The stranger looked at Jeanne Dubois as if seeing her for the first time. After a moment, his empty smile returned, and he bowed.
Something yanked Benjamin downward with incredible force. He clung to the witch's wrist, unable to scream. He was buried to his waist in the packed dirt of the road and sinking. She held him fast.
'It has been a long time,' the dark man said.
'It will be a long time again, I think,' Jeanne replied. She did not smile.
In that instant, everything shifted. Jeanne yanked back on Benjamin's arm, and there was a wet, tearing sound. In that same instant, fast as a snake, she snatched at the contract in the dark stranger's hand. He moved – and he was fast – but she owned the grace and speed of moonlight.
He stepped into shadows. The raven took flight in a screaming cacophony of flapping wings and screeching, raucous caws. The contract tore. It was not a clean tear. It started at the edge of the page and ripped a jagged line at an angle downward, splitting the signature cleanly.
Benjamin saw none of this. He stared down at where his torso had once joined his legs. Bone and gristle, flesh and dripping blood trailed away toward the yawning hole where his legs had disappeared. He tried to scream but sucked blood and air into disassociated lungs.
Jeanne's image flickered, shifted, and again there was a sickening wrench as she drove her legs, now talons, into the soil and kicked into flight. Bright, silvery wings spread out to either side. She whirled in that instant, latched onto Benjamin's ruined form and soared. Within seconds she cleared the tops of the nearest trees and was gone.
The dark stranger stood at the crossroads, staring after her. The ground had drawn in and sealed itself. He stood still as a statue, and then, from deep inside his thin, powerful frame, laughter burst forth. It didn't start slowly and build, but rolled out like thunder. The frost, which had momentarily warmed and begun to melt, became a sheet of solid, crystal ice that coated ground and trees. The sound of his laughter cracked it, and everything near him shattered, falling away as so much frigid dust.
Carefully, he rolled the torn contract. He leaned and shot his hand into the earth with no more effort than that of a child sticking his hand into a snow drift. He pulled free a long, slender tube, and slid the document inside. When it was sealed, he tucked it under his jacket, turned, and walked away down one of the crossed trails. As he reached the edge of the shadows of the first great trees, he began to fade from sight. A few paces more, and he had disappeared completely. Only the dusting of frost, and a fallen quill, carved from a raven's feather, marked his passing.
‡‡‡
As if waking from a dream, Mariah became aware of the fire, still crackling in front of her. The day had passed. The shadow of the wagon had grown long and engulfed them, only to disappear as it neared the blaze. Balthazar sat beside her, hands steepled and an odd, contemplative expression masking his angular features. He'd fallen silent. Or…she shook her head, confused. Had he even spoken?
'That can't be all,' she said. She found her throat dry again. Was it possible they'd sat there through the afternoon, and the early evening? Could it be night? She reached out and picked up her drink. It was still cold.
'No story is ever truly over,' Balthazar said. He sat up straighter, unfolded his hands, and turned to gaze at her.
'Lives and stories are circular. Everything is a pattern. You are correct in guessing that this one is unfinished.'
He held up the torn document again. Mariah's mouth dropped open as comprehension drowned coherent thought. The bottom third of the document was missing. It was torn directly through the signature. What remained, as well as she could make it out, was the name Benjamin.
Balthazar offered no further comment. He rolled the document, tucked it back into its tube, and stood.
'The night is upon us,' he said. 'You'll need to eat, and then, it will be time for rest. Battles are seldom won by the weak. There are things you need to know before we can proceed – and things you need to remember. I will … watch over you. There is a bed in the back of the wagon. It's not luxurious, by any means, but I believe you'll find it clean and comfortable.'
'Who are you,' she asked him again.
He stared at her, not a hint of emotion in evidence, and shook his head. 'Everything you need to know, you already hold here,' he patted his head, 'or here,' he touched his hand to his heart. 'Don't ask me questions you'd rather not hear the answer to out loud…that is my advice to you. Eat, sleep, get your strength back, and be patient. All things come in their time.'
Mariah opened her mouth, and then closed it. She stared off across the dancing flames of the fire, and Balthazar turned to his wagon. In the shadows at the perimeter of the camp, shapes materialized, flickered, and disappeared. They were tall, slender shapes. Mariah thought she recognized them, but their forms were insubstantial, and every time she tried too hard to concentrate on features, or a face, they blew apart in the wind and left her grasping at memories.
They were men, but not men. At times, great black wings spread out behind them, like those of huge dark- eyed ravens, or crows. Their faces were pale and draped in shadow, and if she watched long enough, and one turned, it seemed she could make out the long, sharp beak. They ringed the camp as though standing guard, and though she knew she should be frightened by such a thing, what she was was curious – and frustrated. Something itched at the back of her mind and tugged at her temper. She knew these – things – but she could not draw the memory to the surface.
At some point the scent of searing meat told her Balthazar was cooking again, and as hard as she tried to ignore him and concentrate on those others, her body betrayed her. She was ravenous. Her mouth prickled with it, and she licked her lips. Her stomach screamed to be filled, and she felt weak again.
The shadows melted into the night. When Balthazar handed her a plate, a slab of meat and some sort of vegetable he'd fried in the grease, she wolfed the food, unheeding of his warning to take things slowly. The plate was empty in moments, and she glanced up. Her first instinct was to ask for more, but then she suddenly realized she was no longer hungry.
Balthazar took her plate and stepped back.
'The bed is in back,' he said again. Then he turned away.
Mariah was exhausted. She lifted herself from the chair, where she'd sat all that day, and her legs nearly betrayed her. She steadied herself on the arm of her chair, took a deep breath, and tottered to the wagon. She worked her way down the side, using it for balance. She wondered if Balthazar was watching. She thought he wasn't, but she didn't waste the strength to turn and check.
After what seemed like hours, she reached the rear of the wagon. There was a single step, and it was nearly at her waist level. Above the dark interior of the wagon waited. She laid her cheek against the side of the rear panel of the wagon. It was too far – too high. She felt as if she might fall, or just lean there, letting the wagon support her weight as she drifted off into oblivion.
From very far off, she heard a sound. It was very faint, and she thought maybe it came from behind her, but then it shifted. It came from the wagon…from the shadows. It was the voice of a child, a newborn, crying. It was the voice of regret, the voice of loneliness and pain. She gripped the wagon so tightly her fingers grew white from the strain and lifted her leg so that her knee found the first step. She saw this would not work, that the next step – the floor of the wagon – was too high, and with a groan of pain, she lifted her leg again and brought her foot up to the step, bending at the waist. The crying redoubled, and she cried out.
With a lunge that spent every bit of her remaining strength, she clawed her way up and over the lip of the wagon's rear door, spilling onto the floor. There was almost no light, but it was enough. Ahead, to her left, was a rough mattress, covered with dark blankets. She crawled to it, scraping her knees and her hands on the rough plank floor, dragged herself onto the bedding, and closed her eyes. The crying faded slowly, as if moving away from her. She dropped into fitful dreams, chasing the sound and yearning for her child.
Balthazar stood at the rear of the wagon, watched her just for a moment, silhouetted in the moonlight, and then gently closed the wagon door, cutting off the night.
