Darkling (25 page)

“Hello.”

I open my eyes. The heat is making the damp trees and ground steam. I glimpse movement in the moisture. The mist before me thickens. There, between the crystalline water and sunlight, is a shimmering image. I blink several times to make sure I’m seeing it. I am.

Tristan’s face grows clearer as the sun rises. I
suck in a shaky breath. He smiles

Whispers swirl in my mind. They’re his and I’ve missed them. I reach for him and tickles gather in my hand as he takes it in his. I climb to my feet.

He touches my face. I don’t feel his fingers, just his warmth. It leaves me glowing and I smile. He smiles, too, and the sight is so welcomed that I am filled with such delight that I don’t know what to do with myself. The tears have finally returned. He rests his forehead against mine. Affection and pressure on my skin.

“I miss you so much,” I whisper.

“I would have stayed with you.”

My tears are drying quickly in this sunlight. The longing in his eyes cuts into me, reflecting my own. Then it fades and he smiles. “You’re simple again.”

He shakes his head. “Not simple. Pure. How we all are inside.”

Pure.
No distractions from our complicated minds. No motives or intentions. Just being. Blissful being.

“You freed me, Willow.”

He tugs my hand out above me with an impish expression. I smile as I twirl away from him then back. One last dance. He is grinning. My skin is tickling with delight.

Then his smile dims. His eyes bore into mine. “I need you to do something for me,” he says.

“Anything.”

“I need you to not be afraid.”

I feel my own smile disappearing. I’m not a spirit. I’m not leaving the Netherworld. I’ve already lost so much. What could I have to fear?

More loss.
More pain. More goodbyes. That is what I fear. How can I not be afraid of losing the ones I love?

His eyes are clear as they gaze into mine. Does he know my thoughts?

“Don’t be afraid,” he says again. He eyes me for a moment, the smile returning. “Thank you.” He leans in as if to kiss me, but he’s fading. Disappearing with the shimmering mist. A light touch on my lips, tingling.

I want to see his face one last time, but it’s already gone. Then I feel his warmth move through me.
Blossom in my chest. Like a hug. A kiss. Then I have thoughts that aren’t my own. Knowledge I never learned. One last gift.

I look at the forest around me. I need to find something. Tristan has shown me what. It’s a plant with little almond-shaped leaves.
Pungent. We used to hang it in the house to freshen up the air. It grew on the hillsides year-round. Thyme.

Running, I head for the nearest slope where I remember its purple flowers in the spring.
Dead leaves and sticks. No plants. Shoving the debris around, I hunt for any sign of green. Because this plant will fight infection. Thyme will save Draven’s life.

My hands and fingernails are filthy. I find shoots of grass.
Dead roots. And I’m starting to panic because I can’t find any sign of the plant. Which means Draven will die. He’ll die and I’ll say another goodbye. More hours and days of weeping.

No. I keep digging. I’ve done enough waiting.
Enough moping. Tristan’s request solidifies in my mind. My heart. It has nothing to do with saying goodbye and everything to do with saying hello.

Everyone fears loss. But when he asked me to not be afraid, it wasn’t of losing someone. It was of loving someone. Loving someone in spite of knowing you will one day part. That takes courage.
The courage that defined Scarlet. Courage I didn’t know I possessed until I felt Tristan’s warmth.

And then I find it. A sprig of baby leaves.
Just a few. I rub them between my fingers and smell. It’s thyme. But I need more of it. I yank up what I can then rummage through dead leaves like a boar. I don’t stop until my arms and nightgown are caked with mud and debris. I now have a fistful of baby leaves full of oil.

I run back to the village, past our cabin. I’m sweating in the heat of the sun but I like it. I burst into Draven’s house. His mother leaps up in surprise as I do so. Draven is pale and still. He looks dead. Am I too late?

No. His chest is rising and falling. His skin still slicked with a ghastly sheen. Gwen is asking me questions but I ignore her. I don’t want to look at her. I follow the instructions Tristan left in my mind.

I wash off my hands. Grabbing a bowl and using a wooden spoon handle as a pestle, I mash the leaves up. I mash them for all I’m worth until they’re bruised dark green and sticking together in clumps. Then I mash them some more. Well past when my arm and shoulder start burning from the labor. When it’s oily enough, I carry it over to Draven’s bed. I unwind his bandage.

The hole made from Victoria’s teeth is clotted and mangled, the skin around it scarlet. I grab a cup of water from the bedside table and douse it, rinsing it out. Then I scrape the contents of the bowl into the wound. I use my finger to wipe out every last drop of oil. Gwen hands me a clean bandage and I bind the wound up once more. We will need more plants. More medicine if he is going to heal. But for now we will have to watch and wait.

His lips are pale and I can’t look at his sickly face anymore. I cross over to the hearth as Gwen looks him over. My hands smell of thyme.
I pace in front of the fire.

Don’t be frightened.

There are strange baskets cluttered about with furs and carvings that aren’t Draven’s or Gwen’s. Offerings, I realize. Meager gifts for the boy they all used to mock. The boy who freed them. Maybe they expect him to lead.

I get lost in my head. I don’t know how much time passes, but sunlight is streaming in through the windows. Draven has yet to show any signs of life. My mother has somehow appeared and sits talking with Gwen in a corner.

I pinch my lip as I finally bring myself to look at her. Tristan’s killer. All I see before me is a bereaved woman who feels like an aunt to me. A woman who is on the brink of losing everything. If Draven dies, she’ll be alone. She made a mistake. A horrible mistake. Hunger drives people to the end of their wits. There was a mob. It was bright. She couldn’t see properly. She thought she was protecting her child. My mother might have done the same. But more than that, I’m tired of seeing Gwen suffer. I stop pacing and I do what Tristan would want me to do. What he did a thousand times.

“Gwen?” I look at her out of the corner of my eyes as she turns her head towards me. “I forgive you,” I mutter.

She stares at me. I start pacing again. I block her out once more as she starts to speak. No conversations right now. It was enough just to wrap my head around those three words.

They probably think I’m mad. Let them. I’m not. I’m light. I’m loved. I’m a sister. I’m Willow. And I will give.

T
he cool grass tickles my ears as I hold up my arm. My skin is deep golden. I run my hand against it. The rushing of the creek nearby is interrupted by a plop. I sit up to check on Jasper. I can see him over the stubby blackberry bushes. He’s tossing rocks into the water as he wanders the bank. His dark hair is swept behind him in a ponytail. He is lean, but not from hunger. From growth. He will be tall like our father. Like Scarlet.

Draven has watched Jasper toss in a rock and mimics him. His dark eyes study the ripples he has caused. The scar on his neck stands out pale against the chestnut of his skin. We’re both browner than we’ve ever been. And I like it that way. The green bracelet I braided for him this morning stands out all the more against his darkened flesh. He crouches as he picks up rocks as if he’s suddenly discovered treasure on the ground. Jasper sees him hunching and wanders over. Draven holds a rock out to him then rises.

They each toss their rocks into the water, trying to skip them. When Jasper fails, he grabs another from Draven’s hand. Jasper’s second rock splashes the two and he giggles. Draven smiles then tries to make his rock splash, as well. They look like two little boys, only one is twice as tall.

Boys.
My boys. Healthy and strong. Brown and alive.

I lay my head back down in the grass. The deep green of the leaves above give me peace. They whisper, their tips haloed in sunlight. I close my eyes. I feel a bite of sadness at their whispers. I miss Tristan.

But I am trying to make him proud. Trying to be happy for the both of us. Trying to maintain my courage. I am alive. Alive. A life.

Months have passed since Draven lay dying. Since I last felt Tristan’s presence. But that’s a good thing, I tell myself. It means he has moved on. He doesn’t need my help anymore. The funny part is that I needed his.
All along.

It took a dead man to remind me how to live.

I still miss him terribly. There have been many times when I’ve found myself wandering to his grave. No one really held a funeral. They would’ve buried him in our cemetery but the ground was too cold to dig. Instead they found a spot for him in the woods. I don’t mind. He’d like it better there, anyway. Elias’ body was conveniently forgotten.

I doubt I’ll ever stop thinking about the day Tristan died. What I could have done differently. What could have saved
him. But then I remind myself of the words I once spoke to him.
If, if, if.
A thousand ifs. A thousand possibilities, yet only one. Only one came true.

While I still weep at night for Scarlet and Tristan, I’ve learned that the only way I heal is by focusing on what I have, not what I’ve lost. So every night when I am about to sleep with Jasper at my side and crickets filling the air with song, I count my blessings.
My family. My health. Food. How hard I laughed when Jasper fell asleep at cards then shot up when he woke, asking “Did I lose?” How happy Gwen’s face is when she looks at her healthy son. The breadth of Draven’s smile.

And oh, how he smiles.
Enough for all of us. Like he’s making up for all the smiles everyone missed during the darkness. He knows what a gift he’s been given to live again. We all do now that the sun is back, but not like Draven. His delight in being out of bed, of movement without pain, is infectious. He’s addicted to using his body. Undaunted enthusiasm for experiencing novelty. Like a child. And that part of him reminds me of Tristan.

The light above me is blocked by a shadow.
A hawk. He screeches as he circles our clearing, hunting for field mice, keeping an eye on his master. He is young and doesn’t like to stray. He doesn’t yet know how to hunt and bring back prey to Draven, but he’ll learn. Draven doesn’t seem like he’s in a rush to train him. I think he really just enjoys the company. I do, as well. The hawk still has spotted feathers and the long legs of a youth, but he is beautiful. After asking my permission, Draven named him Tristan. In memory of the man who saved his life, and in honor of me.

A drop of cold water lands on my face and I hear Jasper squeal.
Lots of splashing. Sitting up, I see that the two have gotten into a play fight. Jasper is running upstream, trying to get out of range to spray Draven back, but there is no out of range.

Two laughs, one high and one deep. I am smiling. Because when I hear Draven laugh and see his smile, I know that the roots he has grown in my chest never died. And now I wonder if they’re growing something more. There are leaves and buds attached to the roots. Their presence is thrilling and humbling.
Frightening. I’m doing my best not to be afraid. But still, I’m not ready for them to flower yet.

Draven slips on a rock and goes down. Jasper squeals in triumph and attacks.
Enough watching.

I leap to my feet and dash over to join them. The water is cold and weighs down my dress but I let it get soaked. I join my brother in his onslaught and am rewarded by getting doused by Draven. I try to run away but I’m laughing too hard. He grabs my waist and yanks me down. I squeal as the cold is suddenly all over. But his chest is warm and my hand is resting upon the green bracelet on his wrist.

Our laughter rings out on the banks. In the green woods. The hillsides. The darkness is gone, but I will keep the lessons it taught me and the joy a young man brought me. For no matter what happens, what new flowers bloom in my chest, one will always belong to him. Evermore.