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Chapter Text

“Mr. Ages!”

Mrs. Brisby clutched her red cloak in one hand, the other trying to wipe the grime from the window of the trailer. It was as old as it looked, the bricks that had boosted the supports for the long-gone wheels had been removed and now it rested flat on the ground, more serviceable for an old man like Mr. Ages. The inside looked barren of all life, papers and bottles and even some broken glass probably from a cup that no one had bothered to swipe and throw away. A crude sign with DO NOT ENTER in all red letters was hammered to the door.

“Mr. Ages? Is anybody home?” Mrs. Brisby knocked her knuckles on the window, using her hand to block the glare from the sun and try and get a better look. “Mr. Ages!”

A muffled response came from seemingly nowhere. Could have easily been the sparrows pecking the ground for crawling insects.

“Mr. Ages, may I please speak with you?”

“What?”

Mrs. Brisby tentatively walked around the trailer, trying to pin where the response had come from. The other side was covered in scrap metal and rusty parts, and not one but two toolboxes left open with rainwater gathered in their lids. Nothing here either. Though, the smell of smoke and singed hair came from somewhere nearby.

“I said, may I please speak—”

The window next to her head banged open and Mrs. Brisby jumped, hands clasped together with one still holding onto her red cloak. A long cloud of smoke came from the window, as well as Mr. Ages’ face as he coughed and coughed. The ends of his white mustache were looking a little burnt.

“—with you.” Mrs. Brisby sighed, lowering her hands and letting go of her cloak. “Oh, thank goodness! I’m so glad you’re home.”

Mr. Ages was still smoking, grabbed a sheet of metal to help blow the smoke from inside the trailer. Mrs. Brisby coughed too when she inhaled some of it.

“I don’t suppose you remember me…”

“Yes, you’re Mrs. Brisby.” Mr. Ages didn’t turn to look at her, using a rag too dirty to do the work of cleaning his thick-framed glasses. “And I am sorry about your husband’s death. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

He went to shut the window and Mrs. Brisby sprang closer. “Mr. Ages!”

The window opened fully again.

“Great Jupiter, woman, what do you want?”

“Mr. Ages, I know you don’t like visitors but this is an emergency. Please!”

A rumble and then a resounding boom! like thunder when it landed too close shook the ground. All the metal junk behind the trailer and the trailer itself rattled. From the inside, Mrs. Brisby could hear the sound of glass clinking and then something breaking. A flash of light in pale purples and pinks and blues poured from the window, like lightning that came in reverse after the thunderous explosion. Mrs. Brisby grabbed onto the side of the trailer and Mr. Ages went as far as falling, breaking something else that added to the few seconds of chaos.

“Madam!” Mr. Ages appeared again on the window, cleaning his face with the same dirty rag he used on his glasses. It left smudgy black smears in its wake this time. “That is an emergency.”

Whatever was it? but Mrs. Brisby wasn't here to ask that sort of question. She had more pressing matters at hand. Everyone had already catalogued Mr. Ages as a mad scientist or a mad witch doctor, depending on who brought the gossip to the table. Ignorance could be bliss. Whatever could cause a reaction of that magnitude was better not in her conscience or awareness.

“Oh, Mr. Ages—” Mrs. Brisby stood right in front of the window, grabbing onto the frame of the sliding screen. “My son Timothy is so sick.”

“Timmy? The one with the spider bite? Oh, just give him some pepsissiwa root and—”

“No!” Mrs. Brisby grabbed the collar of Mr. Ages’ shirt, the only thing she could latch onto with him behind the small window. “No, he’s sick with a fever!”

The frown Mr. Ages already sported deepened, bringing more attention to his bushy eyebrows that matched his greying hair and white mustache. He muttered incoherence for a moment and then said, “Well… I suppose I could fix up something.”

Mrs. Brisby let go of him and instead clasped her hands together. “Oh, thank you!”

“Walk around and come inside.”

One hand clutched the red cloak again. Her heart was still speeding from the scare of the flash of light and the explosion and also remembering she had left her twelve-year-old daughter in charge of the house while she ran to Mr. Ages’ and her youngest son was shivering in bed covered in cold sweat and— Now both her hands were shaking.

The front door opened just as Mrs. Brisby reached it.

“Follow me,” said Mr. Ages. “But don’t touch anything, understand?”

She gave a small nod and walked inside. The shake from the explosion had scattered more miscellaneous things across the floor, creating more stains on the beige carpet. Mr. Ages was a stocky old man and with the slightly pronounced hunch of his back he came to about Mrs. Brisby’s nose — and it wasn't like she was particularly tall at all. He led her around the limited space of the trailer and opened a plain door that should reveal a storage closet but instead showed a ladder that led downwards. That was curious, and maybe the trailer had been taken from its lift on bricks deliberately but Mrs. Brisby didn’t inquiry. Oddities were only as odd as your suspension of disbelief allowed.

“I do appreciate it…”

“Just how high is Timmy’s fever?”

“He’s burning hot to the touch and soaking wet with perspiration, and there’s a raspy sound when he breathes.”

“A raspy sound you say? Well… Does he have a chill?”

“Yes, he does.”

Without prompting, Mr. Ages descended the ladder. Mrs. Brisby followed.

“Have you wrapped him in a blanket?”

“Yes, various even.”

Warm yellow light came from the bottom of the ladder. It didn’t take long to reach and a room like an experimental studio was revealed. Liquids of various colours sparkling from metallic shelves, with the main focus being an intricate maze of bubbling glass containers and connected glass tubes that made up for most of the space available. It was as messy as the trailer but there was a symphony to this mess. Mr. Ages moved around like he knew where everything was. Every loose paper and testing tube. It was also warm, a welcome change from the ever-growing cold brought by the looming winter.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” said Mr. Ages when Mrs. Brisby let go of the ladder and settled herself properly on the ground. “I’m right in the middle of… something very important.”

“I understand.”

“Oh, do you?”

The ceiling was covered in equipment Mrs. Brisby couldn’t even begin to comprehend. A bunsen burner heated up the contents of a flask and various oil lamps provided the warm yellow illumination that enveloped the place. Mr. Ages muttered to himself, swatting moths the size of Mrs. Brisby’s hand and forcing them to find a place to perch on the walls. Their wings stared back with patterns that looked like eyes.

“Your son has pneumonia,” he said.

Mrs. Brisby clutched her cloak. “Pneumonia?”

“It’s not uncommon.” Mr. Ages grabbed powders and herbs from the workbench, putting them in a mortar. As he grinded the contents and added more from containers made with clay the mixture glittered in the gentle yellow. Like snow frost or stars when there was a blackout and no electricity could block them out. “But you can die from it.”

“Oh, please. Dear God, no.”

“Your son must stay in bed. Bundle him up.”

Mr. Ages pulled a chain dangling over his head and the bunsen burner turned to high, heating the fluid inside the flask it had been boiling at low. The liquid travelled through the connected tube and dripped a single drop Mr. Ages caught in the mortar.

“Not to go outside," he continued.

“But, how long must—?”

“Three weeks.” The glittering of the bowl slowly died, one winking speck at a time. “He cannot be moved for at least three weeks.”

“But, Mr. Ages, my house doesn’t have three weeks. Winter is fast approaching and usually we would move before the snow—”

“You asked my advice, and I gave it to you!”

Mrs. Brisby pulled on a loose thread on her cloak. “I’m sorry.”

“He must stay in bed. Now, mix this—” Mr. Ages grabbed one of the loose papers and made an envelope out of it, pouring the mixed powder and herbs onto it. He folded it once, twice, thrice, and patted it to make sure it wouldn’t unfold. “—This powder in a broth and make him drink it. It’ll bring down the fever.”

“Oh, bless you, sir.” Mrs. Brisby grabbed the envelope.

“And bless yourself,” said Mr. Ages. “You’ll need it.”

He gestured towards the ladder and Mrs. Brisby, one hand closed into a fist around the medicine, scurried to climb back up and out the storage closet door. Mr. Ages right behind her.

“Thank you, once again,” Mrs. Brisby said.

“Shoo shoo shoo. Go on now. Go on.”

“Thank you so—” She put both feet outside the front door of the trailer and it slammed on her face. “—much. Goodbye.”

Chapter Text

Old wives’ tales were usually enough to treat things like a bothersome cold or neck pain. Mrs. Elizabeth Brisby would openly admit to not being above using them when Martin complained about a scratchy throat or Teresa had a headache. She had actually given Timothy chamomile tea and ginger tea when he first began coughing but she’d always gone to Mr. Ages for the banes that were more specific, such as the spider bite. He was closer than the town doctor and didn’t charge for the remedies, seemingly more concerned with getting people to leave him alone than making a profit. Since he arrived, who knows how many years ago it felt like he had always been there, the community of woodland critter shifters that made the outskirts had had a witch doctor handy.

The atmosphere and landscape all around were looking bleak in the grey winter light, washing out the colours. No snow had fallen yet, and if it had it melted long before the start of the day and left the ground a muddy and slippery mess. Elizabeth’s boots sunk with loud squelching sounds.

Mr. Ages’ trailer might be closer than the town doctor but it was still quite a walk back to the Garden.

The Garden a name that had never been announced or discussed by anyone. The Garden just was what the neighbours all called the patch of land with their homes from the last century. The place to spin new wives tales, where candlelight and gas lamplight was still more common than electric lightbulbs.

Picking up the hem of her red cloak, Elizabeth hopped onto a fallen log to cross a sizable marsh. Birds and frogs chattered around and she caught the middle or ends of conversations that ranged from someone’s failing marriage to someone’s unruly child to the dubbed Moving Day. The valley was susceptible to merciless winters that carried along merciless snowstorms. Most of the old fashioned houses weren’t made to bear them and so there was a tradition to moving to the nearest town — near used on its loosest term — and barricade until the worst of winter passed. Moving Day wasn’t strict on its schedule but it was easy to tell when one should really begin packing. Those who had wings had it easier, flying off until spring. Sometimes Elizabeth allowed herself some wistfulness and wished herself the feathers of a robin instead of the tail of a field mouse.

A sudden gunshot spiked her heart. Made her hard-soled boot slip from the old log and her foot sunk up to the middle of her shin in the marsh water. Cold and muddy and with too many little twigs and pine needles. A rabbit and some birds hurried away from where the gunshot came and Elizabeth was able to catch the dear Heavens! translated in the rabbit’s panting and pinpoint her as a shifter.

She gasped and instinctively ducked her head, covering it with her arms, when the click of the shotgun came from right next to her. The fear response lasted her three to four seconds before remembering she wasn’t currently a little mouse, though seeing the bearer of the gun didn’t ease her fear of getting shot.

“Ah.” Elizabeth let out a forced and weakly happy laugh. “Mr. Hicks, how lovely to run into you.”

The man with the shotgun was called Dragon by the people of the Garden. He was a neighbour too, by all accounts, but in the same way the Fitzgibbons from the nearby farm were also technically neighbours. Drake Hicks, the man’s real name, was a huntsman who kept to himself and was… just an awful neighbour. Most people were afraid to come anywhere near him. Not because most of the shifters in the Garden were small woodland creatures like rodents and birds and Dragon was a massive mongrel cat shifter, but because he was really careless with his bullets.

“I think—” Elizabeth grabbed onto a branch stump on the log, pulling her foot out from the marsh. “Well, I would advice you to be more careful. That rabbit you were hunting was a woman.”

A feline growl escaped Dragon’s mouth.

He was standing on the grassy patch of the march but even from a distance, for Elizabeth, he looked huge. He was battle-scarred for reasons unknown to her and could never remember which of his heterochromia eyes was the blind one, the blue or the yellow one.

“If they are clever enough,” Dragon said. “They’ll avoid the bullets. Can’t put a skittish creature in front of a cat and not expect it to pounce.”

Elizabeth took in a deep breath. The “I am a cat and cats are hunters” excuse was getting old with Dragon.

“Well, I’m in a bit of a hurry.” The boot that sunk in the marsh was uncomfortable but Elizabeth would bear it until she got home. “Left the kids by… themselves…”

Her feeble attempt at a brief small talk exchange faded when Dragon already took his attention off her, checking something with his shotgun and filling the cartridge again. The squawk of a crow filled the silence after her words, it came from farther away.

“I’ll leave you to your… hunting, Mr. Hicks.” Adding: I just ask you to head in the direction opposite to the Garden, crossed her mind but it’d be like talking to a brick wall. Elizabeth would have to remember to tell Teresa, who was afraid of loud sounds, that Dragon would be hunting nearby so she could steel her nerves.

Still no answer from the man.

“Good day.”

Elizabeth walked the rest of the length of the log and jumped onto the allegedly dry, but still muddy, ground. She took one more look at Dragon and continued on. Maybe she should also check on that rabbit who’d run off spooked and almost been shot, just to make sure she was holding on alright.

The Brisby home was set by a natural stone that protruded all vertical from the earth. This stone had been subjected to Jonathan Brisby’s switchblade and kitchen knives to mark the growth of the four Brisby children. Summertime found it also covered in chalk drawings that would be washed away with the rain. The house itself was propped on top a deck of bare cement bricks like Mr. Age’s trailer might have been once, and behind it was a cliff. A dangerously close cliff that marked the end of the Garden on the southeast side.

“Maybe I should go look for Mum.” Martin Brisby was ten years old and thought himself very tough, the man of the house now that Jonathan had passed.

“I don’t think so, Martin.” Teresa Brisby was twelve years old and followed her mother step by step, took her place whenever she was absent. Especially when being specifically told she was in charge until Elizabeth returned.

“Brisby!” called a voice from outside. “Briiiisby!”

“Oh!” Teresa jumped from her place on the carpet in front of the fireplace, leaving her book. She headed to the window. “Auntie Shrew!”

“Oh, Auntie!” Cynthia Brisby was five years old and her favourite things in the world were her plushie and the green sash she always tied around her waist. She smiled because Teresa smiled, and also because she liked when they had company.

Martin groaned. “Oh no…”

“Brisby!”

“She’ll wake Timothy!” said Teresa.

“Brisby!”

Teresa wiped the fog of the window caused by the cold air of outside. “She’s not here!”

“Why is she always coming around here?” Martin grumbled. “Poking her nose in where she’s not wanted?”

The big pink bow on Teresa’s hair flopped around when she whirled to glare at her brother, eyes every piece of blue as her mother’s. “Martin!”

He puffed his cheeks and walked — more like stormed — towards the room he shared, currently, only with Teresa and Cynthia. There was no door, just a heavy curtain that could have easily been a blanket and swiped it aside and let it fall back in place like one would slam a door.

Teresa puffed her cheeks too. She hurried to open the door when she saw Auntie Shrew reach it, helping the old woman out of her long cornflower blue shawl fringed in tassels. Piercing air came through the open door. Teresa hurried to close it, cold air would just make Timothy’s cough even worse.

“Thank you, child,” said Auntie Shrew. “I must speak with your mother.”

Sally Shennar was the designated ‘cranky old woman’ of the Garden, despite not being the only cranky old woman. Her title of Auntie despite having no blood-related family gave her precedence over any other possible cranky old women. The shrew bit wasn’t a jab at the woman, it was a reference to the animal she shifted into which was, in fact, a shrew. The high-and-mighty air Auntie Shrew carried around her would make you believe she was more of a duchess or some other sort of nobility, instead of a countryside woman.

“Brisby!” Auntie Shrew called again, as if there was anywhere in the small house Elizabeth could be hiding. Her knotty cane tap, tap, tapped on the floor.

“Mother isn’t here,” said Teresa, wrapping the long cornflower blue shawl three times on the hanger before it stopped brushing the floor.

“Auntie Shrew!” Cynthia grabbed the hem of the old woman’s skirt and tugged, tugged, tugged. Her smile was missing one of her upper front teeth. “Timmy’s sick!”

“Cynthia, dearest, don’t pull me.” Auntie Shrew, in turn, tugged the hem of the skirt from Cynthia’s hands, then took a seat at the table. “She’s not here?” she asked Teresa, hand to her heart in exaggerated dramatics. “She left you children alone, then?”

Peeking around the curtain, Martin spoke, “I’m old enough!”

“With that cat walking around shooting everything and I heard from Mrs. Robin that the police and a mental facility are looking for some escapees. Now isn’t the time for your mother to leave you all alone. Cynthia, dear, don’t fidget! You’re so like your mother.”

The little girl had started to tug on Auntie Shrew’s skirt again.

“I ain’t scared of nothin’!” said Martin.

“She went to see Mr. Ages,” said Teresa.

“To Ages?" asked Auntie Shrew. "That old flim-flam? Whatever for?”

“Auntie Shrew!” Cynthia said again. “Timmy’s sick!”

“Patience, my pet.” Auntie Shrew spared one look for Cynthia and looked at Teresa again. “Why to Ages?”

“Timmy’s sick!” said Cynthia.

“Timothy is very ill,” said Teresa.

“Timmy ill?” Auntie Shrew went on with the dramatics, but now they came off as part of her natural mannerisms as true concern overcame her expression, putting a hand to her cheek. “How dreadful!”

“I’m not afraid of the dark!” Martin emerged from the room, swinging a short branch he’d sanded to turn into a pseudo-sword. Since the stumps of perpendicular sprouts made it look like a pommel. “I’m not afraid of heights!”

Auntie Shrew’s face screwed into a scowl. “I can’t hear your sis—”

“I’m not even scared of Dragon and— and— and his guns!”

“Will you hush up?” said Auntie Shrew.

“Oh, you hush up!” Martin pointed at her with the makeshift sword.

“Martin!” hissed Teresa.

“Precocious monster!” said Auntie Shrew.

“Bossing bullfrog!” said Martin.

“Spoiled brat!” Auntie Shrew dragged the ‘r’ on brat as long as she could.

“Loudmouth!”

“Oh! Well!” Auntie Shrew sprung to her feet. “That will be quite enough, thank you!” She walked to the hanger, unwinded, unwinded, unwinded the long cornflower blue shawl. Wrapping it over and around her shoulders, speaking all the while. “Cast not pearls before swine, I always say… and that includes impudent piglets! Good evening!”

She made as if to walk to the door, seeing as the hanger was closer to the threshold of Elizabeth’s bedroom than the door, but the shawl hadn’t been completely unhung. A hole near the hem of it caught on the hanger and pulled Auntie Shrew back, which made her lose her balance and fall to the floor. All three kids covered her mouths, the girls trying to keep in their laughter — with Teresa doing a better job at it than Cynthia — while Martin was as loud as could be.

“Oh!” exclaimed Auntie Shrew, getting back to her feet. “You impertinent little—”

The door opened and in came Elizabeth in a gust of cold air that lasted only seconds. “Martin! Auntie Shrew, what’s going on?”

“Indeed!” Auntie Shrew grabbed the doorknob, shoving Elizabeth a little more to the side.

“Please,” said Elizabeth, voice gentle. “Come back inside.”

“Not for a king’s ransom! I have just one thing to say: that child is a brat!”

“Yes, I will speak to him.”

“I came here to inform you that a snowstorm is meant to hit the valley sooner rather than later and no trains will be functioning when it does. So, Moving Day is at hand if we don’t want to be buried here all winter. Prepare to move your very, very odd family. Good evening.”

With that, the door let in another breath of the piercing air and Auntie Shrew left the house muttering to herself.

Elizabeth sighed, pressing her fisted hand to her chest. “Well, children, now you’ve done it.”

“It was Martin,” said Teresa.

“Miss Shennar means well.” Elizabeth walked over to the fireplace, a kettle was boiling over it. Teresa was ever-reliable in seeing the day’s routine through even when Elizabeth wasn’t home. “She only wants to help.”

Grabbing a rag towel, Elizabeth took hold of the kettle’s handle and carried it to the table to cool off a bit. Taking a seat on the chair Auntie Shrew left vacant, Elizabeth untied her boots and took off her socks. One was still soaked from falling into the marsh. Teresa was quick to take the red cloak and put it on the hanger when Elizabeth undid the knot on the hollow of her neck.

With a sigh, she stood back up again.

“You need something, Mother?” Teresa asked, next to her once again.

“I need to make a broth for Timmy’s medicine.” The makeshift envelope from Mr. Ages rested on the table by the kettle.

“I’ll help,” said Teresa.

With the water from the kettle already hot they made quick work of it, all vegetables so it was easy on Timothy’s stomach. Elizabeth kissed the top of Teresa’s head as she walked by her. Martin wrung the hem of his shirt between his fingers, it was already looking short on him. He could start using Jonathan’s clothes. Taking the envelope, Elizabeth unfolded it and poured the contents in the broth. Stirred it. All sparkle had abandoned the medicine, they had conglomerated into dark green clumps.

“I’m sorry, Mum…” said Martin.

Elizabeth sighed, waving a hand vaguely in his direction. Not now, whatever happened with Auntie Shrew could wait. She picked the bowl. Her reflection stared back on the dark broth, a little distorted from the movement but Elizabeth could see the carefully concerned look on her face. Nothing that could give away if she was scared or tired, just concerned for Timothy and the bedridden state he was in.

When Timothy’s fever had worsened, Elizabeth moved him to her bedroom. Elizabeth was short and Timothy was just a bony seven-year-old kid, so they fit on the bed with room to spare. The quilt from Timothy’s bed in the kids’ room had also been moved and it piled on top Elizabeth’s own quilt, keeping him as warm as possible.

She sat on the kitchen table chair she brought in earlier to get Timothy to eat something for lunch.

“Timmy, honey,” Elizabeth whispered, holding the bowl on her lap with one hand and using the other to brush the damp hair from Timothy’s forehead. He had brunette hair more akin to Elizabeth herself and Teresa than Jonathan’s dusty brown. “I got you some food.”

Timothy moaned, grunted, he could barely open his eyes and Elizabeth didn’t think he’d actually been asleep. Not with the fever so high. He must be too uncomfortable and bothered to sleep at all. She arranged the pillow to at least prop his head up a little, to avoid choking when drinking the broth. Spoonful by spoonful the bowl began to empty, no trace of the medicine could be seen.

On the other side of the bed appeared Cynthia’s bright brown eyes, as if Elizabeth hadn’t seen her try to sneak up to them. Teresa had hurried after, as if to stop her little sister from causing a ruckus, holding onto an end of the green ribbon Cynthia wore as a sash no matter the garment she had on. A knot prevented it from fully unwinding and being loosened. Martin joined his sisters with careful steps. Cynthia climbed to the bed with Teresa’s help but didn’t crawl any closer, either because she understood she probably shouldn’t or Teresa holding the ribbon.

“Is Timmy gonna die?” asked Cynthia, lisping through her missing front tooth.

“No, sweetheart,” said Elizabeth, bowl now empty and back on her lap. “He’s just very sick.”

“What’s the matter with him, Mother?” asked Teresa.

“Mr. Ages called it pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia,” Teresa echoed, voice soft.

“When will he get better?” Cynthia asked.

“Soon, I hope,” Elizabeth said.

Timothy had already fallen back asleep. It would probably take a few before the medicine kicked in, but Elizabeth hoped he would sleep all through the night. She took in a deep breath and stood up. The curtains of the window by the bed were drawn open, allowing a frosted look of the darkness outside. Mist covered the glass with the warmth from inside the house.

“Off to bed with you,” Elizabeth said to her other three kids.

She grabbed Cynthia, who was falling asleep where she sat on the bed, and let Teresa take the bowl.

“Are you gonna have dinner, Mother?” Teresa asked when they were back on the main area of the house.

“Yes, dear. You go to sleep. I can help myself.”

Elizabeth carried Cynthia to the kids’ room, setting her down on the bed at the furthest end. The one pressed right against the wall. Just as Cynthia propped herself up against, asking for her plushie, Martin came in and handed it to her without a word. Elizabeth undid the knot of the green ribbon, changed Cynthia into her nightgown — Teresa’s old one — and wished her goodnight with a kiss to the top of her head. She repeated the process with Martin, already on his bed and unchanged from the too-small shirt to sleep. For all he acted very tough, Martin still accepted the kiss on the temple from Elizabeth and let her tuck the patchwork quilt up to his chin. Teresa was still on her feet, an old nightgown of Elizabeth’s on, and she hugged her mother with her wiry arms. The pink bow from her hair was twisted three times on the bed frame to be worn again tomorrow. Elizabeth kissed Teresa’s forehead and added a ‘thank you’ to the goodnight.

“You shouldn’t have to act like the mum,” said Elizabeth as she tucked the quilt up to Teresa’s chin. “That’s my job, alright?”

“I like helping, Mother,” said Teresa. “Now that Father’s gone, I want to help you.”

Elizabeth sighed, brushed her fingers on Teresa’s cheek. “You focus on being a twelve-year-old girl, alright, love? I’m glad for the help but as long as you and your siblings continue being such good kids, it’ll be alright.”

“You need to tell Martin that.”

“I heard you,” said Martin from his bed.

“You were supposed to,” said Teresa.

“I’m well behaved!” said Martin.

“Mind your volume,” said Elizabeth. “You’ll wake Cynthia.”

“Cynthia sleeps like a log,” said Martin. “Nothing’ll wake her.”

That was true.

“You antagonised Auntie Shrew,” said Teresa in response to Martin’s words.

Martin muttered intelligibly and rolled to his other side, giving his back to Elizabeth and Teresa.

“No more antagonising Auntie Shrew, alright, Martin?”

“Yes, Mum,” said Martin, face half-buried on the pillow from the muffled sound of it.

Elizabeth blew the candle on Teresa’s bedside table.

Chapter Text

The chill of the atmosphere pressed down so thickly the morning looked dark. A jolt that shook the whole house woke Elizabeth with a start, buried deep in the quilt of her bed and breathing in piercing air. The fire of the hearth had gone out sometime in the night, she didn’t add another log to keep it going. She reached a hand to touch Timothy next to her on the bed, he was breathing evenly. Timothy was alright.

Moving the quilt aside, and despite the complaint against how cold the room was, Elizabeth got out of bed. She put on a second pair of socks and laced up her boots, both dry now.

In the main room, she was greeted by the embers in the fireplace and Martin peeking around the curtain that divided the main room from the kids’ bedroom. Elizabeth grabbed a knitted jumper from the back of a kitchen chair and buttoned it up, then grabbed her red cloak from the hanger.

“What was that, Mum?” Martin asked. He meant the house-wide jolt.

“I’ll go check,” said Elizabeth. “You go back to sleep.”

Outside, the world was bleak and overlayed in grey. The ground was muddy, slippery, as if rain had poured in the night.

Elizabeth held her cloak tight against her neck, the sleeves of the jumper covering her hands for some warmth. She walked around the house and to the cliff behind it. Throat tight. She knew what to expect but seeing the edge so much closer to the support that raised her house a foot from the ground was different. The rain must have washed off more of the earth. Below, the river was only discernible because it shone with pale winter sunlight, it was otherwise brown as the mud and the rocks around it.

Puffs of misty breath frosted in front of her face. She needed to buy more firewood, keep the house warm. The cold filtered through every crack of her clothes and through every crack of the house as well. How could she be so careless to forget to keep the fire going all night? This cold was of the deadly kind.

“Brisby,” said Auntie Shrew’s voice to her left, coming up with her cane digging into the mud. “What are you doing out in the cold?”

Elizabeth wondered the same about Auntie Shrew, but she said instead, “The cliff.”

Auntie Shrew stood at Elizabeth’s side, looking down with her towards the river.

“Lizzie, you need to get your family out of here,” said Auntie Shrew. “When the snow finally comes there will be no way out of the valley. Your house won’t make it through the bulk of winter.”

“What about Timmy?” Elizabeth held the neck of her cloak with both hands now. “The chill in the air could kill him!”

“Well, child, that fall surely will.” Auntie Shrew gestured to the river with her cane. “For the last time, get your children out of here. Before it’s too late!”

As if Auntie Shrew’s words triggered it, a snowflake floated down from the sky before their eyes. More followed it until they began to sprinkle Elizabeth’s short brown hair and the bandanna Auntie Shrew wore on top of hers.

“I need to—” Elizabeth could feel the air get stuck in her throat, panic beginning to rise. The snowflakes kept coming. They melted when they came in contact with her red cloak and the ground but more took their place. “I need to talk to Mr. Ortiz. I need to— I need to get more firewood.”

“Brisby,” Auntie Shrew’s voice was harsher this time. “Everyone will leave the valley for the winter. You can’t make it here by yourself.”

“Mr. Fitzgibbons at the farm. Surely he— Maybe we—”

“And what when—”

The sound of the house groaning and of rocks and chunks of dirt rolling down stopped Auntie Shrew. Elizabeth found herself whispering ‘no, no, no, please, no’ and stared, eyes wide and unblinking, at her home until it steadied but she couldn’t unsee how close the cliff’s edge was. What it would take for it all to fall down, just an accident, maybe just a shove, maybe just melted snow that would make the ground more liquid than solid.

“Let’s go inside,” said Auntie Shrew. “Is freezing out here.”

“I still need to get firewood. I can’t offer you anything warm to drink.”

“We’ll go to my place, then. I have some firewood I can share.”

“But, the children—”

“Will be fine.”

“Auntie Shrew, the house—”

“It’s fine, child. You need the firewood. Come on, now.”

The walk was short. Elizabeth had such a close relationship with Auntie Shrew because their houses were so close to each other. The Shennar household had the look of having been passed down through generations, or just been inhabited by an ageless woman like Auntie Shrew, unlike the newer look of Elizabeth’s. Hers Jonathan had built himself, said he wanted them to have a place just for themselves. Elizabeth touched the stone that made the walls of Auntie Shrew’s house, so different from her wooden wals and wooden floors. Felt the cold of her joints melt at the warmth inside. It all smelled like chamomile tea.

“Sit on the couch, Lizzie,” said Auntie Shrew. “It’ll be warmer there. Goodness gracious, it’s freezing outside.” That last part was more muttered to herself than said out loud to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth sat where she was pointed at, letting the heat from the fireplace radiate towards her. The back of the couch was covered by a throw blanket of mismatched yarn colours.

“Here, dear.” Auntie Shrew came back with a cup of the chamomile tea that hung in the air. When Elizabeth had the cup between her hands, Auntie Shrew took a seat next to her.

“I don’t know what to do, Auntie Shrew.” Elizabeth held the cup without lifting it to take a sip, letting the tea warm her cold fingers. “I wish Jonathan were here.”

“Well,” Auntie Shrew’s tone was cutting. “He’s not. You cannot reduce yourself to helplessness and wondering what your late husband would do right now. You have your own head on top your shoulders, Brisby, use it.”

“But what am I to do?” Elizabeth looked up at the older woman. “The house— There’s no way I can stop the cliff from crumbling underneath and I can’t take Timothy outside. Mr. Ages was very clear about him staying in bed, warm. And now this snow, it—”

A booming explosion came from outside, the sound of a shotgun being fired. It was followed by the squawks and cries of birds as they took flight. Auntie Shrew seemed to bristle despite her current lack of fur.

“Oh, that bloody cat,” she spat ‘cat’ like one would a curse. “He keeps walking into the Garden and has no qualms for who is an animal and who is a person. Someone’s gonna get killed one of these days.” She looked at Elizabeth. “That’s another reason for you to get out of here. Stuck all winter with that beast, all by yourself.”

“I’m backed against the wall,” said Elizabeth. “With a sword against my throat. I don’t know what to do.”

“And there’s the talk about the police and a mental hospital looking for some escapees. Oh, child, I can’t even fathom to imagine—”

“I’m open to suggestions, Auntie Shrew.” Elizabeth lifted the cup to her mouth but didn’t drink yet. “If there is a way to stop my house from falling into the river or to move Timothy without taking him outside, then…”

Silence settled between them. The ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece interrupted it with its quiet sound. Elizabeth drank the tea, it was a little bitter but that seemed expected of Auntie Shrew. The older woman drank from her tea as well. Through a nearby window, Elizabeth watched the snow continue to fall. It hadn’t stopped. It hadn’t grown into a full-on snowstorm, but it was copious.

“Tylluan.” Auntie Shrew grabbed Elizabeth’s wrist. “The Great Owl, he’ll know what to do about this crossroads. You must go see him.”

“I— I couldn’t do that.”

Tylluan was a shifter who’d long ago abandoned his human form for good, remaining forever as an owl. Not because he couldn’t change back but because he didn’t want to, or so word of mouth said. The balance shifters walked was a delicate one, too much of one form could blur the other one. Word of mouth also said Tylluan no longer spoke to humans.

“I would have to go to him as a mouse. Owls eat mice.”

“Well, my child, show a little courage! We’re fighting for Timmy’s life!” Auntie Shrew squeezed Elizabeth’s wrist. “Lizzie, you’ve got an impossible decision to make. You’ll need all the help you can get.”

“I won’t be of any use dead!”

“The Great Owl is still a man. Humans don’t eat each other.”

“Not unless you’re Dragon.”

“Oh, well— Something quite as unfortunate hasn’t happened.”

“But he would if he could shoot one of us!”

“Brisby.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath, leaving one hand wrapped around the teacup and covering her face with the other. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Auntie Shrew sighed and moved closer, wrapping an arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders and giving her some good reassuring pats. When the old woman wanted, she could be very affectionate. That affection was just buried under the layers of her attitude, but one learned to see past it.

“How am I even supposed to get to Tylluan’s hollow?”

“Some bird’ll take you, and you should go at once.”

“Well, I have to tell the children first or else they’ll be worried.”

“I can handle your children until you come back.”

“Auntie Shrew,” the tone was similar to the way the older woman had said ‘Brisby’ but quieter. Though only because Elizabeth was more soft-spoken than Auntie Shrew.

“Alright, fine! But wait no longer than tomorrow, you hear me, Lizzie?”

“Yes, Auntie Shrew.” Elizabeth managed a smile.

“Now, finish your tea.”

With an armful of firewood, Elizabeth made the way back home. The snowfall had let up and carpeted the ground now but on a thin layer. No boots were sinking, unless one considered the patches of slippery mud but those had been there since yesterday. Elizabeth caught sight of Teresa through the window and just as she stretched a hand to open the door, it opened from the inside and there was Teresa again.

“Martin said there was an earthquake.” Teresa grabbed some of the sticks to lighten the load Elizabeth was carrying.

“It’s the cliff,” said Elizabeth, closing the door behind her. “Rain last night must have washed the earth.”

“And what are we going to do?” Teresa grabbed the rest of the firewood once she’d dropped her armload by the hearth. Leaving Elizabeth’s hands free to untie her boots by the door so as not to muddy the house.

“I spoke with Auntie Shrew and she thinks I should go to the Great Owl.”

“The Great Owl?” called Martin as he pushed the curtain of the bedroom aside. “Is that the one they say is a shifter but doesn’t want to be human again?”

Elizabeth sighed and nodded.

“Is it dangerous?” asked Teresa.

“There’s a certain risk, yes,” said Elizabeth.

“Can’t you ask someone who wouldn’t be so dangerous?”

“Oh, sweetheart, there’s no one left.” Elizabeth hung her red cloak and made for the hearth to start a fire, it was less cold than it was outside but still cold. Teresa and Martin were both wearing jumpers. “Most of the neighbours have already taken the train to the city.”

“What about the farmers?”

“I don’t think they can move our entire house.” Elizabeth grabbed the box of matches from the mantle, glanced at the window. “And snow has already started to fall, we can’t take Timothy outside.”

Martin huffed. “What would an old owl know, anyway?”

“He has magic,” said Teresa. “Miss Sycamore told me, he can see the future.”

“That’s bull—”

“Hey,” said Elizabeth, turning to look at Martin. “Language.”

“He also knows everything,” Teresa continued, sitting on a chair now and swinging her feet. One of the two pairs of socks she was wearing was a little too big and gathered around her ankles. “As in, everything about everyone.”

The kindle caught fire and with some poking, soon the wood did too. Teresa and Martin assured all windows were closed, so the house should start to warm up momentarily. Elizabeth kissed the tops of their heads, quickly checked on Cynthia to make sure she was indeed still asleep and then walked to her own room. Timothy hadn’t moved one bit, he was still frail and buried under the blankets, he seemed to sink into the pillow. Elizabeth heard pans moving around the kitchen and her heart squeezed, she needed to make breakfast, Teresa was already getting started.

“Hello, my dear.” Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed right by Timothy’s side. “Mr. Age’s medicine do anything at all?”

“I’m not as cold.” Timothy Brisby was seven years old and he’d always been a little frail and a tad too curious, which didn’t mix up well. The spider bite Elizabeth had gone to Mr. Ages for last time could attest to that. He would let his older brother goad him into poking animals he probably shouldn’t poke.

“Well, that’s good.” Elizabeth ran her fingers through Timothy’s bangs. He had more of her than of Jonathan, she thought. “You’re gonna have to stay in bed for a little while longer, okay, my love? Just so you can recover fully. If the medicine worked to get the fever down I’ll go to Mr. Ages again.”

“Resa said it was snowing,” Timothy said, and he looked at the window, probably still too cold to move his arms from their safe place under the blankets and point.

“It is snowing.”

“When are we gonna move to the town for winter? Will I get to make a snowman before we leave?”

Elizabeth ran and ran her fingers through Timothy’s hair, trying to keep her hands from shaking and from any tears sparkling her eyes. She smiled at Timothy.

“We’ll see how it goes, okay? But if Moving Day arrives early then, will you be okay making a snowman in town?”

“Guess so.”

There was a crash from the kitchen, followed by Teresa berating Martin and Martin raising his voice at her. Elizabeth closed her eyes a moment to collect herself, bury how tired she was, and then she stood up. She kissed Timothy’s forehead, told him to stay in bed and that she’d bring him breakfast in a moment. Timothy was asleep when Elizabeth reached the door.

She would go to the Great Owl first thing tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Jeremy DeLuise hadn’t even yet packed for the train leaving the valley. He was a crow shifter whose house was full of miscellaneous trinkets, most of which sparkled or hung by strings from the ceiling. When Elizabeth came to see him to ask if he could take her to the Great Owl’s hollow, he derailed the conversation a dozen times talking about a Miss Right who was waiting for him in the town where the critters of the Garden all bunked during winter. Jeremy DeLuise didn’t seem too worried about Moving Day, probably because he had wings to take him away even if he missed the train. Elizabeth didn’t know how he planned to haul his bags along as a crow, though, she didn’t think he had thought of that.

“Um, excuse me,” Elizabeth said, one hand gripping her red cloak at the throat. “Jeremy?”

They were already on first-name bases despite having never talked to each other before. Jeremy had scoffed at the formality when Elizabeth called him “Mr. DeLuise”. Apparently, Mr. DeLuise was his father and did he look like he was up on his years to be called a mister? He apologised for that because he didn’t mean to imply Elizabeth was old enough to be a Mrs. Brisby, and to make up for it he’d decided to call her “Mrs. Briz”. Elizabeth would have normally just told him to call her by her first name, since he had insisted on his, but that might make the young man ramble about a whole different thing. If Elizabeth didn’t get to moving now she would lose all resolve, and also she didn’t want to leave Auntie Shrew with the kids for too long. Teresa might only be able to uphold peace in the house for so long, and Elizabeth didn’t trust anyone but herself to properly manage Timothy’s fever if it got bad again. When she’d gone to Mr. Ages in the morning for more medicine the trailer had been empty.

“Jeremy?” Elizabeth said again.

“Wha— Oh! Sorry, Mrs. Briz. You were saying?”

“I wasn’t saying,” Elizabeth said. “I just think we should maybe head out now.”

“Huh? Oh, of course. Right-o. Sure you don’t want anything warm to drink first? Something to eat?”

“I’m good, thank you.”

“Alright, then,” said Jeremy. “Let’s fly!”

Coming to Jeremy in the first place was Elizabeth’s choice, she knew she needed someone with wings. Still, that this was on her own free will didn’t make heights any less scary. She was a field mouse and hadn’t been farther from the ground than she dared climb up a tree — which in itself wasn’t much. Her little paws held onto Jeremy’s black feathers as he flapped through the frigid winter air. Nice evening, huh? Jeremy cawed. I told you you’d love flying!

It was colder in the swamp, the mist was low, like a wall. Jeremy circled in the sky like a vulture over a carcass, then dove into the clouds enveloping the trees. It wasn’t hard to guess which was Tylluan’s tree. Knobby, covered in moss, with branches like bird talons. They landed on a different tree to gauge it from afar, the hollow gaping at them like a predator’s mouth — and to Elizabeth, it was.

Jeremy folded his wings. I have to ask, Mrs. Briz… why are you going to see the Great Owl?

Moss and lichen growing on the branch pressed underneath Elizabeth’s tiny paws when she slid from Jeremy’s back.

I’m at a crossroads. My son is very sick, winter is coming, and my house is hanging perilously at a cliff’s edge. Elizabeth cowered against Jeremy’s leg. I’m hoping the Great Owl will know what to do… but owls— owls eat mice.

Jeremy skipped-and-hopped, ruffling his feathers. Only after dark, he cawed.

It was getting dark, hints of dusk had been colouring the sky while they flew. To the best of his current capacity, Jeremy gave a sigh like steeling himself. That must be the Owl’s tree over there, he squawked, and his wings flapped. Elizabeth held fast onto his leg as he took flight again, gliding in one swoop towards an arching branch that provided a place to land before the open mouth of the tree hollow. Films of cobwebs hung everywhere, the tree seemed to be breathing.

Hello? Hello? Jeremy squawked, Well, the place looks deserted. I guess we’d better get outta here, Mrs. Briz.

A gust of wind burst from the hollow, nearly knocking them off the branch, and it carried along an owl’s hoot. It didn’t say anything, it was like a yawn or an acknowledgment of their presence. Elizabeth didn’t let go of Jeremy’s leg one second, which bobbed her up and down with his nervous shuffling.

Then the hoot became words: Step into my house.

Jeremy nudged her forward with his beak, which she also almost wrapped her tiny field mouse paws around, begging he didn’t make her go. She put them instead on the jutting edges of the bark that marked the entrance to the hollow. Her heart was beating so hard and so fast she felt as if it might burst from her ribcage, her whole body shaking from it, she could barely stand straight even in all four paws.

Come inside, hooted the Great Owl from within, or go away.

Elizabeth looked up Jeremy, she couldn’t ask him to also come with her and he didn’t seem too inclined to do so in a spur-of-the-moment kind of way. He didn’t step back, though, like wanting to give her support by his presence. He pointed to the depths of the hollow with his beak. Elizabeth hopped over the jutting bark.

Timothy, she squeaked to herself, remember Timothy.

The receding light from outside didn’t make it any easier to see inside the hollow. Cobwebs crossed all around her, Elizabeth was trying to set her eyes on everything, feeling as if eyes were watching her from every direction. Like if someone was breathing down her neck. Her belly fur brushing the stretch between the entrance and the innards of the hollow. She jumped, swallowing a squeak, when her paws stepped on scattered bones she sent tumbling down to the bowels of the tree, where more bones of small animals (like her) gathered. She felt faint. A moth fluttered from among the cobwebs and straight her face, it shouldn’t have scared her as much as it did.

Elizabeth came to a broader portion of the hollow, she hopped to a naturally occurring stump, eyes still going wild to take everything in. She heard the squelch of a bug being crushed and she snapped around. Curled in on herself when her sight adjusted to the darkness and she realised she hadn’t just passed more bark but him — Tylluan, the Great Owl. Underneath his talons was the freshly gutted corpse of a massive spider.

Tylluan’s head twisted around, he was covered in cobwebs like the rest of the hollow. How long had he stood still for so they also blanketed him? Elizabeth watched his talons as he moved, feeling impossibly muniscule. A depression on the bark gathered even more small animal bones. When he opened his eyes… oh, Elizabeth didn’t know how to describe this without it sounding inside. They were illuminated, like oil lamps or even the headlights of automobiles, bright yellow, casting a glow on Elizabeth when they looked at her if they could see her at all. The Great Owl might just be blind.

(Was it magic? Was this the magic?)

Why have you come? His hoot creaked like the tree.

Please, Elizabeth’s squeak barely left her trembling body. Please, forgive me for disturbing you… but my son’s life is in great danger.

The moth from before fluttered in front of Elizabeth’s nose, gained altitude, and when it was close enough the Great Owl snapped his hooked beak. Catching it, tearing one of its wings that floated down to join the array of bones. Elizabeth had to look away.

Winter, she continued, it’s drawing nearer, the cliff my house is built next to is crumbling and—

Move your family, Tylluan hooted.

He flapped his wings, covered in cobwebs as they were, it felt like the gust of wind that almost knocked her and Jeremy over before. From the ceiling fell even more bones. Elizabeth pressed her ears to her head with her paws, eyes screwed shut, trying not to think and wonder if any of these bones were from humans that could change shape as she did.

Yes. Elizabeth slowly opened her eyes, the lamplight eyes of Tylluan still on her. I would move, but Timothy has pneumonia. He can’t even get out of bed.

Tylluan considered. You must move your home to a safer place.

Please, Elizabeth squeaked, there must be another way. 

There is no other way, Tylluan hooted.

Elizabeth’s stomach sunk, for an entirely different reason, amongst the fear that still invaded her.

Tylluan hooted again, I must bid you good evening, Mrs…?

Mrs. Brisby, Elizabeth finished for him.

Brisby? The Great Owl, who’d turned as if to leave, faced her again. He came closer, the glow of his eyes illuminating her entirely, it was like staring straight into candlelight and she felt a phantom warmth that radiated from them. Because truly everything was chilly. Elizabeth pressed closer to the ground. Mrs. Jonathan Brisby? Tylluan asked.

Why yes. Elizabeth could see her own reflection in his eyes. He was my husband, but… how do you know about him?

Tylluan pulled back. That is not important. I will say this: his name is not unknown in these woods.

Elizabeth dared rise to her hind legs, brushing a piece of cobweb that landed on her ears. Please, sir. I’ll do anything to save Timmy, anything.

The ghost of a grin appeared on the old owl’s face, to the best of his current abilities in possession of a beak. He looked away, considering again, then he hooted with glistening eyes: There is a way… go to the rats.

But I don’t know any rats, Elizabeth squeaked.

In the old mine, Tylluan hooted.

The old mine? Elizabeth asked. The old silver mine? There is no way in and no way out of there.

Tylluan paid her concerns no heed. Go there, he continued, ask for Nicodemus.

Nicodemus, Elizabeth echoed. But how can they help?

They must move your house to the lee of the stone.

No rat could move my house, Elizabeth squeaked. No man who is a rat either, it’s—

The Great Owl’s eyes loomed closer again.They have ways.

I don’t understand, Elizabeth squeaked, but I will do as you say.

The talons gripped the bark with sudden force, causing it to crack. Elizabeth cowered into a curled-up position again and Tylluan announced, It is night, I must go.

Elizabeth had a brief second where oh no passed through her head but the Great Owl merely stepped over her, as if she wasn’t even worth considering for a meal like the moth was. He limped out of the alcove, leaving scratches on the bark with his talons. Elizabeth scampered after. She stopped a little way away and he stopped right at the entrance of the hollow, Elizabeth couldn’t see any sign of Jeremy.

Remember, hooted Tylluan, the lee of the stone.

He spread his cobweb-covered wings and in a singular flap was airborne. Leaving Elizabeth behind with a still thumping heart. She scurried out of the hollow when the Great Owl was gone, Jeremy appeared by her side from wherever he had been hiding.

What— what did he say? Jeremy asked.

He said to go to the rats, Elizabeth squeaked.

Rats, Jeremy squawked, what rats?

Elizabeth looked to the sky, Tylluan’s silhouette was just disappearing in the shine of the moon. She echoed his words, The lee of the stone.