by Anne Logston
But what help might there be? He had friends, many friends among the child-pack, but they had begun to draw away from him when his body had rushed unexpectedly toward adulthood, when hair began to sprout bizarrely from his arms and legs, his chest, even his chin and upper lip. Already he was almost as tall as most of the adults in the clan, his shoulders broader, his muscles large, ungainly lumps on his body. The children drew away not only because of his strangeness, but because he was no longer one of them; they knew, if the elders did not, that Val had charged headlong into the adult world.
The adults of the clan had always loved him and cared for him as impartially as they had any other child, but some of them, too, had lately begun to draw away. Their distance was less open, tinged with concern, perhaps even pity, but also with a touch of fear—fear perhaps not of him and his human blood, but because he and his human blood became every day more a part of the clan. And he would be an adult soon, old enough to couple and perhaps to mate, old enough to sit around the fire with the other adults when there were decisions to be made. Most important, he would be old enough to sow his seed in High Circles when women ripened, and that seed, if it took root in a woman’s womb, would carry to the child Val’s half-human blood. Tainted blood. No one had ever said the words, but they had hovered unspoken, a tangible presence. Tainted seed in the wombs of our women. Val was certain that that thought, more than any other, was the topic of the arguments likely continuing even now at the hide tent Dusk and Rowan and the elders who had accompanied them to the Forest Altarshad set up.
Yet what more could he have done, ever, to prove himself one of them, a valuable member of his clan? He was stronger than any elf he knew; he could sling a good-sized deer over his shoulder and carry it alone, and he’d done it, too, on many occasions. Three summers ago a bear had charged their hunting party; Val alone had stood firm while the others escaped. He’d killed the bear alone, with only his spears and his dagger, although he’d spent the next moon cycle under Dusk’s care, recovering from his wounds. He’d driven himself relentlessly to master every skill any adult in the clan would teach him, bitterly resenting his own clumsy bulk, hating it that he had to struggle hard at some lessons, such as tracking by scent, where his friends in the child-pack succeeded so effortlessly. He could fling a spear farther than any hunter he knew and pull a bow heavier than any other in the clan, but that hardly lessened his humiliation when he realized the clumsiness of his own steps beside the easy grace of his kinfolk in the dance.
Sometimes it seemed that all he could do would never be enough. How could anything he did ever be enough, when it was what he was that was wrong?
For a few moments the dreaming potion had given Val’s thoughts a remarkable clarity, as sharp and cold as the icicles that formed at waterfalls in winter; then another wave of confusion came. What was he doing here, his thoughts running in helpless circles like hopeless prey driven mist-witted by fear? If his own clan feared him and set him apart, what hope that the Mother Forest would welcome him? Maybe the elders who doubted him were right. At the moment he felt very much still a child, albeit a child misplaced in a man’s body, lost and alone in a frightening place.
Help me, he thought desperately. / am so alone, so afraid. If he could weep in his thoughts, he might have been weeping. But who would there be to help him?
Abruptly another wave of clarity lit his mind, and he remembered Dusk’s vision. I felt your sister walking unseen in the woods. And you walked to meet her, holding out a precious gift in your hands.
His sister. His twin, cradled in the same womb, curled against him as they dreamed together to the beat of their mother’s heart, sent to horrible exile among the humans, yet bearing the birthright of visible elven blood Val himself lacked. She’d be small and slender and graceful like other elves of the clan, not oversized and lumpy, her skin smooth and soft, not overfurred like some shaggy beast. How he wanted to resent that, to envy his sister for merely being everything he was not. But more, he wanted—no, needed— to know her. Was she the part of his life, perhaps the part of his very self, that was missing? Would she resent and envy him, too, because she’d been torn away from her home, her people, and he’d remained? Might she even hate him, or would she understand his plight and help him if she could? Did she, too, feel herself a stranger in her world, alone and longing for another’s understanding? How had she fared in the years since their birth? Was she, perhaps, even at this moment, thinking of him?
He could almost picture her in his mind. Rowan had often described the tiny baby with her delicate features, her curling black hair and nut-brown skin, her eyes blue and green together as if spring leaves and clear sky had blended together there. She would be slender and unformed yet, small and agile, her blue-green eyes twinkling with the carefree joy of elven childhood, her black curls always tumbled, her face always smudged, her knees and elbows always scraped and bruised, her tiny fingers nimble and quick and always moving. If he spoke to her, she would turn quickly like a startled doe and her large, sparkling eyes would grow wide and surprised—
For a moment she was there before him, just as he’d pictured her, and some communication passed between them, a flash of understanding as fleeting as a finger of lightning reaching for the earth. He could almost touch her, almost clasp her tiny fingers, and he reached desperately for her, but already she was fading, drawing away as so many others had drawn away from him. Her image dwindled and was gone, and he was alone again in the darkness as he sank deeper into confusion. There was so much life boiling and seething around him that somehow it made him seem infinitely small and insignificant, unworthy, less than nothing. Oh, he could drown in this no less than in a spring-flooded stream, roaring, sweeping him away—
Warm fingers, strong and comfortingly solid, seemed to close about his own. That small point of contact anchored him, made him somehow real again, gave him somewhere to be. He clung desperately to the small digits and let them draw him through the confusion, through sights and sounds and scents that meant nothing to him even as they bombarded his senses, and the warm hand clasping his drew him inexorably deeper into the seething confusion—
—into sudden silence.
At the center of chaos, as at the center of an autumn whirlwind, peace and stillness as unbroken as the surface of a forest pool in the moonlight. And reflected in that pool was himself, and beside him a small figure clothed only in the sparkling green leaves of vines that twined around her slender limbs, with tumbled gold-brown curls and tawny gold eyes, one brown hand clasping his. Her eyes were wild, like a beast’s, but somewhere in those eyes was something warm and familiar, something very like love.
Startled, Val turned and looked all around him. There was no one; he stood in darkness at the edge of a pool. That was all. Yet when he turned back to the placid water, the small figure still stood beside him, firmly clasping his hand.
Val’s lips barely moved.
“Mother?”
There was no answer, at least none that Val could see or hear. Yet somehow he felt in her touch that she understood him, acknowledged him, accepted him. In the reflection she stood on tiptoe and reached up with her free hand to touch the contours of his face, and Val could see now a hint of her own features mirrored there. Her fingers were rough and hard, her arms contoured with wiry muscle. She smiled, and Val could see a little sadness in that smile. Then she released his hand and turned, facing Val directly out of the pool, and extended both hands toward him.
Hesitantly Val reached toward her, expecting to touch warm flesh or, possibly, the cool surface of the water. Instead his hands plunged into fire and he was pulled forward into an inferno. Fire swirled around him and through him, consuming him body and spirit, and for a moment it seemed as if the flesh would be seared from his bones. Then the fire passed, leaving him untouched in its path, leaving a glowing trail of embers as it moved on. Val followed the trail of fire, his feet unburned by the embers as he walked, then ran, reaching for the flames that had for o
ne moment been a part of him. Closer he came to the dancing flames, and closer, until he reached out and grasped them, and—
Val yawned and stretched, groaning as stiff muscles protested the movement after hours of immobility. The furs were soft and cozy over and under him, even the stone was warmed by the sun and his body, and Val luxuriated in the comfort a moment longer before he grudgingly opened his eyes.
Sunlight flowed like warm honey over the skin of his face, promising a hot day despite the early hour, and a soft breeze ruffled his hair. He could smell Dusk somewhere nearby, and the tempting aroma of roast meat and hot baked tubers made his mouth water. Val sat up and stretched again, reaching up to trace the contours of his face and smiling to himself. Despite a slight lightheadedness from the days of fasting and the rigorous rituals of preparation and purification, Val felt wonderfully rested and refreshed, more contented and at peace than he would have thought possible. And why not? If his mother Chyrie, who lived closer to the Mother Forest than any elf in the Heartwood, thought that he was elf enough, then he was elf enough. Had he somehow touched the spirit of his mother in truth, or had the Mother Forest sent a vision of her as She had sent a vision of Lahti to wake his body to adulthood? Did it truly matter? He had made the journey to the Mother Forest and returned, and he was well content with what he had found there.
Val picked up the furs and followed his nose to Dusk’s camp just outside the borders of the Altars. Lahti was sitting outside tending a haunch of venison as it roasted, and her dark-shadowed eyes—had she waited up all night?—lit with delight and relief at Val’s approach.
“Fair morn,” she said. “You look well. And ready to break your fast, I imagine.” She cut off a thick slab of meat, impaled it on her dagger, and held it out.
“Yes, and yes,” Val said emphatically, accepting the dagger and sighing contentedly as he sank his teeth into the juicy meat. It was tough, barely warm, and still bloody— easily the most wonderful meat he’d ever tasted in his life. He swallowed several bites before he paused long enough to speak again. “But where are Dusk and Rowan?”
Lahti’s smile wavered a little, and she gestured to the tent. Glancing to the south, Val could see that the other two hide tents, in which the other elders who had accompanied them had been sleeping, were gone. Val turned back to Lahti, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
“Dusk slipped out of the camp with the potion for you yesterday before the other elders had decided whether or not to give him permission,” Lahti said, shrugging apologetically, “and they were furious when he returned and told them. There was more argument, and Dusk was so upset that he became unwell. Rowan and I tended him all night, and the elders started back for Inner Heart. Dusk and Rowan are sleeping now.”
“He had a vision yesterday,” Val said, but now he was not so sure. He could barely remember what Dusk had said —something about Ria and a storm cloud, wasn’t it?—and sometimes it was difficult to tell whether the healer’s babblings were visions or delusions. “He spoke of my sister.”
Lahti nodded sympathetically, understanding Val’s doubt.
“He seems well enough now,” she reassured him. “His illness and the elders’ doubts shouldn’t mar your passage. He’ll be glad to know all was well with you.” There was a hint of regret in her voice; however much she might wonder about his passage ritual, and however much Val might have liked to hear what she thought of his passage dream, it would have been inexcusable for Val to discuss his journey to the Mother Forest with her, as she had not yet passed into adulthood herself.
Apparently Rowan had heard their voices, for she emerged from the hide tent, smiling although fatigue ringed her eyes as darkly as Lahti’s.
“Fair morn, Valann, Lahti,” she said. She touched Lahti’s cheek affectionately, but smiled again as she embraced Val. “I shall miss my boy, but I greet the man with pride. Valann, share our food and fire, and be made welcome among us.”
Val flushed with a mixture of pride and embarrassment at Rowan’s recognition of his new status as an adult. With all the argument and anxiety surrounding his passage, he’d hardly spared a thought about what would happen afterward. Of course, he was no longer an infant to share his mother’s hut and fire, nor a child to run wild in the forest with the child-pack and sleep and eat in whatever temporary shelter he chose. He was an adult now, and a hut of his own would have been prepared while he was gone from the village.
“I am honored to share your food and fire,” Val said, a little awkwardly. “May joy and friendship be my contribution.” He appreciated Rowan’s recognition of his adulthood, but it seemed a little foolish to mouth the formalities as he stood there with a half-eaten piece of meat already in his hand and Lahti trying to keep from chuckling at his discomfort.
Rowan chuckled a little too, and Val felt a bit less awkward as he sat down again, eager to stuff more venison into his achingly empty stomach.
“I hear Dusk was unwell last night,” he said between bites.
Rowan sighed and nodded, but said nothing. There was little enough to be said. Beast-speaking was the oldest and best developed of Dusk’s gifts despite his skill as a healer.
The Gifted One had been flying in the mind of a hawk during the barbarian invasion sixteen years earlier when a human spear had struck his body, prematurely severing the link between man and bird. Dusk’s body had been long in mending, and his spirit had never fully recovered. Sometimes he took strange fits in which his body jerked and twitched; more often his spirit wandered to strange places, sometimes bringing back powerful visions but more often only leaving Dusk mist-witted for a time. There was nothing to be done for the Gifted One but to honor and care for him and pray to the Mother Forest that his spirit would continue to return from its strange journeys. Still, Val had never known Dusk any other way, and Dusk’s visions had often spared the clan great hardship.
“He’s sleeping easily now,” Rowan assured him. “I sent the other elders back still infuriated that Dusk had gone ahead without their consent. All the quarreling served no purpose but to upset him further. And you have returned from your spirit journey safe and strong as Dusk said you would. When we return I’ll call the elders to my speaking hut and you can tell us your passage dream, and then there will be an end to all this wondering and arguing.” She patted Val’s shoulder and her eyes twinkled over her smile. “And an end to your waiting. Lahti has acted as elder sister for you. Come, we’ll tidy the camp and ready the packs before we wake Dusk.”
To Val’s relief, Dusk was clear-headed and cheerful when they woke him. The four of them had to carry the packs a good distance on their backs, but once they had left the smell of roast venison behind them, Dusk was able to summon graceful spiral-horned deer to bear them back to Inner Heart.
For Val, the ride was something of a triumphal procession; he had ridden out of the village a boy and was returning a man. While he was gone, the elves of Inner Heart would have prepared a symbolic feast of memory, as if for a death, to acknowledge Val’s return to the Mother Forest. Many elves, Val knew, feared (he prayed to the Mother Forest that none had actually hoped) that because of Val’s youth and his human blood the feast would be more than merely symbolic. His friends in Inner Heart, he knew, had been praying and offering to the Mother Forest for his safe return and would be deeply relieved that he lived; some, however, would find his very return a new source of worry.
And one of the clan’s women would be preparing, too, to come to Val in his new hut and teach him the ways of man and woman. Ordinarily it would fall to a man’s oldest sister to choose his teacher, or, if he had no older sister, his mother. It was very like Rowan that she would not usurp the role of Chyrie, Val’s true mother, but it was not unfitting that Lahti, his dearest friend, would, as Rowan had joked, act as his older sister. And yet there was a little bitterness to the joke, for he would have chosen Lahti above any woman in the village, but until she passed from childhood, like a real sister she was forbidden to him.
Ridin
g the deer until they were near the village, it took only part of the day to reach Inner Heart, something which faintly surprised Val. He felt he’d journeyed far from home, perhaps not in distance, but in spirit, so that it seemed strange to return so quickly. Strange, too, that Inner Heart would appear no different from when he’d left it, the huts and fire pits exactly where they’d been before, the elves going about their everyday tasks as always. Well, that wasn’t exactly true; somewhere in the village there’d be his new hut. But Inner Heart could never have changed as much as he felt he had in the last few days.
The lookouts raised glad cries when they saw Rowan, Dusk, Val, and Lahti, and they were met at the edge of the village by a crowd of laughing elves waiting to embrace Val and hang garlands of leaves and flowers around his neck, to sweep him off his feet and carry him, laughing helplessly, to the speaking hut.
It took a little time for the elders to assemble. There always seemed to be so many of them, enough to make Rowan’s large speaking hut—in Val’s lifetime they’d made the hut larger twice—seem crowded. Rowan said it wasn’t that there were so many elders; it was that there were fewer young adults since the invasion. The oldest elves, together with the sick, fertile or pregnant women, and children, had been sent to the human city to shelter and had survived the invasion, while so many of the younger warriors had fought and died in the forest, that sometimes it seemed that half the clan were elders.
The fire was lit in the speaking hut and food was brought—cold food from the memory feast last night while Val had made his strange journey, although Val knew that even now they’d be preparing a new feast to celebrate his return —and Val spoke quietly of his passage dream. He felt a brief pang as he spoke of his mother. He had never seen her with his own eyes; no elf, to his knowledge, had seen Chyrie since she had brought him to Inner Heart and abandoned him there. Some thought that Chyrie had returned to the Mother Forest in body as well as spirit. Valann didn’t really want to speak of her; he wanted to keep her his secret, his very own vision, if a vision was all she’d been. But if that was the vision the Mother Forest had sent him, the elders had a right to know it.
