Wren's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Wren ran with the thirteen shapes bundled under his coat until the city fell behind him. The shapes were warm and light, like held breath. They did not speak. They did not move on their own. When he set them down on the cold grass at the edge of a wood, they stayed exactly where he put them. He knelt in front of the nearest one. It had the outline of a small boy. Its eyes were open. Its hands lay in its lap. "Stand up," Wren said. It did not stand. It did not know how. He lifted its wrist. The arm moved where he put it and stayed there. He set the foot flat on the ground. He guided the knee. The child slid sideways and folded down like cloth. Wren caught it before its head hit a root. He counted the others. Twelve more, sitting where he had placed them. Twelve more who did not know a mouth from an ear. Dawn was maybe four hours off. The cave was still hours of walking north, and none of them could walk. He tried the next one. He tried the one after that. He got one to close its hand around his finger. He got another to blink when he tapped its cheek. It was not enough. Thirteen bodies, and only one of him. A hoof cracked a twig behind him. He turned. A white doe stood between two trees. Her coat caught what little light there was. She watched him with the flat, patient look animals give a thing they have already decided about. She stepped forward. She lowered her head and pressed her nose to the forehead of the nearest child. The child breathed in. Then breathed out. Then reached up and touched the doe's ear. Wren did not move. The doe went to the next one. She nosed its cheek. The child's mouth opened and closed. A small sound came out. Not a word. A sound a throat learns before words. One by one, she went down the row. Each child she touched began to do something small. Lift a hand. Turn a head. Try weight on a foot. They were not fixed. They were started. On the wet grass beside his knee, a single raindrop caught the doe's light and held it. Clear. Silent. Not one of the screaming ones. Just water. Wren pressed his palm flat over it anyway, until it soaked into his skin, in case. By the time the sky began to gray, thirteen children stood in a loose line behind the doe. They walked the way new colts walk. They fell often. They got up. The doe moved north through the trees at a pace slow enough for the smallest one to keep. Wren followed at the back and counted heads. Thirteen. Still thirteen. Walking.