I must have drifted off in the back of the mechanic’s truck, for I had no recollection of arriving at any destination, nor of being carried into the foreign room in which I found myself the next morning. Venturing down a flight of narrow stairs, I discovered my companions gathered at the center of an open garage, and right away I understood why the mechanic, Ginny Ranke, had gone to such trouble to solicit our business. The place was outfitted for at least ten other cars, but Matthew’s sat alone in a back corner. The other ready spaces showed no sign of recent use. In a far corner, a generator buzzed with monotonous static. A mountain of tires emitted a chemical smell.
“At least four hours to fix the engine,” said Ginny, “and another few days or so to get in all the parts.” The shelves lining the garage were filled with car parts, so I did not understand why we couldn’t be en route by evening. “Not much around nearby,” Ginny told us, “but for extra cost I’ll take care of your meals.”
WE PASSED SEVERAL days with no deliveries in sight, though we did have a roof to sleep under, and a freezer’s worth of sustenance to heat at our leisure, which Matthew claimed put us in a much better spot than we might otherwise have found ourselves. Ginny told us to be patient, that she’d put in all the orders, that deliveries weren’t as prompt out here on the moors as we were used to in the cities. I was not used to any deliveries, prompt or no, and was surprised to learn that people made careers of couriering, were paid to transport packages, left always to wonder what might be inside.
“What if they’re bringing something dangerous?” I asked, “or something uniquely wonderful? Don’t they want to open up the boxes and find out what they’re carrying?”
“They’re used to not knowing,” said Matthew. “And it’s illegal to tamper with other people’s mail.”
“Maybe they did tamper, this time,” said Rafe. “Maybe some deliveryman needed a new battery. Maybe that’s why our order is taking so long.”
Rafe was restless—he spent almost an hour outside, pacing while talking on his mobile, and when he returned to the garage he seemed unsettled. I understood his anxiety. We both knew that each delayed day meant we fell farther behind Peter, who must be long ahead of us, perhaps even already in the wood. Matthew studied his anatomy textbooks while Rafe and I twiddled our thumbs waiting, every so often offering a quick glance up to let me know he was not totally engaged in his studies and at least halfway listening to the stories that Rafe told me to pass time.
Rafe claimed that these were tales he’d come across during his work, and that each was of vital importance to the legend of the enchanted wood that we hoped to enter. In one, a father killed his child in an attempt to seek out magic. In another, a young doctor gave up his fiancée in exchange for secret words. In a third, a man’s body was bled slowly, until he appeared to be a ghost.
“Impossible,” Matthew broke in at the close of that one. “A person can’t survive without blood. Slicing an artery would mean the man died instantly. If the witch was going to take that much blood it would have to be done slowly, letting the body replenish before she took more.”
“It’s just a story,” I said.
“A story of a sacrifice,” Rafe added, looking at me hungrily. “And a brave one, at that.”
Matthew sighed and closed his book, swinging a leg over the bench that he was seated on to face us. He seemed about to speak, but then he shook his head slowly, as if he felt sorry for us, as if he had already attained the wisdom we were trying so desperately to reach and found it wanting. As if Rafe’s stories, which I saw as clues to help me find my father, told us nothing. He rolled his shoulders, and walked out of the room.
AT THE END of the third day of waiting, I decided that enough was enough.
“We aren’t so far from the second spiral that we can’t wake up early and walk there. It would take, what, two hours, to get us to the start?”
“That’s a lot of extra walking,” said Matthew, “and then more walking once you got there. And then the walk back.”
“I’m game for it,” said Rafe. “Why don’t we go, just the two of us, Maisie?”
Matthew scoffed. I turned to him, smirking. “Aren’t you the one who told me I should move for moving’s sake? I would think you’d like the exercise.”
Matthew shrugged, his mouth a lipless line, and busied himself packing up his knapsack.
BEFORE THE SUN rose the next morning, we set out in the direction of the river, which appeared to intersect the second spiral on our map. There was a town just past the water, said Ginny, where we could stop and have lunch before heading back her way. She was fairly certain that by then she’d have the parts to fix the car.
We followed the spiral path as closely as was possible, yet found no sign of the river.
“You must have gotten the coordinates wrong,” said Matthew as we finished the final curve of the outer loop, the sun more than midway through its trip across the sky. “Or made a wrong turn. We should break off or go back.”
“This is it,” said Rafe, tone clipped. “I measured it precisely. If we take a true path to the center, we should find the river soon.”
“That logic makes absolutely no sense,” said Matthew, pushing damp hair off his neck and cracking his shoulders. “We’ve just spent hours walking in circles, with no river in sight. At this rate, we might as well just walk until we’ve reached the city.”
“If we ignore the map,” Rafe countered, “we’re likely to get lost. Better to keep a sharp eye out and hope we find the river.”
“Ridiculous.”
“No, likely.”
This seemed to me more a battle of wills than a pragmatic assessment of our problem. Matthew’s theory seemed more sensible, but I hated to choose one side over the other. I let myself fall behind, contemplating the scenery.
The stretches of wood that had marked the first leg of our travels had grown smaller and farther between, usurped by long laps of moorland, purpled with heather and spackled with rock. It was a landscape more lonesome and majestic than any I had known. If the forest filled me with awe at the earth, the strength of the life that burst through it, this country was the saga of the sky: its infinity, the way the clouds hung low like honey as it settled into tea. Even the walking could have been heavenly, were it not for thirst and hunger, and the boys’ continued bickering about whether or not we were lost.
Matthew was walking slowly, having decided to seek out a side road despite Rafe’s concerns. Both had resorted to mumbling their grievances under their breaths. I lapsed farther behind, now deliberately avoiding them, and so I was the one to spot the first signs of the others on our route.
First came shadows on the crags, undulating, growing, and then I heard the sound of chanting to my left. Voices blended with the rush of the wind, which seemed stronger than it had been, and bittersweet, ruffling the heather in hefty swells. I cracked my knuckles.
“Maisie!” Rafe called. “What are you—”
I put a finger to my lips in an exaggerated gesture that I hoped he and Matthew would recognize, and turned to point beside me.
A group of seven women, all dressed in rags, came in a slow procession across the road, dividing me from my companions. They wore flowers in their hair and tied as necklaces, braided into bracelets, around their heads as wreaths. Their ages ranged from around five years to mid-thirties, their shapes and colors varied, but each with equally clear eyes and determined, pursed mouths. In the bleak, cloud-filtered sunlight, they might have been specters, or ghosts. They crossed in front of me, not heeding.