Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  “It’s not possible,” Darak said, looking at Yeorna for confirmation.

  “Who can say what is possible for a god?”

  “But how can you be sure? Struath, you’ve said yourself that visions are hard to interpret.”

  “I have never touched a spirit like this one. It is … it is not the spirit of a man.”

  That silenced him. Visions were beyond his realm of understanding, but he knew the power of Struath’s touch.

  “The council would have voted to sacrifice Tinnean if the Tree-Father had not convinced them. As he convinced me.” Yeorna’s smile was so eager that Darak found himself nodding.

  “But Tinnean’s spirit is still here? Inside him, I mean.”

  “I believe Tinnean’s spirit is in the One Tree,” Struath said.

  “But you don’t know?”

  Struath opened his mouth and closed it, visibly reining in his temper.

  “We will only know the truth if we take Tinnean to the First Forest,” Yeorna said.

  “And do what?”

  “With the Grain-Mother’s help, I will try to restore both spirits.”

  “You can do that? Without harming Tinnean?” When Struath hesitated, Darak shook his head. “Nay.”

  “Darak …”

  “The last time you took my brother into the First Forest, you brought back a stranger. This time, you might not bring him back at all.”

  “There is more at stake here than the life of one boy.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Then you’re a fool.” Struath pushed himself to his feet. Darak did the same, facing the shaman across the fire pit. “If the Oak’s spirit is not restored to the One Tree, the battle cannot be completed. The year will not turn. And everything in the world—including Tinnean—will die.”

  “Darak.” Yeorna rose and laid her hand on his arm. “You are right to protect Tinnean. He is a dear boy and we would never wish him to be harmed.” Her fingers dug into his arm, silently demanding that he look at her. “I will not lie. There is risk in what we will attempt. But I see no other way to restore your brother and the Oak.”

  Darak forced open his clenched fingers. He hated feeling so helpless. But if this was the only way to get his brother back, he had no choice. “I’m going with you.”

  Struath glared at him. “That is out of the question.” “I can’t just sit here and wait.”

  “Then pray.”

  He refused to rise to that bait. “Tinnean needs me.”

  “The First Forest is not for the uninitiated,” Yeorna said.

  “And it is not for a man who has turned his back on the gods,” Struath added. “You will not even pray so that you may hunt in our own forest. Do you think the Forest-Lord will permit you to trespass in his sacred grove?”

  “Then give me a rite to perform.” On his knees if necessary. As long as he could be with Tinnean.

  “I will not permit it.”

  With an effort, Darak restrained the urge to curse Struath as a stubborn old tyrant. That thought led to another. “You’re too old to be daring the forest at night with a woman and an addled boy.”

  “Gortin will come with us.”

  “Gortin?” Darak saw Struath’s frown deepen at the scorn in his voice. “Gortin’s a good man, but he’s a shepherd. Was, I mean, before he became a priest. Nay—hear me out.” He kept his voice respectful, but made no effort to mask his urgency. “Gortin’s no hunter. He cannot protect you from wildcats or wolves.”

  Struath started. Before the shaman could recover, Darak pressed his advantage. “I know the forest. I can watch your backs.”

  Struath and Yeorna exchanged glances. After a long moment, Struath nodded. “You may come. But only as far as the grove of the heart-oak.”

  He was still seeking the words to wring a greater concession when Yeorna added, “You must make a sacrifice at the heart-oak. And ask the gods’ permission to enter the First Forest.” Yeorna held up her hand, forestalling Struath’s objection. “These are extraordinary times, Tree-Father. If the gods are willing to accept Darak’s presence in their grove, it is not for us to deny him.”

  He hardly breathed as he waited for Struath’s response. Finally, the Tree-Father nodded again. “As always, you are wise, Grain-Mother.” The grudging tone of his voice belied the words, but Yeorna accepted them with a gracious smile. Darak resisted the urge to hug her, choosing instead to bow to both of them. Struath’s words caught him as he straightened.

  “You cannot command the gods, Darak. You must humble yourself before them. They will know if your gestures are empty.”

  That single blue eye raked him, just as it had that spring morning nine years ago. He had stumbled out of the forest after sitting three days and three nights in a thicket, starting at every rustle in the undergrowth, battling hunger and thirst and fear as he waited for his vision to come. He could still remember racing across the fields, exhilaration banishing exhaustion. Finding Struath waiting in the center of the village. Feeling the shaman’s hands cupping his face, the sightless eye probing him, searching for confirmation of the vision. And swaying with relief and triumph when Struath called out, “Today, a man walks among us.”

  Darak knew then that Struath had seen the she-wolf, had heard the animal’s howl, just as he had when she called him in the dark. While his kinfolk surged forward, laughing and shouting his name, the shaman whispered, “She hunts with the pack and will kill to defend her pups.” He had been honored by the wolf’s choice, but it still puzzled him. Certainly, he would kill to defend Tinnean, but even as a child, he’d always been a loner.

  Struath was watching him, awaiting his decision. Darak rose and walked around the fire pit. He seized the shaman’s hands and laid the palms against his pitted cheeks. “I will do anything.”

  “Even beg, Darak?”

  Struath’s inexorable gaze bore into him. Darak met it without flinching. “Anything.”

  Chapter 8

  WHEN MOTHER NETAL’S breathing subsided into soft snores, Griane slipped out from under the rabbitfurs. The dying embers provided little illumination, but she had lived in the healer’s hut for more than a year now and knew where everything was stored.

  She shoved a few oatcakes into her healing bag, added two smoked trout, and flung her mantle around her. She eyed the other, still hanging from the bone hook by the doorway as if expecting its owner’s imminent return. Until the plague, each mantle in the village was patched and preserved with care, handed down from father to son, mother to daughter. Now there were mantles to spare, but this one, she could not take. Not even for Tinnean.

  “You could wait.”

  She whirled around to find Mother Netal lying on her side, watching her.

  “For the council’s decision, child.”

  “Darak won’t.”

  Mother Netal grunted.

  “He won’t risk a casting-out. He’ll pack weapons and food, but men never think of things like healing herbs or bone needle and sinew for sewing or—”

  “Don’t get caught.”

  She resisted the urge to hug the old healer.

  “Take it.”

  “What?”

  “Umi’s mantle.”

  It was the first time Griane had heard Mother Netal speak her companion’s name since they had carried Umi to the Death Hut. She started to stammer out her thanks, but Mother Netal just pulled the furs over her head and rolled over.

  She bundled her healing bag inside Umi’s mantle and slipped outside. Too bad she couldn’t risk creeping into her uncle’s hut. She’d enjoy stealing his mantle; small enough repayment for all the whippings he had given her.

  Darting from shadow to shadow, she made her way around the circled huts. She froze when she heard men’s voices, then crept closer when she realized they came from Jurl’s hut.

  “It’s the only way to be sure.” Jurl’s voice, low and urgent.

  “But shouldn’t we wait till after the council?” Onnig, for once questioning his br
other.

  “Darak won’t. If we don’t move now, he’ll hide Tinnean.”

  “But still …”

  “It’s not like we’re going to hurt the boy. Just hold him till the morrow.”

  “That’s right.” No mistaking her uncle’s drunken bellow, quickly hushed by the others. “It’s our duty. To the tribe and all.”

  “Onnig, we’ll see to Darak. Dugan, you grab the boy.”

  “Sure, Jurl, sure. How ’bout a drink to seal the bargain?”

  Abandoning the safety of the shadows, Griane ran the rest of the way to Darak’s hut. She threw back the bearskin and caught her breath. The hut was empty, the fire banked to mere embers. She couldn’t warn them. She couldn’t give them her gifts. She couldn’t even say good-bye.

  She swallowed down the lump of disappointment and peered outside. No sign of Jurl or the others yet. At least Darak and Tinnean would have a good start. There was no better hunter than Darak, no fiercer fighter when roused. For all that he infuriated her, she knew he would die before he’d let Tinnean come to harm.

  Clutching her bundle, she raced down to the lake, hoping for a last glimpse of them. Gheala’s moonlight cut a silvery path across the dark surface of the water. She stared west, then east, comforting herself that if she could spy no coracle, neither would the others.

  She gazed at the neat row of boats lining the shore. With their skin bottoms facing skyward, they looked like ten sleeping turtles. She was turning back to the village when her mind registered what her eyes had seen. Ten coracles. Just like always. Darak and Tinnean had left on foot.

  It made no sense. Even Darak wouldn’t risk the pass over Eagles Mount in winter, but she couldn’t believe he would take Tinnean into the forest.

  A shout from the village made her whirl around. Another answered. She spun west toward Eagles Mount, then east again. More shouts, closer this time, and the flicker of torchlight, heading her way.

  No matter what Darak wanted, Tinnean would go to the forest.

  She knew the trail. She had followed it countless times with Mother Netal, gathering roots and berries and healing plants. But never alone—and never at night. The night belonged to the Forest-Lord and his creatures—the wolf, the owl, the wildcat. And to unseen creatures as well—spirits of the uneasy dead, demons who envied the living. She had her sling in her belt, but stones offered precious little protection from demons.

  Someone shouted her name. Mother Netal would never have betrayed her. Had her uncle guessed her plan? Or Jurl? Breathing a quick prayer, she sprinted toward the trees.

  Please Maker, let me find them before the others do.

  The trees were everywhere. Although the boy’s eyes could make out only shadows, he felt them all around: oak and hazel, birch and pine, rowan and elder. He reached out his hands to brush overhanging branches, laughing at the soft slap of fir boughs. The thrum of recognition tingled his palms. The energy circled out, wider and wider, until the whole forest sang its welcome. The power made him reel.

  A strong hand seized his arm and steadied him.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Aye, Darak.”

  “Stay close, then. You hear me?”

  “Aye, Darak.”

  He did not understand why Darak wanted him to come to the forest now when so short a while before, the big man had prevented his escape. He did not care. Finally, he was home.

  He followed Darak obediently, sucking in great gulps of the sweet, clean air. It burned his throat and tasted even better than Griane’s hot apple cider.

  Thinking of Griane drove away some of the sweetness of the air. A lump formed in his throat as if a small stone had lodged there. He swallowed hard and it grew larger. Stroking his throat only made it worse, for then he remembered Griane’s hands patting his face, light as moths. He would miss her hands. And her voice, soft and growly when she was happy, yippy like a fox when she was not. And the many smells of her—sheep and apples and green plants and a musky scent that all combined to make his nose quiver.

  But he did not belong with Griane. He belonged here. The trees knew it. They called him, their energy as eager as his, beckoning him. Abandoning the trail, he ran.

  Darak shouted his not-name, but this time, he could not obey. He wove in and out among the trees, staggering against them, laughing. He fell to his knees to trace curving roots. He clawed through snow and pine needles to breathe in the cold, rich, wondrous scent of earth. He touched rough bark and sticky sap. That tang came from the pine. He licked his fingers. He had never known its taste, but now he would carry the knowledge with him forever. He closed his eyes, his senses overwhelmed. Then he heard Darak shouting.

  He was close now, but he still needed them to reach his grove. Summoning his ages-old patience, he rose and turned toward the sound of Darak’s voice.

  Darak seized Tinnean’s shoulders and shook him. “Don’t do that again. You must stay with us.”

  “Aye, Darak.”

  Keeping a firm grip on Tinnean’s arm, he led him back to the trail, willing his heart to stop pounding, willing his mind to stop imagining how easily he could have lost him.

  He kept his pace slow, guiding himself with memory and touch as much as sight, head cocked to catch any sounds that might mean danger or that his brother had strayed from the trail again. Even at midday, the forest was a place of shadows. In the heart of the night, each shadow seemed to hold the thing that had attacked Tinnean.

  Every hunt held fear: the quarry could elude you, you could be injured, you could surprise a predator. You had to accept the fear. Only then could you conquer it. Control fear and you could control anything. Even yourself.

  Something brushed against his forehead and he pulled up short, clawing at his face. A vine. Only a vine. His heart thudded loudly enough for the whole forest to hear. He shook his head in disgust. The great hunter—trembling before a vine.

  Even in the dark, he recognized the looming mass of the boulder on the little outcropping, the birch with the broken limb. With a sigh of relief, he skirted the birch and walked into the glade.

  After the close-packed trees, he felt exposed and vulnerable in Gheala’s creamy light—and utterly insignificant before the heart-oak. He knew that the slight rise the oak straddled made it seem even taller, that the shadows cloaking its lower branches lent a greater air of mystery. As always, awe conquered logic, the same awe he had felt as a child, head thrown back to look at the soaring trunk that made the tallest of the pines seem as small as his first spear.

  Tinnean edged past him, moving like a dream-walker. He stretched out his hands and laid his palms against the trunk. His body slumped. “Not the oak.”

  “Your Oak is in another forest,” Struath said.

  “Close?”

  “Very close.” Struath took Tinnean’s arm and led him to the edge of the glade where Yeorna and Gortin waited. At least the shaman would not hear his prayers. He could humble himself before the gods, but humbling himself before Struath would be intolerable.

  Darak gazed around the glade, uncertain how to begin. The shadowy trees held no answer; they simply waited, a silent black mass. Finally, he squared his shoulders.

  “Hernan. Lord of the Forest.” His whisper sounded loud in the stillness. “You know me. I’m a hunter, not a shaman. But I ask your permission to enter your sacred forest. I intend no harm to any of your creatures. I just want to accompany my brother and help him find his way home.”

  If the Forest-Lord heard, he gave no sign.

  “Oak-Brother.” He stroked the heart-oak’s runneled trunk, just as Tinnean had. “My people have always revered you and your tree-kin. We clear only the ground we need to sustain us. We cut no limb from a living tree without offering a sacrifice in return. Help me. Please. Not for my sake, but for my brother’s. He’s a good boy and he loves you and he is lost.”

  He had offered many prayers to the Forest-Lord over the years, but tonight he found it easier to speak to the heart-oak. It had stood with
his tribe since the beginning. It was as mortal as he was and knew what it was to suffer loss. He found himself telling the tree how Tinnean used to sneak off to the forest long before his vision quest, driving them all near frantic with worry until they’d spy him running through the fields, laughing and breathless with the excitement of some new discovery.

  Darak shook his head. Maybe there had always been something different about Tinnean. Else how could a child wander the forest and never come to harm?

  His father would have known; he’d always had the answers.

  Gheala’s oval of light had crept to the far side of the glade. The night was waning. He slipped his bow off his shoulder and drew his dagger. Then he hesitated, staring at the squat quickthorn that grew in the shadow of the heart-oak. Its dense tangle of branches reached away from the oak, seeking the light and space denied to it by its giant brother. Sheathing his dagger, he shrugged his mantle off his shoulder and pushed back his sleeve. Then he plunged his arm into the branches.

  He winced as the thorns pierced him, but jerked his arm back to allow more to claw a fiery path down his forearm. Fist clenched, he shoved his arm deeper into the branches, twisting it back and forth to expose more of his flesh. Sweat broke out on his forehead, but he pressed his lips together, mastering the pain. Finally he pulled his arm free, grimacing as a thorn caught the flesh inside his elbow and ripped him open to the wrist.

  He crouched before the heart-oak and let his blood drip onto the exposed roots, squeezing the flesh around the shallower cuts so that they, too, spilled their offering. When he finished, he scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it against his wounds. The fire flared briefly, then receded to a dull throb.

  “Struath said I must humble myself. And so I will. I cursed you after the plague. I know that was wrong. But they suffered so, Mam and Maili. Six days and nights, burning up with fever, screaming as the sores burst …”

  The grief caught him unprepared, choking him. He thought he had conquered it by now. He rested his head against the heart-oak, waiting for it to subside. When it didn’t, he beat his forehead against the trunk of the tree, again and again and again, until finally, pain banished grief. Weary now, he addressed the gods one last time.