Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [80]
“Jack, I’m sorry. We have to go. The ice is melting. Come on.” She put her arms around him and led him still forward, though the ground heaved and disappeared beneath her feet. And the water roiled, and the witch watched on, and Hazel could hear the bells of her voice in her head: Do you see, now, there are things worse than the ice. Do you see what happens when it melts? Do you see what you did?
Hazel wondered what Jack was hearing. She could not tell, he was just a shivering shell of a boy. Hazel kept talking as they crept along—“Here, step here, be careful, don’t slip”—and under her words hummed the whisper: I’m here, I’m here.
And then they were on the shore. Jack still said nothing, and there was nothing to do but trudge through the snow to the woods. Hazel kept her arms around Jack. He was still shuddering, and his muscles seemed only half there, like the rest of him was still on the ice. She kept pattering along, “Almost there, almost there, just a little farther.” She didn’t know if it was helping Jack, but it gave her some distraction from the things churning inside her. And still he said nothing.
And then they were in front of the woods. And the witch was still there, still watching them, and though Hazel had survived it all, though she had Jack, though she was about to cross the woods to go back home, she still felt like she’d failed.
All you can do, the guard at the village had said, is pretend she’s not there.
“We’re going into the woods, now,” Hazel whispered to Jack. “We’re leaving.” Say something.
He did not. Hazel inhaled and stepped into the trees, and though the gaze of the witch tugged at her she did not look back.
But she wanted to.
Jack’s body tensed sharply as they entered the woods, and Hazel ignored it and moved on. The woods welcomed them back. There was no snowstorm, no churning sky, no assaulting cold on this side of the witch’s palace. Maybe because no one had ever left before.
And there, the familiar sound: Tick tock. Tick tock. Hazel breathed it in.
And they went. Hazel dropped her hand and Jack walked on his own, though Hazel stayed close. The sun was rising in the sky, turning the snow on the ground to slush. It was warmer now, survivable. But Jack was still shuddering, still white, like the dark water still coursed in his veins.
“Let’s just get ahead a bit,” Hazel said. “It warms up soon.”
It turned out she did not need the compass. It was easy to head in the other direction from the lair of the witch. All you had to do was move away from the thing pulling at you.
They walked up a gentle slope, moving through the trees. They did not talk to each other, but Hazel kept glancing at Jack, making sure he was still with her. He was, but barely. He seemed so focused on making his feet move like they were supposed to. And maybe that was all he wanted to think about.
Hazel wanted to ask him what he was thinking, what he was feeling, if he was regretting the witch or was just too tired to think, if he was embarrassed that the princess had rescued the knight or if he didn’t mind so much now that it had happened, if he remembered everything that had passed, if he was mad at himself for going with the witch, if his warm blood was winning the battle against the water in his veins; she wanted to reach out and grab the things in his mind and heart and hold them so they could examine them together, but they were not hers to take.
So she led Jack along the cart path, following the sound of the clock and pulling away from the cold. The sun was being kind to Jack, warming him gently, giving him what Hazel could not. It was like they’d taken their planned trip into the woods—except then going home would have been as simple as following the breadcrumbs they’d scattered together.
Hazel followed the cart path and the sounds of the clock. The journey this way was easy, though she suspected the woods could lead her wherever they chose.
And they were done with her.
And she was done with them.
They rejoined the small footpath when the sun was near its peak in the sky