Page 77 of A Resistance of Witches

No.

Henry thought the night must be playing tricks on him, because no matter how fast he walked, the old man never seemed to get any closer. He wondered how it was possible that he couldn’t catch up to an old man with a cane and a limp, and walked faster.

No, said the book. Henry was sure of it now, a maddening chorus of voices all saying,No no no no no no no. Henry picked up his pace.

A gust of wind blew through his clothes, slicing through to the bones, and he cursed under his breath at the cold. Henry thought there was a melodic quality to the wind’s howling. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t the wind he was hearing at all, but the old man, out there ahead of him in the darkness, singing to himself. It was a jaunty song, upbeat and familiar—the man’s voice was deep, but cheerful. Henry strained his ears, trying to make out the tune over the wind and the frantic protests of the book. He thought he could hear the stranger smiling. He wondered if the old man was mocking him.

He stumbled over a fallen branch, cursing, but quickly regained his balance. He was sure the old man must have heard him, but he never turned back or called out. He only sang. Henry listened hard, trying to place the familiar tune. That was when he heard the words, floating toward him on the biting wind. “Ti Zwazo kote ou prale,” the man sang, “Mwenn prale kay fiyét Lalo.” It was a Haitian children’s song, one Henry had heard a thousand times growing up.

Little bird where are you going?

I am going to Lalo’s house

Lalo eats little kids

If you go she’ll eat you too

Impossible, Henry thought. He saw an orange spark bobbing through the night ahead of him—a pipe. The man was smoking a pipe. Henry was running now, running toward the spark, toward the familiar song, the Kreyòl words dancing through the night.

He looked to his right, and there, barely visible in the darkness, he could just make out the root structure of a massive tree, lying like a nestof snakes on the wrong side of the dirt, just like the one René had shown him.

Nonononononononono, the book droned. The words bled together and formed a wail. Henry could feel it like a child having a tantrum, pulling away from him, and from the old man in the dark.

“Wait!” Henry wanted to see the man’s face, needed to see it. “Wait, please!”

He was sprinting, the air burning inside his lungs, and at last he saw that he was getting closer. The old man passed through a pool of silver moonlight, and Henry saw him in full—the dog, the cane, the pipe, the broad-brimmed hat, and yes, his face, just for a second, his skin darker even than Henry’s, kind and mischievous and withered like an apple. He knew him then, knew him as well as he knew his own mother. Henry had left him gifts as a child—sweets and toys at the crossroads near his house. He nearly called the man by his name, but something, doubt or fear, held his tongue.

He ran so hard and fast he was sure his heart would burst. The book was begging now, shrieking for him to turn back, but he wouldn’t. The song rang out as the stranger passed out of the light, all of him slipping into darkness except for the orange spark of his pipe, and now Henry was right behind him, close enough to reach out and touch, nearly on top of him, and then—

The orange spark blinked out. The song was swallowed up, like a needle lifted from a record.

“Wait.” Henry doubled over, gasping. “Wait. Wait. Wait…” He felt his legs give out under him, and he sank to the frozen ground. He squinted into the darkness, searching, but the man was gone and Henry was alone.

Henry reached inside the pack and touched the book with his fingertips. He waited for a chorus of voices to rise up and greet him, but it was silent. He thought he could feel a dull, menacing pulse—the lowrumble of an animal, frightened into submission by something larger and more powerful—but nothing more.

Henry dragged himself to his feet. He looked around one last time, as if expecting to see an orange spark, bobbing somewhere in the distance. But there was no spark—only trees, and fields, and there, far off in the distance, just barely visible against the dark hills and clouds, a squat black shape that might have been a house.

Twenty-One

Rebecca was pretending to sleep.

Downstairs in the kitchen, a heated conversation was going on. It was about her. She sat up and placed both feet on the floor. Around her, the dreaming sounds of the sleeping maquisards carried on uninterrupted. Rebecca stood, cautiously testing each floorboard as she made her way to the top of the stairs.

“Why is she still here?” Roger’s voice floated toward her from the kitchen. “You know as well as I do she’s been turned.”

“Did I say that?” Claire asked, in that even tone that had always meant danger. “Did I say Iknowshe’s been turned?”

A pause, heavy with tension.

Roger continued. “You were the one who always said, if someone gets caught, that’s it. It’s too risky to let them come back.”

“I told her she had until Lucas and Pierre returned. I wanted to give her time to tell me the truth about what happened.”

“Well, they’re back, so, I’d say her time is up.”

Behind her, someone turned over on their mattress, making the springs scream in protest. Rebecca went very still, waiting to see if they would come and catch her out, but no one did.

“I’ll deal with it in the morning.”

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