IV. Thistles and Briars
When Thursday’s dawn
descended into Mídhel and coiled around the homes and shops to take its well-deserved
nap, it was surprised to find a young boy walking with determined purpose
through the streets, a boy it had never seen up and about this early in the
day. The boy was acting strangely; in fact, he seemed to be fleeing the dawn,
for every step carried him farther and farther west. Odd behavior, especially
for one who loved to drowse late in bed so often.
This didn’t matter to
Thursday’s dawn; it settled happily into the otherwise empty streets and
stretched out to sleep.
Nearly an hour before
dawn had arisen in the east, Thomas had jumped up from his bed, collected his
things, and crept downstairs for a quick breakfast. He’d found his father in
the kitchen, eating his usual meal of oats and milk and bread with honey.
Thomas had taken a few bites, just enough to quiet his stomach, and then
informed his father that he was heading out early to do some exploring and
wouldn’t be back until much later in the day.
His father assented and
told Thomas to be careful, then turned back to enjoy the rest of his meal in
the quiet still hours before anyone else was up.
As he hurried through
the streets toward the hills, Thomas wondered how he was going to collect the
fragment of boar’s tusk. His first problem would be finding a boar, and that
wasn’t so much as problem as it was the entrance to a much larger problem.
Thomas had never faced a live boar himself, of course, but he’d heard the
stories of the great hunts and fierce encounters so often told at the
hearthside; he’d even eaten roasted boar’s meat on a few occasions after
particularly successful expeditions by the hunting men of Mídhel.
Those stories were more
than enough to warn Thomas of the dangers of live boars. He had therefore
decided that he would try to find a fragment of boar’s tusk on the ground
somewhere, hopefully from a boar that was either long dead or long gone. That
would be much simpler indeed.
Even so, that plan had
a few problems, and the first was that Thomas didn’t know where boars might
live in the western hills. He’d never seen them in the berry patches, of
course. He’d never ventured into the deeper shadows of the hills farther west,
where the light of the sun disappeared into hollows and crooks and the vines
became impenetrable tangles. He doubted that boars would want to live in a
place like that.
Thomas had spent a
little time in the northern stretch of the hills, the downs near Palewater Bog,
and he hadn’t seen any boars or boar-dens there. He knew that his ignorance of
the living and sleeping habits of boars meant that there could very well be a
dozen boars hiding in the downs, but he had decided upon a different route
first; he would save the downs as a last resort.
When the road that led
westward from Mídhel split into left and right forks, Thomas took the leftward
path, which angled south into hillier country and thicker woodland. This was
his first choice for finding a fragment of boar’s tusk: shady, quiet, and
relatively peaceful, with plenty of furrows and crooks and overhangs in which a
tired boar might lie for a rest. He assumed, based on admittedly limited
knowledge, that these wooded hills would seem attractive to boars. Especially
old, weary boars that wouldn’t mind losing a bit of tusk.
This was an area that
Thomas had explored only once or twice, so when the formal path ended and he
stepped into the untamed woods, he was careful to take note of the sun and the
nearby landmarks and the direction of the wind. He had faith in his pathfinding
ability, but there was no telling what trickery lurked in the shadows ahead.
This Thursday morning
proved overcast and windy as Thomas hiked farther into the hills. The sunlight,
already filtered by broad-leafed trees in various shades, was shrouded by puffy
gray clouds that crept over the sky from the northeast. Thomas caught glimpses
of their movements through the trees; they looked like fat colorless
caterpillars, each step a slow ripple. Soon the woods were dark as dusk.
The wind accompanied
Thomas from the road, riding on his shoulder and leaping at times to ruffle his
hair or pinch his fingertips or swirl the leaves on the ground. When the wind
died, as it did from time to time, Thomas could hear the crunching of leaves
and sticks. The sound of his footfalls was louder than the muffled animal
noises of the woods; louder than it should have been, Thomas thought.
He was grateful when
the wind picked up again, even though it stung his ears. He tugged the knit cap
down a little and hunched his shoulders and kept walking.
Presently he
encountered a low wall of brambles blocking the way forward. These bushes bore
no fruit, but their thorns were sharp and long and thick. Thomas peered at the
tangled mass, carefully parting a few of the leaves to look for a place to slip
through. But it seemed as though the brambles were impenetrable, at least at
this place.
Thomas walked alongside
them for a little way, making sure he kept track in his head of how many steps
he’d taken so that he could find the path again. At twenty paces, he saw a low
opening under the thorns. Dropping to his knees, he wiggled underneath the
brambles, successfully emerging on the other side without so much as a snagged
thread on his jacket.
The underbrush on the
other side was free of thorns, so Thomas continued on. He watched the trees and
leaves as he walked, appreciating their various hues and the size and strength
of the trunks here. Every so often he came upon another patch of brambles and
was forced to search for an opening.
The morning wore on and
Thomas’s mind wandered. He kept walking, a slow steady pace, his eyes jumping
from the ground to the trees to the cloudy sky barely visible above. He had to
remind himself periodically to watch for boar tusks hidden in the fallen leaves
and to listen for the grunting and gnashing that would surely signify a live boar
on his scent. But with each step he became more distracted by the peaceful and
majestic woodland.
Every so often, when
the brambles were too thick or pointy, Thomas’s feet would carry him up the
side of a hill. He skirted the hillsides and breathed in the fresh crisp air
and peered out at the forest around him. Then he descended again, clear of the
brambles, and continued on his trek, keeping as close as he could to a straight
line southwest of the road.
When the brambles
thickened, Thomas slowed. His mind returned to the task at hand. He paused
carefully every dozen steps or so, peering around and kicking up a few of the
leaf-piles. Underneath one he found a smooth stone; beneath another, he watched
a snail, suddenly exposed, trudge through the dirt toward the safety of a bush.
But he did not see any
boar tusks, so he kept walking. The brambles got thicker still, forcing him a
little farther afield and down into a long low valley between two hills that
were crowned with massive oaks and cedars and birches and yews. His mind
wandered again, turning toward Eleanor and her plight. Thomas hoped she was
okay. He didn’t like thinking about where Eleanor was at that moment, but he
wondered if she was warm enough and if the witch had given her any food or drink.
He wondered if Eleanor knew that this was his fault, and if she was angry with
him, or maybe too scared to be angry.
The light dimmed and
the wind chilled and Thomas’s thoughts returned to the present and he stopped
walking. He looked around. He’d followed the slope into a thistledown valley;
the white puffs dotted the brush around him in every direction. Thomas noted
with dissatisfaction that he could also see brambles and briars and
thorn-bushes before him and to either side as well. This way was no good; he’d
need to turn back, find a different path. Besides, the thistledown would
probably make him sneeze.
Thomas turned around.
He saw only thistles and briars behind him. He frowned. That didn’t seem right.
He’d come this way, and it had been an easy walk.
Thomas turned in a
complete circle. He saw briars all around him and no apparent avenue of escape.
He sighed, looking down at his jacket, resigned to the fate of scratching the
sleeves and pulling loose more than a few threads, as would surely happen when
he pushed his way back through the briars. But there was nothing for it.
His attention was
diverted suddenly by a rustling in the thistledown. He whirled around. It was
distant still, and he couldn’t pinpoint the location, but it was definitely something, not just an imagined fear.
The rustling grew louder and a few of the white puffs floated up into the sky
to tangle in the oak-leaves.
Thomas took a few steps
backward. The rustling mirrored his movements. Something pushed through the
brambles toward him. Any hope he had of an easy escape vanished when the
rustling was joined by snuffling and grunting and growling. They were low muted
sounds, rumbles, deep and heavy. They were not, Thomas knew, sounds made by
squirrels or snails or the wind.
They were sounds made
by boars, or by animals enough like boars to make no difference to an unarmed
twelve-year-old boy trapped by the briars.
Thomas swallowed hard.
The rustling neared a bit more, the growling growing a bit more insistent. A
bird cawed nearby, high in one of the trees, and flew away. That surely wasn’t
good either.
Feeling panic creeping
over him, Thomas crouched down and scrabbled around in the dirt to look for a
makeshift weapon. He never took his eyes from the rustling of the thistledown
and the shaking brambles. His questing hands found nothing—no rock, no
bramble-branch, no long sticks. Perhaps he could throw his spyglass, if he
could pull it from his satchel quickly enough.
Thomas doubted the
spyglass would save him from being gored, but he decided to reach for it
quickly. He lifted his hand to his hip, where the satchel rested. The rustling
continued, the snuffling a wet and hungry sound now.
And then a tiny voice
broke through the boar-sounds, so high and faint that Thomas might have
imagined it completely. “Over here!” said
the voice. “Quick!”
Thomas couldn’t see the
source of the voice, but he did see a hole in the brambles. It wasn’t big
enough for him to pass through cleanly, but it was better than dying a bloody
death.
Deciding on impulse to
trust the strange voice, Thomas dived through the hole in the brambles.
To his great surprise,
he tumbled all the way through and landed in a small dirt-filled den, a hollow
beneath the bramble-patch, a shelter with an overhanging lattice of thorns that
was just big enough for him.
To his greater
surprise, Thomas looked up into the face of a small mouse wearing a mask.
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