Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [47]
The third one held up the messy, unformed puff of wool and threw up her hands.
“Oh,” Hazel said. She shifted. “Um, do you . . . can you see my name?”
“Nope,” said the first, shrugging.
“Okay.” Hazel looked down and began to dig her foot into the ground. And then she stopped. What was she doing? This wasn’t about her. “Um,” she interjected, raising her voice. “I lost my friend.”
All three heads tilted sympathetically.
“That’s sad,” said the first woman.
“I’m so sorry,” said the third.
The second woman looked intently at her portion of the string. “Oh! You’re looking for your friend!”
“Yes,” said Hazel, wrapping her arms around herself. Wasn’t that what she’d said?
“Your best friend,” the woman continued. “But wait!” She raised a hand. “He changed.” She drew out the last word dramatically, and then turned to the others. “Isn’t that like a man?”
The three women giggled.
The second one turned back to Hazel. “He changed. But you came into this dark place filled with mysteries, wonders, and terrors beyond your imagination”—she stuck her hand out, palm first, and swept it though the air dramatically—“to save him.”
“Um”—Hazel blinked—“right.”
“And to learn about yourself.”
“No.” Hazel shook her head. “I just want to save my friend. Please,” she said, not trying to keep the desperation from her voice. “Do you know where he is?”
“I’m sure we can help you,” said the woman in the middle. “But we need something from you.”
“Something shiny,” said the third one. The other two nodded.
Hazel looked at them to see if they were serious. They apparently were. She exhaled. “Um,” she said, taking down her backpack. She had done her best to be prepared, but had not anticipated the crazy people. She pushed aside her jacket—which she was not giving up—and change of clothes, and then her hand settled on the flashlight.
“Will this work?” she asked, taking it out and turning it on. She shone the beam on the ground.
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the third woman. Hazel walked it over to her, and she grabbed it eagerly and then sat there, flicking it on and off.
“What’s your friend’s name?” asked the first.
“Jack,” Hazel said. “Jack Campbell.”
“Coming up, Buttercup!” She bent down and began rifling through the box. She took out a clump of gray yarn and began to sort through it, and then frowned and picked up another clump. She shook her head and looked up. “Jack Campbell?”
“Yeah,” said Hazel, a twinge of something in her stomach.
The woman shook her head. “I can’t find his thread,” she whispered to her colleagues.
Hazel’s stomach dropped. “Does . . . that mean he’s dead?” she asked.
“No,” she said. “I would still have it.”
“But”—Hazel looked frantically from one to the other—“what does it mean?”
“Wait,” said the third woman, looking up suddenly. “How did you lose your friend, exactly?”
“He was taken. By a woman on a sleigh pulled by wolves.”
The women all stiffened.
“Oh.”
“Oh.”
“Oh.”
“Do you know who she is?” Hazel asked. “Do you know where she is?”
“You don’t want to go there,” said the third.
“Shhh!” the second said.
“We can’t help you,” said the first.
“Nope,” said the second.
“They’re right,” said the third. “Go home.”
“Wait,” Hazel said. “What do you mean? Can’t you tell me anything?”
They all shook their heads as one. Hazel stared at the women as if trying to pull information out of them with her eyes. And they all looked away.
They were supposed to help her. Why were they there, if not to help her?
Hazel stood there for a few more moments. She would not cry. “Well, thanks for your help,” she said finally, and turned and walked to the path.
Hazel followed the path through the clearing and up a hill into the trees, heart burning the whole way. She did not understand what had passed. It was like they knew, when they couldn’t find his string, what had happened to him. Something about the thought turned Hazel’s stomach. Why wouldn’t they tell her anything? Was the witch so scary they couldn’t speak of her? All she’d been thinking of was rescuing Jack. It hadn’t really occurred to her that she’d be rescuing him from