The Master of Heathcrest Hall (59 page)

As it happened, the first umbral of the year was also a greatnight, and so it was that the band of village men, having plenty of time and ale as well, roved far and wide around Cairnbridge, over heath and stream and dale, lighting the way with torches and lanterns. Alasdare had little issue keeping up with them, as he was not drinking the ale himself, and he banged on his pot with great enthusiasm all the way.

In the course of their rounds, they did not come upon any ghosts or spirits. But there are other sorts of shadows that slink about on a greatnight. So it was, plunging down a slope and through a hedge, the group suddenly came upon a man leading five horses down a bridle path. The man wore a kilt of ragged plaid above scuffed boots, and a sword hung at his side in a worn scabbard. That he was a Torlander was as obvious from his kilt as the
hoo-thar-nows
he spoke to the horses to keep them from rearing up at the sudden noise of the men breaking through the hedge.

Back then, the hills between County Westmorain and Torland were thick with bandits and brigands. Many of them were supporters of the Old Usurper who had been driven there by the king’s soldiers years ago, and now they made their living by creeping out of the Grimwolds on long nights to pilfer cattle and horses on either side of the border.

No doubt the fellow had presumed the folk of the village would all be keeping close to the fires and the ale casks that night, and that they would not be roving so far afield. Yet if he had thought
the revelry would provide cover for his mischief, he was mistaken. Now he had been caught leading five horses that were known to be the property of Handon Arrent—for Arrent was there in the party, and he recognized the horses at once as his own.

The village men shouted at the thief and made a grab for him. But the Torlander whipped the horses with a stick, sending them galloping at the men, forcing them to scatter. The villagers quickly calmed the horses and rounded them up, but in the interim the thief had turned and fled into the night.

The men quickly broke up into two groups to pursue him. One struck off for the river, in case he had used a coracle to make a crossing, and the others headed for the road to Low Sorrell, as that was the quickest route out of the county. There was only one other direction he might have gone from that place: over the hill north of Cairnbridge to strike out cross-country. But that would take him closer to the village, and treading the sides of the hill would have put him in plain view to all eyes, for the moon was rising by then, and no one thought he would be so foolish as that. With their plan formed, the men gave chase.

“And did you go with them?”

Mr. Quent shook his head. “No, Handon Arrent told me this was no longer a merry jaunt, and that I was to head back to the village. Then they left me there on the bridle path as they headed off into the night.”

Ivy met his gaze. “But you didn’t go back.”

Again he smiled. “No, I did not. I had the notion that if I were the one to find the thief, then I would make my father very proud of me. At that age, there was nothing else in all the world that I wanted.”

“And did you find the thief?” Ivy asked, though she thought she already knew the answer.

“Yes, I did,” he said, his smile vanishing. Then he finished the story.

Young Alasdare knew he couldn’t follow the village men, for if he caught up to them, they would only send him home. While the others had dismissed the idea that the thief would go over the hill,
Alasdare wasn’t so certain the Torlander wouldn’t make a go of it. If he were a thief, he reasoned, he would head in the direction everyone least expected.

So it was that Alasdare plunged back through the hedge and headed back the way they had come, climbing stiles and scrambling over stone walls. He ran as fast as he could, not stopping when he barked his shins on stones or nettles stung his hands. Soon he reached the hill that stood north of the village and started up the slope.

Whether his reasoning was right, or it was simply luck, he had gone halfway up the slope when, above him, he glimpsed a man in a dirty kilt pacing before a stone wall. Beyond the wall rose a tangle of black branches.

Alasdare understood the man’s hesitation, for the thief was in a quandary. The crown of the hill was covered with a stand of Wyrdwood. The thief could circle around to either side of the hill, but the sides were bare of all but heather and grass, and the moon was bright above. What was more, numerous red sparks of light moved all around the base of the hill. They were torches and lanterns, for more men had been enlisted in the search. All that one of them had to do was look up at the hill, and if the thief was there, exposed on the slope, they would see him.

So the Torlander dared not go around, but he could not go down either, for that way lay the village, and Alasdare could hear the church bell tolling an alarm. There was only one other way the man might go—over the wall.

Yet it was clear he was loath to do so, and nor could Alasdare blame him. For as long as he could remember, his father had warned him never to venture into a stand of Wyrdwood. Of course, he knew of a few boys who had done so upon a dare. But even then, for all their boasting, they had done nothing more than to creep a few feet into the eaves of a grove of Old Trees before turning back, and then only in the middle of a long lumenal.

Now it was a greatnight, and the branches of the trees hung over the wall like hands withered by fire.

Alasdare thought for certain the thief would attempt to go
around the side of the hill, clinging to the shadows by the wall in the hope he would escape notice. Only then the fellow looked up, and he let out a cry of surprise to see Alasdare standing there below him in plain view, lantern in hand.

That a brawny and coarse-faced man should have been afraid of a boy—one who was short for his twelve years—was astonishing. But perhaps the Torlander assumed that the appearance of Alasdare meant the men were just behind. If so, the fear of being captured evidently outweighed any other, for at once the Torlander scrambled up the stone wall, using the overhanging branches to pull himself up and over. In a moment he was gone, vanished into the Wyrdwood.

“I should have gone back to the village,” Mr. Quent said. “I should have told my father what I had seen. But I was taken with the idea of catching the Torlander—though I confess I had little idea what I would do when I did. And so I climbed up the wall after him.”

Even though she had fully expected this, based upon her knowledge of his history, still Ivy let out a gasp.

“You went into the Wyrdwood,” she murmured.

“Yes,” he said, though he did not seem proud of it. “In my eagerness, all of my father’s warnings were forgotten. I scaled the wall quickly enough, being a nimble climber, then dropped to the dry leaves on the other side. Then, following the Torlander, I went deeper into the stand of trees.”

Now he looked away from her, into the darkness that filled the chamber, as if gazing into that shadowy grove once more.

“Even if I wished to, I could scarcely recount for you what took place after that. I could see little in the gloom, for I had left my lantern, being unable to carry it as I climbed the wall. And if there are words capable of describing such sounds as I heard, I do not know what they are. But as I went into the Wyrdwood, the air was filled with a terrible creaking and groaning, and the trees thrashed as if stirred by a fierce wind, though I was sure the night had been clear and calm.

“Before long, I forgot any desire to find the thief, and I wanted nothing but to make my way back to the wall. But I could not find it. On my way into the grove, I had followed what seemed to be a little path, one that shone faintly in the glimmers of the moon that fell through the branches above. But when I tried to retrace it, the path seemed to bend around, leading deeper in the grove. It was as if the trees had somehow shifted. Soon I was certain I had gone around in a giant circle.

“I began to feel a great fear then. I tried to call out, but the air stifled my voice so that it did not carry. Indeed, I felt an overwhelming surety that my presence in the wood was unwanted. An urge came upon me to run through the grove in any direction. It did not matter which way—to stand still was unbearable. But at that very moment, I saw him in a wild flicker of moonlight: the Torlander. Just past him, between the tossing branches, I glimpsed a rough expanse of gray. It was the wall. He must have seen it as well, for he let out a shout and ran toward it. But then …”

He shook his head, and for a minute he was silent. When at last he spoke again, his voice was very low.

“I could see little, for even as the thief moved the forest grew suddenly thick, as if the trees crowded around him. I saw him draw his sword and try to hack at the branches. But this only seemed to make the trees bend and lash all the more vigorously. After that I could not see him through the branches. But the sounds—what I heard froze my blood. There was a grinding, and a noise like the snapping of dry twigs. I heard him cry out again, and then his cries ceased in a most unnatural manner.

“Still the trees tossed and bent, as if whipped by a wind I could not feel myself. I caught another glimpse of the wall, not twenty yards away through the trees. My every desire was to run for it, but I knew I dared not, that if I ran, if I fought against them in any way, then the trees would close around me just as they had around the Torlander. So instead I huddled in a hollow at the foot of an old oak, pressing myself against the rough bark of the great trunk, trying to make myself as still and small as the least bit of fungus or
mold that clung to it. I shut my eyes and did not move. And in that way, I spent the remainder of the greatnight in the Wyrdwood.

“It seemed an eon. Indeed, I know now it was nearly twenty hours that I crouched against the tree without motion. After a time I felt a pain in my hand, one that grew worse by the hours, but still I did not dare to move. Only when, at last, I detected a light warmer and brighter than moonlight on my face did I open my eyes. Little dapples of sunlight fell upon the mold of the forest floor. Morning had come.

“There was not a breath of wind, and all the grove was still. My father had always said it was at night the Old Trees woke, especially on a greatnight, and that by day they drowsed. Recalling this, I thought to leave the hollow where I had crouched. But as I tried to move, I found that my left hand was caught fast in a crack in the tree. The bark had curled and folded around my fingers during the night, clasping them fast, and no amount of tugging would free them. I cried out, hoping my father might hear me, for certainly he was searching for me. But the listless air in the wood muffled my shouts, so that they did not carry. Nor would my father ever think I would be so foolish as to venture into the Wyrdwood. I would have to find my own way out.

“With my free hand, I took out my ivory-handled pocketknife. I thought to use the blade to pry free my hand. But, even as I set it against the bark, a shudder passed through the tree, and I thought I heard, or felt rather, a groan emanate from it. I recalled the way the Torlander had swung his sword at the branches—just before I heard him scream. And I recalled as well, from looking at the almanac previously, that the day was to be a short one.

“There was nothing that could have compelled me to endure remaining in the wood for another hour, let alone another night. And so, to free myself, I turned my knife upon that which I knew could be safely cut without invoking any retribution from the trees.”

“No!” Ivy gasped, propelled up from the chair by a horror, as if she were witnessing the scene. “Not upon yourself!”

But she knew the truth of it. She had always believed it was the Old Trees that had taken his fingers. But they hadn’t; he had surrendered them willingly. And so he had lived.

He turned his left hand in the manacle and traced the thumb over the thick scar on the side. “Once I was over the wall, I found one of the men who was out looking for me, and he took me to my father in the village. I told him what I had done, how I had followed the thief, and where I had been. He looked at my hand, then wrapped his handkerchief around it and drove me home. He did not rebuke me for failing to heed his warnings about the Wyrdwood—not then or ever afterward. I lay in a fever for some days, and when I was well again, he did not speak of that day. Nor did he ever.”

At last he fell silent.

“And what of the Torlander?” Ivy asked, sinking back into the chair.

“The thief was never seen again. But some years later, a shepherd told a tale of finding a rusted sword on the slope near the Wyrdwood, as if something had heaved it over the wall.”

She reached out and took his hand again, the maimed one. Then, helplessly, she began to weep.

“Do not cry, Ivoleyn,” he said in a gruff tone. “It was all long ago, and I survived, as you know.”

“But it was so awful!” she exclaimed, still unable to stop the flood of tears.

“No, not really so awful as that,” he said. “A little cut, and it was quickly done. And given my state at the time, I hardly felt a thing. Besides, I was lucky. I have seen the Wyrdwood do far worse. As have you.”

She could only think of Gennivel Quent, how she had tried to scale the wall of the Wyrdwood—and had tumbled to her death.

“You must hate it so,” she said, her sobs easing at last. “The Wyrdwood.”

“Hate it? No, I do not hate the Wyrdwood. You must know that.” Now it was he who gripped her hands, straining against the manacles to do so. “But it is older than mankind, and cares little
for it, I think. What I learned that day, and have learned over again in my work as an inquirer, is that the Wyrdwood is not a thing to be hated or feared, but rather respected. And I learned something else as well.”

“What was it?” she said, when he failed to go on.

He hesitated, as if thinking of how to answer. Or rather, she had the sudden, peculiar impression that he knew what he wanted to say, but that he was gathering the courage to speak it.

Mr. Quent tightened his hold upon her hands. “I learned that sometimes you must be willing to lose something precious to you in order to escape, and to endure—that no matter how unthinkable it might seem to make such a sacrifice, all the same it must be done so that you may persist.”