The Blackness Has Wings
Maggie awoke to the deep sensation of fear. It seemed to her that she had been having a nightmare, but the memories of it had already receded into the far reaches of her mind. For a moment she lay awake, staring into the pitch darkness of the wagon. In the bunks beside her, she could hear the Major snoring lightly, and she could just make out the shape of Nicolas’s hand hanging down from the top. The inside of the wagon was familiar to her, but its familiarity refused to slow down the beating of her heart or bring even an ounce of comfort to stop the creeping of fear over her skin. She shivered.
And then she saw it.
The raven was perched on the foot of her bed, and it was staring at her with green eyes. Eyes like the death-hound.
Maggie felt its eyes peering into her own, penetrating her courage, draining strength from her. She fought against the bird’s malevolent grip, even as the air seemed to close in around her. She could barely breathe. At last she tore her eyes away from its hypnotic stare, to catch sight of something in the bird’s claws.
She gasped, air coming to her in a rush. It was the scroll.
Her coat was hanging on a hook near the front of the wagon. Somehow the bird had taken the parchment from her pocket. Its black claws gripped the ancient paper with utmost care. Breathing hard now, with sweat gathering on her brow, Maggie watched as the bird’s wings stretched up and its body tensed for flight.
She knew she had to grab the scroll, but she was unable to move. Her fingers strained against imaginary bonds as she willed herself to move, to reach for the scroll before it was too late.
Suddenly, a form sprang across the wagon. Nicolas landed on the bed with his hands grasping the raven’s wings.
“Quick, Maggie,” he yelled. “Get the scroll!”
Maggie lurched forward, her immobility broken. The bird fought against Nicolas with all its strength, and the force of its struggle knocked him down to the floor of the wagon. Maggie grabbed at the scroll, crying out with pain as the bird’s beak speared at the skin on the back of her hand, the force of its blow deflected just enough to tear her skin without impaling her. She wrenched at the scroll and it came free from the creature’s grasp.
Maggie scrambled to her feet and pushed her way to the front of the wagon as Nicolas rolled on the floor, desperate to hang on to the creature. The Major, awakened by Nicolas’s initial yell, let out a war-like cry just as the raven tore its wings from Nicolas’s grasp and flew out the back door of the wagon.
Nicolas leaped out after the bird while the Major pulled on his tall boots. He ran for the front of the wagon as Maggie cried out, her voice mingling with the horrible caw of the raven.
The Major emerged from the wagon to see Maggie wielding a stick, doing her best to beat the raven off. Nicolas, on the ground below her, threw a rock at the bird, only managing to clip its wing, and dropped to his knees in search of another missile. The Major gave a ferocious cry and grabbed his sword from its resting place just inside the front of the wagon. He swung out at the bird as Maggie ducked out of the way. The raven darted up to dodge the blow and came right back at Maggie again. Once more the sword cut the air, with all of the Major’s impressive strength behind it, enough force to split the bird in two. Again, the raven flew back just out of range. It cawed as one of Nicolas’s stones hit its neck.
Throughout the caravan, the Gypsies awakened to the strange battle. Lights bobbed in the camp as stocking feet stumbled out of the wagons with many a sleepy exclamation in tow. Pipe-smoking Peter leapt onto his mare’s bare back, and the ragged pair came up beside the wagon as the Major’s sword lashed out again. The bird moved out of range, but this time it darted forward again almost instantly, headed straight for Maggie and the scroll she had tucked inside her shirt. She pressed against the wagon, and the Major threw himself in the way. The bird’s claws tore down his face, leaving bloody tracks across his forehead, nose, and cheek. It just missed the big man’s eyes.
“Here, Maggie!” Peter called. Maggie launched herself off the wagon onto the horse’s back. Peter drew a thin sword and called out Nicolas’s name. Nicolas turned and caught the weapon as Peter tossed it to him. He was on the wagon beside the Major in an instant, slashing at the darting foe.
From all over the caravan, the Major’s Gypsies came to witness the battle. They surrounded Peter and Maggie with rocks and sticks and swords in their hands, every one ready to take his or her own shot at the hellish creature in their midst.
But the raven seemed determined to deny them the pleasure. All of a sudden, it pulled away from the fight and flew off like a ghost into the blackness of the woods.
Deafening silence filled the clearing as the Major stood on the wagon, breathing hard, his sword still drawn. Nicolas crouched with his weapon at the ready, listening. The entire camp seemed to hold its breath.
From somewhere far away, they heard a rushing sound.
“What…” Maggie heard Peter say under his breath.
The ravens exploded from the trees in a burst of wings and claws and green, glowing eyes, cawing and screaming. There were thirty of them at least, though there seemed to be hundreds, and they descended on the Gypsies like vengeful spirits.
Peter wheeled his mare around and drove his heels into the animal’s side. The Gypsies melted away from their path as the mare fled from the scene. Behind them, Maggie could hear the beating of wings. She turned her head to see five ravens after them, low to the ground. She buried her head in Peter’s back, while behind her, the Gypsies attacked the birds with rocks and sticks and swords. She heard the birds’ unearthly screams as the Gypsies cut them out of the sky.
On the wagon, Nicolas and the Major ducked and spun and slashed as the ravens flung themselves toward them. The wounds on the Major’s face ran with blood as wings beat on his head and shoulders. Black feathers attacked his eyes like fits of blindness. The cries of men and birds filled the air, mingled with the slashing of swords and axes and the dull thud of clubs and stones. Somewhere in the melee, a child’s wailing rose above the sounds of battle.
Peter’s mare kept a frenetic rhythm as her hooves beat down the rutted road away from the caravan. Maggie clung to Peter’s waist as she tried to slow the pounding of her heart. His clothes smelled like pipe smoke. The forest flew past in a blur of shadows and tangled shapes. One shape took form before them, and Peter tensed. He pulled up on the reins. They stopped, the mare prancing with the suddenness of it.
A raven was perched on a low-hanging branch over the road, glaring menacingly at the riders. Peter’s mare fought against his control, stamping impatiently, as Peter stared at the bird.
The mare was breathing hard, her sides heaving under the riders’ legs, as Maggie’s eyes caught those of the raven. Without warning she felt the same fear that had paralyzed her in the wagon. A strangled cry died in her throat. The bird stretched up its wings and floated up off the branch, hovering in the air just before them, just before the attack they knew would come. Maggie wondered why Peter did not move, and then realized that the paralyzing eyes had taken hold of him as well.
But the mare had not looked into the raven’s eyes.
With a frantic neigh, the mare tore the reins from Peter’s hands with a jerk of her neck and galloped back down the road to the caravan. With their backs turned on the black bird, both Peter and Maggie came to their senses. Peter drove his heels into the mare while Maggie leaned forward, willing herself to be lighter, to be wings to the mare. The scroll inside her coat felt like a weight holding them back.
The Gypsies, scratched, beaten, and bleeding, had dragged fifteen of the ravens to their deaths on the ground. The remaining birds circled overhead like vultures. Below, the Gypsies stood waiting, their bodies tense for the battle that was surely not over.
The sound of wings suddenly beat in Maggie’s ears, and she cried out in pain as claws ripped into her back. Peter twisted himself around, but he could not move to help. The raven cawed wildly, its wings beating all about Maggie’s head and shoulders.. The mare reared onto her hind legs in terror. Maggie, arms thrown up to protect her eyes, slipped from the horse’s back.
The bird flew up just before Maggie hit the ground and dove toward her again. She rolled out of the way just as it plummeted; it pulled back into the sky rather than crashing into the ground. Maggie’s heart pounded in her ears, blocking out all other sounds. From the corners of her eyes she could see the brightly painted wagons and blurred motion as the Gypsies battled the ravens who had once more descended on them. But she could not tear her eyes from the raven, the nightmare that hovered just above her, screaming victory.
Then a low whistle pierced through Maggie’s isolation, and the bird’s wings were suddenly tangled in the strong cords of a net.
Maggie scrambled backwards and to her feet, eyes riveted as Marja struggled with the raven. It cawed and snapped its beak, fighting to free itself from the net. Its strength wrenched at Marja’s arms and threw her from side to side, but the Gypsy girl did not let go.
Maggie turned her head to see Nicolas standing beside her. He was watching Marja with fascination, and Maggie realized that all of the Gypsies had turned their attention to Marja’s battle. The still-living ravens had withdrawn once again.
Maggie looked up to the birds that circled high above. An icy fear struck her as she realized that something was happening to them. Nicolas saw the look of horror on her face and looked up with her, his face paling beneath bright red scratches.
The ravens seemed to be losing their shape. Feathers gave way to ragged edges; claws and beaks disappeared as the birds lost their bird-shape and became turbulent, black scraps of energy.
Then Maggie saw it. Slowly, pieces of the bird-things were being torn away, drawn into a larger power… and the raven in the net was growing.
Larger and larger it grew, until its wings began to snap the cords of the net. Green smoke played around its beak and eyes. With an ear-shattering cry the bird broke free of the net, and still it grew. It was as big now, thought Maggie, as the hell-hound.
The raven dove, knocking Marja to the ground. She threw up her hands to protect her face as the enormous thing descended on her. The Gypsies threw off their fascination and hurled themselves into action. They rushed forward with a battle cry. Maggie grabbed a club that lay abandoned on the ground and joined the attack.
The raven beat its wings furiously, rising above the onslaught of steel and club. Maggie gasped at the sight. Marja clung to one of the creature’s feet as it swept her into the air above the battle scene. People shouted. “Let go! We’ll catch you!” Marja seemed not to hear. Peter fought his way through to the front of the crowd. Maggie heard him scream Marja’s name.
Marja looked down at the sound of Peter’s voice. Their eyes met, and he heaved his sword into the air with all of his strength. Marja held to the creature’s leg with one hand, and slid down far enough to catch the sword. With a triumphant cry, she drove the blade up into the underside of the raven. The bird screamed and clawed at her, ripping into her side. The waiting crowd heard her cry out in pain as she fell into their arms. The raven circled overhead, cawing, and then dove once again into the battle. This time, the Major was waiting for it.
As the Gypsies scattered from the bird’s attack, the Major leapt from the top of a wagon to the raven’s back. His sword hacked into the joint of the bird’s wing, penetrating the feathers to the bone. The raven screamed and threw itself straight up, sending the Major hurtling to the ground.
But it was clear that the creature had been dealt a blow. Its crippled wing dragged it down as it struggled to rise, and the Major bellowed a warning to the waiting band below. They gave a triumphant roar as the bird crashed to the ground.
A man ran forward, sword at the ready, but a blow from the raven’s wing sent him crashing back into his fellows. On the ground, with its beak like the tip of a giant spear and its massive wings threatening, the bird looked as dangerous as it had in the air. Its green eyes glared with hatred at the Gypsy band that surrounded it.
A cry of “Rope!” rose over the crowd. A long coil quickly made its way into the Major’s hands, one end tied around a rock. He whirled it in the air above his head and threw the end over the bird’s neck to Peter, who waited on the other side. Peter grabbed it, only to be pulled off his feet as the raven jerked its head up. He was dragged four feet on his stomach as the raven strained against the rope. With another jerk, the rope came loose from the Major’s hand, and Peter scrambled to his feet.
But now ropes were everywhere. They flew through the air to waiting hands, over the raven’s head, neck, tail, and wings. Older children ran through the crowd with wooden stakes, sticks, and rocks, pounding them into the ground to secure the web. At last, the raven lay trapped beneath a net far stronger than the one Marja had wielded.
The Major climbed onto the raven’s neck and lifted his sword high. He held it for a moment, steadying himself as the creature’s body strained beneath him. The crowd broke into a shout of victory as he brought the sword down into the raven’s head. The strength of his thrust shattered the bird’s skull. The Major threw himself clear as the raven shuddered. It let out one last scream and lay still.
Marja’s whistle rose over the silence, sending a note of mourning into the night breeze. As the Major’s Gypsies watched, the breeze turned into a wind and stirred the feathers of the creature. Slowly, the carcass began to dissolve, becoming no more feathers and bone and sinew, but ragged bits of energy that caught on the wind and disappeared, until all that was left of the great bird was a maze of ropes and stakes.
* * *
The Gypsies returned to their wagons. A few tried painfully to sleep; others sat and whispered away the last few hours before dawn. In the camp of the caravan, before the embers of the great bonfire, the Major and a few of his band stood with Nicolas and Maggie.
“I’m sorry to do this,” the Major said, his torn face dark with drying blood. “But I have my people to consider. We have enough battles of our own to fight.”
“I understand,” Nicolas said.
Maggie stood next to him with her head bowed. She was unable to look the Major in the eye. She had brought this upon them; she and the scroll. Brought it, too, upon Nicolas. Because of her he would have to leave these people with whom he was so much at home. She felt as though she had made him an outcast again. The burden of it weighed on her.
Nicolas began to turn away, but the Major stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “We part now,” the Major said in a voice deep with concern, “but we part friends.”
Nicolas turned back and placed his own hand on the massive shoulder of the Major.
“You have done more than I can thank you for,” Nicolas said.
Maggie looked up then. Her eyes wandered to the others who stood by the bonfire. Marja, her face white and her clothing stained crimson with blood where the raven’s claws had ripped into her, leaned heavily on Peter. She was silent and her face was racked with pain. But she had come to say good-bye—or at least, to make sure that the danger left with them.
The Major stepped back from Nicolas and looked at Maggie. His face broke into an unexpected smile. “I hope you will come back to us someday,” the Major said. “Tiny Paul will miss you. And we will all miss your storytelling.”
A lump rose in Maggie’s throat, and she blinked back tears. “I—” she began, and faltered. She thought she saw encouragement in the faces of Peter and Marja, so she continued. “I’m a long way from home,” she said. “But for a little while, you made me forget the distance. Thank you.”
The Major nodded. Nicolas and Maggie turned and began to leave the small company, but pipe-smoking Peter’s voice stopped them.
“You can’t go on foot,” he said. “You’ll never get where you’re going that way… anyhow, we have two horses for you.”
He walked past them and led them to the dark area where the caravan’s horses were kept. Maggie shook her head when Peter handed her the reins of his own little mare.
“I can’t,” she said. “Your own horse… No, Peter, I can’t take her.”
“She’s strong,” Peter said, puffing smoke and talking out of the side of his mouth. “She might not look like much, but Nancy’ll get you where you need to go.”
“I know she will, but…” Maggie’s voice trailed off. Nicolas shook his head at her. She took a deep breath and looked Peter in the eyes.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take good care of her… and bring her back to you.”
Peter nodded. “No rush,” he said. “She’s not hardly a loss.” But he could not resist patting the mare’s neck one last time, and Maggie thought she saw tears glinting in his eyes.
She stroked Nancy’s shaggy head and smiled at the warmth in the little creature’s eyes. Away in the darkness she heard Nicolas holding counsel with Bear.
“I know you don’t want to stay, but it’s for your own good,” she heard him say. “You wait for me outside Pravik, you understand? I’ll come back to you soon. And stay with these Gypsies a while. Protect them.”
Bear made a sound that was a little like crying, and then Nicolas swung onto the bare back of a gelding, and they rode away.
* * *
It was noon when four passengers disembarked from a cab at the white-cliffed harbour of Daren. The harbour was busy as it was sunny, and a brisk wind threatened to take Lord Robert’s hat off of his head. He held it tightly as he went to inquire after fare to Galce, leaving the women behind to wander as inconspicuously as they could through the crowds.
Pat was the first to see the green and black police uniform through the morass of fishermen, sailors, and housewives. Hands in her pockets, she stepped in front of Virginia and Mrs. Cook and whispered, “Trouble.”
The three women moved in the opposite direction of the uniform, each holding one of Virginia’s arms a bit too tightly. As they went, Mrs. Cook and Pat saw another soldier, standing so close that a turn of his head would reveal them. He was talking animatedly to a fisherman, who was looking at the soldier as though he suspected he might not be quite right in the head.
Virginia’s sharp ears caught the words, “Dangerous fugitive… murderers…” and “blind.”
“They’re looking for us,” she whispered. Mrs. Cook moved to block Virginia from the soldier’s line of vision, and Pat hustled them through the crowd toward the water.
Behind them, they heard the laird’s voice begging pardon as he made his way through the crowds. He greeted them with an agitated whisper, his hat in his hand and the wind blowing his dark blond hair. It made him look wild and almost young.
“There are soldiers everywhere,” he said. “We don’t have a chance at boarding a ship. They’ve set every sailor in the harbour on the watch for us. Even if one would let us board, his mate would be sure to betray us. They’re offering a reward.”
“How could they know we’re here?” Pat asked. “Are they watching every harbour in Midland?”
“They have the men for it,” Lord Robert answered. His eyes fell on Virginia, who held her head high as she drank in her surroundings through every sense available to her. Her wrists were still bandaged and painfully raw. Mrs. Cook stood at her side, holding her arm. Overheard instructions came back to him: Stop them however you can… but we need the girl alive. Lord Robert set his jaw and turned back to Pat.
“We’ve got no choice. She’s not safe in the Isles.”
“Nor are you,” Pat said. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re on the hit list as well as she is.”
“Aye,” Lord Robert said, “but she’s the one they want.” His voice dropped too low for anyone to hear. “I’d give anything to know why.”
Lord Robert’s eyes scanned the harbour, looking over the heads of the crowd to the boats moored on the docks. A little fishing boat humbly bobbed on the water, barely noticeable in the midst of larger ships. It was tiny and, from all appearances, ancient, but it looked seaworthy.
“Come,” Lord Robert said, and led the way to the tiny boat. Pat and Mrs. Cook looked it over dubiously, but the nearness of the High Police choked their protests.
Lord Robert climbed aboard and held out his hand for Virginia. She took it and made the guided leap from the dock to the boat, her heart only in her throat a little. Lord Robert helped her sit near the back of the tiny craft. Next, Mrs. Cook jumped for the boat, gasping through clenched teeth as it rocked underneath her. Pat knelt on the dock and untied the thick knot that held the boat to the shore. In a moment she stood and jumped in, the rope in her hands.
Lord Robert grabbed the oars and began to steer the drifting boat away from the harbour. Waves lapped gently against its sides, and Mrs. Cook held on tightly. Pat dug around beneath the front seat and came up with a small spyglass, some maps, and a waterproof wooden box full of hard tack and tobacco. A fishing net, wet and tangled, lay at Virginia’s feet.
Pat put the glass to her eye and stood up, surefooted even on the waves, looking back at the harbour.
“Black-and-Greens everywhere,” she commented. “It doesn’t look like they’re onto us.”
She turned, looked out to sea, and whistled. “Black clouds rolling in. Methinks we’re in for a rough ride.”
“You don’t need the spyglass to see that,” Lord Robert said.
Pat put the glass down and saw that clouds were quickly blocking out the sun that had felt so warm in the harbour. The wind was picking up, and the water was white with choppy waves. Mrs. Cook’s face was pale. Virginia sat beside her, facing the wind with implacable courage. For a moment Pat wondered if Virginia was unaware of what was happening, but the changing temperature and motion of the water had told the blind girl all she needed to know.
No one suggested that they turn back.
The storm held off for hours, until Daren was nothing but a fading vision of white cliffs behind them. Then lightning streaked a path down to the sea, and deafening thunder tumbled after it. Rain lashed the craft and its inhabitants furiously. The waves stirred as though a giant beneath them had awakened.
The oars were useless against the crushing force of the water, and Lord Robert struggled to pull them into the boat. A cracking, splintering sound met his efforts, and the remains of the oars came suddenly up out of the water, jagged ends outlined in a flash of lightning.
A huge wave rushed violently down over their heads, and filled the little boat with water. Pat grabbed the wooden box and dumped the contents overboard, struggling to keep her balance as the boat bucked and tossed beneath her. The water was up to their ankles and cold enough to steal their breath away, and Pat bailed furiously. Mrs. Cook joined in, bailing with her cupped hands.
Again and again the wind and waves and rain battered the tiny boat, while its inhabitants bailed stubbornly and furiously. Only Virginia was calm. She sat in the back of the boat and looked up, unmoved, while her face met the onslaught of the rain without fear. She neither helped nor hindered the efforts of the others, and to them she seemed not to belong to them—to be a creature of the air.
As the numbing cold and painful lashing of the water drained the strength from those who tried to fight it, a great stillness overtook Virginia. No hint of expression passed over her face, and even the sea around her calmed. Pat wiped her hair out of her eyes and stared at the strange young woman, whose very calmness seemed to take the fury out of the storm.
“Look!” Virginia commanded suddenly, and the three ceased working against the water and raised their eyes to the sky.
They were surrounded by an army of beautiful giants.
In the blackness of the clouds warriors and horses waited, wearing golden armour and cloaks of deep scarlet and forest green. They stood facing the wind, and their horses stamped impatiently. The air was filled with the sounds of swords swinging, harnesses jangling, and hooves stamping. The wind made the white manes of the horses and the long hair of the warriors stream out behind them. For a moment only, even the earthy smells of the creatures reached the sailors in the tiny boat.
And then it was gone.
Lord Robert looked away from the sky and at Virginia with wild eyes. He had seen it. It was real. She had opened the Otherworld to him at last.
The rain continued to fall, but it did not chill them as it had before. The wind died down and the waves that had beaten the boat now caressed it, and carried the little craft through the water to Galce.
The sun was setting fiery orange over the water when the fishing boat scraped against the sands of the continent. Lord Robert and Pat jumped into the surf and pulled the boat to shore, where they helped Mrs. Cook and Virginia out. The setting sun brought the changing colours of the forest to blazing, brilliant life. Somewhere deep in the trees, a bird was singing.
Virginia shivered with the cold, fully human again, as water dripped from her skirts onto the sand. Mrs. Cook moved close and put her arms around her. Virginia leaned her head on Mrs. Cook’s shoulder, and they stood in silence. Lord Robert let the fading warmth of the sun play on his neck and bare head, and he sighed low. He gazed a moment at Virginia, but she did not seem aware of his presence.
“Where do we go from here?” Mrs. Cook asked finally
The question brought Lord Robert back to himself. He looked around at the sandy shore. His eyes fell on a tall white stone that rose from the water out in the channel, the sun causing it to shine like a strange moon rising from the depths.
“I know this place,” the laird announced. He pointed out at the stone. “That’s the Giant’s Tooth. I came here often as a child. We’re not ten miles from Calai.”
“Which way?” Pat asked.
Lord Robert started off briskly. “This way, I’m nearly certain of it! We haven’t got time to waste, now come on.”
They started to walk, but Virginia suddenly stumbled and nearly fell to the sand. Mrs. Cook held her up, and cast a wrathful glance at the two who led the way.
“She can’t walk all that way now, and though I don’t like to complain, neither can I,” she said. “You two can march on if you like, but we’re resting here.”
Lord Robert bowed his head, and Pat threw herself down on the sand next to Mrs. Cook, stretching out with a long sigh.
“I’m sorry,” Lord Robert said. “Of course a rest is needed.”
Virginia lay down on the sand, and Lord Robert came and sat by her head. He reached out to touch her, but she flinched and moved away. He drew his hand back as though it had been bitten.
No one else had seen, but Lord Robert felt the rejection keenly. Not for the first time, he wondered darkly what it was that had sent the High Police after Virginia Ramsey.
* * *