Battlesaurus (14 page)

“And he has a right not to know,” Monsieur Lejeune says.

“He cannot have a burial without a body,” Monsieur Claude says.

“He had a funeral. That will have to suffice,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “Do you want
that
to be the last image he has of his daughter?”

The farmer with the pike lowers what is left of the beautiful seventeen-year-old daughter of the schoolmaster back into the putrid waters of the swamp. A girl killed by a beast that Willem brought to the village.

Willem's stomach heaves again and this time hot fluid rushes from his throat. It is all he can do to lean forward and keep it from his clothes and shoes.

There is silence except for the buzzing of the flies and the occasional burp of swamp gas.

 

FIREBIRD

Pieter's find at the swamp house has restored a little of Willem's standing. The blame for what has happened is still cast in his direction, but at least now he has contributed to the hunt. He strokes Pieter's belly and plucks a leaf from a low-hanging branch for him as a thank-you snack.

By the time the party reaches Lightning Rock, where the river forks, the mood among the men, at first focused and determined, has turned to frustration and anger. There is still no scent of the firebird.

“Which way?” Monsieur Lejeune asks. He takes dried beef from a pocket and chews on it slowly. Many of the others do the same. Willem had not thought to bring food, and his stomach gurgles for breakfast.

Monsieur Beauclerc allows his dog a long rope. It sniffs briefly at the undergrowth, then toilets against a tree. He shrugs.

“We should split into two groups,” Monsieur Delvaux calls from the other side of the river.

“We do not have enough muskets,” Monsieur Lejeune says.

“Then we are wasting our time,” Monsieur Claude says. “We should return home and use our time to better reinforce our defenses.”

“I would not give up so easily,” Monsieur Lejeune says.

“Nor I,” Jean says.

Monsieur Claude looks away.

“Perhaps Willem's precious little pet has an opinion,” Monsieur Delvaux says.

Pieter has been sitting quietly on the breasthook without any sign of nervousness. Nor is there now any.

Willem points to the right fork of the river. “There is no sign here. However, this way leads to the base of the waterfall. This is the path we took with Fran
ç
ois after the … accident.”

“So that is how it followed you,” Monsieur Delvaux says. The words fall into a cold silence.

Willem had been so sure that the raptor could not have followed them. Now he is less certain. Perhaps it hadn't had to. Perhaps it had simply followed the river. Eventually that would have brought the saur to the path where it had taken Ang
é
lique. And farther, until it came to the village.

The boat ferries the group on the western bank across to the center of the fork. Then both teams set out once more.

The water is sluggish under the boat. It seems still, as if frozen in time, although Willem knows it is flowing steadily toward the sea. The breeze makes ephemeral faces out of the mist and in the distance a wolf howls a question into the heavy air.

He offers to take over the sculling for a while and Monsieur Lecocq agrees with a sinewy shrug of his shoulders.

It is not difficult work, just a back-and-forth movement with a twist at each end, creating a figure-eight motion. Standing in the stern of the boat, he has to duck occasionally to avoid low boughs.

Standing also finds spiders' webs, stretched between branches. Several times he has to wipe the strands from his face, taking one hand from the oar to do so, which earns him a sharp glance from the boat owner.

Once, after looking around to check the waters behind the boat, he turns back in time to catch a thick web across his face. He gasps in surprise and fright and sucks a large spider into his mouth. There is a bitter taste and frantic scrabbling on the soft skin of his cheeks and tongue. He spits twice, unsuccessfully, before hooking it out with a finger.

The boat has drifted perilously close to a sharp-ended log and Monsieur Lecocq glares at him as he works the oar frantically, steering the boat back on course, spluttering the taste, and at least one leg, out of his mouth.

Ravines rise on either side of the river as they head into a steep-sided gully. They are deep in shadow, but looking up he can see the trees on the tops of the hillsides bright with light, two glowing lines that frame the valley.

The river and the forest are alive with sound. Insects, birds, scrabbling noises in the undergrowth. Hissing noises through the trees around and above them. Are these the sounds of the forest awakening, magnified by the hillsides, or are they the result of every sense in his body operating at high intensity?

He is working much harder now to keep the boat moving forward and he realizes that the flow of the water is swifter; the gradient of the river is steeper. His muscles burn, but he does not stop. He is not a passenger.

Another sound begins to intrude: thundering water. The falls cannot be far ahead. Even as he hears it, there is sudden excitement and frenzied yelping from the eastern bank of the river. The dog has picked up the scent.

Without needing to speak, Monsieur Lejeune motions to Monsieur Lecocq, who takes over the oar and steers the boat to the west bank, picking up the four men and one dog, and ferrying them across, reuniting the party. The riverbank here is a wide, flat bed of pebbles and four of the men haul the boat out of the river. The dogs strain at their leads, sniffing and pawing at the ground.

Part of the hillside has collapsed in front of them and the way upriver is blocked by a heavy ramp of earth topped with thick, low brush, like the head of a broom. The scent trail leads up the ramp into the forest.

“Ssshhh!” Fran
ç
ois says abruptly, holding up a hand for silence.

Even the dogs are still for a moment. Then Willem hears it too; they all do. The sound of pebbles shifting. Something is moving on the opposite side of the earthen ramp.

Pikes and swords are raised. Muskets are cocked and presented.

The crunching, shuffling sound gets closer.

“Spread out,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “If it comes toward you, hold your fire until it is almost upon you. You will only get one shot.”

“It is not the firebird,” Willem says. Pieter shows no signs of panic.

Monsieur Lejeune seems not to have heard him. He crouches, using his knee to support his elbow and the weight of his pistol. “Aim at the base of the neck. It is your best chance to hit the heart, or the spine.”

Monsieur Claude moves behind the boat, using it as a shield, and draws his saber.

“It is not the firebird,” Willem says again, and is proved right almost immediately as voices are heard ahead of them.

Muskets lower. Swords are sheathed.

Moments later four men in gray peasant smocks push their way through the brush. They, too, carry muskets, although theirs are shouldered.

The first of the men is the tallest, but all of them look strong and well fed. That is unusual for peasants. Monsieur Lejeune is stone-faced. He says nothing, and it is left to Monsieur Claude to offer a greeting.

“You are deep in the forest,” the tall man says, after returning the greeting cordially.

“We seek a firebird,” Monsieur Claude replies. “It raided our village two weeks ago, and again last night.”

“A firebird?” the man asks. There is meaning behind the question but Willem cannot discern it.

“Yes, a firebird!” Monsieur Delvaux jumps in vehemently, and crooks a finger at Willem. “This one raided its nest and stole its eggs. It followed his trail back to our village.”

“A foolish boy,” the man says with a quick, derisive glance at Willem. But he seems satisfied somehow with the answer.

“Have you seen a firebird around here?” Monsieur Claude asks.

The tall peasant shakes his head. “We have not. But we are not from here. Hunting has been scarce in our part of the woods, forcing us farther afield today.”

Today
he says. Yet Willem saw these men, or men like them, a few weeks earlier. Perhaps game was scarce that day also. He and Jean exchange glances.

“If you see this beast, kill it, with our gratitude,” Monsieur Claude says.

“Of course,” the tall man says. “And you would have us send word to your village?”

Monsieur Lejeune starts to intervene at that point, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation, but the mayor has already answered. “Yes, we would wish to know. We are from Gaillemarde, to the south of the forest, east of Waterloo.”

Monsieur Lejeune smiles and nods, but the smile is fixed and the nod rigid. They bid the men farewell at the riverbank and climb the earthen ramp into the forest, following the noses of the dogs up a rocky path.

“Those peasants were not Walloon,” Monsieur Beauclerc says quietly. “Their accent is French. Parisian, I think.”

“Those were not peasants,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “Their muskets were too new. Too clean. Did you not see the white skin on their cheeks? Sideburns, recently shaved. Or the holes in their ears? Earrings, since removed. Those were French soldiers. Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard.”

“French soldiers!” Monsieur Claude's voice suddenly drops as if the men at the river can hear him. “What could be their purpose here?”

“Wellington's army camps at Brussels,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “French soldiers in disguise so near to his camp can only be spies.”

“We have seen those men before,” Jean says.

“When?” Monsieur Lejeune asks.

“On the day we raided the nest,” Willem says.

“That is many weeks ago.” Monsieur Lejeune seems disturbed by this information, although Willem cannot see how it changes things.

He looks back down the path toward the river. The soldiers in peasant smocks had been watching them, but now turn and make their way along the riverbank.

There is something strange about one of the muskets. Even at this distance he can see it is no ordinary weapon. It is larger than the others. The barrel is wider and the end curved outward like the mouth of a clarinet.

He points it out to Jean, but the men disappear around a bend in the river.

“We must return to the village,” Monsieur Claude says.

“Return now?” Monsieur Lejeune says. “What about the meat-eater?”

“It is almost noon,” Monsieur Claude says. “We must leave soon to be back before dark.”

“The day is young,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “We are almost upon the beast, I can sense it. We do not give up now.”

“We are close to the nest,” Jean says.

Monsieur Claude is silent, but all eyes are upon him.

“We continue our search,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “At least to the waterfall.”

Monsieur Claude raises his head in a gesture of indifference, as if the whole conversation, indeed the whole expedition, is beneath him.

Monsieur Lejeune nods to Monsieur Beauclerc and Monsieur Poulenc, who give the dogs a long leash.

The rocky path brings them to a clearing, then to a wide track that leads deep into the bush. The dogs leave the trail at the base of a steep ridge where the earth has slipped. It has exposed the rocky core of the forest and is devoid of soil and vegetation. In a zigzagging pattern the scent leads the dogs and the raised muskets and swords of the hunting party up the ridge to the crest, where the ridgeline has been cleared by fire and is thick with recent growth. Willem recognizes it as part of the same ridge they traversed when searching for the firebird eggs.

“The dogs lead us toward the nest,” Jean says.

“As expected,” Monsieur Delvaux says.

Willem nods, a little reluctantly.

“Have no fear, little Willem,” Fran
ç
ois says. “We shall find the firebird this time and kill it.”

“You are more confident than I,” Willem says.

“My confidence is not without warrant,” Fran
ç
ois says. “God is with us today.”

“You are sure of this?” Willem asks.

“Of course.” Fran
ç
ois smiles.

Willem is silent.

The dogs follow the ridgeline down to the stream where, once again, the scent trail disappears.

“Now which way?” Monsieur Poulenc asks.

“Toward the waterfall,” Monsieur Lejeune says.

Side by side, weapons ready, the men of the hunting party move along the uneven rocky banks of the stream.

They emerge from thick forest where the stream joins the river and shade their eyes against sudden bright sunlight. Here on the high plateau the overhead sun is no longer blocked by trees and it sparkles and burns off the undulating surface of the river.

The dogs jump and strain at their leashes. The scent is strong here.

Pieter has gone quiet and without warning topples from Willem's shoulder. He would have landed on the rocks on the side of the river, had not Jean seen it happening, and caught the microsaurus as he fell.

“Pieter?” Willem asks quietly, rubbing the creature's belly. “Pieter?”

Pieter is unresponsive. This worries Willem more than anything. He looks around, but can see nothing. Yet something must be there, to have had this effect on Pieter.

Monsieur Lejeune has drawn his pistol from its holster again.

Willem places Pieter gently in his bag and wipes his hands on his smock.

The men, tough farmers, ex-soldiers, look around nervously.

There are no bird sounds here. The only sound is that of the waterfall.

High above them, a ravensaur crosses the sun briefly, then glides off over the forest.

“Where is the nest?” Monsieur Lejeune asks.

Willem points across the river to the location, as best he can remember.

Monsieur Lejeune nods and picks three of the men. “The rest of you remain here. Stay alert.”