The Beast of Noor

by Janet Lee Carey

  A sudden heavy gust swept him off his feet and sent him tumbling down the hill.

  He smashed against a tree and lay dazed a moment before sitting up. Shaking snow from his head, he came to a stand. The wind wall had a presence in it.

  “Who are you?” he called.

  “Who are you?” the voice called back.

  “What do you want?”

  “What do you want?”

  Miles quavered with exhaustion, snow clinging to his matted fun “Show yourself!” he howled.

  “Show yourself!”

  It was his voice and not his voice. The wall was keeping him in this valley full of skullen snakes, trolls, wraiths, and evil clawkeens: all the creatures that were banished from Attenlore. But he was innocent.

  “I’m not a beast!” cried Miles. “Why imprison me here?”

  “Why imprison me?” the voice called back.

  Looking up, he saw the wind take on a sheen like water, and in the sheen the Shriker stood, challenging the walk Was this how he saw himself or how the queen’s wall saw him? He wasn’t sure, but it was wrong; either way, all wrong.

  “I’m not who you think I am!” he cried.

  “I’m not who you think I am,” the voice called back.

  Miles howled, rushed the wall again. He hit it full force, drove his way; in about a foot. Once more he was lifted off the ground and blown back down the hill. He was flat against the snow, the wall pressed hard against him. It held him down like a bully in a fight. At last the wind left him and blew back up the hill.

  Miles lifted his head. “Why won’t you let me out?”

  No answer. Snow fell softly through the high branches. Flakes settled on his damp fur, chilling his spine. Miles stood up and shook the snow from his back.

  Alone.

  His ears rang with the silence.

  His nose filled with the sour smell of his own breath.

  THE CLIFF

  Some Said the Stone Man lived on, though never did he move.

  —“THE STONE MAN,” A LEGEND OF OTH, FROM THE WAY BETWEEN WORLDS

  IT WAS STILL MORNING WHEN HANNA STORED THE BOOK in the trunk and left the Falconer’s to follow Aetwan’s darting shadow up the steep ravine. Five days left to find Miles before the next full moon, yet the Falconer had sent her to the Enoch Tree. The meer would not delay her quest, she knew. There would be a message waiting for her on the cliff, a sign, a way to Attenlore, something to help her find her brother.

  She pushed herself to climb faster, Essha. She thought on the last word in the Falconer’s book as she scaled the rocks. What did it mean? Could the word be the beginning of a finding spell?

  Essha. A sound like leaves whispering in the wind, but there were few trees up here. Hanna kept climbing. The cold morning air chilled the sweat on her face. Just below the cliff top she bent down, hands on knees, to catch her breath. It was a desolate place of gray rock mapped in green and silver lichen. Dry grass sprouted here and there in the crevices; the longer yellow blades blew sideways in the stark breeze like old men’s beards. Close to the flat-topped cliff a few pine trees huddled beside a lone red-leafed maple. All the trunks leaned left from years of battling the mountain wind.

  Hanna paused to tie her hooded cape before stepping up to higher ground. Aetwan cried out, circling above, but she didn’t need his warning to tell her where they’d come, for now she was at the very top, facing the stunted Enoch Tree. It stood in the last possible place a tree could grow, its roots clinging to the cliff edge. Above the roots the trunk twisted round as if it were making ready to leap into the abyss.

  Hanna remembered this, all of it, and she was no less frightened now than she had been the first time she saw the tree. It was hard to believe the old man enspelled in the oak was Granda’s brother.

  A slender pine branch dipped as Aetwan came to rest halfway along the bough. He would not land on the Enoch Tree. She knew this, for she herself could barely look at the knotted trunk and gnarled branches. She felt her knees weaken at the sight of the horror-stricken face near the top of the tree, his hollow eyes looking out across the cliff, his mouth open in a silent scream.

  A gust blew against the lone tree. The branches creaked. Suddenly Hanna was filled with doubt. “Aetwan,” she said, “why did the Falconer send me here?”

  “Listen,” said Aetwan.

  She held her ground and tried to listen to the sounds on the desolate cliff. There were no birdcalls, not even the rough caw of a kravel bird up here. No animal sounds either. All she could hear was the high wind shrieking across the cliff top. The sound was so much like an angry woman’s cry that she looked skyward for Wild Esper. Thin clouds flew past, but the wind woman did not show herself. Still, Hanna wondered if Esper was here. Could essha be a wind call?

  Hanna leaned into the strong wind, shouting, “Take me!” She lifted her hands. “Take me to Attenlore. I’m ready!” The wind strengthened. Hanna’s hooded cloak blew back. She fought to keep herself standing.

  Hanna looked skyward. “Essha!” she cried. A heavy gust tore Eason’s pouch from her neck. “Wait,” called Hanna. “I need the glisten!” The wind twirled her round and round. Hanna fell forward, striking the granite. She’d thrown out her hands to protect her face and bit her lip in the fall. She lifted her head, the taste of blood in her mouth. The wind had taken her so easily when she was at Garth Lake. What was wrong?

  “Esper?” she called. No sight of her and no answer. Only the blowing. Ahead of her Eason’s leather pouch rolled across the cliff top, the beaded ties flying. The pouch flew open. Glisten powder blew into the air.

  “No!” Hanna lunged for the pouch. She couldn’t let it spill. She needed it to see Miles. The wind pressed against her. She crawled forward on her belly, grabbed the pouch, and looked inside. Half full. Quickly she tied the strings shut and slipped it into her pocket. She struggled to rise against the heavy gusts.

  A spray of glisten powder swirled toward the precipice and landed on the roots of the Enoch Tree. The roots enlivened like a nest of vipers.

  Hanna froze. Move! Get away from it! Taking a breath, she worked her hands and knees as she tried to crawl backward, but it was like backing into a wall. Before her, glisten powder starred the trunk, and as the twinkling lights swirled up inside the tree, the man inside began to move. His knees wavered and his torso twisted round.

  Aetwan flew overhead. “Enoch!” he called. “Enoch!”

  The powder rose higher up Enoch’s neck, his chin, his mouth. A terrified scream tore out, cutting sharply through the air.

  Hanna covered her ears. “Stop!” she cried. The scream rose in pitch. The man inside the tree doubled over. He wrapped his brown hands around his legs, pulling hard to free his feet from roots and rocks. “Stay back!” he screamed. “Get away!”

  Hanna’s jaw dropped. Was he afraid of her?

  “I won’t hurt you,” she called. But her voice was lost to him. He didn’t seem to see her at all. He was captive in some horrible dream, and he thrashed and wailed, struggling all the harder to free his feet from the roots.

  Aetwan flew upward, then dived at the flailing branches, beating his wings wildly against the tree to keep Enoch from uprooting himself and plunging into the abyss.

  “Help him!” cried Aetwan. He dug his talons into Enoch’s shoulder and flapped his wings, trying to pull him back.

  Hanna was afraid to move. She didn’t want to help. He’s Granda’s brother, she thought, no matter what he’s done. And if he jumps, he’ll die. Suddenly she lunged forward and grabbed the man’s ankle. The flesh on her arms rubbed raw against the cliff rocks as Enoch dragged them both closer to the precipice. She gritted her teeth. Dug the toes of her boots into the rock. Pulled and pulled.

  “Don’t let him jump,” screeched Aetwan.

  “I’m trying!” One foot was completely free from the roots, and Enoch was nearly over the edge. “He’s going to leap,” cried Hanna. Suddenly the glisten powder faded, and the screaming stopped. The ma
n’s face sank back into the bark. His arms stilled inside the branches. Hanna let go her hold. Roots curled about Enoch’s feet and buried them again. All went suddenly still.

  Hanna sat up and wiped the dirt from her stinging hands. Her body shook, but she managed to ease along the cliff top, pull Eason’s pouch from her pocket, and tuck it safely in her rucksack.

  Aetwan settled in the highest branch of the solitary maple tree and began preening his feathers. Ears still ringing, Hanna tried to press herself to a stand, but her knees gave way, so she leaned back on her hands, sucking in breath.

  “Is that what you wanted?” she shouted. “Was I supposed to come here and listen to that?” She worked to hold back angry tears, but they fell anyway.

  Aetwan peered down at her and let out a loud screech, hurling it in her direction as if the sound were a stone. Abandoning the tree, he swept upward, circled once, then turned sharply and disappeared into the woods below.

  Hanna licked salty-tasting blood from her lip. Whatever it was she was supposed to do here had passed her by and she’d failed. Even Aetwan had deserted her. She stumbled down the slope to the maple tree. Curling up in its shadow, she pressed her cheek against the ground, welcoming the feel of the warm earth against her face.

  ESSHA, HANNALYN

  Some are caught in their own anger, as if their shadows swallowed them. It was that way with Enoch.

  —THE WAY BETWEEN WORLDS

  HANNA AWOKE AND TOUCHED THE DRIED BLOOD ON her lip. She did not know how long she’d slept, but the lengthening shadows along the ground told her it had been more than an hour’s time. Her muscles were sore and her eyes puffy. She sat up stiffly, turned her head, and sucked in a sudden breath.

  A tall, bright figure was emerging from the maple tree. Hanna blinked, thinking it a dream, but the figure only brightened.

  The tree spirit was halfway out of the tree now: a deya, long and lean as the trunk itself. She burned like a pillar of flame, her hair, body, and gown blazing now red, now yellow, now gold. Freeing herself from the shivering maple, she came gracefully forward and hovered above Hanna.

  “I am Shree,” she said in a voice like whispering fire.

  Hanna could find no words at all to give answer. She couldn’t even move to nod her head.

  “Do not be afraid. My flames will not consume you.” The deya reached out a long golden arm and touched Hanna’s head. There was a sudden tingling warmth against her scalp, but no burning there.

  “You see, Hannalyn?”

  “I am called Hanna,” she replied in a choking voice.

  “‘Lyn’ means ‘human female,’” said Shree.

  Hanna took this in, and gathering her courage, she forced herself to a stand. “How is it you know my name?”

  The deya wavered in the wind. “You are the sqyth-born child.”

  Hanna blushed. She was still not used to the word “sqyth-born,” nor what it meant to be called this. “Are you the one I was supposed to meet?”

  “Before we freely speak,” said Shree, “I will know which way your heart grows.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If your sqyth-born heart is twain between growing earth and blowing sky, how am I to put my trust in you?”

  The question stung. “I’ve always loved the trees,” said Hanna. “I would never betray you.” The words fell leaden between them, for suddenly she saw herself blowing above the island, dropping the maple tree into the sea at Wild Esper’s command. She looked into the deya’s golden eyes and shuddered at the memory, wondering if Shree had read her thoughts.

  “Truth,” said Shree, and Hanna knew what she must say. “A tree was torn up in a storm,” she admitted. “One that I was holding. And later … I dropped it in the sea.”

  Her heart beat wildly at the confession. A fiery root wended out of Shree’s gown and wrapped about Hanna’s ankle. She looked up at the deya, sweat pouring down her neck, but she did not try to break free. Instead she thought of all the trees in Shalem Wood. How she loved their green, whispering branches. How many times she’d spoken to them and told them all her secrets. They’d listened to her all the times she leaned against them crying when the villagers had been especially cruel. They’d always given her their company.

  The deya’s golden hair lifted and fell in the mountain breeze. Hanna waited, trembling in her grip. At last Shree gave a nod. “We gather this,” she said. Slowly the root retreated into the folds of her shimmering gown.

  Hanna breathed a sigh and looked down at her dirt-stained hands, wondering what to say next. “The Falconer told me to come here.”

  “Ah,” said Shree. “A good soul, this one. His husk lies beneath Oskulath’s Oak, but his spirit free-walks now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We have roots.”

  Hanna frowned. “How do your roots help you know?”

  “We essha.”

  Hanna brightened. “What is this word ‘essha’?”

  “‘Listen. Understand.’”

  “The Falconer said I was to come here and essha. My brother, Miles, is lost in Oth and I need help. Are you the one I am to listen to?”

  “There are many things to essha, Hannalyn. We deyas have lived long where the wind speaks. And in the dark we whisper root to root. We know all the stories blowing and growing from time’s beginning.”

  Hanna imagined the breeze passing stories through the woods from leaf to stem to bough. As she saw this in her mind’s eye, her feet began to tingle, and suddenly she saw an underground world where trees spoke root to root from times long ago until now. Stories of the world from its first greening, the birds of the air, the beasts of field and forest, and the first folk of Noor.

  She felt as if the deya was passing these things to her across the small patch of rocky ground between them. The dreams rose up her feet and washed through her body. The birthing days and dying days of all the souls on Enness Isle flowed through her mind like clear stream water. Then in a moment the vision passed.

  Hanna tipped her head up and looked into the deya’s bright face. “Do you know about all of us here?”

  “We watch the lyns and the eryls on Enness.”

  Hanna did not have to ask what Shree meant by “eryl.” She knew somehow that it meant “human male.” “And you know my story,” she said, “mine and Miles’s?”

  “Your tale is unfinished.”

  “Do you know why the Falconer sent me here?”

  “You have come to heal Enocheryl.”

  “No. I don’t know anything about Enoch. I’ve come to rescue my brother Miles.”

  “It is the same thing,” said the deya.

  Hanna frowned. “Why do you speak in riddles?”

  “It is only a riddle from the topside,” said the deya. “Go down to the root.”

  “How do I do that?”

  The deya raised her arms. A crimson leaf swirled to the ground, landing beside Hanna’s boot. Hanna picked it up. It was cool to the touch.

  “Essha for Enocheryl.” Shree’s voice was softer now and almost motherly. Hanna seated herself on a flat stone, crossed her legs, and looked up at the deya’s ever-changing face.

  “Enocheryl grew here. Tall for an eryl. He left Enness for Othlore to gather magic there, enough to break the Shriker’s curse.”

  Hanna took in a breath. “It was for that he went to Othlore? But … how do you know?”

  “He shouted his dream to the wind, to the trees, and to the mountain. The wind essha and we essha. We knew why he sailed away. But he came back too soon and full of anger.”

  Hanna nodded. “The Falconer said he was sent home for stealing a spell book and burning it. And he was banned from the meer’s isle for good and all.”

  “I gather that in,” said Shree, her arms waving toward herself like slender branches in the wind. “This blows to us a missing part. We deyas are not free-walkers as you are, and we did not know what happened on Othlore. We saw anger. Anger is root rot to an eryl. It destroys.”
Her arms waved softly up and down, red and yellow gold in the sun. “Then one day love came to Enocheryl, and we thought all would be well in his story.”

  Hanna remembered that part of Granda’s tale. A green-eyed girl who brought Enoch little cakes and cider.

  “Love came. But the green-eyed lyn was like the flower that brings too many bees. She went off with another.” The deya swayed a moment before speaking again.

  “Enocheryl’s anger grew worse after that. He’d had it in his mind so long to be a meer of great power. To hold much magic in him. First the meers had turned him away, then his da, and then the green-eyed lyn. All these turnings sent poison to his heart.

  “Enocheryl did not want to be a shepherd, a lowly eryl with no magic power. Soon the bad sap in his heart went down to his feet. High up on the cliff he took his anger out on his sheepdog. He kicked him one time, two, and many more until the dog was dead.” Shree swayed more, and Hanna felt the swaying in herself She swallowed the sick feeling rising up in her throat.

  “Enocheryl dropped the dog’s body over the precipice to hide his evil from the people. But we deyas saw. We essha. And the dog’s death cries did not go unheard.”

  The deya’s flame reddened. Hanna closed her eyes. Heat waved from the deya, but Hanna felt her own burning. It was an awful thing to have blood kin who’d kicked a dog to death. She felt no pity for her great-uncle Enoch Sheen, only loathing.

  “It happened in this place on a dark-moon night. First the killing, and then …” Shree bowed her head. Hanna waited tensely, remembering what Granda had said about the Shriker at the dark-moon time.

  “Enocheryl lifted up his arms and cast a power spell. Othic words no eryl or lyn should speak. One he must have learned from the stolen book on Othlore. I gather that to me now that you have spoken of the book. For where else could words this old have come from?

  “He cried the incantation on the cliff that night under the swallowed moon. The spell traveled far from our world to the land of Attenlore, and farther still to the shadow realm of Uthor. A summoning from dark to dark that broke the queen’s wind wall and brought the Shriker forth.