Mr. Echo's Arc

Chapter 3 of 25

The needle held on the Bunnyman's trail, but the trail was thinning. Mr. Echo could feel the shape ahead pulling away. Kate stayed close behind him. The salt in her pocket rattled with each step. They came into a small clearing where a raccoon crouched on a fallen log, its white mask bright against the dim wood. It watched them and did not run. Mr. Echo stopped. The Bunnyman stood past the log, one long ear turned toward them, one turned toward the peak. Ready to bolt. "He hears us but not our words," Mr. Echo said. "If I speak, he runs." He thought about what the Bunnyman would trust. Not a human voice. Not the brass box. Something already at home in these woods. The raccoon on the log had not moved. A collie stood at the clearing's far edge, tongue out, calm, as if it had been waiting for them. A pink butterfly turned once above the grass and settled on the collie's ear. The animals were not afraid. The Bunnyman was watching the animals, not him. Mr. Echo knelt and set the brass box on the ground. He turned the cones toward the raccoon and opened the small intake wide. The device could measure sound going missing. It could also, if he reversed the coils, hold a sound and send it back. He had done it once, in his workshop, with a bird call. He pulled the pin, flipped the plate, and waited. The raccoon chittered at the collie. The collie huffed. The butterfly lifted and dropped. The box caught each small noise, layered them, and pushed them out again a beat later, softer, from the ground between him and the Bunnyman. The Bunnyman's ears both turned forward. It took one step closer. Mr. Echo did not move. He fed the box more. The collie whined. The raccoon scraped bark. The butterfly's wings clicked. The box gave it all back in the shape of woodland talk, the shape of a warren at ease. He borrowed the animals' trust and lent it to himself. The Bunnyman crossed the log. It came within an arm's reach and looked down at the box, then at Mr. Echo. He raised one open hand, slow. He did not speak. He tapped the box twice. The box answered with the collie's soft huff. The Bunnyman tapped the dirt once in return. They had a signal. Not a language, but a door. The Bunnyman turned and moved back the way it had come, slower now, glancing over its shoulder to check that Mr. Echo followed. Kate breathed out. Above the trees, the silence from the peak thickened, and somewhere in the leaves a pale face watched, patient. Mr. Echo picked up the box and went after the Bunnyman. The warren was close now, and for the first time it would let him in.