Uncaged (13 page)

             
A half mile away, a giant crack of lightning split a tree in two. The smell of burning wood filtered through the trees and then the rain came. It fell in torrents, fast and furious, parting the lion’s mane down the center, leaving two thick, drenched knots of fur on either side of his proud face. He shook the water off, restoring his mane to it’s natural fluff in an instant. The cold wind blew into his eyes, stinging them as he ran and ran, following the sweet scent of his lover. Her scent grew stronger, almost sickeningly sweet, telling him that she was either riding on horseback or in an open wagon.

             
His heart pounded harder as his feet flew beneath him. He leapt over a fallen tree and the others followed him. The occupants inside, a family of squirrels watched from a wormed out hole, their beady eyes glowing, their whiskers twitching at the parade of foreign animals. The forest was in a state of chaotic frenzy. More birds took flight in droves, despite the oncoming storm. Deer, rabbits and mice scurried as fast as their feet would carry them. A doe and her fawn were caught in the midst of the stampede and frozen in shock, but the animals only leapt over and around them as if they were another fern or fallen log.

             
The wind picked up speed, howling across their slippery backs. The owls and hawk twirled in the high winds, spinning backwards with claws outstretched, screeching out. Bruce stopp
ed when he recognized Amelia’s coarse
cry of pain. The animals behind him slid into his back side and all around him, kicking up mud and rain soaked dead leaves. The lion searched the sky for his friend. The other owl and the hawk flew down, lighting on the lion’s head and back. Craning his head over his slick shoulder, the lion eyed the owl. He watched as the owl’s yellow eyes peered into the branches above and then blinked against the onslaught of freezing rain. The owl hooted, calling out to their friend. Another roll of thunder and a flash of lightening blocked the call. The lion nodded and the owl repeated the call. Miserable, hellacious wind howled into their sensitive ears making it impossible to hear.

             
His decision was made. He’d go back for her. The lion backtracked into the woods from where he came, walking slowly face first into the heavy slanted rain that sliced into his fur, long wet stripes. The owl and hawk stayed put, unable to fly in the heavy downpour. The other animals trailed closely behind, all of them on the look out for Amelia. Bruce heard her cry again and knew she was injured. He picked up the pace and sprinted forward, his keen animal instinct
spotting her exact location.
She was hunkered down beneath a heavy fern with one wing dangling lifelessly beside her. Bruce licked her bleeding wing and noticed it had already begun to swell. It would be safer for her to stay in animal form for now. She’d heal much quicker. He knelt his head down and she hopped on top. They’d have to wait out the storm and pick up the trail later.
             
He sniffed deeply. Wren’s scent was gone, lost in the storm. The lion stalked beneath a giant oak and lay down. The other animals plopped down around him, surrounding the tree in a tight circle. Bruce laid his head on his paws and closed his eyes, opening his mind up to Wren. He doubted that she remembered how to let another soul into her mind, but it was worth a try. If things got bad enough he knew she’d shift to escape, though she was sorely out of practice.

~*~

             
Wren had been moved in the night, awaking at first light in a dim prison cell, shackled next to two other women who she guessed had not bathed in weeks. She pinched her nose at the smell and then flinched at the pain. She looked at her hand. Dried blood flaked off of the end of her nose and her lip was still swollen when she licked it. One of the other women moaned and rolled over her chains. Two yellow shafts of light peeked through a high window, secured by three thick iron bars. Wren studied her prison mates. Both of them were wrinkled, white haired women, clothed in soiled rags. The one nearest to her looked to be close to death. Wren could hear her shallow breathing and watched her body as uneasy, shaking breaths escaped through her open mouth. Her heart went out to the poor souls. How long had they been kept prisoner in these horrid conditions? Wren jumped when she heard the creak of a door. Both of the old women sat upright, coming to life in an instant, wiping at their slobbering mouths, blinking against the morning light.

             
“Breakfast, you old hags!” a man bellowed.

             
Wren heard a key slide through the lock and the creak of a gate. Her body shook involuntarily when she caught sight of the man who had busted up her face. She moved as far away as possible, crouching into the corner, ducking into a deep shadow.

             
“Remember me, do ya?” the man asked, chuckling to himself.

             
Wren watched him, not daring to say a word. He tossed a hunk of bread to each of the women. The old women snatched theirs up, eating greedily, groaning as they tore into the stale bread with gummy mouths. Wren looked at her piece of bread as it sat on her bare foot. She couldn’t eat. She wouldn’t eat. She’d rather die than eat something from this brute. He laughed again and then began to back out, closing the gate behind him and locking it into place.

             
Wren! Wren!

             
Wren’s head slapped the brick wall behind her, nearly knocking her out. She jumped so hard that her chains shook.

             
Wren watched the women still eating like starved animals. Neither of them seemed to have heard someone calling her name like she had. She listened as the man’s footsteps echoed down a hall and then heard another do
or slam. She closed her eyes.
Now she was hearing things. She began to wonder if she was sick or ill and dreaming all of this.

             
Wren! Wren!

             
Wren opened her eyes and gasped.

             
“Bruce?” she said out loud. No one responded. One woman eyed her strangely as she took her last bite of bread. She stared at Wren’s foot. Wren kicked her the other piece of bread. The woman snatched it up.

             
“Thank you, miss,” the woman said before devouring it nearly whole.

             
Wren shook her head and sighed, leaning back against the brick. She closed her eyes again, intent on putting the ugly image of two filthy, desperate souls out of her mind, afraid she’d soon mirror them both.

             
Darling, it’s me!

             
Wren kept her eyes shut this time and peered into the sound, concentrating on his words, his voice.

             
That’s it, love. Stay with me. You remember this old trick, don’t you? Keep your mind open to me. I’m looking for you. Where are you? Speak to me through your mind. Can you see me?

             
Wren refocused, channeling all of her energy to her soul. She nodded when she saw him in lion form, lying beneath a tree with a herd of strange animals gathered around him like a child’s storybook. The image was surreal. It reminded her of a religious painting, symbolic of Christ. She wondered again if she were going insane or dreaming strange dreams while in the midst of the plague. Perhaps she was near death.

             
Wren? Darling, speak to me.  Can you see me?

             
Wren focused on the lion’s eyes. The lion stared back at her, cocking his head to the side. Lemony-orange sparks fizzled from his mane. His eyes glowed like hot, amber stones. Wren gasped out loud as a single tear squeezed from beneath her lashes, falling softly on her dusty cheek, tumbling over her swollen lip. She nodded and then remembered that she must speak to him through her mind.

             
Yes, I see you, my love. Come and get me.

             
I tracked you but lost your scent in the storm. Do you know where you are?

             
No, I have no idea. We took shelter in a barn and I woke up here. There are two other women held prisoner here. Bruce, I’m being held on charges of witchcraft! How can that be in this day and age?

             
Sheldon is behind this. It’s a lynch mob. He’s taken you into the countryside where superstitions run wild. You will have to listen closely. Find out where they are keeping you. I have friends with me. We will fight to save you.

             
Bruce, he has pistols. Be careful.

             
Yes, my sweet, I know, but I am truly wild. Your captors are cowards, hiding behind weapons. We must find food now. Call on me the second you find anything out.

             
I will, my love.

             
As soon as we eat, we will journey onward. And darling, if you must, you know you can shift to escape.

             
I don’t know that I can…it’s been years.

             
You can’t while you are in chains. The chains will hold you, but the instant you are free, you must.

             
But they will shoot me dead.

             
You probably won’t get the chance, but if you do, alert me of it. And Wren?

             
Yes?

             
I love you.

             
Another tear slid down Wren’s swollen cheek.
I love you too, Bruce.

             
~*~

             
As Wren was being led into the church, she realized she
’d lost count of the days.
She’d tried in vain to reach Bruce, but he never entered her mind or her dreams. She’d grown ravenously hungry and had finally eaten the stale bread thrown at her, only to find it soon lulled her to sleep, making escape close to impossible. Bleary eyed and dizzy from the laudanum that kept her sedate, Wren stumbled forward, looking more like her cell mates every day. Her captor led her to the front of the church and pushed her into a hard, wooden chair.

             
“What say you, Wren Whittier? Will you now confess?”

             
Wren repeated what she’d said over a dozen times, for days on end. “Nay. I’m not a witch.”

             
“What say you of the marks on your wrists and breast?”

             
Wren sighed as she began to retell the story again to another aged clergyman with half moon spectacles. “I was attacked leaving my home.”

             
“Why were you leaving your home at such a late hour?”

             
Wren sighed again. She’d retold this story over and over with the same result each time. “I was leaving with Bruce Remington.”

             
“Were you not ordered out of your home at the wake of your father?” the man asked, pacing the pulpit, eyeing Wren suspiciously.

             
“Aye. Mister Sheldon asked me leave.”

             
“Why were you asked to leave at such a late hour?”

             
“Mister Sheldon has taken over my father’s estate, sir.”

             
The man waved his hand at her in annoyance. “Skip the details! We all know this! Why did Mister Sheldon ask you to leave?”

             
Wren decided for once to tell the truth. Her usual response was to feign ignorance on why her half brother had banished her from the house. “Because as you can see with your own two eyes, sir,  I am a quadroon and he’ll have no color in his newly acquired home.”

             
The man studied her, pacing back and forth, rearranging his spectacles and scratching at his wiry hair. “You say that Mister Sheldon asked you to leave because of a bit of black blood has leaked into your veins?”

             
“Aye, that is right, sir.”

             
“If I’d not heard it from your mouth, I’d never have guessed it. You’re just half a shade darker than any w
hite woman I have ever known.
And with
blue eyes. You’d pass as purely
white, no doubt.”

             
“My skin has paled, sir. I’ve been locked inside. I assure you, I’m a quadroon.”

             
The man scratched at his skin, pacing before her and then stopping to slam his eyes shut in apparent thought. His next words were so loud that Wren jumped back.

             
“Now you lie! You’re a liar under God’s roof! You pretend to be part black to save your soul when we all know that Mister Sheldon banished you from his home because you’re a witch! You conjured a spell to kill your very own father!”

             
Wren gasped. “No, sir! That’s not true!” Wren bit her lip. She had kept quiet during all of the questions from the previous men. She could bear it no longer. “Why is this happening? Witch trials are a thing of the past. There is no such thing as a witch! Not in this day and age!”