Days passed before the child returned, days during which Gisilbert fretted and worried both for his own inability to do more than set simple snares to catch food – there was little food or water stored in the old tomb – and for the child's well-being. The latter bothered him far more, though his left leg and hip ached fiercely with his extra activity.
As he was beginning to contemplate taking one of his axes to cut his way through the thorny bushes that were too dense for him to pass and risk revealing the child's retreat to the hostile Prussians, he was startled from his musings by an eagle's scream.
Gisilbert turned that way, wondering how an eagle could get inside the tomb, in time to see a wolf pad through the opening, a too-small limp bundle draped over its back. A bundle that whimpered in a child's voice.
"God in heaven!" He limped towards the boy, stopped when the wolf growled at him, teeth fully bared.
A huge black shape dropped to the wolf's head, but instead of attacking as Gisilbert half-expected, the shaped twisted and then a little yellow chick perched on the wolf's head, giving what sounded for all the world like a lecture.
Slowly, Gisilbert dropped to a crouch so his eyes were more or less level with the wolf's golden eyes. "Forest spirit." Surely no true wolf would so calmly enter a man-made structure, much less carry a child... "I mean the little one no harm. If you will allow it, I will help."
For a moment, he feared this was madness, that the wolf had brought the limp, bloodied form of the child here to feed in peace, then the wolf made a whuffing sound and dipped its head, raised it, then padded towards the piled furs that served as bedding.
Gisilbert followed, and when the wolf slowly lowered itself to the earthen floor, helped to control the child's tumble to the furs though his stomach knotted tight with both nausea and fury. He had seen wounds like this but once before, when old Hanse had been too drunk to wake after rolling into his hearth-fire. The man had not survived, and 'twas mercy he had not. He had looked much like this, with charred and blackened flesh, his hair and eyes gone altogether.
That the child lived was no mercy, and Gisilbert understood now what horror could come with being unable to die.
He moaned without cease, low, whimpering sounds that tightened Gisilbert's heart in his chest and made his eyes burn.
The wolf shifted, presenting its... no, her, teats to the child, who latched on with mindless need.
Gisilbert retreated slowly, turning to the bowl where the last of a rabbit simmered with what remained of the water and roots. The chick watched him, unblinking, while he stirred.
"If no water or meat can be brought here, I can do little, bird spirit," he said. "I do not wish to break the wall protecting this place." He hoped whatever magic made these animals the child's familiar spirits would allow them to understand him.
The bird peeped, and fluttered over to the small pail he'd made – easier and safer for the child to fetch water with than the rough-fired clay bowl he had been using – then towards the entrance.
The image of the bird transforming to an eagle and flying off with the bucket in its talons lodged in Gisilbert's mind.
This was no offense to God, he reminded himself as he limped to the bucket and carried it from the shelter. The child's manner had been wholly good, gentle, and surely none such as he could be unholy. Had not Father Aelfred spoken of the Land-Souls, beings created by God to serve their people as guides and protectors?
Surely this little one must be of that kind, though why God had given him such an extraordinary appearance when it would cause his people to reject him was beyond Gisilbert's ability to guess. There must be a reason: perhaps one more knowledgeable than he could divine it.
First, though, he must help the little one recover, for though he could not die, such torture must leave its scars.
The chick's transformation to a massive black eagle left Gisilbert's mouth hanging open. His mind simply refused to accept what he saw.
#
The child's burns were visibly healing by the time the bird-spirit had brought both water and three rabbits to the shelter. Gisilbert gutted and skinned them, dividing the offal onto two clay bowls.
One rabbit he cut into pieces small enough for the she-wolf to swallow so she could eat without leaving the child, the second he cut smaller strips to add to the second bowl until he had what he thought was sufficient for an eagle. The piled meat and innards was larger than the bird-spirit's chick form, but he offered it nonetheless.
The bird shifted to its eagle form to eat, and Gisilbert averted his eyes. Watching the transformation hurt in a way he could not describe.
He left the she-wolf's bowl where she could reach it without straining, and returned to the small hearth-fire to prepare a broth for the child, forcing his focus to the familiar actions of cutting meat and boiling water, of chopping what herbs and roots the child had stored into the stew, of stirring and watching.
The child's state was his doing: had he not driven the little one to flee, he would not have been burned like this. While Gisilbert could not have said what he had done wrong, he could not deny that he had done wrong and the child had suffered for it. Tending the little one while he healed was the only penance he could make.
#
To Gisilbert's relief, the child healed quickly, his small body recovering from the terrible burns so rapidly it seemed some magic was at work. Within the day new, pinkish skin had replaced the charred mess, and by the time three days had passed the little one's hair was growing back and his eyes had regrown – something else Gisilbert simply could not watch. His stomach knotted and churned at the mere thought.
He slept a great deal, and it was clear from the tightness of his face that he remained in pain for days after the new skin had replaced the old, but none who saw him would think he had been so horribly wounded mere days earlier.
When the child whimpered in his sleep, when those whimpers became half-coherent pleading for someone to stop, to not hurt him, that he was like them, Gisilbert sat by his side and smoothed the short white hair while he crooned a lullaby he'd sung to his own children ere the plague had taken them.
It hurt, to watch one so young and gentle suffer like this, and when the child truly slept he prayed for the boy's recovery, prayed that he would find a land and people worthy of him. And wondered where such a thing might be found, how such a goal might be accomplished.
When he slept that night, he dreamed of a shining city in bright sunlight, far to the south, a city where knights of the Cross protected pilgrims and miracles were wrought, and he awakened with a notion he hoped was possible for the young one. Father Aelfred had said the Land-Souls could not leave their homeland and people for long lest they fade and thus die, but the child's people had already rejected him and surely if he brought some of his native soil with him he would take no more harm than his own people had already given.
Gisilbert could but ask and pray that he would not offend the little one further when he did so.
#
Some days later, with the child recovered well enough to walk about unaided and eat solid food once more, Gisilbert asked softly, "Young one, what did I do to drive you away? I meant you no harm: I swear on all I hold dear."
The child's red eyes opened wide. "Give things. Peoples give things go away."
It took a moment to puzzle through the little one's awkward speech, though he seemed able to understand Gisilbert's tongue well enough – or possibly he simply saw to the heart and meaning beneath? "I meant only to thank you for your kindness," he said. "I am so sorry I hurt you."
The little one swallowed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. "No hurt I. Them hurt I."
Gisilbert wasn't sure if he could say that his folly had driven the child from their shelter in such a state of upset he had likely not paid close attention to his surrounds. Not in a way the little one would understand. He sighed. "I am still sorry."
The child shook his head. "No. You good. You not know."
There was so much he didn't know, Gisilbert mused. So much the child needed to know and could not learn, not like this. "Little one," he said slowly. "My people have a word for people like you, who do not grow old and die and who know their land and the people who live upon it. We call such as you Land-Souls. I think you are also a Land-Soul."
The child tilted his head. "Land-Soul?" The Germanic word had a soft, burred accent when he spoke it. "Good name. Not demon."
"No," Gisilbert agreed. "Not demon." He took a slow breath. "I know not where other Land-Souls might be found, but there is a holy place far south of here where there are many wise and knowledgeable men. If you wish to go there with me, perhaps someone there may be able to tell you more."
The child bit his lip. "You go?"
"Only if you will come, little one."
He seemed to think that over, frowning a little, before he asked, "You... want go with I?"
"Yes." Another deep breath, and his final request of the little one. "But... it will be dangerous. For your safety, you will have to pretend to be my son."
Now those remarkable eyes filled, overflowed. "Be son?" the child whispered. "Be wanted?"
Only then did Gisilbert truly realize how horribly alone the little one had been, how starved for any kind of affection. He held out his arms, silently offering an embrace, and the child darted forward, clutching him and sobbing. The only word Gisilbert could make out was 'father'.
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