Pieter goes rigid, raising himself up to his full height and balancing by placing his front feet on the side of Willem’s head. His tail curls around Willem’s neck. He makes a low clacking sound and his head flicks from side to side.
“Hush!” Willem says.
Jean and François stop and look back at him.
“Pieter’s heard something,” Willem says.
The little microsaurus perched on Willem’s shoulder is very sensitive to sounds, smells, even vibrations on the forest floor. He is a good harbinger of danger.
Pieter repeats the clacking sound and goes very still.
François lifts his ax off his shoulders and holds it in front of him. Jean unslings his crossbow and loads it. The bolt glints in a sharp rod of sunlight stabbing through a gap in the tree canopy.
Willem does nothing. Pieter is just listening and sniffing the air. If there is danger, it is not yet close by.
The forest soars around them, giant oaks, firs, and beeches. Birds swoop and dart. Great winged saurs glide high above them. A breeze tiptoes through the upper branches, and the leaves whisper secrets of the trees that only Pieter can understand.
They set out from the river bridge over an hour ago and are now deep within the forest. For part of the trip they followed a stream. At a mighty oak, wider than Willem is tall, they veered off up a steep slope and along a ridgeline where new, slender trunks are evidence of a recent fire. Rain, or the geography of the forest, must have limited the fire to the ridgeline, and this section of the trail is hard going. The regrowth has brought with it dense underbrush that scratches and snaps at their legs as they push through it. Each footstep brings up the cloudy scent of damp earth and the sour perfume of rotting leaves.
After a moment Pieter relaxes, sitting back down on his haunches and playing with Willem’s ear.
“Nothing?” François asks.
“Something,” Willem says. “But it has moved away.”
“What was it?” Jean asks.
“Only Pieter knows,” Willem says. “Boar, wolf, deer. It could have been anything.”
That isn’t quite true. Pieter would have reacted a little differently had it been a boar or a wolf. From the way his whole body stiffened, whatever he sensed was a saur.
It is out of range now, but that does not mean it is not hunting them.
Willem reaches inside his satchel, checking once again that his father’s apparatus is still there. It was when he had last checked and the time before that. But still he feels comforted by the presence of the two oval containers.
They set off once again, François in front. This is his way. Jean, with nothing to prove, follows, and Willem brings up the rear.
The cousins are alike but different in many ways. Some of that comes from their fathers. The brothers had spent too many years on the battlefields of Europe, in the service of Napoléon. Whatever they had seen, whatever they had done, it had driven one of the brothers closer to God, and turned the other from His sight. The sons follow their fathers. François is a pious and committed Christian, while Jean is a Sunday worshipper and in great danger of going to hell, according to his cousin.
They are different in other ways also. They both brandish mustaches; however, François’s is soft and thin, like the saplings of the ridgeline, while Jean’s is thick and coarse, like the old oaks of the forest. The cousins are both strong, but Jean is the taller and brawnier of the two, despite François’s many hours swinging the ax. Their fathers being so similar, that difference may have come from their mothers’ sides, for Jean’s mother is a large and sturdy woman, robust in body and tongue, while the preacher’s wife is a delicate flower given to long sullen moods and bouts of inexplicable anger and tears.
Willem was not always friends with the cousins. They are Walloon. Within a few weeks of his arrival in the village they waylaid him on the river path, simply because he was Flemish. They were big, strong boys even then. They beat him bloody, then dragged him to the riverbank and held his head under water until he blacked out. He was six years old.
He did not make it easy for them though. He fought back, hard, kicking and biting, leaving Jean with a permanent scar on the corner of his mouth. Nor did Willem cry. Not once.
It only happened twice more before he earned their grudging respect, and that slowly turned into friendship. That stopped the other beatings too. Once he came under the wing of the Lejeune cousins nobody else dared to touch him, not even the older children in the village.
Willem does not have the height nor the breadth of the other two, yet there is a wiry strength about him, and a cunning that would win games and fights that strength alone would not. He is also quick of hand and fleet of foot, and can step and run his way out of trouble if it comes to that—and it often does.
For although Willem, Jean, and François are the closest of friends, there is a rambunctious nature to the two cousins, and brawling usually only ends when there is blood.
“How is Mademoiselle Héloïse this morning?” Jean asks. “Did she try to eat you again?”
“Maybe we should have brought her with us.” Willem laughs. “In case we do find this saur. It would surely run from her.”
“François would have liked that,” Jean says. “He yearns for more time alone with the wild girl.”
“I think you dip a brush in your own heart and paint me with it,” François says.
“Ah, cousin, but I am not the one who dallies by her gate, or feigns illness to gain her attentions.” Jean laughs.
“It was a gash from a falling tree,” François says, fingering a long scar on his forearm. “You would rather I bled to death?”
“It was but a scratch from a twig,” Jean says.
“I saw this wound after it became infected,” Willem says. “Without Madame Gertruda’s poultice, you would have lost that arm, or your life.”
“True, but my cousin is always correct, even when he is not,” François scoffs. “I should take his counsel and seek Héloïse’s hand in marriage without delay.”
“You would not survive the wedding night,” Jean says. “Your skin is not thick enough for her claws.”
“There are ways to tame the wildest of beasts,” François says.
“Not a saur. No one has ever tamed a saur,” Jean says.
“Willem has,” François says.
“Pieter? That is but a dog without fur,” Jean says. “Even I could teach tricks to a microsaurus.”
“Then why have you not?” François asks.
Jean does not answer that. Instead he asks, “And what tricks would you teach your new bride?”
The ribbing continues as they follow the ridgeline down to another stream, simmering coldly through rounded boulders.
François’s fondness for Héloïse is easy to see, although he denies it vigorously. They have one thing in common, a soft heart for wounded animals. He often brings her injured creatures that he finds in the forest. Still, Willem is unsure whether François really does have feelings for the wild girl, or whether she is just another of his projects.
As far as Willem can see, Héloïse holds no return affection for François. But even if she does, he is not sure if she is capable of showing it.
Jean squats and puts two fingers in the water as if he can tell something about the movement of the water by doing so.
“Just a couple of kilometers more,” he says.
“Which way?” Willem asks.
“Downstream,” Jean says. “This takes us directly to the waterfall.”
Pieter is becoming restless, stretching up and looking around, and shifting uncomfortably on Willem’s shoulder. Willem lifts him down and sets him by the stream for a drink, but he ignores it and scurries back up Willem’s arm to his perch.
“He seems nervous,” François says.
“A little,” Willem says. “I think he can smell something.”
“A raptor won’t stray too far from her nest, if there are eggs,” Jean says. “So we must be cautious as we approach.”
“I think Jean also is nervous.” François laughs.
“Not nervous, just careful,” Jean says.
“Do not worry, cousin,” François says. “I will take great care of your crossbow if you die.”
“It is not the raptor I am scared of,” Jean says. “It is facing your mother when I return with just chewed-up scraps of her son for her to bury.”
“Now you are making me hungry,” François says. “Let us quickly replenish ourselves with water and bread, before facing the beast.”
The talk of François’s mother reminds Willem of the argument with his own mother. He is an only child, of an only parent. They are outsiders in the village, sharing a secret they can reveal to no others. He knows they have to support each other, and so he tries not to fight with her. But more and more he is feeling the pull of his own path through life, no longer a child hiding behind his mother’s skirts. Even so, he knows he must go back and apologize before the rift widens to a chasm.
“We are so close, and you choose to snooze,” Jean says.
“I merely wish to face it with food in my belly and strength in my arm,” François says.
“He is right,” Willem says. “We are better rested and revived.”
“You are both clucky little ducks,” Jean says, but Willem can tell that he also is glad of a break and a meal.
Willem has the baguette. Jean has a stick of hard cheese, and François has brought sausage. François slices the meat with a hunting knife he wears on his belt and they share the food, scooping up the cool water of the stream to wash down the dry fare.
Willem picks leaves off nearby trees and feeds them to Pieter, who holds them with both front claws, his head still twitching from side to side, scanning for danger.
François brings out his pipe while they eat and takes tobacco from a small pouch.
“No,” Willem says.
“Each day you sound more like my mother,” François says.
“If you fill the air of the forest with smoke, then Pieter will not be able to smell a predator,” Willem says.
“Yes, Mama,” François says, and he puts away his pipe and tobacco.
The stream cuts a clearing through the forest and sun pours into it, sparking off bursting bubbles in the water. It is only March but the heat of the day rises, and Willem finds he is sweating heavily.
“If we do not find this nest,” Willem says, “then this whole morning is a waste of time.”
“It is an adventure,” Jean says. “And adventure is never a waste of time.”
“Willem still worries about his act for the fête,” François says.
“Is that the reason for his weak spirit?” Jean asks. “Why do you insist on these pipe dreams, Willem? There are many real jobs out there, even for a riverweed like you.”
“These tricks conceal the devil’s hand,” François says.
“You will never be a famous magician,” Jean says. “That is not possible for a boy from Gaillemarde.”
“Why not?” Willem asks. “Why can I not be whatever I want to be?”
“You can.” François smiles. “But you must want to be something sensible. And useful.”
“I pity your lack of vision and ambition,” Willem says, feeling that this is uncomfortably close to the conversation he just had with his mother.
Jean and François exchange glances.
“He’s a feisty little dog,” François says.
“All right, Willem.” Jean sighs. “Come on. Practice your tricks on us.”
“I have only a little magic,” Willem says. “I will not squander it on you two fools.”
“But now we insist,” Jean says. “We are your friends. We should be the first to marvel at your skills, not waiting until the fête like all the common people of the village.”
“It would have been easier had not someone’s mother told my mother of my plans,” Willem says, with a pointed look at Jean.
“You accuse me?” Jean asks. “But I said nothing to my mother.”
“Nobody else knew,” Willem says.
“Do you forget my father?” Jean asks. “You had me ask him if you could borrow his pistol.”
Jean’s father is one of very few people in the village with a working flintlock pistol. It had returned with him from the nightmarish Russian campaign of 1812.
“That’s right,” Willem says. “Perhaps he told your mother.”
“No doubt,” Jean says.
Willem nods. “I forgot to ask. What did your father say?”
“He wanted to know why you might need the weapon.”
“I cannot tell him the details,” Willem says. “Just that it is my finale, my grand illusion. Tell him it will be the highlight of the fête.”
“Perhaps you should ask him yourself,” Jean says. “You are the one with the slick tongue.”
“We have delayed long enough,” François says, standing. “It is still a long walk to the falls.”
* * *
The stream merges with a river at a small set of rapids. The banks of the river here are a knobbly surface of rounded boulders, many of which shift underfoot, twisting at the boys’ ankles. Even so it is easy going compared to the trek through the undergrowth.
Pieter becomes more and more agitated as they travel, which makes Willem nervous. He secretly hoped that this quest for raptor eggs would be fruitless, but the constant perching and pacing of the little saur makes him increasingly sure that fate has more in store for them this day.
If alone, he would turn back, but there is no way the cousins will agree to that. And if either of them suggested it, the other would accuse him of being fearful, and so they would sting each other into continuing.
“Jean, François,” Willem says. “You are both strong and brave. And if we find a small raptor, then I am sure you could dispatch it with cold steel. But not a firebird.”
“What do you know of firebirds?” François scoffed.
“More than I wish to,” Willem says. “My father once told me of three soldiers, a hunting party, that trapped a firebird near Bruges. They were armed with sword and musket. Only one soldier survived, and he only barely.”
“They were weaklings, and cowards,” François says. “We are warriors.”
“They were imperial grenadiers,” Willem says.
François closes his mouth at that.
The story is a fabrication. His father told him no such thing. But it is the only way he can think of to make the cousins realize the danger they face.
* * *
The river flattens and widens as it sweeps toward a cliff, and from there comes the sound of rushing water.
Pieter clutches tightly onto Willem’s hair, hurting him. Pieter’s eyes are darting in every direction, his movements rapid and agitated. However, there is no sign of a nest of any kind. They look in the mud by the side of the river and beneath the long, hanging boughs of trees on the edge of the forest.
Jean even ventures a few steps into the forest, in case the nest should be secreted in the forked roots of a tree.
They reach the edge of the cliff, stepping carefully over a wet, rocky shelf along the side of the river.
Willem keeps about a meter from the edge, although Jean and François each seem to delight in stepping one toe closer than the other cousin. To their right the water thunders out over the falls, buckling and blossoming as it drops away to the small rock pool below.
“I see no nest,” Willem says. “It is time we returned.”
“But we have only searched one side of the river,” Jean says.
“And your little friend seems to know something, from the way he twitches,” François says. “Perhaps we need but open our eyes.”
“Open your eyes now!” Jean says.
Willem stares out over the waterfall in the direction Jean is pointing. He expects to see a raptor emerge from the forest, but instead sees a small group of men.
They are walking in single file, like soldiers, but wear the smocks of local peasants. They carry long dark shapes on their shoulders, and with disquiet Willem realizes they are muskets.
Jean raises himself up and draws in breath, preparing to shout.
“No!” Willem says. “Get down.”
Jean turns to look at him. “Why?”
Willem doesn’t know. He just has a sudden bad feeling about these men, with guns, so deep in the forest. He cannot say that, so he says, “Do you want them to find the nest, and have our eggs?”
Jean drops down to his knees, and François squats beside them.
“You think they search for the raptor’s nest also?” Jean asks.
“What else would they be doing here?” Willem asks.
They watch as six of the men cross the river downstream and disappear into the forest opposite.
“We shall find it first,” François says. “It is our nest.”
“They shall not take it from us,” Jean agrees. “How can we get down there?”
“There is a track,” François says.
Willem feels that the last thing the men are looking for is a raptor’s nest, but cannot explain why he feels that. He ventures closer to the edge of the cliff, dropping to his knees before peering over. It is not as high as he imagined, no taller than a house of two stories. On the other side of the falls, a narrow ledge just below the cliff edge slopes down. From there a series of jutting rocks makes for a possible but difficult climb down the face of the falls.
“It is scarcely a track,” he says.
“Perhaps we are being hasty,” François says. “Pierre said it is at the top of the falls.”
“And we have not looked on the far side of the river,” Jean says.
They backtrack from the top of the falls and cross the river where the water is at its widest, and therefore most shallow.
It is no more than ankle deep, and there are many flat rocks to stand on, but even so Willem feels the tug of the water on his boots as if the river is a living thing that wants to feed him to the hungry mouth of the waterfall just a few meters away.
Pieter begins to show extreme alarm, and a few paces farther he begins struggling and scratching to get down from Willem’s shoulder.
“Draw your weapons!” Willem says.
Jean does, and François holds his ax tightly in front of him. Willem opens his satchel and lets Pieter climb inside, closing the top and letting the little saur lie still, more secure in the darkness.
Willem’s pulse is racing. A heady mixture of fear and thrill, and something more: a primal desire for revenge.
“The nest is here,” he says in a voice that is not as steady as he would like it to be.
“Where?” François asks. The riverbank is rocky and flat. Jean has stepped toward the forest and is poking around in the undergrowth.
“Here,” Jean says.
Willem and François join him in a V formed by the roots of a large beech. The ground has been dug out, forming a shallow bowl, and in it, partly covered by twigs and leaves, are five large eggs.
“Look at the size of them,” François says. “How we will feast!”
The eggs are mottled brown in color and each is as long as Willem’s foot.
“We must hurry,” Willem says. “If the eggs are of such a size, how big do you think the mother will be? Let’s take them, and get away from this place.”
There is no argument from the cousins.
Jean has brought a sack and he carefully places three of the eggs inside it.
“Take them all,” Willem says.
“No, leave some,” François says. “Then if the mother returns she will want to stay and protect the eggs she has left, instead of chasing us.”
Willem shakes his head. “It won’t matter if we take one or all of the eggs,” he says. “The mother will hunt us regardless. So take them all. Do you want more raptors roaming the forest?”
“No,” François says.
Jean packs the other eggs carefully into the sack. “For our return, we stick to the river,” he says. “Stay in the water. We do not want this saur to follow our scent back to the village.”
He stands with the now-heavy sack, and all three step out onto the rock of the riverbank.
There is a terrified, high-pitched scream from Willem’s satchel and he feels Pieter thrashing around inside.
Willem turns upriver and, for the second time in his life, looks a firebird in the eye.