Winter's Child (13 page)

“Perhaps he knows how much I envy him,” I said. “I’ve always wished that I could fly.”

“It would certainly make it easier to get where you’re going,” Petra observed. “Maybe he’ll go with you.”

I looked at the bird, sitting calmly on his perch. He gazed back at me with clear, gray eyes.

“I always have the sense that he knows what we’re saying,” I said.

Petra smiled. “Perhaps he does. Falcons are about as smart as birds come. Now,” she went on briskly, “tell me again what you’re going to do once Papa and Harkko fall asleep.”

“I’m going to take my pack and climb that ridge,” I replied, nodding at the slope behind us. Petra and I had reasoned that this was the last direction her family would expect me to take. They would assume I would head down, toward the nearest town.

Petra herself would backtrack along the way that we had come. After much discussion, we had decided to leave at the same time. If we staggered our departures
and something went wrong, there was a chance whoever went second wouldn’t be able to leave at all.

“Now you tell me what you’ll do once you reach the city,” I said.

“I will ask for the flower vendor, Herre Johannes,” Petra recited. “I will tell him you sent me, that you said he might be willing to help. I still don’t see why,” she added after a moment. “I’ll be a total stranger.”

She had voiced this concern many times.

“Not everyone believes strangers are not to be trusted,” I said. But I could tell that Petra remained unconvinced. On impulse, I went into the tent, opened my pack, and retrieved Oma’s shawl. Then I returned to where Petra stood, a puzzled expression on her face.

“Take this,” I said as I placed the shawl into her arms. “And give Herre Johannes this message: Tell him I said you wished to put down roots, and that I thought he would be able to help you.”

“But you can’t—I don’t understand,” Petra cried.

“You don’t have to,” I said. “Herre Johannes will know what you mean. And he will know I’m the only one who could have sent such a message. He will know you are a friend, not a stranger.

“Petra,” I said. “You have to trust me.”

“I know that,” she said. “I do. It just doesn’t come easily, that’s all. And you can’t give me the shawl. I know how much it means to you.”

“I want you to have it,” I said. “All I ask in return is that you tell Herre Johannes I am well.”

“I will,” Petra promised. She gave me a fierce hug.
“Thank you, Grace. I will never forget your kindness. I hope you find what you are looking for.”

“I’m sure I will,” I said. “I have the knowledge of the stars to guide me. Now we’d better see about dinner. Everything must seem just like normal.”

It seemed that Petra’s father and brother would never go to sleep. But at last, all was quiet in the campground. The fire had burned down low, until only the embers glowed in the darkness.

The moon was now a week off of full: no longer a sphere, but a chunky block of white suspended in the sky. This was a mixed blessing. The greater the cover of darkness, the better our chances of escape, yet the less light by which to find our way.

Petra and I waited until we heard her father start to snore before we crept from the tent. In the pale moonlight, I could just make out the two men’s sleeping forms. As always, Harkko slept on one side of the fire and Petra’s father on the other. With a chill, I realized that Harkko was sleeping on the side closest to the direction in which I would go.

Without a word, Petra flung her arms around me. I hugged her back, squeezing tight. I shouldered my pack. Then, as silently as we could, we each began to make our way out of the campground.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled with each step I took. At any moment I expected to hear the sounds of voices crying out, raising the alarm behind me. I rounded the corner, breathing a little
more easily as I did so. Just a few more steps and I would reach the place Petra had showed me, the safest place to begin my climb.

I don’t think I’ll ever know how it happened— what it was that alerted Petra’s father to the fact that we were gone. Perhaps it was simply his own instincts, developed throughout a life spent looking after himself on the open road. No sooner had I reached the place where I would start to climb than I heard an explosion of sounds behind me—voices crying out.

Go, Grace!
I thought.

My fingers reached above my head, frantically searching for the handhold Petra had showed me. Sharp pieces of rock rained down onto my upturned face, so loud they sounded like boulders. I heard a second shout, closer this time.
That is Harkko,
I thought.

Finally, my fingers found what they’d been searching for. Digging in with all the strength of my hands, I began to scramble upward. More rocks rained down.

“This way!” I heard Harkko’s voice shout. I could hear the heavy sound of his footsteps now.

“No,” I sobbed.

Then, without warning, the falcon was there. I felt the rush of air as it shot past me, flying up the cliff face. It gave a screech like a war cry. I redoubled my efforts to climb. I felt a second
whoosh
of air as the falcon darted back toward the earth. Below me, I heard Harkko give a terrified cry.

The bird is helping me,
I realized. Petra had been right. I had made a second friend after all.

With a final burst of energy, I scrambled up the remaining few feet, then collapsed onto the ledge at the top of the slope. I did not stop to rest, but got to my feet and made my way as quickly as I could along the narrow path at the ledge’s far side. Again, I heard Harkko cry out. His voice was answered by the falcon’s. Then there was silence.

Keep on going, Grace,
I thought.
Don’t look back.

I had walked for perhaps ten minutes when I thought I felt a familiar rush of air. I stopped and extended one arm. The falcon circled around me once, then alighted on my outstretched arm. My shoulder sang at the extra weight, but I kept my arm steady. In the pale moonlight, the bird and I regarded each other.

“Thank you,” I said.

The bird cocked its head. Again, I had the eerie sensation that he could understand every word I said.

“I might never have gotten away without you,” I went on. “I will never forget what you have done. I swear to you that someday I will find a way to repay your kindness.”

The falcon ruffled its feathers, as if in reply. Then, with a force that made me stagger backward, he launched himself back into the sky. I saw his silhouette cut across the moon, then swoop down. Flying on ahead of me, as if to show me the way.

One foot in front of the other, Grace,
I thought.

I followed the falcon till the light of the waning moon gave way to morning.

S
IXTEEN

The pattern of our journey now was set. The falcon flew before. I followed behind. The days, which at first held their individual shapes as they were strung together like beads upon a string, at last began to blur and run together like raindrops. I no longer worried about time. Instead, I gave myself up to the journey itself.

It sounds grim, doesn’t it? It wasn’t. In fact, slowly but surely, I began to realize I was happier than I’d ever been in my life.

Not every day, of course.

There were days when I was lonely. Days when my solitude felt like the weight of a second pack, much heavier than the first. Days when the path beneath my feet seemed full of ruts just waiting to trip me. Days when my feet had blisters, my legs ached, and it seemed as if I was making no progress at all.

It’s hard to know if the end is in sight when you don’t know how to get where you’re going.

On these days, two things kept me on course: my love for Kai and the falcon.

There were the practical considerations of having the falcon as a companion, of course. He was a fierce, determined hunter whose efforts kept me from going hungry. But there was also the simple fact of his presence, the keen edge of his call in the still morning air, the beat of his wings, the sight of his shape silhouetted against the sky. I might not have had a human companion, but as long as the falcon was with me, I was not alone. I was content to put one foot in front of the other.

Finding Kai remained the purpose of my journey, but there were days when I all but forgot about him. These were the days when the journey ceased to be a burden, when I celebrated the fact that each and every step brought me closer to the horizon.

Until the day came when two unexpected things occurred and changed the course of everything: I fell into a river, and my right shoe developed a hole.

It was the second thing that occasioned the first. For many days, I had been walking on the outskirts of a great forest. At times the falcon soared so high above me that he was no more than a dark speck against the sky. At others he swooped down to ride upon my shoulder. For the first time since we had begun our strange journey together, the bird seemed uncertain, unsettled.

“I wish I knew what was troubling you,” I finally said, late one afternoon. It was our fourth day skirting the edges of a forest. The line of green seemed to stretch on forever beside me. The trees at the forest’s edge were enormous. How large the trees in the forest’s center might be, I couldn’t imagine.

“Does the forest make it difficult to see which way to go from here?” I asked. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

The falcon gave his wings a shake, as if trying to throw off my questions. I felt the sharpness of his claws against the skin of my shoulder. He was always careful never to pierce my skin. My clothing was not so lucky.

“That hurts, you know,” I remarked, as I did my best not to wince. “There’s no need to take your bad temper out on me.”

The falcon butted its head against my cheek. “You are too grumpy,” I responded. “I’d help you get over it if I knew what to do. I wish that you could tell me.”

Without warning, the falcon launched himself into the air. I stood for a moment, rubbing my sore shoulder with the heel of one hand, watching as the bird arrowed into the sky. Not for the first time, a strange mixture of elation and envy filled my heart as I watched him soar. I resumed walking, my eyes shifting between the ground in front of me and the falcon above as he climbed higher and higher in ever-widening circles.

Then, as abruptly as he’d flown, the falcon folded
his wings and dove back toward the ground.
He has found a way
, I thought. I quickened my pace. I’d gone no more than a dozen steps before my ears were filled with the sound of water. In front of me, the ground rose steeply. I picked up my pace, almost sprinting to the top.

I was standing on a riverbank. The river itself was broad. Its current flowed swiftly into the forest. The falcon sat on a boulder on the opposite bank.

“That’s all very well for you,” I called out after a moment. “You can fly across. How do you propose I follow?”

I had limited experience with rivers, but even I could tell that this one was much too deep and fast-moving for me to cross. I would have to find another place to try. I put my hands on my hips and surveyed my surroundings.

“I’m going into the forest,” I finally announced.

At once the bird sent up a squawk of protest, though he did not move from his place.

“I’m sorry if you don’t like it,” I replied. “But I really can’t see that I have much choice. I don’t want to walk along the bank in the opposite direction. That would be turning back. I want to go forward. That means into the forest. Surely you can see that, Mr. Sharp Eyes.

“Why don’t you try flying along the course of the river and find a spot where I can cross? Then come back and find me. Please,” I finally remembered to add.

At this, the falcon launched himself skyward. He flew across the river and then skimmed above my head, just low enough so that I could feel the brush of his wings against my hair. Flying low and straight, he vanished into the forest.

The sole of my right shoe gave out about half an hour later, which was about five minutes after I’d begun to wonder if I’d made the right choice. Though we’d passed through several woods during the course of our journey, none of them had the feel of this forest. The canopy was so dense that little light filtered down to the forest floor. The air was damp and strangely oppressive. Surrounded by the trees, I lost all sight of the horizon.

I walked along the riverbank. The voice of the river was a great bellow beside me. Beneath the trees even the color of the water seemed subdued, a deep and muddy brown.

All right, so maybe the falcon was right about staying out of the forest,
I thought.
Where is he, anyhow?

At precisely that moment, I put my right foot down on a sharp stone. It pushed its way up through the sole of my boot, which was worn thin by my travels. I gave a yelp of surprise and pain, lifted my foot to extract the stone, and then promptly lost my balance and tumbled down the riverbank to land with a splash in the river.

The water was deep and icy cold. It soaked my skirts in an instant, making it hard to move my legs.
It filled my boots, trying to drag me down. I could feel the swift current, pulling me along with it. I thrashed, desperately trying to keep my head above water.