Battlesaurus (11 page)

“Monsieur Antonescu is right,” Willem says. “A saur was here.”

“You are sure?” Monsieur Claude asks.

“Pieter is sure,” Willem says.

“Then where are the signs?” Monsieur Claude asks, and there are murmurs of agreement from other men in the group.

“If everyone will move back, I will let Pieter find them,” Willem says.

“Do as he asks,” Jean's father says.

Monsieur Claude is the mayor of the village, and the owner of half of it, but Monsieur Lejeune is the one the villagers most respect. They withdraw immediately.

Willem sets Pieter on the ground, then clacks his tongue a few times at the microsaurus and makes a rotating hand gesture.

Pieter runs first to the pool of blood, sniffing at it, then around to the forest side of the path. His small head darts in all directions, sniffing the ground, looking for signs that the human eye cannot see.

He darts off down the path, heading toward Waterloo, then returns. He still looks agitated, but seems unsure, if that is even possible for a saur.

It is only when he ventures onto the river side of the path that things start to go very wrong.

Pieter creeps across the earthen bank toward the river. The riverweeds are short here as beneath the soft dirt is rock and their roots are shallow. Pieter moves cautiously, pushing through the stalks with his nose.

A patch of long reeds rises out of the river itself, and as he approaches it he starts to become more agitated, darting forward, then retreating just as quickly.

He sniffs cautiously at the reeds, then suddenly screams in fright and freezes.

“What's he doing?” Jean whispers.

“I don't know,” Willem says.

Pieter remains frozen in place for a long moment, then slowly topples to one side. He lies on his side, rigid and immobile.

“Pieter!” Willem yells and runs over to him.

He is breathing and his eyes are moving, but his body is not. It is as if he has been mesmerized, but somehow different. And there are no lights or flames here to mesmerize him. Willem picks up his pet and strokes his stomach gently. Pieter looks at him, but does not otherwise move.

Although it is early, the sun has already risen above the trees to the east and at that moment a passing cloud releases the sun. A brief flash of white in the reeds of the creek catches Willem's eye. Something moves.

He jumps, stumbling and falling backward, Pieter clutched safely to his chest.

“What is it?” Monsieur Lejeune asks.

“Something in the reeds by the river,” Willem manages.

A long sword that had been hanging from Monsieur Lejeune's belt is suddenly in his hands.

“Everybody stay back,” he says.

Willem scrambles away, Pieter still held to his chest.

Monsieur Lejeune advances, the sword held in front of him.

He parts the reeds with it, then turns and shakes his head.

“It is nothing but an old rag,” he says. “Moving in the current.”

“Then why is Pieter so afraid?” Willem asks.

Monsieur Lejeune thrusts the sword into the reeds and lifts a dirty piece of cloth. It had been half in the river and is sodden. The rest is dirty and brown.

“Your pet is afraid of this?” he asks.

Monsieur Delvaux's legs collapse beneath him, and if Monsieur Claude had not been standing next to him to catch him, he would surely have hit his head on the rock of the path.

“That is not a rag,” Monsieur Delvaux says. “It is Ang
é
lique's frock.”

Now Willem can see it. What appeared to be a dirty bunch of rags is in fact clothing, shredded. It is covered not with dirt but the brown stains of blood.

“There are no claw prints,” Monsieur Claude still protests.

“Nor drag marks,” Monsieur Lejeune says, with a quick, embarrassed look at Monsieur Delvaux. “How could a saur drag her into the river without leaving marks?”

“It is a saur,” Willem says, firmly, stroking the stomach of his pet, who is just starting to come out of his stupor. “It has to be a raptor, but I have never seen Pieter so petrified.”

“It is the firebird,” Fran
ç
ois says. “We should have killed it at the waterfall, but we ran like skinned chickens. Now it has found us and seeks revenge for its eggs.”

“You did this!” Monsieur Delvaux cried, his eyes red and brimming with grief. “You brought this on our village!”

“This is not a firebird,” Monsieur Antonescu says, but nobody listens.

There is heat in the group of men, and it is directed at the cousins, and Willem most of all.

“We left no trail,” Jean protests. “We walked only in the rivers and streams.”

“So it has been hunting the forest since that time, seeking out your scent,” Monsieur Claude says.

“Brothers, you misdirect your anger,” Father Ambroise says. He holds up his arms, asking for silence and calm. He says, “Now is not the time for recriminations or anger. Kneel with me, brothers. We will pray for the soul of the daughter of our friend.”

And so they pray, kneeling on the hard rock of the path, beside the rocky pool of dried blood.

For some reason, when Willem closes his eyes, all he can see is the image of her breasts, pressed together by her arms after she opens the shutters to let in the morning sun.

 

DEFENSES

Tuesdays in the village are market days, when the traveling merchants from Waterloo and Brussels set up their carts in the village square. The market hall itself is home to the local merchants, including Willem's mother, with a table of freshly baked breads and rolls.

This Tuesday morning, however, customers are scarce. Word has spread quickly of the saur attack, and journeys that lead through or past the great forest are undertaken only if necessary. Gaillemarde is avoided. The square, normally bustling and busy, is all but deserted.

The merchant hall, too, is virtually empty. Only a few of the produce stalls are open. The menfolk are busy rebuilding the defenses that protect the village, long since fallen into disrepair.

A meat-eater is on the loose, and nobody will sleep easily until it is caught.

The gaps in the saur-fence are being mended. Rotten spikes are being replaced. The tarred wood in the fire pits outside the fence, sodden and useless, has been dug out and teams of men now venture cautiously into the forest, cutting wood with which to replace it. Always in teams. Never alone. Always one man on watch, armed with sword or musket.

Watch will also be kept by night, until the beast is caught. The church steeple, the highest building in the village, will be constantly manned, and the church bell will sound the alarm if anything is sighted.

Swords, hoes, shovels, and other makeshift weapons are left at locations around the fenceline, and tallow brands dot the fence at regular intervals, ready for the night.

The bird comes cartwheeling out of the forest in a flurry of feathers and leathery wings. Only as it lands, crashing into the reeds at the edge of the river, does Willem realize that it is not a bird, but a winged saur. They are common in the forest: not quite a bird, not quite a bat, but something in between. The larger ones have wingspans wider than Willem is tall, but this is a young one, barely more than a chick and no larger than a hawk. From the way it comes spinning down out of the trees, something is very wrong with it.

Willem perches on the edge of the old stone bridge, just outside the saur-gate, his feet dangling above the water.

Willem sits alone. Jean and Fran
ç
ois are in the forest with one of the cutting crews. Willem has offered to help, but was not needed. It is a job for big, strong men, and the building of the fence is skilled work. Nor has he been wanted as a guard. That requires skill with sword or musket, which he does not possess.

He does not want to stay at home. Every time his mother looks at him he can see the disappointment in her eyes. He did his chores, helped with the baking, then left the house as soon as he could. Not so much to avoid her gaze as to avoid showing her the fury in his own eyes.

He went around to the Delvaux house to see if there was anything he could do to help, but a sharp glance from one of the old women of the village warned him off. He is not wanted there either.

In the end he helped some of the women tar wood for the fire pits, and when that was finished came to sit on the bridge and wait for the others to return.

The winged saur thrashes around in the reeds for a moment or two, squealing in pain, and as it does, Willem sees the huge gash along one of its wings. A clean cut, made by a knife or a sword. Inflicted by man. Flying through the forest the little saur has had the misfortune to come across one of the woodcutting parties. Someone has slashed at it with a sword, crippling it in a way that can never be mended. Winged saurs do not attack humans. They pose no danger. But in the aftermath of an attack any saur becomes a target.

The saur goes quiet, but still makes pathetic struggling movements. Half of its body is in the water and half is out, the water pulling at it, dragging it into the river.

He should do something, Willem knows, but he can't bring himself to. The creature is beyond saving; the wing cannot be repaired. He should cross the river and wring its neck, but although he knows it is wrong to just sit and watch it die, he does not want to be the one to end its life.

Jean and Fran
ç
ois emerge from the forest together as Willem is watching the dying saur. They look sweaty and tired. Each holds an ax. They do not notice the winged saur and Willem does not mention it to them. Fran
ç
ois would try to save it, and he wouldn't be able to, and it would upset him. There is still a fragility about Fran
ç
ois. He seems, to Willem, like a spinning top, delicately balanced, with a brittle equilibrium.

“Is the fence finished?” Jean asks.

Willem nods. “And the tar pit is replenished.”

“Good,” Jean says. “We shall sleep safely in our beds tonight.”

The saur-fence, newly repaired, stands strong and sturdy a few meters from the riverbank. The newly sharpened spikes of the crossbracing that extend through the fence make a jagged row of teeth.

In front of the fence lies the long black line of the tar pit, a ditch that surrounds the entire village.

Behind the fence rise the stone walls and thatched roofs of the river cottages, and behind those is the church with its tall steeple.

“Any sign of the raptor?” Willem asks.

“None,” Jean says. “It is probably long gone by now.”

“Or waiting its chance for another attack,” Fran
ç
ois says.

There is a silence at the memory of the congealing pool of blood on the river path. Jean lays down his ax and sits on the edge of the bridge beside Willem. After a moment Fran
ç
ois sits too.

“We have brought this upon ourselves,” he says.

“That is stupid,” Jean says with some venom. “You are stupid, cousin.”

“You don't even know it is the same saur,” Willem says.

“It does not matter,” Fran
ç
ois says. “This is a punishment from God.”

“For what?” Jean asks.

“Your tongue did wag too much, cousin,” Fran
ç
ois says, “and all of us gazed upon the form of the girl in her night frock.”

“And you think God sent a raptor to punish Ang
é
lique because we said a few words in jest about her,” Jean says.

“Not Ang
é
lique,” Fran
ç
ois says. “She rests with Him in paradise. It is we who are punished. We who must live with this guilt.”

“Quiet your mouth, cousin,” Jean says, glancing back toward the village. “Look who comes.”

Through the open saur-gate the mayor and the priest walk with the schoolmaster, propping him between them. Monsieur Delvaux seems in a kind of a daze.

Behind them Cosette holds a sheath of wildflowers.

“They go to lay the flowers at … the place,” Jean says.

Willem rises as they approach, and turns to face them, steeling himself for the inevitable exchange.

“I am sorry for the loss of your daughter,” Willem says.

Monsieur Delvaux stops in front of him, vacant eyes seeing him as if for the first time.

“You should be sorry.” The voice comes out high and loud, spittle flying from his lips. His cheeks are unshaven and seem hollow. His eyes are dark-rimmed. “The three of you. You brought this horror to us.”

“This is not true,” Jean says, rising up beside Willem. “You cannot blame us for what happened.”

Cosette has stopped behind her father. The wildflowers are clutched tightly to her chest. Her eyes are on Willem, waiting for him to respond. There is a look akin to pleading in her gaze.

Willem looks from her to her father, then back. He lowers his eyes.

“Do not blame Jean or Fran
ç
ois,” Willem says. “It was I who took the raptor's eggs.”

The schoolmaster stares at him, cursing him with cratered eyes, then with a dismissive shake of his head, walks on.

Cosette glances at Willem once, her left eye, the often lazy one, as fixed and focused as the other. Both eyes are cold and unforgiving. The colors of the flowers, caught in a shaft of late sunlight, reflect on her face. In her grief and anger, she has never looked prettier. She averts her gaze and walks silently in her father's footsteps. Willem watches her until she disappears around a bend in the river path.

“What is wrong with you, Willem?” Jean asks, as soon as they are out of earshot. “You know this is not our doing.”

“Willem only speaks the truth,” Fran
ç
ois says.

“Hush yourself, cousin, or I will hush you,” Jean says. “Why, Willem?”

“Did you not see his eyes?” Willem says after a moment. “If Monsieur Delvaux cannot direct his anger elsewhere, then he will blame himself for allowing his daughter to visit the town at night, and that burden would be too great for him to bear.”