Angelina Dawn Nothren (and weren't Istiban and Wengothe delighted to
hear how closely her real name resembled that of their former companion)
never returned to her late aunt's house. She told her new friends the
truth about who she was, and how she had lived, all the while terrified
that they'd make her go back. But they were just all the more open and
friendly that she'd told them.
The girl absolutely fell in love with her lillepet. As the weeks rolled by with the ground beneath the wagon, Istiban was steadily teaching Dawn new fingerings and articulations and the best transitions. And slowly Dawn began to experiment on her own. She learned the art of embouchure and how to adjust it according to the note and/or octave. By the time a month had passed beneath the wagon wheels, she felt as though the lily was a part of her; just another limb that she was learning to control. Wengothe told her that such was the way it was supposed to be, and she was encouraged.
Dawn had never been so happy. Every morning she'd wake up to the fire blazing brightly and the smiles of Wengothe and Istiban. Breakfast was pancakes, or sausage, or even an egg every now and then, and then they'd gather the horses from their pickets and start rolling. The sunshine of early spring was kind, and the frost was diminishing each morning. Under the uncritical eyes of Wengothe and Istiban the girl let her pale hair grow long and used the various fabrics they kept to sew herself new clothes. She felt like an entirely new person.
The horses were another thing Dawn loved about her new life. On the left of the yoke was the mare, a fiery but sweet six year-old chestnut, and on the right was the gelding, a dark silvery-grey ten year-old. They were the best of friends and worked together perfectly. There was never a dispute between them, and both were simply bursting with personality.
As they traveled, Wengothe would be driving the horses and Dawn and Istiban would sit to his right on the wagon seat, and the three of them would talk. They talked of wind and sunshine, of rain and earth and sky and stars. But mostly they talked about music. Of different songs they'd heard, of different instruments they'd seen or had at one point, of technique and duets and everything else.
And one fine morning, just after they'd started out along a well-worn dirt track through fields and trees, Dawn brought up the subject of the two players they'd lost on the other side of the mountains, Angel and Lee. And Wengothe, quite naturally, fell into a story, speaking somewhat haltingly at first but soon warming to the subject.
"Like I said before, Angel was with us from the start. She'd been taking lessons on the lily from her mother, you see, and decided that she really liked it. She was in our class at the schoolhouse, and so she knew how much we loved to play, and sometimes we'd all bring our instruments to school and play them for the others during break. It was Isti's idea for us to start this, but without Angel I don't think we ever would really have started. She organized our fund-raising schemes, and inspired us to persevere when we'd really rather have just given it up. And finally she came to us, all breathless-like, and told us we had enough to buy a horse.
"'We can use my father's old cart,' said she, 'and with this we can buy a horse to pull it. See? We can travel all over the land, playing like this, and make money like that! Oh, won't it be fun!' She had the most beautiful baby-blue eyes you've ever seen, and when she'd say that they'd flash and dance like twin stars in the heavens. She could speak really, what's-the-word, eloquent-like, I think. But anyway when she talked about it, she'd get our hearts pumping and our heads held up high, and with her in the lead we went out and bought ourselves a horse: this very gelding. Angel picked him out, and started calling him Quicksilver, cause of his color. She spent hours with that horse, grooming him and riding him and just sitting and talking to him. And one day she invited us over so we could get the cart and start.
"She lived in the biggest, most grand manor house I'd ever seen. Huge, sloping lawns, a large, lovely barn filled up with horses, and great expanses of gardens with flowering trees and plants. Grand place, but she had no eyes for it. She'd chosen two poor sods like us to call her best friends, and had decided she wanted to run away from all that grandness and live on the road with us and her lily. When I finally realized that, I could've kissed her for being so happy. Seemed like we were the happiest three in all of the world that first day. Her dad didn't catch us taking the cart from his barn, nor did he notice the sudden appearance and sudden disappearance of a silvery gelding from his fields. Angel packed us some provisions and collected up a bunch of other junk, lots of which you'll still see in the wagon. And then we were off, swinging merrily down the lane and singing to ourselves. Too out of breath with happiness, we were, to play.
"Before a week we'd traveled out into places we'd never been before. We stopped in every little village and got out our instruments and just played, sometimes by ourselves, or in a duet, or even a trio. A duet with Isti on her flute and Angel on her lily was the most wonderful thing I've ever heard. Those instruments play so well together; I'm glad you've got one now, Dawn. That lily was Angel's, even. No, no, it's yours, now! She'd want you to have it.
"Anyway, we went on like that for what seemed like ages. It was very late in the fall when Angel suddenly started to be sick. It was the opposite time of year for malaria, and no case had ever been heard of in those parts, but what she had sure darn looked like it. Terrible thing, it was; I don't like to talk about it. She kept playing for about a month, but when she couldn't get up we made her stop, though it hurt to take away her only freedom. She was cheerful, though, right up to the end. Made it all the way through that first dark winter with us, she did. Had her good days and her bad, and she died on a bad day. On her good days she'd just sleep most of the time, and be happy and calm when she was awake, but on the bad days she'd be mostly awake, and always glaring around with sharp eyes, and sometimes she'd shout. She was all pale and eaten up with fever, and wouldn't let us near her. To this day I still marvel that neither of us caught it, for all the time we spent near her and tending to her.
"One bad day, in the early evening, when Isti was out with the gelding, she died. Third day of spring, it was. She looked right at me with those great big blue eyes, and her hair was glowing like melted gold. She looked at me, and said, right clear, 'I should write a song about this. I want my lily, Weg, where is it?' And then she just collapsed. I ran over, but she was gone.
"We buried her that night, beneath a blooming forsythia, with the yellow petals wheeling around us and the stars glowing far above. Carved her a nice headstone from a piece of slate, too, but I'd wonder if it's still there. It said, 'Angel Theresa DeNoel' (isn't that a lovely name?) 'Died March 25' (We didn't know the year, believe it or not, and still don't, so don't tell us,) 'of the malaria. Her heart and soul was for her lillepet.' Not exactly as eloquent as she might have put it, but it was good enough, we felt. And we left her there. Yes, just left. What else could we do? We couldn't go back home, not after running away like that, so we kept on. That was long before the mountains ever came into sight on the horizon.
"Anyway, it was three months later before we found a new player. Like I said before, his was Lee, Lee Imerson. And he played an instrument the like of which I've never seen. He called it a saxer, which is kind of a funny name, but it's kind of a funny instrument. Longer than the lily, with a great bell that curves up at the bottom and comes halfway back up before ending. It was all of metal, and there were more keys and buttons on there than you'd ever believe! I'll show it to you, this evening, if you'd like. Yes, we still have it, he gave it to us. That part comes later.
"So, one day we were rolling along into a little town, and we're just about to stop when we hear this noise, this music, that we've never heard the like of. It's all smooth and mellow-like, but then high and wailing– the strangest kind of music I'd ever heard! Anyway, we jump out with our instruments and run over to where we hear this music, and there's a young lad no older then than you are now, Dawn, playing that saxer what was about half was big as he was. Stompin his feet and screwin up his face, he was, really getting into it, and the crowd of children (and adults, too) around him were yelling and hollering. It was heart-lifting just to watch. So when he finally stops, the crowd him various bits of money and wanders off. We walk right up to him, and for a moment we just stood there, looking at each other, then all together we took up our instruments and just started playing. It was like we were all of one mind; just fantastic! We played and played and played, and the crowd came back and started cheering harder than ever. We played songs we'd never heard before, harmonizing as pretty as you'd please, and when it was done we all three together just sat down hard, completely out of breath, cheeks blowing out and eyes bugging and laughing as hard as we could with so little air. It was wonderful.
"Lee joined us right away, or as soon as we could talk to tell him what we were all about. A horn and a flute and a saxer made a right funny trio, but it worked! And people loved it. He stayed with us for two whole years, as long as we've been this side of the mountains. But when we came to the range, and made it known that we planned to go on over, he just looked at us, shook his head, handed us his saxer case and made off. We yelled after him and he turned around, and told us that if we ever made it back, to give him back his saxer and let him play with us again, but he was not never going up over the range. So we left him. Yes, just left. What else could we do? We were meant to go on over, Dawn, maybe if just to find you! Seems to me you needed a bit of rescuing, don't you think? No, don't blush, I really think it's true! And maybe this summer, or some other summer, when winter's at its least up in the mountains, we'll see if we can't make it back over to find Lee again and give him back that saxer."
Dawn glanced behind her into the wagon, and to the lily case that lay against the footboard beside the bound curtain. It had belonged to Angel! No doubt her father had had it carved for her at great expense. The girl felt a renewed determination to learn it well.
"Now, Dawn, won't you tell us a story?" Istiban said abruptly, startling the younger girl from her thoughts, and smiled warmly. "We've told you quite a few, haven't we?"
"Well, yes . . ." Dawn said hesitantly, "But I don't think I know any good stories, nor could I tell them well if I did."
"Don't be silly!" Istiban argued, and settled more comfortably in her seat. "Surely you were told some when you were young. Give us a fairy tale, or make one up off the top of your head!"
"Um," Dawn replied dubiously, thinking with frantic speed back to her earlier life, when her parents had still been around. Had they told her any stories? "I think maybe I know one," she said tentatively, furrowing her brow in thought and gazing up into the passing boughs of a tree. "But I don't know if I can remember it all."
"Then make up the parts you've forgotten," Wengothe said immediately, smiling without turning towards her. Istiban rested her elbows on her knees, taking her chin in her hands, and waited.
Dawn bit her lip anxiously, thought a moment longer, and began cautiously.
"I suppose this is a fairy tale, but my nurse used to tell me that it was true. I'm not sure, myself; see what you think.
"Once, long ago, there were many great cities built in the endless forests that lie to the far north. Their society was civilized and respectable for many an age. This is the story of how they fell to the heathenistic ruins that they are today.
One city in particular was the most grand, and it ruled over all of the others. That city was called Van'd_Astrl, which meant to their language The Way of Peace. There was in that city a large castle, built, of course, for the housing of the king and queen and their family, who ruled over all of that eternal forest. Countless kings had come and gone since the formation of this society before we come to the one particular family that affects this story.
"That family was a king, for the queen had died, and two children, a son and a daughter. The two men were tall, dark-headed and pale, almost fey, but strangely fair to look upon, broad-shouldered and noble. The daughter, however, was small and skinny and sickly most of her life. As that girl entered her mid-teens, however, she was healthy enough, though far from lovely. But in deed she was sweet and kind and understanding, and it was well-known that she had her father wrapped around her little finger. It was rumored, also, that she was behind every decision her father apparently made.
"In a neighboring city lived the king's brother, a Duke, and he also had a daughter of about the same age. But this daughter was tall and slender-limbed and golden-haired, with large, clear eyes; a true young beauty. Unfortunately, her appearance did not match her spirit: she was selfish and cold-hearted, and her pride had gotten the better of her. These two young girls never gotten along, not since their cradle years.
"All was well in that far-reaching forest kingdom for many an age, until this particular king had been ruling for fifteen years. That year, during early-summer, people in the ruling city began to disappear. And they weren't just gone: blood was found, and crudely severed limbs, and once a pair of heads were found at the drawbridge of the castle come dawn. After this the king immediately proclaimed that they were dealing with a gryphon, or possibly a dragon. Blood trails had been followed a good way into the woods south of the city, but nothing more was ever found. And the more scouts that were sent out, the fewer that returned.
"Before long it became apparent that they were being persecuted cruelly and intentionally, for the deaths were always displayed by the creature in the most disturbing ways, that could only have been planned with malice aforethought. (Nursie would never describe these to me.) But it could not have been a human, for the corpses were clearly marked with deep claw-slashes and bites. It was almost as though the creature wanted them to know a little bit, but not enough to be sure of anything.
"So the king took the only course he thought prudent: he began periodically sending virgins into the woods as sacrifice to the monster. It was said that his daughter was fiercely against this, calling it barbaric and weak, but the king countered her arguments with the statement that perhaps she herself was afraid for her own fate, being a virgin. He made it clear that he would not stop at sending her to the monster, if that was what it took for the persecution to end. To this the daughter had no reply, she was so stricken with grief and rage.
"And so the sacrifices continued. The king's brother the Duke came into the ruling city to help, but nothing he could do did any good in the least. And at last there were no virgins left in either of the cities, but for the brothers' own daughters. And so the two of them were sent into the woods together, stiff-faced and silent, hating each other and hating the fate they'd been sent to side-by-side. They never returned, of course.
"Now, the king's son was outraged. He had loved his sister very much, and the knowledge that their own father had sent her to her death was too much for him to bear. Rage filled him, and he desired only the head of whatever beast had slaughtered his sister. And so he marched off into the woods, alone and with only a single sword against the cunning and cruelty of the monster.
"He didn't return, and the king despaired even as he ordered all children sent at sacrifices. And the slaughter never abated. It seemed that the creature was bent on total destruction of the city. And this continued for almost a full year, until there were only a few dozen residents left in the entire once-grand city. It seemed that all was lost...
"But one day, in the late evening, as the last remaining citizens were gathered in the city square for a meeting, there suddenly appeared in their midst a gryphon. It was big as a draft horse, obviously only a juvenile, and its left wing was missing, torn off to a stump and healed long ago. At first it seemed confused and bewildered, certainly innocent child-like, but the people took no notice. They were convinced that this was the beast that had tormented them, ruined them, and they took fire and sword to it then and there.
"Only a moment after it had breathed its last breath with a piteous cry, a man tore out of the forest as quickly and frantically as though all hell was after him. He ran right past the townspeople and fell to his knees beside the mutilated carcass, and when he looked up the king was stunned beyond words for it was his son, who had disappeared so long ago. He was unscathed, though perhaps thinner than before, but when he looked up a wild rage burnt in his eyes. But then that cooled, quickly as he'd run, and was replaced with a terrible grief, beyond the power of words. He shook his head, and said quietly: 'You've killed him. He was like a son to her, he was her salvation, and you've killed him. Do you know what you've done?'
"He never had the chance to explain those words, for at that moment there bounded into the square the most horrifying creature ever created. It had a vaguely human face, but with draconic ears and huge dragon- hindlegs, and what might have been its arms were great wings that it held mantled above and around it threateningly, and at the crown of each wing was a row of three claws. Its serpentine tail was tipped with a row of blade-like protrusions. It was very heavily muscled, with a long white mane, and its millions of scales glittered in the moonlight like precious gems. It was beautiful, they said, even in the midst of its horror; beautiful and terrible.
"This creature, anyway, stopped dead still when it saw the dead gryphon. The prince stood and faced her, and spoke to her as he might to a friend, and told her of how he hadn't been able to arrive in time, and how sorry he was. But his words faltered and he hung his head. The creature walked up to the dead gryphon, and bent over it, and after a long moment made a curious wailing sound that sounded very human indeed. And then it turned to the townspeople, with fire in its bright blue eyes, and said in a very human, female voice: 'You shall pay. Forevermore these forest cities shall be ruins, and their people governless heathens!' Its voice, clear and articulate, was full of miserable malice. It then hissed at them, and many fled in terror, while others merely stepped back a few paces and stayed to watch. The king, certainly, watched, for his son stood there still. And then the creature lowered her wings, and the prince walked directly up to her and climbed onto her back, comfortable as you please! He never looked at his father, but hung onto the creature's shoulders. And the creature heaved herself into the air upon those vast dragon wings, and took the body of the gryphon in its hindclaws with great gentleness and care, looking for all the world like a mother with her child. And she rose high into the air and flew north, with the corpse in her claws and the prince on her back.
"And her final threat came true, for the forest has since been inhabited with cannibals and heathens, more animal than human."
Istiban and Wengothe were silent for a long moment, and Dawn feared that her tale hadn't struck them well. It was a fine tale in itself, surely, but perhaps she simply hadn't told it well. She hung her head quietly, looking at the boards between her toes.
"That was fantastic, Dawn!" Istiban said quietly, and there was such sincere admiration and appreciation in her voice that Dawn looked up, startled. The older girl looked back at her steadily, and her yellow eyes, the color of morning sunshine, were wide.
"Definitely," Wengothe agreed immediately, nodding fervently. "A beautiful story, and you speak so well, Dawn, when it pleases you! I wish you would do more often."
A faint blush crept into Dawn's cheeks, for a moment making the skinny, dusky girl quite pretty. "Gee, thanks. I always liked it."
"I wonder just what that creature was!" Istiban said, half to herself, staring off into space and swinging her legs absently. "Fantastical. I wonder just how she got to know that gryphon; she seemed so terribly savage. How could she care?"
"I've always wondered that, too," Dawn agreed, looking up at her friend with relief and love. It seemed she had found a place where she could truly belong. "I think maybe it touched her heart, when nothing else could. But how did the prince survive?"
"I wonder what how this story might sound told from the creature's point of view!" Wengothe exclaimed, eyes widening.
There was a lengthy pause as each of the three pondered. Then, quite suddenly, Istiban said, "We shall write a song about it." It was a statement, not a suggestion, but the others saw no reason to protest. "A trio, in fact! Yes! This'll be the first song that's partly yours, Dawn."
Dawn blinked uncertainly. "You mean I have to help write it? I barely know a few notes the lily!"
Wengothe leaned forward and looked across Istiban to meet Dawn's eyes gravely. "You've been taught quite enough," he said in tones of wise sincerity. "It's high time you started to learn." He turned to the road once more.
Dawn opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again and looked helplessly up at Istiban. The older girl merely smiled a small, secretive smile, and closed her eyes as she turned her face to the spring sunshine.
"Rule Number One: There are no restrictions." Istiban closed her flute case and set it aside, smiling at Dawn around the crackling campfire. Dawn had had no idea just how quickly they would set to putting Isti's idea to action; only earlier that day had they heard the story, and now came the songwriting. The sun was setting in all of its glory; the three players were below its final rays as they sat in a meadow at the eastern base of a tree-laden hill.
"Rule Number Two: Never let pride hold you back," Wengothe added solemnly.
"Rule Number Three," Istiban continued, "Remember constantly the Songwriter's Creed."
There was a short silence, and Dawn looked up from her lily to see two pairs of eyes fixed intently upon her, gleaming expectantly. The girl sighed, and grinned. "Fine, I'll bite. What's the Songwriter's Creed?"
The other two grinned just as widely, and with satisfaction, and intoned in unison a short bit of verse:
"I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge,
That a melody is more potent than a word,
That a song can melt a heart of stone,
That there is freedom to be found in the deepest dungeon,
That music comes from passion, not from talent.
And I believe that music is a bridge between all things,
Even between life and death."
Dawn thought about that for a moment, and then smiled. "I like that. Did you make it up yourselves?"
"Angel did, actually," Istiban admitted with a shrug.
"Yeah . . ." Wengothe said with faraway eyes. "Sitting on the wagon seat in the sunshine with a wisp of hay between her lips. She thought that made her look so earthy, as she said, remember?"
Isti laughed lightly. "She really was a character."
Yet again, Dawn felt a surge of wistful frustration that she could never meet Angel. The deceased girl seemed so real to Dawn after her friends' stories... so vibrant, full of life... How could she be dead?
Dawn came out of her reverie to see both Wengothe and Istiban looking at her in uncharacteristic steady contemplation. The younger girl blushed slightly and mumbled an incoherent apology as she carefully assembled her lillepet.
"Alright, then, let's start," Isti said, voice sounding as though she'd just come out of a reverie herself. "Really, Dawn, there's nothing to it. You just think about your subject and start playing."
"Seems to me easier said than done," Dawn replied dubiously, looking at Isti over the mouthpiece of the lily as she positioned the reed.
Istiban's eyes glinted suddenly in the firelight, and she grinned. "You'll see."
Suddenly, almost as though on cue, a eerie howling floated through the darkness, carried on a rising breeze. Wengothe instantly leapt to his feet and dashed into the gloom. Istiban slowly stood and stared in the direction the howl had come from. Dawn huddled closer to the fire, clutching her lillepet protectively. The mood had changed so quickly that it almost seemed surreal. All in a sudden the wind was rising, rushing noisily through the leaves of the wood, and the darkness seemed thicker, closer.
Sharp and clear, Wengothe's shouts rang through the air, mingled with the frantic whinnying of the horses. Istiban dropped to her knees and gripped Dawn's shoulder, whispering fiercely, "Stay by the fire! Don't move!" And with that she heaved to her feet and tore silently in the direction of the wagon.
Dawn squeezed her eyes shut as shudders ran up and down her spine, feeling the fire licking at her arm and leg but not willing to move away from it. Wolves. Not again! She cringed as she heard another howl, much closer this time. And they'd left her alone! No, she thought firmly, that's not fair to them... They left me where I'd be most safe. ...Of course, that means they're in danger. Oh, what am I gonna do?
The girl opened her eyes and looked around miserably, shouts and neighs and howls ringing horribly in her ears. "What can I do?" she whispered. Seized with a sudden resolve, she stood up quickly and faced the darkness through which the noises reached her, clutching her lily desperately. I've got to help them! Trembling uncontrollably, she took one step, eyes bulging and rolling in their sockets as she scoured the gloom. She lifted her foot, staving off unbearable terror, and slowly moved it forward...
She collapsed to her knees, close beside the fire once more, shaking so badly she could barely keep her eyes open. Her insides felt like a knot of misery incarnate; she had failed. She just could not make herself walk off into that wolf-infested darkness.
Now Istiban's shouts took on a more frantic note, and a tear fell unbidden from Dawn's eye as she hung her head, splattering on the smooth, warm-toned wood of her lily.
My lily!
That was it. Refusing stolidly to consider what she was doing, the girl lifted the lillepet to her lips. Magically her trembling ceased, her mind cleared. What would the creature do? She wouldn't be afraid of wolves. What would she sound like?
In a feat of tremendous courage Dawn had never dreamed she could summon, Dawn began to play. The notes of the lily rose up in a powerful swell, resonating above the clamour of the conflict. Dawn closed her eyes and listened. And, lo and behold, she heard the creature emerge from the music. Behind her eyelids, she could see it rise up from the swirl of notes and throw its wings wide open. She heard its enraged roar, saw light flickering over its sinuous, bulging muscles. She saw its eyes, a shimmering sapphire blue, wells of wild, raw, untamable, irrational emotion. She saw it kill... Saw a human fall beneath its vicious talons in a spray of blood. She felt what the creature felt: immense power flowed through her veins, through the instrument; power, unfounded and unstoppable rage, bloodlust. And she saw sadness enter into those eyes; saw the imperious, noble head lower, saw the great shoulders bow as though beneath a terrible weight.
And then the vision ended, and silence enveloped the world. Dawn opened her eyes, which glinted bright green in the firelight. She calmly looked at the ring of wolves that sat around the edge of the fire's glowing reach. They were all perfectly still, ears pricked as though they'd been listening. Their eyes glittered ferally, without rationality, staring her down. She slowly lowered her lily and held her head high as she stared right back at them.
And suddenly, they were gone. There was a swish of brushy tails, a patter of enormous paws, and the entire pack had disappeared, heading away from the wagon.
Still clutching her instrument, Dawn walked steadily forward, out of the firelight and towards the wagon. Her mind felt numb, drained, devoid of fear or terror. But when she stumbled, and sensed (rather than saw) Wengothe lunge forward and felt his strong hands clutch her shoulders desperately, her knees turned to water and she crumpled to the grass.
"Dawn? Dawn! Snap out of it!"
Wengothe's voice and gentle shaking managed to keep Dawn from unconsciousness, but the girl was spent. She allowed the boy to drag her a few paces and felt a solid wagon wheel at her back. "Weg?"
"Right here, Dawn. Are you alright?"
"I'm . . . okay. Where's Isti?"
"...A little to your left. She's out; I think she's hurt but I can't tell for the dark..."
The tone of Wengothe's voice lifted Dawn's mind from its fuzziness. "We need light. Where's the lantern?"
"Hanging above the seat. I'd have gotten it before now, but... To tell the truth, I think I'm hurt, too."
Without hesitation Dawn scrambled to her feet, leaving her lily in the grass, and climbed the wagon wheel with practised ease. She sat down hard on the wagon seat, running her fingers down to the end and up the edge of the wall until her arm collided gently with the iron of the lantern's base. She quickly snatched it from its hook and turned the small knob on the side of the base. The scene was bathed in a soft glow.
Istiban was stretched prone on the dark grass, her face very pale. There was a long gash across the back of her left thigh, the blood from which had stained the surrounding grass. Wengothe looked up at Dawn silently. Blood was smeared across his cheek and his tunic was torn, but Dawn couldn't see anything pressing.
"Are you hurt?" she asked as she handed the lantern down to Wengothe.
"Just my ankle, but I think that's only twisted. We need to help Isti." The boy shuffled across the ground on his knees to sit beside Istiban. "Look underneath the seat; there should be a box of medical stuff. We just need bandages."
Dawn immediately twisted around on the seat and dropped to her knees in front of it, sweeping her arm beneath it until it collided with a metal box. She rubbed her painful hand for a moment and then pulled the box from its hiding place, cradling it against her with one arm and steadying herself with the other as she vaulted to the ground beside Wengothe and Istiban.
"Here."
Wengothe flipped the lid of the box open and rummaged through its contents. "Here," he said, almost to himself, lifting a roll of thin burlap bandages. "Dawn, I need you to take the bucket and get me some water from the stream over there."
"Gotcha." Dawn at once was up and running, around them and to the back of the wagon. She lifted the wooden bucket from its hook there and dashed off to the stream, which was about twenty yards from the wagon. She missed the embankment in the dark, however, and stumbled to her knees in the foot-deep water. It was the shockingly cold runoff of early spring, and Dawn's breath was stolen from her in an instant. She huddled there, stunned, for a moment before coming to her senses. She then snatched up the bucket from the bank, where it had tumbled, and scooped it through the water. She stumbled back up the bank, hauling the brimming bucket, and lugged it as quickly as she could back to the wagon and the circle of lantern-light.
Wengothe took it from her silently and dipped in a cloth, wringing it out before carefully applying it to the smeared blood on Istiban's leg. Suddenly he did a double-take, staring at Dawn's soaked dress.
"Dawn, what in the world– . . ." He trailed off, and a smile played on his lips. "Go change, or you'll catch pneumonia." He continued cleaning Istiban's wound.
"Are you sure? Can't I help?"
Wengothe shot her a glance with raised eyebrows. "You've saved our lives, Dawn. Now dry off and save your own."
A few minutes later Dawn hurried out of the wagon, in dry clothes and carrying a blanket. Kneeling beside Wengothe, she asked quietly, "Is she alright?" Istiban's leg was clean and wrapped now, but her face was very pale.
"She'll be fine. She just needs rest." Wengothe's voice sounded strangely far away. Dawn leaned over a bit to look at his face. His eyes were overbright in the lamplight and his brow was furrowed as he reached out and gently touched Isti's cheek. As he withdrew his hand Dawn saw that it was trembling slightly. Her heart wrenched and she quickly reached over and grasped Wengothe's hand. He looked up at her and managed a shaky smile as a tear fell down his cheek.
"I was afraid," he whispered. "Afraid it was all over. They came like they had a purpose, like they were sent to destroy us. Isti was so brave, striking at them to keep them from the horses..."
"Shh," Dawn interjected, and slipped an arm around his shoulders. "Let's get her into the wagon."
Wengothe wiped his eyes with a sleeve and stood, suddenly wincing and pulling his left foot from the ground.
"Oh, you did sprain it!" Dawn cried, rushing to support him.
"It's nothing," Wengothe insisted gruffly, giving Dawn a gentle shove. "Come on– you get her feet."
With obvious effort to avoid limping, Wengothe lifted Istiban under her arms while Dawn raised the older girl's feet. Together they rounded the wagon and carried Isti inside to lay her on her bed.
"Would the horses stand to move on now?" Dawn asked once Isti was settled. "It would be best if we left."
"Sure," Wengothe replied. "They're full of nervous energy. A walk'll be good for them. Stay with Isti; I'll hitch them up."
As he pushed the curtain aside to exit the wagon, Wengothe paused and looked around at Dawn again, and abruptly his sober face relaxed into a smile. "You did exactly what Angel would have done, you know. I think she sent you to us, to be our new guardian angel because she had to leave."
Before Dawn could even think of how to reply to that, Wengothe had left. Dawn listened as he talked quietly to the horses, calming them before he hitched them to the wagon, and in only a few moments the wagon began its slow, rocking progress down the road. Dawn kept listening, with a trace of anxiety. After a moment, Wengothe began to whistle very quietly in time with the horses' steps. Only then did Dawn relax and stretch out on her bed. The coals in the stove smoldered, reflecting in the girl's blood-red eyes until those finally closed, opening the door to sleep.
The girl absolutely fell in love with her lillepet. As the weeks rolled by with the ground beneath the wagon, Istiban was steadily teaching Dawn new fingerings and articulations and the best transitions. And slowly Dawn began to experiment on her own. She learned the art of embouchure and how to adjust it according to the note and/or octave. By the time a month had passed beneath the wagon wheels, she felt as though the lily was a part of her; just another limb that she was learning to control. Wengothe told her that such was the way it was supposed to be, and she was encouraged.
Dawn had never been so happy. Every morning she'd wake up to the fire blazing brightly and the smiles of Wengothe and Istiban. Breakfast was pancakes, or sausage, or even an egg every now and then, and then they'd gather the horses from their pickets and start rolling. The sunshine of early spring was kind, and the frost was diminishing each morning. Under the uncritical eyes of Wengothe and Istiban the girl let her pale hair grow long and used the various fabrics they kept to sew herself new clothes. She felt like an entirely new person.
The horses were another thing Dawn loved about her new life. On the left of the yoke was the mare, a fiery but sweet six year-old chestnut, and on the right was the gelding, a dark silvery-grey ten year-old. They were the best of friends and worked together perfectly. There was never a dispute between them, and both were simply bursting with personality.
As they traveled, Wengothe would be driving the horses and Dawn and Istiban would sit to his right on the wagon seat, and the three of them would talk. They talked of wind and sunshine, of rain and earth and sky and stars. But mostly they talked about music. Of different songs they'd heard, of different instruments they'd seen or had at one point, of technique and duets and everything else.
And one fine morning, just after they'd started out along a well-worn dirt track through fields and trees, Dawn brought up the subject of the two players they'd lost on the other side of the mountains, Angel and Lee. And Wengothe, quite naturally, fell into a story, speaking somewhat haltingly at first but soon warming to the subject.
"Like I said before, Angel was with us from the start. She'd been taking lessons on the lily from her mother, you see, and decided that she really liked it. She was in our class at the schoolhouse, and so she knew how much we loved to play, and sometimes we'd all bring our instruments to school and play them for the others during break. It was Isti's idea for us to start this, but without Angel I don't think we ever would really have started. She organized our fund-raising schemes, and inspired us to persevere when we'd really rather have just given it up. And finally she came to us, all breathless-like, and told us we had enough to buy a horse.
"'We can use my father's old cart,' said she, 'and with this we can buy a horse to pull it. See? We can travel all over the land, playing like this, and make money like that! Oh, won't it be fun!' She had the most beautiful baby-blue eyes you've ever seen, and when she'd say that they'd flash and dance like twin stars in the heavens. She could speak really, what's-the-word, eloquent-like, I think. But anyway when she talked about it, she'd get our hearts pumping and our heads held up high, and with her in the lead we went out and bought ourselves a horse: this very gelding. Angel picked him out, and started calling him Quicksilver, cause of his color. She spent hours with that horse, grooming him and riding him and just sitting and talking to him. And one day she invited us over so we could get the cart and start.
"She lived in the biggest, most grand manor house I'd ever seen. Huge, sloping lawns, a large, lovely barn filled up with horses, and great expanses of gardens with flowering trees and plants. Grand place, but she had no eyes for it. She'd chosen two poor sods like us to call her best friends, and had decided she wanted to run away from all that grandness and live on the road with us and her lily. When I finally realized that, I could've kissed her for being so happy. Seemed like we were the happiest three in all of the world that first day. Her dad didn't catch us taking the cart from his barn, nor did he notice the sudden appearance and sudden disappearance of a silvery gelding from his fields. Angel packed us some provisions and collected up a bunch of other junk, lots of which you'll still see in the wagon. And then we were off, swinging merrily down the lane and singing to ourselves. Too out of breath with happiness, we were, to play.
"Before a week we'd traveled out into places we'd never been before. We stopped in every little village and got out our instruments and just played, sometimes by ourselves, or in a duet, or even a trio. A duet with Isti on her flute and Angel on her lily was the most wonderful thing I've ever heard. Those instruments play so well together; I'm glad you've got one now, Dawn. That lily was Angel's, even. No, no, it's yours, now! She'd want you to have it.
"Anyway, we went on like that for what seemed like ages. It was very late in the fall when Angel suddenly started to be sick. It was the opposite time of year for malaria, and no case had ever been heard of in those parts, but what she had sure darn looked like it. Terrible thing, it was; I don't like to talk about it. She kept playing for about a month, but when she couldn't get up we made her stop, though it hurt to take away her only freedom. She was cheerful, though, right up to the end. Made it all the way through that first dark winter with us, she did. Had her good days and her bad, and she died on a bad day. On her good days she'd just sleep most of the time, and be happy and calm when she was awake, but on the bad days she'd be mostly awake, and always glaring around with sharp eyes, and sometimes she'd shout. She was all pale and eaten up with fever, and wouldn't let us near her. To this day I still marvel that neither of us caught it, for all the time we spent near her and tending to her.
"One bad day, in the early evening, when Isti was out with the gelding, she died. Third day of spring, it was. She looked right at me with those great big blue eyes, and her hair was glowing like melted gold. She looked at me, and said, right clear, 'I should write a song about this. I want my lily, Weg, where is it?' And then she just collapsed. I ran over, but she was gone.
"We buried her that night, beneath a blooming forsythia, with the yellow petals wheeling around us and the stars glowing far above. Carved her a nice headstone from a piece of slate, too, but I'd wonder if it's still there. It said, 'Angel Theresa DeNoel' (isn't that a lovely name?) 'Died March 25' (We didn't know the year, believe it or not, and still don't, so don't tell us,) 'of the malaria. Her heart and soul was for her lillepet.' Not exactly as eloquent as she might have put it, but it was good enough, we felt. And we left her there. Yes, just left. What else could we do? We couldn't go back home, not after running away like that, so we kept on. That was long before the mountains ever came into sight on the horizon.
"Anyway, it was three months later before we found a new player. Like I said before, his was Lee, Lee Imerson. And he played an instrument the like of which I've never seen. He called it a saxer, which is kind of a funny name, but it's kind of a funny instrument. Longer than the lily, with a great bell that curves up at the bottom and comes halfway back up before ending. It was all of metal, and there were more keys and buttons on there than you'd ever believe! I'll show it to you, this evening, if you'd like. Yes, we still have it, he gave it to us. That part comes later.
"So, one day we were rolling along into a little town, and we're just about to stop when we hear this noise, this music, that we've never heard the like of. It's all smooth and mellow-like, but then high and wailing– the strangest kind of music I'd ever heard! Anyway, we jump out with our instruments and run over to where we hear this music, and there's a young lad no older then than you are now, Dawn, playing that saxer what was about half was big as he was. Stompin his feet and screwin up his face, he was, really getting into it, and the crowd of children (and adults, too) around him were yelling and hollering. It was heart-lifting just to watch. So when he finally stops, the crowd him various bits of money and wanders off. We walk right up to him, and for a moment we just stood there, looking at each other, then all together we took up our instruments and just started playing. It was like we were all of one mind; just fantastic! We played and played and played, and the crowd came back and started cheering harder than ever. We played songs we'd never heard before, harmonizing as pretty as you'd please, and when it was done we all three together just sat down hard, completely out of breath, cheeks blowing out and eyes bugging and laughing as hard as we could with so little air. It was wonderful.
"Lee joined us right away, or as soon as we could talk to tell him what we were all about. A horn and a flute and a saxer made a right funny trio, but it worked! And people loved it. He stayed with us for two whole years, as long as we've been this side of the mountains. But when we came to the range, and made it known that we planned to go on over, he just looked at us, shook his head, handed us his saxer case and made off. We yelled after him and he turned around, and told us that if we ever made it back, to give him back his saxer and let him play with us again, but he was not never going up over the range. So we left him. Yes, just left. What else could we do? We were meant to go on over, Dawn, maybe if just to find you! Seems to me you needed a bit of rescuing, don't you think? No, don't blush, I really think it's true! And maybe this summer, or some other summer, when winter's at its least up in the mountains, we'll see if we can't make it back over to find Lee again and give him back that saxer."
Dawn glanced behind her into the wagon, and to the lily case that lay against the footboard beside the bound curtain. It had belonged to Angel! No doubt her father had had it carved for her at great expense. The girl felt a renewed determination to learn it well.
"Now, Dawn, won't you tell us a story?" Istiban said abruptly, startling the younger girl from her thoughts, and smiled warmly. "We've told you quite a few, haven't we?"
"Well, yes . . ." Dawn said hesitantly, "But I don't think I know any good stories, nor could I tell them well if I did."
"Don't be silly!" Istiban argued, and settled more comfortably in her seat. "Surely you were told some when you were young. Give us a fairy tale, or make one up off the top of your head!"
"Um," Dawn replied dubiously, thinking with frantic speed back to her earlier life, when her parents had still been around. Had they told her any stories? "I think maybe I know one," she said tentatively, furrowing her brow in thought and gazing up into the passing boughs of a tree. "But I don't know if I can remember it all."
"Then make up the parts you've forgotten," Wengothe said immediately, smiling without turning towards her. Istiban rested her elbows on her knees, taking her chin in her hands, and waited.
Dawn bit her lip anxiously, thought a moment longer, and began cautiously.
"I suppose this is a fairy tale, but my nurse used to tell me that it was true. I'm not sure, myself; see what you think.
"Once, long ago, there were many great cities built in the endless forests that lie to the far north. Their society was civilized and respectable for many an age. This is the story of how they fell to the heathenistic ruins that they are today.
One city in particular was the most grand, and it ruled over all of the others. That city was called Van'd_Astrl, which meant to their language The Way of Peace. There was in that city a large castle, built, of course, for the housing of the king and queen and their family, who ruled over all of that eternal forest. Countless kings had come and gone since the formation of this society before we come to the one particular family that affects this story.
"That family was a king, for the queen had died, and two children, a son and a daughter. The two men were tall, dark-headed and pale, almost fey, but strangely fair to look upon, broad-shouldered and noble. The daughter, however, was small and skinny and sickly most of her life. As that girl entered her mid-teens, however, she was healthy enough, though far from lovely. But in deed she was sweet and kind and understanding, and it was well-known that she had her father wrapped around her little finger. It was rumored, also, that she was behind every decision her father apparently made.
"In a neighboring city lived the king's brother, a Duke, and he also had a daughter of about the same age. But this daughter was tall and slender-limbed and golden-haired, with large, clear eyes; a true young beauty. Unfortunately, her appearance did not match her spirit: she was selfish and cold-hearted, and her pride had gotten the better of her. These two young girls never gotten along, not since their cradle years.
"All was well in that far-reaching forest kingdom for many an age, until this particular king had been ruling for fifteen years. That year, during early-summer, people in the ruling city began to disappear. And they weren't just gone: blood was found, and crudely severed limbs, and once a pair of heads were found at the drawbridge of the castle come dawn. After this the king immediately proclaimed that they were dealing with a gryphon, or possibly a dragon. Blood trails had been followed a good way into the woods south of the city, but nothing more was ever found. And the more scouts that were sent out, the fewer that returned.
"Before long it became apparent that they were being persecuted cruelly and intentionally, for the deaths were always displayed by the creature in the most disturbing ways, that could only have been planned with malice aforethought. (Nursie would never describe these to me.) But it could not have been a human, for the corpses were clearly marked with deep claw-slashes and bites. It was almost as though the creature wanted them to know a little bit, but not enough to be sure of anything.
"So the king took the only course he thought prudent: he began periodically sending virgins into the woods as sacrifice to the monster. It was said that his daughter was fiercely against this, calling it barbaric and weak, but the king countered her arguments with the statement that perhaps she herself was afraid for her own fate, being a virgin. He made it clear that he would not stop at sending her to the monster, if that was what it took for the persecution to end. To this the daughter had no reply, she was so stricken with grief and rage.
"And so the sacrifices continued. The king's brother the Duke came into the ruling city to help, but nothing he could do did any good in the least. And at last there were no virgins left in either of the cities, but for the brothers' own daughters. And so the two of them were sent into the woods together, stiff-faced and silent, hating each other and hating the fate they'd been sent to side-by-side. They never returned, of course.
"Now, the king's son was outraged. He had loved his sister very much, and the knowledge that their own father had sent her to her death was too much for him to bear. Rage filled him, and he desired only the head of whatever beast had slaughtered his sister. And so he marched off into the woods, alone and with only a single sword against the cunning and cruelty of the monster.
"He didn't return, and the king despaired even as he ordered all children sent at sacrifices. And the slaughter never abated. It seemed that the creature was bent on total destruction of the city. And this continued for almost a full year, until there were only a few dozen residents left in the entire once-grand city. It seemed that all was lost...
"But one day, in the late evening, as the last remaining citizens were gathered in the city square for a meeting, there suddenly appeared in their midst a gryphon. It was big as a draft horse, obviously only a juvenile, and its left wing was missing, torn off to a stump and healed long ago. At first it seemed confused and bewildered, certainly innocent child-like, but the people took no notice. They were convinced that this was the beast that had tormented them, ruined them, and they took fire and sword to it then and there.
"Only a moment after it had breathed its last breath with a piteous cry, a man tore out of the forest as quickly and frantically as though all hell was after him. He ran right past the townspeople and fell to his knees beside the mutilated carcass, and when he looked up the king was stunned beyond words for it was his son, who had disappeared so long ago. He was unscathed, though perhaps thinner than before, but when he looked up a wild rage burnt in his eyes. But then that cooled, quickly as he'd run, and was replaced with a terrible grief, beyond the power of words. He shook his head, and said quietly: 'You've killed him. He was like a son to her, he was her salvation, and you've killed him. Do you know what you've done?'
"He never had the chance to explain those words, for at that moment there bounded into the square the most horrifying creature ever created. It had a vaguely human face, but with draconic ears and huge dragon- hindlegs, and what might have been its arms were great wings that it held mantled above and around it threateningly, and at the crown of each wing was a row of three claws. Its serpentine tail was tipped with a row of blade-like protrusions. It was very heavily muscled, with a long white mane, and its millions of scales glittered in the moonlight like precious gems. It was beautiful, they said, even in the midst of its horror; beautiful and terrible.
"This creature, anyway, stopped dead still when it saw the dead gryphon. The prince stood and faced her, and spoke to her as he might to a friend, and told her of how he hadn't been able to arrive in time, and how sorry he was. But his words faltered and he hung his head. The creature walked up to the dead gryphon, and bent over it, and after a long moment made a curious wailing sound that sounded very human indeed. And then it turned to the townspeople, with fire in its bright blue eyes, and said in a very human, female voice: 'You shall pay. Forevermore these forest cities shall be ruins, and their people governless heathens!' Its voice, clear and articulate, was full of miserable malice. It then hissed at them, and many fled in terror, while others merely stepped back a few paces and stayed to watch. The king, certainly, watched, for his son stood there still. And then the creature lowered her wings, and the prince walked directly up to her and climbed onto her back, comfortable as you please! He never looked at his father, but hung onto the creature's shoulders. And the creature heaved herself into the air upon those vast dragon wings, and took the body of the gryphon in its hindclaws with great gentleness and care, looking for all the world like a mother with her child. And she rose high into the air and flew north, with the corpse in her claws and the prince on her back.
"And her final threat came true, for the forest has since been inhabited with cannibals and heathens, more animal than human."
Istiban and Wengothe were silent for a long moment, and Dawn feared that her tale hadn't struck them well. It was a fine tale in itself, surely, but perhaps she simply hadn't told it well. She hung her head quietly, looking at the boards between her toes.
"That was fantastic, Dawn!" Istiban said quietly, and there was such sincere admiration and appreciation in her voice that Dawn looked up, startled. The older girl looked back at her steadily, and her yellow eyes, the color of morning sunshine, were wide.
"Definitely," Wengothe agreed immediately, nodding fervently. "A beautiful story, and you speak so well, Dawn, when it pleases you! I wish you would do more often."
A faint blush crept into Dawn's cheeks, for a moment making the skinny, dusky girl quite pretty. "Gee, thanks. I always liked it."
"I wonder just what that creature was!" Istiban said, half to herself, staring off into space and swinging her legs absently. "Fantastical. I wonder just how she got to know that gryphon; she seemed so terribly savage. How could she care?"
"I've always wondered that, too," Dawn agreed, looking up at her friend with relief and love. It seemed she had found a place where she could truly belong. "I think maybe it touched her heart, when nothing else could. But how did the prince survive?"
"I wonder what how this story might sound told from the creature's point of view!" Wengothe exclaimed, eyes widening.
There was a lengthy pause as each of the three pondered. Then, quite suddenly, Istiban said, "We shall write a song about it." It was a statement, not a suggestion, but the others saw no reason to protest. "A trio, in fact! Yes! This'll be the first song that's partly yours, Dawn."
Dawn blinked uncertainly. "You mean I have to help write it? I barely know a few notes the lily!"
Wengothe leaned forward and looked across Istiban to meet Dawn's eyes gravely. "You've been taught quite enough," he said in tones of wise sincerity. "It's high time you started to learn." He turned to the road once more.
Dawn opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again and looked helplessly up at Istiban. The older girl merely smiled a small, secretive smile, and closed her eyes as she turned her face to the spring sunshine.
"Rule Number One: There are no restrictions." Istiban closed her flute case and set it aside, smiling at Dawn around the crackling campfire. Dawn had had no idea just how quickly they would set to putting Isti's idea to action; only earlier that day had they heard the story, and now came the songwriting. The sun was setting in all of its glory; the three players were below its final rays as they sat in a meadow at the eastern base of a tree-laden hill.
"Rule Number Two: Never let pride hold you back," Wengothe added solemnly.
"Rule Number Three," Istiban continued, "Remember constantly the Songwriter's Creed."
There was a short silence, and Dawn looked up from her lily to see two pairs of eyes fixed intently upon her, gleaming expectantly. The girl sighed, and grinned. "Fine, I'll bite. What's the Songwriter's Creed?"
The other two grinned just as widely, and with satisfaction, and intoned in unison a short bit of verse:
"I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge,
That a melody is more potent than a word,
That a song can melt a heart of stone,
That there is freedom to be found in the deepest dungeon,
That music comes from passion, not from talent.
And I believe that music is a bridge between all things,
Even between life and death."
Dawn thought about that for a moment, and then smiled. "I like that. Did you make it up yourselves?"
"Angel did, actually," Istiban admitted with a shrug.
"Yeah . . ." Wengothe said with faraway eyes. "Sitting on the wagon seat in the sunshine with a wisp of hay between her lips. She thought that made her look so earthy, as she said, remember?"
Isti laughed lightly. "She really was a character."
Yet again, Dawn felt a surge of wistful frustration that she could never meet Angel. The deceased girl seemed so real to Dawn after her friends' stories... so vibrant, full of life... How could she be dead?
Dawn came out of her reverie to see both Wengothe and Istiban looking at her in uncharacteristic steady contemplation. The younger girl blushed slightly and mumbled an incoherent apology as she carefully assembled her lillepet.
"Alright, then, let's start," Isti said, voice sounding as though she'd just come out of a reverie herself. "Really, Dawn, there's nothing to it. You just think about your subject and start playing."
"Seems to me easier said than done," Dawn replied dubiously, looking at Isti over the mouthpiece of the lily as she positioned the reed.
Istiban's eyes glinted suddenly in the firelight, and she grinned. "You'll see."
Suddenly, almost as though on cue, a eerie howling floated through the darkness, carried on a rising breeze. Wengothe instantly leapt to his feet and dashed into the gloom. Istiban slowly stood and stared in the direction the howl had come from. Dawn huddled closer to the fire, clutching her lillepet protectively. The mood had changed so quickly that it almost seemed surreal. All in a sudden the wind was rising, rushing noisily through the leaves of the wood, and the darkness seemed thicker, closer.
Sharp and clear, Wengothe's shouts rang through the air, mingled with the frantic whinnying of the horses. Istiban dropped to her knees and gripped Dawn's shoulder, whispering fiercely, "Stay by the fire! Don't move!" And with that she heaved to her feet and tore silently in the direction of the wagon.
Dawn squeezed her eyes shut as shudders ran up and down her spine, feeling the fire licking at her arm and leg but not willing to move away from it. Wolves. Not again! She cringed as she heard another howl, much closer this time. And they'd left her alone! No, she thought firmly, that's not fair to them... They left me where I'd be most safe. ...Of course, that means they're in danger. Oh, what am I gonna do?
The girl opened her eyes and looked around miserably, shouts and neighs and howls ringing horribly in her ears. "What can I do?" she whispered. Seized with a sudden resolve, she stood up quickly and faced the darkness through which the noises reached her, clutching her lily desperately. I've got to help them! Trembling uncontrollably, she took one step, eyes bulging and rolling in their sockets as she scoured the gloom. She lifted her foot, staving off unbearable terror, and slowly moved it forward...
She collapsed to her knees, close beside the fire once more, shaking so badly she could barely keep her eyes open. Her insides felt like a knot of misery incarnate; she had failed. She just could not make herself walk off into that wolf-infested darkness.
Now Istiban's shouts took on a more frantic note, and a tear fell unbidden from Dawn's eye as she hung her head, splattering on the smooth, warm-toned wood of her lily.
My lily!
That was it. Refusing stolidly to consider what she was doing, the girl lifted the lillepet to her lips. Magically her trembling ceased, her mind cleared. What would the creature do? She wouldn't be afraid of wolves. What would she sound like?
In a feat of tremendous courage Dawn had never dreamed she could summon, Dawn began to play. The notes of the lily rose up in a powerful swell, resonating above the clamour of the conflict. Dawn closed her eyes and listened. And, lo and behold, she heard the creature emerge from the music. Behind her eyelids, she could see it rise up from the swirl of notes and throw its wings wide open. She heard its enraged roar, saw light flickering over its sinuous, bulging muscles. She saw its eyes, a shimmering sapphire blue, wells of wild, raw, untamable, irrational emotion. She saw it kill... Saw a human fall beneath its vicious talons in a spray of blood. She felt what the creature felt: immense power flowed through her veins, through the instrument; power, unfounded and unstoppable rage, bloodlust. And she saw sadness enter into those eyes; saw the imperious, noble head lower, saw the great shoulders bow as though beneath a terrible weight.
And then the vision ended, and silence enveloped the world. Dawn opened her eyes, which glinted bright green in the firelight. She calmly looked at the ring of wolves that sat around the edge of the fire's glowing reach. They were all perfectly still, ears pricked as though they'd been listening. Their eyes glittered ferally, without rationality, staring her down. She slowly lowered her lily and held her head high as she stared right back at them.
And suddenly, they were gone. There was a swish of brushy tails, a patter of enormous paws, and the entire pack had disappeared, heading away from the wagon.
Still clutching her instrument, Dawn walked steadily forward, out of the firelight and towards the wagon. Her mind felt numb, drained, devoid of fear or terror. But when she stumbled, and sensed (rather than saw) Wengothe lunge forward and felt his strong hands clutch her shoulders desperately, her knees turned to water and she crumpled to the grass.
"Dawn? Dawn! Snap out of it!"
Wengothe's voice and gentle shaking managed to keep Dawn from unconsciousness, but the girl was spent. She allowed the boy to drag her a few paces and felt a solid wagon wheel at her back. "Weg?"
"Right here, Dawn. Are you alright?"
"I'm . . . okay. Where's Isti?"
"...A little to your left. She's out; I think she's hurt but I can't tell for the dark..."
The tone of Wengothe's voice lifted Dawn's mind from its fuzziness. "We need light. Where's the lantern?"
"Hanging above the seat. I'd have gotten it before now, but... To tell the truth, I think I'm hurt, too."
Without hesitation Dawn scrambled to her feet, leaving her lily in the grass, and climbed the wagon wheel with practised ease. She sat down hard on the wagon seat, running her fingers down to the end and up the edge of the wall until her arm collided gently with the iron of the lantern's base. She quickly snatched it from its hook and turned the small knob on the side of the base. The scene was bathed in a soft glow.
Istiban was stretched prone on the dark grass, her face very pale. There was a long gash across the back of her left thigh, the blood from which had stained the surrounding grass. Wengothe looked up at Dawn silently. Blood was smeared across his cheek and his tunic was torn, but Dawn couldn't see anything pressing.
"Are you hurt?" she asked as she handed the lantern down to Wengothe.
"Just my ankle, but I think that's only twisted. We need to help Isti." The boy shuffled across the ground on his knees to sit beside Istiban. "Look underneath the seat; there should be a box of medical stuff. We just need bandages."
Dawn immediately twisted around on the seat and dropped to her knees in front of it, sweeping her arm beneath it until it collided with a metal box. She rubbed her painful hand for a moment and then pulled the box from its hiding place, cradling it against her with one arm and steadying herself with the other as she vaulted to the ground beside Wengothe and Istiban.
"Here."
Wengothe flipped the lid of the box open and rummaged through its contents. "Here," he said, almost to himself, lifting a roll of thin burlap bandages. "Dawn, I need you to take the bucket and get me some water from the stream over there."
"Gotcha." Dawn at once was up and running, around them and to the back of the wagon. She lifted the wooden bucket from its hook there and dashed off to the stream, which was about twenty yards from the wagon. She missed the embankment in the dark, however, and stumbled to her knees in the foot-deep water. It was the shockingly cold runoff of early spring, and Dawn's breath was stolen from her in an instant. She huddled there, stunned, for a moment before coming to her senses. She then snatched up the bucket from the bank, where it had tumbled, and scooped it through the water. She stumbled back up the bank, hauling the brimming bucket, and lugged it as quickly as she could back to the wagon and the circle of lantern-light.
Wengothe took it from her silently and dipped in a cloth, wringing it out before carefully applying it to the smeared blood on Istiban's leg. Suddenly he did a double-take, staring at Dawn's soaked dress.
"Dawn, what in the world– . . ." He trailed off, and a smile played on his lips. "Go change, or you'll catch pneumonia." He continued cleaning Istiban's wound.
"Are you sure? Can't I help?"
Wengothe shot her a glance with raised eyebrows. "You've saved our lives, Dawn. Now dry off and save your own."
A few minutes later Dawn hurried out of the wagon, in dry clothes and carrying a blanket. Kneeling beside Wengothe, she asked quietly, "Is she alright?" Istiban's leg was clean and wrapped now, but her face was very pale.
"She'll be fine. She just needs rest." Wengothe's voice sounded strangely far away. Dawn leaned over a bit to look at his face. His eyes were overbright in the lamplight and his brow was furrowed as he reached out and gently touched Isti's cheek. As he withdrew his hand Dawn saw that it was trembling slightly. Her heart wrenched and she quickly reached over and grasped Wengothe's hand. He looked up at her and managed a shaky smile as a tear fell down his cheek.
"I was afraid," he whispered. "Afraid it was all over. They came like they had a purpose, like they were sent to destroy us. Isti was so brave, striking at them to keep them from the horses..."
"Shh," Dawn interjected, and slipped an arm around his shoulders. "Let's get her into the wagon."
Wengothe wiped his eyes with a sleeve and stood, suddenly wincing and pulling his left foot from the ground.
"Oh, you did sprain it!" Dawn cried, rushing to support him.
"It's nothing," Wengothe insisted gruffly, giving Dawn a gentle shove. "Come on– you get her feet."
With obvious effort to avoid limping, Wengothe lifted Istiban under her arms while Dawn raised the older girl's feet. Together they rounded the wagon and carried Isti inside to lay her on her bed.
"Would the horses stand to move on now?" Dawn asked once Isti was settled. "It would be best if we left."
"Sure," Wengothe replied. "They're full of nervous energy. A walk'll be good for them. Stay with Isti; I'll hitch them up."
As he pushed the curtain aside to exit the wagon, Wengothe paused and looked around at Dawn again, and abruptly his sober face relaxed into a smile. "You did exactly what Angel would have done, you know. I think she sent you to us, to be our new guardian angel because she had to leave."
Before Dawn could even think of how to reply to that, Wengothe had left. Dawn listened as he talked quietly to the horses, calming them before he hitched them to the wagon, and in only a few moments the wagon began its slow, rocking progress down the road. Dawn kept listening, with a trace of anxiety. After a moment, Wengothe began to whistle very quietly in time with the horses' steps. Only then did Dawn relax and stretch out on her bed. The coals in the stove smoldered, reflecting in the girl's blood-red eyes until those finally closed, opening the door to sleep.