Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [43]
The clock was only about a foot taller than she was, and she stared up into its face as if to have a conversation. In the woods the sun was rising in the sky, but the iron hands pronounced the time as 5:43—probably about the time it was back in the real world. And that seemed the weirdest thing of all.
There was a squawking from above, followed by an odd croaking, and then some sort of throaty trilling, and Hazel looked up to see two big black birds perched on a branch behind her chattering to each other. The birds were the size of eagles and pitch-black, with long, hooked black beaks. They looked like crows, but puffier and shinier and much, much bigger.
Ravens. The word popped into Hazel’s head. The bigger one turned its head toward her and looked back at her with beady black eyes, taking her in. Hazel shifted under its gaze, and it turned to its partner and croaked something. They chattered back and forth and Hazel understood that they were talking about her.
She took a deep breath. “I’m Hazel,” she said. “I lost my friend. Do you know of a woman who looks like she’s made out of snow?”
She felt like Alice, questioning caterpillars and grinning cats. Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?
The birds both turned their heads to look at her, and she stood in the middle of the clearing surrounded by tree giants while two dog-size maybe-ravens eyeballed her and a naked clock ticked on behind her like fate, and she felt quite small and quite real, and wondered what she thought she was doing and what she was going to do now.
And then one of the birds lifted its head slightly, focusing on a point somewhere beyond Hazel. She turned to follow its gaze and saw, leading out of the clearing, a small path.
She looked back at the birds. The smaller one croaked something at her and flicked its head toward the path again, and then they turned back to each other. They were done with her.
Now, Hazel was not stupid. She knew that just because you see a piece of cake and a sign that says EAT ME doesn’t mean you should actually do it. And just because two giant ravens point you in the direction of a path doesn’t mean you should take it. But it was the only path she had.
Hazel crossed the clearing and stood in front of the path. It didn’t look like anything out of the ordinary—just trodden dirt weaving around the trees. She took off her hat, mittens, scarf, and green jacket and put them in her backpack, then took out her compass, because it seemed like the thing to do. Her mom would be pleased. Hazel might have plunged into a mysterious fantasy woods after an evil witch with a pack of wolves at her disposal, but at least she’d brought a compass.
Hazel watched the face of the compass as the needle wavered slightly, as if afraid to make too firm a commitment. But it was pointing roughly the way she was heading. Hazel was going north. Her heart lifted a little. This might be a magic woods, but there was still a north here. It was a place, like any other. The compass would guide her to Jack, and then guide her home. Who needed breadcrumbs?
She had a compass. She had a direction. She had a path. She knew where north was. So Hazel stepped on the path and headed forward.
Last year her class had taken a field trip through the woods in some state park or other. There was a guide who’d taught them how to spot poison ivy and look for water and find shelter, and Hazel had been too busy dreaming of centaurs to pay attention. The only thing she remembered was the guide passing out whistles and showing everyone how to blow three times for an emergency signal. The whole class practiced, again and again, while the guide whipped them up into a whistling frenzy. Hazel had been afraid they would scare off