The deep woods were slowly giving way as Wirt walked on. The trees became more uptight and refused to lock each other in those strong embraces, the snow on the ground all around them seemed softer and much easier to traverse. Soon there were large chunks of pale blue sky above Wirt's head. He only had to walk for a quarter of an hour more before he reached the bank of a frozen winding river. It twisted so chaotically that at first Wirt wasn't sure in which direction he was supposed to go, but then he spotted a thin but steady line of smoke rising in the distance and decided it was as good a place to start as any.
He seemed to be breathing easier now that the dark forest had been left behind, and even allowed himself to forget about Greg for a moment, his head primarily occupied with the thoughts about Beatrice. Wirt didn't realize or didn't let himself realise just how much he had wanted to see her again while they suffered in silence at home. He remembered how they had parted, some words which had been left unspoken, the mystery in her mischievous blue eyes when he had said goodbye – and felt his cheeks blush. All the butterflies in the whole of the Unknown were probably trapped inside his stomach at the moment. Wirt walked along the treacherous, uneven riverbank, submerged in the warmth of tingling memories and hopeful thoughts.
The first cottage he reached was a wide stocky cabin built of dark brown logs, its roof flat and covered in snow, its door twice as wide than seemed necessary to Wirt. The reasoning behind such a choice became obvious when he came closer, too excited to experience doubt or fear, and knocked loudly on the hard surface, for the door was opened by a rather grumpy-looking centaur. He was wrapped in tartan plaid and a massive white scarf, the end of which fell all the way down to the hay-covered floor.
"What?" the centaur neighed, frowning the wrinkly face of a man in his sixties. His white mane was trapped underneath a worn black hairnet.
Wirt, to his credit, let his jaw drop only halfway before regaining control.
"I'm… Hello there. I'm actually looking for the family that got turned into bluebirds some time ago. There was a girl called Beatrice. Would you happen to…"
"Up the river, the watermill. The whole lot of them."
After this curt reply curiously lacking verbs the centaur slammed the door in Wirt's face, and the young man heard the muffled sound of hoofbeat mixed with some unintelligible grumpy noises. He wondered if the rock thrown at the bluebird was but the final chapter of Beatrice's misbehaviour against the local fauna before she got her comeuppance.
It wasn't a proper village: the buildings were unevenly spread along the banks of the river, some far away from the water, some looming right above it. One construction in particular looked as if the architect had spent too much time thinking about willows and the Tower of Pisa. The Unknown characteristically sported the odd mix of the mundane and the unusual. Next to one cottage there were perfectly normal clothes hanging on the thick washing line, but after coming a bit closer Wirt realised that the line itself was a living snake, who looked rather embarrassed with its predicament. Near another building there was a cluster of trees decorated with birdhouses – or, after a more careful inspection, clocks styled as such, all showing different time but producing a strangely melodic rhythm with their ticking. Wirt saw fit to avoid being spotted by the inhabitants and preferred to take wide berths through the deep snow instead of approaching the cottages.
He saw the watermill and the adjacent house from afar and was excited to spot the thick gusts of smoke coming out of the chimney. The massive wooden wheel stood silent and unmoving just above the surface of the river, obviously having been lifted before the winter frosts. Wirt had no idea what he was going to say to Beatrice and her family, but he knew he wanted to blurt the stupidest things available in English if only he saw her once more.
A variety of voices reached his ears when he approached the door, and he imagined he had heard hers. Wirt's heart was about to jump out of his throat as he lifted his fist and knocked at the door, and he couldn't believe how nervous and uncertain of everything he suddenly became, even by his impressive standards.
A redheaded boy in his early teens opened the door and looked positively stunned as he examined Wirt's face, no doubt projecting the pointy hat onto the visitor's head and mentally wrapping his shoulders in the dark blue cape.
"Mo-o-o-o-o-om!" the boy shouted after coming to a certain conclusion.
The other children of the numerous family gradually gathered behind the boy's back, throwing curious glances at Wirt and murmuring among themselves, the colour of their hair the very shade of burnt orange he associated with that short precious glimpse of Beatrice in the human form. Of Beatrice herself, however, there was no sight. But she was probably out walking with her dog or helping her mom in the kitchen, Wirt told himself. She had to be.
Finally a plump round-faced woman in a homespun dress and a white bonnet got through the crowd of her children, and it took her a single look at him to gasp, "Oh, dear!" and impatiently beckon for Wirt to come in.
"What are you doing here? Is your brother with you? Is everything all right?" she asked with concern, making him sit on a chair next to the fireplace and take off his jacket, which was followed by a warm plaid being wrapped around his shoulders. Wirt was a bit disconnected from reality at that point, because, while he had assumed that Mad Bill or even the centaur might have lied or mistaken, he hadn't expected to find Beatrice's family but not herself.
"Yeah, we're… er… look, Mrs…" he almost called her "Mrs. Bluebird" before shutting his mouth.
"It's Porter, dear."
"Mrs. Porter, is Beatrice… around?" The intonation fell like an empty bucket in a deep dark well because the look on Mrs. Porter's face gave it all away.
"You missed her by a few days, actually," she replied with an obviously artificial indifference in her voice.
"Missed her? How?"
"She has… gone on an adventure," Mrs. Porter nervously waved her hand in the general direction of the door, absent expression in her eyes. "Off to see the world or some such nonsense. Stubborn, stubborn girl… Anyways, dear, what brought you here, please do tell?"
Wirt proceeded to retell his story with a tangible emptiness in his stomach, for the hope lit by Mad Bill had flickered out like a torch in a gale. He had no idea why Beatrice's absence bothered him so much but it just seemed so wrong not to find her that now, surrounded by the caring Mrs. Porter and her children, he felt he was more alone than in that dark endless forest.
Despite his attempts to wiggle out of the plaid for the rather noble cause of going to find Greg as soon as possible, Wirt was told in no uncertain terms that he would have dinner first. He refrained from the jokes about dirt, and in fact the food turned out to be delicious: apparently he had had too much on his mind to notice his hunger. He tried to sustain the small talk initiated by the Porter kids who wanted to know everything about his adventures in the "other" world, but eventually found himself being taciturn to the point of unfriendliness, which the perceptive Mrs. Porter took as a sign and shooed the children away to give him some space.
"Wh-… Why did she go?" he asked quietly, poking at the remains of the soup with his spoon and avoiding Mrs. Porter's eyes.
"I guess she got bored with us, dear," she shrugged. "With our mill, with our house, with stealing apples from Mr. Ness's garden every summer… Beatrice grew up a lot during that time with you, you know. I didn't expect her to. I guess… mothers never do, do they?"
A short silence fell which Wirt falsely interpreted as expectant and was almost prepared to answer that no, they probably didn't, when Mrs. Porter continued:
"It wasn't really sudden: she told me about it some time after Christmas, and then we talked almost every day. I knew I couldn't convince her to stay but I couldn't just accept that either. Even Frank did, eventually. Beatrice promised to wait until spring – that's about the only compromise we had reached – and even that was not to be, because one morning that talking horse appeared, Fred or whatever its name is, and she got it into her head that it was a sign to set off…"
Mrs. Porter sighed and stood up to put Wirt's empty bowl away, sneakily wiping the corner of her eye with a sleeve.
"So, where exactly did she go? And for how long?"
"Would that I knew, dear," said Mrs. Porter, and there was such sadness in her voice that Wirt immediately started hating himself. He stared at the wooden surface of the table before finding enough strength to ask:
"Are you angry at her, Mrs. Porter?"
A steamy cup of tea appeared before him, and then he felt a warm plump hand brush his hair.
"No, dear. I guess she did what she had to do."
But you worry yourself sick and wish she were back regardless, don't you, Wirt wanted to ask, but the answer seemed too obvious to him to even bother.
Once he drank the tea, it was definitely time to go, and even the overprotective Mrs. Porter accepted that locating Greg before it's too late was the priority.
"Finding the Riddler's Vein – the only proper pass to the other side of the hill – is not difficult at all once you get on the Redwood Road," she explained, "but if the Hunter's around indeed, and I see no reason not to trust old Bill, then it might prove to be a bit of a problem. Besides, there are some other creeps stalking the land, if the rumours are true…"
She fell silent and shook her head ruefully, no doubt thinking about Beatrice again.
"He can find a guide in 'The Pilgrim's Rest'!" offered the boy who had opened the door. He was clearly the most curious of the bunch, for he had sneaked closer towards his mother and their guest when it became clear the latter was about to leave.
"A bunch of no-gooders, the lot of them," was Mrs. Porter's rather critical assessment. "Honestly, Stephen, have I not told you to stay away from that place?"
"No-one there likes the Hunter too much, though," Stephen shrugged his shoulders. "Just sayin' ".
"Hm-m… That much is true, I guess."
"And I could show him the way!" offered Stephen readily, which was followed by a heated argument eventually won by the boy. Stubbornness clearly ran in this family, and the younger generation was a lot more proficient in using it the best way possible. Mrs. Porter equipped Wirt with a leather backpack stuffed with supplies and a couple of old blankets, and sent him on his way with a hug and a hardly reassuring albeit sincere, "Don't worry, dear."
"You too, Mrs. Porter," he replied, sensing that he wasn't the only one who needed that support. "And thanks for everything."
It seemed a lot colder outside after some time spent in the cozy living room of the Porters. The sun had hidden behind a thin veil of greyish clouds, which reluctantly dropped lazy snowflakes on the ground. Stephen seemed jovial as he led Wirt towards an old stone bridge over the river, no doubt enjoying his bit of adventuring. His companion must have seemed utterly dejected and lost in his various unpleasant thoughts, because at some point the younger boy said:
"She thought of you often, you know."
"Uh?" said Wirt, unsure of what he heard.
"Beatrice," clarified Stephen. "We were pretty close, she was fun to be around, so we talked sometimes. She missed you and your brother."
"The two of us, then?" Wirt blurted without thinking. "I mean…" He felt considerable discomfort despite the fact Stephen must have been some five years younger than him. "Well…"
"I guess one of the reasons she wanted to leave was to see you again. To see if there's a way, you know?"
They reached the bridge, and Stephen leaned precariously on the old stone railing to throw a snowball at the piece of tree bark floating in the river.
"Oh well," said Wirt eventually. "Ever heard of the word 'irony'"?
"Nah," Stephen shook his head and then grinned widely. "I grew up with Beatrice, remember? We went straight to 'sarcasm'!"
The two boys laughed as they continued their journey, and, despite the fact his brother was still all alone somewhere on the other side of the hill, his parents must have been going sick with worry and Beatrice was probably getting further and further away from him with each passing minute, Wirt felt something warm stirring inside him again.