When he wakes, without
quite knowing how he knows, William is certain that the crow girl is gone. He
knows it before he goes to her room and knocks and, hearing no answer, opens
the door a crack. Dread creeps up his spine and he descends the stairs and
finds the bottom floor empty. Her coat is hung up by the door, though when he
exits the house he discovers it is too cold to go without. He takes one with
him when he leaves and as he walks through the village he thinks perhaps he
should have brought a scarf. But it is bound to be warmer by the time he finds
her.
He does not want
to contemplate what will happen if he does not. But he feels as though his feet
cannot move quickly enough. The ground is crossed slowly under his feet. It
takes an age to get to the end of the main street. An eternity to reach the
edge of the village.
In the half hour
it takes William to cross the field to the trees his anxiety has increased. His
hands shake, he walks so quickly he almost runs and trips several times over
his own feet.
Alone, for the
first time since the crow girl appeared, William climbs a tree. He looks toward
the trees across the field. He did not see the flash of light, but it is
something he feels in the air. A sudden stillness. Not a bird sounds, the
leaves on the ground do not stir with even the smallest wind. There is the
impression of a scale being balanced, of a released breath and a rush of
relief, but he remains still, certain it will somehow break.
He remains for
several minutes looking toward those trees, though his legs have begun to ache from
the position in which he is sitting and the cold wind makes his eyes water. He
does not move.
When the day has
warmed and the village has woken William slowly climbs down the tree. He looks
backward several times as he crosses the field.
William waits
for her to return but he has the sinking feeling he will not see her again.
Still, it is a week before he will allow his mother to clear out her room or
pack away her coat and blouses and skirts.
The yellow wool
scarf that had been folded on her pillow still smells of honey and cream and
sage, no matter how many times William’s mother washes it.
William spends
as many hours a day as he can cleaning or helping his mother in the garden, or
in school, though it does not take up as much time as he would like. His
parents speak little about the crow girl except to offer him condolences and
assurances that someone else will help her, wherever she is. William wonders if
they truly believe this, or if the crow girl has gone to seek help at all.
He often finds
himself wishing that she had not left him with no warning. Had not given him no
notice of her impending absence. Perhaps if she had he could have joined her.
He would not have minded leaving the village. He would not have minded helping
her. He would have insisted upon it.
He does not help
his mother clean out her room, except when she cannot manage to carry the
bundles of sticks and dirty linens and rocks all by herself.
William wonders
if there is something of hers he should keep, on the off chance she does
return, or to remember her by, but he finds he does not want any of her selection
of shiny stones or pale bones. In the end he takes a single iridescent black
feather, the one in the best shape, and keeps it atop his dresser.
In the weeks
following he does not look at the feather. He forgets it is there. The details
of her face are slipping from his memory as well. He writes them down so as not
to lose them completely and berates himself for not taking these precautions
earlier.
He reads books
and fairy tales, ones he had planned to read with the crow girl. It is not as
enjoyable alone. When he finishes each one he thinks that perhaps the heroes in
the stories do not always have the good fortune to happen upon adventure by
waiting. Perhaps some heroes need to travel first.
He begins
spending more time in the fields and the trees, before the weather worsens and
the first snow falls and the trees are too cold and wet and icy to climb.
William climbs
to the very tops alone, several branches above his friends, where the wind and
his weight make the boughs bend and creak. But it no longer feels like a
punishment. He looks beyond the field, not to the village, but beyond that,
where the birds are dots against the expanse of blue sky. He thinks perhaps it
is not bad to be alone for a while, or to look beyond and farther than his
peers.
He brings his
fairy tales with him to read. Each one stirs something within him. In his heart
he is sure something very similar awaits him.
William thinks
perhaps he will meet the crow girl again in one of his adventures (he decides there
will be many) and thinks that if he does he would have more of his own stories
to tell her, rather than someone else’s. The thought in incredibly pleasant.
One night he
takes the black feather from his dresser and places it beneath his pillow. In
his dreams he is not in the tops of trees, but above them, on black wings, hand
in hand with the crow girl, and it is not so lonely nor so frightening, after
all.
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