Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  When the Dark-Fur left, the One-Eye would come, or the Fox-Fur, or the small White-Fur with the gentle hands and a face as wrinkled as a dried rowanberry. Often, the One-Eye grasped his face gently and closed his eye. He would feel an odd tingling, like and unlike the energy that flowed among the trees in the forest. When the robin-egg eye finally popped open, the One-Eye shook his head, more grooves sprouting on his face.

  Once, the One-Eye brought three other men into the den. They burned dry weeds and rattled turtle shells while the One-Eye held up a little round rock that sparkled as if it held the sun. The One-Eye moved it round and round him until his head ached from watching. Then the One-Eye held the sunstone in his hand, closed his eye, and rocked back and forth on his haunches until he fell over in a heap. He lay there a long while, twitching like a sleeping wolf. When he awoke, he shook his head and all of their faces became deeply grooved.

  They always went away when the Dark-Fur returned. The Dark-Fur poked a stick through the dead animals and birds he had brought and laid them over the fire. He did not like to eat the dead creatures, but if he refused, the hollowness came back and the Dark-Fur would snarl. He would finish the eating quickly so he could lie beneath the skins, and close his eyes, and try to recall what had happened to bring him to this place.

  “Why is he like this?”

  Struath turned away. He disliked having Darak loom over him.

  “He’s getting better,” Mother Netal said. “He responds when you call him now.”

  “So does a dog.” After a long silence, Darak spoke again, his voice flat. “He’s going to be like Pol, isn’t he?”

  “Nay, lad. Pol’s addled because he was kicked in the head by the ram.”

  “Then what is it?” Darak rounded on him again. “Is he possessed by a demon?”

  Struath shook his head.

  “Folk who’ve had a great shock react in different ways,” Mother Netal said. “Old Sim who swore he saw a portal to Chaos open—his hair turned white overnight and him only four and twenty summers then. Ania has neither moved nor spoken since the bear mauled her. Sometimes, a person’s spirit shatters and the fragments flee to the Forever Isles.”

  “But Struath can find them.” The pleading in Darak’s eyes belied the challenge in his voice. “Can’t you?”

  Struath straightened to his full height, but he still had to look up at Darak. “I can.”

  He had touched Tinnean’s spirit many times—at his birth, after his vision quest, before he took the boy on as an apprentice. If Tinnean’s spirit had shattered, he would have recognized the fragments left behind. This spirit felt confused, lost, and utterly unfamiliar. To reveal that would only lead to more questions, and he refused to allow Darak to bully an admission of ignorance from him.

  He was Tree-Father. He must continue to seek the answers to this mystery. But how would he find them when his visions had deserted him?

  Chapter 5

  THE DARK-FUR was called “Darak” and the One-Eye “Struath.” Little White-Fur was “Mother Netal” and Fox-Fur was “Griane.” They were females. Like wolves, they were smaller than the males, but equally fierce.

  They all nodded and curled up their mouths when he called them by their not-fur names. Because it seemed to please them, he made an effort to learn the names for the other things in their world, even when the names confused him. The not-water container was called “bowl” although it was clearly a hollow stone. “Pot” was the larger stone container that sat in the fire. “Pot” contained different not-waters, sometimes “porridge,” sometimes “stew,” sometimes “brose,” which was watery porridge, and sometimes “soup,” which was watery stew. His favorite not-water was the “hot apple cider” Griane brought in a large pouch named—oddly—“waterskin.”

  He learned the names of things like “shoes” and “cup” and “bed.” He learned the names of not-things like “please” and “thank-you” and “hello” and “goodbye.” But he did not know how to ask them why he was here or how he could return to the forest.

  Then Griane took him outside the den. The wind stung and the brightness of the sun made his eyes leak water, but it was very good to be out of the darkness and to know that their world was not so different from his.

  He saw many small dens like Darak’s. He saw very small men playing with small wolves and a herd of curly-furred not-deer called “sheep.” Then he saw the line of willows and alders, and beyond them, on the rising slope of a hill, the Oak.

  He ran, zigzagging like a mouse through the clusters of men. He heard Griane shout his not-name, but he ran on, his tattoo beating very fast. He reached the trees and splashed across the stream, slipping once on the wet rocks, patting the branches of the willows and the alders, but not stopping, not even for them, until he reached the Oak.

  It was smaller than he remembered, but if he should now wear the form of a man, then it might have shriveled into this slender being. If he had been transported to this place, perhaps the Oak had as well. None of that mattered as long as they were together.

  Breathless, he stood before the Oak, fog rising from his mouth in great clouds. He touched its trunk with one careful finger and felt nothing. He laid both hands on the tree. This time, it roused to his touch. He closed his eyes, sending his energy to the tree. He poured out his confusion and begged it to tell him why he was here. He stood there until the cold stole the feeling from his fingers and Griane’s urgent tug on his arm could no longer be ignored.

  The oak had recognized him, waking from its winter drowsiness to hum quietly beneath his fingers. But it was simply a tree, content to doze until spring awakened it. It was not the Oak.

  Griane turned him away. His gaze swept across his new world. The heart tattoo thudded wildly. Beyond the stream and the dens and the snow-covered expanses called “fields,” he saw the dark silhouettes of countless trees. He tugged free of Griane’s hand. Once again, he ran.

  Darak loosened the snare and removed the rabbit. Too weak to struggle, the quivering animal stared up at him, its dark eyes wide with fear and hopelessness. Instead of breaking its neck, the sinew had looped around one foreleg, nearly severing it. Judging from the spots of blood staining the snow, the creature had hung here only a short while, but the hunter in him abhorred the messiness of the kill.

  He bowed his head. “Little brother, I thank you for giving your life for us. And I ask your forgiveness for the suffering I have caused you.” With a quick twist of his hands, he snapped the rabbit’s neck.

  He spread the limp body on a clean patch of snow, carefully facing the animal west so that its spirit might race after the sun. He hoped the cruelly maimed foreleg would not hinder its progress. When he heard a rustling in the grasses, he knew the rabbit’s spirit had accepted his apology and begun its journey to the afterworld. Crumbling a bit of oatcake over the snow in thanks for the kill, he rose and bent the sapling down to reset his snare.

  Even with his eyes focused on his work, he could feel the forest. The silent trees watching him with their never-sleeping awareness, trunks shimmering with otherworldly power, naked branches creaking as they reached out to drag him from the open field into the gloom of the tangled undergrowth… .

  Despite himself, he glanced up, then scowled. The trunks of the closest trees glowed with the ruddy light of the late afternoon sun and the branches rattled only through the power of the wind. It was the strain of dealing with Tinnean’s condition that was making him so jumpy.

  He was glad now that he’d obeyed the irascible old healer. Mother Netal and Struath both promised to watch over Tinnean; Griane swore that if their duties took them elsewhere, she would remain with him. He’d found her assurances less comforting than Mother Netal’s, but he could not neglect his responsibilities forever; everyone—even the children—helped provide food for the village. And now—like the children—his pride had reduced him to setting snares in the fields and along the lakeshore.

  He was the best hunter in the tribe. No one knew the f
orest paths as well, none possessed his skill with the bow. He had been fifteen when he earned the hunter’s tattoo, younger even than his father, the only other man in living memory to bring down a stag with one arrow to the heart. He’d been so proud of besting his father that he had scarcely noticed the pain when Struath pierced his skin with the bone needle and created the antler tattoo that branched across his right wrist.

  But only a man who performed the necessary rites could hunt the forest and only a man who asked the gods for their blessing could hope for success. The rites he could manage, but he was damned if he would humble himself to the gods who had stolen everyone he had ever loved.

  He wasn’t sure if his kinfolk blamed him for missing the Midwinter rite or for his refusal to enter the forest now. Perhaps he only imagined the surliness of their replies when he greeted them and the doubt on their faces when he assured them that Tinnean was getting better every day.

  He told himself that the strangeness would pass, but it still hurt when his brother flinched at the sound of his voice or shied away when he tried to touch him. He could scarcely believe this was the same boy who used to tag along behind him like an eager puppy. Tinnean seemed to have forgotten all the things he had taught him: how to build a fire and clean a kill, to strip feathers into fletching and chip an arrowhead from flint. The lessons a father taught a son. The lessons that had fallen to him to teach after their father died from the wasting sickness and Tinnean barely walking.

  All those years, all those memories—lost. But Tinnean would remember. He would come back.

  Sprinkling a handful of snow over the snare, Darak rose. He still had three more snares to check. If they were full, he could stay home tomorrow. Spend some time with Tinnean. Remind him how to play fox and hare or cast-the-bones. He’d always liked games.

  Darak had just slung the hunting sack across his body when he saw the two figures racing across the fields. The flame-colored hair could only belong to Griane, which meant the figure running away from her had to be Tinnean.

  Fear changed to relief when he saw his brother’s face, alight with joy and excitement. Tinnean flung out his arms. Darak ran toward him, shouting.

  His brother froze. Darak’s footsteps slowed, stopped.

  “Tinnean?”

  The joy faded, replaced by uncertainty and then desperation.

  “Tinnean.”

  Tinnean backed away, shaking his head. Griane shouted something. Tinnean glanced over his shoulder, then back at him, eyes wild. Darak took one step toward him, hand outstretched.

  Tinnean screamed.

  Darak watched him lurch off in a new direction. Saw him look over his shoulder to see if they were still pursuing him. Watched him slip, fall, and stagger to his feet again. When he realized his hand was still reaching after his brother, he let it fall to his side.

  It was easy to stalk him. Tinnean floundered in the new-fallen snow, exhausting himself unnecessarily. Each time he cut toward the trees, Darak blocked his path. Each time he turned away from the forest, Darak let him run. The third time Tinnean fell, he simply lay there, but as Darak drew close, he rolled over and crawled through the snow on his hands and knees.

  Darak seized him by the back of his mantle and spun him around. Tinnean toppled into the snow. Again, he tried to crawl away. Again, Darak flung him back. This time, Tinnean staggered to his feet and stood before him, swaying.

  “Please, Darak.”

  The first time Tinnean had spoken his name.

  “Please, Darak. Home.”

  Relief suffused him. Then he realized that Tinnean meant the forest. A dark, unreasoning fury rose up in him. He shook his head and pointed at the village.

  He wasn’t sure what he expected Tinnean to do. Plead maybe, or weep, or simply fall to his knees in defeat. The attack took him completely off guard. He fell backward into the snow with Tinnean on top of him, too stunned to do more than raise his arms to shield himself from his brother’s ineffectual punches. When he recovered his wits, he seized Tinnean’s arms and shoved him off.

  Tinnean attacked again. Most of the punches landed harmlessly, but one took him in the eye, momentarily blinding him. As if heartened by his success, Tinnean flailed furiously. Nails raked Darak’s cheek and he winced. When had Tinnean stopped biting his nails?

  He grabbed his brother’s wrist. Tinnean clawed him with his free hand. “Stop.” He ducked his head, trying to evade the blows. “Tinnean. Stop it!” He seized his other wrist and spun him around, forcing his brother’s arm behind his back, driving him onto his knees. He crouched over him, panting, until he felt Tinnean go limp.

  He backed away as Griane stumbled toward them, screaming at him to stop. She threw herself on her knees and wrapped her arms around Tinnean, stroking his snow-dusted hair and crooning soft nonsense, all the while shooting murderous looks his way. Darak watched as long as he could.

  “Get up.”

  “If you hurt him …”

  “Get up!”

  With obvious reluctance, she rose, but hovered close as he circled around to face his brother. He held out his hand. Tinnean started and looked up, his eyes as wide and hopeless as the snared rabbit’s. Moving slowly so he would not startle him again, Darak bent down and placed his hands under Tinnean’s elbows. When he submitted to the touch, Darak pulled him to his feet. But when he stretched out his hand to brush the snow off Tinnean’s shoulders, his brother backed away.

  “I won’t touch you again. Just tell me why.” Darak lowered his voice so Griane would not hear him beg. “Please.”

  Tinnean’s mouth worked, but no words came. Finally, he just shook his head.

  Griane pushed him aside and flung her arm around Tinnean’s waist. “It’s all right, Tinnean. Lean on me.”

  She turned him toward home. Once, Tinnean paused to look back. Darak felt his brother’s gaze pass over him to linger on the trees. Then Griane murmured something and he turned away. Together, they continued their slow walk back to the village, leaving Darak to trail after them, silent and bitter as the cold.

  Chapter 6

  STRUATH LEANED on his blackthorn staff and stared across the lake. The rolling hills cloaked the western half in twilight, but the rest still shimmered so brightly that his eye narrowed into a squint. Coracles bobbed on the surface, the skin-covered boats looking like children’s toys on the shimmering gray-green expanse. A wedge of geese flew overhead, their nasal honks drowning out the lapping of water against the pebbled beach and the faint voices of the men calling to each other as they paddled home. Standing there, shading his eye against the sun’s glare, he could almost convince himself that all was well.

  Reason told him otherwise. His prayers to the gods had gone unanswered. His efforts to restore Tinnean had failed. Even his spirit guide seemed to have deserted him, and only with Brana’s help could he find the answers he sought.

  In the first few days after the rite, he had seen fear in the eyes of his tribe. Now, nearly a moon later, those same gazes held suspicion and accusation.

  He had offered daily sacrifices at the heart-oak. He had paddled across the lake to discuss the disaster in the grove with the Tree-Father of the Holly Tribe. At the new moon, they had crossed over to the First Forest to make a sacrifice. Fresh offerings nestled at the base of the One Tree, proof that others had preceded them. In the light of day, the damage to the Oak was even more terrible to behold, its great trunk split nearly in two. They spilled their blood on the roots and spent the rest of the day in prayer without daring to speak their fears aloud.

  He turned away from the lake to gaze at the three standing stones. Sunlight still bathed the stone guarding the western edge of the burial ground; the easternmost stone was lost in the shadows cast by its brothers. It was the center stone that commanded his attention now.

  Two deep grooves bisected its surface, one on the northeast face of the pillar and the other on the south-west face, chiseled ages ago to mark the rising of the sun at Midsummer and the setting of the sun
at Midwinter. The stone was nearly twice his height, but each groove was at eye level. A bold slash of charcoal filled the groove on the southwestern face of the pillar. He had drawn it the eve of Midwinter to make the sighting easier. His ability to see into other worlds might have faltered, but everyday vision would give him the answer he sought today.

  He took a deep breath and called on the spirits of the Oak and the Holly. Ashamed of the tremor in his voice, he spoke their names again. He called on the gods and goddesses who shared the land: on Lacha, goddess of the lake, and her sister Halam, the earth goddess. On Taran the Thunderer and his brother Nul, Keeper of Lightning. On Bel, the Sun Lord, and his lover Gheala, the Moon Lady whom he chased across the sky. He appealed to Hernan, the god of the forest and protector of the animals, as well as his brother Ardal, the Dark Hunter of spirits. He invoked the Maker and even the Unmaker, the Lord of Chaos.

  As always, the familiar litany comforted him. Just as the Oak had the Holly, each god had a counterpart. Just as the Upper World of the gods flourished in the silver branches of the World Tree, so did the Forever Isles of rebirth float among its roots. Here in the Middle World, the same duality prevailed: night yielding to day, winter to summer. Each member of the tribe helped preserve that balance. The shaman offered sacrifices to keep the rival gods content. The fisherman, blessed with a bountiful catch, threw a fish back into the lake. Every debt honored, every favor repaid. Only then could the precarious balance between life and death, order and chaos, be preserved.

  He unsheathed the bronze dagger. A treasure crafted by the smiths of the south, he used it only to offer sacrifices: to slit the throat of the first lamb, to gut the first of the season’s salmon. To cut out his master’s heart.