Words on Fire

“I hardly believe that.”

I wasn’t going to tell him, but he was waiting so patiently for me to say something, I finally said, “I’ve begun to write.”

“Rea

lly? What are you writing about?”

“I’m only practicing my letters.”

“Milda hinted that these letters you’ve been practicing are randomly arranging themselves into a wonderful story.”

“It’s just practice, Lukas.” Which was certainly true. My story was evolving and growing, and beginning to feel like it had a life of its own. But it was also far from perfect and almost nothing like I had first imagined it inside my head. Worst of all, I had no idea how the story should end.

That night we slept one at a time in the back of the wagon, taking turns to be at watch for any passersby, which allowed me a better rest than I’d had when on my own. And while I was on watch, I dug into my shoulder bag to work on my story. But when I went to pull out my papers, my father’s notebook came with it.

Now that I’d had more practice, it was becoming easier to read it. Most of his entries were descriptions of tricks I already knew how to perform, or notes he made to remind himself how to perform the tricks better. That was useful.

Tonight, with the smallest bit of candlelight possible, I thumbed through the pages of my father’s notebook, finding words here or there that I knew and sounding my way through several more, studying his art and trying to match it to his descriptions, figuring out the meaning of his instructions as best I could. Nearer the end, I turned the page to something that wasn’t a design, but a recipe.

My eyes widened and I sat up straight, wondering if this actually worked, or whether it was simply something my father intended to test some day. I had to know, and there was only one way to find out. I’d need to make the recipe myself.

I didn’t tell Lukas about the recipe as we rode the next morning, but it was constantly on my mind. So I only vaguely listened when he showed me the various sites along the way, explaining how the land itself could help a smuggler move about, from the thick trunk of an oak tree to the bushy branches of a willow plant, to the steep slope leading to our many rivers—all these places could save our lives, if used properly. By the end of our third night of riding, he was only repeating what he’d already told me a hundred times already. Or so I believed.

“Trees are good in an emergency, but only if you can remain opposite a soldier who is trying to find you, and if you don’t make a sound—nearly impossible on the forest floor. And soldiers are rarely alone anyway, so if one doesn’t see you, another will. It’s better to get flat upon the ground, preferably buried in the ferns or grasses. Then you become part of the shadows. I’ve lain there in the darkness so close to a soldier’s boot that I could describe the tread on it, and wasn’t caught.”

Then, several kilometers later, Lukas said, “The worse the weather, the better the opportunity to smuggle. When the soldiers don’t want to go out, we do.”

Milda had already explained that much to me, though I hardly relished the idea of smuggling through a blizzard or downpour. Which brought up another question, this one something I hadn’t considered already.

“How do I keep the books from being ruined by the weather?”

“You won’t carry them in the open. Ben taught me how to bury them in a canvas sack, so that if you’re crossing a wider river, such as we’ll do on this first mission, you can load them into a wood barrel while you cross. He always stores a few in the area. The barrel will help you keep your head above water, no matter how deep or wide the river is.”

And so our conversations went until Lukas finally pulled the wagon into a barn that he described as having a “friendly owner,” then added, “We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“How far?” I tried to sound positive, but the truth was, I was dreading this walk more than I’d dreaded anything in my life. A stiff wind had been blowing all day. As uncomfortable as it had been riding in the wagon, it would be worse on foot.

“We’ll be there before you know it!” Lukas said cheerfully.

“How far?”

He shrugged. “Six or seven hours of walking, I suppose. And you’d better get used to it, because we won’t take this wagon back with us. As I said before, there’s too great a chance of us being noticed and searched.”

I sighed. “Let’s get going, then.”

His prediction was wrong, or maybe it only felt to me like we had walked twice as long as that. For the last hour, my feet seemed to be made of bricks, and I could hardly move my numb fingers. I put one hand on my stomach, wondering whether the pit inside was due to nerves or to hunger.

“It could be worse,” Lukas observed. “The wind isn’t as bad here.”

Which meant I could hear myself think above the sound of the wind, and all I could think about was how we were supposed to cross the Neman River as it became visible in the distance. This river marked the border of Lithuania and Prussia, but it was much wider than I’d expected. At my best, I’d have trouble throwing a rock across it, and it looked deep enough to have a powerful current.

I didn’t care how many books were on the other side of the border. I was certain this was an impossible challenge. My stomach twisted. “I can’t cross that alone!”

“We have to, Audra. They watch the bridges too carefully.”

“My father used to have papers for his work as a street magician,” I said. “He used the bridge. So if we could get papers—”

“Your father could travel because of his work. What excuse would you have? And while I’m sure he left legally, if he was bringing books back with him, I doubt he came back on the bridge, not unless he had some magical way of hiding them.”