The Bird
Chapter One:
Winter is always a chilly and positively dreary affair, and though everyone finds the idea of staying at home wrapped in numerous layers of warm wool quite welcome, the news of the Beast's defeat doesn't seem to want to sit still at all. It travels from place to place quieter than any wildfire, consuming a whole village one morning and leaving it abuzz with whispered conversation by afternoon. Messengers of this news ranges from a hastily written letter, a whisper, hurried yell, and a town boy running down the dirt road, mouth stumbling over his words. This is it. We're safe. The Beast is gone.
Needless to say, news of the Beast being vanquished is old talk by the time Spring gets all the fields green again. No one forgets though, and they are certain they never would. Especially Beatrice.
"What do you mean no?"
Beatrice huffs. "I meant what I said— I don't want to go on the silly trip."
Her Mom huffs as well, mouth twisting into a grimace identical to hers. The both of them are in the sitting room, Mom mending some worn clothes and Beatrice sketching. She isn't any good at it in her opinion, and all her drawings ended up in the fire the moment she'd finish.
"But why? Aren't you tired of the country life?" Mom lets go of the needle she holds and meets Beatrice's gaze.
Oh, she is. Beatrice is tired of walking four miles just to get to school, tired of waking up at the crack of dawn to feed the chickens, and completely tired of all the birds that manage to follow her wherever she goes. She couldn't make heads or tails of what they want with her now that she's human again, but they seem to still see her as one of them and would sometimes leave worms wriggling in her lunch bucket or some stalks of trampled hay for her 'nest'. Some of her younger siblings actually kept the hay they got, and would make perfect little nests for young turtle doves or a passing crow to stay in for the night. That would have been fine and all; if only the stupid things would stop with all the birdsong Beatrice swears she can hear even when they're gone.
Really, it was great that her family wanted to leave and find a better life somewhere. But just not right now.
The silence stretches, the question unanswered, and Mom finally sighs, letting her head hang in apparent defeat as she picks up her needle again. Her voice betrays the fact that she'd raised eight children and it sounds so worn and old as she speaks. "Well, we certainly can't leave without you."
Beatrice feels something tug at her insides. She'd never seen her Mom want something as bad as this before. Even becoming human again had been second to her duties as a mother when they lived in a tree trunk all those months ago.
"I-I'll come."
Beatrice almost feels real, physical pain as she peels her gaze from the window she didn't know she'd been facing. The paper that burns in the fireplace later that night contains a sketch of two figures against a dark background.
The trip is planned quickly and Beatrice almost forgets to check the woods every night for signs of a glinting teakettle or navy blue cloak with all the packing she has to do. Almost—she'd never forget to check, ever.
The best pots and pans go into the heavy wooden crates that Dad fills with fresh hay while the rusted ones are driven to the nearest market and are sold. Dresses go along with the pots and pans sometimes, since they would be one of Mom's prettier ones and sported a lot of delicate beading and various ribbons. Mom even sews each of them a little velvet pouch she instructs to fill with their most precious belongings. Beatrice fills hers with her hand-me-down pearl earrings and a few sharpened pieces of charcoal she wraps in cloth to keep from staining the green velvet.
A week passes and suddenly all the neighbours are knocking on their door and bring in jars of pickled vegetables and jams of every color. Links of smoked sausage hang from their kitchen's low rafters and Dad makes sure to bring along a pan. The jars are the last to be packed into wooden crates because no one expects their neighbours to bring over so much food and Beatrice regrets not giving some to Wirt and Greg when they left for home.
They are leaving the next day and Beatrice helps load the last bits of kindling and firewood they would need onto one of the three carts they would be taking on the trip. Her siblings help at first, but then the boys start to tire of the ordeal and they scatter one by one until even her sisters laugh and make up some excuse before running off to play again. Beatrice would normally snap at them for leaving her with all the work, but she's glad for the semi-peace they've granted her and she finishes the job quicker than she had expected.
She doesn't come along with her siblings later on when they make the hour-long trek to school to say goodbye to all their friends and packs up a basket of food to bring into the woods instead. The house is quiet as she picks out the food to bring, her face already sporting a small smile by the time she closes up the basket and exits the house.
Beatrice expects the green field outside to be empty, but sees that Mom is outside peeling potatoes and radishes, the sack beside her still full. She'd probably just started. Dad had peddled away on his bicycle earlier to sell the last few things they couldn't manage to squeeze into their three carts and with all her siblings gone for school Beatrice had thought she would be alone in the house for most of the morning.
"I thought you were visiting the Tavern Keeper."
"Oh, I already did. That sweet woman even gave me all these vegetables."
Beatrice doesn't bother to raise an eyebrow. She's gotten used to Mom being able to make it to one place and back again twice as fast as she could and be ready to wrangle up a whole feast for the family afterwards. She sighs, settling herself to the idea of having to ask permission and sits across from the older woman.
The grass is soft and sweet-smelling and though Beatrice didn't plan on having to ask permission to enter the woods, she finds herself smiling. "I packed a lunch to share with the Woodsman and his daughter. I wanna say goodbye before we leave."
"What food did you bring?" Beatrice has to stop herself from startling at Mom's answer. The Woodsman's cabin is in a darker and less frequented clearing, and her parents always worry about her coming over so often. It was the first time Mom had reacted so calmly to her wanting to go visit the cabin.
Maybe the emotional toll of moving showed so painfully in Beatrice's demeanour that Mom felt sorry for her. "Some cheese and a loaf of bread," she peeked under the basket's woven cover. "And that jar filled with rhubarb preserves."
"Hm. You better bring a bit of the molasses Ms. Langtree brought over. The Woodsman's daughter needs more meat on her bones if she wants to be a logger like her Da." Mom gestures to the big glass jug sitting among the crates of grain and old mill parts. Ms. Langtree had delivered the molasses herself, the memory of her wishing them all luck still fresh in Beatrice's mind.
It was also from the young school teacher that Beatrice finds out about Quincy Endicott. She's surprised she didn't know about the millionaire's disappearance earlier— since Mom always shares the juiciest gossip at the dinner table— but that surprise soon turns to the realization that she really didn't mind Endicott being gone. She has visited a few times since Wirt and Greg left, and the old man makes it a point to give her and whichever sibling she brought at the time a shiny penny.
Even his newfound love Margueritte Grey finds his absence to only be mildly baffling, and she continues running both Grey and Endicott tea businesses as if Endicott had went on an extended vacation. Beatrice visited the Endicott-Grey mansion the moment Ms. Langtree departed from the Old Grist Mill and saw first-hand Grey being her usual self. She left soon after, noting grimly how Grey didn't touch the tea and cookies she'd set for them and the saddled horse ready to go waiting in one of her stables.
It barely comes as a surprise when the woman disappears the very next day.
"Well, get going." Mom's voice breaks into her thoughts. "Just be back to help make dinner. We'll be up early tomorrow."
"Right," Beatrice says, shaking the thoughts out of her head. "I'll be going now."
Mom hummed in response, still peeling by the time she gets up and turns away.
The wind picks up by the time Beatrice reaches the jug of molasses, reddish dirt whirling about her heels as she sets the basket down and hoists the jug out from the cart. Rich, dark brown liquid sloshed around lazily inside and its caramel scent invaded her senses. She grabs a discarded milk bottle and pulls the cork out of the jug's mouth, even more of the strong scent getting into her lungs and coating her throat.
Beatrice smiles bitterly, watching as a single golden line of molasses trickles from the jug's lip and into the milk bottle below. The tune comes easily for her, and soon she's humming.
A little voice sounding like Greg (or what she remembers to be Greg) chirps up a few jumbled song lines about potatoes and molasses in her head to accompany the humming. When the lyrics awkwardly end in the middle and the humming cuts to a lonesome silence, Beatrice feels the familiar pain set in.
The tune barges back into her head like someone playing the piano while she slept, the notes jumpy and jolting down every nerve ending. Half of the lyrics that she can remember echo eerily and bounce around her skull, syllables stretching out to fill the few terrible seconds. Her hands tighten on the smooth and slightly sticky surface of the jug.
(Oh, potatoes and molasses)
No.
(If you want so—) Here the words melt and run into each other because she's forgotten the rest and the little Greg-voice is just a suggestion with a jarring tune playing along with it on a continuous loop. Beatrice feels the grimace pull at her lips and she screws her eyes shut, willing herself to stay steady in spite of everything.
Stop stop stop.
And then the voice quiets, Beatrice barely lifting the jug back up before the milk bottle overflowed.
The memories are getting worse. There are never any nightmares, but the constant assault of pain that would follow a memory that concerned Wirt and Greg made Beatrice wish for them instead.
At first the pain was only a slight ache in her head or dizziness for a few seconds, which always disappeared after a few seconds and she wouldn't be certain if they were connected to the memories at all. But then she would wake up forgetting the color of Wirt's pointy hat one day and be plagued with migraines and a horrid ache in her chest like her lungs were being pressed down with a brick until she finally remembers that yes, that hat had been red. Like Mary Ann's old frock.
She notices later that it was only when she forgets some little detail about the two brothers that the pain becomes almost unbearable. So she would keep their memory under lock and key at all times, only letting fleeting thoughts of them pass her mind when she was sketching since it always helped unclog all the little things she would forget and keep the pain at bay for a longer time. It was the first in a few weeks that she'd forgotten something, and she was glad that after blinking a few times, the continuation of Greg's song she'd previously forgotten bubbles up from somewhere in her head and whisks the remnants of the pain away.
"Ha, I remember." Beatrice murmurs to herself, tucking the milk bottle into the basket and putting the jug back onto the cart. "I remember."
The molasses make the basket the tiniest bit heavier, and it reminds Beatrice of what she was doing in the first place. She mops a sleeve across her forehead, frowning at her own foolishness for wearing long sleeves in this heat. Her feet make the short walk from the mill to the woods' edge and she can feel some of the bounce coming back into her step the closer she gets.
She's hitching her maroon skirts up to her knees when Mom calls out to her.
"Beatrice! I forgot something!"
Maroon skirts and an off-white petticoat drop to the ground with a faint rustle of cloth. Beatrice leaves the basket of food by the tree line and runs back to where her mom is still peeling. The bag is almost empty.
"What'd you forget?"
"The Tavern Keeper wanted to give you something." Mom's hands stop their work to rummage in her pockets, a smile on her face as she pulls out a small lump wrapped in checked cloth.
Beatrice waits for her to elaborate as she takes into her own hands. Something hard and angular digs into her palms through the cloth. She undoes the knot and the cloth's edges fall away like a tower made of blocks, two wooden figurines sitting primly in her hand. For some reason, the sight of them doesn't trigger any pain, but lets a slew of memories free from the confides of her mind. Beatrice guesses looking at the figurines is quite a bit like sketching, and smiles wide enough for her cheeks to hurt.
"Pretty, aren't they?"
Beatrice looks up, still too happy and shocked to really see Wirt and Greg again—Even if it was in wooden statue form. "Yeah. Yeah, they're really nice."
"The Toymaker moved away a few weeks ago, and everyone from town wanted to get the statuettes he'd left in the old tavern. There was even a bluebird, but the Tavern Keeper said she'd given it away to someone earlier. These were the only two left."
"Why didn't she give them away like the others, then?"
"Ah," Mom reaches over to pluck at one of the statuettes. It turns out to be the one that looked like Wirt, and Beatrice smirks at the spooked expression on its painted face. Mom turns it over on her hands and points to a small etching on the bottom of Wood-Wirt's foot. "Read it."
Squinting, Beatrice reads. "Reserved for the bluebird,"she frowns. "And the Tavern Keeper is sure I'm the bluebird he's talking about?"
"Well of course," the sarcasm in her mom's voice is thick and Beatrice already knows what she's about to say. "You're probably the only talking bluebird that ever entered that place. The old toymaker wouldn't forget you for a second."
"The Keeper shooed me out, Mom."
"I know. But she already apologized, didn't she?" At this the older woman returns the figurine. "And anyway, these carvings mean something to you, right?"
Beatrice almost doesn't hear her mom's words, her hands still poised to take the figurine back. She almost succeeds in shutting herself up before any words could leave her lips.
Almost. "Don't you remember who they are?"
"Remember who?"
"The figurines," Her hands shake as she grips at both. "They're Wirt and Greg."
"Who…?"
A broken sob bubbles at Beatrice's throat. She hacks out a cough to hide it, a frown already in place. No one had really remembered Wirt and Greg since the two left. She should've gotten used to her being the only one to remember them. But even she was breaking, memories of them either coming harsh and painful or like an old dream. And if she forgets…who'd remember them then?
It would be like they never existed.
She ties the checked cloth around the figurines and gets up. "They're book characters."
"Hm." The air about them shifts and Beatrice stops to listen. "Are you sure? I can sort of remember seeing a pair of them around here before…"
"Really?" Beatrice looks down and sees Mom looking at the woods in a sort of trance, either on the verge of sleep or recalling some old memory. She hopes it's the latter and clutches at the figurines tighter.
An array of emotions ranging from confusion to sadness pulled at the edges of Mom's mouth, lines appearing and diapering at each new expression. She finally settles on a firm line that makes her look as resolute as Beatrice has ever seen her. Her grey eyes gain back their focus and she begins peeling again.
"No." The older woman shakes her head and winces, or at least seems to, before speaking again. "I think I'd remember if I saw two fellows dressed as strangely as that."
By the time Beatrice answers, she's already turned away to hide her face.
"…Yeah. You probably would."
The rhubarb jam is sweet on Beatrice's tongue, and she smiles at the grin on her companion's face at the taste of it. Anna—or the Woodsman's daughter as everyone seems to be calling her— meets her eyes and smiles back, wider than Beatrice could ever accomplish. Bits of rhubarb color the girl's teeth and Beatrice laughs.
"I still can't believe you've never eaten rhubarb jam before." Beatrice says later, indicating the open jar before them. Anna swipes some of it onto the slice of bread she's holding and stuffs it into her mouth. The girl is a few years younger than her, and has a voracious appetite that contrasts heavily with her skinny and small frame.
She mumbles her reply through the food in her mouth. "I've never eaten rhubarbs before, period. For all I know, this whole jar might be filled with poison that just tastes awesome."
Beatrice rolls her eyes. Sometimes Anna reminds her so much of Gre— no, not thinking about that anymore. It wouldn't do ending up on the floor in a pained heap; especially on the last day she'd see the only person in town who doesn't remember her as 'the cursed bluebird.' She has the Woodsman to thank for that.
"Yep. I thought I might as well poison you since I'd be leaving tomorrow anyway."
"Don't remind me! I'll make sure to wake up nice and early to see you off." Anna announces, reaching over to grab at one of the scones she's prepared herself.
The Woodsman is still out by the time they finish lunch and wrap up the left overs for him to eat. They wash the few plates they use and end up lounging on the cabin's small porch: Anna perched on her father's rocking chair and Beatrice sitting cross-legged below her. They talk about where Beatrice's family plans to move to, and Beth gushes on about adventure and all the new things she would see.
"You'd get to see all those new things and I get stuck here in the middle of the forest, with absolutely no one to talk to with you moving awaaay."
Beatrice feels sorry for the girl since what she's saying is mostly true. Anna didn't attend school, so she really had no other kids her age to talk to her since Beatrice came along. "Ask your dad to move, then. I'm sure he'd think about it."
"Oh no, I'm fine where I am."
"Wha…? But I thought you wanted adventure and whatever else you've always talked about." Beatrice looks up to see that Anna is smiling. The smile is somehow giddy and slightly painful all at once, one Beatrice would never imagine seeing on Anna's thoughtful face. It speaks of ages she has never seen, and it takes her aback for a second.
Anna returns to her usual thoughtful expression and looks to the trees that surround them. "I already know where my place is. Adventure was never meant for me, I guess."
"That's depressing."
"It's true! Getting turned into an Edelwood tree does teach you some things."
Lead drops in Beatrice's gut, something heavy and serious weighing down Anna's shoulders as she looks on. They never talked about that.
"Like embroidery? Miss Thatcher hated my last sampler, said only a spell could get my hands nimble enough to handle a needle properly." Beatrice tries to lighten the mood, but what she'd told Anna is true. Her hands have always sported pinpricks on different levels of healing ever since Mom taught her how to sew at all.
At least it does the trick. Anna cracks a smile and says, "You should've asked Father. He's great at sewing and things."
They both laugh at that, great hiccups mixing into Beatrice's laughs the longer they last. She feels her cheeks color from all the laughing, and she relishes the feeling of the hard wood floors against her palms and the smell of pine in the wind. It's a strange feeling, being this content after so long of just waiting.
Beatrice promises to herself as the laugher slowly bubbles out of her system that she would remember this moment for as long as she could.
"By the way, where is your father?" Beatrice suddenly remembers the time and looks back to the woods. It's surely past lunch time by now, why hasn't the Woodsman come?
"He's never home until the sun sets. Everyone needs his help lately."
That piques Beatrice's curiosity and makes her eyes go wide. "Help for what?"
"Haven't you noticed?" Anna gestures all about her. "People are disappearing, Beatrice. They're all tired of spending their lives cooped up in stupid houses and want to travel into the woods now that the Beast is gone. They very well can't do that without some directions."
The image of Margueritte Grey flashes in Beatrice's head, the woman slipping into the woods on horseback just hours after she'd visited their stately mansion. The thought makes her bones rattle and sweat breaks across her skin. "They can't really be disappearing, right?"
Anna pales slightly and looks away. "Well, you can't say they're still here."
"But where else would they go?"
"How should I know?" Anna chuckles, stopping only when she notices Beatrice still staring at her. She leans in and continues in a more conspiratorial tone: "But if the people who've disappeared lately were still here, then why have they never returned?"
The figurines still in Beatrice's dress pocket grow ten times heavier at her friend's words.
"So what are you saying? That there are other worlds besides our own?" Beatrice huffs out a stiff laugh.
The idea is crazy and could never be true, but Anna isn't wrong; not really. People have been disappearing, many more so than Beatrice would like to point out. The marketplace she passes on her way to the schoolhouse is a little calmer than usual and the shop windows that are nailed shut are far more than the ones that are left open. Families and kids Beatrice's age have gotten a knack for going into the woods for longer periods of time, sometimes they wouldn't come back. And like Grey, the people left behind would just shrug it off and say that they'd be home in a few days. Or like the Tavern Keeper and say that they'd moved away.
Anna shrugs, not offended by the flabbergasted expression on Beatrice's face. "Where did you think Wirt and Greg wanted to return to?"
If the figurines seemed heavy then, they were like boulders in her pockets now. Beatrice is honestly afraid they would rip through her clothes and break through the wooden flooring any second. But they don't, so she doesn't have an excuse to run away.
Her voice is thick when she replies. "You knew Wirt and Greg?"
"Only bits and pieces. Father told me about them," she pauses to consider Beatrice for a moment. "You knew them longer though, right?"
Beatrice could barely nod her head yes.
She wasn't alone.
Wasn't the only one to remember.
Not alone. Not alone. The words repeat themselves in her head like a chant.
"Can you tell me about them?" Anna's voice cuts into her thoughts.
Not alone.
Beatrice agrees, grinning a bit madly.
"This… is terrible."
"You're not the one pushing the cart, Gil." Beatrice huffs out from behind said cart; sweat darkening the her clothes and plastering hair onto her neck. Her brother Francis is beside her, his face red and barely able to nod along to her sentiment. "See? Francis agrees with me. They're going to abandon us if we get any slower."
"Fiiiine. You don't need to whine so much."
Beatrice could feel a biting remark on the tip of her tongue, but she's just too tired to answer. She puts more weight onto the cart and she feels it move an inch. The wood creaks at the motion, the glass bottles inside clinking dangerously. Beatrice ignores the sound and the way her brother tenses up and pushes even harder.
It gives, finally, and they all lurch forward a few steps.
The twins at the front of the cart bite back a curse they've probably heard Beatrice using and look back at them, identical smiles curling their lips. Beatrice grabs Francis by the back of his shirt and helps him get his thin legs through the mud the cart was stuck in only moments before, both of them still flushed by the time they take their places beside Gil and Patrick. They all grab the cart's handle and pull, trying to catch up with the rest of their family.
Only two of their three carts have horses to pull them with, and the whole family works on rotations to see which unlucky family member would get to pull along the smallest cart behind all the rest. The cart itself wasn't very heavy, and Beatrice was certain she could pull it along alone fine for at least a few hours, it was the path that really seemed to hate her.
Spring this year was mostly heavy rain or a cloudless sky, and the two mixed together provides them with cool air and pretty flowers to look at, but also a ton of mud. And the mud always bore uneven spots that would dip or rise suddenly. Most were messy and had Beatrice and her siblings lugging about trying to find a suitable eddy to wash off the mud and change. She could count at least five dresses soaked with water hanging along the biggest cart's edge, drying in the sun's heat. The boys were lucky; a shirt and breeches would dry off in a few hours, a dress took a whole morning. (Only if it was a hot morning, or else wearing it would be like stepping into a winter flurry) And it was just the second day; they would be out of dry clothes by the end of the week.
But they never make it a week.
A few days pass and the rotations put Beatrice safely in a cart pulled by one of the horses while her siblings Ella, Marcus, Julia, and Benedict toil behind to pull the littlest cart along.
It turns into one of those rainy Spring days, and a heavy tarp is covering the little cart to keep the sacks of flour and other foodstuffs from getting wet. The two main carts already have a makeshift roof out of metal arcs that Dad attached some tarp onto, and it keeps the rain away fairly well. She's lucky to be in the one that carries the broken-up mill parts, since Dad paid extra attention to keep it all dry and rust-free.
The cart she's in is a little ways apart from the others because of the rain, caught right in the middle of the two others. Beatrice could just make out the silhouette of the smallest cart through the haze of rain fall. She knows she should be helping them pull it along, but she got into a nasty fall the last time she was pulling it along during a storm and she did not want it to happen again.
And it wasn't because a cart's wheel almost ran over her arm the last time.
The fall caused her to rip the hem of her dress, and she could remember only feeling panic as she searched the muddy path for the velvet pouch she hid in the seams. She eventually found it of course, and is even holding it now, the edges poking through the soft cloth enough to give her comfort. Nothing could really do that anymore—especially since the move.
The combination of the familiar edges digging into her palm and the constant swaying lulls Beatrice into a sleep you could somewhat describe as peaceful. For as she tips her head back and gives off a snore, her eyes are already moving frantically in their sockets, dreams unravelling like thread in every corner of her mind.
She sees the brothers in her dreams, two shadows in a mess of tree branches. Their voices echo with all the words they'd ever spoken to her, and some she wishes they did. The dreams couldn't be nightmares, but they behave like one, crippling her with thoughts about them until night comes and she dreams again. It's a cycle she's gotten more than used to.
"Beatrice!"
Her body lurches up with a start, her skin slick with cold. Beatrice feels the mud between her fingers and the clumps of it in her hair. The smell of earth and metal tinge the stale air she breathes.
"What the heck happened?" Beatrice says, whispering in a voice foreign to her ears. She manages to push herself up the torn tarp, watching it pull away from her at the movement. Rain pounds on her head as she looks around. "Mom? Dad?"
The scene is terrifying.
The cart she was in as she fell to sleep is turned over and she discovers that she probably fell out of the opening and landed on the mud during the fall. The horses are nowhere to be seen.
And she notices, as she picks herself up and almost slip-slides across the ground, that her family is nowhere to be seen either. The path is empty of all other life save for the crows picking at the food rolling across the ground. They are black against the grey sky and they don't seem to notice or even care for her presence, continuing their feast on the muddy apples and peeled radishes rolling across the ground.
"Hey!" Beatrice grabs the hem of her dress and lifts up handfuls of its blue material until she's able to walk across the muddy track, her feet sinking inches into the mud with each step. "Get off of there! Ugh, we need that food!"
Something hard jabs into the heel of her foot, and she topples at the pain that shoots up her leg. Mud streaks her face and she'd sure it's also in her mouth by the time she gets up again. The crows are still there. "Alright. Not going anywhere, huh?"
Beatrice reaches down and closes her fist around the object, raising her fist up into the air. She's about to throw it at one of the biggest crows when freezes. The edges of the object are familiar in her grip and she brings her arm back down and opens her fist.
Mud is covering almost every inch of it, but the slightest bit of green is still visible through the grime. Beatrice lets out a choked breath and clutches the green pouch to her chest, fingers shaking as her knees fold and she crumbles to the ground. She almost forgot about the figurines. Almost forgot about Wirt and Greg. Almost forgot about everything. Almost. Almost. Almost.
"Beatrice?"
Her head snaps up at the voice. Wirt; it was Wirt's voice.
Her hands scramble to push herself up from the mud and when she does, her eyes immediately go wide. She could feel her heart almost stop in her chest.
"It's them."
A warm glow is emanating from between the inky branches of the woods ahead. It's a faint glow, but Beatrice could never mistake the two shadows cutting through the light. She could almost see the metallic glint of Greg's teapot hat and feel Wirt's warm cape wrap around her shoulders. And so she runs. Runs until she falls face-first into the mud.
Dirt and little pebbles roll across her tongue and crunch between her teeth as she grimaces. Her knees are bruised and bleeding, red seeping into her skirt.
But the light is still there, fleeting through the branches. Beatrice's chest tightens and she grips the figurines tighter. She kicks her shoes free from her feet and scrambles up and into the trees after them, feet pounding on the ground and eyes following the ghostly light. Rain peppers her face as she runs, dirt flying up in brown puffs in her wake.
It's slightly nostalgic, running this hard and fast. It's almost like flying.
Beatrice still remembers the feeling of her wings unfurling from her sides as she took off each time, the wind caressing her face and ruffling her feathers. She's worked to make her and her family human again, but she can't really say that being a bluebird was all bad. Being able to fly among the clouds with no abandon was delicious and she wishes she'd taken the time to actually enjoy being a different being for once.
Maybe it was just the Unknown reminding her how much it seems to hate her, or just dumb luck, for the moment she thinks about flying; she does.
A root sticking up from the soft earth hooks onto one of Beatrice's feet and she pitches forward with enough force to send her tumbling. She isn't able to catch herself after the first impact, her head too startled to act just yet. Her body rolls down the slope she didn't know she was running along like some ragdoll, arms useless and clothes snagging on fallen branches. Some drag along beside her as she falls, their sharp points piercing her skin and tearing her clothes. All this Beatrice sees only through brief moments when her eyes are able to open and mud isn't plastered onto her face.
She rolls into a rotten tree stump and it's only then that she stops.
Pain enough to numb her brain wracks her body. The tree stump is partially uprooted from her landing, its roots rising from the ground like the newest saplings. The aroma that only comes from freshly-tilled soil invades her nostrils. Not much of it reaches her brain though, since breathing has become a chore and some crazy part of her head points out that she's probably knocked a few of her ribs out of place. Well, who needs breathing anyway.
Beatrice cracks her eyes open and manages to crawl into a sitting position. Her every breath is unbearably painful, and the light ahead of her is so dim she can barely see it. The same crazy part of her prompts her nose to take in as much air as she can, her chest expanding. Black dots swim in her vision and she almost faints but she doesn't and the pouch she's still holding is torn in some places and the figurines' pointy bits are painful but she doesn't let them go.
Warmth pools in her palm and the green velvet is soaked in red. Beatrice spares it a quick glance, her mouth and nose still gasping for breath.
It happens suddenly, like swinging an axe down onto a piece of wood and not knowing when it splits itself perfectly into halves. Her ribs are like that, poking into her lungs for what seems like an eternity before suddenly popping back into place with what seems like an audible creak of bone. Air floods her system and the ordeal leaves her sore and with almost no energy left to move.
Her eyes are almost closed and she isn't certain if she wants to wake up or not.
"Beatrice." It's Greg's voice now, light and cheery.
"Wait…" Beatrice says, grabbing at dirt and moss and whatever she could get into her hands. "Wait for me."
She all but crawls to the light, her legs shaking too much to hold her body upright for any longer than a minute. The trees are the only things keeping her from falling again, their bark pressing close to her face and smelling like rain. It's slow work, but at least she's getting somewhere.
Beatrice could almost feel the light's warmth on her skin, its orange hue tinting her skin as she neared. There is a small downhill slope before she could reach it, and Beatrice lets go of the tree branch she's holding. Her legs crumple beneath her and she crouches in the mud, breath loud and cold in her ears.
Her hands dig into the soil behind her and she counts, one, two three. Rain, fear, and deep breaths punctuate each number. She almost stops herself, but then the light flickers, almost going out. She lets go.
It's not as bad as the first time, and the path is muddier and with less branches than the first one. Pebbles bump and jostle against her toes and fingers, and Beatrice hopes that none of them will be broken any time soon. The light is brighter and nearer than she could ever imagine and it dances on the water clinging to the leaves above her. It even gets into her hair, lighting the muddy mass up into its natural bright red.
Beatrice gets stuck halfway on a branch of some sort, and the back of her dress is ripped but she barely notices because she's reached the bottom. And she knew what to expect, so what she actually sees makes the pain of all her wounds come back tenfold. She's already on her hands and knees when she stops sliding down the hill, and now even those are crumpling beneath her. She manages just the littlest bit of strength to pull her knees against her chest and curl up into a ball.
Hot and cold sensations rage against her skin, cool rain washing the mud from her arms and blood oozing from her cuts. There are tears too, squeezing past the corners of her eyes and down her cheeks.
Beatrice is sure at first that the tears are for Wirt and Greg, the two brothers nowhere to be seen in the clearing. She knows she's probably imagined seeing their shadows the whole time and the thought makes her sob even harder. Her chest is still sore, so she takes stiff and shallow breaths between each heavy sob, her head growing fuzzy the longer she sits in the clearing.
The longer she sits though, her mind spirals back to the beginning. My family is gone.
No one knows this, and Beatrice makes sure to keep it a secret— especially from her family—but she's promised herself to never abandon them ever again. Running away to get the magical scissors from Adelaide was mostly to get rid of her own guilt, and she'd be lying if the pang of homesickness that always followed her back then wasn't just another way to punish herself for what she did. It's her biggest promise, and she's just broken it, running off into the woods like a maniac. A pain like the one connected to her memories of Wirt and Greg lay heavy on her shoulders and twines around her middle. It is much worse than that though, darker and bringing the thought that unlike being abandoned, she'd been the one to abandon them in the first place. Beatrice thinks that this just might be the feeling of your heart breaking.
"Sorry… I'm so sorry. Please— please just come back."
A rustle makes her look up.
The clearing is still utterly empty of any life, save for the little fire someone had built. Beatrice knows this was the source of the warm light from before, and all she wants to do is stomp it out until only its embers remain, but it's cold and the fire is the only source of warmth she has. She doesn't look at it for long, the sight of Wirt and Greg's shadows against it still too fresh in her mind.
The rustle comes again and Beatrice sees a shiny black turtle among the mud. It's barely even moving, its little flippers stuck in the muck. Beatrice unwraps her arms from around her sides and crawls to the black mass.
Was this a joke?
She's ran all the way to this place, and all she sees is a tiny fire and a damn turtle? Rage bubbled in her, replacing even the pain—at least for the moment.
Beatrice growled between her teeth, legs gaining enough strength to stand and walk shakily over to the turtle. It still wriggled in the mud as if it didn't even see her. Beatrice raises her foot and slams it down hard over the animal, her mouth stretching open wide in a broken scream.
She feels her voice reach the heavens, the leaves shaking in its wake.
The scream soon turns into a little laugh, melancholic and tear-stained. This is so stupid. She tries another laugh, and ends up choking on a sob and falling down onto her knees. She doesn't stop crying for a while after that.
It's already morning by the time Beatrice realizes that the liquid that runs down her cheeks is no longer salty tears, but oil—the blackest she's ever seen.
