Breadcrumbs Part 18

Maybe rescuing him was not the point at all. Maybe Hazel was supposed to come here and find this couple in their cottage who only had a sad mechanical bird to keep them company. They had a missing piece, a hole at the center, an ache with no name. Maybe Hazel was just the misshapen piece for them.

Maybe she was Rose, after all-maybe that had been her real name. Maybe she had come into the woods and slipped into the life she was supposed to have had, if no one had wanted to give her up. Maybe the woods are where people found each other. This is what happens on journeys-the things you find are not necessarily the things you had gone looking for.

Maybe she didn't belong anywhere else because she belonged here.

Hazel got up and looked out the window. The moon shone on the garden like it had been hung in the sky for that purpose alone. The garden beckoned to her. She'd slept in her clothes, and they were damp and uncomfortable. She opened her backpack and then remembered that she didn't have a change of clothes anymore. Hazel pulled the comforter up on the bed so it was nice and neat, and then grabbed her backpack, stuffed the jacket in it, and tiptoed through the dark cottage. The mechanical bird chirped at her as she pa.s.sed.

She could still taste her dreams distantly in her mind. And the memory of Nina's tea lingered in her body. There was something about it. Everything around her looked sharp, almost unnaturally so, like she could see the truth of things. Like if she looked at a box she would know what was inside.

She stepped outside, and then stopped and stared. The small garden was just a slip of earth on the side of the house, but it seemed like its own universe. The sweet, sharp scent of hundreds of flowers greeted her. Even in the night their colors sang. It was a thick, lush blanket of color-luxurious purple and electric blue and suns.h.i.+ne yellow and cheery red. It was like a movie version of an enchanted garden, gorgeous, vivid, and too beautiful to be real. She could dive into the purple of the violets and live there.

She felt suddenly that she wanted for nothing in the world. The flowers called to her, like they had secrets to tell-Rose, come on. Hazel found herself lying down on the cus.h.i.+oned white bench that sat among them, and their fragrance reached up to welcome her.

Sleep pulled her back immediately, wrapping her in the sort of haze that presses down on you and you're not sure it will ever let you go but you're not sure that you ever want to leave. It was so peaceful there in the fog. She wanted for nothing.

And then the flowers began to whisper to her. The noise did not belong. It pulled at her brain like longing, and Hazel wanted it to go away.

They did not stop whispering. The flowers had secrets. They had names, too, though the couple in the cottage called them Daisy, Lily, Hyacinth, Violet, Dahlia, Jasmine, Poppy, and they did not remember the ones they had before. They told Hazel that she must listen.

Daisy grew up in a house with a stream in back, and behind it were some woods. She and her friends Isabelle and Amelia played in them all the time when they were little kids, even though they weren't supposed to. Daisy's mother liked to keep her eye on them, and the trees blocked her view. And then Daisy got sick and could not play anymore. Her friends stood by her bed telling her of the things they did, but after a while they stopped coming. Daisy snuck out of the house one morning, dragging her muscles and bones with her, and crept into the woods. She came upon a wizard who lured her in with healing whispers but did not mean her well. She ran, and a kindly couple took her in.

She was a flower now. She missed her friends and the games they'd play in the woods. They were princesses once, charged with saving the kingdom from a dragon, and whoever could defeat it would be queen. Daisy used strength, Amelia wits, and Isabelle fell in love with the dragon, because that's the sort of girl she was. She rid the kingdom of the dragon, and then made it its king.

Violet had a brother who was eight years older, and he always treated her like a doll. One day, one of the neighbor boys put a snake in her shoe and taunted her for crying. The next day her brother paid him a visit and he never bothered her again. There was a war, and her brother decided to go. He was gone two years, and when he came back he was a sh.e.l.l.

In the woods she fell in love with a shadow who tricked her into believing he was a man. A kindly couple took her in. They'd had a girl once, but lost her.

She was a flower now. Her brother used to pretend to be a general. He gave her stuffed animal ranks and put them through basic training. He demoted the penguin for insubordination.

Lily was in love with a boy who promised her things. He did not keep his promises, and the heartbreak sent her into tar-thick blackness. She started taking long walks and wondered what would happen if she just kept walking. She went into the woods one day, and there the blackness was real. The cold began to tug at her, it whispered promises in her ear. A kindly couple took her in. They'd had a girl once, but lost her. She meant to leave, every day she meant to leave, but they were like the parents you think you should have, and everything tasted like honey.

She was a flower now. She could think of the boy without bringing the blackness on. In the summer they would sneak out at night and meet in the park, and now the smell of the evening air always reminded her of him. He'd push her on the swing just to make her fly. The mosquitoes ate her arms and the gra.s.s tickled her legs. When he laughed, his ears turned bright red.

Poppy had lived here ever since she could remember. She was on her own, but she got by. There were wolves in the woods, and sometimes they watched her cabin. She huddled in it until they left. There was a woodsman who came by sometimes, he had kindly eyes and an ax, and that kept the wolves away.

One day she found something near her little hut. Someone had left red ballet slippers. She could not resist them; she had never had anything like them. She danced, and she remembered the mother and the father she had had, and it was like they were there, applauding her.

But she could not stop dancing. The shoes would not let her stop. She was going to dance herself to death. The woodsman found her. He said the shoes must be cursed. He said he could save her life, but she would have to lose her feet. This is the price we pay. She ran away, and Lucas and Nina rescued her and took her in. They were like the parents you think you should have, and everything tasted like honey. And then one day she took root.

She remembered her real parents, now. They'd died when she was three, but she had them again, and even though she was a flower she knew what it was like to have them s.h.i.+ning with pride when she danced. She held on to them, and the memory of them kept her, and tended to them all.

Hazel remembered, too. She remembered her mother-not her before-mother, but the one she had always known. Hazel was in bed pretending not to cry, and her mother was stroking her forehead, whispering to her gently. She told Hazel that everything was going to be okay. She told her that she would just work twice as hard for Hazel. She told her that they were going to take care of each other. It was just the two of them now, but they had each other. It was going to be okay.

And then she told Hazel that it was time to wake up. That she needed to wake up. Hazel, baby, you must wake up now.

Hazel woke up. The flowers watched her with open faces. She sat up and looked at them. They seemed to expect something of her. She could feel the weight of her mother's hand on her forehead, the caress of her whisper in her ear.

Her hand flew to the backpack where the whistle was. She needed help now. And then her hand retracted. Flashes of conversation played in her head. Ben said: This couple found us and they brought us to their cottage and they took care of us.

They were like real parents, you know?

They wanted to keep her, I guess.

There was a reason the birdsong was the same. Lucas and Nina must have moved on to flowers, to things that couldn't fly away.

Hazel could have stayed. She could have taken root. She wanted to be a Rose, somebody's Rose, their Rose-and she would have been company for the flowers. She had new memories to give them, new people to tell them of, people who would help tend to them and keep them. But they warned her. They saved her.

Hazel was n.o.body's Rose. For better or for worse.

You have to go, the flowers told her.

She took the canteen out of her backpack and drizzled them with the water Ben had given her the day before. It was all she had to give them.

And then a light turned on in the house behind her. Hazel dropped the canteen, slung her backpack over her shoulders, and rushed to the gate.

She was not fast enough. The back door creaked open. Hazel whirled around. Nina appeared on the step in a bathrobe.

"Rose, what are you doing?" Nina said, coming toward her. "You should be in bed."

"My name isn't Rose. It's Hazel. And I'm leaving." There, that sounded brave. Hazel took a step toward the gate.

"What? Why?" Hazel could not see Nina's face in the dark, but her voice was full of concern.

"Why?" Hazel motioned around at all the flowers. It was the only answer she could give.

"Oh." Nina came toward Hazel, her hands out. "I know. It's hard to understand. But they needed us. These girls came into the woods because they were lost. We took them in. We take care of them. We tend to them. We give them what they need."

"You turn them into flowers!" Hazel took a step back.

"That's the only way," Nina said. "It's the only way we can make sure they don't suffer anymore."

"But . . . you didn't ask them. You just kept them."

"Young people don't always know what's best. Especially the ones that come in here. They're lost. They need us." She looked at the ground and added, "It's too hard to be human."

Hazel could only shake her head.

Nina tilted her head and her voice softened. "We could keep you. We would take care of you. You wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore. This would be home."

She was looking at Hazel lovingly, pleadingly, as if it mattered to her whether or not Hazel stayed.

Hazel stared at Nina. The wizard had made her suggestible, she knew this. The honeyed tea was no antidote, she knew this, too. Still. It was possible. It was possible that this woman gave up a baby girl once, a girl with only a dream of a name, and then the grief of it drove her into this place. It was possible.

"I have to go," Hazel said, taking another step to the gate.

"To what?" Nina asked. "Back out there to the wolves? The wizards at the marketplace? To the white witch? Back home, to whatever brought you here in the first place? Ro-Hazel, we can keep you safe. We"-her voice softened-"I can take of you."

"I have to save my friend," Hazel said, trying to keep the words from trembling.

"But"-Nina tilted her head-"he chose something else, don't you see? He doesn't want you anymore."

Hazel glanced at the ground, and then looked back up at Nina. "It doesn't matter."

Nina gazed at her searchingly. "Doesn't it?"

Of course it mattered. The mattering of it filled her up and she threatened to burst with it. But it wasn't the only thing that mattered.

Hazel could only shrug.

"Please," Nina said, her voice almost a whisper. "Don't go there. It's a cruel place. "

"So is this," Hazel said quietly. She half believed it. There were worse fates than being a flower. But there were better ones, too. And it was her puff of wool.

Nina took another step forward, and Hazel could see her eyes now, see all the things in them. She swallowed, turned, and pushed through the gate into the night.

She'd thought the cottage was in the middle of a small neighborhood-that's what she'd seen when Lucas led her from the market square. But when she went through the garden gate she found herself in a clearing in the middle of the woods. Of course. That is what Lucas and Nina needed, and the woods let them make it.

Hazel looked back at the cottage, thought of Nina standing behind the gate, eyes full of pain and longing, a longing she could fill. And then she turned and ran.

She could not get Poppy's story out of her head. Her mind flashed to the dancing girl in the marketplace. Hazel had seen that something was wrong. And if she had thought about it, she would have put the pieces together: the woodsman on the path, the sudden appearance of the red shoes. The woodsman had left the shoes for her to find. He lost his daughter, he came into the woods, he made some cursed dancing shoes. The woods does funny things to people, Ben had said.

But she didn't think about it. She had been too tired, too focused on herself.

It had been hours ago, or maybe days. There was nothing Hazel could do, though she felt like stripping off her own skin. She was good for nothing, and should have been left to take root.

She hated this place. Nothing made sense. Nothing worked as it was supposed to. She was supposed to be learning things as she went along, gaining strength for her final battle. All she was doing was losing things, one thing at a time.

She headed into the cold, for that would lead her to Jack. Because he needed rescuing. That was all. She'd lost her friend, and she might never get him back. But at least she could save him. Whoever he is now. Maybe he had chosen to come here, but he could not stay in this place.

She kept going. She reached a small footpath that stretched itself into the cold night. She joined it, and kept going.

Jack believed in something-he believed in white witches and sleighs pulled by wolves, and in the world the trees obscured. He believed that there were better things in the woods. He believed in palaces of ice and hearts to match. Hazel had, too. Hazel had believed in woodsmen and magic shoes and swanskins and the easy magic of a compa.s.s. She had believed that because someone needing saving they were savable. She had believed in these things, but not anymore. And this is why she had to rescue Jack, even though he might not hear what she had to tell him.

There were so many Jacks she had known, and he had known so many Hazels. And maybe she wasn't going to be able to know all the Jacks that there would be. But all the Hazels that ever would be would have Jack in them, somewhere.

The truth was, he had been getting more and more scratchy and thick lately. And maybe he'd been more and more interested in being with Tyler and the boys on the bus. And maybe he'd hung out with them at recess more and more. Because sometimes when you are scratchy and thick you don't want to be sitting in a shack with someone pretending it's a palace, especially someone who can tell you are scratchy and thick, especially someone who tries to remind you who you really are.

Maybe he didn't want to know.

The boys wouldn't come to save him. Only Hazel would. And maybe that's why the boys would win.

She felt the memory of her mother's hand again. It's all going to be okay. She would like to hear that now, even if it was a lie. Because some lies are beautiful. Stories do not tell you that.

And who was telling her mother it was going to be okay? What did her mom think happened to her? She'd be so worried she'd break in two. Hazel didn't even know how long she'd been gone. How long had her mother been missing Hazel for, worrying about her? Had it been so long that the panic had settled into something dull and unrelenting?

How long did it take for her to figure out Hazel wasn't coming back from Mikaela's, had never gone to Mikaela's, that there was no school project at all? She'd know Hazel had lied to her, betrayed her, that her little girl had crossed a line.

Hazel should have done something-left a note, pretended she was going to go visit Jack's aunt Bernice. Something. She was so busy thinking about the one she needed to rescue she didn't think at all about the one she was leaving behind. She was supposed to take care of her mother, too. She was not supposed to be sipping honey tea with people who are just like the parents you think you are supposed to have. Her mother was what she had.

The woods were dark, but she could still see the path, feel the cold. There was nothing for Hazel to do but keep going. But as much as she had to keep going, she had to come back, too. She had to survive this. She could not leave her mom alone.

She walked on. The trees were thinner now, less like the trees of giants. She saw signs of another village in the distance-she smelled smoke and saw the faint glow of something like civilization. But there was nothing for her there. She had to go get Jack now, and anyway, she was safer out here with the wolves.

Chapter Twenty.

Matchlight

The footpath led Hazel to a bigger path, the sort that might accommodate carts. Hazel eyed the open path warily and then moved over to the side, creeping along the trees like a stalking wolf. She could stick her hand up in the air and feel where the cold was pulling her forward. Somewhere in the distance was the lair of the white witch, cold radiating out from it like heat from a fire.

She let it pull her in.

After a time, she found that there was a thin layer of frost on the ground, sparkling in the moonlight. Slowly she became conscious that she was s.h.i.+vering, that the cold had worked its way through her skin into her blood and bone. Her breath came out of her mouth in puffs. Her chest felt tight and her lungs ached. She stopped and shuddered. She ran her hands along her arms, and then got down her backpack and took out her jacket and her mittens and hat and put them on. She would even have worn the third-grade ones.

The green jacket did its best to warm her. It was a hard job. The cold had snuck up on her so stealthily she didn't even notice it had invaded her until was too late. Hazel breathed away the trembling and thought warm thoughts. And then she went on.

The night in the forest would not relent. It seemed like it had been hours since she'd left the cottage, that the sun should be coming up now. But she didn't know for sure-maybe she was done with the sun now, maybe night was all that the woods would give her.

Eventually she realized she was hungry, and that she had been hungry for a long time. She stopped and opened her backpack. She had two energy bars left to get her through.

She sighed and took one out. She would only eat half of it. She could make this last. Then she would eat half of the next half, and on and on. She could go for a while that way, anyway, getting slowly used to less and less food until one bite of energy bar felt like a feast.

Hazel was just about to unwrap the bar when she noticed a flash of light up ahead. It burned for a few moments, and then died out. Then again-another flash, a slowly dimming glow, and then darkness. Then, from close by, a voice said: "Oh!"

Hazel had had enough of people. With every one she met, the woods became worse. She tucked the bar back in her backpack and started to sneak in the opposite direction.

She did not walk for long, for an enormous white wolf appeared a few paces in front of her. It sat on its haunches and stared at her, in the way the wolves did, its perfect coat glimmering in the moonlight. And though her heart sped up and her stomach clenched, Hazel found herself staring back at the wolf. She was done running from them. Hazel and the wolf eyed each other as the wind danced around them. And then the wolf got up and walked several paces to the right, and then turned its head toward her and fixed its gaze on her again.

"What?" Hazel said.

It went back to the place it had started from, and then did the same thing again.

"You want me to follow you?" Hazel said.

The wolf gazed at her, walked a few paces back, and then forward again. It looked at her. And she stepped forward.

In woods where the woodsmen told lies, maybe it was the wolves who told the truth.