The Chickadee Girl

The Chapel

They spent the night up in the choir loft, as it offered the clearest view of the space, and provided the illusion of security. At least from a height, they'd see Stagger coming. Isa glanced down at the pews below, and wondered if they could jump down onto the carpet without breaking their legs. It didn't look far, but she didn't entirely trust her own perception; there was no guarantee that she was thinking clearly. And of course the choir loft wasn't really any safer than the rest of the chapel. Maybe Stagger was too awkward for stairs...but that seemed a vain hope indeed, given that he seemed to have found his way up into the trees. 

She was struggling with something else, too. She knew it wasn't Malcolm who had attacked them - he was dead and buried, and Stagger, whatever he was, could clearly take on whatever form he chose. She didn't believe in demons or monsters, but what other word existed to describe such a being? That was, after all, why she'd come up with the name Stagger in the first place: he defied description. 

No, it was something else - as she'd laid upon the forest floor, and looked up into that horrific face, she'd had a feeling that had been swallowed up by all of the other things she was feeling at that moment. With all her fear, rage and confusion swimming on top, It had taken some deep diving to even decide what the feeling was. But now, in the still of the night, she knew. This disgusting, terrifying thing was somehow...familiar. The feeling was similar to the way that she'd felt about Tristan when she'd first come upon him, although that had been much stronger - the awareness of something lost seen again, however fleetingly. An old acquaintance standing on the opposite subway platform, traveling in the other direction. The sensation was so odd that she'd brushed it aside in the moment - perhaps people simply had strange feelings like this when they thought they were close to death.  

Isa sighed. She ached for the warmth of Midas near her feet. She could almost feel him there, and awoke expecting him there. Tristan slept up against her, her arms around him. 

At one point, from her eagle's perch in the loft, she thought she saw a low, dark shape slink past the window behind the altar, but she couldn't be sure. The night was windy, and there were shadows everywhere. Something scratched softly against the wall somewhere in the chapel, but she told herself it was a branch. She drifted in and out of sleep, alert for the sound of the doors swinging open below them, and for lurching, dragging footsteps on the thick carpet. 

Close to dawn, Tristan surfaced briefly, and seemed to sense that she too was awake.

"Isa?" The whisper was so soft, she thought she might have imagined it. "Do you feel safe in a church?"

"I thought you were asleep. That's a really random question."

"I was. But then I wondered, and it woke me up."

 "In this church? I don't feel terribly safe here. Even before all this began, I didn't really like coming here every morning before school." 

"Not this church, only. Any church."

"No."

"You don't like churches?"

"That's a different question. You asked me if I feel safe in church. As it happens, the answer to both questions is no." 

"Why not? My dad likes church. He says it's the backbone of civilization."

Was this a true memory of his past? She needed to tread with care. "My dad thinks that, too. He went every week. Maybe he still does."

"You don't agree?" He sounded drowsy.

She chose her words carefully, although a part of her wondered why. "He's one of the worst people I know."

"So?"

"So I always figured I'd steer clear of the things that he thought were good. And of people who tell me how I'm supposed to feel about everything. As a general rule."

"Oh." He was silent for a moment, and she thought perhaps he'd dropped off again. But then: 

"Does he hurt you? Your dad?"

Isa's mouth tightened. "He used to."

"He shouldn't."

"No." Isa waited for him to continue, but he didn't. "Does your dad hurt you?" She waited, not really wanting to hear the answer. And Tristan had fallen asleep again, so she didn't have to. Instead she stayed awake as the sun topped the horizon, and held him close. 

****

While he was sleeping, she made a decision. When he awoke a bit later, she took him by the hand, and led him down the stairs from the loft. Keeping to the shadows, they crossed the common, stopping every few feet to scan the area. All seemed quiet, and so they stopped in at the Dining Hall and took a loaf of bread which they shared between them, tearing hunks off of it with their hands as they walked back to Peyman in silence. 

As they entered the residence, Isa immediately felt Tristan tense up and stop short. 

"What?"

Shivering and once more pale, Tristan lifted a finger and pointed at the door to Isa's room. Something was different about the door, and she drew closer to inspect it, then recoiled. Wound and knotted around the door handle was the frayed cord of rope that had been tied around Midas's neck. Imagining had been bad enough, but this was much, much worse. It was a pain too horrible to call pain, an agony that worked its way up from her stomach and emerged from her throat, a wrenching wail that seemed to come from someone else. Tristan sat down hard on the floor, pale and shaking and silent. Once she'd screamed herself hoarse, she leaned up against the wall,  pulled him into her lap and rocked him - he buried his face in her chest and howled. After a moment, she leaned him back to look at his face. It was red and splotchy, and there were fat tears rolling from his eyes still. She looked directly into them. 

"Buddy, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect us. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect Midas."

He sniffled, and stared at her, his eyes still brimming with tears.

"I don't understand," he choked out finally.

"I don't either. Nothing makes sense."

"Isa, I don't understand where my parents are. Why did they leave me here? Why haven't they come back?"

Her heart broke, but she didn't let him see.

"I don't know, love."

He leaned back into her chest.

"Will we ever find them?"

"I honestly don't know that. But I know this." She leaned him back again and looked into his eyes. "I'm your family, now. And if we never find our real families again, or even if we do, you are my responsibility. We are each other's responsibility."

The boy nodded, tears trailing freely down his small face. "What do we do now, Isa?" He seemed to be expecting a real answer, and she struggled to find one that would satisfy him. 

"We're going to sleep, for a bit longer. And when we wake up, we're going to figure things out."

He looked solemn. "What about Stagger? He knows where we live, now."

She straightened up. "It doesn't matter. I'm finished with trying to escape him - we can't outrun him, or outsmart him." She felt as though the colours and edges of the things surrounding them had become sharper, brighter and clearer. Despite her resolution to sleep, she felt as though she was fully awake for the first time in a long time. As though she'd been underwater, and she'd clawed her way back up to the surface. 

"We're going to kill him, Tristan. We're going to kill him for what he did to Midas."