by Terry Brooks
Something stroked the skin of his arms, soft and feathery. Little fingers were touching him, fairy hands or insect legs. They moved along the backs of his hands and wrists. But their movement was circular, a stroking that suggested an attempt to soothe or ease. He grew calm. His tears dried and his heartbeat slowed. He took deep, steadying breaths.
Without moving his hands or wrists, he raised himself carefully on his elbows.
Tiny roots sprouted from the ground all around him, little nests of them, some so slender they matched the hairs on his arm. They formed a bed, poking from the earth, weaving and touching, twisting and stroking. They were everywhere, though he felt them only where his skin was exposed. In front of him, the tanequil’s limbs were swaying gently and its leaves shivering in time to the movement of the bed of roots that cradled him. He watched their undulation, watched the swaying of the tree, fascinated, mesmerized.
He lay back again and closed his eyes. The touching continued, and he lost himself in its hypnotic repetition. He reached out to it with his senses, embraced it, and made it a part of himself.
Then, deep within his consciousness, down where his heart beat and his life pulsed, he heard a deep, slow whisper, and even though it came from within himself, the voice wasn’t his.
–Penderrin–
TWENTY-FOUR
A single word spoken. His name.
–Penderrin–
Only it wasn’t spoken in the way that humans spoke. It didn’t come from a mouth or even from an independent source. It came from the stroking of the tree roots against his skin, his magic extracting from that touch a communication meant solely for him.
–Penderrin–
The tanequil was speaking to him. He had been wrong about how communication with the tree would happen. It wasn’t up to him to initiate contact; it was only up to him to be open to it. The tree would speak to him when it chose to. Trying to reach the tanequil on his terms was not going to work.
He lay against the earth, waiting for something more. But there were no further whispers, and he realized that the tiny fingerling roots were no longer stroking him. He rose to a sitting position and looked down. They were gone, all of them. He sat on a patch of sparse grass and bare earth from which no roots protruded and no sign of the ancient tree was in evidence.
He took a few moments to accept that the situation was not going to change, and then he rose and stood looking at the tree, trying to decide what to do next. Why had it stopped trying to communicate? Did it require something more from him? He couldn’t think what else he could do that would help. To allow communication, he had opened himself up to the tree, reached out with his senses, engaged the magic that was his birthright, and it had happened. What more was there for him to do?
He circled the tree, squinting in the glare of the sunrise as the light fell across his face. The forest was silent and untroubled, a vast hall in which even the smallest sound could be heard. It was a sacred place, and he was a supplicant come in search of healing and direction. He stilled his mind and opened his thoughts, reaching to make a fresh connection, his eyes on the tree as he replayed in his mind the still-fresh whisper of his name.
Nothing happened.
After a time, he sat down again, taking up a new position on the other side of the tree, with his back to the sun. He watched the way the light played over the branches and leaves, illuminating fresh parts of the tree as the sun lifted out of the mountains into the sky. He tried speaking to the tree, tried engaging it with his magic, with his thinking, even by touching the earth in the hope that he might draw out the root tendrils. He did everything he could imagine that might stimulate the tree’s consciousness.
Nothing worked.
Frustration washed through him. What had he done before that he was not doing now? Why wouldn’t the tanequil continue their conversation? Perhaps, he thought, it was a question of patience. Trees had infinite amounts, and for them conversations might require a much longer period of time. Perhaps one word at a time was all that it could manage, and he must wait awhile for the next.
He didn’t like that conclusion. He thought there must be a better one, a more sensible one. He went back to how things had begun, how he had been sleeping, dreaming of home, of the Ard Rhys . . .
He caught himself. Of the Ard Rhys, in danger, threatened because he could not help her, because he was incapable of acting. And then he had come awake in the sweat of his own fear and the roots of the tanequil had been reaching out to him. Responding, perhaps, to that fear, to his need to do something to help his aunt?
He lay down again on the earth, closed his eyes, and summoned pictures of his aunt in peril, jogging his memory, even though it was painful to do so, bringing to mind fresh images, fresh fears . . .
Almost immediately, the feathery touching begin again, a stroking of his skin that communicated a combination of reassurance and admonition. He remained still, giving himself over to the experience, but at the same time keeping his fears for his aunt at the forefront of his thoughts, the spark that he hoped would generate something more from the tree.
Hypnotically consuming, the stroking absorbed him. Lulled and calmed, he took a chance, speaking a single word in his mind.
–Tanequil–
–Penderrin. What do you require of me?–
The boy was so surprised by the response that he almost locked up, his mind going blank momentarily before he was able to construct an answer.
–A darkwand, so that I can reach my aunt, so that I can save her from the Forbidding–
–A darkwand formed of my body, of my limbs. What will you give me in exchange?–
Pen hesitated, surprised by the question. He had not thought to give the tanequil anything. The King of the Silver River had not mentioned anything about an exchange of gifts. Or was this something else? It might be that the tanequil was looking at a different sort of exchange entirely.
–What do you require?–
–What you ask of me. A part of yourself–
Pen took a deep, steadying breath, trying to stay focused on his aunt, on the Forbidding, on the journey he must make.
–What part of myself?–
As quickly as that, the stroking ended, the root tendrils withdrew, and the connection between them was broken once more. Pen lay where he was for a time, refocusing his thoughts on his aunt, stirring his emotions, and waiting for the words to come anew. They did not. He was left alone with his thoughts, his mind echoing with the words the tree had spoken and the silence that had replaced them.
Preoccupied with the crossing itself and with what waited, he had not thought to bring anything to eat with him when he crossed the bridge from Stridegate. He rose finally and went looking for food. He searched the forest about him, never moving too far from the tree, keeping the orange-tinged emerald canopy always in sight. But although he looked everywhere he could think to look, he found nothing save a tiny spill of water that trickled out of a fissure in a rock wall. He drank that, the water tasting of metal and earth.
He was about to return to the tanequil for another try at communicating with it when Cinnaminson appeared unexpectedly out of the trees, her face flushed with excitement as she rushed up to him.
“Penderrin,” she gasped, “it was incredible!”
“Where have you been?” he asked, taking her by the shoulders. “I was worried about you.”
She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him as if she had been gone for weeks, rather than hours. He could feel the soft hiss of her breath in his ear as she laughed. “Did you miss me?”
He nodded, confused by her strange excitement. “Are you all right?”
She pushed back from him so that they were face-to-face. Her smile reflected a child’s wonder as she reached up to touch his cheek. “Pen, I saw everything. The aeriads showed me. I don’t know how they managed it, but they let me see it all. They took shape and flew all around me, like tiny rainbow butterflies, changing colors and shimmering so brightly th
ey seemed like pieces of the sun. It was so wonderful! Then they changed to become like me—girls, no older than I am! We danced and played! We laughed until I could hardly stand up! Do you know how long it has been since I laughed?”
He stared at her, shocked at the transformation. She had always been effusive, but she was alive now in a way he had never witnessed. It was as if she were being reborn into the world, made over by her encounter with the aeriads. He was surprised to find that he was vaguely jealous.
“Did you find out what they really are? Where they come from?”
She nodded. “They told me. They call themselves spirits of the air—aeriads—but they are much more. They call themselves seedlings, as well. They think of themselves as creatures of the tanequil, his children.” She stopped herself. “Their children,” she corrected. “I don’t understand this part, but they think of the tanequil as both mother and father. The tree is both man and woman to them, able to be one or the other or both as needed.” She shook her head. “I’m still learning.”
Pen thought about the tanequil’s voice in his head. Masculine, he reaffirmed, not feminine. Where was the mother side of the tree, then?
“Are you hungry?” she asked suddenly.
He nodded. “Starved. I’ve been looking for something to eat.”
She took his hand. “Come with me.”
She led the way through the trees, navigating the maze of ancient trunks as if her sight had miraculously been restored. There was no hesitation, no deviation. She seemed able to see even better than she had before, her strange gift enhanced perhaps by the magic of the place and its creatures.
She took him to a cluster of berry-laden bushes near a clear, spring-fed pool. The berries were rich and sweet, and he ate them hungrily, then drank the cool, clear water of the pool, which was nothing like the metallic trickle he had sampled earlier.
When they were finished, sitting next to each other on a grassy stretch by the pool, made lazy by the food and drink and the warmth of the sunlight through the trees, Pen asked, “How did you find this place? Did the aeriads show it to you?”
She nodded. “They seem to know what we need, Pen. They knew you were seeking the tanequil, and they led you to it. They knew that I needed to laugh again, and they made me. And they knew I needed to understand them, once they had revealed themselves, and they allowed me to do so. In part, at least.” She paused, staring off into space. “They are so wonderful. I wish I could explain it better. They are free in a way I’ve never been. They can fly wherever they wish, be whatever they want, do whatever they choose. Sisters, of a sort—though I don’t think they really are. They seem to have come from different places, at different times.”
“But they sound the same,” he pointed out.
“They have become one, become a part of a whole. They are different, each of them, but they are the same, too.”
He puzzled over that one for a moment, thinking of the way a family worked, then of something more cohesive, like a flock or a herd. But that didn’t seem right, either. Finally, he settled on a school of fish, all swimming together and then changing direction at once.
“What do they want with you?” he asked finally.
“I don’t think they want anything, Pen.”
“Then why are they so interested in you? Why did they bring you here in the first place? Why are they telling you so much about themselves?”
She laughed, as if the answer should be obvious. “I think they just want someone to talk to. I think they know I will listen because I am interested in them.”
She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Tell me about the tanequil. What have you learned?”
Strands of loose hair fell across her face as she leaned toward him, and he reached out to brush them away. “I did miss you, Cinnaminson,” he said. “I don’t like it when you’re gone.”
She smiled. “I missed you, too.” Her face brightened. “Now tell me about the tanequil. Did you speak with it?”
“I spoke with it,” he said. “It took me a while, but I found a way.”
He told her everything that had happened, how it had taken him all night just to make contact, how it had then withdrawn until he had realized that his connection was premised upon its sensing of his need to help his aunt. He couldn’t explain that, didn’t understand it at all. But it was clear that the tree knew why he had come and what he had come for, and if he wanted to see the quest through, he was going to have to keep the needs of his aunt and his concerns for her safety foremost in his thoughts.
“But it was what it said last that bothers me most,” he finished. “It said that if I wanted to take a part of it—a limb from which to fashion the darkwand—then I must give it a part of myself in return. When I asked what part it wanted, it quit talking to me.”
Cinnaminson thought about it. “Perhaps it was just testing you. Or perhaps it was speaking about something else. Maybe it wants a part of you that’s emotional or spiritual.” She paused. “It can’t be talking about an arm or leg.”
Pen wasn’t so sure. The entire business was strange enough that he wasn’t willing to rule out anything.
He looked off in the direction of the tree. “I should go back and try to find out. This is taking longer than I thought it would.”
“It is taking as long as it must,” she corrected him gently. “Don’t be impatient. Don’t let yourself become frustrated.”
He nodded, shifting his gaze to study her. “What will you do? Will you go back to the aeriads?”
“For now. I already know I can’t be with you. You have to be alone to speak with the tanequil. I will come looking for you tonight.”
She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek, then on the mouth. He kissed her back, not wanting to sever the connection, not wanting her to go.
But when she rose and waved good-bye, her face still flushed with excitement and expectation, he didn’t try to stop her.
He returned to the tanequil in the warm hush of midday, the sun spilling in faint, thin streamers through the thick canopy of the old growth. Clouds scudded overhead in billowing white clusters, throwing shadows to the earth, and the skies were so blue they hurt his eyes. A breeze blew through the trees, and the air was scented by leaves and grasses sweet with summer warmth. It was the sort of day when you felt that anything was possible.
He sat down in the space he had occupied the night before, where the tree had first spoken to him, studied it for a time, then lay down beneath it and closed his eyes. He gave himself time to relax, then turned his thoughts to his aunt, to the Ard Rhys and her imprisonment inside the Forbidding, embracing the fear such thoughts automatically generated.
And waited.
–Penderrin–
–Tanequil–
–You must have what you came for. You must take what you need–
–What of giving you a part of myself? What of that?–
–You must do so–
He couldn’t help himself. –Will I be crippled?–
–You will be enhanced–
–A part of me will be missing?–
–A part of you will be found–
There was no way to make sense of what he was being told. Pen could not decide if he was about to make a good or a bad decision. He could not read the consequences clearly.
–Are you afraid?–
–Yes–
–Fear for yourself has no place in what you would do. Your fear must be for your aunt if you are to save her. A darkwand is born of fear for another’s safety. A darkwand responds to selfless need. Do you wish to save your aunt?–
He swallowed hard. –I do–
–Then no sacrifice is too great, even that of your own life–
–Is that what is required?–
–What is required should not matter. Do you wish to proceed?–
He took a deep, steadying breath. Did he? How great a risk was he taking? Things weren’t working out the way he had expected. The King of the Silv
er River had told him he must persuade the tanequil to his cause. But the tanequil didn’t seem interested in being persuaded to anything. It seemed to have already made its decision, and what mattered now was how far Pen was willing to go to allow that decision to be implemented.
It was like being trapped in a cave with no light and having to find his way in darkness. There might be pits into which he could fall, and he had no way of knowing where they were.
–Do you wish me to give you what you came for, Penderrin?–
He closed his eyes. –I do–
–Then rise and come to me. Walk to me and place your hands on my body–
He opened his eyes and saw that the tiny roots had withdrawn once more, then rose and moved over to stand before the tree. Gingerly, he pressed his palms against its massive, rough trunk.
–Climb up into me–
He found handholds in the bark and began to climb. It was easier than he would have expected. The bark was strong and did not break off. The effort was considerable, but eventually he reached the lower branches and from there was able to continue on up through the sprawl of limbs as if climbing a ladder. He wasn’t sure how high he was supposed to go, and so kept looking for some indication of where he was to stop. But he was deep within the canopy of the tree, its leaves forming a thick curtain about him, before it spoke to him again.
–Stop–
He stopped climbing and looked around. He was at a junction of branches where deep fissures had split the tree’s trunk, forming crevices and boles in which birds or small animals might nest. The fissures were old, and in the wounds that had healed the skin had grown back over the soft heartwood, the bark wrapped about the openings anew.
–Look up–
He did so, turning his gaze skyward to the sea of limbs and leaves that spread away overhead.
–Reach up–
He did this, too, and his hand touched a limb that extended some six feet from the trunk, a limb that seemed too small and straight, that lacked twigs or even leaves. Heat radiated from the branch, sudden and unexpected, and Pen jerked away in surprise.
