Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  Blackness filled the jagged scar. In the blackness, stars red as blood. They gleamed with an unholy light as they swirled, slowly coalescing into a shape. A hand, Struath realized. An outstretched hand, the fingers curling and uncurling as if reaching for him. Even as an arm struggled to shape itself, the hand disintegrated, melting into a trail of red stars that oozed down the trunk of the Tree like malignant sap. Struath’s lips moved in the prayer to avert evil, but no sound would emerge from his mouth.

  It was Tinnean who screamed.

  Even as Struath reached for him, he knew he was too late. Tinnean raced toward the Tree, unlit torch raised high. It seemed to take forever for the torch to complete its graceful arc toward the trail of bloody slime and only a heartbeat for the torch to shatter.

  Tinnean hurtled into the air. He screamed again, the shrill cry of a terrified animal. For a moment, his body was silhouetted against the swirling red stars. Then he plummeted into the branches of the Holly, his scream abruptly cut off.

  An owl swooped past. The insistent whine faded. And then, as if Gheala could not bear to witness more, the moon disappeared behind a cloud, plunging the grove into darkness.

  Chapter 3

  DARAK WOKE WITH a startled curse. A drop of water ran down his cheek. Reluctant to leave the warmth of the wolfskins, he shifted on his pallet. The movement sent pain lancing through his temples, a vivid reminder of the jug of brogac he had drained the night before. Groaning, he lay still.

  Another drop spattered on the bedstraw next to his head as melting snow dripped through a hole in the turf. He had meant to repair the roof before the snows came, just as he’d meant to plug the chinks in the walls, but he had more important concerns this autumn than the roof or the walls.

  Judging from the light sifting through those selfsame chinks, it was past dawn. They would be back soon. A creeping sense of shame assailed him. No matter what he thought of the gods, he should have stood with his tribe. And no matter what he thought about Tinnean’s decision to become a priest, he should have attended his brother’s initiation.

  Instead, he had made a spectacle of himself. And soon, he’d become a bigger one. When Red Dugan had passed out in his hut before the Midsummer rite, Struath had made him kneel in the center of the village for an entire day, chanting apologies to the gods, to the Tree-Lords, and to each member of the tribe.

  The thought intensified the throbbing in his head. Whatever punishment Struath decreed, he would have to accept it. That was the law of the tribe and no man stood outside it.

  He crawled out from under the skins, scratching his cheeks; two days’ growth of bristles couldn’t obscure the plague scars. The fire was nearly dead. His eyes felt gritty. His mouth tasted foul. And he stank.

  He stumbled outside, blinking in the watery sunlight. The eerie emptiness of the village made him shudder and the shudder made his head ache. Cursing Tinnean’s insistence on dedicating himself to unfeeling gods, he hitched up his tunic and unknotted the thong at the waist of his breeches. The gods hadn’t cared when his wife died, screaming as the red plague pustules burst all over her body. They hadn’t cared about his mam, too weak to scream, too wasted to move, who simply ceased to exist between one breath and the next. The gods cared only for themselves.

  Piss on the gods.

  Rearranging his clothing, he peered east to find his kinfolk surging through the stubbled fields. He ducked back inside. When he faced Struath, he wanted to look his best.

  He broke the ice in the basin and splashed water on his face. He rolled more water around his mouth to take away the taste of the brogac and spat it out on the rushes. Crouching beside the basin, he lathered his face, stretched the skin taut, and dragged his dagger across his cheeks. A shout outside made his hand slip; he winced as the flint blade nicked him, then resolutely finished the task. He wiped the dagger on his breeches and sheathed it as Griane flung aside the bearskin.

  “You better come, Darak.”

  The last thing he needed this morning was Griane’s breathless dramatics. Because she was his wife’s sister, he bit back his retort and asked, “What now?”

  Judging by the way her lips thinned almost to invisibility, his answer had not been civil enough. Her face grew paler, making the freckles stand out all the more. He knew he should be patient, but he had a wicked headache and little inclination to wheedle information from the girl.

  “What?”

  Griane tossed that impossibly red braid over her shoulder. For a moment, he thought she might simply run off. All the women in her family had that odd manner, as if they were wild creatures only recently tamed. In Maili, he’d found it endearing.

  Just when he was on the point of telling her to speak her mind or get out, he realized she was holding Mother Netal’s basket. Perhaps she had brought herbs to ease his pounding head. Regretting his gruffness, he mumbled an apology.

  Griane’s face crumpled. Before he could do more than gape at her, Nionik ducked inside, cradling Tinnean’s limp body in his arms. Fear stabbed Darak, keen as a dagger’s blade.

  The chief laid Tinnean on his pallet and Darak knelt beside him. Bloody scratches marred his brother’s face and hands, but he could see no other marks of violence. He might almost be sleeping, so peaceful did he look. His cheek was cold, though, and the hand that he grasped lay limp between his fingers. Melting snow spattered onto Tinnean’s face from another hole in the roof. He hauled the bedding closer to the fire pit.

  “What happened?”

  Nionik glanced away as Yeorna and Lisula slipped inside, all of them shoulder to shoulder in the close confines of the hut. Their silence terrified him as much as their haunted expressions. It was a relief to hear Mother Netal shouting at those outside to let her through.

  He pulled Tinnean into his arms, hugging him hard, just as he had the morning Tinnean returned from the forest after disappearing for an entire day and night. That was the first time he had whipped his brother.

  “Stop shaking the boy.” Mother Netal’s gaze swept past him, her nose wrinkling. Once, this hut had been the kind of place you wanted to come home to, filled with the heavy aroma of peat smoke, the rich, onion-scented smell of simmering stew, and the dusty fragrance of herbs. Now it smelled of musty rushes and his sour body.

  For once, the healer kept her opinions to herself. She held out an imperious arm to Griane who helped her squat beside Tinnean. “Give me room,” Mother Netal said, punctuating the remark with a sharp elbow.

  Darak reluctantly ceded his place to her, but kept his grip on Tinnean’s hand.

  “Make yourself useful, boy. Tend the fire.”

  Before he could move, Griane snatched up a peat brick. Nionik cleared his throat. “The Tree-Father and I will talk to the people. Lisula, help the Grain-Mother to your hut.” As they turned to leave, Darak noticed the makeshift sling supporting Yeorna’s right arm. Shouted questions greeted their appearance. Nionik’s voice rose above the cacophony. “Go to your homes. After Mother Netal has seen to Tinnean, we will meet in the longhut in council.”

  Mother Netal cuffed him. “Don’t hover. Fetch some water so I can wash these scratches.”

  “I’ll do it,” Griane said. “You see to the fire, Darak. The peat’s laid. All you have to do is—”

  “I know how to tend a fire.”

  Griane shouldered the waterskin and sidled past as if she’d be contaminated by any physical contact with him. Darak restacked a few of the peat bricks and stirred the embers into life.

  “Add some deadwood,” Mother Netal said. “I need more light.”

  He obeyed, grateful that Mother Netal was too busy laying charms around Tinnean to notice his trembling hands. She dipped into her basket again. One by one, she tossed three small bundles of twigs into the fire pit. “Alder, protect him. Ash, give him will. Rowan, give me vision.”

  She brushed back Tinnean’s hair and peered into his ears before pulling back his eyelids. At her satisfied grunt, Darak let out his breath. She lifted Tinnean�
��s head, gnarled fingers dancing lightly over his scalp, across his forehead, and down his neck. She rested her ear against his chest, then pushed the robe back from his arm and fingered his wrist.

  “Is he all right?”

  The ever-present frown deepened. “I won’t know if you keep interrupting me. Help me strip him.”

  Again, he obeyed, then crouched beside her as she gently probed Tinnean’s ribs, belly, and genitals. At her command, he rolled Tinnean over. Eyes closed, her fingers traced their way down his spine.

  “Roll him onto his back again.” She sniffed his breath and pulled the wolfskins over him. “Nothing’s broken. Eyes are clear. No bleeding from the ears or scalp. Other than the scratches, there are no physical wounds.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Are you the healer?”

  Hands fisted on his knees, Darak shook his head.

  Mother Netal grunted. “I’ll make a lotion of yarrow and Maker’s mantle for his scratches. As to the rest, we’ll have to wait till he wakes.”

  “What do you mean, ‘the rest’?”

  Before she could answer, Darak felt a blast of cold air and turned to see Gortin holding back the bearskin for Struath.

  “You’re supposed to be in bed,” Mother Netal said.

  “How is the boy?”

  “As he was.”

  Darak rose. “What happened? What did you do to him?”

  “If you had been in the glade instead of drunk in your hut, you would know what happened.”

  Darak’s head jerked back, knocking hard against the roof stones. “Tell me, damn it.”

  “Hush,” Mother Netal said. “You will not speak to the Tree-Father that way. And you …” She frowned at Struath. “You need rest and food. Gortin, try and get some hot soup into him.”

  “Gortin, go to the Grain-Mother’s hut. Make sure Yeorna is all right.”

  “Aye, Tree-Father. But Mother Netal is right. You should—”

  “I will remain here until the boy wakes.”

  Darak returned the shaman’s glare. Mother Netal’s rudeness, he could tolerate. She had been healer to the tribe all his life and he trusted her absolutely. But he would never forgive Struath. If not for him, Tinnean would be hunkered down by the fire pit right now, ignoring his instructions to let the porridge cool and offering a sheepish smile when the first mouthful burned his tongue. Still, Struath held the secret to what had happened in the grove and for that reason he controlled his temper.

  “I don’t care about your rites or your magic. Just tell me … I need to know what happened to my brother.”

  Struath remained silent, staring down at Tinnean.

  “Struath. The plague took my wife and my mother.” His voice shook and he took a moment to master himself. “It took my uncle and his whole family. It left me these.” He fingered the pockmarks on his cheeks. “He’s all I have.”

  Before Struath reduced him to begging, Mother Netal said, “Tree-Father. He should know.”

  Darak managed to listen without interrupting, but when Struath related how Tinnean had been thrown skyward, the air rushed out of his lungs. And when the shaman described his brother hurtling into the Holly, he flinched as if his body felt the impact.

  “And after?” he asked, damning his voice for breaking.

  “We found him lying beneath the Holly. Scratched, but otherwise unhurt.”

  “And he’s been unconscious since?”

  “Aye.”

  “Can you help him?”

  Struath hesitated. “I must wait until he wakes.”

  Darak studied the shaman. Exhaustion had etched deeper lines around his mouth and eyes, and although he appeared to be leaning casually against the wall, a tremor ran up his arm from the tense, splayed fingers.

  “All right. We’ll wait.”

  He crouched beside Tinnean. Behind him, the voices of Mother Netal and Struath rose and fell in a barely audible murmur. Deliberately, he shut them out.

  Fear is the enemy.

  He wiped a drop of blood from his brother’s cheek.

  Control the fear and you can control yourself.

  He clasped the cold hand.

  Don’t take him, gods.

  Not a prayer, he told himself. A command.

  With his free hand, he brushed the lock of hair off Tinnean’s forehead. Softer than his. Brighter, too, like their mam’s before it went white. All the colors of autumn.

  Wake up, Tinnean. Wake up and look at me.

  Not a command this time. A plea.

  Chapter 4

  NOT-FOREST.

  A place that was dark and close, but not the darkness of night or the closeness of trees. Inside, a dull tattoo beat, like a woodpecker’s drumming or the dripping of rain on leaves, but slower than the bird and steadier than the rain. Not-earth beneath him, but something that shifted. Above, no moon, no stars, only stone and smoke. Smoke meant fire. Fire meant danger. The tattoo thudded, fierce and fast.

  Out of the darkness and the smoke, a shape loomed, pale as birch, framed by dark fur. The face of a man, closer than ever before, bigger than the full moon. Two shining eyes blinked. A mouth opened. A voice croaked, deep and harsh as a raven’s.

  The tattoo grew wild, a hawk’s wings beating the air. White claws gripped him, cold and strong. Stars crowded in upon him. The face faded. Then there was only the tattoo and the darkness.

  “He opened his eyes,” Griane told the others as they crowded around. “Just for a moment.” She squeezed Darak’s shoulder hard, but he ignored her.

  “Let him sleep,” Mother Netal said. “That’s the best thing for him now.”

  Darak relinquished his grip on Tinnean’s arms long enough to tuck the wolfskins under his chin.

  “It’ll be all right, Darak.” She offered him her most confident smile and received a brief, bleak glance in return before he sank back on his haunches.

  Stupid, Griane. Nobody knows if it will be all right.

  She squeezed Darak’s shoulder again to apologize for her useless words. Then she squatted by the fire pit, snatched up a turtle shell, and started scraping the crusted porridge from their bowls.

  When the darkness went away, the same not-so-dark place returned. A new face peered at him, as deeply grooved as the trunk of an elder. This man had only one eye the color of a robin’s egg. Twisted vines of gray fur hung from his head.

  Another face appeared. The Fox-Fur slipped warm claws under him and raised him up. He had to take refuge in the darkness because the tilting of the world was not-good. When he saw again, the Fox-Fur’s face loomed closer and its claws held out a hollow stone. Mist rose from it as it might from a lake on an autumn morning.

  The Fox-Fur moved the stone closer. Warm not-water drizzled into him. His upper being heaved and the not-water spewed out. Only after the pouring had been repeated several times did he learn to take the liquid in, little by little. This made the Fox-Fur’s mouth turn up.

  The hollow ache inside disappeared, replaced by a fullness still lower in his being. He searched his memory, but like the not-water, this, too, was outside his knowing. The fullness peaked. Warm wetness soaked him. He waited for it to roll off. When it did not, he tried to pull it into himself and failed.

  The Fox-Fur rubbed something soft on him. Some of the wet went away. There was more underneath him on the prickly, shifting ground. The Fox-Fur and the Dark-Fur moved him. The tilting was so not-good that his being heaved again. Heat seared him, gushing out to spatter the Dark-Fur’s claws.

  The Dark-Fur’s mouth turned down. The Fox-Fur made soft noises and stroked him with soft claws, like a vixen cuffing her kits. He wondered why the Fox-Fur did not lick him. Perhaps men did not do that. The Fox-Fur was a different sort of man from the other two, but it was clearly their kind—just as he was not.

  Too agitated to sit, Darak paced. “He doesn’t speak. He throws up his soup. He pisses the bed.” Four strides across the width of the hut. Four strides back.

  “It’s only bee
n a day,” Griane said.

  Mother Netal grunted. “Give him time, Darak.”

  Asleep, his brother looked unchanged. Only the scratches on his cheeks and the faint shadows under his eyes spoke to the ordeal he had undergone. Darak squatted beside the pallet once more. The next time Tinnean opened his eyes, his brother would know him.

  He learned that there were times that were dark and times that were not-so-dark, but even in the not-so-dark times, there was no sun or wind or snow. He learned there were many men and that they were as varied as the leaves of the trees: some small, some large, some broad, some slender. Strangest of all, he learned that he was no longer rooted to the earth, that he could will himself to move, not simply rely on the men to move him.

  With that knowing came another that made the inner tattoo beat very fast. Instead of many limbs, he now had only five. Two longer ones grew out of his upper trunk. Two others, longer still, grew from his lower trunk. One, small and limp, grew from his center. All were pale and soft.

  The awareness horrified him so he shut out the sight of the not-forest and the men and his own pitiful, pale form. Then he could remember birds and beasts, wind and rain, sun and moon and stars, and everywhere, trees.

  He could not shut out the not-forest for very long or the needs of his new form. He learned to move about the small, dark place using the lower limbs, which trembled and folded beneath him until he managed to control them. He learned to cover his limbs with the skins of dead animals to keep out the cold. He learned to scoop up the not-water with a turtle shell. And always, he watched the men who watched him.

  Each time he moved, the Dark-Fur’s body tensed like a stalking wolf’s. The Dark-Fur did not seem to understand how strange and terrifying and enthralling his new form was to him. When he rolled the thick not-water around his mouth, savoring its lumps, the two wings above the Dark-Fur’s eyes drew together. When he explored the ridges and hollows of his face with his claws, the Dark-Fur’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. When he rubbed the small limb in his center and made it stand upright, the Dark-Fur’s face turned as red as a crab apple; even after he stopped rubbing, the Dark-Fur continued to shake him, snarling loudly all the while.