Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (14 page)

He raised his muzzle and howled. Roosting doves fled skyward with a noisy flapping of wings. His legs collapsed under him and his vision clouded. He dragged himself back to the thicket and laid his head down on his paws.

They could not return until sunset. When they did, he would be waiting.

In the springtime of the world, the One Tree stood alone.

And the Maker created the sacred trees to stand with

the One Tree.

And the trees became the First Forest and it covered

the earth.

And among the trees roamed the beasts of the

woodlands.

And above the trees soared the birds of the air.

And between the trees swam the fish of the rivers.

And beneath the trees crawled the creatures of the

earth.

But no people walked here …

—Legend of the First Forest

A
T FIRST, DARAK THOUGHT the giant trees were making him uneasy; even the smallest birch loomed above them. By midmorning, he realized it was more. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d catch a flicker of movement, a shadow flitting from trunk to trunk. Once he noticed the shadows, he saw more, as if his very awareness drew them closer. He had spent too many years in the forest to dismiss the sensation.

He let his gaze drift across the trees, hoping to spot a break in the pattern of color and light and motion. Struath watched him, two vertical creases forming between his brows. “What is it?”

“There’s … something.” Struath nodded; he must have noticed the shadows, too. Darak lowered his voice. “The wolf couldn’t cross over until sunset, could it?”

“Nay. At least …” Struath swallowed, then turned to the Holly-Lord. “There is a strange presence in the forest.”

“It is only the rootless ones.”

Struath’s breath hissed in. “So the story is true.”

“What story?” Darak asked.

“About the trees who have died—struck by lightning, killed by rot. Their spirits live on in the First Forest, guarding the living trees.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“My … the man who told me the story … he said the Watchers are not malevolent. As long as we do no harm to the trees, I think they will leave us alone.”

“And you trust the man who told you this?”

Struath looked away. “I believe the story.”

Darak estimated it was only midafternoon—it was impossible to tell in the dimness of the forest—but he called a halt when they reached a clearing. Harmless or not, he preferred to keep the Watchers at a distance. Besides, Struath looked utterly drained. If a day’s easy march exhausted him, how would he ever reach the Summerlands?

While Griane showed the Holly-Lord how to scoop up fallen leaves and pine needles for bedding, Darak squatted down to clear a space for the fire pit. “Yeorna, gather fuel, please. Twigs, pinecones …”

“Darak.”

“A moment, Struath. Bigger branches, too, if you find them. Struath, we’ll need stones for the fire pit.”

“Darak, you cannot light a fire.”

Darak examined the clearing again. The lowest branches were easily ten times a man’s height. Even if an errant spark flew that high, the wood was too wet to catch.

“There’s little danger. Griane, that’ll do for bedding—we’ve got the wolfskins as well.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Darak swiveled toward the shaman. “Then speak plain.”

“This is the First Forest. To light a fire here is an act of disrespect.”

“You expect us to survive without fire?”

“Fire is anathema to the forest. To build one can only incur its wrath.”

“So we’re damned if we build a fire and we freeze to death if we don’t. That’s our choice?”

“We have no choice, Darak.”

Darak rose. “Are you telling me you will not permit me to light a fire?”

“I am telling you that the First Forest will not permit it.”

“Tree-Father. Darak.” Yeorna dropped the dead branch she was dragging and walked toward them.

“When a hunter cuts ash to make a bow, he asks permission of the tree first. When we clear trees for a field, we offer a sacrifice. We’ve always done this and the trees have never punished us.”

Struath hesitated, then turned to the Holly-Lord. “Can you explain our need?”

The Holly-Lord looked troubled, but he walked among the trees, pausing to lay his palms against their trunks. When he turned back to them, he shook his head. “It is hard. Fire is the destroyer. They fear it.”

“Then I’ll build it,” Darak said. “And I’ll make the sacrifice. If the forest seeks vengeance, let it fall upon me and me alone.” He stared from his bloodstained sleeve to the dagger in his hand.

“Water,” Struath said.

“We need the water for ourselves.”

“Then it is a greater sacrifice than blood.”

After a moment, Darak nodded. He circled the clearing, sprinkling water on the ground while Struath and Yeorna chanted, “Water of life, we offer you. Fire, we ask in return.”

Even with a flint dagger, it was hard work digging up the frozen earth; despite the cold, he was sweating by the time he finished. After smoothing the furrowed earth with his fingers, he laid the rocks Griane had gathered in a circle. He dug into his belt pouch and dropped a handful of tinder into the shallow pit, then placed his notched fireboard over it to catch the first spark. Finally, he reached for his firestick.

He had crafted it from an ash branch, scraping it with the sharpened tine of an antler until it was only the thickness of his forefinger. Most men made a new firestick each winter; he had clung to his for three. In all their years together, it had never failed him.

He placed the blunt end of the firestick into one of the notches in the fireboard and whispered the simple prayer his father had taught him: “Ash-brother, give us fire.” Arching his fingers stiffly, he placed his palms at the top of the firestick and twirled it quickly. When his hands reached the bottom of the firestick, he began the ritual again.

It was slow work, but strangely soothing. He spun the firestick, his body swaying slightly with the rhythm of the movements. As he worked, he hummed the hunter’s song, a blessing for the smooth path, the clear shot, the true-flying arrow. Black dust collected beside the notch. His hands moved automatically while he watched for the first sign of smoke, the first glow of a spark.

He felt the others around him, and behind them, the unseen Watchers. Were they the ones preventing the fire from lighting? He shifted position without losing the rhythm. A gust of wind tugged at his mantle. A snowflake fell. His voice faltered. Struath took up the hunter’s song, weaving it into his chant for fire.

He repeated the prayer for fire, silently this time. One prayer each time his palms journeyed down the firestick.

Ten journeys.

Twenty.

Fifty.

Blisters formed and burst open on his raw palms. He spun the firestick faster to keep it from sticking to his oozing flesh. Griane’s hands appeared at the top of the firestick, beginning the twirling as his reached the bottom.

Ten more journeys and ten more after that. Yeorna’s voice was hoarse from chanting. A hand came down on his shoulder.

“Darak.”

He lost the rhythm. Found it again.

“Darak. Stop.”

He spun the firestick furiously and heard a sharp crack. He sat back, holding the shattered pieces of ash in his hands.

“It is not you,” Struath said. “It is the forest.”

He cleaned the fireboard and returned it to his pack. He gathered the tinder and sprinkled it into the pouch. He moved slowly, carefully. By the time he rose, he had conquered the helpless frustration that had threatened to overwhelm him.

He thrust the broken halves of the firestick in his belt. “Heap the leaves there.” He pointed to the over-arching roots of an oak. The hollow beneath was nearly the size of his hut. “Griane, help me unpack the wolfskins.”

“After I see to your arm.”

“Later.”

“That’s what you said in the grove.”

“They’re just scratches.”

Griane glared at him, hands on hips. “Now. But when the wound starts to stink and your arm swells up and turns black and—”

Silently, Darak pushed back his sleeve. Griane winced and no wonder; his arm was a bloody mess. She squatted down and unwrapped her bundle. A mantle, he realized. She opened a large doeskin bag and laid out an astonishing assortment of leather pouches, clay flasks and jars, a small stone bowl, a mortar and pestle, and several neat rolls of nettle-cloth.

“What did you do—raid Mother Netal’s hut?”

He could have cut himself on the look she gave him.

“What did you do—arm wrestle a bramble bush?”

“A quickthorn, actually.” It might have been her little snort that made him add, “I needed a blood sacrifice.”

Her hands went still for a moment, then busied themselves pouring water into the bowl. Her brisk but gentle touch surprised him. Although she was Mother Netal’s assistant, he still thought of her as his wife’s annoying little sister, the child who had once filled his shoes with porridge, the girl who had called him a brute and a bully just—gods, was it only yesterday?

“Keep your arm out,” she said, tossing out the bloody water. “Wrist up.”

She poured fresh water into the bowl, adding a pinch of herbs from one packet, a generous handful of dried leaves from another. “Yarrow and Maker’s mantle.” She stirred it into a paste, sending him another chilly blue-eyed blast. “I do know what I’m doing.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

She contented herself with unrolling one of the nettle-cloth bundles. With the same briskness, she sliced off several long strips of cloth, spread the paste on his cuts, and wound the bandage around his arm.

“Thank you.”

“I haven’t finished yet.”

“Not just for this. For standing with us the other day. For coming to warn us.”

Her fingers fumbled the roll of nettle-cloth. He caught it and pressed it back into her palm. She jerked her hand away and bent lower to tie the bandage at his wrist. Her long braid fell over her shoulder, the feathery tip tickling the inside of his elbow. He lifted the braid, intending only to swing it back over her shoulder, but she glared at him so fiercely that he dropped it.

“I’m done.”

“Thank you. Again.”

“They’re just scratches.”

She had always been a fierce child, moods blowing this way and that like a flame in a breeze. Tinnean had always understood her, though. She’d spent as much time in their hut as Red Dugan’s, sometimes even sleeping next to Tinnean, the two of them curled up like puppies. Some of his kinfolk had even speculated that they would marry someday, although she was a year older than Tinnean. He’d gotten plenty of elbows and giggles from the women, along with comments about how sweet it would be, the two brothers marrying the two sisters.

Frowning, he watched her help the Holly-Lord spread the wolfskins. Was that why she had followed them? Because she was in love with Tinnean?