The Wicked Day (3 page)

“If it’d been a rabbit, then we could’ve tracked it and had it for breakfast,” said Jute.

He was not in a good mood that morning and, as far as he was concerned, he had reason. To begin with, he was still smarting over an incident that had occurred the evening before. Despite the hawk’s warning, he had ventured higher into the air than he ever had. Floating up, his feet had been higher than Declan’s head. But then he fell. It knocked the wind out of him and he could only lie there, wheezing in pain, while the other three laughed.

To make matters worse, the ghost had sat up half the night, perched by his head and telling tales about people who had died of chest ailments. “Wheezed just like you did,” said the ghost. “It reminds me of old Booley’s death. An, airy, whistling sort of rasp. Not an unpleasant sound, mind you. Sometimes, there was a bit of a juicy gurgle in it, particularly right before he died.”

And then, in the morning, there had been only some stale bread and an onion for breakfast. Jute could still taste the onion.

Declan sighed. “If we hurry, we can hunt later in the day. Meat for dinner. But for now, we’re still too far behind on her trail.”

“What’s that?”

Declan looked where Jute was pointing. Far off on the horizon, a thin dark line was visible.

“Your eyesight’s improving,” said Declan. “I can barely see that.”

“Of course it is,” said the hawk.

“What? I don’t see anything,” said the ghost.

“It’s the forest.”

As they hurried along, the dark line grew rapidly until Jute could see the trees. He had seen trees before, as there were some in Hearne, of course, behind the walls of the rich manors in Highneck Rise. And there had been trees on the coast when they had journeyed north, pines and little, twisted cypress. But the trees of this forest were different.

“They’re enormous,” said Jute, forgetting for a moment that he was determined to be grumpy until he had a decent meal. “And the forest—does it go on forever? The sky, the sea, this plain, now the forest. Everything’s so big.”

On his shoulder, the hawk chuckled.

“There’re things in this world bigger than all of those.”

The trail of the girl and the wolf drew them closer to the forest. The trees loomed higher, and beyond them, pale against the sky, were the snow-covered tops of the mountains.

“Wait,” said the hawk. His head turned this way and that.

“What is it?” said Declan.

“I’m not sure what it is. Something strange. Something of the Dark, perhaps. Something that should not be.”

Declan touched the hilt of his sword. He frowned. “My nose tells me nothing, master hawk, but if I’d have known if we crossed such a path. If an enemy’s in sight, then I fear we’ve already been seen. This plain is no place to hide, so let’s continue on our trail. Doubtless, it’ll lead into the forest and either the trees will hide us or something waits in its shadows.”

“The Forest of Lome,” said the ghost. “Hmmph. I recall something distinctly unsavory about the place.”

“What?” said Jute nervously. “What do you remember?”

He was not sure whether he liked the look of the trees. The edge of the forest stretched away on either side further than he could see. Even though the sun was high in the sky, deep shadows lay beneath the treetops. It seemed to Jute as if they awaited the departure of the sun so that they could spill out from among the trees and join the night.

“I don’t remember. At least, not precisely.”

“Ogres? Bloodthirsty bears? Murder?”

“Probably all those and much more. Undoubtedly.”

“Must you be giving Jute notions?” said the hawk. “Kindly restrain yourself.”

“Very well,” huffed the ghost. “As no one appreciates my conversation, I think I’ll take a nap. Wake me up when someone says something intelligent.” And with that, the ghost vanished. Jute felt a quick, cold breath against his neck and heard the ghost grumbling to itself inside his knapsack.

Declan shook his head. “I’m afraid he’ll pipe up at the wrong moment when silence is our best defense. There must be some way of keeping our unfortunate friend quiet.”

“I heard that,” said the ghost angrily.

They reached the edge of the forest. Jute touched the trunk of a tree and gazed up. The trees were taller than he had thought. He could hear the wind murmuring in the tree tops. The shadows were cool and still. Dry leaves crunched underfoot.

“The Dark was here,” said the hawk, his voice quiet. “Not so long ago. I’m sure of it now.”

“I don’t have your nose for such things, master hawk,” said Declan, “but I trust your word. Walk in my footsteps, Jute, and keep your voice low. And ghost, for once, keep silent.”

“I heard that,” said the ghost from inside Jute’s knapsack, but it whispered as if, for once, it understood what might be at stake.

Declan loosened his sword in its sheath and then plunged deeper into the forest. He walked with his head forward, turning from side to side, eyes flicking down to the ground and then back up, searching through the gloom and the trees for whatever was there and whatever had been there. Jute hurried after him. Even though he was smaller and lighter than the man, he made more noise as he walked: twigs snapping, leaves crunching, and bushes rustling as he sought to thread his way through. Declan turned and frowned at him.

“I’m trying!” said Jute. "Really, I am."

“Try harder.”

The trail led them deeper into the forest. The silence and the shadows grew as they went. Jute could hear the ghost mumbling to itself inside his knapsack. In front of him, Declan halted.

“What is it?” said Jute. He sniffed the air. It smelled odd. Somehow wrong.

“Something evil’s come this way,” said Declan quietly. “You’re right, master hawk. The Dark has been here. Not so long ago. A strange track. This print here looks like a deer, yet the next step is something different. And the stride’s too long.”

“The smell of it’s fading,” said the hawk. “A day ago, perhaps. How odd. It’s a mix of blood and darkness and something else. Stop quivering, Jute.”

“Sorry.”

Jute clamped his mouth shut. He was afraid his teeth were about to start chattering. He had the feeling that something was watching him. Something in the darkness, a shadow standing behind a tree. Something perched in the branches overhead and staring down through the leaves.

“Did someone say blood and darkness?” said the ghost, popping its head out of Jute’s knapsack.

“And look here,” said Declan, kneeling on the ground. “These are Giverny’s prints. I think this thing, whatever it is, was tracking my sister.”

They made greater speed then. Declan ran, one hand steady on the hilt of his sword and the other keeping his cloak close about him. Jute was hard pressed to keep up. The hawk flung himself from the boy’s shoulder and flew through the darkness. Jute was sure the bird would crash into a branch at any moment, for the trees grew close together and their branches wove together with those of their neighbors into an impenetrable and continuous thicket. But the hawk flashed in and out of the branches and for periods of time vanished deeper into the forest, ranging far from them on either side, only to appear once again in a silent flurry of wings. They came to a clearing in the forest, wide enough so that the gloom was relieved by sunlight. Overhead, blue sky was visible. The hawk flapped his way up toward it and was gone. Declan stopped below an oak.

“She was here. Up in this tree.” He stepped back, looking up into the branches. “Whatever’s tracking her was here too.”

“There’s a broken branch on the ground,” said Jute.

“And blood,” said the ghost. It reappeared and crouched down on the ground. “Ooh. Look at that—though, not much, I’m afraid.”

“Where?” said Declan. “Move! You’ll disturb the mark.”

“I’m a ghost. I don’t disturb anything.”

“Human blood,” said Declan after a while. His face looked pale beneath his tan. The hawk landed on the ground and settled his wings.

“There’s a storm advancing from the east,” said the hawk. “Dark clouds over the mountains. It’ll be on us before the evening and you’ll lose the trail, yes?”

“Perhaps,” said Declan.

“Let’s hurry, then.”

And so they went on, following the trail through thickets and brambles and through the shadows beneath the treetops. It grew darker as they went. The hawk settled back onto Jute’s shoulder and swayed there as the boy hurried after Declan.

“Can’t we stop to eat?” said Jute. “It’s past lunchtime. At least, that’s what my stomach says. There must be plenty of rabbits about here. You can have a nice, fresh one yourself. My legs are tired. It’s no fun being the wind. I’d much rather just be a thief back in Hearne.”

“Must you always be interested in your stomach? I doubt there’s a rabbit within a mile of us.” The hawk shut his beak with an angry click and then took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was measured and patient. “The presence of the Dark tends to drive animals mad. They lose their minds. The scent of whatever it was that passed this way probably sent the animals in the vicinity fleeing.”

The ghost stuck its head out of Jute’s knapsack. “In my teaching days, I had the misfortune to teach some boys whose minds were perpetually lost. I remember one boy. He got hauled into the head professor’s study for various acts of skullduggery: transforming other boys’ pillows into piles of slugs while they slept, setting fire to the snow in the wintertime, convincing the tower mice that there were islands made out of cheese just over the horizon. The mice stole a fishing ketch one day and sailed away in great excitement. The cats were furious.”

“You’re the most infuriating ghost I’ve ever met!” snapped the hawk.

“Be quiet,” said Declan. “I don’t mind a snapped twig or a noise here and there, but we might as well give up now if you’re all going to continue bickering like this, do you understand?”

The ghost vanished with an aggrieved snort, and the hawk took to his wings without a word. After a while, the trees thinned before them and Jute saw that they had reached the edge of the forest. The plain stretched away into a gathering gloom. The air was cold and Jute could smell the coming rain.

Declan spat to one side and cursed.

“Nearly back to where we started,” he said. “Not a half hour’s walk south of where we first entered the forest. I’d bet my life on it. Shadow take it. If we’d just come south instead of wasting time in the forest, we’d have cut hours off the chase. Still, there’s no use crying now.”

And south they went, with the man intent on the trail. The path led them along the edge of the forest, and the trees seemed to lean forward as if they sought to watch what they did. It began to rain. This only spurred Declan on to greater speed. Jute hunched his shoulders in misery against the cold and wet and hurried after him.

“Oh, how hungry I am,” he said out loud. “I wish I had a leg of roast chicken, or one of those dumplings stuffed with onions and cheese that the deaf lady in Mioja Square sold. How tasty they were.” He licked his lips at this thought and did some more groaning.

“Stop that,” said the ghost from inside his knapsack. “You sound like a sick cow. Get a hold of yourself.”

“I’m hungry.”

“There seems to be something in here. Bread, I think. Why don’t you eat that? I take back anything nice I said about you. Did I say anything nice about you? I can’t remember. Whining boys give me a headache.”

Jute, groping around in his knapsack, found an overlooked piece of bread. It was stale, but it tasted wonderful.

The hawk coasted by on motionless wings. Raindrops glistened on his feathers. The air rustled with the sound of the rain on the grass and the wind blowing across the treetops. After a while, the ground descended and they found themselves on the uppermost slopes of a valley. Far off at the bottom of the valley, a line of trees was visible.

“The Rennet River,” said Declan.

The valley floor looked as if it was heavily farmed. Stands of cornstalks stood in shabby graying yellow, stripped of their produce and ready for the fire. Stubbled fields of cut hay alternated with plots of recently plowed earth turning to mud under the rain. Here and there, hedgerows and stonewalls straggled between the fields. Declan halted at the edge of a grassy field. The grass was trampled flat before them and in the middle was a large scorched area.

“What happened here?” said Declan. “A fire blazed here so hot that it devoured the grass and blackened the wet earth. And, unless I’ve forgotten everything my father taught me of tracking, this is where our strange creature’s trail ended. It seems as if it was burned in the fire.”

“You’re right,” said the hawk, landing on Jute’s shoulder.

“But what happened to my sister? A company of people camped here, with tents and horses and even some wagons. A wealthy party, for these were large tents with heavy carpets put down on top of the grass.”

“There’s a road beyond that rise,” said the hawk. “The old road that runs west to Hearne through the Rennet Valley. The king’s road, as it was once called. Many travelers use this road—anyone journeying between Hearne and the duchy of Mizra, or any of the villages in between.”

“Perhaps she fell in with some kind folk,” said Declan. The rain dripped off the end of his nose. “Who would want to harm a poor girl?”