The dark pool of blood is not quite congealed on the ground. When Willem kneels and touches it, it is dense and tacky, not quite a fluid, not yet solid.
It has pooled in a hard, rocky depression on the path along the riverbank that leads to Waterloo, only a few minutes’ walk from the village.
Monsieur Delvaux, the schoolmaster, woke the village at first light, covered in blood, yelling and screaming about a saur attack. His elder daughter, Angélique, had not returned from an evening in Waterloo, and when he went to look for her, he stumbled upon (in fact into) the pool of blood.
The weeks after the fête have been happy ones. François’s recovery seems complete, with only occasional lapses. Crops thrive. Days have warmed in the village even further, and so has Cosette.
It is Cosette, not Angélique, who emerges each morning to collect the bread from Willem, and as her sister has so often done, her hand touches his as she accepts the loaf. But where Angélique did it as a tease, there seems something more behind Cosette’s touch, a connection between the two of them expressed only in the quick, light caress of fingertip on palm.
After mass she will often linger with him and they will discuss the sermon and the events of the week. On occasion the milling crowd outside the church will force them to stand more close together than is generally considered acceptable for a man and a young lady; however, neither of them minds.
He finds himself thinking at night of the lines of her jaw, and the fall of her hair. Even the slow drift of her lazy eye seems something interesting, exotic.
As expected, Jean and François rib him mercilessly.
“Be careful, young Willem, or she will have you hooked,” Jean says.
“And would that be a terrible thing?” Willem asks.
“You are young. There are mountains to climb, rivers to swim, women to woo. It is too soon for you to be ensnared.”
“A cook must taste many broths to know which is best,” François says.
Although Willem feels far from ensnared, there are moments, late at night, when he finds himself hoping she will not follow the path of her older sister to Waterloo. Whether that means something, he does not know.
But today that path has led to disaster.
* * *
“It was no saur,” Monsieur Claude says. “There are no claw prints.”
If there were any prints they would be well and truly trampled by the feet of the men who gather around. But Monsieur Claude is right. The ground is soft from recent rain, yet when they arrived, apart from the imprint of Monsieur Delvaux’s bare feet, there were no marks. On the right of the path is dense forest, and the dirt at the base of the trees is dark and soft. On the left is the river, where the earthen bank is also unmarked.
Willem glances at Jean and they both look at François.
If it was a saur then it was a vicious one. A raptor. Maybe even a firebird. Willem knows they are all thinking the same thing: Is it the firebird from the waterfall? Has it somehow, after all these weeks, tracked them back to the village? Are they to blame for the disappearance of Angélique, and the appearance of this tacky, red-brown puddle?
“Do we even know that it was Angélique who was attacked?” Monsieur Lejeune asks. “Might not she have remained in Waterloo overnight, perhaps staying with the friends she is visiting?”
Willem notes that he is careful not to suggest anything unseemly about Angélique’s nocturnal visit to the nearby town. Monsieur Delvaux’s face lifts at that thought, but only slightly.
A girl is missing, who would have taken this path. There is blood on the path. It is a fool’s hope that the two are not connected.
“Whoever was attacked was attacked by a saur.” The voice comes from blind old Monsieur Antonescu. Monsieur Chambaux, the tailor, has his arm and guides him along the path with the others.
“How can you know this?” Monsieur Claude asks.
“I can smell it,” Monsieur Antonescu says.
Willem, along with most of the other men from the village, sniffs the air, but can detect nothing. He has brought Pieter, curled up in the leather satchel, and the little microsaurus is moving and scratching around inside.
There is nothing nearby, or he would be showing signs of distress. Willem opens the top of the satchel and lets Pieter run up his arm onto his shoulder. Pieter is not alarmed, although he is nervous and skittish, his head darting in all directions. These are signals that Willem knows well.
“Monsieur Antonescu is right,” Willem says. “A saur was here.”
“You are sure?” Monsieur Claude asks.
“Pieter is sure,” Willem says.
“Then where are the signs?” Monsieur Claude asks, and there are murmurs of agreement from other men in the group.
“If everyone will move back, I will let Pieter find them,” Willem says.
“Do as he asks,” Jean’s father says.
Monsieur Claude is the mayor of the village, and the owner of half of it, but Monsieur Lejeune is the one the villagers most respect. They withdraw immediately.
Willem sets Pieter on the ground, then clacks his tongue a few times at the microsaurus and makes a rotating hand gesture.
Pieter runs first to the pool of blood, sniffing at it, then around to the forest side of the path. His small head darts in all directions, sniffing the ground, looking for signs that the human eye cannot see.
He darts off down the path, heading toward Waterloo, then returns. He still looks agitated, but seems unsure, if that is even possible for a saur.
It is only when he ventures onto the river side of the path that things start to go very wrong.
Pieter creeps across the earthen bank toward the river. The riverweeds are short here as beneath the soft dirt is rock and their roots are shallow. Pieter moves cautiously, pushing through the stalks with his nose.
A patch of long reeds rises out of the river itself, and as he approaches it he starts to become more agitated, darting forward, then retreating just as quickly.
He sniffs cautiously at the reeds, then suddenly screams in fright and freezes.
“What’s he doing?” Jean whispers.
“I don’t know,” Willem says.
Pieter remains frozen in place for a long moment, then slowly topples to one side. He lies on his side, rigid and immobile.
“Pieter!” Willem yells and runs over to him.
He is breathing and his eyes are moving, but his body is not. It is as if he has been mesmerized, but somehow different. And there are no lights or flames here to mesmerize him. Willem picks up his pet and strokes his stomach gently. Pieter looks at him, but does not otherwise move.
Although it is early, the sun has already risen above the trees to the east and at that moment a passing cloud releases the sun. A brief flash of white in the reeds of the creek catches Willem’s eye. Something moves.
He jumps, stumbling and falling backward, Pieter clutched safely to his chest.
“What is it?” Monsieur Lejeune asks.
“Something in the reeds by the river,” Willem manages.
A long sword that had been hanging from Monsieur Lejeune’s belt is suddenly in his hands.
“Everybody stay back,” he says.
Willem scrambles away, Pieter still held to his chest.
Monsieur Lejeune advances, the sword held in front of him.
He parts the reeds with it, then turns and shakes his head.
“It is nothing but an old rag,” he says. “Moving in the current.”
“Then why is Pieter so afraid?” Willem asks.
Monsieur Lejeune thrusts the sword into the reeds and lifts a dirty piece of cloth. It had been half in the river and is sodden. The rest is dirty and brown.
“Your pet is afraid of this?” he asks.
Monsieur Delvaux’s legs collapse beneath him, and if Monsieur Claude had not been standing next to him to catch him, he would surely have hit his head on the rock of the path.
“That is not a rag,” Monsieur Delvaux says. “It is Angélique’s frock.”
Now Willem can see it. What appeared to be a dirty bunch of rags is in fact clothing, shredded. It is covered not with dirt but the brown stains of blood.
“There are no claw prints,” Monsieur Claude still protests.
“Nor drag marks,” Monsieur Lejeune says, with a quick, embarrassed look at Monsieur Delvaux. “How could a saur drag her into the river without leaving marks?”
“It is a saur,” Willem says, firmly, stroking the stomach of his pet, who is just starting to come out of his stupor. “It has to be a raptor, but I have never seen Pieter so petrified.”
“It is the firebird,” François says. “We should have killed it at the waterfall, but we ran like skinned chickens. Now it has found us and seeks revenge for its eggs.”
“You did this!” Monsieur Delvaux cried, his eyes red and brimming with grief. “You brought this on our village!”
“This is not a firebird,” Monsieur Antonescu says, but nobody listens.
There is heat in the group of men, and it is directed at the cousins, and Willem most of all.
“We left no trail,” Jean protests. “We walked only in the rivers and streams.”
“So it has been hunting the forest since that time, seeking out your scent,” Monsieur Claude says.
“Brothers, you misdirect your anger,” Father Ambroise says. He holds up his arms, asking for silence and calm. He says, “Now is not the time for recriminations or anger. Kneel with me, brothers. We will pray for the soul of the daughter of our friend.”
And so they pray, kneeling on the hard rock of the path, beside the rocky pool of dried blood.
For some reason, when Willem closes his eyes, all he can see is the image of her breasts, pressed together by her arms after she opens the shutters to let in the morning sun.