109

[109]

I feel terrible, leaving Barry there with his face pressed against the glass. I just don't feel terrible enough to  let him in.

Still, there could always be a real person out in the woods dying right now, so I run through the hallway to where my mother's room is, not the room where she sleeps, the room where she lives. Everything in that room is beautiful. When she left her home to be married, she brought some things with her, and they are in this room. Furniture, real peacock feathers, a silver bud vase, her rosewood embroidery stand. And when she is not in this room, it is locked, safe, like a memory. That’s why the walnut box is in here, the one that has all of the medicines that my grandmother brings. The little glass bottles have wax-covered stoppers and paper labels that are gummed on with flour paste glue and are written on with thin, homemade ink. And the medicines inside work.

The lumicube bounces against my chest as I run. Shadows dance like wood spirits on the walls. Not that they're supposed to really exist, but people still say prayers of protection when they're outside. My grandmother says that she believes in them. My mother told me that, but then followed it by saying that of course followers of the Benevolent Force didn't have anything to do with the old ways. But she rubbed a locket at her neck while she said it--a locket that she has never let me open.

I don't like this particular door frame. It's not like any other doorway in the house because the frame is bigger--wide enough to keep a key on top of it. I reach up and chant "...and protect us, followers of the Light," just in case there are spiders or demons.

Once I have a collection of tiny bottles nestled in protective muslin bags, I don't head for the back door. Instead I hurry as quietly up the stairs as I can and head to my room. It's above the kitchen, so I won't have to yell. I dump the yarn and crochet hooks out of my work basket. Then I set the bags inside. I tie one end of a skein of yarn to the handle. I'm ready.

He looks up as I slide open the window. "Kestrel!" he whispers loudly, "what are you doing?"

"I have the medicines," I tell him. "They're labeled with instructions. You be able to do anything that I could do for him." As I say it, I set the basket against the wall of the house and let it free. Then I hold the skein with one hand and slowly pay out the line.

"No Kestrel," his urgent whisper could almost pass for a shout. "He won't live without magic. I don't know what to do. Please come with me." Barry points out into the darkness. "He's real. He's out there slowly bleeding to death. Without you, he's going to die."

[112]

"I press my mouth into a firm line. “Barry,” I say firmly. “We can go get my father to come with me, but I am not going with you by myself.”

Barry looks pained, desperate even, but if he really wants help, why won't he let me get someone who could actually do some good? Should I let my willingness to help make me an easy target for whatever he has in mind?

“I swear I'll explain later, but it has to be just you.”

“No it doesn't.”

The basket touches the grass, and with one snip of my scissors, I cut through the yarn and watch the end float slowly down to the ground."

http://kestrelbook.blogspot.com/2012/08/112.html

[107]

I don't know Barry very well. Am I willing to bet my life on what I do know? I look down at Barry, and I can see the agony on his face. No one could fake that, could they? I look around the room, as if I will find advice waiting for me there. I wish that I could ask my parents, but I know what they would say. What if they're wrong? And as I realize that this decision is mine alone, I also realize that I will think of his face every day and wonder. "I'll be right down," I tell him.


http://kestrelbook.blogspot.com/2012/04/new-chapter-1cc.html