and Jondu are still—”
“Out there, somewhere. Yes.”
Elsbeth snuffled. Wiped her runny nose on her jacket sleeve.
“Sometimes when you’ve done all you can do, you must have patience.” Taproot stared out across the hills. “The Pensworthy owls are on the alert now. We’ve enlisted help from intelligent creatures more advanced, better able to cover more ground.”
Taproot moved to a place guarded by boulders on three sides. He kicked at the remains of a lowlander’s campfire, harrumphed. “Let’s gather any wood we can. Might as well build
our fire in this same spot.”
Elsbeth scrambled to the ground and picked up twigs. Taproot gathered larger fallen branches. He used two pieces of flint to spark the twigs, then gradually added larger pieces until a warm fire crackled.
“Did I ever tell you about the time my circus dwarf pack got thrown in jail?” Taproot settled back, his socked feet toasting by the embers.
About a million times, Elsbeth thought. “Maybe, but tell me again.”
She closed her eyes. Taproot’s low voice looped around the fire, calming her uneasy thoughts. Elsbeth dreamed of riding the night wind on silent wings, rising far above the mountains, watching for her missing family with keen yellow eyes.
Sim woke. Where was he?
He blinked and waited for his eyes to adjust to the low light. One of the benefits of spending a great deal of time underground: he could see with little illumination. Thin metal bars surrounded him. A stack of cloth formed the bed where he lay. Sim scanned the cage—not much larger than his own burrow. A small can held water. Another, a mounded pile of something. He licked his lips and rose, slipping toward the side of the cage where the containers rested. So hungry, but thirsty above all. Sim leaned down to drink, then stopped to search the room beyond the cage.
Clearly, he was still in the army building. Same scent of lowlanders. Tall ceilings. Instead of the rows of cots in the last room, this one held lines of shelves stacked with boxes and cans. Like the clan’s store rooms. Only, it didn’t smell of dried herbs.
The room was quiet. Sim inched toward the front of the cage, to a locked swing-style door.
Have to stay alert, he coached himself. The first chance, he would escape. His stomach growled. His mouth felt so dry. Maybe a quick sip of the water. If the soldier had wanted him dead, he would be dead, right? Thirst drove Sim to the container. He drank and drank. Might as well eat too. He dove one hand into the mound of some kind of nuts and crammed them into his mouth. If I’m poisoned, at least I’ll die full.
Weariness draped over him like a warm cloak. He reclined on the bedding. Just a few minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt. In seconds, Sim fell asleep again.
Sometime later, a bright light flickered to life. Sim sat up, squinting into the glare.
A soldier stepped into the storeroom. The lowlander leaned down until his face was inches from Sim’s cage. “Hey, little dude.” The man’s voice was deep and kind. Not what Sim expected from a military type. Back in New Haven City, they barked out their words, and their tones carried heavy menace.
“Since I was a kid, I’ve heard stories about little people living up here in these mountains. Never thought they were real.” The man’s lips curled up at the edges. “But, here you are.”
Sim inched toward the cage door, crouched. If the man released the lock, Sim would be ready to spring out. Wait. This lowlander had the same spiked, yellow hair as the one who took Grant. Better make nice, but how would he go about that?
When Sim didn’t speak, the soldier said, “Sorry about the rations, little dude. All I had were some peanuts. The stories never said what little people eat.”
At least the lowlander spoke in a language Sim understood. Sim opened his mouth. “Um.” His throat clamped shut. He coughed to clear the bubble of panic. “Thanks.”
“Hot dig!” The soldier slapped his hands on his thighs. “You can talk!”
Sim forced his lips to lift at the corners. “Sure.” His gaze left the soldier long enough to glance over the room. A second cage! A small form lay on a bed like the one in Sim’s cage, a body swaddled in bandages. Grant!
“Your friend, huh?” the soldier asked.
Sim nodded.
Grant stirred, moaned. Grew still again. Thank the Light, he wasn’t dead!
“I’m Sergeant Steven Johnson. Folks call me Stitch.”
“Sim.” He thumped his chest with a thumb, then pointed to the other cage. “That’s Grant.”
The soldier pulled a metal stool into position in front of the shelf and sat down. “Well, Sim. Your little buddy Grant’s going to be okay, in time.”
“Are you a healer?”
Stitch tilted his head, grinned. “Guess you could call me that. Do my best, given what I have to work with here, which is generally a whole lot of nothing.” He motioned toward Grant’s cage. “He lost a lot of blood. Tough little dude, though.” He leaned in toward Sim. “Kind of surprised he made it. His injuries were severe.” The soldier’s eyes were deep brown. Not as dark as Grant’s, more like the woody shell of an acorn, and familiar in some way.
So many years had passed since Sim had seen his father’s eyes. Before the area war turned him into the resistance leader, they had been as gentle as this lowlander’s. But they soon lost their kindness. The army made him change.
Remembering his father’s eyes before the war and seeing the same kindness in this soldier’s, Sim trusted him a little. And that surprised Sim. “Severe injuries . . .?”
The smile faded. “Little dude lost his right leg, below the knee. Couldn’t save it. Tried.” Stitch wiggled his fingers. “I can sew most anything back on. That’s why they call me Stitch. Done more than my share of it during the area wars. Grant’s leg was a mangled hot mess. Tiny. Like trying to darn a spider web or a moth’s wing.” The soldier glanced toward the other cage. “I did the best I could for your friend.”
Reality and sadness threatened to shut down Sim’s mind. One thought slipped through the muck. “Did you . . . Did you find a pendant?”
“You mean this?” Stitch fished a nubby chain from beneath his uniform. Sim recognized the pieces of metal—dog tags, the stamped IDs worn by all soldiers. His father had worn them too. Suspended next to the dog tags, hung a small acorn-shaped crystal. Grant’s spirit-son. A soft glow emanated from the pendant. Sim released the breath he had been holding.
“Found it wrapped around your friend’s neck. Took it off when I cleaned him up before I took care of that leg.” The soldier studied the crystal. “Had this same strange light, only much dimmer. It glowed when I held it in my hand. Stopped when I didn’t.” Stitch looked up. “Thought it must mean something. The little dude was bad off. Figured he needed all he had just to keep living. Decided to hang it next to me, out of sight. Whatever this thing is, it seems to need to be warm and close to something living.”
Good deductions for a lowlander who knew nothing of magic. “May I have it?” Sim asked. “It’s important to us.”
Stitch reached for the door clasp, then stopped. He untied the crystal, looped the twine around the tip of one finger, and passed it through the cage wire.
Sim cupped the pod in his hand. A tiny fracture marred the surface. He wasn’t a healer. What did he know of such things?
He knotted the twine and nestled the pendant beneath his clothing. Its gentle warmth reassured him. At least he could keep Grant’s spirit-son alive. He hoped. “I won’t leave if you let me out of here.”
“Can’t have you wandering the place,” Stitch said. “You’re safer in here. Some of these guys might not take to having you around.”
“Not the ones in those cots,” Sim said. “They’re barely alive. What’s wrong with them?”
“Tick fever.” Stitch blew out a breath. “No cure for it. Most won’t make it. Those that do won’t ever be right. Goes straight to the brain. Causes hallucinations. I have to keep them sedated. When they come out of it, they go batty. One of ’em set eyes on you and you’d be squashed like a cockroach.”
Sim imagined himself splattered across the slick floor. Blood and guts. He shuddered.
“And the others . . . the leaders?” Stitch let out a sharp huff. “They would capture you and send you off to some lab in the city. They’d slice you up, try to figure out what makes you tick and—”
“And my people would never be safe again.”
“You have a lot of smarts for a little dude.” Stitch stared at Sim for a moment, then unlocked the cage door and swung it open. “C’mon. We’ll check on Grant.” He
held one crooked arm level with the cage.
Without hesitation, Sim jumped aboard and grabbed a double handful of the fine blond hair covering Stitch’s muscled skin.
“Yowsa. Hey, those are attached, little dude.” Stitch’s grin was lopsided. “Ease up a tad, will ya?”
Chapter Thirteen
On the return to the home valley, Elsbeth did not speak. Every thought made her eyes water. Taproot didn’t talk either. Nothing sounded except the steady scritch, scritch, scritch of the snow beneath his snowshoes. The birth crystal nestled beneath her robe. She cupped one hand over it and silently intoned pleas to the Light within the earth and all creatures. Blessed is the Light. The life and the Light are one. We are the Light. We are one. Please, please let us find them!
What had Jen said, her last words? Elsbeth repeated the phrase like a mantra. Keep faith. Keep faith. Keep faith!
By the time they reached Taproot’s hollow, the light had faded to a dim gray. He removed his pack and snowshoes and crawled through the hidden cave entrance. Elsbeth wormed from the pack’s top flap once she felt the warmth of the cave.
“Why don’t you get some rest?” the mountain man said. “I need some myself.”
“That’s it? We just sit around and wait?”
Taproot shuffled to the hearth and stacked wood for a fire. “We eat. We recharge. And yes, we wait. Patience makes perfect.”
Elsbeth wanted to screech at the old man. Instead, she spun around and left his cave, heading toward the tunnel to the clan quarters.
Her burrow usually wrapped Elsbeth in its warmth, but the hearth had gone cold. She went to work. In a few minutes, the fire crackled and a pot of chamomile tea steeped on the rock stove.
The herbal tea and fire did not soothe her. Elsbeth’s body tingled, as if hundreds of tiny ants crawled over her skin.
Keep busy. That will do the trick. Elsbeth threw herself into a frenzy of cleaning. Line up the honey storage jars just so, then organize the notebooks, use a piece of flint to sharpen the pencil nubs. What now? Elsbeth searched for something, anything, to keep her monkey mind occupied. She took her artwork down, shuffled the arrangement, and rehung them on the cave’s walls. She used one of the sedge brooms Mari had gifted at the last Fall Festival to sweep the packed dirt floor. She plumped the down sofa pillows, then plopped down and closed her eyes.
