The Whispering Trees (3 page)

“As safe as it gets here,” she said.

Before Kara could stop him, Taff was ankle-deep in the stream. He plunged his face beneath the water.

“It's delicious!” he shouted, coming up for air. He bent down to drink more, but Kara held him back.

“The water's
fine
, Kara,” he insisted.

“You don't know that.”

Cupping her hands, Kara took a hesitant sip, then a longer one. The water, cold and refreshing, soothed her parched throat. Though her body yearned for more, Kara stopped herself; she would give it time to settle first and see how her stomach reacted.

“How long have you been watching us?” Kara asked warily, leading Shadowdancer to the stream.

“Since the gritchenlock first snatched you up. I was waiting to see if you would live or die.” She shrugged. “It passed the time.”

“You could have helped us!” Taff exclaimed.

The woman shook her head. “Today is not a day for tree-climbing, I'm afraid. If you had caught me yesterday—well, that would have been a different story.”

Taff put his hands on his hips. “That doesn't make any sense.”

“And yet it's true,” replied the woman. “Rather like a gritchenlock.”

“That's nothing like a gritchenlock.”

“Also true. How did you know you were inside one? Most just walk around in circles, all oblivious-like, until their air runs out and the digestive process begins. The spinning, you see. Makes the prey think it's still moving, when really it has not moved at all.” The woman clucked with appreciation. “Rather clever.”

“It's terrible,” said Kara.

“No,” said the woman. “Not terrible at all. Most of the gritchenlock's victims die in their sleep. In the Thickety, that passes for kindness.”

The rain, until then a soft drumbeat against the leaves above, began to fall harder. Taff glared at his sister stubbornly while catching a few drops on the tip of his tongue, as if daring her to forbid him a drink from this water as well.

“Look,” the woman said.

Vines creaked and stretched as the gritchenlock
descended from the treetops. Upon striking the surface its massive petals slowly unfurled across the ground, their interior darkening from green to the precise shade of the soil: a perfectly camouflaged trap.

“Works better at night,” said the old woman, “but you aren't the first to be caught during the day. Don't blame yourself. Things are disorienting here, especially for newcomers.”

“Who are you?” Kara asked.

The woman scratched the side of her head, pinching something between her fingers and flicking it away. “You still haven't answered my question. How did you know how to escape?”

“My mother and I used to pick weeds in the Fringe,” Kara said. “She was a healer, and there were many plants there that could be turned into medicine. But she also taught me what to
avoid
. Tulinets and dirt maidens, meat-eaters like that. One night—we had been picking cabbage all day; I remember because my hands were stained green
and I kept wiping them against my frock—she took me deep into the Fringe and we knelt next to what I thought were just some petals that had fallen to the ground. My mother dimmed the lantern and we ate sunflower seeds in the dark.” Kara's voice cracked, and she took a moment to collect herself. It was, as always, the small, specific memories of Mother that pierced her heart with loss. “Finally a mouse scuttled across the leaves and the trap sprung, lightning fast. The petals came together, just off the ground, and began to spin around a short stalk. My mother brought me close so I could hear the mouse moving inside. ‘Poor thing thinks it's still running free through the night,' she told me. ‘Doesn't realize its air is running out as we speak. Soon it'll be gone.' I begged her to save it, and though it wasn't my mother's practice to interfere with the workings of the Fringe, that night she listened. ‘The strongest man in De'Noran couldn't pry these leaves apart,' she said, ‘but watch this.' She ran a single fingernail between the petals and they stiffened before unfolding, giving the
mouse a nice little hill to tumble down.”

“Is that what you just did in the gritchenlock?” the old woman asked. “Parted the petals? That old trick—nothing more?”

“Actually, it was my brother.”

Taff, still trying to catch raindrops with his tongue, smiled brightly and waved.

The old woman sighed. “The Fringe is an unusually dangerous place for children.”

“We've had unusual childhoods.”

“What is your name?”

“Kara Westfall. This is my brother, Taff.”

The old woman gave a slight nod, as though Kara had simply confirmed something she already knew.

“Who are you?” asked Kara.

“My birth name, if you're interested in those sorts of things, is Margaret Allweather. But you might know me by another moniker, given to me much later. Mary Kettle?”

A soft gasp escaped Taff's lips. He moved to Kara's side.

“Ahh,” said Mary. “I see you've heard of me.”

Cold rain streamed down Kara's back. Wind whistled through the trees like a keening sigh, as though on the verge of saying something but unable to form the necessary words.

“You're dead,” Kara said. She stepped protectively in front of Taff and withdrew her penknife. “You died centuries ago.”

“I
vanished
centuries ago. Substantial difference.”

“You can't still be alive.”

“And yet I am. Wonderful thing, magic.”

“I won't let you hurt him.”

Mary Kettle regarded Kara with undisguised amusement. “And why would I want to do that?”

“I've heard the stories. I know what you do to children.”

“You know what I
did
. But you need my help. You're all
alone in this place, and you are already in danger. There are creatures here that can smell magic, that live for the taste of it—”

“I have no magic.”

Mary Kettle smiled, her teeth yellow with age but still sharp enough to bite.

“I doubt that very much, Kara, daughter of Helena.”

A gust of wind swept through the treetops. Instead of rustling, the leaves
whispered
, a rushing stream of almost-words that fell just short of intelligibility. The whispers were the opposite of bells, songs, the coos of newborn babes. They were the absence of hope itself.

“What is that?” Kara asked, surprised to find her eyes brimming with tears.

“The Thickety is different than other forests,” Mary said. “It is not rich soil and the rays of the sun that make these trees flourish, but pain and suffering, heartache and despair. Their leaves will never turn golden or red, nor will they crackle on a cool autumn evening.
But sometimes, if the wind hits them just right, they whisper.”

The wind stopped, silencing the trees and exposing the sound of snapping branches as something plowed through the forest, heading in their direction. A moaning wail echoed through the trees, followed by a chorus of high-pitched chitters.

“Something's coming,” Taff said.

And then the forest exploded with motion as creatures small and large rushed past, a whole world that had remained hidden beneath the underbrush and in the canopy above now fleeing in a crazed exodus. Kara watched in wonder as they passed, far too many to register at once: winged batlike animals with drooping silver faces, two-footed dragons no larger than squirrels, a flat circle of eyes pinwheeling its way along the ground. These were not animals accustomed to traveling together, but they were united in one basic need: to get away as quickly as possible.

“He knows you're here,” said Mary Kettle.

Neither of the children bothered to ask who she meant. They knew.

“How did he find me so quickly?” Kara asked.

“This is his Thickety, child. He knows all.”

Above them the treetops crept together in huddled masses, darkening the forest to a false dusk.

“Come with me. I know a place he cannot reach you. It's safe there, for you and your brother.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Another horrific wail filled the sky. Closer this time.

Kara didn't move.

“Do as you will,” Mary Kettle said, eyeing the nearby ridge. “But I won't waste my life waiting for your decision.”

“We're not afraid,” Kara said. She wanted the words to sound brave and defiant, but she could hear the quiver in her voice.

“Not afraid of what?” Mary asked. “Death? Is
that
what
you think will happen?” Her gray eyes grew wide. “You're even more foolish than I thought.”

With that the woman threw her tinkling sack over one shoulder and started along the path, never once turning her head to check that the children were following her.
What choice do we have?
Kara thought. Seeing the same question in Taff's eyes, she lifted him onto Shadowdancer's back, and they quickly followed the old witch deeper into the Thickety.

T
hey raced through the forest, spurred onward by a crescendo of footsteps and cracking branches. A muffled boom of thunder shook the treetops, and Kara glimpsed a flash of lightning through a gap in the canopy. For a heartbeat the black leaves sizzled green and revealed the Thickety in its entirety: monstrous tree trunks, gnarled roots bulging out of the ground like ancient veins, a pulsating patch of amber moss. Then the sky turned dark and once again their only lights were
the green eyes that dotted the false sky, watching them from high above like cursed stars.

Mary Kettle and Taff rode Shadowdancer, while Kara followed them on foot. The darkness and uneven ground hindered the mare's speed, allowing Kara to keep pace. A stitch was beginning to form in her side, however, and her legs shook with exhaustion. She would have to rest soon or collapse.

“We're almost there,” said Mary, as though reading Kara's thoughts. Given what she knew about the old witch, Kara supposed this was a possibility.

They descended through a patch of knee-high weeds with blue bulbs that dangled low and whistled tiny puffs of steam as they passed, Kara's feet soggy and cold in her soaked-through boots.
What am I doing?
she thought.
We're following an evil witch who's as likely to steal our souls as save us
. Kara started to lag behind, Shadowdancer now just a vague silhouette between the trees, the stitch in her side growing fearsome teeth. Then Mary leaned over and whispered something in Shadowdancer's ear,
and they came to a sudden stop.

“Here,” said Mary. She slid from the mount and nearly lost her balance upon hitting the ground. Taff reached over to steady her.

“Thank you, little gentleman,” she said.

Before them a stone bridge stretched into the darkness. Kara cautiously peered out over the expanse and saw nothing below, the light through the canopy squeezed to the faintest trickle in this part of the Thickety.

“It'll be dark on the bridge,” said Mary, handing Kara Shadowdancer's reins. “You'll have to lead her.”

Thunder crashed and the treetops flashed green once more, revealing their pursuers. Their appearance was vaguely wolflike, but with features exhumed from the ground: hollow, branch-boned bodies, ruby-leaved mouths and bright, flowering eyes. At their head was Sordyr, his face concealed beneath the folds of a pumpkin-orange cloak that stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see, flowing through the trees like mist.

Kara stepped backward onto the bridge. The monstrosities edged closer. Though Sordyr's eyes remained hidden Kara could feel them trained on her every move.

Shadowdancer's reins pulled taut in her hands.

“Shadowdancer,” Kara whispered to the unmoving horse. She yanked the reins harder. “Shadowdancer, come on.”

At first Kara thought that the mare was reluctant to step upon the bridge, this man-made thing that spanned impossible spaces in the air. That wasn't the case, however. Shadowdancer was
trying
to move with all her might, her sinewy muscles straining with effort. Trying, but unable.

Looking down, Kara saw the reason. Four thick roots coiled tightly around Shadowdancer's legs, shackling her to the earth.

“Hold on, girl,” Kara said, unclasping her penknife.

Before she could step forward and make the first cut, however, a strong hand grasped her arm. “Don't step off the bridge!” Mary exclaimed. “The Forest Demon must
remain rooted to the earth at all times—he cannot cross stone. You are safe here.”

“I have to help her!”

“No! If you place a single foot on the earth he will take you as well.”

Shadowdancer watched Kara with trusting eyes, waiting for her to do something. To save her.

“She is lost,” Mary said. “I'm sorry.”

And then Sordyr was before them, no more than an arm's length away. He craned his neck forward so that Kara caught a glimpse of his eyes, moss-green wells that held bottomless depths of pain and cruelty.