The Springborn

SABELLA

JUNE 8, 1886

BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND MORNING

H ours pass. Clouds move in to obscure the moonlight. It is too dark to continue walking. There are too many roots and rocks to trip us, too much risk of falling off an unseen ledge or into a hole or ravine. We could be lost already, for all I know.

We stop without discussing it. A black silhouette of Robbie slouches against a blacker silhouette of a tree trunk. Calder’s shadow sits on either a stump or a boulder. Although I squint hard, I cannot tell for certain.

Rhys yawns and wriggles in my arms. Sparrow’s medicine has worn off too quickly. “I want down,” he says. Once I set him on his feet, he looks around. “Where are we?”

“We’re in the forest, on our way home,” Calder says in a kind, reassuring voice. He comes near and squats before the boy. “Do you think you can walk now, like a big lad? You must keep hold of Sabella’s hand, though.”

“It’s awful dark,” the boy says as he folds his fingers around mine. “And I’m hungry.”

“Food will have to come later, but I have the stub of a candle in my pack,” Robbie says. “Not that it’ll help much. It’s just that I hate wasting time waiting here for morning. We need to be home. Branna needs to be home.”

“I’ll carry the candle,” I volunteer. Their arms are full, and mine are empty—although they still throb from holding Rhys.

Somehow, without setting Branna aside, Robbie maneuvers the candle and a tiny box of matches out of the bag slung over his shoulder. “Here.”

Once I light the candle, I take the lead, holding it aloft. Rhys’s small fingers cling coolly to my other hand. The homey scent of beeswax calms me, while the scalding wax that runs down my arm does not. I can endure the pain for the sake of the light.

In silence, we advance. Wildcats, wolves, and bears likely lurk nearby. They do not frighten me half as much as they might have half a year ago. Now, I would not hesitate to fight any wild beast to the death to protect Sparrow and my friends.

The trees grow sparser. We step into a meadow as the candle sputters and threatens to revoke its light. Ten does lift their heads, distracted from their supper of grass. A few fawns scamper toward me. Are they drawn by my antlers? I stop. The others must stop behind me, for the sound of their footsteps ceases.

I hold still while the fawns sniff my ankles and rub their faces against my knees. They accept me as their own. Delight and sorrow mingle in my breast, for Branna lost her life while wearing the delicate form of one of these sweet creatures.

Now the does draw near and circle me. They bow their sleek heads as if they take me for their queen.

I am not one of you , I want to tell them.

I am not one of anything—other than myself.

I will never be anyone but myself: a melding of daughter, mother, and friend. One who is loved and is still learning to love in return.

Is that enough? In my heart of hearts, I think it could be.

To the deer, I say, “My name is Sabella. Thank you for your welcome.”

The deer amble back to their grazing spots. Hundreds of fireflies spark in and above the grasses. Perhaps the last flickering of the dying candle draws them out; perhaps some unknown part of my gift beckons them. Whatever commands them, they obey, swarming around my head like a miniature galaxy of stars. One by one, they settle on my antlers. More of them fly to me, emerging from the forest in ribbons of light. I cannot watch them as they land, but I can tell they’re perching on the branches and points above me, for their pulsing glow soon becomes a steady, spreading illumination. I stand statue-still, afraid I might scare the insects away.

The candle in my hand hisses as the flame dies. A better light remains.

“Glorious,” Robbie says, his voice full of wonder. “Your antlers…”

Calder comes alongside me. Sparrow’s sleeping head lolls against his shoulder. In his eyes, I glimpse my reflection. Robbie was right. They are glorious, my antlers. Not something to scorn or regret, but something lovely and yes, even useful. “How did this happen?” I ask. “Why did the fireflies come?”

“Yonaz used to say, ‘Sometimes we do not know the value of a gift until long after it is given,’” Robbie says.

“I bet they can tell how good you are, and love you like we do,” Rhys offers.

“I think you’re right, Rhys,” Calder says. He casts me a fleeting look of adoration that makes my stomach flutter before he adds, “We shouldn’t waste the light. Lead on, Sabella?”

I straighten my neck, relishing the slight weight of my antlers, savoring the sensation of balancing them like a fine silver crown covered with living gold. I hold my head high, bearing the light my friends need—the light I need—to find my way through the woods.

To lead us home.

The deer stare as we cross the meadow and continue on the path lined with ferns, briars, and mushrooms. How long we walk in the fireflies’ glow, I do not know. But I start to recognize the landscape as sunrise brightens the sky. When the farm’s stone walls and curlicued iron gates finally come into view, the fireflies lift off my antlers and stream away.

As they disappear into the woods, I call out my thanks.

“Thank goodness we’re home,” Robbie says, clutching Branna’s body closer to his. “I’d run straight in without wiping my feet if I had any feeling left in my lower half. Bird legs weren’t made for all-night hiking.” In the blink of an eye, his expression shifts from relieved to stricken. His voice trembles as he says, “She’s there, waiting.”

Cleona peers through the tall gate. Her smile beams like the sun at midday. A pang of sorrow pierces my soul. “You’ve come back!” she shouts. She shoves the gate open and runs to meet us.

And I wish that her heart was not about to be broken.