The Mysterious Disappearance of Contessa Willoughby: Part Eight
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Part Eight
Reread Part Seven if you wish to recall where we last left Contessa or continue reading.
A robin sang above the rustle of leaves beneath their feet. The sun would rise soon. Contessa was tired. She wasn’t sure how long she slept but based on how groggy she felt, she surmised, not much.
“Are we near it yet?”
“Just a little more ways to go,” Ferand called back to her. Contessa quickened her pace against the nagging sleep. She caught up to him.
“I thought I’d lost you there for a bit.” He slowed to match her step.
“Can you tell me about the plan?” She assumed he had one, but it didn’t hurt to ask. “After all, you can’t pass through the trees, only I can,” she added.
“True. Unless, of course, you have an enchanted twig.”
“An enchanted twig?” Contessa stopped. Then Ferand did too. He began to rummage in his satchel, murmuring under his breath until he produced a twig half the length of her palm.
“This has been in my family as long as anyone can remember. It’s rather fine isn’t it?” He placed the twig in her hand. He seemed proud, like a parent speaking well of their child or a watch collector admiring a new timepiece. The twig was old and certainly fragile, but to Contessa, it looked like any other twig.
She returned it to him, wondering if it could really do anything. It was so small, after all. Contessa thought back to how she ended up with Ferand in the first place. It began with an enchanted wooden horse, so why couldn’t this twig be enchanted too?
“Does it really work? I thought only tree — the oak ones — are magical. But you think this tiny twig will transport you?”
“Well, one detail I left out of the story I told you tonight was that the sorceress had clipped a bit of the tree before the boy stole it. She kept it safely hidden, but one of my ancestors found it, and it has been in our family ever since.” Ferand gazed reverently at the it. “This is that very twig,” he said holding it like a priest with a chalice in his hands.
“I don’t quite understand how this twig can help us. It’s not a tree after all.” Contessa was well aware of the fact of how she arrived but thought better of sharing this bit of information.
“That's the surprise. Come now! Let’s quicken the pace. The sun will be up as will the rest of the world.”
Within the hour, they arrived at the wood’s edge. The sun hovered above the horizon, casting a pink glow across the open moor ahead of them.
“There it is,” Ferand sprinted ahead. A row of elder trees flanked a most unremarkable oak. It was the sort of tree children ignored instead of climbing the gnarly limbs of far more ancient ones. But before Contessa joined him at the tree, something on the ground caught her eye. She bent down to examine it. How very strange. It was a weathered piece of paper, stamped with a symbol that read: The Council of the Quercus. She glanced towards her companion. Ferand was nearly at the tree, not looking back after her. She picked up the paper and ran ahead.
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Phoebe was awake earlier than usual. There were chores to do. But first, she needed to take care of something.
The sun crested the horizon by the time Phoebe stood beneath an old oak tree on the boundary of the moor. Every time she visited the oak, it was like seeing an old friend — except this friend grew bent with time at a pace unlike her own. The tree had been there as long as she could remember: It cast dark, cool shadows so many summers ago when she and her brothers and sisters chased one another around its trunk in a game of tag. It bore witness to the first time Phoebe made a friend by sharing its sweet acorns. It weathered the flood that devastated her family’s home, and despite countless thunderstorms that reduced other trees like it to ashes, it endured. That was why she chose it. Its ability to endure. But there was also its nook, which created the perfect space to store a surplus of food.
Phoebe scurried up the gray bark to look into the dark, rough opening. It was time to clear out the hole and prepare it for the next acorn hull. She jumped in. No need to announce herself. Others in the area knew the hollow was hers. Inside, the air was cool but a stale scent of the previous autumn lingered. As Phoebe landed, she lost her balance, toppling over the nuts shifted beneath her feet. When she looked up, she felt something was off, though he couldn’t quite place it. It had been a while since she had been in the hollow. What was it? She glanced around. Just then, she heard voices outside the hollow. She scampered up to the tree’s opening and stood on a hidden ledge. She popped her head up over the edge, and just as quickly ducked below it.
She couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t possible. She blinked. There below was a little girl, but not just any girl, one accompanied by a fox. Or maybe it was a dog, she couldn’t be sure. She leaned farther over the edge. Yes, it was definitely a girl and a fox. Not a dog. The girl’s lips moved. How very strange. The girl appeared to be having an entire conversation with herself. Then she stopped talking, and there was another voice. A smooth deep alto. No! It couldn’t be. The fox was talking to the girl. It wasn’t possible. She had heard of such a thing, but only in stories her grandmother told her of a time long ago when humans could speak to animals. A time when all creatures were friends.
The girl and fox were just below her now. She could hear them.
“Are you sure?” asked the girl.
“Certain,” said the fox.
“Now, if you just allow me to hold your hand we can do this together and we’ll be on our way to where we need to be.
Phoebe wasn’t sure where they could possibly go. The closest town was on the other side of the moor, a morning’s walk away.
“Are you sure? You see, I really must get to my grandfather. He’s waiting for me.”
“I’m well aware, sweet child, and I can help you with that, too. But do you not want to also help make it so everyone one of us can do what you do? Don’t you think that is most fair.”
The little girl hesitated. She seemed to be thinking.
“No, you are right,” she said in cheerful agreement. “What must I do now?”
Then the fox pulled a twig from a small satchel. “I will hold this, and then you must only touch me as you touch the tree and we will be whisked away. But you must mean it. No one can force you to touch me. And you must not be frightened.”
The girl fidgeted with something behind her back. She held a piece of paper in her hand. Yes! That is what was missing from the hollow. Phoebe turned around and looked back at the empty tree wall. The last storm must have loosened it from the nail. The little girl possessed the tree’s most precious secret.
Suddenly, the girl’s face changed, as if she became aware of something she had not been before. Then, almost as quickly, she touched the tree and disappeared.
“Nooooooooo,” the fox cried. But it was too late, the girl was gone. Phoebe sank into the hollow. She would have to send word to her cousin Gallagher, an ambassador for the Council of the Quercus. Something was afoot.
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