“Can you walk this far to the stones?” he asked Lyndon.
The old man’s body convulsed with a deep, racking cough, making his back and knees spasm. “I must.” Each of his spine knuckles rippled against Little John’s hands.
“Three steps. Tradition says that you must approach the last three steps on your own. Crawl if you must.” The Green Man took a dozen long strides until he could just brush his fingertips to the stone, as close as he dared bring the dying man in his arms.
Then Little John dropped to one knee. Lyndon’s body fell limp. A sob heaved up from the center of his chest. Too late!
Not quite. Lyndon spasmed once more and rolled to the ground. His fingers flexed and grabbed the turf. His shoulders heaved, and he drew himself three finger lengths closer. His other arm swung forward, and he repeated the effort. Then he paused to pant.
Elena joined Little John in the vigil. Her transparent form wavered in and out of sight. “It would be very easy for him to give up now before he achieves the final merging.” Her voice whispered into Little John’s ears as well as his mind.
“This is important to him, despite his years away honoring another god.”
“The stones are not god,” said Will Scarlett, the bard. He unslung his harp from his back and strummed a mournful chord. His clear voice sang a complementary note, announcing to one and all, mortal or spirit, that Lyndon would be missed, but his time on Earth had come to an end.
Lyndon seemed to revive a morsel of strength as he pulled himself forward one more time.
“The stones represent human need to reach for the divine,” Robin Goodfellow added, stepping up to stand at Little John’s other side.
One by one, each of the Wild Folk joined to honor one who had been lost to them but returned home to die. The ritual Lyndon attempted would be repeated by each of them in turn, some sooner, some later. To be born in the shadow of the towering stones instilled a need to die among them.
“The stones are our anchor to life and to this land. Only here can we set our souls free by returning the weight of life to the stones,” Tuck said, the last to join the circle around the three stones. He lifted his voice in a firm recitation of a plainsong.
Little John didn’t understand the language of the song, but he felt the mournful nature behind the words and the cadence.
Lady Ardenia’s voice plucked a note from Will Scarlett’s harp and embellished it with the slow, almost reluctant flow that sounded like a stream withering in a drought.
Each of the Wild Folk, drawn here by instinct and communal need for sharing Lyndon’s last act, added their own voice and song to the melody. Each expressed grief at his passing as well as joy that he was free of pain and the frustration of forgetfulness at last.
A sudden hush fell upon the meadow. The sun rose higher, shortening and defining the shadows cast by the standing stones. With a last surge of strength, the ancient monk heaved himself forward one last finger length and rested his palm against the base of the center stone. A smile crept over him as he stared upward at whatever awaited him on the other side.
Elena stepped forward, a misty outline of her three-faced self, barely solid enough to hold her shape. She flowed to Lyndon’s side and offered her hand to his spirit.
Wavery and losing solidity, Lyndon rose from his body. He touched the goddess’ hand briefly and passed into the stone. Light, brighter than sunlight reflecting on water, flashed for an instant. Then the stone faded back to its normal mottled gray.
Elena glowed, too, then faded to nothing. Her obligation complete, she could return to her normal abode in Nick’s pocket.
“Where is Nick?” Little John asked. He needed the boy alive and well in only a few weeks’ time when the doorway to Faery Underhill could be opened by any sorcerer. “He should be here.”
Tuck looked around, startled. “I sent for him. . . .”
* * *
Jane looked up from her pile of mending, surprised at the sudden silence surrounding her. The light changed around her, flickering strangely.
Her fingers ached where she’d held her old iron needle for so long. Compared to the slender silver needle, her stitches were now huge and clumsy. This gave the faeries one more reason to sneer at her. But they always had more garments to repair. What good was having sixteen gowns or tunics when they only wore one at a time?
The faeries, one and all, halted their endless games of chance, composition of nonsensical ballads, mock sword fights, and perpetual flirtation. As if summoned by some silent alarm, they dropped all their props and formed a single line behind Queen Mab. Staring at nothing with blank expressions, they filed through a tiny crack in the cave walls.
Uneven patterns of raw stone piled together from upheavals in the earth and rough erosion from constant trickles of water oozing down them revealed the natural cave. None of the walls or the floors were even or symmetrical. Nothing but unshaped dirt and stone. The air turned cold, and the light coming in through holes in the ceiling faded.
The marble tiles she had scrubbed so endlessly vanished as well.
The illusion of a grand palace fell away as did the masks of youth and beauty on each of the faeries. Their bodies sagged, flabby and weak; long limbs looked like rough branches with twig fingers and toes. Long, elegant streams of hair took on the texture and appearance of dry hay. Only their clothing—mostly mended by Jane—remained bright and colorful, draping gracefully upon withered frames.
Their wings sagged until their delicate tips dragged on the floor, lacking color and definition as well as the near-constant tiny flutters Jane had grown so used to, that she couldn’t notice movement until it was gone. The wings looked like autumnal leaves, dry and brittle just before the onset of full winter.
Jane had witnessed this behavior before. The trance affected all the faeries at the same time, but without a pattern that Jane could see.
As one, all the faeries turned sideways and took measured shuffling steps through the crack. Faint yellow light—akin to the color of new buttercups—crept through the opening, intermittently blocked by each passing body. The long shadows falling behind the faeries looked more like their illusory selves than their current dilapidated state.
When the last handmaiden and messenger had passed through the cave wall, Jane gathered her courage, put down her endless mending and followed them, careful to stay far enough behind so they didn’t notice her. She’d never had the courage to discover why these fits came over the faeries. But now, now that someone had spoken into her mind, warning her to prepare, she felt she needed to know what overtook them during this mass trance.
Jane touched the white sleeve of Lily. The young handmaiden to the queen had treated her, if not kindly, at least not cruelly. “What is happening?” she asked.
Lily stared forward, like all the others, toward that strange light that grew brighter with each step, and pulsed to the rhythm of a slow and ponderous heartbeat. Lily kept moving toward the light; each step matched the throbbing light.
Jane’s fingers had to release her grip on the faery or risk tearing the gossamer fabric of her sleeve. Jane had too much mending already.
Once through the crack, the cave opened into a vast circular room with carved and polished walls that reflected the yellow light in all directions. A series of broad terraces led downward from where they stood. In the center of the room, well below the rim, sat a polished yellow gem that glowed within . . . or maybe only reflected the sunlight now pouring through a circular opening in the roof, so far above Jane that she had no way to judge the distance.
Jane had to cover her eyes with her arm to guard against the glare.
The faeries reached the next to lowest level of the terraces. Now their shoulders touched, but they made no shift of position or posture to indicate they were aware of anything but the stone. As one, they raised their arms until their hands reached for the planes a
nd facets of the glowing rock. None of them touched it. They simply basked in the pulsing glow, bathing in the light.
Slowly at first, then more and more quickly, their twiggy fingers filled out and became normal, as did their arms. Then as the light increased, their bodies, faces, and hair resumed the illusion of youth and beauty, their clothing took on new sparkle. And their wings . . . their wings fluttered up and out, no longer drooping.
With the renewal of their wings, each faery drifted upward, still entranced by the light.
Suddenly, the sun above the chamber shifted, or a cloud moved across it. The light dimmed. Jane’s vision cleared of the sun dazzle. Now that she could look directly at the gem, she saw that it was not one huge and glowing crystal, but dozens upon dozens of pieces piled and fused together. Collectively, the facets reflected more light than any single one could.
The faeries shook their heads, casting off the bedazzlement, and they all smiled at each other, slowly returning to the ground.
Their lives had been artificially enhanced and renewed.
Queen Mab was the last to plant her feet on the stone terrace. Her gaze remained fixed upon the stone. She alone took the last step downward and touched the gem. It had lost its glow, seemingly imparting it into the faeries. The queen caressed the clear, yellow, smooth facet, cupping one side of it as a mother cradles her baby’s face.
A bright flash, like lightning on a summer night, sprang from the stone into Mab’s hand. She jerked her offended limb away, rubbing it against her gown.
Jane smelled burned flesh.
She scuttled back to the main room of the cave, restored to its palace richness in furnishings and decoration. Once more, the floor looked like marble tiles that she would have to scrub as soon as Mab noticed her doing something else. By the time Jane plunked down on her stool—no longer a ragged boulder—the first faery squeezed through the crack in the wall. Jane took careful note of its position before the illusion of tapestry and wooden paneling covered it once more.
That stone was the source of Faery power and magic. They had to return to it to maintain their illusions.
What would happen to Bracken if he did not come home to the stone soon?
Twenty-One
Weak light crept through gaps between the roots above Nick. He could almost discern Henry sprawled beside him, like a novitiate prostrating before an altar. Another figure pressed himself up against the earthen walls of their cavern prison.
He looked back, seeking the framework of the trapdoor and its latch and found nothing in this dim light.
“Where are we?” Nick asked the vague man-shape.
“Nowhere you want to be,” said the man in the same voice—stronger and less distant—that had summoned them for help.
Nick pulled himself to his feet and tried to touch the ceiling. His fingers just barely brushed the first rootlets dangling through the packed dirt. With a boost, he could grab hold of one and pull himself back up to safety.
“Don’t bother trying,” the stranger said. “She is waiting and will bite your fingers off before you get a purchase.”
“Who is she?” Nick tried in vain to remember any tales about a dangerous female living in the forest.
“Mammoch, Goddess of the Hunted. The biggest and meanest wild pig I’ve ever seen.”
Little John had mentioned her when he warned Nick about the dangers of the forest, especially at night. But it was not night. Closer to noon than sunset.
Henry pulled his knees beneath him, shaking his head free of lingering shock from their fall through the forest floor. “Goddess of the Hunted,” he muttered. “The ancient crone of my village talked about her as if she was a sister. No one else knows the tales, or if they know, they don’t talk. The men used to cross themselves and kiss their blessed talismans for protection, then walk away every time they had to pass near the old woman. Said she was a witch. Too afraid of her to report her to the priests.”
“Mammoch, I’ve heard it once from the Woodwose. No one else. I’d remember that name if I ever read about it. And I’ve read every scroll and book in the scriptorium,” Nick said. The hoarded documents rarely said more than a few words about any forest lore other than to dismiss them as remnants of old pagan religions and therefore invalid.
He’d learned more from Will Scarlett who sang as often as he talked.
In the near distance he heard a soft whuffing snort, sort of like one of the village pigs rooting around for things to eat in the dirt.
“By the Starfire, she’s coming back!” The faery pressed his back tighter against the dirt wall of their prison and covered his head with his arms.
“Faery, you are no longer alone,” a harsh female voice cackled. “My traps worked. I shall dine well tomorrow.” The reek of rancid meat wafted through the roots. She’d already eaten today.
“Why wait until tomorrow?” Nick called out in direct challenge.
“The sweat of fear makes the meat all the sweeter. You need time to ripen.”
Nick shifted his gaze from side to side, trying to discern the size and shape of their tormentor. Like the Wild Folk, he guessed that she had to take her human form in order to speak, even if each phrase was punctuated by a grunt.
Then a cloven hoof stepped upon the mat of smaller roots, testing their strength and resiliency. Human fingers but no thumb, crusted with dirt and horny nails, grabbed hold of the mat, and it sagged beneath the full weight of the wild pig. Close to thirty-five stone. Indeed, the biggest of wild pigs, more than the boar he’d seen slung on a pole by the sheriff’s beaters. That one was huge—enough meat to feed the entire castle and staff for a week. The kitchen serfs had claimed it to be seventeen stone, and the two-foot-long curved tusks made a substantial trophy to mount on the wall of the great hall.
“Watch the passage of the sun and count the hours. Do not sleep, but cherish your last time alive,” Mammoch grunted. Her tusks curved upward from her lower jaw. The silvered tips, shining in the shifting light, came level with her snoutlike nose. Then she stood up straight, and Nick caught sight of twelve teats, more than enough to suckle a normal litter of piglets.
The shadowy form crouched back onto four legs and sprouted bristling hair that varied from golden brown to silver-streaked black. Grunting and snorting, she wandered off, leaving her prisoners to ripen.
The faery slumped to the ground, burying his face in his knees.
Henry looked like he wanted to do the same.
Nick caught his friend by the cowl of his robe. “We have to get out of here. I don’t think she’ll be back until dawn.”
He drew a deep breath and prepared to whistle, the same birdlike call Will Scarlett had taught him.
His throat clenched; no sound emerged.
He tried again.
Silence. His voice chose not to work, and he could do nothing about it.
“H . . . how do we get out of here?” Henry asked.
Nick couldn’t call for help. What would Elena tell Nick to do?
Think, silly boy. Use your head as your God intended.
He didn’t need to hear the three-faced goddess to know what she would say.
He hooked his thumbs into his rope belt while he paced the three steps in each direction. Rope belt.
“Henry, how strong are you?” He eyed the shorter boy up and down, shorter and more slender than he, but still solid.
Henry blinked in bewilderment. “As strong as I need to be plowing, planting, harvesting in our gardens, trimming trees, and hauling off the debris. Why? What are you planning?”
“If we knot our belts together, then I boost you up to clear an opening, could you then haul me up, once you’ve got solid footing?”
The faery stood up, suddenly interested.
“I’d rather you stand on my shoulders to do the clearing part, and then you haul me up. I’m not liking the idea o
f being up there and exposed to old Mammoch alone.”
“You won’t be alone long.”
“You’re bigger than me. You haul me out.” He began unwinding his belt, all six feet of it.
Nick did the same.
“What about me?” the faery asked. He looked down at his own simple tunic and leggings, soft boots, meant for indoors or flying. Not for walking.
“We’ll haul you out. It will take both of us. Earthbound, I suspect you are heavier than you look. And you’ve been down here so long, the ground wants to keep you. Otherwise, you’d have flown out when the pig goddess first trapped you.” Nick dismissed him as he studied the woven mat of dirt and rootlets, looking for the section that would be easiest to tear apart.
The faery’s wings drooped, and he hung his head. “That is our curse. The Earth is jealous of our wings and binds us tightly. Only our worship of the Starfire frees us.”
“There.” Henry pointed upward.
Nick squinted his eyes until the pattern of the roofing became clear. No denser than anywhere else. But there was a pattern in the weaving that differed from the edges. Carefully, he traced the differences until he spied the shape and dimensions of the trap. Was that knotted tangle the latch?
“I see how to do this,” Nick grunted as he estimated the distance he needed to climb and where. “How do you get me up there?”
“Just like we did when stealing apples on branches too weak to climb onto,” Henry said kneeling down and patting his shoulders.
Nick slung his legs over his friend’s shoulders. Henry tugged on Nick’s knees so that he sat on his friend’s narrow shoulders.
“Take off your sandals. It will be easier on us both when you stand up.” Henry admonished. “I’ll tie them to the end of the rope.”
Nick complied. Henry gripped his knees fiercely and nodded for Nick to settle. Then Nick placed his palms flat on the wall to give Henry a bit of leverage. The slighter boy grunted and lurched upward. He staggered until he found his balance and Nick could release his scrabbling at the wall to reach upward.
Walk the Wild With Me Page 16
