HAPTER FIFTEEN

The Barrier

---

With a start Vincent awakened, to find it was morning. Sitting up, he realized he was no longer lying on the muddy bank. The river, in fact, was nowhere to be seen. Either the river had shifted its course to mislead him or he had been carried elsewhere during the night. Scrambling to his feet, he whirled around. It seemed he had been sleeping in the cold shadow of charred pine trees. He stifled a jolt of unease and reminded himself he was fortunate.

"The gargoyle didn’t attack me, the devouring trees kept their distance. I’ve simply lost my direction for a little while. That’s all."

He found a few crumbs of bread in his pocket and ate them as he studied the featureless sky. The heavy cloud-cover gave him no clues.

"North," he said, but in what direction was north?

"That way." He left the stand of dead pines behind him and set out resolutely across a wide, weed-choked meadow. Dry stalks snapped under his boots. Burrs and heads of grass clung to his velvet breeches. The weeds were bleached to a dry yellow color; rocks protruded from the ground. The toe of his boot nudged one stone over; a jawbone fell back and empty eyesockets stared up blindly. It was a skull. The tatters of a ruff still hung around its neckbones.

Horrified, Vincent backed up. A traveler -- one of many, perhaps, who had never reached the castle. Again he silently chided Anya. ‘Were such horrors necessary? Did I need that much protection?’ He shuddered as he strode on through the weeds.

The edge of the meadow rose to a sandstone ridge. Perhaps from the top he would be able to spot the river and get back on course. Small rocks rattled down as he ascended, using his hands to keep from slipping. Streaks of red gravel slid under his boots. At the top he shielded his eyes and peered into the fog. There was nothing to see and he could hear no rumble of water. Disappointment dragged a sigh from his chest. He descended the other side of the ridge and found himself in a thicket of pines, all blackened by fire.

Puzzled, he wound between the trees, which still reeked of smoke, and came out into a clearing roughened by yellow stubble. The ground was uneven, patched with burrs and rocks. Crossing the meadow he stumbled over a skull with a scrap of ruff under its jawbone.

Vincent stood quite still, looking down at the skull, then back across the meadow to a stand of charred pines. Slowly, step by step, he made his way through the dry weeds. If a ridge appeared at the edge, he would know the worst.

It was there, rearing out of the ground like a dragon’s hump.

Fighting down a cramp of fear, he ran the circle again, varying his path. No matter how he turned, he reached again the blackened pines, the field of weed-stubble with the skull, the sandstone slope.

He was trapped in a loop of the forest that had no outlet.

No, it wasn’t true -- it couldn’t be. There had been a way out of the vault, there had to be a way out of this. The golden key he had left behind, so he had to discover another way. A different sort of key, or amulet, or procedure. He’d climbed the cliff-stair with his eyes shut, so he tried that trick again. Closing his eyes, he felt his way up the bluff.

"When I look, I’ll be on the riverbank." When at last he stumbled down the other side, he could smell burned wood. The tree trunks were rough to the touch. Moving from one tree to the next, he made his way through the thicket and heard dry stalks snap under his boots. He opened his eyes and saw the same bluff.

He started again from the meadow, and discovered if he turned left, he always found the ridge and if he turned right, the trees came into view.

"What if I were to walk backwards?" He didn’t have time to feel foolish. Escaping was the only thing that mattered. The bluff was steep, it wasn’t easy climbing, and he stumbled often. Resolutely he kept his gaze on the meadow that stretched below. Down the other side he made his way, still facing backwards, and collided with a tree trunk. Through the cloth of his ragged doublet he could feel the roughened bark. The smell of burned wood was strong. He fought down a convulsion of panic. That hadn’t worked, but he wasn’t out of ideas yet.

He began to crawl on his hands and knees. The circuit took forever. Stones and pine needles tore his hands; weed stubble ripped the knees of his breeches. By the time he made the round, hunger was gnawing him. The sun was still hidden but he judged it was midday when he stood and searched his pockets, finding nothing at all.

There was nothing to eat or drink within the loop. To distract himself from his sharpening thirst, he tried another variation, walking backwards with his eyes closed. Though he fell several times, he eventually completed the circuit. Opening his eyes, he found himself at the base of the ridge.

"Very well, now I know one more thing that doesn’t work. The false starts have to be eliminated before I discover the secret." He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and tried to think.

"Perhaps the skull is the key. I’ll bury it." He scraped a hole with his boot heel and covered the skull with earth. When he circled again it was still buried, and he was still trapped.

Night dropped down, bringing no relief from his ravenous hunger and burning thirst. "Maybe I’m dreaming this, and if I sleep, I’ll awaken on the riverbank." He stretched out in the weeds, feeling as though he were lying on spikes. Staring up at the lowering darkness did not bring him rest. He rolled over, pillowing his head on his arms. He could feel his heart slamming against the earth. He could do little until morning, but then he would try something else. He might last a few more days without food, though not that long without water.

Gray dawn lightened the circle of sky he could see above the tube of fog. Raw thirst had kept him from sleeping but not from planning. There were several ideas he was ready to try, now that the night had passed.

Kneeling in the dry grass, he attempted a bit of sympathetic magic, drawing a map in the dirt that showed the three landmarks, a path leading out, and a forest beyond. Perhaps it would make the river appear. He walked the circle and rubbed the map out angrily with his boot when he encountered it again.

Still he refused to surrender to despair.

"Very well, then, I’ll carry it with me." He scrawled the same map on a scrap of cloth from his doublet and carried it as he made the circle; to no avail. If there was an amulet, he couldn’t guess it.

He tried crawling backwards, then walking sideways. Always he ended up at the same spot. He tore the silver buttons off his doublet and buried them, as an offering to the spirit of the place. When he came around again he dug them up and divided them between the three landmarks. Nothing he’d tried had opened a portal, but there had to be a way out. The alternative was unthinkable.

"Perhaps the forest spells will recognize my name." He scratched his name in the dirt, hoping that the magic would make an exception for Anya’s son. When that didn’t work, he tried Anya’s name. Nothing he did had any effect. He dug up the skull and carried it around the circle, then tried leaving it in various spots along the route. No matter what he attempted, he found again the ridge, the trees, and the field, all enclosed in a circle of turning fog.

At the base of the knoll he finally gave up hope, and dropped to his knees. Behind him was nothing but the meadow; ahead the thicket loomed, veiled in haze. Now he knew what had happened to the traveler whose skull he had found: thirst, or hunger, or madness.

Gargoyles and even fiery illusions he could fight, but not this. The cage in his nightmare had been real, and it was this.

An agony of broken hopes darkened his eyes as he knelt there, looking up at the blank sky. Catherine would never know his fate. She would never learn that he died trying to reach her.

"She’ll picture me reading in the library or dining in the great hall. But I’ll be dust, destroyed by my own mother’s magic." In hopeless frustration he clenched a sharp stone and beat the earth.

A faint cheeping noise distracted Vincent from his despair. There could be no birds in this unnatural place -- it wasn’t possible. To his amazement, though, it was indeed a bird, small and brown. High above it circled, appearing and disappearing in the mist. The bird swooped lower, dropping something from its beak.

Hardly daring to look, he picked it up, hoping for a key. It was nothing, though -- only a fragment of bark. His disappointment was so intense he could have wept.

"This is meaningless," he protested.

The bird circled again, piping its faint double note, and winged toward the meadow. Without any real hope, Vincent rose and followed. Standing there in puzzlement among the rank grasses, a flash of insight took his breath away.

In his fist he already clutched a stone from the knoll and a piece of charred wood. "Are these the keys?" With a hand that trembled a little, he pulled a tangle of weeds, then looked up in a sudden mad rush of expectation.

The bird made one loop, then flew as straight as an arrow and vanished into the clouds.

"In that direction? Very well." He clutched his three talismans, held his breath, and strode through the blackened trees ... mud oozed around his boots, and he was walking along the sodden riverbank.

Relief made him dizzy. Now all he had to do was keep on going. He would find her or die trying; there were no other alternatives.

*

The bird did not appear again; still, he believed he was traveling in the right direction. Near escapes from death had taught him to avoid the dangers. Though his throat burned, he drank no more of the river water. He kept out of reach of the trees and their snapping, creaking branches. If he should be trapped in another loop, talismans would open a way out. His clothing was ripped, his boots were full of mud, he had eaten nothing since the last handful of breadcrumbs; but he had faith.

The current was running more swiftly; the landscape was tilting downhill. A wasteland of boulders replaced the trees. A few rocks rolled down, dislodging others in a rattling slide. Rubble bounced and tumbled; larger stones rolled end over end, smashing into each other. At the bottom of the hill they crashed and piled up, raising clouds of dust that turned the gray fog to brown. A few smaller stones splashed into the river.

The rumble of white water came to him over the crashing of the rockslide. Rapids ahead, or perhaps a waterfall. He could feel the current growing wilder, pulling at his legs. His old chant of "North!" couldn’t help him now. He had to decide whether to remain in the water or climb the shore and trust he wouldn’t be caught in a rockfall.

‘I’ll stay in the river,’ he thought, for speech had become close to impossible. Thirst had dried his mouth and throat to a rasp.

To keep himself going he revised his fantasy, accompanied by a harp that played her name-song. She looked like a shower of stars in a gown of silver. Everything about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if she had been woven out of candlelight.

‘Vincent! I’ve been longing for you. Gunther means nothing to me. You are the only man I could ever love.’

At last, after waiting all his life, he cupped her face between his hands. ‘Losing you almost killed me. For the love of mercy, say you won’t leave me any more.’

Her arms slipped around him, and she whispered, ‘It was all a terrible mistake. Take me back, give me a second chance. I’m yours -- yours forever.’

There was an alternative fantasy in which the bells were ringing for Catherine and her persistent suitor, but since the thought blurred his eyes and made him stumble, he turned his imagination back to the other.

‘My own dearest love ... ’ Delectable fruits appeared on the thorn bushes; ripe blackberries dripping with juice. The heavy clusters glistened with moisture and the fragrance was unbelievably enticing. He licked his cracked lips, swallowed hard, and turned his face away. The forest had an end, he had to reach it soon. To turn his mind away from the temptation of those gleaming berries, he repeated, ‘My dearest love... ’

Without warning the riverbed dropped, and he was waist-deep in slimy water. Dazed and disoriented, he wasn’t certain if this might be another illusion. Thick mud seeped around his legs and began to suck him down.

Panic roused him from his stupor. "No. No!" A harsh roar of terror burned his throat as he struggled to free his legs, in vain. The river mud was swallowing him in gulps, releasing bubbles that stank of decomposition. Chest-deep in gelid water, he threw his head back and screamed. It was a weak and pitiful sound.

Another gulp jerked him down; the water covered his shoulders.

The bank was too far away; he couldn’t quite reach it. His clawing hands, straining to reach the shore, found only his own floating cloak. Once more the mud pulled him down. Bubbling water splashed over his chin. Retching with horror, he flung his head back to keep his face above the surface. With fingers that shook he unfastened the cloak and threw it over the top of a bramble bush, praying that the thorns would snag the cloth. It seemed to catch and hold.

Clutching the fabric with both hands, he fought to haul himself up. He couldn’t do it; the downward pull was too strong. The cloth was ripping; he could hear it.

The cloak tore in half; before he could fall back, he made a grab for the root of the thorny bush and hooked one arm around it. With the strength of desperation he pulled himself a little higher. His legs felt like roots that were being torn out of the earth. The sounds he made weren’t human.

Clawing the earth with his other hand and kicking violently, he freed his legs from the mud. His knees struck the bank; on all fours he crawled to safety.

He was almost dead, but not quite. Face down on the shore, he tried to laugh. "Now I know another danger to avoid." The barrier had better be near, he thought; he had little strength left.

He knelt for a while before struggling to his feet. A few stinking bubbles popped from the mud that coated his clothing.

He tried to wipe mud from his eyes, but his hand was filthy, too, and streaming with blood.

"What will she think of me when she sees me like this?" He tried to reach her once again through the bond, to tell her he was coming. No acknowledgment came back to him, not the faintest tremor through the connection that had once been so strong.

"Catherine, is your silence telling me not to come any closer, that you don’t want to see me? Would it shame you to see a being like myself lurching from house to house calling for you? Can you see beyond the tatters and mud and recognize a man who would perish to see your dear face one more time?" He lifted his head and listened, but her spirit sent him no reply. Though her silence grieved him, he sighed and readied himself to push on.

The other side of the river seemed to have fewer boulders, and the ground was more level; the traveling might be easier if he waded across. For a moment he stood irresolute, fearing that the mud would clutch him again if he sought to cross. After some thought, he decided not to try.

"This side will have to do." Wearily he leaned back against a stone. He’d always wondered why more travelers did not persevere and reach the castle. Now he knew.

Quicksand, gargoyles, loops with no outlet, poisonous river water, sudden rockfalls, and heartbreaking illusions.

"That’s quite an obstacle course, Anya," he said to himself. "Have I encountered everything you could think of, or is there something even more ghastly still to come?" With a sigh, he readied himself to push on.

A sudden whirlwind blew into his eyes; irritated, he shielded his face with one hand. Around and around the gust of wind circled, becoming two, tugging from both directions.

It had to be the spirits. They had found him and would lead him to Catherine. His soul leaped up; miraculously his weariness was gone. Hunger and burning thirst mattered not at all. He had conquered all the obstacles, and glory was within reach. Stretching out both hands, he said, with a gasp, "Mercy does exist after all. Is she safe?"

A stick scratched letters in the earth. "Sorry."

Vincent was too hoarse to scream; he could, only croak, "Sorry? What are you for? She’s in danger, and you left her?"

Jacob was as weary and ravaged as a spirit could be. "We did our best. The boats broke apart in the rapids. Catherine was separated from the others. Her family searched for days and then went on without her. "

"They left her!" Outrage burned in his chest like a red-hot sun.

Wretchedness had faded Mary to a shadow of herself. She looked at Jacob for confirmation before scratching her sad message. "They couldn’t have done anything. She’s past all help."

He swayed on his feet, then managed to say, "Show me."

His stumbling walk became a run as he followed the two between patches of brambles and down a rugged headland strewn with cracked rocks. The racing river cascaded into a churning waterfall; he followed the bank and ran alongside a torrent of white rapids. As he ran, he set his teeth, refusing to believe the ghosts’ tragic messages. He told himself, ‘If she’s trapped in a loop, I’ll find the amulets. If it’s quicksand, I’ll ... I’ll pull her out in time. Just let me be in time!’

The swift current tossed fountains of spray as it roared around jagged teeth of stone. The curved ribs of a rowboat scattered the shore.

He stopped dead. Everything he feared showed in his stark face. A message appeared on the ground. Mary’s handwriting was faint and shaky. "No, Vincent, she didn’t drown. It’s worse.

She and Jacob pulled aside overhanging branches, and he saw that Mary was right. It was worse.

A bulging treetrunk curved around a woman’s form. Deep within a split in the trunk, he could see a colorless face.

Catherine’s face.

She had survived the rapids, only to be captured by one of the devouring trees.

His face drained of color as if he were bleeding to death. He had to close his throat against a moan. For the first time in his life he felt physically ill with grief. "Catherine?"

There was no answer; step by step he forced himself to come closer until he could reach into the split and touch her cold cheek. Leaves sprouted from her hair.

From all appearances, the parasitic tree had already sucked away her life. But even if the worst had happened, and she was dead, he couldn’t leave her there. As carefully as he could, Vincent peeled back sheets of bark, freeing her shoulders and upper body. She slumped forward lifelessly, propped against the ragged edge. Her arms hung down and he saw that her fingers were twigs.

A white sheet of agony ripped through his chest. "Oh my love." He tore away a piece of bark that had fused itself to her shoulder; it bled when he ripped it loose. Near the base of the trunk, the bark was thicker. He pried off chunks and tossed them aside, then caught her in his arms as she toppled forward, still attached to the tree by roots that grew from her toes. He broke them one by one. Blood and tree sap smeared her bare feet.

He knelt there cradling her against his chest, feeling himself shatter. He was wrenched apart by grief that lay too deep for the relief of tears. Now he knew what had snapped the bond. The forest’s magic had swallowed her. "Have you braved so many dangers, only to end like this? Have I come so far and fought so hard, only to lose you at the last?"

Mary mourned for them both. She scratched him an apologetic message. "We tried our best, Vincent, but we couldn’t free her. And so close to the barrier, too! It’s right over the hill."

Lost in grief as he was, he paid no attention to a three-legged gargoyle that hobbled out of the underbrush. Its ribs were exposed, and the warty skin of its head was tattered. Half stone and half flesh, it had no power to heal itself. The creature knew pain, and knew its enemy. Lashing its scaly tail, it crouched to jump.

Mary and Jacob went wild, but Vincent didn’t even look up. He couldn’t see beyond the slender form he held. Whispering broken words, he brushed hair back from her cold forehead.

"It’s up to us, Jacob," Mary declared, and picked up a stick.

Old feelings flared up in Jacob, bravado and anger that made him feel alive again. He defied the ugly thing. "You won’t get near enough to cough on them. I’ll turn you inside out and make you swallow yourself!" He scooped handfuls of dirt and threw them in the eyes of the gargoyle, while Mary lambasted its scaly head. Stone teeth snapped shut on empty air.

Vincent rose, with Catherine limp in his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder; her bark-encrusted arms dangled loosely. Mary had said that the barrier was very near. He might not be able to pass through it, or survive on the other side. Even if he crossed, the villagers would slay him on sight. He looked down at Catherine’s colorless face. A leaf that grew from her hair dangled over her closed eyes.

He looked back and saw two sticks flailing the gargoyle’s head. Its raking claws and strangling tail could not harm the spirits.

"Hold the thing at bay. I’m going to take her home."

He climbed, the last hill and saw the barrier: a shimmering wall like molten glass curving up from the earth to form a dome over the forest. Beyond the dimness, he saw vague shapes that might be anything.

Down the hill he slid on a cascade of rubble, holding her tightly against his chest. Before reaching the bottom he began to run. If this was the last moment of his life, he would at least carry Catherine through the barrier, back to her own world. Thrusting one shoulder forward, he ducked his head, racing down the hill in a headlong charge. The barrier rippled like a veil of iridescent glass. He held his breath and dived.

A scream of utter agony tore him apart; his body was flattening, spreading along the barrier, melting like wax. There was no up or down, no in or out, he was part of the dome, one more ripple in that glassy sheet, a ripple with glaring eyes and a mouth that could not stop screaming. Thought slipped away, there was only the flux of his body, merging with the barrier. He was a smear of quicksilver blurred across the surface -- a reflection in a curved looking-glass. Everything that had been himself lost substance. His scream rose, surging outward like rings on a pond. The tangled knot that was still Vincent kept running in place.

A breath of pure fire scorched his lungs as he choked on the scream and drew in a gasp of different air. His legs kept moving to run but he was lying on his back, so his heels merely scratched the ground. Half blinded, he looked up and saw a bright disk in the sky. He blinked and squinted, wondering what it was.

‘The sun,’ he thought in dazed wonderment, ‘that must be the sun.’ He had gotten through.

He sprawled on his back, staring up at the blue sky, his arms still clutching Catherine. Two or three people were running, shouting and waving things. He couldn’t blame them, he knew how he looked: half man, half animal, caked with blood and grime. He hadn’t the breath to explain, his lungs were on fire. Somehow he found the strength to roll on his side. Without having the strength to cry, he was crying, for Catherine’s eyes were open. The tree had not devoured her entirely. She was alive, and she was looking at him.

Her fingers were twigs; stiffly they closed around his arm.

"You ... found me." Her voice rustled like leaves.

"I had to," he said, choking.

"I knew you’d come." She hid her face on his chest.

Vincent cradled her; he wasn’t ashamed to cry. To know she had that faith in him -- it was worth it all.

Frantic voices shouted: "Find Charles!" "Fetch Rebecca!" "Gunther is here!"

A ridiculously handsome gentleman bent over them, trying with both hands to loosen Vincent’s grip. Anxiety pinched his chiseled features. Black ribbons tied his two love-locks; a black mourning band circled his ruby-red sleeve.

"Catherine, darling! We thearched for you until we were thimply distracted with grief!" A growling snarl from Vincent sent him stumbling back into the crowd.

Catherine gazed around vaguely. "Home?"

He whispered words of reassurance. "Yes, you’re home, safely home." For the first time he looked around and realized he was sprawled in the stubble of a wheat field. Villagers were circling him, clutching farm tools: scythes, pitchforks, and rakes. The tines of a pitchfork stung his back. Vincent didn’t care. If he had given his life to bring her home, he had no regrets.

Someone shouted, "It’s Charles."

"Oh, honey, we thought you drowned."

Vincent recognized the white hair and kindly, muddled face of a man who bent over them, sniffling. It was her father. Now he could release her into the care of her family. She was home, where she wanted to be; where she would be cherished and safe. It was time to set her free. Loosening his grip, though, was more difficult than charging the barrier. She had been found, which left him lost. It was the last loving thing he could do for her; and that thought alone gave him the strength to let her go.

Charles embraced her tenderly as he helped her stand. He wept over her malformed hands, saying over and over, "Oh, honey." She seemed too dazed to realize what the tree had done to her.

Rebecca and a dark-haired girl he called Laura helped her, too, supporting her on either side. The broken roots that sprouted from Catherine’s toes made her lose her balance. Both her sisters were dressed in black; a ring glinted on Rebecca’s left hand.

Rebecca remarked, "It was a sad wedding, Cat-Cat. All of us thought you had gone to the bottom of the river."

Catherine swayed; they caught her just in time. "Almost."

Gunther drew his rapier; his face was grim. To the men he said, "Fetch chains and ropes, you imbeciles. His accursed thorcery did that to her hands and feet."

The villagers seemed reluctant to follow his orders. The farrier was a burly black man. His leather apron was singed by sparks and smeared with charcoal dust. Speaking for them all, he retorted, "Is he the one that cursed her? Then why did he rescue her?"

"Are you afraid of the monster?" Gunther challenged them.

"Not him and not you either," said the farrier, crossing his big arms.

Nevertheless, they agreed it did seem prudent to confine the beast while he was still weakened by his ordeal, before he regained his full strength. A couple of men fetched coils of ropes and lengths of chain and muttered among themselves about the safest way to bind him.

Vincent struggled to his hands and knees. His view was blocked by leather-clad legs and homespun skirts; he couldn’t see Catherine. Risking the pitchforks and scythes, he lurched to his feet. A collective gasp ran through the onlookers as they saw him clearly: the lightning-colored mane, streaked with mud; the unearthly face; the tattered clothing. Though he didn’t have flaming antlers or an extra head, he was indeed the beast of the legends.

The point of the rapier stung his chest. Gunther snapped a command. "Chain him, you idiots. Do I have to do everything myself?"

With a certain dignity that seemed odd in a creature so begrimed and ragged, Vincent said quietly, "Let me see her safely home. Then do what you will." And he pushed the point aside.

He could see over the shoulders of the villagers who hedged him around. A white path curved under spreading oak trees; Catherine was being led home by her family. Another turn of the path and she would be out of sight.

Tears blurred his eyes; tears of joy, for her sake. "Goodbye, Catherine. To give you your heart’s desire, I’d go through it all again."

She glanced over her shoulder and saw him standing, ringed by crude weapons. She put away her father’s supporting arm and turned. By herself she walked back, limping painfully. The crowd fell silent and let her through.

Face to face, she looked at him. The beast of the castle was a prisoner now, his velvet garments ripped and filthy, his inhuman face caked with blood and grime. Steady eyes looked at her, saying goodbye.

Her arms were scaled with bark; with difficulty she reached them up around his neck. A smile warmed her eyes. "You’re my heart’s desire. Vincent. I love you." Lips as sweet as wild berries touched and pressed his own. With one sob he let himself feel it all, everything he had been aching for. For this one moment while his arms encircled her and his mouth fitted hers, Catherine was his own love.

A terrifying rumble began to resound deep within the earth. The ground began to shake and heave up. Cracks split the wheat field like wounds that slammed shut and opened again. A flock of sheep trampled the fences of their pen and scattered across the wheat fields, followed by a bellowing cow and calf. The ground shuddered under Vincent and Catherine as they stood close together, their souls fused in a kiss.

Whatever happened now, that kiss was worth living for -- worth dying for. Stroking Catherine’s hair, he whispered, "Let me hear it once more. Please."

"I love you, Vincent."

It was almost too much joy; he didn’t know how to bear it. "Oh, how did I survive before I knew you? What did I live on?"

Her face was as radiant as his. "You lived on dreams, just as I did. And now they’re all coming true."

He hid his face on her shoulder. "Even as a child I pictured you. But a being like myself could never have appeared in your dreams."

"But you did, though. In my deepest, most secret prayers, that only my soul remembers."

They clung to each other as the blue sky turned yellow -- sparks fell around them like shooting stars, igniting little fires in the stubble. A distant bell rang a warning peal that mingled with the screams of mothers calling their children home. Every dog in the village was howling; the underground rumbling grew stronger. Willow trees crashed into the river; it exploded into whirlpools that foamed over the banks, dragging free a wooden dock.

The farrier kept his companions from panicking. "Hold your ground, friends. We don’t know what’s happening, but Catherine does, and every one of us has good reasons to trust her."

As they watched, huddled together, the yellow sky faded to blue; sparks continued to fall like winking fireflies. Gradually the earth stopped shaking; the fissures closed, leaving brown scars across the field. Tumbling whirlpools subsided into a silver river. Uprooted trees and broken pieces of lumber began to float downstream. There was peace again -- except for an odd crackling noise that did not disappear.

Vincent was confronted by a lanky forester who gripped a wicked-looking axe. "I saw the sky turn yellow and the ground open up. Have you bespelled this valley? If you have, Gunther won’t need his pigsticker, I’ll finish you myself." He got a two-handed grip on his axe.

Catherine made a sound and tried to shield Vincent with her body.

Pascal the bell-maker pushed through the circle. He was balding and short of stature, and his clothing was that of a working man. Still, he spoke with authority. "Wait, Cullen. I’ve heard a lot of stories from Rebecca in the last few days, and I’d just as soon it was Beastville as Guntherville. What has Ribbons and Bows ever done for us?"

In Gunther’s voice was an undertone of hate that could only be born of fear. The peasants looked up to him as a superior being -- didn’t they? "You must be mad."

A darkhaired woman with a baby spoke up then. "Maybe we’ve just had enough of your airs and graces, Gunther. Your carriage with gilded wheels ran over my prize hen and you never did pay me for it."

"I occupy myself with matters of more importance, Olivia. Your chickens are of little consequence. Here." Gunther flipped a small coin in the air. It fell in the dust -- Olivia ignored it completely.

"Speak up," said the forester angrily, confronting Vincent once again. He had to shout to be heard over the strange crackling noise. "What did you do to this town?"

Olivia cried out suddenly, "Look at Catherine’s hands! That’s what he’s done!"

Vincent found her hand and gasped. Catherine’s fingers were no longer crooked twigs. The rough bark had vanished from her arms, leaving them warm and smooth once more. Her bare feet were bloodsmeared, but human again. He kept his arms around her, and stared over his shoulder.

"Oh, Catherine. Look what’s happening."

The villagers cringed back, warding off evil with hex signs. Their horizon had always been that iridescent dome. Now clouds of purple smoke billowed into the sky in a magical firestorm. With the crackle and roar of a forest fire the barrier trembled and then began to break apart like a burning veil. Shimmering wisps of color stretched to threads and evaporated. The reek of dissolving magic rolled upward in a pungent, multicolored fog.

A three-legged gargoyle hobbled toward the barrier. Caught up in the opalescent smoke, it broke into a swirl of yellow sparks. Illusions created by Anya’s sorcery floated heavenward: cat-eyed angels and a stone boat, followed by fragments of other hallucinations that had lured earlier travelers to destruction: chests of gold, fairy-maidens, a winged chariot. Like the gargoyle, they disintegrated into whirling sparks.

For the first time, the villagers could see into the forest. High above, birds winged across a sky that was gradually becoming blue. A fresh wind blew through the barren branches --already new leaves were springing forth.

In wild alarm Catherine held tight to Vincent. "Don’t go with the magic!"

A strange look of peace altered his expression. "It means I’m free. I passed through the barrier, I survived, and by some miracle, Catherine, you love me. Anya’s last, best gift. I only wish ... " It snagged in his throat and he had to fight to speak the words. "I wish her last gift had transformed me, as well as the haunted wood."

"I would have cried myself into pieces, if the Vincent I love had been taken from me. Just as you are -- don't even change."

"Have you all lost your tiny wits? " Gunther demanded. "It's the monster of the castle."

Vincent lifted his head and spoke to them all: to Olivia with her baby; Cullen with his axe; the blacksmith in his leather apron; Pascal the bell-maker. "It is true. I am the beast. I am not the man you would have chosen for Catherine, who is so dear to all of you. Nevertheless, I love her, with all my soul and strength. My life is in your hands. I have no power to harm or bespell any of you, and would not if I could."

The men and women huddled together, arguing in low voices. Their superstitions were deep-rooted, and legends of the haunted wood were known to all of them. The enchantments were lifting, yes, but if the beast had that much power, did they want him in the village? Had his powers vanished with the forest-spells? Was it true that he could be killed? Catherine seemed to trust him, and that counted for a great deal, but ...

Out of the crowd an old woman hobbled forward. Orange paint streaked her wrinkled cheek. She surveyed Vincent from all angles and declared, "He has a good face. Kind eyes and an honest look. Not exactly like ours, but a good one, child."

"I agree with you, Elizabeth," said Catherine, smiling. "And when you paint him, I want you to do him justice."

Olivia shifted the baby on her shoulder and asked worriedly, "But do you love him, Catherine?"

"Utterly and completely, Olivia. As you love Kanin, and more."

Pascal confronted him. "I’ve heard nothing but good things about you from Rebecca. But Catherine is pretty important to us -- if you stay, you’d better promise to be good to her."

Vincent pressed a kiss into her hair. "She is the life of my heart, the soul within my soul."

"Then you can count on me," Pascal declared, to Gunther’s astonished indignation.

They stood close together, still clinging to each other. The villagers muttered among themselves. One by one, the crude weapons were thrown down; first a rake, then a scythe, then a pitchfork.

The last shreds of Gunther’s civility left him. "Cross me and you’ll pay for it! I’ll demolish all your hovels and turn you into beggars on the road."

Though he still gripped his axe, Cullen folded his arms defiantly and spoke for them all. "This is our village -- you don’t own it. I could use a strong helper to help me plant trees and drag logs. And rebuild the dock."

"Tomorrow morning," Vincent promised instantly. "At the first light of dawn. Or before dawn, if you like. Or tonight?"

A snort of laughter broke from Cullen. "Tomorrow morning, but not before dawn and certainly not before breakfast."

The farrier didn’t want Cullen to claim all of Vincent’s time. "My apprentice ran away to sea. My forge is at the end of the village. Drop by and I’ll show you how to hammer horseshoes. The name is Winslow."

He thrust out his calloused hand, and Vincent shook it gratefully, saying, "I had a pony once."

Olivia turned her child around to see. "That’s Vincent, Luke. He’ll be our neighbor."

He was so moved he could hardly contain his emotion. "You can truly picture me as a neighbor -- a friend? I’ve wanted to be a friend -- to have a friend -- so badly I thought the heart would leave my body. Is it actually possible that the village can accept me?"

Though Olivia was not a pretty woman, her face shone with honesty that made her beautiful. "We don’t know you, Vincent, but as Winslow said, all of us have good reasons to trust Catherine. If she loves you, then we all will, before too long."

"Thank you. I thank you all. I’ll give the blood out of my heart to make certain you never regret it."

Luke was shy; he hid his face in his mother’s long dark hair as Olivia leaned closer and kissed Vincent’s cheek.

"May all the gods bless you," he said. "There are no words to thank you for your kindness."

Olivia whispered, "We all wondered why Catherine kept refusing Gunther. Now we see she was waiting for a better man."

Tilting her head critically, Elizabeth said, "I know about faces, and the souls that shine through them, and yours is good, child. I’ll add your portrait to the mural in the town hall, alongside Catherine’s."

Winslow spoke gruffly. "I had a chip on my shoulder, and they accepted me. Work hard in the forge and don’t run off to sea, and we’ll get along all right."

An idea struck Pascal. "Ever rung any bells, Vincent?"

"As a matter of fact, I had a belfry of my own," he answered.

Pascal grinned with delight and pretended to pull a bellrope. "I have a code to send messages over the hills. If you get tired of planting trees and pumping the bellows, climb up to the belltower for a lesson."

Cullen slapped Vincent on the back. "I’ll meet you in the tavern later on. The first round is on me."

"A bigger miracle than the barrier falling," Winslow muttered. "Cullen paying."

The crowd parted, and for the first time Vincent could see the village clearly. Sheltered in a gentle valley, thatched cottages and orchards dotted the riverbank. Hedgerows separated fields of oats and barley, wheat and corn. Sheep grazed peacefully along a path that curved like a white ribbon from cottage to cottage, tying them all together.

He breathed, "Now I understand why you wanted to come home."

Catherine’s lips quivered. "You may have lost your home, if the castle was held up only by spells."

Smiling, he shook his head. "One day we’ll go back and see, but there was nothing there I wanted to keep, except a shawl and a journal. This is such a beautiful place." Songbirds swooped overhead; rabbits peered out of their burrows under the hedges as they turned down the path. Intermingled branches overhead turned the path into a tunnel.

Gunther blocked their way; he had Charles in tow. His eyes were chips of ice, and he was so angry he’d forgotten to lisp. "My darling, I fear your feeling of pity has led you astray. You were always too soft-hearted for your own good. You need someone with a stronger will to guide you."

Vincent was tempted to shield her, even speak for her; but held himself back. Catherine could speak for herself, and she did. "My will is strong enough, thank you."

Frustrated and furious, he let his polished manners slip. "What of me, pray tell? Do I count for nothing, after the coins I’ve spent on lumpy striped candles, and the hours I’ve wasted smiling at your deaf-and-dumb sister, and the three pieces of silver I loaned your witless old fool of a father? We have an arrangement, in case you’ve forgotten."

"You will have to find another orchard to possess, I’m keeping mine." She linked her fingers with Vincent’s.

A glory of happiness almost too great to bear trembled through Vincent. His wildest midnight prayers, choked into his twisted pillow, were all coming true. She was renouncing Gunther and all he could offer. The grip of her hand told him so.

"Surely you cannot doubt my devotion," said Gunther in disbelief. "I’ve gone through a great deal of trouble on your behalf, if you add it up."

"I don’t keep those sorts of accounts," she answered.

He spread be-ringed hands, pleading with her. "I am offering you wealth, position, and myself; and all I ask in return is your love. That seems very generous to me."

"Coming from you, I suppose it is generous," she said kindly. "But I must decline your offer. I have no love to give you; I’ve used it all on Vincent."

Gunther’s gaze turned to Vincent; his eyes were cold as disks of metal. His lips curled back; perhaps it was meant to be a smile. "Be generous. Don’t allow her to make such a ghastly mistake. Turn her over to me."

The old hatred flared up between them. Vincent only barely restrained himself from pushing Gunther into the river. He would have enjoyed seeing those ruby-red ribbons and bows sodden and bedraggled. Instead, he answered, "I will not. Catherine has said that she loves me, and she is truthfulness itself. To doubt her is an insult. I ask nothing more of earth or heaven than the right to love her all my life, and beyond."

Charles was highly offended, but not by Vincent. He propped his fist! on his hips. "Witless, indeed! Be off with you, Gunther. Besides, I paid those coins back, with two more for interest because I hadn’t read the small print. Catherine, you always made up your own mind. I never had any control over you. For all I know, you may even be right. You’ve always had a wise heart." He tramped away in the direction of the tavern, muttering something about William the innkeeper, and a celebration, and kegs of beer.

Dumbfounded, Gunther could only stare at Vincent and Catherine as they continued down the curving path. Never before had he been refused by any woman. It was almost impossible to believe that the one he deigned to choose had rejected his proposals in favor of that -- thing. He turned on his heel and followed Charles toward the inn, to soothe his injured pride with the tavern wenches. The jolly girls in the "Bunch of Grapes" fought to sit on his knee and share a tankard of ale. They appreciated his blandishments and his largesse. "She wasn’t worthy of me," he muttered as he pushed through the half-doors. "Good riddance to her. She’s not the only woman in the world. Lucy, darling, two tankards of ale -- come and talk to me."

Katydids scratched in the grass; somewhere in the trees an owl hooted. As they walked slowly down the path, Catherine commented, "As soon as the boat sailed away from the castle grounds I knew I’d made a hideous mistake. When the boats broke apart in the rapids, I took it for a sign. I was making my way back to you on foot when the tree caught me."

She slipped an arm around his waist and was rewarded by a look of radiant astonishment. She asked, "When I hold you like this, you don’t mind?"

"Mind?" he repeated, stunned. "I’ve been starving to death for your touch. Aching for you. Praying. Longing."

Her face was as radiant as his. "I think it’s possible I could do some longing, too."

"Oh, could you? I mean, could you, please?"

They both laughed a little. Tilting her head, she mocked him, "Unless, of course, you’d rather help Cullen rebuild the dock tonight."

He tried to keep a straight face. "I would rather, but it seems I have duties elsewhere."

"A cruel taskmaster who claims your whole allegiance? Poor fellow, I pity you!"

"You are kind, dear lady, but I would not change my situation -- not for anything the world could offer me." Every look, every touch let him know his long loneliness was over. The gratefulness he felt was overwhelming. His world was flooded with light and she was the shining source.

Orange light sifted through overhanging leaves. He glanced up at the reddening sky and uttered a cry of dismay. "What’s happening? Is the magic coming back? Hold on to me!" -

Her tone warmed with amusement. "You mean the red sky? That’s just the sunset. You mean you’ve never ... "

"Never," he admitted. "My world and my life were both gray. Here the whole sky is shouting with joy."

Catherine’s two sisters waited at a bend in the path. Rebecca crossed her arms on her chest and glowered at Vincent. "I have to admit you saved her from the forest; I suppose she’s yours."

"No," he said gently. "I’m hers."

She tapped her foot, still frowning. "I’ve got a lot of candles to make. I don’t suppose you can get the job done with magic?"

"I have no magic, but I would be very pleased to help you."

"No magic," she sighed. "Oh well. I suppose you’ll do, in a pinch." She tried to keep frowning but a smile twitched her lips. "At least you’re not always posing. And you don’t wear red satin." She pulled off her straw hat and slapped him on the arm.

Vincent turned to Laura, who hung back shyly, watching everything with wide eyes. Slowly, deliberately, his fingers moved in a complicated pattern.

GREETINGS LAURA

Laura made a sound; Catherine stared at him in wild surprise. "I taught you the alphabet but I never imagined you’d remember."

"I remember everything. Every word, every look. I came to life when you arrived, and death took me over when you left. Catherine -- you created me."

She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. "My real life begins today. We created each other, Vincent."

Like a shy fawn Laura came a little closer. She reached out a timid finger and touched his enormous furred hand.

He swallowed hard. "Yes. This is what I am. I cannot be otherwise."

She had the look of a pretty deer with her big dark eyes and graceful step. Her hands moved swiftly, then repeated the pattern slowly so that he could sound it out.

WELCOME FRIEND

"Thank you, Laura," he said after a moment. "Thank you."

Rebecca said, "Before I go home to Pascal we’ll run ahead and put the kettle on. I’ll see you both tomorrow at the tailor’s. It looks like your clothes have been through the wars." She tugged Laura’s sleeve and the two young women tore off down the path.

His happiness was so intense he didn’t imagine anything could heighten it, until the two of them rounded a bend and he saw a house outlined by the sinking sun.

"That’s ours, Vincent," said Catherine, pointing. Sheltered by apple trees, the half-timbered house sprawled in every direction, sprouting attics and gables, chimneys and balconies.

Looking at the house, he remembered Rebecca’s remark about tomorrow. Tomorrow when the sunrise striped the sky with scarlet and gold, he would still be here. There would be noises in the house -- laughter and the banging of pots and pans. He would push open the window and look through branches of an apple tree to other houses with people in them. And he would look back toward the bed and see Catherine stretching and yawning. She would meet his gaze and remember the night, and reach out her arms to him with a soft cry of waking welcome.

"You seem far away," she commented.

"Not so far," he said softly. "Only a little way."

Above the thatched roof, two spirits swirled, visible just for a moment as a motherly woman wearing a white apron and a bearded, elderly man in a black robe. They weren’t alone. A small brown bird circled overhead. With a flick of its wings it became a woman with hair like a lightning storm.

"Anya," he breathed. "Thank you, Mother. Thank you for protecting me for so long, and setting me free at last. Thank you for loving me after all."

The spirits were freed, too, and they circled the cottage with a last protective blessing before ascending. Mary did a few flips in the air and waved; Jacob looked disapproving but then did a sedate little somersault himself. Vincent and Catherine waved back as the three rose higher and higher until they vanished into the sky.

The flower garden on either side of the front door bloomed with hollyhocks, irises, and pansies. "Do you think you can be happy here?" she wondered, suddenly apprehensive.

"Happy?" He burst out, "Oh, Catherine. This is a community, with people who stand together and help each other. Already I seem to know them. They seem to be accepting me. I’m not alone in the world any longer. For that alone I could weep for joy."

"There are others you haven’t met: an odd little person named Mouse, who tends injured animals; and the children -- Eric and Samantha and the others. Listen -- Pascal is ringing his bells, sending messages across the fields and hills. One day soon that bell will ring for us." Tears blurred her eyes, despite her happiness. "But I’m so sorry for you. You’ve lost everything. In this world, you may even have an ordinary span of years. I can never make up to you for what you’ve lost."

Vincent took her in his arms. "Don’t say it -- don’t even think it. If you could only know what your love means to me. I was suffocating with loneliness. In ballads and poems I read of love, and I dreamed of a gentle touch, but how could I hope that someone so true-hearted and brave would find her way to the castle? Or that you, the most beautiful of all, would ransom me with a kiss. I’m holding you, I’m standing with you in the bright sunset. With you. You! My love, my own dear love."

She pushed open the front door, which was arched over by a trellis of white roses. Looking beyond her into a cozy room, he caught glimpses of a cross-stitched rug, shelves of blue pottery, a gray and white cat dozing on a soft chair. The cold magnificence of the castle was all he had ever known, and he marveled at the change in his world. Here was a room meant for chess, and reading, and kisses in the firelight when Charles was dozing with his clay pipe and Laura was in the kitchen. There wasn’t any loneliness in this room.

He could also see a little crooked staircase that very likely led up to her bedchamber. In his mind he could see it clearly. Leaves were stenciled on the walls. A blue and yellow counterpane brightened the bed. In a pewter vase bloomed the red rose that had started it all. Perhaps that very night, as the moonlight blessed them through the window, his deepest dreams would come true. Caught between hope and uncertainty, all at once he felt out of place.

The bond between them was strong, and she felt his hesitation. With a heavenly answering smile, Catherine slipped her arms around his neck again. She would never run out of ways to love him. Everything she felt was communicated to him in a kiss of wild sweetness. Vincent swept her closer and lost himself in that kiss. One by one, the arch of white roses blushed red.

"One soul, one love, one life. Come inside, Vincent."

The door closed behind them, and he was home.

THE END