“Mother will know what to do,” said Chanterelle, so faintly that she could hardly hear herself.
“When Handsel returns,” Amanita told her coldly, “you’ll understand how foolish you are. Remember your promise, Chanterelle. When Handsel returns, you must eat and drink.”
Having said that, Amanita got up and stalked out of the room, her white skirt swirling about her. The rocking-chair was thrown into violent motion by the abruptness of Amanita’s abandonment, and it continued rocking back and forth for what must have been at least an hour.
Chanterelle tried to stay awake, but she was too weak. When she drifted off to sleep, however, the pain in her ankle made it difficult for her to sleep deeply. She remained suspended between consciousness and oblivion, lost in a wilderness of broken dreams.
She dreamed of mournful she-wolves and decrepit bears, of ghostly hunting-dogs which bounded through the forest like malevolent angels, of sweet-smelling loaves of bread which broke to reveal horrid masses of blue-green fungus, of cups of milk infested with tiny worms, of long ranks of club-headed mushrooms which served as cushioned seats for excited fairies, and of wizened old men who knew the secret of making nightingales sing by day.
When she woke again, the room was nearly dark. The patch of blue sky that had been visible through the latticed window had turned to velvet black, but the stars were out and the moon must have been full, for the room was not entirely cloaked in shadows.
At first Chanterelle couldn’t tell what it was that had awakened her — but then she realized that the door had creaked as it began to open. She watched it move inward, her heart fluttering in dread because she expected to see Amanita.
When she saw that the person coming into the room was Handsel, not Amanita, Chanterelle felt a thrill of relief, which almost turned to joy when she saw the excited expression on his face. For one delicious moment she read that excitement as a sign that he must have found their mother — but when he came closer, she realized that it was something else.
“Oh, Chanterelle!” Handsel whispered as he knelt down beside the bed and put his head on the pillow beside hers. “You’ve no idea what a day I’ve had.”
“Are you hoarse from shouting,” she whispered back, “or are you afraid of waking Amanita?”
“Amanita’s not here,” Handsel said in a slightly louder voice. “She must have gone out again with those dogs of hers to hunt the she-wolf. I shouted myself hoarse all morning, as I knew I must, but no one answered. Then I stopped to pick and eat more mushrooms. Then I began to shout again, but it was no use at all. I had lost my voice—but I had gained my sight!”
“You never lost your sight,” said Chanterelle faintly.
“I never had my sight, dear sister. I always thought that I could see, but now I know that I never saw clearly before today. I had never seen the trees, or the earth, or the air, or the sun.
“Today, for the first time, I saw the life of the trees, the richness of the earth, the color of the air and the might of the sun. Today, for the first time, I saw the world as it truly is. I saw the fairy-folk about their daily business. I saw dryads drawing water from the depths and breathing for the trees. I saw kobolds churning the soil to make it fertile. I saw sylphs sweeping the sky and ondines bubbling the springs.
“Oh Chanterelle, you were right about the mushrooms — and yet so very wrong! The fairy-folk swarm about them, hungry for pleasure, and make them grow tall and red, but there’s no poison in them. There’s only nourishment, for the mind as well as the body. Those who eat of the mushrooms tended by the fairy-folk may learn to see as well as growing strong. You must not be afraid of eating, Chanterelle. You must not starve yourself of light and life.”
“I am afraid,” said Chanterelle, and shut her eyes for a moment. She knew that the sight Handsel had discovered must be the second sight of which the stories told, which was sometimes a blessing and sometimes a curse. She had always thought that if either of them turned out to have the second sight, it would be her, and she felt a sharp pang of jealousy. She, after all, was the one who could sing — or had been able to sing, before grief took the melody out of her voice.
When she opened her eyes again, Handsel was no longer there — or, if he was, he was no longer Handsel. Kneeling beside her bed was the strangest creature she had ever seen. It was part human, having human legs and human arms, but it was also part insect, having the wings and head of a hawk-moth. Where the human and insect flesh met and fused, in the trunk from neck to hip, there was a soft carapace mottled with white stars. Even in the dim light, Chanterelle could see that the color of the carapace was crimson, exactly like Amanita’s cape.
The huge compound eyes looked at Chanterelle with what might have been tenderness. The principal part of the creature’s mouth was a pipelike structure coiled like a fern-leaf, which gradually uncoiled and stiffened, so that the tip reached out to caress her face.
When the creature spoke to her, its words sounded as if they were notes produced by some kind of flute, and every sentence was a delicate musical phrase.
“The sweetest nectar of all is fairy blood,” the monster informed her, “but the fairy-folk offer it willingly. Human blood is bitter, spoiled as anything is spoiled that is kept for far too long. Iron bells are hard and cold, and their voices are the tyrants of time. The bells of forest flowers are soft and beautiful, and their voices can unloose the bonds of the hours and the days. When humans go mad, they usually become bears or wolves, but find neither solace nor liberation. The fairy-folk are forever mad, forever joyous, forever free. Children may still be changelings if they choose. While the true sight has not quite withered away, children may find the one true path. While the true voice is not yet lost, children may soar on wings of song.”
If only the monster had chosen its words more carefully, Chanterelle thought, it might have contrived a melody of sorts — but she had heard the songs of the skylarks and thrushes that the city-dwellers kept in cages, and she knew full well that even they had little enough talent for melody. Nightingales, for all their fame, were merely plaintive.
Chanterelle shut her eyes again and counted to ten. When she opened them, the monster was gone and Handsel was himself again.
“What did you say?” asked Chanterelle, in a voice as faint as faint could be.
“I said that we might be safe and happy here,” murmured Handsel, in a voice that was not quite lost. “If we can only persuade Amanita to take us in, we might live here forever. She must be lonely, must she not? She has no husband, and no children of her own. She might accept us as her children, if we promise to be good. Wouldn’t you like to live in an enchanted forest, sister dear?”
“I would rather find my mother,” said Chanterelle.
“We have tried and failed,” said Handsel sadly, “and must make the best of things. Would you rather starve than eat? Would you rather go down to the valley, where no charity waits us, than stay in the wild forest and live as the fairy-folk live? You promised, did you not, that you would eat Amanita’s bread and drink her milk if I could not find our mother or our grandfather in one more day of searching? I have tried, and failed; I have lost my voice, but I can see. Will you eat, dear sister, and live — or will you break your promise, and die?”