Young Writers Society

57 FOUND

He stopped at the tree line and looked out at the crowds.

It reminded him little of the Fair. He was not sure what he had been expecting before, but now he knew he had thought, at least a little, that the Fair would be here, too. That the Fair-folk and the Rovers would have erected colorful silken tents and be dancing and singing, telling stories around bonfires, playing card games or ducking into circus-tents to see the freak show or tame lions. Now Christian realized, as he had not before, that they were refugees, that this mess of tents and shacks built from branches and thatch was the reality of their life and had been since the moment they fled the park. He felt a new wave of anger toward Neva. How could the angel refuse to help when it was his own brother who had forced these people into such a position?

It looked as if they had been awake for a long while. They swung cooking-pots over fires already burning low or trudged back and forth to a stream that ran across the far end of the clearing, carrying water for bathing, cooking, and laundry. The weavers were at work mending worn clothing, and the Rovers’ horses were harnessed to carts pulling loads of firewood or logs for building. The other denizens of the Fair, however, were indistinguishable from one another. Here their talents were largely useless, so they put themselves to work building an adequate shelter or starting a fire. But Christian saw with pride that they worked together, helping one another without question or repayment.

Perhaps I should stay here, Narodnaya said. They will be frightened of me. They will think me one of Goblin’s allies.

“But you’re so nice,” Christian said, forgetting he had been frightened of her only a few days ago. “How could they?”

Her voice was dry in his head. I do not think they will see me that way. No, I will stay here and wait for you.

So Christian entered the clearing alone. Few of the Fair-folk looked at him, though the Rover men nodded in recognition as he passed by. They were all grim, brown with sun and dirt, their faces streaked with sweat, their clothes worn, and here he came with little worse than bare feet. His clothes were dirty and his face unshaven, but his days of travel had left his body a little hardened. Long days of hard work and fear had left many of theirs worn out.

Christian wrung his hands as he headed for the Rover caravan. Conrad would be there, he was certain—mostly certain—for Imelda’s wagon had not been amongst the wreckage in the park. Liza, however—His stomach did a flip. Throughout his journey, he had been able to hold out hope that he would find her if he could just get to the Sunforest. Now that he was here, he was afraid she wouldn’t be. Then he wouldn’t have any idea where or how to find her. How could he ever explain to the balloon-artist that he’d lost his wife after promising to take care of her?

He was so preoccupied at the thought that he ran into someone short and dark and fell to the ground with an oof. Grass stained the seat of his trousers (though it hardly mattered, he was so dirty already). Out of his everlasting and automatic civility, he was apologizing before he’d even seen whom he had run into. Then he looked up.

“Liza!”

A grin blossomed on his face as he scrambled to his feet and gathered her into a bone-crushing hug.

“Christian!” she said in surprise, and then she hugged him even tighter. “Thank God. I’ve been so—oh, mind the fish. Let me look at you, honey.”

She held him at an arm’s length and examined him with a watery but critical eye. “Well, you don’t look much worse for wear.”

Nor did she, Christian thought as he looked at her. If anything, she looked better than she had when he’d last seen her. Her clothes were scratched and stained with dirt (though not as worn as his), but her back was straight and her face less strained than before. She carried a string of fish in her hand. She let out a shaky breath and pulled him into a one-armed embrace.

“Good God, Christian! I was so frightened. Land in some strange forest all alone, and you were who-knows-where, and I didn’t know where to find Conrad or—”

Christian’s stomach clenched. “He is here, isn’t he?”

Liza nodded and said, “This way. You hungry?”

“Starving,” Christian said. The fruit Neva had given him last night felt like forever ago.

Imelda’s wagon was on the end, with her horse grazing beside it and half-deflated balloon-animals in a slowly sinking mass outside the door. Liza prodded them out of the way with her toe, shaking her head.

“Should’ve seen it when I got here.” Her voice shook, but he could see that she was endeavoring to keep it under control. “Balloon-animals everywhere. I could hardly see him past all of them.”

She stopped at the top of the steps, so abruptly Christian almost ran into her again. He wind-milled, perched precariously at the edge of the step. Her hand shot out to steady him.

“I just want you to know,” she said softly, “he looks better than he did when I got here. I—I don’t know how bad he was when you last saw him, but—”

Christian’s mouth went dry.

“What do you mean?” he asked, but she continued as if she hadn’t heard him.

“—I just want you to have some warning.” She sucked in a big breath and said, “So. Okay.”

They entered the wagon. His mind whirled in panic. How bad did Conrad look if his wife felt a need to give Christian some warning?

She had cleared the balloon-animals from the room; those drifting about the steps were the only ones left now. Many of the glass bottles on the shelves had been smashed in the escape from the park, but she had swept the remains into a pile in the corner and neatened the bottles that were left. Christian could see the back wall of the wagon over her head.

The balloon-artist lay on the bunk with his left leg heavily bandaged. His skin had turned ashen, and blood soaked through the bandages: his wound had opened up again. A faint odor of rotting meat clung to him.

“You can wake him up and say hi, if you want,” Liza said. “He spends a lot of time sleeping, but—”

Christian swallowed. “Are you sure he’s just sleeping?”

She cracked a wan smile and said, “I’m sure. It took me a couple days to figure it out, but he looks better when he’s sleeping, and his breathing—”

If this was looking better, Christian hated to see what worse was. He was afraid to wake his friend up, but he shook Conrad’s shoulders.

“Conrad. Conrad, wake up. It’s me.”

The balloon-artist’s eyes opened blearily. He blinked, squinted, opened his eyes as wide as an infant’s in an attempt to see who was there, but his pupils were clouded.

“Christian?” he said with an effort.

Christian’s eyes stung with tears, but he held them back.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s me. I’ve come to find Morrow. How are you feeling?”

Conrad’s lips twitched. “Never better.”

He groaned, and his body contorted in pain. Christian clenched his hair in his hands, panicky at the sight.

“Out,” Liza said. “Come on, Christian. Visiting hours are over.”

“But—”

“Go on. I’ll be out in a minute.” She pushed the fish into his hands. “Take these with you.”

Christian stumbled out of the wagon with the balloon-artist’s groans ringing in his ears. Tears slipped down his cheeks at the sound; he buried his face in his arms until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Liza’s face was drawn with exhaustion. He wiped his eyes, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he said, but she shook her head.

“I was the same way, at first. It was—”

“A shock.” Christian ran his hands through his hair, drawing deep breaths through his nose. “He wasn’t like this last time. I mean—he was obviously in more pain than he let on, but I thought he was getting better.”

Liza pressed her lips tight together. When she finally spoke again, she asked, “Do you still have those matches?”

He patted his pockets absently and then remembered. “No, they got waterlogged.”

“Shame.” She pulled a flint and steel from her pocket. “Found this inside, but it takes me about a million years to start a fire with it.”

It was only then, as she struck the flint and steel together over a tiny pile of twigs, that Christian realized Imelda was missing. Between his relief over finding Liza and his anxiety over her husband, he hadn’t noticed the wagon’s owner was not there.

“Where’s Imelda?” he asked. “Can’t she do something more for him?”

The flint and steel sparked, but the spark landed in the grass instead of the tinder and died.

“God bless it. What did you say?”

“Imelda,” Christian repeated. “Where’s Imelda?”

Liza sat back on her haunches and wiped her face. “Who’s Imelda?”

His face went white with fear.

“Imelda. She’s been taking care of Conrad—it’s her wagon.”

Liza’s brow puckered as she understood the implication of what he was saying. She raised the flint, paused, and said, “It’s just been me and Conrad in the wagon all week.”

The flint struck the steelwith a clang but failed to produce a spark.

Christian put his head in his hands. Everything was wrong, he thought. He’d found Liza, but her husband was worse than ever, and Imelda was missing—maybe even dead, if she hadn’t made it out of the park the night of the attack.

Liza produced another spark, only to have it miss the kindling and go out. She threw the flint and steel aside.

“Sod this,” she muttered.

A laughing female voice rang out behind them.

“Need some help?” it said.