Breadcrumbs Part 14

And then there was pain. Stinging, and then searing. The woman had stuck a nail into Hazel's cheek, and it was like a talon. She dragged her finger down, splitting the skin on Hazel's face. It traveled down her cheek to her neck.

"Did you want to be beautiful?" she hissed. "Is that what you wanted?" She moved her hand to Hazel's wrist and lifted her arm above her head, twisting it in a way it was absolutely not supposed to go. Hazel yelped, and tears sprung to her eyes.

"Now you're coming with me."

Hazel was bent over, trying to un-contort her arm, her body alive with panic. She could not get away. She had to get away. Her cheek was hot and wet and stinging with pain. She needed something, anything.

"Wait," Hazel said, or something very like that. "I'll take you to it!"

The woman loosed her grip slightly and Hazel lunged for the nearest thing-which turned out to be the arm strap of her backpack. She hurled the backpack up at her attacker, using all the force of her body.

Her wrist exploded in pain. The backpack slammed into the woman's skull face and she stumbled backwards.

Clutching the backpack by the strap, Hazel took off in a run, darting through the trees, leaping over roots and clumps. She dared not look back, she just ran.

And then her foot hit something and she went flying into the dirt. Her hands skidded on the ground and her knee b.u.mped up against a rock, tearing the leg of her jeans. Hands stinging, knee throbbing, she sprang back up again.

She could not hear anything but the sounds of her own breath, heart, and blood-all so loud that she wouldn't have heard a semitruck behind her.

Anyway, the woman had come upon her silently before, with nothing but the squeezing of her claw hand to announce her presence. It was not something Hazel wanted to experience again.

And so when the hand landed on her arm, she shrieked. But it wasn't a claw hand at all. A teenage boy was leaning out from one of the trees, arm outstretched. He grabbed her and pulled her behind the tree, then put his arm around her and whispered, "Come with me."

Chapter Sixteen.

The Birdkeeper

The boy guided her forward, moving quickly in and out of the trees. He kept looking behind and then urging her onward.

She had no business trusting this boy. Except he was getting her away from the swan lady, and that's all she cared about in the entire world.

Her leg hurt as she ran, and she could feel fresh blood on her face. Her hands still stung, and her knee was raw. But still she ran.

And then suddenly they came upon a small wood cabin. There was an ax leaning against the front wall and a pile of logs off to the right. The boy stopped and looked wildly around, then skipped up to the door, unlocked it, and motioned to Hazel to go inside.

"Wait in there," he whispered.

She looked from him to the door.

"Please," he said. "I won't hurt you. But she's coming."

And she will hurt you, Hazel finished silently. She ran up the step and into the cabin.

The boy did not come in. He closed the door behind her, and in a blink of an eye she heard the sound of wood being chopped.

Hazel knew she should be wary, knew she shouldn't trust a boy in the woods, but she had no wariness left. She collapsed in a heap on the floor.

She lay there, shaking. It was all too much, the monstrous woman and the monstrous fear. She could feel the woman's hand squeezing her, her nail in her cheek. Hazel was such a small, breakable thing.

She squeezed her eyes shut. For a moment, she imagined she was home in her own bed, the hum of her mom talking on the phone in the background. For once Hazel was fantasizing about the real world.

She inhaled and opened her eyes. Wherever she might want to be, she was here. She pushed herself up and eyed her surroundings. She was in a one-room cabin that was about the size of her cla.s.sroom. There was a fireplace built into one wall, and above it hung two pots. A few shelves lined with jars of food hung next to it. There was a small bed against the other wall with a heavy blanket and a pillow, and a trunk at the foot. Near the fireplace sat a wooden table with a lantern and one chair. This was not someone who had a lot of visitors.

There were three strange things about the cabin. The first was the entire back wall, which was taken over by book-lined bookshelves, like a very rustic library. Except the books were not the musty, cloth-bound kind with gold lettering, but books like you might find at any bookstore now, like he'd just waltzed over to his neighborhood bookseller-or ordered UPS. The second was the rifle that hung above the doorway. It made Hazel's stomach wary just to look at it. And the third was the strangest thing of all.

Perched on a small table in front of the bookshelves in the back of the room was an ornate gold birdcage with its door open. And inside that cage was a small bird, like none Hazel had ever seen, as gleaming white as the feathers of the swanskin. The bird was about the size of a small robin, and from inside the gold cage it seemed to glow.

Hazel took a step toward the bird, mesmerized.

Then, the sound of voices from outside. She froze. Everything inside of her seized up, as if the claw hands were squeezing down on her right now. Hazel swallowed down the urge to vomit.

Making herself as small as she could, she crept over to the window to the left of the door. The shutters were closed, so she crouched underneath and listened, clutching her backpack in her hands.

Yes, it was the witch. Hazel could hear the rasping voice as if the woman was whispering to her heart. She couldn't make out what she was saying, but it hardly mattered.

And then the boy's voice. "No, I haven't."

Evil rasping.

"Mmm. I've been out here all day chopping wood. I'd have seen anyone come by."

More evil.

"I will. I will. Of course."

And then quiet, followed by the sound of wood chopping. Hazel pressed herself against the wall, barely able to breathe. She would not move, lest any disturbance in the air bring the woman back.

Hazel did not know how long she crouched there, while the bird skittered about the cage and outside the boy chopped wood. She just stayed, a puff of wool frozen in time.

And then the door opened and the boy burst in. "It's all right now," he said, hands out. "I don't think she's coming back."

The boy tilted his head, trying to rea.s.sure her with wide, gentle eyes. Hazel blinked up at him. He looked high school age, fifteen or so. He had a thicket of dark hair and wore a worn flannel s.h.i.+rt, rough brown canvas pants, and heavy black boots. His tan face was boyish, and there was no sign of stubble on his chin. He was too young to live in a house with just one bed.

Hazel could not speak, could not do anything but shake her head slowly.

"You need help," he said, his whole body cautious. "You're bleeding."

Hazel put her hand to her face and winced. Her hand came back red and sticky. Her stomach churned.

"It'll be okay," he said, reading her face. "It'll keep bleeding unless I put something on it, though. Is that all right?"

She nodded. He went over to the kitchen area and began poking around on the shelves. He got down a small brown bottle and a towel, which he brought over to her. "I'm going to clean this, okay?"

Hazel nodded again. The boy put some light yellow fluid on the towel and touched it gently to her cheek. Hazel had a flash of a memory-Jack's mom standing in front of her on some long-ago summer day, gently putting peroxide on a badly skinned knee, wincing along with Hazel.

"My name is Ben," he said, dabbing at her cheek. "By the way." He eyed her, but she had nothing to say. He lowered his voice. "Did you, um, do something with her swanskin?"

She nodded slowly.

He blew air out of his cheeks. "That was brave."

It wasn't, really.

"That'll stop bleeding now," he said, taking the rag away and stepping back. "It's going to leave a pretty good scar," he added. "I'm sorry. And, um . . . your clothes . . ."

She looked down. There was blood down the front of her sweater and smeared on one of the sleeves. She must have wiped her hand on her jeans at some point, because there were bloodstains there. The left leg of her jeans was ripped from the knee to her calf, and her knee was skinned underneath.

"I have more," Hazel said quietly, nodding to her backpack.

"Good," he said. "You don't want to walk around here with blood on you."

Hazel's stomach tightened. It didn't sound like it was just a laundry issue. "The wolves?" she asked.

He gave a grim smile. "It's not the wolves you have to worry about."

That was easy for him to say. "I don't understand this place," she said in a low voice.

He blew out air. "Then you're far ahead of everyone else."

She looked at him.

"You can't understand it. People think there should be rules, or order. And sometimes when they can't find it they . . ." He waved a hand in the air. "Well, you met one of them."

Hazel looked down.

"I knew her, before," he added, settling himself into the wooden chair. "She was really beautiful once."

"Oh." That must have been a long time ago. "What happened?"

"She . . . wanted something she shouldn't want. There are costs for that kind of thing."

"I don't understand."

"You can't just kill a swan and wrap yourself in its skin, you know. It takes something from you. In her case it took the thing that she wanted most."

Hazel leaned forward. "What was that?"

"Beauty."

Hazel's hand traveled up to her face. She touched her wound lightly, tracing it from her cheekbone all the way down to her jaw. It throbbed at the barest touch. This was not supposed to happen.

"Um . . ." Ben clasped his hands together and leaned toward her. "May I ask what you're doing here?"

Hazel looked at the floor. It didn't seem like she was doing anything but spinning wool into gray thread.

"You should get out," he continued gently. "This woods is no place for girls."

"I can't," Hazel whispered.

He sighed. "I know. It feels that way. You lost someone."

Hazel eyed him and nodded. "I lost my friend. How did you know?"

"Well . . . you're here, aren't you?"

She didn't understand. "Does everybody come here after somebody else?"

He looked at her a moment. "Oh," he said finally. "Oh, I see. You literally lost your friend? Here?"

"Yes. What did you mean?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. What happened to your friend?"

Hazel sat up. "He was taken. By a woman in a white sled. She wears white furs and doesn't look human. Do you know who she is?"

He sat back. "You mean the white witch," he said slowly.

A chill ran through her body. "The white witch?" she breathed. "Like Narnia?"

"No," he said, his voice quiet. "Narnia is like her."

Hazel's heart sped up. "Well, she took my friend," she said. "What does she want with him? Will she hurt him?"

Ben gazed at her for a moment. He seemed about to say something, and then stopped. "I don't think you should go after him," he said finally.

Hazel straightened. "What do you mean?"

"I think you should go home."

"No! I have to save him! She took him!"

"Look," he said, his voice gentle. "It might be that he doesn't want saving."

"Of course he does!"

"I'm sorry. It's just . . . the white witch . . . She wouldn't have taken him if he didn't want to go."