Wild Magic (18 page)

“I'm trying now,” said Moller, his face flushing with passion and exertion. “I'm here, aren't I?”

“You came for Jakob!” said Marianna. “You didn't come for me! You said so yourself.”

“I couldn't come for you because I couldn't leave Jakob,” said Moller. “I was torn, Mari. Torn in two. I had to decide who needed me more. And that was Jakob. You're strong, Mari. So strong you frighten me sometimes. You'll do whatever it takes.

I can't stop you.”

He had tears in his eyes—Mari saw them—though whether they were tears of anger or despair or love, she couldn't tell. She couldn't think straight any more. Every fiber of her being was urging her to run. Yes, she was strong—but she couldn't fight this. Couldn't fight the Piper. Not on her own. She felt herself slipping from her father's grip. She started to panic. She didn't want to go.
She didn't want to go
. This time the Piper might break her completely. Her father was the only one standing between them.

“Papa!” she cried. “Don't let me go! Hold on!”

“I'm trying,” said Moller, desperate now, “but there's something at work here. Some kind of magic. I don't think I can hold you much longer.”

He was right. Marianna suddenly slipped from his grasp. She seemed to be bodily wrenched from him. Her legs started to move, taking her off down the lane at a fast run. Too fast for Moller to keep pace. With a great effort, she managed to turn her head and call over her shoulder. “Papa! Find me!”

“I will, Mari! I will!” Moller waved his arms wildly, staring after her, openmouthed, wretched, crushed.

He hoped she had heard him. She was running so fast, she was almost out of sight already. A smudge of red against the greenery of the lane.

Moller sank to his knees and took his head into his hands. His heart felt dry and twisted, like a wrung-out rag. He felt old, useless, and tired from the struggle. What on earth had possessed her? She had fought like a demon. He couldn't hold her.

“I've let you down again, Mari,” he said. “God knows I tried, but I let you down again.” He shook his head. “This can't keep happening. I promised your mother I'd look after you. Fight for you, protect you.
Pah!
A rotten job I've made of it so far.” He raised his head and rubbed away a tear with the back of his hand. He gazed down the empty lane. “But it's not over till it's over, eh? Perhaps my time will come.”

Moller rose wearily to his feet and started walking. And it wasn't long before his spirits began to rise. Soon he was striding down the lane, shoulders back, arms pumping, head held high. He even managed a smile.

“I'm coming, Mari,” he said. “Don't you worry about that! I'm coming. And heaven help that Ratcatcher when I get there!”

CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE

Finn watched the Whispering Forest come closer. He didn't want to go there. He wanted to run in the opposite direction, but he wasn't the one doing the running. Aspen was thundering beneath him, his tail streaming out behind like a silken scarf. At least he was enjoying the journey.

Closer it came. Closer. Finn could imagine the trees starting to whisper,
He's coming! He's coming!
The rumor would reach the ears of the forest. The creatures, older than time, that lived in its dark heart—they would surely come for him. To enter the forest once was folly. To enter it twice was madness.

“I can't do it,” he muttered. “I can't go in there.”

Aspen snorted, gathered his strength and leaped over a high hedge. Then he turned abruptly and started racing down a green lane.

Finn suddenly had the feeling he had been there before.

“This is it,” he said. “This is the way I came last time.” The memories flooded back. He could hear the hounds and the hunting horn. Feel the excitement and urgency of the hunt. He could almost believe the stag was there again, pounding down the lane to the forest, leading him to his destiny.

Then Aspen slowed to a trot and they were there, at the forest edge where it had all begun. Finn could hear Perlal's voice, warning him not to go any farther. Oh, how he wished he had heeded his friend's advice that day.

Finn dismounted and decided to sit awhile. He gazed into the forest and fancied he could see himself, many years younger, riding through the trees.

“How easily lives change,” he mused. “One decision, made in a moment, and everything alters forever. What if I had listened to Perlal? Where would I be now? I would have ridden back with the others and feasted at Fennon's house. His sisters would have welcomed us.
Ah!
I might have married one of them. Armesia, with the amber eyes . . .”

He fell silent and sank into a whirlpool of ifs and maybes, spinning round and round in a tantalizing vision of what might have been. If only, if only . . .

It was the pain in his leg that pulled him back
into reality. Nothing had changed. Aspen was still cropping the grass beside him. Flyte was perched on a gatepost, watching for mice. The forest lay still and cool in the heat of the day.

Finn clambered to his feet and stiffly walked toward the forest. How peaceful it looked! How inviting! Today it was lush and green, and alive with the calls of unseen birds. The fringe was speckled with wood anemones, white as snowfall. This was a place that teased travelers with its beauty. Lured them in. Promised they would be welcome.

How untrue that was. No one was welcome in the Whispering Forest. No one was safe from its tricks and cruelty.

Finn stopped at the very edge of the forest. He couldn't go any farther. Suddenly he felt weak and fluttery, as if his body was made of butterflies. His lungs had to work harder and harder, just to keep a breath in his body.

He staggered to the nearest tree and put his arms around it. Clung on tight, as if the ground was about to disappear beneath his feet and sweep him into oblivion.

“How can I go in there like this?” he gasped. “How can I find the boy when I can't even stand upright?”

He tore himself away from the tree, stumbled toward the open land and collapsed in a heap on the grass.

Flyte joined him.

“I can't do it,” said Finn despairingly. “I can't conquer the fear. When I reached the trees, my legs gave out. It's my second time, Flyte. My body knows it and won't let me enter.”

“You have two bodies,” said Flyte.

Finn stared at the hawk. “You think the Beast could do it?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Flyte. “When the Beast takes your body, it takes your mind as well, does it not?”

Finn nodded. “More or less.”

“Then you will lose your fear. The Beast has no fear. It has no memory of this forest; it has never been here. It is driven by one desire only—the desire to hunt. So tell it to hunt for the boy. Make that the last thought in your mind as it steals your body.
Find the boy
.”

Finn pondered the idea. “I think it will work,” he said at last. “Flyte, do you realize what this means? I could be cured by morning!”

“Perhaps,” said the hawk. “But first you must survive the night.”

CHAPTER
FORTY-FOUR

Jakob awoke to find a large pink tongue licking his face.

“Mari?”

He struggled to sit up. The fox began to lick his arm, but Jakob knew it wasn't his sister. He didn't know
how
he knew; he just did. He rubbed his face with his hands, yawned, and rose to his feet. And that was when the enormity of the challenge hit him. The forest was full of foxes. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. All the foxes in Elvendale were there: curled up into neat russet bundles; lying stretched out in warm pools of sunlight; play-fighting like cubs; cleaning one another's ears; barking at squirrels. How would he ever find Marianna?

Hope shriveled inside him like a snail in sunshine. He pushed his way through the furry throng and knelt in front of the well. Washed his face. Drank a cool, calming draught. As he did, the head rose from the murky depths and greeted him.

“So,” it said, “are you ready to choose?”

“Yes,” said Jakob. “I suppose I am. But I don't know how—or
why
, for that matter. Why do I have to choose? Why can't I just make my last wish?”

“Because there are rules in this forest,” said the head. “Rules that must be obeyed. You have broken one already by coming in here.”

“That's the first I've heard of it!” protested Jakob. “How was I supposed to know that? I'm a stranger here. I haven't spoken to anyone except you. And I was lured in by voices. I wouldn't have entered otherwise.”

The head paused. It would not be drawn into an argument. “Some wishes are easily granted,” it said at last. “Visions, summoning people . . . these do not alter the fabric of the forest. But some wishes are not so simple. Some wishes bring about change. Yours is such a wish. You would change a fox into a girl. Such wishes must be won. So—let us begin. Choose your sister and I will change her. But beware: you have only one chance.”

“
One
chance! You didn't say that yesterday. Did you?”

“I'm saying it now, so listen.
One
chance. Choose wrongly and I cannot help you. Your sister will remain a fox forever.”

Jakob turned and gazed at the foxes. They all looked so similar—how could he possibly tell? One was a bit bigger than the others. One was a shade darker. One had a torn ear. One had a blind eye. But these were tiny differences. And there were so many foxes, he couldn't begin to see those at the back of the crowd.

He started to walk among them. They were all quiet now. Patiently watching. Waiting for him to choose so they could return to their dens. Jakob scanned their faces. Nothing. Then he remembered something.

“My staff ! Where is it? Perhaps the globe will glow when I find Mari.”

It was lying by the side of the well. The foxes obligingly parted so he could reach it. He started the search again. But the globe didn't glow.

On he went, scanning every face. Holding a picture of Marianna in his mind, hoping it would help. But it didn't.

Or did it? Because just as he was giving up all hope of finding her, he spotted one fox that struck him as different. It wasn't so much the way it
looked
as the way it looked
at him
. It couldn't come forward—it was locked within the crowd—but its gaze suggested it wanted to. It was utterly focused. Intense. Imploring.

And then a strange thing happened. Jakob left his body. The shell was still standing there, holding the staff, surrounded by foxes—but Jakob had become no more than a breath. He felt himself leaving his body through his own nose—
hhhhaaa
—soft as a sigh. Then he picked up speed, flew through the air to the fox's face, and—
hmmm
—the fox breathed him in. Finally he traveled up the long muzzle and found himself looking at the world through the fox's eyes. Everything was brighter. Tighter. He could see the crowd of foxes at eye level. Hear their breathing. Smell their scent.

But more than this, he could feel the emotions of the fox and understand them. In that moment, he knew exactly how it felt to be that fox, standing there in the forest, waiting for something to happen. He
was
that fox. He knew exactly what it was thinking. And it was thinking the same thing, over and over again:
It's me, Jakob! It's me!

Jakob left Marianna's body, catching a ride on her very next breath. He flew back through the air and into his own body. Felt his fingers curl around the staff once more and—
voomf !
—the globe burst into life, burning with a golden orange glow.

He pushed his way through the foxes till he reached Marianna. He threw his arm around her and held her tight, like he would never let her go. Then he led her back to the well, with the foxes parting before them in great red waves.

And once he was there, he fell to his knees, placed his hand on Marianna's head, and declared, “This is my sister and I wish she was a girl again.”