by T.A. Barron
“No, no,” I replied. “Just a little magic. To help you.” I waved at the crackling flames. “Come, now. Warm your family, as well as your food, by this fire.”
He looked at his wife, her eyes filled with a mixture of terror and longing. Then he took her by the arm. “Never,” he spat. “No sorcerer’s flames for us!”
“But . . . it’s what you need.”
Heedless of my protests, they crossed the meadow and retreated into the trees. Hallia and I stood there, dumbfounded, until the sounds of snapping sticks and the crying child no longer reached us.
Glancing down at my shadow, I caught sight of it slapping its sides. Jeering at me! I roared, jumping on top of it. Hallia spun around, but the instant before she saw the shadow, it returned to normal, moving only as I did. She looked at me in bewilderment.
Fuming, I stamped out the fire with my boot. My shadow, I was irked to see, did the same but with a touch more vigor. With a sigh, I said, “I hadn’t intended to frighten them—only to help them.”
She observed me sadly. “Intentions aren’t everything, young hawk. Believe me, I know.” For an instant, she looked as if she yearned to say something more—but caught herself. She gestured in the direction of the departed family. “After all, they hadn’t intended to kill this poor tree. Only to build a fire for their child.”
“But they’re one and the same!”
“Wasn’t your trying to send the ballymag home, and sending us all here instead, also one and the same?”
My cheeks grew hotter. “That’s completely different.” I ground my heel into the coals. “At least this time the magic worked. Just not in the way I’d hoped.”
“Listen, you did what you could. I’m only lamenting . . . oh, I’m not even sure what.” She watched the dying coals. “It’s just hard, sometimes, to do the right thing.”
“So I shouldn’t even try?”
“No. Just try carefully.”
Still perturbed, I gazed at her. Then, turning back to the scarred pine, I winced at the size of its wound. “Maybe, at least, I can do one right thing today.”
Kneeling at the base of the elder pine, I reached out a finger and touched the sweet, sticky sap oozing out of the gouge. It felt thicker than blood, and lighter in hue, more amber than red. Even so, it seemed very much like the blood that had flowed from my own shoulder not long before. I listened to the barely audible whisper of its quivering needles. Then, very carefully, I placed both of my hands over the spot, willing the sap to hold itself back, to bind the wound.
In time I felt the sap congealing under my palms. Removing my hands, I crushed some fallen pine needles and spread them gently over the area. Bending closer, I blew several slow, steady breaths, all the while sending my thoughts into the fibers of the tree. Draw deep, you roots, and hold firm. Soar high, you branches; join with air and sun. Bark—grow thick and strong. And heartwood: stand sturdy, bend well.
Finally, when I felt I could do no more, I backed away from the trunk. I turned to speak to Hallia, but before I could, another voice spoke first. I had never heard it before—so breathy, vibrant, and strange, made more of air than of sound. Yet I knew it at once. It was the voice of the tree itself.
6: BOUND ROOTS
To my surprise, the tree spoke not in the language of pines, that whooshing and whispering tongue I had come to know, but in the main language of Fincayra. The same language that Hallia and I spoke to each other! Yet its airy voice, and its cadence that swayed like a sapling, were different. Strikingly different. I had never heard anyone speak—or, in truth, sing—in such a way.
In deepening soil my under-roots toil:
Following, swallowing—
Arboresque moil.
For year after year, for centuries dear,
I build my roots to stand on.
Grow grand on!
While branches reach skyward
To make a crown royal,
I build my roots to rise on.
Grow wise on.
Grow wise on.
Uncertain, I backed away. After a moment, my shoulder bumped into Hallia’s. Her eyes, even wider than usual, were focused on the tree. From within the folds of my sling, another set of round eyes, along with some quivering whiskers, edged higher. Suddenly the entire tree shuddered, with such evident pain that I felt myself shudder in response. Flakes of bark, wet with sap, drifted down from its branches, falling like tears on the meadow.
Too soon comes the day: O spare me, I pray—
Hacking, attacking—
A man comes to slay.
I stand in his path, incur his great wrath,
Though never would I harm him.
Alarm him!
My living, my learning,
Would all end today,
Though never would I claim him.
Or maim him.
Or maim him.
The breathy voice grew shrill, almost like a whistle. I felt a sharp pain in my ribs, as if a blade had plunged into my side. But the tree continued:
Before lifesap ends, arrival of friends!
Braving, yes saving—
Ere axe my heart rends.
At this, Hallia’s hand slipped into my own. Whether from her touch, or the tree’s new tone, the pain in my side started to recede. Gradually, my back straightened, and I stood taller, even as the tree itself did the same.
You challenge his will, defy him to kill,
So I shall keep on living.
And giving!
My limbs gladly lift,
My trunk freely bends,
So I shall keep on growing.
And knowing.
And knowing.
Exultantly, the great pine tree waved its uppermost branches. Then, with a loud creaking, it twisted its trunk a full quarter turn—first to one side, then to the other. The tree, I realized, was stretching. Preparing for some sort of strenuous feat.
Midway up the trunk, a pair of grooves opened between strips of bark—revealing two slender, undulating eyes, as brown as the richest soil. The eyes gazed at us intently for several seconds before finally turning downward. All of a sudden, the whole mass of roots began to quake, shaking the tree enough to shower us with needles, twigs, and bark. Wood creaked and snapped. Clods of earth, tossed loose by the roots, flew into the air.
Hallia’s hand squeezed mine more tightly. The ballymag let out a frightened cry, then thrust his head deep inside the sling.
At that moment, a very large root twisted, buckled—and broke free of the ground. With a spray of soil, the root slapped the turf like a knobby, hairy whip. Slowly, it splayed its hundreds of tendrils for balance. The trunk leaned to the side, placing much of its weight on the unburied root. On the opposite side, another root broke loose. Then another. And another. Clumps of dirt sailed in all directions.
Finally, the tree stood still again. Yet now it stood not beneath the ground, but on top of it. As Hallia and I watched, peering into the soil-brown eyes, the tree lifted a broad root and took a step toward us.
We did not flee. Rather, we stood like rooted saplings ourselves, drinking deeply of the moist, resinous air that swirled about us, wrapping us in a fragrant cloak. For we knew that we had encountered one of the best-disguised creatures in all of Fincayra. A creature who could hide so well that decades, sometimes centuries, would pass without one of its kind ever being noticed. A creature whose name, in the old tongue, was nynniaw pennent—always there, never found.
A walking tree.
With heavy, halting steps, the walking tree came closer. Behind it, a trail of moistened grasses sparkled in the sunlight. At last, when it was almost upon us, it stopped. Then, unhurriedly, the remotest tips of the tree’s roots wrapped lightly around our ankles, pressing against our skin. Hallia and I smiled, for we both felt the same surge of warmth, flowing up our legs and into our bodies.
In deep, breathy tones, the tree sang again:
Our heartwoods are tied, we stand side by side—
Tr
usting wind gusting—
Folly to hide.
I know not your name nor whither you came,
Yet now we are kin roots.
Lo, twin roots!
For though I felt lost,
And silently cried,
Yet now we are found roots.
Lo, bound roots.
Lo, bound roots.
The final phrase seemed to rise on a breeze, stirring the branches of a graceful cedar nearby. The drooping limbs lifted and fell, as smoothly as a single breath. Other trees caught the same lilt, rustling the air. Still others followed, until all around us branches swished and whispered, swaying in unison. In time, the whole grove, the whole forest, it seemed, joined in the song of celebration.
Then, abruptly, the music shifted. Harsher, deeper tones emerged; the branches started clacking and moaning. As the dissonance swelled, it reminded me of the first cries of pain I had heard from the trees. But this time the wailing reverberated across the whole forest, as if the land itself were drowning in a wave of suffering.
Against this background, the walking tree raised its voice. It sang to us, in words heavy with sorrow:
On land where we thrive, the blight does arrive:
Cleaving, bereaving—
Till none left alive.
Advancing by stealth, it chops at our health;
It poisons all our breedlings.
Our seedlings!
Their leaves cannot breathe;
Their roots not survive.
It poisons all our taplings.
Our saplings.
Our saplings.
I felt drawn, as never before, to the spirit of this tree—and to those many saplings, yearning to live, whose anguish it bore. “What is this blight?” I cried out. “Can’t it be stopped?”
All of a sudden, the tree went rigid. Throughout the forest, the moaning branches fell silent, even as a new sound, a relentless pounding, rose in the distance. Louder and louder it swelled, as rhythmic as a great drum, shaking the ground and the trees anchored within it. Whether the sound came from somewhere in the forest, or from somewhere beyond, it was clearly approaching. Rapidly.
The walking tree stirred again. Its roots uncoiled from our legs, curled sharply downward, and plunged into the ground. As they worked themselves into the soil, the roots vibrated, humming in mournful tones that echoed the final phrase of the tree’s song. Our saplings. Our saplings. An instant later, the tree’s slender eyes closed behind lids of bark. As they disappeared, so did any sign that this was anything but another pine, one more tree among many.
Meanwhile, the clamorous rumbling grew louder. Twigs and flakes of bark, knocked loose from the vibrations, rained down on us. I felt the ballymag curl into a tight ball inside the sling, his row of tails twitching anxiously against my chest. A high branch split off and crashed down through the layers of limbs, thudding into the roots by our feet.
Hallia pulled my arm frantically. “We must run, young hawk. Away from here!”
“Wait,” I objected. “I know that sound. We should—”
But she had already dashed from my side. I saw her legs, blurring with motion; her back, pitching forward; her neck, thrusting higher. Her purple robe shifted to green, then glistening tan. Muscles rippled across her back and legs, while her feet and hands melted into hooves.
Hallia, now a deer, bounded into the trees. I watched her vanish. Then I, too, started to run—not away from the rumbling, but toward it.
7: A FIERY EYE
I dashed through the dark woods, drawing ever nearer to the swelling rumble. Pounding, pounding, like thunder of the land, it shook the towering trees down to their roots, making them shudder and groan. Every few steps, I heard the crash of a falling limb or a toppled tree whose roots had wrenched loose at last. Cracks opened in the soil; roots popped and split; stalks of fern, as delicate as dragonfly wings, trembled in unison. With the help of my staff, I kept my balance. And, despite the ballymag’s shouts at every jostle and bounce, I kept my ears to the rumbling.
For I wanted to find its source.
The trees began to thin, allowing more light to reach the forest floor. I pushed past a net of vines, studded with red flowers. All at once, I broke into full, unobstructed sunlight.
I stood at the top of a long slope, surveying the vista. Auburn grass, swaying with shifting winds, fell away from me, almost to the horizon, finally merging in the far distance with a dark line of shifting, steaming vapors. It was, I knew with a shudder, a vast swamp: the Haunted Marsh.
So near! The ballymag had been right after all. Yet Hallia’s memory of this forest, and its distance from the marshlands, couldn’t have been more clear. Could the swamp be advancing, pushing its way into the forest? And so rapidly? Something told me that the forest blight, in all its forms, stemmed from the encroaching marsh—as did those strangling snakes, the ghouls that had driven the family from its village, and whatever forces had robbed the ballymag of his home. But what lay behind it all? Was it possible that something else, even more sinister than the marsh itself, was at work here?
At the bottom of the slope, near the swamp’s edge, towered a grove of immense, ragged trees. Though a great distance away, they stood out sharply against the roving mists beyond. Almost as wide as they were tall, they stirred strangely, as if caught in a ceaseless, circling wind. Then, all at once, I realized that they were not trees at all. And that they were the source of the incessant pounding.
For as overwhelming—no, as terrifying—as that sound was, I had heard it before, and never forgotten. I knew its thunderous impact, its relentless rhythm. Nothing could shake, in that way, the soil and the air and everything in between. Nothing—but the footsteps of giants.
Bracing myself, I watched the hulking figures march steadily up the slope. With remarkable speed they climbed, though they seemed as immense, and heavy, as the tallest trees. Yet with each passing second their outlines grew more clear. Powerful trunks transformed into legs, bellies, and chests; hefty branches became arms covered with wild tangles of hair. Necks, jaws, and eyes also appeared—along with noses, some as sharp as pinnacles, others as round as boulders.
A few giants wore little clothing , but a ragged beard and shaggy pants woven of leafy branches and strips of turf. Others, however, wore colorful vests and bristling cloaks. Earrings made of millstones and waterwheels poked through their long manes; wide belts carried immense hatchets and daggers the size of grown men. For all the variety of their garb, however, they shared one common quality: sheer, stupendous size.
As they drew nearer, the crushing blows of their footsteps grew louder. Leaning against my staff, I recalled standing by the feet of my friend Shim, stretching just to touch the top of one of his hairy toes. I glanced down at my own feet, so puny by comparison. And I remembered seeing my footprints, glistening in the wet sand, on the day my makeshift raft had somehow brought me to Fincayra’s shore. That day seemed so long ago . . . and yet so close at hand.
My gaze moved to my shadow. Like me, it quivered with every new wave of rumbling that shook the ground. Only more so. It swayed and flailed wildly, like a distorted reflection in the waters of a windblown pond.
As I tried my best to stay upright, the ballymag poked half his head out of the sling. Seeing the approaching giants, he gasped in horror. One of his claws clamped on the neck of my tunic. He looked up at me, eyes ablaze with fear.
“Ve-ve-verilously,” he stammered. “Thereshriek be tr-tr-treetall, thunderstepping crashgiants!”
I nodded, watching them march up the hill.
“Why manmoster not ru-ru-ru-runhide?” He tugged on my tunic. “Nowspeed!”
“Because,” I answered, raising my voice over the rumbling, “I want to talk to them.”
The ballymag’s whiskers splayed in every direction, as stiff as dried grass. “Manmonster! You wouldcouldn’t—shouldwouldn’t . . .” He turned toward the advancing line of giants. With a sharp squeal, he fainted away, sliding limply back into
the sling.
I scanned the giants’ craggy faces, looming larger by the second. Their ancient race, Fincayra’s first people, possessed deep understanding of the land and its mysteries. Immense as they were, I knew that their keen eyes often noticed details that many smaller creatures ignored. Sometimes their great height above the ground allowed them to sense patterns that others couldn’t perceive. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could explain the sudden growth of the swamp—and all the trouble it had caused.
To be sure, something strange was happening in the Haunted Marsh. And though I didn’t yet understand it, I felt a growing fear that it threatened more than the swamp’s immediate neighbors. Pondering the dark, shifting vapors at the edge of the bog, I touched the chafed skin of my neck. Something down in that morass, I suspected, could choke off part of Fincayra’s future, much as that snake had nearly choked me. And a wizard—at least a great wizard like Tuatha—would do everything in his power to prevent it.
Whether or not the giants would tell me anything was another question. They were shy and generally unwilling to share their secrets. Even though, thanks to Shim, I had spent some time among them, I was still an outsider. And a man. And, worse yet, the son of the wicked king who had hunted them down mercilessly.
As the ground rocked beneath me, and my heart galloped inside my chest, I fought to stay calm. Would any of them stop to hear me? Or would they crush me before I could even ask my questions? Then, borne by some faraway wind of memory, I heard again the words of a friend, whispered to me on my first visit to Varigal, the giants’ ancient city of stone: One day, Merlin, you may find that the merest trembling of a butterfly’s wings can be just as powerful as a quake that moves mountains. But whether this was the day, I had no idea.
