BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale (4 page)

Unfortunately, for Richy, his parents had withdrawn from the situation and more or less left him to do whatever he wanted. His parents were wrapped up in their own affairs, and Richy was kept in the dark on such matters. They’d often stop an emotionally charged conversation whenever he would walk into the room. They didn’t notice him working on improving his sail-cart, or the amazing things he could do with it. Even when he wanted to tell them about it, they just smiled and said they’d look at it later, but later never came. Richy’s parents thought they were protecting their son by keeping him far from their troubles, without realizing the effect it was having on him.

Tee, Elly, and Richy returned to the parked sail-carts with some Mineau friends who were eager to see the much-rumored contraptions. Some of the teenagers quietly marveled at the sleigh, too, not sure if it was okay to interrupt Nikolas while he chatted with adults who came to greet him. Everyone, regardless of age, seemed to be excited to meet the group from Minette.

“I better be off,” said Nikolas, shaking many hands and climbing back into the sleigh with Squeals and Bore. Egelina-Marie and Bakon stepped onto the sleigh’s back skids and held on for the ride.

With a clicking noise from his mouth and a flick of the reigns, Nikolas convinced the horses to head to the town’s square. As they navigated the streets, kids poured out, drawn to the sleigh as if it were a magnet. Cheering and excitement grew until they reached the square. Some adults came out with their children, while others would come along shortly, not wanting to miss the highly anticipated festivities.

Tee laughed as the sleigh and the friends that had come out to see their sail-carts pulled away from view. “Do we still get that excited?”

A big-bearded, six-foot-eight man yelled, “There they are!”

Instinctively, the trio sprang apart, ready to take on the potential danger. They’d already pulled down their hoods and had their shock-sticks in hand.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Richy, realizing who it was. “I think you scared me senseless!”

“Monsieur de Montagne!” yelled Elly to the huge man.

“Stop!” bellowed the mountain man as they ran toward him. His booming voice seemed like it could stop the falling snow mid-sky. “What have I told you?” he said gruffly, hands on his hips. “Do I
look
like a noble gentleman? Just
Pierre
.”

Richy frowned. “You’re wearing a nice fur coat, for starters. Where’s the usual pile of poorly stitched-together furs?”

Elly gave Richy a quizzical look. “He’s also combed his hair,” she said, pretending to be shocked.

Tee added, “Did he trim his beard? Where’s the bird’s nest gone? Those poor, poor birds.” 

“Careful—” said Elly, gesturing to her friends to step back. “He might have even… washed!”

Richy leaned in for a sniff as Pierre shook his head and looked at the sky. “Hmm. He doesn’t smell like three-day-old dead bear now. It’s weird,” said Richy.

“I think he
wants
to be a nobleman,” said Tee. “It must have been a rhetorical question.”

Pierre’s cheeks were red from embarrassment and the teasing. No one had ever treated him like this, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Richy nodded. “Yup—you’re looking too respectable for us
not
to call you monsieur.”

“We blame our upbringing. But I think we’re done. You can now continue your fake-yelling at us,” said Elly, with a cheeky smile. 

“Right, thanks,” said Pierre, pointing and nodding at Elly. “Don’t call me monsieur! I’m not some…
fancy
man… on the inside.”

“Pierre!” they yelled affectionately, charging the bear-like man. He picked up the lot of them in a huge hug and danced around.

Over the past couple of months, the Yellow Hoods had started to build a reputation for helping people, whether finding lost children in the forest, or getting things from one side of town to the other. The one rescue that was changing their lives was that of the mountain hermit, Pierre de Montagne. Pierre had spent practically every day since then teaching the Yellow Hoods everything he knew about mountains, forests, and tracking.

Elly skipped along, letting out some of her happy, excited energy. “So, is this really your first Solstice celebration?” she asked Pierre as they all walked along together.

“It is my first,” he said pensively. He’d been raised by hermit parents. “I watched a couple of times from the forest—the celebrations here, and in Minette. Minette’s were my favorite. Here, it’s more of people just singing in the streets or walking around.”

“Why didn’t you join in?” asked Richy. “It’s not like you need an invitation.”

“Well—” started Pierre, stroking his beard. It felt odd, being so smooth. That morning, he’d traded for a brush, and had to ask the woman at the trading post how to use it properly. She’d been happy to help. “See, when you get old like me, sometimes you feel you can’t change. You feel like a wheel stuck in the mud. It takes a good push to get you out.”

“Were
we
your good push?” asked Tee.

Pierre chuckled and patted Tee on the head. “Yes, you were. You gave me new purpose in life. Anyway, I want to hear what you think of this Solstice stuff. Is it true that darkness runs away after the celebration?” asked Pierre. “Because that’s what I hear.”

“Did you hear those screaming kids? If I was darkness, I’d already be running the other way!” said Elly. Everyone laughed.

Several weeks earlier, Pierre de Montagne’s lungs had been filling up with ice-cold lake water. He’d always feared that one day he’d end up as the hunted, instead of the hunter. The master of the forest felt like a fool—and a soon-to-be dead one.

The hermit lived in a small log cabin between Minette and Mineau, almost at the base of the mountain. His parents had been hermits, too, but had passed away when he was seventeen. Pierre was raised to dislike “towners,” as his mother called townsfolk, and so whenever he went into town, he traded for what he needed and then left. Despite feeling lonely, and curious about the towners, he lacked the courage to do anything more than a bit of spying.

That morning, Pierre had walked out of his cabin, into the snow, and looked around. The winter landscape was the same as ever, but he wasn’t—he felt old. While his hair had just touches of gray and white hidden in rich brown, his body ached more with each passing season. His endurance wasn’t what it used to be. He wondered if this might be his last winter.

After getting dressed, he headed out. He was armed with two homemade javelins; one he kept on his back, and the other ready in hand. Soon, he spotted a full-grown deer and began his hunt. Each time his prey moved, he followed. Each time it slowed or stopped, he would hide, wait, or proceed slowly. Hunger had taught him over the decades that patience, persistence, and alertness were critical.

Pierre saw the deer’s ears perk up a moment before the noise. Just then, three yellow-hooded kids zoomed through on contraptions that appeared to be strange sailboats. Seconds later, the kids were gone, never having noticed hunter or prey.

The deer darted away, and Pierre cursed the towners. “I’ll have to start all over again,” he said, huffing and puffing.

He searched for the deer’s trail for some time. “There we go,” he said to himself. He paused as something else caught his eye. “What’s this?” he said, walking over to inspect another set of tracks, mere feet away. He patted his big hairy beard with a mitt in wonder as he bent down to examine the other tracks.

“What is this?” he repeated. He took off his right mitt and moved his finger through the four-toed paw print in the snow. He laid the mitt beside it and was disturbed to see they were nearly the same size.

“What kind of cat is that large, yet with a print that shallow? It almost floats on the snow,” he said, mystified. He studied another one of the paw prints.

“Diamond shaped… diamond shaped… I know that shape.
Why
do I know it?” He sat there in the snow and stared at the trail the prints made. A lost, painful memory surfaced. His eyes widened, and again he looked at the prints in earnest.

Picking up his mitt, he looked around, worried. He didn’t want to say out loud what he was thinking—out of superstition—but in his mind he kept saying
dire lynx?
over and over.

Dire lynx were larger, far more aggressive versions of their small cousins. Sightings were rare enough that most people doubted their existence, believing them just a fiction created to scare children. Pierre knew better—one had fatally wounded his father.

“How long have we been tracking the same prey?” he muttered, deeply worried that he hadn’t noticed it before. He started following the lynx’s trail backward, curious about where the lynx had come from, and how long they had been hunting side-by-side.

At first, Pierre only intended to backtrack a little, but the further he went back, the more curious he became. Once the trail reached his own cabin, Pierre froze. “You… you weren’t tracking the deer,” he stammered, his heart racing. “It’s me…
I’m
your prey.”

He went into his cabin to get his flintlock pistol. He wondered for a moment if he should barricade himself inside, but he knew that if he did, then when he would eventually stepped out, the dire lynx would strike. Pierre steeled his nerves and headed back out.

He quickly returned to where the kids had zoomed through and scared off the deer, desperate to pick up the trail of where the lynx had gone. Every shadow made him jump and prepare to defend himself. Worse than feeling old, Pierre now felt vulnerable.

Then, he heard a sound that chilled his blood. He turned to see the giant, snow-white dire lynx standing on a fallen tree twenty feet away. The lynx’s low, rumbling growl was foreboding. Its pale blue eyes fixed on Pierre. The predator was telling him that at the time of its choosing, it was going to kill him.

Pierre felt cold inside, and his hands and legs felt numb. Thirty years ago, he’d have dared to draw his pistol, or whip out a javelin and throw it, but he knew he was no longer fast enough. He couldn’t believe he’d neglected having a weapon ready in his right hand, at all times, having put them away so he could walk and crouch better.

The last thing he wanted was to be left mortally wounded in the snow. Sorrow and regret at having lived a hermit’s life crept into his thoughts.
So many things,
he thought,
so many things I should have changed.

The dire lynx started to coil up. Its growl got louder. Just then, the loud voices of the kids returned from out of nowhere. With the lynx momentarily distracted, Pierre sprang up and ran for his life.

The Yellow Hoods were having fun carving up the late autumn snow on their skid-mounted sail-carts. They were just about to start the long sail back to the main road and return home when Richy noticed something.

“Hey, did you see that?” he asked, pointing to some trees.

Elly looked over her shoulder but saw nothing. “No,” she yelled back, over the sounds of the flapping sails and the skids moving over the snow.

“I thought I saw a guy running—like he was scared. Maybe I’m wrong,” said Richy.