Griswold snorted in disgust. "I'm no carpenter. But the nights are warm now. It's going to have to do."
Next, Griswold handed Wat a long branch, jagged and scarred on one end, with dried leaves still clinging to the other. "Birch," the old man explained, "knocked down by a storm some time ago, in case you're wondering. Use it for the cobwebs on the ceiling and shelves, as well as any other harmful things that lurk among the dust."
Wat hoped he meant spiders, but couldn't help feeling that he meant something else entirely, then decided he didn't want to know more. When he was finished, Griswold
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instructed him to use the branch to sweep the biggest bits of debris off the cottage floor.
Just when Wat was sure he was done, Griswold turned to him one more time. "Get those two buckets and take them back to the stream for filling. Your nose will lead you right to it."
Grateful for the chance to be alone, Wat picked his way through the trees, letting his thoughts wander as they would. He had a grandfather. To have a grandfather in his life was something he'd never imagined. His family consisted solely of himself and his mother. That was all there had ever been. He wasn't sure he needed more. And why had his mother told him that his grandfather lived too far away? Why did his mother never visit her father? Why had she run away? No matter how many times he asked the questions, he could find no answers.
When the stream came into view, he gladly put aside his thoughts and filled the buckets with the cool, clear water. When they were full, he set them down, knelt near the edge of the stream, and dipped his hands into the water to wash his face.
A fluttering motion caught his eye and he noticed the feather in his hair, reflected back by the water. Quickly, he averted his gaze, as he always did when confronted with his
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own reflection. But the stream called to him just as surely as if it whispered his name. There was no one to observe him looking at himself, no one to call out jests and crude remarks. For some reason, his reflection beckoned. Perhaps it was to see if he had changed somehow. If all that he had been through in the last day had changed him as much on the outside as he felt changed on the inside. Pulled by some force he could not name, Wat leaned over the water and looked.
There he was, reflected in the water. Slowly, his hand reached up to his face and his fingers traced the scarred, bruised flesh around his eye, the dark red skin that surrounded his pale, unseeing eye and caused people to cross themselves whenever he was near. He had been born this way, and no one knew why. That's why they blamed it on the work of the devil. His mother had told him that his birth had been long and difficult. Perhaps that is what had caused the deformity. He would never know. All he knew was that it had shaped his life since the day he was born, and no one had been able to see past it, except his mother, and now Griswold. They seemed to see it as a mark of favor.
He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. Maybe living in the forest, away from the townspeople, would be for the better. He wouldn't miss the pain of their cruel taunts and
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jeers. He had often longed to be free of their harsh judgments, their suspicions, and had looked forward to not having to wonder when the next boot heel or clenched fist would come his way. No, the only thing he would miss from the village was his mother, but between her duties in the kitchens and his home in the stable, their paths rarely crossed much, and when they did, it was always at great risk to her. He turned and headed back to the cottage.
"Ah! There you are," Griswold called out as Wat approached. "Here, I'll take those. Bring in the kindling, and while I start the fire, you can clean and gut our fish."
Wat handed Griswold the buckets and headed back outside. Cold, hungry, and fatigued, he found he was tired of being ordered around like a scullery maid. It was bad enough in the village, where anyone above him in station-- everyone in the village--had the right. Here in the forest, where he'd imagined he'd be free, it bothered him more. He thought briefly of telling this to the old man, but a lifetime of training held him back. Instead, he set about his task. When his arms were full of small dry twigs and bracken, he returned to the cottage.
"Excellent!" Griswold declared as he took the kindling from Wat's arms. He placed it in the hearth, then handed Wat the fish. "Here. Clean these, and then we will have supper.
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Oh, and save the innards for the falcons. It's the best we can do for tonight."
Wat hated cleaning fish, but it was something he was familiar with and certainly easier than skinning a small mouse. When he was done, he carried the cleaned fish back to the cottage in one pail and the disgusting parts in another. He stopped at the door, surprised at how welcoming the place felt. The cleaning they had done that afternoon had greatly improved the cottage's appearance, and the fire crackled merrily, casting warm light throughout the dim room. It felt like he'd always imagined a home would feel.
"Thought you'd never finish." Griswold came and took the fish from Wat. "I'll roast these while you tend to your birds."
Wat hurried over to the makeshift nest and knelt beside his charges. "I'm going to have to come up with names for you." He held out a small piece of fish gut to the smaller one, who snatched it from Wat's fingers. Once the fish was in his mouth, the bird paused, puzzled at the strange taste. Wat laughed out loud. The falcon looked as if he would like to spit it out, if he could only figure out how. Wat held out a piece to the larger bird, who approached it with caution. She seemed less surprised by the taste, maybe because she took the time to smell the food first. The birds ate the fish, but not as eagerly as they had the mouse.
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"Finicky little things, aren't they?" commented Griswold from behind Wat.
"You'd think they'd be so hungry they'd eat anything," Wat mused.
"You sound as if you say that from experience." Gris-wold's keen eyes searched Wat's face. Wat shrugged. "What if I do?"
Griswold studied him a moment longer, then placed his hand on Wat's shoulder. "Come, boy. Let's eat."
As Wat sat on one of the benches, Griswold put the trout, still on its roasting stick, on the plate in front of him. He placed a piece of the boiled parsley root next to it. It smelled wonderful, and Wat's mouth watered. He reached for the fish. "Yee-ow!"
"Careful, it's hot," said Griswold dryly.
"Too bad you didn't care to tell me that sooner.'" Wat said around his fingers, which he had stuffed into his mouth to cool.
"You didn't give me a chance!" said Griswold, laughing.
The rest of their supper passed without incident. They ate with quick efficiency in a companionable silence. Wat even ate the parsley root, which, when combined with bits of fish, wasn't too bad.
When Griswold was finished eating, he picked out a slender.
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fish bone and used it to clean his teeth. He watched the fire, studying it intently, as if he saw images in the flames that Wat could not.
Trying not to stare at the old man, Wat looked over at the falcons. All during the meal, the birds had preened themselves, using their small, sharp beaks to comb and straighten their feathers. Now that they were groomed, they wasted no time falling sound asleep in their bucket, where they looked like two indistinguishable piles of fluff. Wat was tired, too, but doubted he could sleep that easily. His head was too full of questions.
"Might as well ask them, boy," Griswold said, startling him.
"Ask what?" said Wat, unwilling to admit anything.
"All those questions rolling around inside your head. Neither of us will get any sleep until you do. So, you get two questions and then we're off to sleep." Griswold leaned back and made himself comfortable.
How could the old man know what went on in his head? Wat wondered.
"I know what you're thinking because you're as transparent as a fine mist, boy. Every thought that enters your head flits across your face. That's question number one. You get just one more, so choose wisely."
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"So it's not magic
that tells you my thoughts?" asked Wat.
Griswold snorted. "Magic! That's just a word people use to explain that which they don't understand. Some people would call it magic that I can coax a trout to be my dinner."
"That's not magic!" exclaimed Wat. "I saw you do it, and I did it, too!"
Griswold's eyes glittered in the dim light. "Aye, boy. That you did. But now I have a question I'll throw to you. Does that mean it wasn't magic? Or does it just mean that you have the magic in you, too?" Chuckling to himself, Griswold rose and went over to the bed. Wat heard the rustling of the fresh leaves as the old man settled onto the mattress.
"Wait! What about my two questions?"
"You asked them, boy. And I answered."
"I only asked one. The first one you plucked out of my head, but I never asked it. That shouldn't count."
"Oh, all right. You have a point. You may have one more question," Griswold agreed.
Wat got down on the floor and settled himself as best he could in front of the fire. "Tell me of my mother," he said softly.
Griswold was silent a long time, and Wat feared he wouldn't answer. Finally he spoke, his voice low. "It was just
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she and I growing up. Her mother died giving birth to her, but she was a happy child, content to play among the wonders and creatures of the forest. As she grew older, she became lonely sometimes, but that was to be expected. Loneliness is part of life."
He shifted on the mattress, and Wat heard a soft rustle of dried leaves.
"I kept her safe, here in the forest. Safe from the raids along the coast, safe from the village oafs who would crush a maid with their brutal ways, but as she grew older, it ceased to be enough. And one night, one night she just didn't come home." The words carried the full weight of his grief, and he fell silent. He stayed silent so long that Wat wondered if that was all of the story he would hear. At last, his grandfather began talking again.
"When she returned the next day, she was light of foot and full of joy. In love, she told me. With a brave young knight who had asked her to be his. I worried as to how the villagers would accept a daughter of the forest. But none of my concerns mattered to her. A few days later she returned to the cottage, shattered, bitter. She packed up her things and left the next morning.
"I knew that he had somehow broken her heart. I had
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warned her of that very thing all along. But I never guessed she was with child. If I had, I ...well, I might have tried harder to bring her back here, where she belonged."
His grandfather grew quiet, lost in his memories.
Wat lay there in the heavy silence, his heart aching for his mother, feeling the pain in his grandfather's story. Unbidden thoughts rose to the surface. She had left the forest to find happiness, and he had run away to the forest to find the very same thing. He was glad it was dark so Griswold couldn't see his face and the confusion that plagued his aching head.
Griswold's voice called out through the darkness. "Don't fret on it over much, lad. You'll find there is much that seems senseless, but life will make it clear in the end. Dream well, and dream wisely."
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***
Chapter 9
Wat tried to move his head, but couldn't. Some thing hard and unyielding encircled his hands. His neck ached from being unable to move. His arms and shoulders were numb from their forced position.
And thirsty. He was so thirsty. He opened his eyes. All he could see was the ground at his feet and his long red hair.
But he didn't have long red hair. His was short and brown.
"Mother!" he cried out. He sat bolt upright in bed, his body drenched in sweat, his heart thumping wildly. His mother! She was the one who was trapped. Wat jumped when a hand touched him. He heard Griswold's voice in his ear, as if from far away.
"Wat, what is it? What have you seen?"
"It was a dream. But so real," Wat said.
"Tell me of your vision," his grandfather commanded. He listened carefully as Wat told him of the nightmare that had filled his sleep. When he was finished, Griswold said nothing.
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Realization dawned on Wat. "It wasn't a dream, was it?" Griswold shook his head. "No, you have seen your mother."
Silence again. Finally, Wat spoke. "I must go to her."
"It will be dangerous. They still want you. And when they find you, they will do worse than what they have done to your mother. It may even be a trap," Griswold argued, but Wat sensed his approval.
"Aye. But at least they will have the right person." Wat stood up. The sun had just risen over the treetops. "I won't wait any longer. I'll leave now."
Griswold laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. "No. You must wait and leave here at dusk. You will have a better chance if you travel when it is neither day nor night, light nor dark."
"Why? Why can't I just leave now?"
Griswold leaned closer. "Because that's when the boundaries between this world and the other world are blurred. The spirits will be much closer then and can guide you."
Wat wasn't sure he wanted to be out when the spirit world was that much closer.
"It's when our magic is greatest," Griswold whispered. "Your powers and abilities will be strongest then."
Wat started to protest. "Powers? Abilities? How could I
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possibly have a drop of power in me? No matter what I do, it comes out wrong. I tried to help the falcons, but now my mother suffers for my misdeed. I can do nothing without creating a mess. Perhaps I truly am devil's spawn, like they say."
"Never say that, Wat! Never!" Griswold's voice was terrible in his anger. "You have gifts that some of us can only guess at and that others will always be too blind to see. It is up to you to use those gifts wisely." His voice eased. "So far, you have used them only for good, no matter what the cost to yourself. That's not the mark of devil's spawn. That's the mark of a pure spirit."
Wat wasn't convinced, but he'd also learned it was pointless to argue. He changed the subject. "If I don't come back, will you ...could you please take care of the birds for me?"
"Of course, of course. But have no fear. You will come back."
That was when Wat first realized that his grandfather could not read all of his thoughts. If he was truly able to do so, he would know that Wat was not planning to return. He would trade places with his mother. She would not be punished for his crimes.
"Come," Griswold said, rising to his feet. "We have much
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to do today before you leave." He left the cottage, and as Wat often found himself doing, he followed.
They spent the morning setting snares. Griswold showed Wat how to do this using a bent twig and some long strips of grass. With luck, they would catch something to feed the falcons before nightfall. After they set the last of the snares, Griswold turned and began walking. Wat glanced up at the sky, anxious for dusk to appear. Three more hours, at least.
They walked for quite a while before Wat realized they weren't returning to the cottage.
"Where are we going?"
"Back to the oak tree where you found the young falcons."
"To the oak grove?" he repeated, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. "Won't they be looking for me there?"
"Aye. That they will," said his grandfather. "But not today. They have not entered the forest today."
"But how do you know..." Wat's words trailed off as Griswold turned and faced him with such a fiercely cocked eyebrow that his mouth snapped shut. In silence, he followed the old man. Soon the forest began to look familiar again, until, finally, Wat saw the giant oak in the distance.
When they reached the spot, Griswold paused, studying the grove intently. After a minute, he lowered himself to his knees and put his head near the ground. He turned his ear
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toward the earth, his eyes peering straight ahead as if he were looking down an invisible pathway.
"What are you looking for ...at?" Wat asked.
His voice came out in a small whisper.
"Elemental pathways, boy," his grandfather answered absentmindedly as he turned his head and peered off in another direction.
Wat gaped. Now he knew the old man was daft, just as his mother had claimed.
Griswold went on impatiently, as if he could sense Wat's doubt. "The pathways of the divine elements--earth, water, air, fire, and spirit. They run through the earth, crissing and crossing in an ancient pattern. It is their union with the earth that gives power." He pushed himself to his feet. "Well, they are intact, but they are somewhat fouled." He turned to Wat. "Sit. Over there." He pointed. "Out of the way."
Wat took himself to the spot Griswold had pointed to, and sat. Once again he looked to the sky, impatient to begin his journey back to the village. He opened his mouth to speak, but Griswold interrupted.
"Here is your first lesson. Our knowledge of things comes from the earth under our feet, the sky that hangs above our heads, the sweet water that burbles through the
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stream, and the very forest itself The power resides in every living thing." Griswold looked up from counting his steps and gave Wat a sly look. "Even you. We walk and dance with nature, staying within the natural order of things to maintain the balance and preserve the patterns of life."
The old man had reached the far corner of the grove and, using his staff, cut a circle into the earth. He then drew two lines through it so they intersected in the middle. Then he pointed his staff due north from this mark and followed it until he came to the very edge of the grove in that direction. He carved another mark with his staff, the stick churning up rich, loamy dirt into four squiggly lines that reminded Wat of water running downstream. Satisfied, Griswold picked up his staff, again let it lead him to another point on the edge of the grove, and repeated this small ceremony twice more, drawing a circle with a dot at its center in one spot and a three-sided figure in another. He cut the last mark, a tight spiral, in the earth at the base of the oak tree, on top of the falcon's grave that Wat had dug. The carvings seemed heavy with power and mysterious meanings.
The falconmaster Page 6
