A Captive of Wing and Feather A Retelling of Swan Lake - Melanie Cellier Page 0,102
was hurrying home along the dirt road, already late, when I heard the cry. It clearly came from a young child and was too loud to miss and too pained to ignore. With a sigh, I slowed and tried to pinpoint the source. I had spent longer in the woods than I usually did on my herb-gathering expeditions, and the sun was already drawing low. But I was well outside the village now, so no one else was likely to hear or intervene.
An angry voice followed by another cry sent me around some bushes and onto the flat patch of ground bordering the small river that flowed past our town of Kingslee. A small child who I vaguely recognized—not more than three years old—cowered in the dirt away from a boy and girl my own age. I leaped in, placing myself between the child and his attackers, before my brain caught up. I shot a pained look at the girl in front of me.
“Really, Alice?”
She winced. “We had to step in, Elena. He was endangering us all. You would have done the same.”
I turned to glance at the boy who now clung to my leg. He didn’t look dangerous. Tears ran down his cheeks, one of which bore the distinct red mark of a hand. I turned back to glower at the other two.
“I really don’t think I would have.”
Alice winced again. “Well, maybe not that. Samuel got a bit carried away, perhaps…”
“No, I did not.” Samuel narrowed his eyes at me. “That boy needs to be taught a lesson, and even you should know that, Elena. Isn’t your family’s house just down the road?”
I rubbed my head. I was too tired today for riddles.
“What are you talking about, Samuel?”
Samuel just pointed at the scuffed dirt beside where we all stood. I looked helplessly across at Alice.
She leaned over slightly, pointing more closely. Reluctantly I bent down as well, frowning at what appeared to be a single short, curving line drawn in the dust, deeper than the other muddled depressions.
“It’s a…line?” I picked up the crying child, who was now attempting to climb my leg, and settled him on my hip. “So he’s been drawing in the dirt. What of it?”
“Yes, just a line. Thanks to us.” Samuel stepped forward, his posture belligerent, and I fell back a step. But only because of the boy. I didn’t want Samuel taking another swipe at him.
But Samuel ignored the child, pointing instead at something on the other side of us. It appeared to have been pushed aside and partially concealed by a bush during whatever scuffle had occurred before my arrival. But half a page was still enough to see what it was—a single sheet of printed parchment.
I gasped and jumped back instinctively, nearly dropping the boy.
“What—? Where did that come from?”
Samuel crossed his arms in front of his chest and regarded me again with narrowed eyes. “And now you see. We’ve saved us all. And that child needs to be taught a lesson.”
“He’s only a baby,” I protested, my arms tightening around him. “He doesn’t know any better.”
But I could feel the shake in my limbs as residual fear burned through me. How close had we all come to death? I scrubbed at the dirt with my foot, removing even the faint traces of whatever had been marked there.
“Why haven’t you burned it?” I asked. “Before someone else sees it. Like a guard. You know the penalty for possessing writing, let alone the danger…”
Samuel shook his head. “We’ll burn it once that boy has learned his lesson.”
I stepped back again as he leaned forward threateningly. But Alice put her hand on his arm, restraining him.
“I think you’ve scared him enough, Samuel. Look, he’s still crying. Elena is right. We should burn it.”
For a moment Samuel and I stood frozen, our gazes locked. But then Alice pulled at his arm again, and he sighed, shaking her off.
“Very well.”
As he pulled out tinder and flint, I tried not to look at the parchment. But the firm black marks called to me, and I couldn’t resist stealing several glances. I couldn’t read what they said, of course. None of us could. But I knew enough to recognize words when I saw them. Their loops and curves and straight edges fascinated me. What mysteries would they unlock, if only I could decipher them? If only I hadn’t been born Elena, of Kingslee, daughter of two shopkeepers.