Battlesaurus (13 page)

Willem is the last to arrive at the fence and his appearance causes a sudden silence and a slew of downward glances. He looks around at the faces. Monsieur Lejeune and Monsieur Claude he expects. Jean and Fran
ç
ois go without question. Others are farmers, hard-faced men, tempered to steel by a lifetime of working the fields. Some of them, like Monsieur Lejeune, are also ex-soldiers.

The surprise is Monsieur Delvaux. The schoolmaster is still in mourning. He seems weakened and made vulnerable by the loss of a child. Yet he comes to hunt the saur. The desire for revenge outweighs all else, except perhaps his distaste at Willem's presence.

“The child is not wanted,” he says.

Murmurs from one or two others express agreement. Jean's father keeps silent, as do the cousins.

The weight of the deaths seems to have settled securely on Willem's shoulders. Fran
ç
ois and Jean's involvement in the raid on the firebird nest is now minimized, if not forgotten. It was Willem who took the eggs, who incurred the wrath of the saur. But perhaps worse, it is Willem who is the outsider, Flemish, in a Walloon village.

“He wishes to make amends for his actions,” Monsieur Claude says, when Willem does not respond.

“You think he can undo what he has done?” the schoolmaster asks.

There is silence.

“I came to help,” Willem says at last, with conflicting feelings. In many ways he will be happier if he is turned away, unwanted in the hunting party.

“He is a puny boy,” Monsieur Delvaux says, refusing to address Willem directly. “A pathetic child. A Fleming. He can do nothing.”

“Pieter is with me,” Willem says. “He will give good warning of any danger.”

“For that we have the dogs,” one of the farmers says.

“The boy brings a saur to a saur hunt.” Monsieur Delvaux emits a single, bitter laugh. His face is lined, his hair flecked with gray that has sprouted almost overnight. His eyes are sunken and sallow. It is hard to believe that this is the same man who stood in front of Willem in school, day after day, teaching him arithmetic and geography and the books of the Bible. That this is the man who once called Willem his best-ever student. Monsieur Delvaux has been transformed by his grief into a raw stew of emotions. And the focus of it all, in the absence of the firebird, is Willem.

No logic can defeat such inflammation, and Willem does not try.

“Willem's pet is sensitive to the mood of the forest,” Jean says. “He will give us warning well before the dogs, and may help lead us to the raptor.”

“It is so,” Fran
ç
ois agrees.

“The boy comes with us,” Monsieur Lejeune says before Monsieur Delvaux can respond.

“I will allow it,” Monsieur Claude proclaims, as if it has not already been decided. “But he stays in the boat. We do not want him under our feet.”

Now Willem sees the boat, a flat-bottomed riverboat, with a single oar for sculling at the stern. It is moored by the stone bridge. Two wicker eel traps sit near the bow.

“We search until midday,” Monsieur Claude says. “We must be back before nightfall.”

“We search until we find it,” Monsieur Lejeune says.

“We return before dark,” Monsieur Claude says.

Willem thinks the tension between the two of them is more than just a battle for the leadership of the hunting party. Monsieur Lejeune professes no anger toward the mayor, but Willem wonders what he really feels about the man who has cuckolded his brother.

By the time they set off, the sun is smoldering at the edge of the horizon. The tips of the trees make long shadows on the top of the fog as though drawn in long flowing strokes of charcoal.

The dogs pick up the scent by the base of the church, but lose it at the river, and no amount of scouring of the opposite bank can locate it again. It is as if the saur is using the river to disguise its trail.

Willem finds that a worrying thought. It implies a level of intelligence on behalf of the raptor such as has never been seen before. Jean clearly thinks so too. He says nothing, but his eyes are thoughtful.

Without a scent trail there is nothing to do but follow the river into the forest until they find the point at which the saur leaves the river.

There are eleven hunters, but only three of them are armed with muskets. Monsieur Lejeune has his flintlock pistol, Fran
ç
ois his ax, and the rest carry swords or long pikes. Monsieur Claude has a long, curved cavalry saber. Willem has only his leather pouch and its contents.

“We split into two groups,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “And search both banks at once.”

“There are only three muskets,” Monsieur Claude says. “One musket should join the boy in the boat. Then they can cover either side of the river.”

“From a moving boat?” Monsieur Lejeune says. “I wish I were that good a shot. They would likely do more injury to one of us than to the meat-eater. I have my pistol. One of the muskets comes with me across the river, and we leave the other two muskets here.”

“Are you now in charge of this hunting party?” Monsieur Claude asks icily.

“You have missed our best chance of catching this meat-eater,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “Had we followed the trail of this saur when it was fresh, we would likely be returning home with its head now, instead of hunting a cold trail. If you want to take a vote, let us do it now.”

Monsieur Claude opens his mouth to object, then closes it again as there are murmurs of agreement from among the others.

“There is no need for a vote,” he says. “With your experience as a soldier, you are clearly the best man to lead us. I appoint you as leader of this party.”

With a few shreds of his dignity still intact, the mayor moves to stand next to Monsieur Lejeune.

Monsieur Lejeune picks two others, one man with a musket and Jean with his crossbow. Then he leads the group across the bridge.

Jean's head is high, and his shoulders are square with pride at being chosen by his father, although Willem wonders if the father wants to keep his son near, rather than having great faith in his aim.

The dogs are pinscher bitches belonging to a pig farmer, Monsieur Beauclerc. He takes one across the bridge. The other stays with
É
douard Poulenc, the accordion player from the f
ê
te.

The dogs snuffle and circle fruitlessly on opposite banks of the river for a few moments, then follow the river to the west, into the depths of the forest.

Willem sits at the bow of the boat, with Pieter between his arms, curled up on the breasthook. He stares straight ahead, thinking that if the firebird is using the river, then the boat offers no more than the barest illusion of safety. Parts of the river seem quite deep, and he can only surmise that the firebird has kept near to one of the banks.

Willem looks back at Monsieur Lecocq, the eeler. He is tall and strong in a wiry kind of way. A bundle of tightly stretched cords under a thin, leathery skin. He smells like oily fish. He has long hair swept back and tied with a leather thong, and a sword thrust into a leather belt. He propels the boat forward in long, easy strokes of the single oar, twisting the handle as he sculls. He does not look at Willem even once, and Willem feels even more keenly his place. Not only is he responsible for what has happened, but he is a liability. A child who must be protected.

The bow of the craft pushes aside the mist as the boat slowly drifts with the river. Behind them, the still, clear water is perplexed by the passing of the boat. Moss hangs heavy on branches, stooping low over the river.

A breeze is rising with the morning sun, gusting through the forest, teasing the fog that flexes and billows, movements that catch the eye when nothing is there but vapor.

On the east bank, Jean moves with quiet confidence at the head of the group. His father is right behind him, one hand resting on the stock of his pistol, in a holster on his belt. Their side of the river is quite flat, although the bank is narrow.

On the western bank, the team has a more difficult trek. The bank is not flat, but peppered with large boulders that must be surmounted or passed.

An hour into the forest there is still no excitement from the dogs. It seems the raptor has disappeared into the mists, a phantom, not a creature of flesh and blood. An illusion like one of Willem's tricks.

They move past shrouded trees and water that murmurs beneath a thin, diaphanous film of vapor. They see remnants of an old jetty lying along part of the riverbank. A row of ravensaurs lines the jetty, perched on top of the rotten and warped posts and collapsed timbers. Among them are a number of crows. Birds and saurs living alongside each other and sharing the perch in the light mists of the morning.

Black, unblinking eyes follow the hunting party as it traverses the river.

One of the crows caws, a cruel, discordant sound that sets off a frenzied cacophony. The ravensaurs are silent, just watching as the men from the village pass. Somehow their silence seems more ominous than the raucous conversation of the crows.

Willem finds his hands clutching the sides of the boat, and when he removes them, the wooden hull is darkly moist from his sweat.

As the boat drifts past a patch of giant, flowering ferns on the east bank of the river, Pieter becomes agitated, squawking and jittering, running up Willem's arm to his shoulder.

The men on the riverbanks stop. All eyes are upon him. Weapons are unsheathed. Muskets, already primed, are now cocked.

“Something has come this way,” Willem says.

“Why did the dog not find the scent?” Monsieur Claude asks.

“I do not know,” Willem says.

The dogs are halted, and one is encouraged to scratch and sniff around the ferns. Eventually she disappears into the dense foliage. Monsieur Beauclerc and the hunters follow.

“Monsieur?” Willem asks, and Monsieur Lecocq nods. He eases the boat toward the bank and Willem climbs awkwardly over the side, foundering and splashing in the shallow water.

He looks back. The group on the west bank have stopped, and are watching intently.

He pushes into the foliage where the others disappeared. The edges of the fern leaves, although soft-looking, are sharp and hard, scratching his skin, but not cutting it. They are damp from the fog, and spring back behind him with soft slapping noises.

He emerges into an opening in the forest. Not a clearing but a swamp of dark, brackish water. The others, including Jean, wait on firm ground, staring across the swamp at something on the other side.

A voice calls from the far bank of the river. “What is it? What have you found?”

“A house,” Monsieur Lejeune calls back.

It is not a house, nor a cottage. It is barely even a shack. It was once, but that was a long time ago. Its walls are stone, and stand firmly, although the roof has fallen in. A rusted old cooking pan hangs from an equally rusted hook by a shuttered window. The shutters barely exist. They have rotted to virtually nothing and sag beside the window. There is no glass in the window. Nor ever was there.

Nobody has been here for a very long time.

“What is this place?” Willem asks into the still, fetid air of the swamp.

Nobody answers for a moment, then Monsieur Claude says, “I have lived in Gaillemarde all my life, and have never seen this.”

“Nor I,” Monsieur Lejeune says.

One of the farmers thinks it belonged to an old trapper. Nobody is sure.

Jean steps into the water, his crossbow leading the way to the shack.

“Wait,” his father says.

“Let him go,” Willem says. “Something was here, but not for many days.”

“You are sure?” Monsieur Claude asks. He sounds frightened.

Willem nods and wipes his hands on his smock. He is sure. Pieter is alert, but the nervous little saur shows no signs of immediate danger.

“The rain has cleansed this place since the meat-eater was here,” Willem says. “That is why the dogs missed the scent.”

But not Pieter. The sensitive nose of the little saur misses nothing.

Jean moves through the dark waters of the swamp, disturbing clouds of insects that rise up about him like a black mist. A ripple in the water makes Willem worry about snakes, but Jean seems unconcerned.

The swamp extends right to the door of the shack, as though the level of the swamp has risen over the years. Perhaps that is why the shack is deserted. Eventually the rising swamp waters will undermine the foundations and reclaim this area of the forest.

Flies buzz around Willem's head, and he waves them away, but they are persistent.

Jean reaches the doorway and looks inside before turning back and shaking his head.

“Here,” says Monsieur Beauclerc. The dog, sniffing around the edges of the swamp, has found something. She is going wild at a patch of weeds, scratching and pawing.

The farmer with the pike investigates the area with the sharpened end of his weapon.

He hooks something, and lifts it. It looks like a pile of bloody rags, but it is too heavy for that. With mounting horror Willem sees the rotting, maggot-ridden flesh and realizes that it is the remains of a body. His stomach heaves and bile floods his mouth, burning his throat. He hawks and spits, but the fire in his throat remains.

“Antonescu?” Monsieur Claude asks.

“No,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “It is too soon for maggots.”

“It is, it was, the schoolmaster's daughter,” Monsieur Beauclerc says.

“You are sure?” Monsieur Claude asks.

Monsieur Beauclerc nods. “The dog and I searched for her also in the days after she disappeared. She knows this scent.”

How the dog could recognize any scent from the grisly tumble of flesh seems almost miraculous to Willem, but he knows it has to be true. The raptor brought the girl here and feasted on her.

“Leave it here,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “We found nothing.”

“Delvaux has a right to know,” Monsieur Claude says.