The Waterstone by Rebecca Rupp

of a boy such as you have described.”
    “Perhaps there be no such boy!” shouted a third.
    The voice shot out in a silvery hiss, so angry and menacing that the Grellers in the front row shrank back.
“There is a boy.”
The music began again, faintly at first, then louder.
“There is a boy,”
the voice caroled enticingly.
“There is a boy. And he is near. He is . . .”
    The face in the fish-scale mask lifted and turned from one side to the other, seeming to peer out between the tall black stones. Then the Greller lifted an arm and pointed across the circle, directly toward the tree root where Tad and Birdie crouched.
    “He is there!”
the voice cried.
“He is there!”
    The Grellers, moving as one, all turned in the direction of the black pointing finger.

Tad and Birdie, staring at each other in horror, ducked behind the concealing tree root.
    “They can’t possibly see us,” Birdie said incredulously. “All the way out here. It’s too dark.”
    Tad, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, thought that they probably could. Or at least one of them could.
    “We’ve got to get away from here, Birdie,” he whispered urgently. “I don’t know how they know we’re here, but they do. At least they know
I’m
here. That voice . . . the Greller that was doing all the talking? That was the same voice I heard in the pond. It’s the Nixie talking — talking through him. And she can feel me somehow. She knows where I am.”
    “How?”
Birdie asked. Then, before Tad had a chance to answer, “Are you sure?”
    Tad nodded. “But she doesn’t know about
you.
Or Pippit. If they find me . . .” He gulped and went on. “If they find me, all you have to do is hide and keep very still. They’re not looking for you, so they won’t even know you’re here. Just stay hidden until it’s safe, and then go for help. Go back to Treeglyn’s tree.”
    He paused, thinking. “We should split up right now. If you and Pippit go in one direction and I go in another —”
    Birdie stuck out her lower lip and stubbornly shook her head. “We’re not going to leave you here,” she said. “With those
weasels.
“
    Pippit gave an equally stubborn-sounding croak.
    Tad sighed. It was just as Pondleweed always said: Birdie, when she made up her mind about something, was as stubborn as a snapping turtle.
    “All right,” he said after a moment. “We’ll all stick together. Go very carefully now. Let’s crawl back around to the other side of the tree. Don’t let them catch so much as a hint of anything moving. That means you, too, Pippit. No hopping. Stay down!”
    Behind them a babble of voices rose from the stone circle, growing louder and finally joining in a single rallying roar.
    Bent low, Tad and Birdie stumbled over the uneven ground, clambering over the wall-like roots extending from the great tree.
    “Faster!” Tad said. “They’re coming!”
    He risked a quick look behind them.
    The Grellers were running toward them, pouring out of the stone circle in a dark tide. Some held flaming torches aloft. The flames threw glimmering gold reflections across the bristling points of spears, the blades of upraised swords, the polished tips of long black-feathered arrows.
    Tad, Birdie, and Pippit threw themselves over the last obstructing root, landing in a confused tangle on the ground. Tad leaped up, dragging Birdie to her feet.
    “Faster!” he said again. “Once we get deeper into the woods, they’ll never find us. Not at nighttime like this.”
    Unless they bring their fish-faced friend along to help
, he thought.
    Then Birdie screamed.
    A massive dark shadow had reared up before them, looming higher and higher. Its long front paws reached out, and its neck stretched upward and arched like some ancient monster — like the dragons Pondleweed said had once walked the Earth. It opened its mouth and hissed at the children, showing a double row of pointed yellow teeth.
    It was a black weasel.
    Tad and Birdie cowered back,