moment, then followed Clem and Saeli. When she returned, she continued to glare at Ida, who met her gaze in return, smirking, a crooked smile on her pale face. Finally the merrow rolled her eyes and went back to watching the scenery.
After a long while, she sat up straight.
"I hear water," she said. "But it doesn't smell right. No salt."
"It's not the sea," Ven said quietly. "That's the sound of the Great River. We're getting almost close enough to see the bridge."
As they rumbled along in the wagon the sound of the river grew louder.
"It sings a totally different song than the sea does," Amariel said to Ven. "It's like another language I can almost understand, but not quite. They are both songs of moving water, but very, very different."
Just as she finished her sentence, the wagon began to slow. Ven sat up straighter and looked over the side as it came to a halt.
"Ven," came Tuck's voice, "come here."
Ven stood up shakily and stretched. He stepped carefully around his friends and the provisions and climbed onto the seat board next to Tuck.
The forester was staring into the east toward the sound of the rushing river. In the distance, Ven could almost make out what he thought was the bridge.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Tuck shook his head. "There's something not right about the way it looks from here," he said, straining to see. "It's darker than it should be, and the shape looks odd."
Ven stood up and looked as hard as he could, but he could barely see the bridge at all. Then a thought occurred to him.
He unbuttoned the shirt pocket where the merrow's cap lay, carefully folded, and took out his great-grandfather's jack-rule. He extended the telescope lens meant for seeing far away, then looked through it.
At first he couldn't be sure what he was seeing. Then, as he kept looking, all his breath left his body.
"No," he said. "Oh, no."
Char climbed through the wagon and stood behind him. "What's the matter?"
Ven handed him the jack-rule, and the cook's mate had a look for himself. He shook his head, and handed it to the Lirin forester. Tuck looked through it, then gave it back to Ven, who put it to his eye one more time.
From a great distance, he could see that the enormous bridge spanning the Great River was covered, on every stanchion, trestle and beam, with ravens.
Thousands of them.
A low, rumbling cough emerged from the depths of the wagon behind a sack of oats.
"Oh, that's not good."
Everyone turned to see an orange feline head emerge, followed by a brown one.
"This is probably not the best time to be comin' out of hidin'," Char noted.
"Actually, I'm glad you did, Murphy," Ven said. "I need you to do something for me."
"Such as?"
Ven looked over his shoulder at the road they had just traveled down. "I know you'd like to come along with us, but we really have to warn Mrs. Snodgrass about these ravens. She's got guests coming to the Inn who travel this road—and workers and deliverymen."
He thought about the gray stone marker that stood in her family burying ground marking the grave of her only son, Gregory, who, like Cadwalder's parents, had been killed at the Crossroads by brigands fifteen years before. He also thought about Mr. Whiting's dogs, and how they had almost put the Inn out of business attacking travelers on the road not long before.
"Mrs. Snodgrass needs to know how dangerous it's become around here—but we can't go back to tell her. If she knows about the ravens, maybe she'll want to bring the kids from Hare Warren and Mouse Lodge into the Inn for a while, or get Otis to stay overnight—he travels this road and crosses the bridge every day. Would you and Leo be willing to take the message back to her?"
The old orange tabby stretched lazily, then rubbed up against Amariel, sending her into a fit of sneezing.
"Oh, I suppose ," he said. "Besides, I can smell those birds from here. I'm about to start sneezing myself. Let's go, Leo."
"You can smell the birds?" Char asked.
Murphy
After a long while, she sat up straight.
"I hear water," she said. "But it doesn't smell right. No salt."
"It's not the sea," Ven said quietly. "That's the sound of the Great River. We're getting almost close enough to see the bridge."
As they rumbled along in the wagon the sound of the river grew louder.
"It sings a totally different song than the sea does," Amariel said to Ven. "It's like another language I can almost understand, but not quite. They are both songs of moving water, but very, very different."
Just as she finished her sentence, the wagon began to slow. Ven sat up straighter and looked over the side as it came to a halt.
"Ven," came Tuck's voice, "come here."
Ven stood up shakily and stretched. He stepped carefully around his friends and the provisions and climbed onto the seat board next to Tuck.
The forester was staring into the east toward the sound of the rushing river. In the distance, Ven could almost make out what he thought was the bridge.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Tuck shook his head. "There's something not right about the way it looks from here," he said, straining to see. "It's darker than it should be, and the shape looks odd."
Ven stood up and looked as hard as he could, but he could barely see the bridge at all. Then a thought occurred to him.
He unbuttoned the shirt pocket where the merrow's cap lay, carefully folded, and took out his great-grandfather's jack-rule. He extended the telescope lens meant for seeing far away, then looked through it.
At first he couldn't be sure what he was seeing. Then, as he kept looking, all his breath left his body.
"No," he said. "Oh, no."
Char climbed through the wagon and stood behind him. "What's the matter?"
Ven handed him the jack-rule, and the cook's mate had a look for himself. He shook his head, and handed it to the Lirin forester. Tuck looked through it, then gave it back to Ven, who put it to his eye one more time.
From a great distance, he could see that the enormous bridge spanning the Great River was covered, on every stanchion, trestle and beam, with ravens.
Thousands of them.
A low, rumbling cough emerged from the depths of the wagon behind a sack of oats.
"Oh, that's not good."
Everyone turned to see an orange feline head emerge, followed by a brown one.
"This is probably not the best time to be comin' out of hidin'," Char noted.
"Actually, I'm glad you did, Murphy," Ven said. "I need you to do something for me."
"Such as?"
Ven looked over his shoulder at the road they had just traveled down. "I know you'd like to come along with us, but we really have to warn Mrs. Snodgrass about these ravens. She's got guests coming to the Inn who travel this road—and workers and deliverymen."
He thought about the gray stone marker that stood in her family burying ground marking the grave of her only son, Gregory, who, like Cadwalder's parents, had been killed at the Crossroads by brigands fifteen years before. He also thought about Mr. Whiting's dogs, and how they had almost put the Inn out of business attacking travelers on the road not long before.
"Mrs. Snodgrass needs to know how dangerous it's become around here—but we can't go back to tell her. If she knows about the ravens, maybe she'll want to bring the kids from Hare Warren and Mouse Lodge into the Inn for a while, or get Otis to stay overnight—he travels this road and crosses the bridge every day. Would you and Leo be willing to take the message back to her?"
The old orange tabby stretched lazily, then rubbed up against Amariel, sending her into a fit of sneezing.
"Oh, I suppose ," he said. "Besides, I can smell those birds from here. I'm about to start sneezing myself. Let's go, Leo."
"You can smell the birds?" Char asked.
Murphy
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