Circle of Stones Read Free Page A

moonlight; there were panels missing in the inner walls, & floorboards gaped like black traps for the unwary.
    I thought about just going away. But I knew if I did, that bird would flap all night inside my dreams, & I found it hard enough to sleep already. It would be a matter of minutes to get the thing out.
    Probing with the sword-stick I edged warily inside, through a darkness thick with sawdust & the acrid smells of pine & fresh turpentine. Curled shavings of wood crunched under my heel.
    As far as I could see, the hallway had three doors; beyond them the skeleton of a staircase led up into the gloom. I put my ear against the first door & listened.
    Thumps. Rustles. A silence that lasted so long I thought the bird must be dead. Then a harsh screech.
    I turned the handle & looked in.
    This room was almost finished. The paneling was dark oak. A great marble fireplace yawned in the far wall—that was how the bird must have gotten in.
    I couldn’t see it, but suddenly it zigzagged out of the dark & the smack against the window glass was so vicious I knew it would break its neck in frustration if I didn’t do something quickly.
    I slid into the room.
    Behind me, the door shut with a click.
    I swore, groping desperately behind my back for the handle, but there wasn’t one, & at once a slash of feathers whistled past my ear, so close I felt the draft of it. I ducked, caught with the sudden horror of the hateful bird hitting me, tangling in panic in my hair, pecking at my eyes. I dived onto hands and knees, dropping the sword-stick, cursing Peter Bull & his bone-idle workers. How could I get out with no handle on the door! Would I be stuck in here all night? Forrest was probably arriving home about now & shouting my name, & Mrs. Hall was coming out of the kitchen to tell him there had been a message & that I’d gone off with it to Giles Alley. Maybe he’d come to find me.
    Another swoop. There it was! It had perched on the mantelshelf, a small hunched shadow. Soft scratchings & flutterings came out of the dark. A bright eye caught moonlight. It was watching me.
    Knowing where it was helped me regain my courage; I picked myself up &, keeping my gaze on it, backed toward the window.
    Crack!
    Shadows zigzagged all over me; I was slashed with clots of darkness.
    The room was full of birds
. I yelled & threw myself down. How many were there & where were they coming from? I was trapped with corpsebirds & gallowspickers! Maybe my eyeless body would be all that would be found here in the morning. At least it would scare Peter Bull witless.
    I rubbed my face with a gritty hand & told myself not to be a fool. All I had to do was get to the window & throw it open & the things would fly out. Then I could climb over the sill. It was a stupid situation to be in, but no one would ever know & tomorrow I could even be witty about it.
    Carefully, keeping my head low, I crawled over the rough boards. Nails stabbed my palms. Oak creaked under my sore knees. I could see the mess the birds had made now; streaks of white spattered down the oak panels, & clotted in the hearth. Jackdaws, they seemed, & all at once a sliver of moonlight came from behind a cloud, & I saw them, perched on the mantelshelf, a dark row, & maybe some up on the top of the window! And one on a chair in the corner. I dared not breathe. I was almost there.
    Then to my horror I put my fingers down & touched a warm hand.
    I yelled! The birds erupted in panic, hitting walls, glass, smashing their frail bones. Something brushed my shoulder; I glimpsed a pale flicker of movement that made me jump up & fling myself at the window, heaving its weight upward.
    It wouldn’t move. I swore & tugged again, but the sill was slimy with bird muck. A black wing smacked into the glass. Feathers burst, inches from my face. I raised the stick & jabbed the blade under the sash. Sweat was blinding me. The birds, a rain of nightmare suicides, dived against the glass.
    Wood