11

In the morning, Adelaide sits on the sofa, working a comb through the girl’s hair. Yesterday’s bath has loosened the mound, and the comb is finally finding some relief. As Adelaide works, the boy lifts the rug to peer beneath it. He dangles his fingers before the fireplace to see how close he can get to the flames. He smells the sofa and fingers the weave of a basket.

“You’re a curious one, you are. Like a little bird, hopping from tree to tree,” she says to him. The boy does not acknowledge her words.

As Adelaide lay in bed last night, scarcely a hint of sleep, all she could think was, I must take better care of the children. They aren’t pets. They need guidance and protection. Interaction. And this is something Adelaide is willing to do, every waking hour for the rest of her life. She shudders to think she nearly killed herself a couple of weeks ago, never knowing these children existed, trapped in a life of hardship, at the mercy of the elements. They are lucky she has rescued them.

Last night was quiet. No beasts. No men. She tries to convince herself that she was wrong, and that the thing chasing them through the fog was simply a bear, and not the wild woman. Somehow this is more comforting than the alternative. Adelaide can handle a bear.

Adelaide works loose a knot of the girl’s hair and coils it around her finger. The children appear healthier now. And more content. One should never underestimate the power of a good bath.

“You have lovely hair, little one. We’ll have to try a ponytail soon. Do you know what a ponytail is? I suppose not.”

Adelaide is well versed in one-sided conversations. Her chickens will offer a cluck or chortle every now and again. The children offer a grunt.

“Of course, we will have to find something to tie it up with. Don’t lean on your elbows. There you are. Sit up like a proper little girl.” Adelaide wrangles the girl’s body into a better position and resumes the grooming. “And we will have to give you a name soon, before your name officially becomes ‘little girl,’ what do you think about that? Yes, and your brother, too.”

Another curl falls free.

Adelaide had expected the detangling to take days, but after a few short hours in front of the fireplace, the girl’s mane is nearly liberated.

“We have pets, you know,” Adelaide continues. “Chickens, in fact. They don’t lay eggs anymore, but it’s no bother to keep them around. They keep the bugs down and eat the table scraps. They’re good chickens. You’ll meet them soon.”

The girl pokes at a curl dangling before her eyes. It’s possible she’s never seen one before, considering the state of her hair. She pulls it taut and releases, watching it spring back into formation. Her body jumps a little and Adelaide assumes it was a laugh. The girl sits straighter and pushes her head farther into Adelaide’s lap.

The little boy examines a sofa pillow, stands on the tips of his toes to see how tall he is against the wall, and runs to the window to look outside. The little girl watches all of this, never moving, never speaking. But then a sudden clip of noise escapes the girl’s lips, and Adelaide stops grooming to watch the boy’s response. He sits before his sister, and the girl begins to comb his tangles with her fingers. He is quiet and motionless. So that’s what that sound means. Adelaide tries to commit it to memory, but the vowel and consonant sound has already left her mind as if she never heard it at all.

She places her whole hand on the little girl’s head and grins. “So, we’ve got a little bird and a caretaker,” she says.

The children offer nothing in the way of a response. The girl continues to groom her brother’s hair with her fingers, with a less transformative effect than Adelaide’s comb.

“Yes. Little Bird. I like that,” she says as she works loose another lock of hair.

Flakes of dried river clay rain down on Adelaide’s knees, and she thinks of the forest. She considers the trees and the fog and the mountains that surround her. And the river, which provides water, food, cleanliness. She thinks of her secret spot beneath the maple tree—her favorite little corner of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

“Rivers are a source of strength, you know. Commanding at times. Gentle at times.” Adelaide gently grasps the girl’s shoulders. “Just like you.”

The girl peers up at Adelaide with eyes brown as a lump of wet clay straight from the depths.

River. Wonderful.

Before long, River’s hair is unbound, curls drifting through the air as if no longer bound by gravity.

“You are done, little one!”

The girl looks up at her and then motions to her brother. Adelaide nods, and as if there is no language barrier at all, the children swap places and Adelaide begins to comb Little Bird’s hair.

River sits against the wall and listens as Adelaide speaks of turning leaves, and of the few birds that will remain over winter, and of the goats she had once. Neither child responds, but they grunt as though acknowledging her words. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.

When Little Bird’s curls flow freely, Adelaide is excited to show them. She stands to retrieve the small, round mirror by the front door, and sits on the sofa, motioning for the children to join her.

They approach cautiously, and Little Bird is the first to brave a look at his reflection.

Little Bird is riveted. His eyes bulge, his mouth gapes, and he pushes his face closer to the mirror until his nose bangs the glass. He clutches his face and looks to Adelaide as if she meant him harm.

Adelaide smiles. “It’s alright, child. It’s a mirror.”

Little Bird rubs the tip of his nose and inches closer. He touches his chin and chirps when his reflection does the same. He opens his mouth and laughs at his teeth and tongue.

Adelaide motions for River to join them.

River smiles and bounds toward them on her knees, eager to see what her brother has discovered. As Little Bird collapses into giggles, River leans forward to peer into the mirror.

Adelaide is not prepared for the girl’s reaction. River squawks and drops to the floor, fear transforming her beautiful face into something brutal and untamed. She bares her teeth and claws her fingers into the floor as she scoots away from Adelaide and the mirror. The girl kicks her feet, and the mirror is airborne. It spins across the room, catching the sunlight as it descends, illuminating the walls with sharp flashes of light.

The mirror lands with a blast, fragments careening through the cabin. Adelaide shields her face, but the children know nothing of breaking glass. Specks of blood bloom on the children’s bellies, arms, cheeks. They look to Adelaide, mute, the quiet like a silent alarm, charged and ready.

“Oh, little ones,” Adelaide cries, rushing to them on the floor, and carefully plucking chunks of glass from their skin.

Adelaide’s knees are cut and bleeding, but she will tend to that later. She hurries to the kitchen and returns with a dampened washcloth. The children allow her to lift them from the floor, one by one, and place them on the sofa. Adelaide wipes the blood away, tending to each nick and scrape.

The children will be alright. Nothing has cut too deeply. But they are now motionless and uncertain—all smiles, grunts, and other communications gone silent.

When Adelaide finishes, she collapses into the cushions. How stupid of her. How ignorant. The image replays over and over in her mind. The spinning mirror, their looks of terror. She’d covered her own face instead of shielding the children. She has forgotten the role of a mother, wrapped up in this place and in herself for so many years. She’s forgotten the responsibility, the selflessness. Or, Adelaide worries, perhaps she’s never known. Perhaps that is the most significant truth of all.

River pulls the washcloth, stained with swatches of red and pink, from Adelaide’s lap. She does not look up as she leans forward and gently dabs the blood on Adelaide’s knees.

Daytime with the children is optimistic, full of hope and breakthroughs and newfound trust. But at night, second guesses, fear, and frustration knock an endless percussion on Adelaide’s skull.

She stares at the stains on her ceiling, blooming larger than ever thanks to the fall rains, and she listens to the silence of the children. The lack of sound is palpable and stifling in the darkness. They are asleep beneath their makeshift tent and Adelaide resists the urge to check on them one more time. The ticking clock sounds like breaking glass—snap-snap-snap—and Adelaide can lie in bed no longer.

She stands and walks to the kitchen, peering through the window and into the night.

The trees are a harsh blue. Wispy branches, torn and tangled by the wind, reach to the sky as if in prayer. And the sound. The sound is there, too. It returns every night lately, and Adelaide has come to know it well. The mangled howl from human vocal cords. Sorrowful and yearning. The wild woman, grieving the loss of her children. She is not close this night, but neither is she far. Adelaide can’t see her—nighttime is too dense for an old woman’s sight—but she can hear her. Snapping branches as the woman gallops, and her sharp guttural declarations of heartache.

Adelaide swallows the knot in her throat and tries once more for sleep.

Outside her bedroom window, the wind whorls and bellows. Adelaide peeks outside to see if her chickens would like to come inside and keep her company, but they are not waiting outside her bedroom window tonight.

Adelaide plaits her hands against her chest and stares once again at the stains on her ceiling as she waits for sunrise.

A noise—soft but insistent. A touch.

Adelaide opens her eyes expecting daylight but is met with the violet glow of a morning too premature to call dawn. She doesn’t remember falling asleep.

A shadow moves in her room, small and slow. Adelaide pulls the bedcover from her cheeks as her eyes adjust to the gloom.

Syllables. Vowels. A chirp.

She buffs the sleep from her eyes. “Good morning,” she croaks to the children standing in her doorway, but neither child moves toward her. She offers them an outstretched arm, but they simply stare at Adelaide in silence. This is new.

“What is it, little ones?” she says to them as she shifts her legs over the side of the bed. “It’s quite early, you know.”

Adelaide stretches her arms, her neck, her fingers. She wonders if the children hear their mother rustling through the forest at night. Did they hear her last night? Is that what has woken them so early this morning? Oh, how she wishes she could speak to them.

Their spiraling redwood hair reaches halfway down their backs. Their stance is the same. Their voices, even devoid of human words, are like sounds from the same person. If it weren’t for the display of a little penis now and again, Adelaide would never be able to tell them apart. She wonders if she should try introducing clothing again. Soon, she thinks. But not today.

Adelaide envies the children, in a way. As if by being spared from the rest of the world, they are evolving into something closer to human than most of us will ever know. Something genuine and primal. These children have never had to escape the urban landscape, consumerism, industry, as she did. They were born free, and Adelaide aches to know what that is like. Perhaps they can teach her.

Adelaide doesn’t know how to interpret all the things that flow through her mind, but she does know one thing for sure: it’s time for some honest-to-goodness breakfast. She walks toward the children and pats their heads as she passes. They allow it.

In the kitchen, Adelaide peers out the window. The morning air breaks with streaks of golden light, illuminating her chickens just outside the garden. Zelda and Moffit chase their morning feast, while Henry reserves his chase for only the meatiest of insects. Adelaide smiles. She should introduce the children to Henry and the girls today. They could all use a pick-me-up.

Adelaide opens her cabinets hoping for some canned garden remnants, perhaps some grains to fashion into oatmeal, but it seems the day has finally come when three mouths to feed are two too many. She could search the garden once more. There was nothing salvageable the last time she looked, but she may have missed something.

The fishing pole is in the shed, and the river still runs, which means fish still swim. She takes a deep breath, and the weight on her shoulders lightens. Adelaide turns to the children and clasps her hands together. “River, Little Bird, today we shall catch a fish for breakfast. How does that sound?”

The children bound across the kitchen, roused by her excitement.

“Okay,” she says, marching to her bedroom and slipping into her housecoat and boots. The frost on her windows doesn’t lie. It is cold today.

Adelaide reaches into her closet for sweaters for the children, and sees the inevitable struggle in her mind: River biting at the fabric, all barks and growls and whoops and chirps, as Adelaide yanks her arm through a sleeve; Little Bird wrapping pants around his neck, the deflated legs trailing behind him as he runs in circles; River dropping to the floor, kicking her feet at Adelaide, her pretty little forehead creased with insult.

No. This morning Adelaide does not have the resolve to win that battle. She whisks a blanket from their sleeping tent and glides it through the air like the sail of a ship, bundling the children into a pocket of cotton. They squeal and giggle and bounce on their feet.

“C’mon, you two. I just might need your help.”

The children have developed a dependable habit of staying close to Adelaide on their treks to use the outhouse, waddling just behind her, side by side. They are more themselves in the fresh air. Eyes bright, ears perked, necks quick to turn toward any sound in the brush. But she keeps a close eye on them nonetheless, just in case today turns out to be the day they run away from her forever.

The fishing pole is easy to pluck from the other equipment. It is rusted, but it’s never let her down, brittle though it may be. She turns to show the children, but they are gone.

Adelaide drops the pole. It can’t happen. Not yet. She’s not ready to lose them.

She scans the foliage, but there is no movement, no shadows, no sign of anything. She tries to call to them, but her words catch in her throat. If the children want to leave her, she is powerless to stop them.

Adelaide takes a deep breath and concentrates on the sounds of the morning: birds chirping, branches rustling in the wind, lizards in the fallen leaves. The lilting conversation of chickens. And a hushed whisper of syllables. The children! She follows the sound, rushing toward the back of her cabin, and when she finally sees them, Adelaide nearly collapses with joy.

River and Little Bird are on the ground, watching the chickens. Adelaide laughs. They huddle quietly beside each other, beneath their blanket. Motionless. She approaches, expecting the sound of her footsteps to disrupt their concentration. It does not. As she creeps closer, River holds out a flat palm as if to say, Stop.

Adelaide leans down to look at the children’s faces and she takes a step back. They watch the chickens with rigid gazes. Their knees are bent and ready. Their teeth are bared.

“Oh my god!” Adelaide screams, and the chickens scurry off as the children recoil.

Adelaide can hardly believe it. The children were hunting Henry and the girls.

Adelaide bends down to their height. “No!” she says. “We do not hurt the chickens. They are pets.” She makes a motion as if stroking a small animal with her hands. “Friends.” She puts her arm around an imaginary person. And then Adelaide is out of hand gestures.

She snatches their hands and leads them straight to the river so they can fish, a more appropriate activity for two hungry children.