“How far could he travel?” Libby asked. “Carrying a baby?”
“He could probably cover one, maybe one and a half miles in an hour,” he told her.
“Depending on his injuries. He might already be over the ridge by now.”
“Is there a road leading up there?”
“Aye. There are all sorts of woodcutting trails. But there’s almost two feet of snow from the last storm and this one. The MacKeages have the best chance of finding him in their snowcats.”
“But we have Mary,” Libby reminded him, touching his arm.
He started the truck, then slowly let it roll forward, keeping watch through his open window. Libby saw the narrow track the same time he did. He put the truck in neutral, shifted the four-wheel drive into low gear, then gunned the engine and sent them careening through the ditch and up onto the trail.
Libby had to brace herself against the violent upheavals of the rough terrain, holding on to the dash and gripping the cherrywood staff between her knees to keep it from bouncing around the interior of the truck.
They dug and spun and slowly made their way through the deep snow, climbing the ridge one rock and one fallen tree at a time. Finally, they stopped with a jarring thud, as all four tires screamed and chittered for traction.
Michael shut off the engine. “This is it. We walk from here,” he said, opening his door, getting out, and reaching back under the seat. He pulled out a flashlight, clicked it on, and shone it through the interior of the truck.
“Give me the staff,” he said, helping her down and holding her until she found her footing. “Listen,” he whispered, looking toward the tops of the towering trees.
They heard it again, that faint, haunting cry of urgent desperation, far off to their left, high up on the ridge.
Michael lifted the back of his jacket, tucked the heavy staff into his belt, and let his coat fall over it. “This way,” he said, taking her hand and leading her deeper into the woods.
Chapter Twenty-five
Libby followed in silence,letting Michael guide her around large boulders and over fallen trees, trying very hard not to slow down the pace he was keeping. She felt as if she were in one of those maddening nightmares, where she was running as fast as she could but not moving.
They traveled for what seemed like forever, until Libby was soaked in sweat and beginning to shiver. Her breathing was labored, and her muscles ached. Only the urgency of Mary’s distant cries gave Libby the strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Michael suddenly stopped and pointed toward the top of the ridge. “There. Do ya see that?” he asked in a winded whisper. “That blue glow?”
“Is it the ski-slope lights?” Libby asked, moving to see better.
“Nay,” he said, pointing to their left. “TarStone is to the north. You can just make out the reflection of the tower lights on the clouds. This glow is blue,” he said, pointing back at the south side of the ridge. “Can ya see it?”
He didn’t wait for her answer but started leading her in the direction he’d pointed. “It’s Mary,” he said as he lifted her over a fallen tree. “It’s her light.”
Libby’s fatigue disappeared. She started running to keep up with Michael as his long legs began covering the ground with amazing speed. The blue glow intensified as they drew nearer, reflecting off the snow in shimmering waves that turned the night into day.
Michael stopped, and Libby stopped beside him. Mary was perched on a small mound of snow. There was a red knit hat poking through it where the owl had scratched.
“Robbie!” Libby cried, hurling herself to her knees and brushing the snow away.
Michael knelt opposite her and carefully turned Robbie over, lifting him onto his lap.
Libby tore off her gloves and gently brushed away ice crystals from the unconscious boy
’s face. Her fingers touched the crusted blood on his right temple near the hairline. She examined the small cut that was no longer bleeding, and quickly decided it was only a minor scrape and not responsible for his condition now. She let her fingers trail down his neck to feel for a pulse.
There was none.
Libby pried open Robbie’s arms and unbuttoned his jacket. Rose Dolan fell into her hands. The infant was limp, her tiny features drawn and pale. Libby leaned over and touched her mouth to Rose’s cheek and felt just the faintest whisper of breath.
“She’s alive,” Libby said. “Just barely.”
“Robbie,” Michael growled as he placed his own mouth over Robbie’s. He gently pushed several breaths into his son and then looked at Libby, his eyes desperate. “Do something,” he demanded. “Wake him up!”
Libby pulled off her jacket and set it on the ground beside the silent owl. She set Rose inside the jacket and bundled her up, then reached for Robbie. Michael placed his son in her arms, then moved them both onto his lap until Libby was astride his hips with Robbie pressed between them.
“Use yar magic,” Michael entreated. “Save my son, Libby.”
She was already trying. But instead of the now familiar colors that should be swirling through Robbie, Libby found only darkness. There was no light, no colors, not one single emotion that she could feel.
“He—he’s not here, Michael,” she whispered, looking up. “He—he’s gone.” She choked on a sob, closing her eyes and pressing her mouth to Robbie’s hair.
Michael’s arms tightened. “He’s not dead!” He held Libby’s hand to Robbie’s face. “Try harder.”
Libby resumed her search for Robbie’s life force, only to find herself once again confronting darkness. She mentally roamed through Robbie’s empty body, seeking out anything that would give her a reason to continue. She ignored the chill of the void, instead concentrating on each individual organ, looking for even the smallest of sparks.
And deep in Robbie’s heart, Libby found hope. Michael’s arms tightened around her, and Libby knew he was there, beside her, feeling and seeing what she did—the distant echo of a young and determined desperation.
And she realized the pulse was merely a connection to Robbie, a lifeline to use to return.
Libby pulled away, opened her eyes, and looked up at Michael.
“Go back!” he demanded, hugging her fiercely. “He’s alive.”
“He’s not there, Michael,” she told him. “He’s in Rose.”
They both looked at the jacket lying on the snow. Mary was using her beak to gently pull back the folds of wool.
“He’s protecting her,” Libby said, wiggling free of Michael’s embrace. “He’s using the last of his strength to keep her alive.” She picked up the infant and nestled her between herself and Robbie. “If we want to save Robbie, we have to save Rose. He’ll not leave her until he’s sure she is safe.”
Michael reached behind himself and pulled the old priest’s staff from his belt. With amazingly steady hands, he gently wedged the thick cherrywood stick between Rose and Robbie, then reached behind Libby’s shoulders in a rock-solid embrace that engulfed her and the children. He looked at Libby, took a deep breath, and nodded.
With her own arms wrapped tightly around both young bodies, Libby closed her eyes and again went in search of the colors.
Brilliant white light immediately pulsed through her mind, making Libby cry out in surprise. Michael’s arms tightened as he braced them against the assault, and slowly Libby was able to feel two faintly beating hearts.
She reached for the weaker pulse, bending the white light toward Rose, gently coaxing warmth into her tiny body. The infant gasped for breath and let out a cry of outrage, and her tiny heart began racing with the rapid beat of a tiger cub.
Libby cried tears of relief as she touched her lips to Robbie’s cheek. “Come back,” she whispered. “Rose is safe now, Robbie. She’s going to live.”
A turbulent rainbow pulsed through the white light, pulling at Libby as it sped past.
Myriad colors danced about in frantic circles, playfully tugging her own heart-strings before speeding off toward Michael.