The Music Box: Chapter Sixteen

Isabelle's dawdle quickened to a canter, then a sprint. Branches and twigs that would have scratched and torn at anyone else were lifted out of her way as she flew past, blindly striking out along the path she now knew so well. She might have been moving on angel’s wings such was her weightless speed, her feet skimming soundlessly across the cool, damp earth, leaving no imprint despite the softness of the moss, the rich layering of decomposing leaves.

Isabelle later wondered how she had known where to go, but so finely honed, by now, were her instincts that there was no question about it – the only unknown was whether she was going to get there in time. Deeper and deeper into the forest Isabelle ran, branching off to more minor and minor paths until she followed no path at all but that of her heart and the trace of memory that had threaded the map of forest deep into her, tattooed it onto her soul.

She was almost there now. She skirted the Hollow Swamp, dashed by Willow Way and rounded Toad Corner, with the Golden Grove now well within reach. Isabelle normally approached with a deferential dignity and a quiet respect, but knew there was no time for that tonight. She burst into the clearing and knew in doing so she had crossed a line that would change everything.

There before her was the picture she had pushed to the back of her mind since it first slapped her like an ice-cold pail of water tipped over her head – Percival was crumpled on the ground in the centre of the clearing, tattered rags fluttering from his bloodied body like streamers at a birthday party gone terribly wrong.

“Stop!” she cried with all her might, noting at least a dozen wolves were circling the hapless boy.

They turned almost as one to see who had entered their realm so impertinently, who was addressing them in such an unforgivably insolent tone. The fire in their eyes matched with that blazing in hers, burning so brightly that shadows flickered beneath all the trees, dancing in amused mockery of the tense stand-off below.

“Leave him be,” Isabelle yelled at them, seeing that their attention slowly drifted from her back to the prone figure. “He means you no harm, now let him up.”

With a sudden mix of sickness and relief she saw that he was still alive, still breathing. Though blood had soaked into what was left of his shirt and scratches criss-crossed his back and chest, they had only being toying with the hapless boy so far.

The wolves stood their ground, but at least she now had their attention. Isabelle looked around the circle and sought out Jericho.

“What has he done to deserve this? Why have you attacked him so?”

Jericho rose to his full height, perhaps unconsciously swelling out to take up as much room as he could, clearly reinforcing his authority. He appraised Isabelle coldly, explaining that the boy had been found prowling through the woods, well beyond where the humans should be at night. As far as the wolves were concerned, this made him fair game. It was Aloysius who had discovered him.

Aloysius; always prowling, furtive, inscrutable, Isabelle thought. She wondered just how far into the forest Percival had really wandered, and how close to the village Aloysius had been.

“You must let him go,” Isabelle pleaded, knowing she was interfering in something bigger than her, that the goodwill they had shown, while strong and well-intentioned, could extended only so far.

Now Isaiah stepped in, explaining to Isabelle that simply wasn’t the way things worked. Yes, they had put up with her being on their turf, had let her have a place amongst them, but this was different. This simple boy who blustered into their realm was going to have to pay the consequences.

Isabelle realised she was running out of time. Already, the other wolves were pacing again, slowly circling. She heard Percival groaning and her heart was so heavy it had surely turned to lead.

“Please, I beg you, leave him be.”

Isabelle’s eyes darted around the grove, they flitted over Aloysius, registering that his interest was in her rather than the meal on the ground. She talked urgently.

“I know him, he is a good man, he means well.”

Jericho looked her up and down. Something had changed in his eyes, they were still as clear as ever, but they had lost their warmth. They were the cold eyes, free of feeling, which made her skin crawl. He turned from her as though she no longer existed.

Before she knew what she was doing, Isabelle dashed through a gap in the circle and flew to Percival. She wrapped him in her arms and turned defiantly to the closing wolves.

“Take me instead,” she pleaded.

“Leave him be and take me.”

The wolves slowed uneasily; none had been prepared for this turn of events. Their eyes turned to Jericho, for he would have to take charge.

He thundered at Isabelle with furious wrath, accusing her of being a fool, a cretin, ungrateful, a curse upon them from upon high.

“Stop!”

Isabelle looked up. Where had this come from? Jericho had obviously wondered the same thing.

“Let them go.”

It was Aloysius. Isabelle, still clutching Percival, whose arms were now feebly embracing her in return, stared at him. She could have sworn he had spoken in her own tongue, but that simply could not be.

She watched as Jericho and Aloysius stood barely a pace apart, staring into each other’s eyes, fangs bared, bodies coiled, coats bristling. There was icy fury and bottomless hatred pouring from both, and as she watched, Isabelle saw they were locked in an incredible power battle that had, she realised, been looming for some time. It was bigger than Percival, bigger than her, bigger than any of them.

Isabelle felt a tug on her sleeve. A young wolf she had grown quite close to, Seraphine, was silently pulling her towards the gap in the clearing. Percival, thankfully able to walk, had hold of her hand and was pulled with her.

Seraphine whispered urgently that they must run like the wind, never turning back, never returning to the forest again.