“They are native to the Scarlet Isles,” he said. “I have seen them before.”
“It is what I have been dreaming of,” said Beauty, her eyes large and luminous in the shadows. “But I do not know what it means.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Wandering
Ode did not know where he was going, but he walked endlessly through the wilderness. He tried to keep the sea to his left, but often he wandered off course and found himself doubling back and following his own tracks. His days became nothing but the steady rhythm of his feet beating the ground and his arms swinging with his pace. He tried to put faith in his own Magic, convinced that he would have a dream or a vision soon, telling him what lay ahead. But the days trickled by and no answers came.
Each morning Ode awoke with fresh aches and pains that he tried to stretch out in the rising sunlight. He slept fitfully, worried always of danger, and his tiredness swelled until it was like a cloak draped across his shoulders, dragging him back. Arrow, too, was suffering; his usual gliding gate slowed to a stiff plod and he stopped to sniff their new surroundings less and less. One day, both awoke and found that they simply could not continue. Tears of frustration rolled down Ode’s grimy cheeks, and he lay still, giving in to his sore body. He rested for the whole day, ate and slept a little, and then finally pushed onward the next morning, hopeful that wherever he was heading, he would reach it soon.
But the forest around Ode seemed to go on forever. Every so often the trees would begin to thin out and he would find himself wondering if this was the end. But then they would reach the crest of a hill and another expanse of green would unfold before them in steady, leafy hills that disappeared into the horizon. The ground was as uneven as it had been at camp and was still the russet brown color of autumn. Ode often thought wistfully of the dark damp earth in the forests of the Taone territory or of the dusty grasses of the flatlands. He longed for familiar and comforting surroundings.
The food and water Blue Moon had given Ode quickly ran out, so each day was a battle against twinges of hunger and stabs of thirst. Ode was not a hunter, but like all Taone members, he could forage for food and find water. On good days, Arrow would catch a rabbit or a squirrel and Ode would roast it, barely able to wait until it had cooled before stuffing it in his mouth. On bad days, there was nothing but berries, and on a few occasions, there was nothing at all.
Ode knew that he was growing thinner. He could see that Arrow was also becoming weaker and his coat had lost its glossy shine. Every night Ode went to sleep with one hand clutching his feather amulet, desperate for a dream to foresee what would happen next, desperate to know when their suffering would end. Red and orange leaves were beginning to flutter from the trees like fiery rain, and one morning, Ode awoke with frost in his hair. He began wearing the fur cloak Blue Moon had given him and he tied on his winter boots, but he knew that he would not be able to survive the snow when it came. He told himself several times a day that his Magic would intervene and he would not be wandering in this wilderness forever, but still the dreamless nights came and went.
As the leaves continued to fall around them and the days trudged onward, Ode began to lose faith. He had no energy to shift and often he worried that his Magic had disappeared completely. It seemed that he could do nothing but put one foot in front of the other, walking for hours. Often he was so wrapped up in the monotonous rhythm of his strides that he would forget how vulnerable he and Arrow were until it was almost too late. Several times they had come across wolves, bears, and mountain lions. The first time they encountered a bear, Arrow fought it off, but as he grew thinner and weaker, the pair found themselves hiding from predators instead. If winter came and they were still wandering, Ode did not know what would kill them first: a pack of wolves or the freezing cold.
One evening they were plodding through endless miles of trees when Ode heard a twig snap. At first, he thought nothing of it since the sounds of the forest had become as natural to him as his own breathing. Even when Arrow paused and raised his head, Ode did not sense the hint of danger. Instead, he hoped that a squirrel was nearby as they hadn’t eaten since morning.
Arrow barked and Ode looked over his shoulder with a frown just in time to see a glint of flint as something slashed at his arm. He ducked, but it was too late and the thrown spear tore at his skin, slicing a hole in his fur cloak. He shouted in pain and clutched the stinging wound. Then he began to run.
As he sprinted through the trees, Ode saw shadows following. He heard the chatter of an unknown language and he felt the press of bodies chasing him. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot and the air whistled with more spears.
Arrow galloped at his side and Ode leaped over bushes and darted through trees, trying to lose his attackers. His breath heaved in his chest and his body tingled with fear, but he was weak and he knew he could not keep running. When he had thought of his demise in the never-ending forest, Ode had never supposed that other tribesmen would kill him. He had imagined wolves or starvation, and it had not occurred to him that, of course, there must be other tribes than just the Taone residing in the Wild Lands. For a moment, he was jealous of this tribe and their ignorant existence. If only the New People had landed here and invaded their territory instead, then everything would surely be as it was before. But Ode did not have time to feel too bitter. His attackers were shouting to each other and when he stole a glance over his shoulder, he saw three men charging after him. The sight of them almost made Ode stumble, for they were so different from the Taone that it was hard to believe they called the same land home. These men were short and squat with thick, dark hair. Their skin was pale, unlike the chestnut brown of the Taone, and they were covered in tawny fuzz from foot to crown. They were also gaining on him.
Ode willed his body to shift, but he knew it would not; he had no energy to spare. His legs were beginning to slow and each hurried breath was scorching his chest. He did not see a fallen branch until it was too late. He caught his foot on it, and with a cry he tumbled to his knees. Arrow faltered and Ode’s body smacked against the ground with a thump that made his teeth ache. He lay on the cold forest floor, waiting for hands to grab him from behind or for a spear to slice through his skull—whatever came first.
After a moment of nothing, he lifted his head and saw the three men standing a little distance away, watching. They had their spears raised, but they did not look like they were going to attack. They were standing beside a tall, fat trunk with markings etched into its bark. Ode could not make out exactly what the markings were, but he instantly understood. He had trespassed onto their land, and they were protecting it.
He climbed shakily to his feet, his legs wobbling from the run, and faced them. They were peering at him curiously, and he wondered if he was as strange to them as they were to him. He lifted his hand in greeting as the Taone did, but they did not respond. They stayed standing by their boundary with their spears raised, warning him that he was not to turn back.
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” he called out to them.
They flinched at the sound of his voice, but otherwise, they did not reply.
With Arrow panting after him, Ode limped away through the trees. He did not make it far before he collapsed, knowing that he could go no farther that night.
He dropped his leather pack onto the ground near a bush and pulled out his supply of water, taking eager gulps and then pouring the rest out for Arrow. While Ode tried to clean the wound on his arm, the wolf slunk off into the darkening forest, hunting for dinner. Ode’s cut was not deep, but it still throbbed and bled. He knew he was lucky that the spear had not buried itself in his arm and he was very lucky that the arrowhead had not been poisoned.
Tearing a length of leather from his tunic, Ode wrapped it around his bicep and tied it in place to stop the flow of blood. He hoped it would not get infected; there was no Cala now to make a potion to take away his fever. There was no one.
Ode was building a small fire when Arrow emerged
from the darkness, a rabbit dangling from his mouth. Ode praised him and began stripping and cooking the meat, his mouth watering and his hands trembling. Once eaten, the food improved his mood a little, warming his belly in the chilly darkness, but as more and more light disappeared, the temperature dropped and he edged closer to the fire, Arrow cuddled up at his side.
When the darkness was complete, Ode extinguished the fire and the two of them crawled beneath a nearby bush. Shivering, they lay on the cold ground side by side, with the fur cloak flung over them. After a moment, Ode realized that he could see whiteness raining down through the branches. He lifted his head and peered at the spiraling, white flakes falling all around them, his jaw clenching in fear. The snow had come.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Red Cloak
While the last of the leaves still clung to the trees in the forest, there were only light dustings of snow. Ode sometimes woke in the morning with whiteness frosted all over him, and often as he walked, tiny flakes would cascade from the sky in ominous whirls. He watched the remaining leaves obsessively, longing for them to stay—longing for autumn to stretch on and never change into winter.
But there was no escaping the chill that laced the air. It gnawed through Ode’s flesh and made his bones ache from the moment he woke until the moment he slept. As the cold increased, his daily pace slowed, until sometimes he wondered if he was barely moving at all. The forest continued on forever and gradually became whiter and whiter as the days passed.
One morning the snow began at sunrise, pattering against Ode’s head and clinging to his cloak and Arrow’s gray fur. When the pair came to a stream, it was frozen over and Ode had to break the ice with his dagger before they could get a sip of the chilled water that made their stomachs sore with its bite.
The snow persisted as they walked on until it outlined the bare branches they passed and collected in a layer beneath their feet. The light flurry grew thicker and faster until snow was covering everything and Ode found himself ankle-deep in pure coldness that drenched his boots. Gust after gust of snow became a blizzard that whirled and twirled through the air, rushing against Ode’s cheeks and burying itself deep in Arrow’s fur. Soon neither could see where they were going.
Ode huddled farther down into his cloak, desperate sobs beginning to rack his throat. He grasped the feather around his neck, stiff with cold, and he longed to feel his Magic again. He had never wished to be the strange birther as much as he did now. All those seasons he had spent despising his gift, and now he wanted it desperately.
I cannot have walked through this snow for nothing, he thought. This must all mean something. Whatever it is, do it now. Now!
Ode fell to his knees in the snow and prayed that he would be saved from this hellish whiteness. He was so deeply entrenched in his misery that the sudden vision took him by surprise. He saw red. It flowed around him and through him. He heard women singing in a strange language, their voices soft and gentle like a summer moon. When he opened his eyes, the vision was over, but the red did not fade.
Ode blinked several times yet a spot of red remained, surrounded by the white snowstorm raging above. As he tried to understand what the vision meant, he realized that the red was a figure. A cloaked figure in the distance. Before he knew what he was doing, Ode was stumbling toward it, shouting.
“Help me!” he yelled. “Wait!”
The figure turned. It was a man heavily laden with leathers and furs, a red cloak slung over his back. He stared at Ode sliding toward him in the snow with astonishment.
“Help me!” cried Ode, sprawling at the man’s feet.
Arrow galloped up behind him, whining.
Ode took hold of the edge of the man’s red cloak and gripped it tightly in his hands.
“You must help me,” he gasped.
The man bent to help him stand, but Ode was already unconscious.
When Ode awoke, he was deliciously warm. He had forgotten how it felt to breathe without coughing and to lie down without shivering. For a while he remained still, wallowing in the heat. Then, gradually, his body came alive and before long he realized that his back ached and his feet were sore. His chest was raw and his stomach throbbed. He finally opened his eyes.
He was inside a wooden tent, like the kind he had seen in his dreams. Furs and other materials covered him as he lay on a strange, raised bed mat, and a fire flickered in the corner. The tent was large and square, and Ode supposed it must be one of those “houses” that the New People had spoken of. He tried to sit up, but gasped with pain and collapsed onto the bedding, clutching his sides.
From over the edge of his raised bed mat, he heard a squeak of excitement and a black nose thrust itself into his face, sniffing and snorting with delight.
“Arrow …” Ode tried to say, but his dry throat only croaked.
The wolf began licking his cheek and Ode could hear the swishing pump of his companion’s wagging tail. He reached out a hand to pet Arrow’s head, and the wolf licked and slobbered at it. As he did so, Ode noticed the bruises and cuts on his arm and he frowned. His wrist was bandaged and there was another bandage at his elbow, too. He suddenly wondered how long he had been in this house and who had brought him here. In his foggy mind he could just about remember the snowstorm and a figure in red, but it did not feel real.
He relaxed back on the pillows, trying not to worry his tired mind with such thoughts. For now, he was simply happy to be warm and sheltered. He was about to drift back into sleep when someone entered the house.
Again, Ode tried to sit up, but buckled with a yelp of pain.
“You woken!” said a man, closing the wooden door and stamping his boots to shake off clumps of snow.
Ode stared at him.
“It be good you woken. I be scared you too far gone. I be scared you die.”
Ode knew that the man was speaking another language even though he could understand him. Much like the New People, the inflection and tone of the man’s voice sounded odd to him, but he could grasp the meaning of the words.
“Who …” he tried to say, but his croak dissolved into coughing.
“Do nay overdo it now, do nay overdo it,” said the man.
He was tall and broad with light-brown skin like the pebbles at the bottom of a stream. He had a thick, dark beard and warm, brown eyes. Over his many leathers and furs, he wore a red cloak tied with cord at his neck.
Once Ode had stopped coughing he curled into himself, exhausted. He did not care who this man was or why he was here—he just wanted to be lost in sleep again.
“You understand me? You hear me right?” the man said.
This time Ode did not try to reply, he simply nodded.
“I thought it be so,” said the man. “I been wondering if I imagined you running toward me in the snow, speaking in mountain language.”
The man was carrying an armful of chopped wood and he hastily pushed it into a corner. Then he stood watching Ode with a wide smile.
“You probably wondering how long you been here,” he continued. “Well, it be a long time. Like I said before, I be worrying for a while whether you make it through, but I guess you did. You had fevers and sicknesses and when I found you, you was almost dead anyway. That wolf not left your side the whole time you be here. He give me a hard time when I first tried to nurse you.”
Ode glanced at Arrow, who was looking back with faithful green eyes.
“Me and the others be keen to ask you where you come from and why you come here,” added the man. “We all so sure you sent from the gods to us.”
Ode closed his eyes. He did not have the energy to form any answers.
“Yes, you better sleep now,” said the man. “You got plenty of resting that needs doing. We be speaking when you’re ready.”
But Ode found that he could not return to the delightful nothingness of before. For the next few days he floated in a semiconscious state, overwhelmed with memories of the past. In his wanderings through the Wild Lands, he had
been so focused on staying alive that there had been no time to dwell on what he had left behind. Now warm and fed, he found his mind drifting toward the Taone and his dead father.
Blue Moon said that Gray Morning had wanted Ode to be the new chief. Was that merely the fear of defeat talking, or had his father really meant it? Ode would never know. Gray Morning had always made it clear that he hated his first son, but perhaps it was not so simple. Sometimes such thoughts would bring frustrated tears to Ode’s eyes as he lay in bed, staring at the wooden roof. He was angry at what could have been and he was distraught there was no way to change it. Gray Morning was dead and gone.
When he was not thinking of his father, Ode wondered how the Taone felt now that he had disappeared. He suspected they were relieved, perhaps even happy. He doubted even his own mother was sad. Sunset By Forest had treated him differently ever since he shifted at the Winter Feast. She was suspicious and scared of him now, like everyone else. Blue Moon at least, Ode hoped, would miss him. He could not be sure of this, but he clung to the thought, wishing it to be true.
And Cala? Ode did not know what to feel about his auntie. She had become powerful and intimidating to him, when she had once been soothing and kind. It was her fault that he had been exiled to the wilderness. She had sent him off, and then abandoned him. Ode remembered their parting with bitterness curling the edges of his memory. He did not know if she had ever really cared about him. Looking back, it seemed as though he were merely a tool in whatever she was planning. A tool that did not work out. He was glad, at least, to be away from her and the New People’s war; it seemed like a dangerous problem that did not concern him now.
If it were not for the frequent interruptions of the man in the red cloak, Ode would be lost in such thoughts. The man appeared at intervals throughout the day, speckled with snow and eager to check on his invalid. His name was Erek, and Ode quickly discovered that he was the leader of whatever tribe this was. Erek liked to talk. He would start chattering as soon as he entered the house and he would not stop until he left again. For a while, Ode was happy simply to lay still and listen, but soon it became clear that Erek wanted answers.
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