Eventually Wirt gave up on trying to climb up the hill. His shoes were full of snow and his nose of snot, he felt frustrated and exhausted. He hoped his brother had enough presence of mind not to do anything stupid while Wirt was searching for a way across, although his pessimistic nature was busy mass-producing thoughts that were anything but reassuring. He stumbled ahead along the foot of the hill and mumbled incoherently his opinions about the wishes that tended to come true in the most annoying way possible.
Unless the journey with Charlie Acorn had warped time as well as space, sundown was still a distant prospect, even if such estimations seemed false in such a dark, unfriendly place. Occasionally Wirt passed through places open enough to see the sun still hanging high in the sky, but then the deep shadows of the giant gnarled trees embraced him again, the snow became dim like ancient silverware, and the memory quickly turned into an illusion. He hoped that Greg would at the very least manage to find a warm safe place to spend the night – before selfishly reminding himself that his own situation was no better.
After walking for what seemed like an hour or so, Wirt allowed himself some rest – and he used the time wisely, by climbing on top of a snowy rock and wallowing in misery and crippling self-doubt. The Unknown felt unwelcoming, and in that Wirt saw the reflection of his uncertainties: leaving home without saying a word to their parents, intruding in the place where they clearly didn't belong. He tried to imagine the time turning back for him to get a chance to put his foot down and make himself and his brother snap out of whatever had been haunting them instead of following this crazy dream. He couldn't see that happening, however – at least not yet.
Still holding his chin between the two palms, Wirt glanced up and only then noticed a couple of naked hairy legs dangling from the tree directly opposite the rock. Their nakedness and hairiness were rather revolting and made him think about a victim of a suicide who got stuck up there, but there was no lifelessness in them – the legs seemed to dangle on their owner's accord, not on a whim of the wind. It was further proven by an equally hairy face appearing between the branches of the pine. Wirt involuntarily thought of a forest fire – so red was the shaggy mane framing the wrinkled face of a man in his fifties.
"Hello?" said Wirt, mixing curiosity and disgust in unequal proportions.
The light-blue eyes of the stranger remained fixed at him for several long moments, after which he replied in a slightly theatrical voice:
"You don't belong here, young fella. You don't belong here at all!"
He definitely had a point, although Wirt preferred to disagree with weirdos on principle – the fact of him usually being one as well made little difference.
"I'm not sure you can be an expert when it comes to belonging," he said, "unless I walked right into some sort of a hippie community."
"Oh, but I'm mad," a long hairy arm appeared next to the face with the only purpose of waving dismissively, after which it was sucked back into the needles. "I can do whatever the hell pleases me. It's the sane people acting gone in the head that worry me."
"Very well," said Wirt snarkily, stood up and shook the snow off his clothes. "Sorry for plaguing you with my presence. Have a nice day."
He turned his back to the unnerving stranger and started briskly walking in the same direction as before. He might have needed to know the fastest way to get across the hill, but asking that naked redhead freak in the tree somehow didn't seem like a good idea. Wirt had almost convinced himself that the unfortunate meeting was over when he heard a whooshing sound above his head followed up by the rustle of needles some way ahead. He stared at the pine along the path he was taking, which was swaying suspiciously, and soon saw the familiar pair of legs appear from the lowest branches. The head materialised just a few moments later.
"Oh, what the…" exhaled Wirt, looking back and gauging the distance between the two trees. The result was disheartening.
"Your impoliteness offends me, but, on the other hand, I'm mad, so why would I care?" mused the stranger as if nothing happened.
"What do you want from me?" Wirt crossed his arms on his chest. "Who are you?"
"I need nothing and ask for nothing," said the man, "I travel far and wide, I look everywhere and see most of it, apart from those little somethings that always want to be on their own, and my name is Bill Sweeney, very nice to meet you."
"Please let's not shake hands."
"And what I see most clearly is that you don't belong here," repeated Bill, but there was no accusation in his voice.
"Can't seem to find a place where I do," mumbled Wirt, mentally ordering his face not to flush. This time he battled the urge to walk out on the stranger, disgruntled teen-style. What was the point of such dramatics anyway when this guy seemed to be able to jump for a hundred feet? If Bill Sweeney wanted to keep the conversation going, he would. "Do you by any chance know what's the quickest way to get over that hill?"
"I do, but the quickest way is the last thing you need," was the reply.
"Can I decide what I need?"
"Oh, no offense but by the looks of you it doesn't seem like you should," answered Bill almost apologetically.
Wirt wanted to scream.
"Ve… very helpful! Who… Wh-why… What would I even do without your help!"
Stammering in frustration, Wirt stuck his hands in his pockets with enough force to almost tear the fabric and looked straight ahead as he marched past the tree and the ridiculous bully contained thereon, determined not to pay Bill Sweeney any attention from now on, unless he would suddenly turn violent.
The further he went, the more he unwillingly braced himself in anticipation – and sure enough, soon there was the familiar "whoosh!" once again, and then he heard Bill's exhausted sigh from a short branchy pine ahead of him. True to his intention, Wirt said nothing as he walked past the dangling feet.
"Mad as I am," Bill said to his back, "I only want to point out that the Hunter is scouring the place you seem to be heading towards. I saw him in flesh a quarter of an hour ago."
"A hunter," repeated Wirt, reluctantly slowing the pace.
"The Hunter," accentuated Bill. "The warden, the sheriff, the patrolman of the Unknown – call him whatever you like, it'll still be him."
Wirt wanted to point out that "The Hunter" was definitely the most suspicious option of the four names Bill could have chosen, but decided to cut to the chase instead.
"Is he… like the Beast?" he blurted. "Or does he, er, hunt the ones like the Beast? Why exactly should I be worried?"
"Well, like I said, you look desperately out of place, boyo," reminded Bill Sweeney. "The Hunter does not take lightly to the likes of you. You'll be flying out of the Unknown's borders the moment he or his hounds so much as catch a glimpse of you."
"H-hounds? Now there are hounds?" Wirt stopped and ordered himself to stay critical. If Bill was sane enough to proclaim himself mad, then maybe, just maybe, all of this wasn't some sort of inane rambling. Then again, he did say he was mad, so perhaps that was enough to discredit anything else he might say afterwards. The part about not belonging here, though – that was suspiciously close to home, from a madman or not. He finally turned back to look at Bill Sweeney's fiery head.
"Oh, don't be afraid, young fella," the redheaded tree-dweller assured him, "no actual harm will come to you. The Hunter will just kick you out of here like he does with any and all who don't belong here. He'll tear you out of the Unknown's soil like a nasty weed that you are."
"Er… Thank you. Really needed to hear that."
"Rip you like an old Band-Aid. Throw you out like a gurrier out of a boozer. Uncork you like a…"
"Look, I get it!"
"Good," Bill shrugged. "I'm only after trying to be helpful. The man's a nuisance is all I'm saying. He might go away and hunt elsewhere, but you never know. I travel all around the place and always stumble upon him – figuratively speaking, of course, he is not in a habit of climbing trees. You can always ask someone among the locals to help you across the hill," he added. "There's a river over there, unless the madness got to my memory," he pointed to the right of where Wirt was originally heading, "and some cottages are scattered along its banks. There are some nasty folks, though!" he snorted. "So be careful. People throwing sticks and rocks at you, that sort of thing. I heard one of them got her comeuppance the other day. Got turned into a bluebird! Ha! Wish I did some magic, too, apart from this whole long-jumping baloney… Them kids these days…"
Wirt was too busy contemplating whether or not to believe what the stranger had told him about the Hunter, so it took a few moments for Bill's next words to register in his brain. And then he had to contemplate whether or not to believe those words, although the odds were clearly rigged this time.
"What did you say?!" Wirt exclaimed, his eyes widening.
"What did I say?" Bill looked just as perplexed and looked around suspiciously. "Was I mumbling something daft again? Ah, it's all good craic until you remember that you're mad…"
"No, no, just now! Something about the girl and a bluebird! Is she… Does she live nearby?"
"Well, why would I know?" Bill looked almost offended that Wirt would ask him something like that. "Bluebirds, boyo! Do they migrate in winter? Who knows. I migrate in winter, for example. To be fair, I migrate every season. It's more fun this way." He scratched his beard. "What was I talking about…?"
"The girl who got turned into a bluebird!" Wirt almost stomped his foot in frustration. "Is her house over there, near that river you mentioned? Are you sure?"
"Am I sure? Am I sure? That bruise on my knee didn't go out for weeks, boyo, for weeks! Damn right it's over there. Avoid it like plague. Better give yourself up to the Hunter before talking to the likes of her, that's my advice…"
But Wirt was already moving towards the trees to the left, in the direction Bill had pointed earlier. A new surge of hope was warming him from the inside, and heavy snow didn't seem like that much of an obstacle anymore. Of course, Bill Sweeney could have lied or simply got it wrong, but Wirt preferred to believe that the self-proclaimed madman's memory had been true in this particular case. If Beatrice indeed was somewhere close, she would tell him all about the supposed threat of the Hunter and help him find Greg. But even these potential practical benefits of finding her, however, could not outshine the burning desire to simply see her again, for the first time since that strange day when Wirt cut her wings with Adelaide's magic scissors and had to say goodbye.
"Find yourself before the Hunter does!" was the last ever thing Wirt heard from Mad Bill Sweeney.