Enchanted Forests (20 page)

Clare was ashamed. She softened her voice. "What is it, Simon?"

But whatever he had been about to say, the moment was tost.

He mumbled something and fled.

The rest of the day dragged on. Clare lowered the blinds over

the windows. She caught Maryanne Cray copying during third pe-

riod and was proud of herself for not screaming at the girl. Instead,

she sent her to the principal's office with a calmly worded note.

The parking lot was filled with cars, their exhaust pluming in

the air, as parents came to pick up their children. The battered

yellow buses were also loading students. Shouts and squeals

filled the air like soprano thunder. Clare moved quickly to her

car, hoping to get out ahead of the buses before they clogged up

the two narrow access roads. While she was cranking the old Es-

cort's engine, she chanced to see Simon again. He was getting

into a station wagon, driven by a man, his father if the raven

black hair was any indication. His father leaned toward him, rest-

ing one large hand on the back of the boy's thin neck.

Just then, someone knocked on her driver's side window and

she whirled around, eyes wide. She reached into her pocket and

her hand closed around the handle of the knife she always carried

with her. But it was only Finch out there, bundled up against the

chill of April in Minnesota. She rolled the window down part way.

"Hey there," he said. She was about to snap something at him,

but he held up a gloved hand. "No, look. I thought about what

you said. We did agree it was just a temporary thing. It's okay.

Just wanted you to know, I'm not going to give you a hard time

130

about it, like before. Friends?" He reached a glove through the

partly open window. For a moment, the briefest moment, she

saw herself stabbing him through his palm, creating stigmata. In-

stead, she unclenched her fingers from the hilt of the knife and

reached up to shake his hand. He smiled and left. Clare sat in her

car for a long time, trembling.

The air around Yggdrasil was filled with flakes of snow. They

kissed her cheeks, leaving icy tears. Clare wondered if she could

die from the pain in this dream, but the thought brought no fear,

only a vague curiosity. It wasn't the pain that frightened her so

much as the loneliness. At least Ratatosk would speak to her now.

The squirrel sat back on his haunches and regarded her with

his crimson eyes. He chased the crows away with absent flicks

of his great tail.

"Do you know the tale of Skadi?" he asked.

"Sure. She went to Asgard to revenge her father's death and

found a husband instead."

"Foolish fruit." But his voice was not unkind. "That is not her

tale, but only the glance of it."

"What do you mean? I don't understand. Please tell me why

I'm here. dearest Ratatosk. Please."

"Poor ornament. Do you know the First Rune yet?"

Clare tried to recall the story of Odin's winning of the runes. All

her studies in the waking world seemed infinitely far away. More

and more, it was only Yggdrasil that mattered. It was hard to think

as me rope twisted against her throat and the spear bit into her side

like a serpent. There were eighteen runes. Runes for unlocking, un-

binding, for confounding witches, but what was the first?

"Help," she remembered abruptly. "Help is the First Rune."

"So it is," said Ratatosk. "Wisdom is an empty bowl, until

filled with need." And with that the squirrel whisked away up

the trunk of Yggdrasil.

"Don't go! Please don't go. Don't leave me alone. Don't leave

me." Her voice rasped like a knife against bark. "Please don't

leave me."

But he was gone.

She fell silent at last. A great peace stole over her. Snow con-

tinued to fall until she was cloaked with it. She watched the

crows, the fragile crows, dance above me flames of Bifrost.

Dave was waiting in the kitchen for her the next morning. He

was making breakfast She sat on one of stools by the counter and

THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE 131

watched him. Skinny and tall, his graying hair fell to his shoulders

in a tangle. His hair was the exact color of Ratatosk's fur.

"You'll be late for work," she said.

He turned away from the pan in which he was clumsily scram-

bling eggs. His face was so open. She remembered how she had

loved the clarity of his expressions, and even now me honesty of

him pierced her, like a spear.

"I called in sick," he said. "I want us to talk, Clare. I want to

help."

Help, she thought. The First Rune.

"I have to be at school early. I didn't finish grading the tests."

"Please, Clare. Let me help."

"There's nothing wrong."

He stared at her, then turned back to the eggs. Without looking

at her, he spoke softly.

"I talked to your sister last night. I told her how worried I've

been about you- She told me about your father, Clare, and those

trips to the woods. She made me promise not to tell you that I

knew, but I can't keep that promise." Dave's voice started to

shake. "There was nothing you could have done, honey. It wasn't

your fault. Gail doesn't blame you—"

"Is this some kind of nineties male nurturing bullshit?" She

jumped off the stool. Her fists were clenched at her side. The

nails dug into her palms. "It's none of your business."

He faced her. "I love you, Clare. God, I love you. Things

haven't been so good between us, but I'm your husband. Please

let me try to help."

"Help? What are you going to do, build me a time machine so

I can save my sister from that bastard? That's the only help I

want from you. If you can't do that, then I don't need it"

"Maybe some kind of counseling—"

"That's everybody's answer for everything, isn't it?"

"It's been good for Gail. She thinks it would be good for you,

too."

"Just leave me alone, Dave. I don't need you."

He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. She hated

him for not being angry. She hated him for just standing there,

loving her.

"Don't wait up," she said, and left.

She didn't go to school.

Instead, she drove aimlessly, following the tree line out away

from everything, driving as fast as the old Escort could go.

132 Mark Kreignbaum

After hours of skirting the verge of the forest, she surrendered

to it. She found the old deer track her father had used so often

to take them, like secrets, into his green home. Soon, she was

parked on the hill her father had named Asgard, looking down on

her childhood joy and horror.

She sat in the car, staring out at the expanse of cottonwoods, and

farther away the sweep of maple, elm, and ash that cloaked the

rolling hills. A majestic rack of storm clouds crowned the forest.

She leaned forward and squinted through the windshield.

There was a tree out there that was huge, with branches that

reached impossibly high into the clouded sky. It was an ash. She

was sure of it.

Clare left the car by the side of the road with its doors open

and the key in the ignition. She entered the forest without look-

ing back.

She slogged through sloughs, her eyes marking the frogs and

wood thrushes. She recognized box elder, jewelweed and sweet

flag and the seedlings of silver maple and hackberry under the

cottonwoods. Somewhere, a wood duck squealed and she heard

the warbling call of a vireo. Her father had taught her all the

names of things, showed her the nests, found the hidden trea-

sures. He had made her love the forest as much as he did. She

stumbled through the trumpet creeper, tears blurring her vision-

Gail had hated the father-daughter trips, but Clare always con-

vinced her to come. How could she have failed to hear Gall's si-

lence and fear? How could she have been blind to the lantern in

the night? Had she really not known that those cries were not

owls? And if she had known, if she had allowed herself to know,

what men? The forest and her father would have been lost. And

Gail. Gail was always his favorite.

It took a long time for her to find the ash she'd seen from the

road. It rose, straight and tall as a column and its bole was doz-

ens of feet wide. She knew instantly that this was no ordinary

tree. Slender green ash saplings grew around it like pale children.

Its top was hidden in the lowering sky. She reached out a hand

to touch the ancient bark of the trunk. A gray squirrel chittered

at her from a nearby clump of bur cucumber.

"Ratatosk?" she murmured. The squirrel cocked its head at her

and skittered away.

Sinuous vines of trumpet creeper grew thick all around. Clare

put her hand in her pocket and found the knife that she had al-

most used on Terry. She spent a sweaty hour hacking vines free

THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE 133

until she had enough to weave into a rope. Then she went hunt-

ing for a piece of wood that could be whittled into a spear.

The storm clouds had begun to send a warning drizzle when she

was finally ready to climb. She'd always been an excellent

climber. The ash gave her few holds, but she was patient and de-

termined. Scattered drops of rain had begun to fall by the time she

found a branch. She rested there, trying to decide whether to climb

higher. A grim little smile touched her lips. Maybe the eagle was

waiting in the crown. The great noble eagle was fated to suffer the

insults of Nidhogg the dragon until Ragnarok, the Twilight of the

Gods, released him. She wanted to see him, just once.

She kept climbing, the spear tied to her back with the vine

rope. The intermittent rain mingled with the tears on her face.

Time passed. She couldn't tell how much because the driving

rain had stolen away the sun- Her arms ached and trembled with

strain and still the top of the tree remained out of sight, unreach-

able.

Clare slumped into a wedge between me trunk and a branch

and let the storm drive into her and wash the scrapes and cuts

that covered her hands and face. Her clothes stuck to her skin.

Her mind brought back the memory of the day many years ago

when her sister told her the truth about the camping trips. They

were in the garden section of some supermarket and Clare was

showing off by naming all the plants, when Gail broke down,

screaming. And the worst of it was that Clare guessed the reason

almost before Gail said it aloud- Clare had always known, some-

where.

Clare realized that her throat was raw from screaming. For a

long time, she simply crouched against me trunk of the tree,

shaking, unable to weep.

At last, she took out her vine rope and began to fashion a

noose. She wasn't sure how she would manage the spear, but

she'd think of something. Her father had taught her so much.

The ground below was lost in the storm's darkness.

"Even Loki did not go willing to the stone."

Clare looked up and saw a shadowy bulk perched a few feet

away on the branch. The figure blinked red eyes as large as plates.

"Ratatosk?" She smiled. "Ratatosk, my friend."

"Do you feel the waters of Urd, precious fruit? The Noms

have come." The great squirrel let out a mocking sigh. "Recall

134                    Mark Kreighliaum

the tale of Skadi, little one. She surrendered revenge for love, but

failed to keep her husband close."

"What do you mean? Oh, please, dear Ratatosk, no more rid-

dles."

"Very well, my lady. Did you believe that Odin won Help, and

all the others, for his own solitary glory? Do you believe the

master teacher desired no students?"

"I don't—"

"What use is wisdom, unless shared?" Ratatosk's flaming eyes

steamed in the rain. His voice was cold. "You are not alone on

the Tree, lady. But you, at least, have won the runes."

Before she could reply, Ratatosk leaped up and vanished into

the upper branches. Faintly, his voice came to her.

"The dragon hates the eagle, because the eagle does not hate

him."

Clare stared up after Ratatosk. Her last and best friend was

gone. But at least the crows were gone as well. The crows. That

reminded her of Simon. Clare closed her eyes, seeing the boy

and the look in his eyes, that broken look.

"Oh, no." It couldn't be. "God, no."

Clare rested her head on her knees. She thought she'd been

emptied of tears, but there were some left, after all. Was the boy

suffering what Gail had? She didn't know. But she couldn't get

his face out of her mind. And Dave's face was there, too. She

had left him to hang on another kind of Tree. It was enough to

make her consider again all of Ratatosk's words. The teacher

must teach. Suffering must be made into meaning. The First

Rune. The lesson of Yggdrasil.

After she climbed down from her perch, Clare stood before

the tree, soaked by the rain and chilled to the bone. She touched

the trunk again with the palm of her hand. The stories said that

Yggdrasil cared for all its children and suffered for them.