Calling the Wild

by Lila Dubois

  She screamed Kiron’s name as the forest barreled down on them, but her scream was silent. Moira turned her face into his shoulder and tightened her arms around his waist, waiting for impact.

  Chapter Ten

  The wind stopped as sound resumed with a crash. Moira’s ears popped, her gasp of pain delightfully audible. She could hear his heartbeat and the sound of her own rapid breathing.

  “I can hear again,” she mumbled against the warm flesh of his shoulder.

  “Look around,” Kiron invited.

  Moira raised her head and released her death grip on his waist.

  They stood in the clearing of a primeval forest. The air was rich and thick, so wet and dense that it felt like liquid peat moss on her tongue. Compared to the deafening silence of moments ago, the clatters and creaks of the living forest were imposing.

  Unseen birds chirped, a far-off crack signaled the breaking of a branch and under it all was the rush of water. Dusky sunlight illuminated everything, dim and cool under the canopy, bright and warm through the canopy breaks.

  Moira swung her leg over Kiron’s back, awkwardly lying across him on her belly before sliding down. Her feet sank into the ground, but when she looked down, expecting mud, there was only a thick layer of fallen foliage, moss and fungi. The smell raised when her feet pressed into the loamy forest floor was both bitter and sweet, like chewing on a blade of sun-warmed grass.

  She could see tiny little shoots of green poking out of the forest floor, and instantly felt guilty for stepping on them.

  “I’m killing something.”

  “There is always death in this forest.”

  Moira lifted her foot, winced to see a size-seven footprint and carefully put her foot down again in the same spot. “Where are we?”

  “The Wild.”

  Moira jerked her head up. “The Wild is an actual place?”

  “Of course, what did you think it was?”

  “A name for the magic of the Earth, the magic of the plants and beasts.”

  “It is that, but The Wild is not all the Earth, nor all the beasts. This forest is the greatest part of what we are.”

  His voice trailed away, his attention on the forest. Kiron took a few steps, the smell of rich forest rising under his heavy footfalls. There was an odd bare space between the trees, and as Moira moved to follow Kiron she saw a small stream. The water had carried small rocks into the forest, forming a rough gravel lining. Greedy ferns and leafy ground cover hugged the graveled bank.

  Moira followed Kiron as he moved deeper into the forest, careful to use his footprints to avoid causing any more damage to the forest floor. Even as a small child she’d loved nature, an affinity she assumed stemmed from her ability to harness the power of plants and herbs. In school she’d lived for nature field trips, soaking up information about the natural world. She could still remember the Yosemite park ranger who told her that even one step off the path killed thousands of small plants.

  Kiron had once more left her behind, the curves of the stream sometimes causing him to pass out of her line of sight. There was a tug low in her belly as they got too far away from each other and the spell reacted. Moira kept walking and the tightness faded. Rounding the corner, she opened her mouth to make a smart remark, but it died before ever leaving her lips.

  He stood amid the trees, having moved away from the stream. Great green fern fronds brushed against him, one curling over his chest in a lover’s hold. His face was tipped to the canopy, eyes closed. The skin over his cheeks and jaw was pulled tight, face contorted in an expression of deep longing.

  Despite the very obvious differences between them, the apparent otherworldly nature of what he was, it was not until this moment that Moira had truly felt that difference.

  She’d touched him and been touched, joked and laughed with him. In her mind she’d begun to demystify him, treating him more and more as she would a human man, but he was not, and never would be.

  He was something other, something beyond her. There was not, and never had been, a possibility of anything between them. He was timeless as the forest around them, despite his apparent grasp of modern vernacular and love of trashy food. Whether her mission—quest he called it—succeeded or failed, whether she lived or died, he would live.

  He was a part of something greater than she. He had a place in this world, a surety of who and what he was that eluded her. Moira hated herself for pulling him from this lush green world into her own pathetic existence of squatting in warehouses and cheap motel rooms. But even as that self-loathing, a seed planted the day she worked the spell, bloomed once more, she took bitter satisfaction in having taken him away from this.

  What he had was forever beyond her. There would be no life lived in twilight forests for her, only a sad, short struggle for belonging, the dubious pleasure of trying to do the “right” thing, live a “good” life. It seemed only fair that he, who had so much, suffer and struggle with her, carry some of her burden, if only for a little while.

  “I feel your turmoil.”

  He spoke without looking at her, and Moira winced, wondering exactly how much of her internal monologue he could sense.

  “Not all is as it seems,” he added.

  “Nothing is ever as it seems,” she replied.

  Kiron finally looked at her, but it was not Kiron as she’d come to know him. The centaur before her seemed older and wiser. His black eyes were fathomless. It was a long moment as they faced off. He, a part of their surroundings, calm and powerful, she, out of place in her modern clothing, shoulders hunched defensively and wrapped in a cloak of bitter green envy and blue loneliness.

  Kiron stepped from between the trees, the fern’s lacy frond clinging to him until the last moment. He reached for her, and in a show of petty defiance Moira turned her face away. Knuckles brushed her face, warm and sure. Like the plants of this great forest she blossomed to his touch, turning her face to his hand, glad that their height difference allowed her to avoid his gaze.

  His hand flowered open to cup her face, accepting the weight of her head.

  “There is peace to be found in The Wild, not just power. Take it in, feel it grow through you.”

  Moira drew in a deep breath, breathing in the peace he offered, letting her other emotions melt away. It came to her when she opened herself, pressing in through her skin and absorbed by her lungs. When tears began to slip from her eyes, Moira did not notice, lost in the healing peace.

  Kiron carefully spilled magic into her, not enough that she would know he did it, just enough to buoy her troubled soul. Her anger, loneliness and hopelessness had flared high and bright, like black flames in the green and gold world of The Wild.

  He had not meant to show her this much, to bring her so deeply into his world. There were other ways to scry—he could have tried to do it himself—but he wanted to teach her, wanted to arm her for this vicious fight.

  She was not helpless, but she was vulnerable, and the vulnerability troubled him even as the injustice of this lone female against powers unknown and vicious roused his anger.

  It had seemed simple. Bring her to The Wild, allow her to make her pendulum from the magic-rich material here, and then use that to scry and carry on with this insane quest. He should have known that bringing her to The Wild would be neither quick nor simple, for that was not nature’s way. There was no tolerance for deception or lies within the cathedral of trees, even if those lies were to one’s self.

  The moment he’d returned to The Wild, Kiron had been forced to face his growing feelings for her, feelings beyond the desire for her body and willingness to protect and help her that he’d already admitted. She was not fearless, but she was courageous, doing what she must despite the fear that often flared in her green eyes, and that drew him to her.

  Her stubborn refusal to admit she was not human fascinated him.

  She rested her head in his hand, her breath fluttering over his wrist. She seemed small and fragile here among the old trees
, but like the ferns her soft appearance masked great strength.

  “I am weary,” she whispered softly, as if ashamed to admit such weakness.

  “Then let me be your strength.”

  Moira moved into him, cheek resting against his belly. Kiron summoned his magic, melting the half of him that was horse into the ether. He could feel it, a great ghostly horse, waiting in the place where his magic spooled, ebbing and flowing with the magic of The Wild. He remembered at the last moment to force some of the free-flowing magic to form as clothes. He liked the feel of her against his bare chest, and so settled for a pair of the ubiquitous human garments, jeans. They wrapped around his hips, forming a moment after his body had coalesced, so that for a second he stood fully naked with her in his arms.

  The last white sparks of his magic settled into her hair like snowflakes before melting away.

  Moira shifted even closer, her head finding rest on his shoulder, tucked beneath the side of his jaw. He opened himself to her, feeling the ebb and flow of the magic through her. If he’d found her arousing before, this was temptation beyond restraint now. Her unique magic was flavored with that of The Wild. She felt like both foreign adventure and the security of home.

  He wanted to kiss her, taste her, then press her against one of the ancient trees and push himself into her. The urge was so strong his hands moved to her hips, prepared to lift her, but when he touched her he felt no desire from her. She seemed at peace, relaxed.

  Kiron swallowed hard. If anything proved how deeply he’d begun to care for her, it was this. If he were a more randy centaur he would have taken her five times over by now. Instead, he hugged her closer, laying his cheek upon her head and letting her have these moments of comfort and peace.

  Her breathing slowed, more of her weight coming to bear on his chest. Kiron bent and lifted her into his arms, enjoying her weight. He carried her into a hollow made by the torn-up roots of a fallen tree. The pit and mound of a downed tree was one of the most important parts of an old forest, and one of the living proofs of the power of The Wild.

  When a tree fell the roots, deeply embedded in the rich soil, pulled up with it. This formed a deep pit and exposed the rich, hidden soil of the deep ground. Into this hollow, water pooled and leaves fell, until the soupy mass of liquid life formed. Even the bitterest seed would grow in a pit, while other, sunlight-desiring plants settled into the soil trapped in the tipped-up roots.

  Kiron settled Moira into one of these pits. It was a testament to what he felt for her that he settled her in the richest place in the forest. Her body was cushioned by the baby plants. The wet muck oozed through her clothes. He reached beneath her shoulder, curling his fingers in the moist soil, then painted her face with it. Swipes of mud went across each cheek, then across her forehead to cover her inner eye.

  Finally he bid the plants below her to grow, using the power he’d been given to accelerate life. Green baby vines curled up the sides of her body, slipping beneath her shirt, exposing a thin swatch of golden belly as they wrapped across her stomach. Stout shoots wedged her shoes and socks off, curing up between her toes. They wrapped around her, hugging her as he had. Moira settled deeper into sleep, so deep that she stopped breathing, the plants that surrounded her pushing the oxygen she needed directly into her body.

  When he knew she was safe, sleeping until he came to wake her, Kiron rose. He found another pit and mound, changed back into the centaur and knelt, stretching to scoop up some of the loamy mud. He painted himself, face and chest.

  With the power of The Wild fortifying him, he started to run, cantering, then galloping, through the forest. He ran in a circle around her, orbiting her as the Moon did the Earth. It was not an easy course, for fallen logs barred the way and trees grew close together. He challenged himself to conquer this, to find his way, averting danger by the merest breath, changing direction seconds before he would have stumbled into a hole, breaking his vulnerable legs.

  He ran until his lungs, both sets, worked like bellows and the rich earth he’d painted himself with began to melt off with his sweat. He leapt over a newly fallen tree, its corpse yet to be taken in by the plants of the forest, and slowed to a walk. Turning, he traced a return path to Moira. Leaves bent to brush his shoulders and tangle in his hair and tail and ferns unfurled to rub against him.

  It was impossible for him to be lost in the forest, but his path was guided not by his own sense of direction, but by her. Whatever she was, whatever sourced her magic, had permeated the The Wild. The forest was excited by her, the plants conducting a whispered discourse of her, tree roots, normally the silent foundation, creaking awake to take part in the discussion. He followed the forest’s murmurs to her.

  When he got closer to her the feelings of the forest changed, the excitement laced with something else.

  She lay as he’d left her, still and cool in the pit.

  Kiron stared at her and the plants he’d coaxed to cover her. Every green thing that had wrapped over her flesh was dead. The wilted and brittle stems and leaves lay across and around her like a coating of briars.

  Kiron changed to human form, not bothering with clothing, and stepped into the pit. He brushed the dead vegetation off of her, now hearing the forest’s murmurs of fear amid the chatter of excitement. Death was never wasted here, so there was no great loss, but Kiron’s heart ached with sorrow and regret at having caused the accelerated death of these plants.

  “I’m sorry.” He lifted the shriveled vines that lay across her belly. They cracked as he moved them, falling to pieces in his hands. “I don’t know what she is, and I didn’t know this would happen.”

  As he pulled away the dead vines, fresh ones rose up to take their place, the foolish plants helplessly attracted to her, despite her apparently lethal nature.

  Kiron slid his hands under her, one under her knees, the other under her back, and lifted her out of pit. The plants strained up, standing unnaturally tall, reaching out to her for a final moment before they settled into the loam once more, going to work digesting their fallen brothers.

  Moira’s limp body dripped with muddy, brackish water. Kiron set her in the shallow stream, his hand beneath her head to keep it out of the water. The slow current cleansed her, washing away the mud and debris. Kiron dribbled water over her face to wash away the mud. Once she was clean, he laid her on a large granite boulder that anchored a bend in the stream. Her clothing was soaked through, her shoes and socks, which he’d retrieved from the pit and washed, sitting beside her on the boulder, adding their own small trails of dripping water to the large wet smear her body made against the warm rock.

  He lay down in the rushing water, taking a deep breath before submerging, letting the stream wash him. He surfaced to breath and then dunked himself again. Mud and sweat swirled away, leaving him clean and purified.

  When he sat up, hair stripped of its curl and plastered to his skull and neck, he knew that the interlude must come to an end. He needed to wake her, find what they were looking for and return to the mad quest she was on.

  He changed once more, his body protesting the continual changes, and moved to wake Moira.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Why am I wet?” Moira asked casually, propping herself on one elbow.

  “I put you in the stream.”

  “Okay.” Moira rolled her head, stretching her neck, then yawned. “Why did you put me in the stream?”

  “Because you were muddy.”

  Kiron’s clipped tone cleared the vestiges of sleep from Moira’s mind. Something was wrong, something had happened. “Why was I muddy?”

  “We don’t have time for all these questions. Come.”

  Moira stuffed her bare feet into sopping wet tennis shoes and hopped off the rock, into the water.

  Kiron, standing in the stream, his hooves pressing into the rocky bottom, held out a hand to help her across. They stepped between the clustered plants and onto the spongy earth of the forest floor.

  “How do you
feel?” he asked.

  “Rested, for the first time in a long time I feel like I actually slept. I didn’t have to worry about staying awake, listening for someone coming after me.”

  “I’m glad.” His tone had relaxed, and Moira again wondered what had happened while she slept.

  Kiron started forward, but Moira stopped him, settling a hand on his side, his smooth coat warm beneath her palm.

  “Kiron, thank you. For bringing me here, for letting me sleep, and letting me indulge my weakness.”

  “You are anything but weak.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m only telling you the truth. Now come. We must find a pendulum.”

  Kiron led them deep into the forest, away from the places where fallen tress had created sun wells. Here, in the heart of the forest, the trees grew so close together that dead trees could not fall, instead they remained upright, supported by their brothers. The trunks of the dead snags became the homes of the small animals of the forest. As they walked, a squirrel poked its head out of a hole in one of the snags.

  “Look, a squirrel!”

  Kiron turned to look over his shoulder at her, arching an eyebrow at her excitement.

  “It’s a cute squirrel,” she defended. The squirrel, as if to defend its cuteness, scrambled up the side of the tall tree. Moira followed its progress and had a perfect view when the squirrel leapt from the branch spreading his little legs so the great wings of flesh opened, catching the air and allowing him to glide to another tree.

  “A cute, flying squirrel!”

  “If you think that is amazing, keep your eyes open, for there is more life in this forest then in any other on Earth. The Wild is refuge for many.”

  The further they walked the easier it was for Moira to spot animals. They did not hide from her and Kiron, for they did not fear them. It was just a matter of learning to look.

  More birds than she could name darted through the canopy, while butterflies and moths zipped through the cool air. A blue-winged butterfly landed on Kiron’s back, the brilliant cobalt wings, with their black spotted pattern, slowly fanning open and closed as the little insect hitched a ride.