He placed the blunt end of the firestick into one of the notches in the fireboard and whispered the simple prayer his father had taught him: “Ash-brother, give us fire.” Arching his fingers stiffly, he placed his palms at the top of the firestick and twirled it quickly. When his hands reached the bottom of the firestick, he began the ritual again.
It was slow work, but strangely soothing. He spun the firestick, his body swaying slightly with the rhythm of the movements. As he worked, he hummed the hunter’s song, a blessing for the smooth path, the clear shot, the true-flying arrow. Black dust collected beside the notch. His hands moved automatically while he watched for the first sign of smoke, the first glow of a spark.
He felt the others around him, and behind them, the unseen Watchers. Were they the ones preventing the fire from lighting? He shifted position without losing the rhythm. A gust of wind tugged at his mantle. A snowflake fell. His voice faltered. Struath took up the hunter’s song, weaving it into his chant for fire.
He repeated the prayer for fire, silently this time. One prayer each time his palms journeyed down the firestick.
Ten journeys.
Twenty.
Fifty.
Blisters formed and burst open on his raw palms. He spun the firestick faster to keep it from sticking to his oozing flesh. Griane’s hands appeared at the top of the firestick, beginning the twirling as his reached the bottom.
Ten more journeys and ten more after that. Yeorna’s voice was hoarse from chanting. A hand came down on his shoulder.
“Darak.”
He lost the rhythm. Found it again.
“Darak. Stop.”
He spun the firestick furiously and heard a sharp crack. He sat back, holding the shattered pieces of ash in his hands.
“It is not you,” Struath said. “It is the forest.”
He cleaned the fireboard and returned it to his pack. He gathered the tinder and sprinkled it into the pouch. He moved slowly, carefully. By the time he rose, he had conquered the helpless frustration that had threatened to overwhelm him.
He thrust the broken halves of the firestick in his belt. “Heap the leaves there.” He pointed to the over-arching roots of an oak. The hollow beneath was nearly the size of his hut. “Griane, help me unpack the wolfskins.”
“After I see to your arm.”
“Later.”
“That’s what you said in the grove.”
“They’re just scratches.”
Griane glared at him, hands on hips. “Now. But when the wound starts to stink and your arm swells up and turns black and—”
Silently, Darak pushed back his sleeve. Griane winced and no wonder; his arm was a bloody mess. She squatted down and unwrapped her bundle. A mantle, he realized. She opened a large doeskin bag and laid out an astonishing assortment of leather pouches, clay flasks and jars, a small stone bowl, a mortar and pestle, and several neat rolls of nettle-cloth.
“What did you do—raid Mother Netal’s hut?”
He could have cut himself on the look she gave him.
“What did you do—arm wrestle a bramble bush?”
“A quickthorn, actually.” It might have been her little snort that made him add, “I needed a blood sacrifice.”
Her hands went still for a moment, then busied themselves pouring water into the bowl. Her brisk but gentle touch surprised him. Although she was Mother Netal’s assistant, he still thought of her as his wife’s annoying little sister, the child who had once filled his shoes with porridge, the girl who had called him a brute and a bully just—gods, was it only yesterday?
“Keep your arm out,” she said, tossing out the bloody water. “Wrist up.”
She poured fresh water into the bowl, adding a pinch of herbs from one packet, a generous handful of dried leaves from another. “Yarrow and Maker’s mantle.” She stirred it into a paste, sending him another chilly blue-eyed blast. “I do know what I’m doing.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
She contented herself with unrolling one of the nettle-cloth bundles. With the same briskness, she sliced off several long strips of cloth, spread the paste on his cuts, and wound the bandage around his arm.
“Thank you.”
“I haven’t finished yet.”
“Not just for this. For standing with us the other day. For coming to warn us.”
Her fingers fumbled the roll of nettle-cloth. He caught it and pressed it back into her palm. She jerked her hand away and bent lower to tie the bandage at his wrist. Her long braid fell over her shoulder, the feathery tip tickling the inside of his elbow. He lifted the braid, intending only to swing it back over her shoulder, but she glared at him so fiercely that he dropped it.
“I’m done.”
“Thank you. Again.”
“They’re just scratches.”
She had always been a fierce child, moods blowing this way and that like a flame in a breeze. Tinnean had always understood her, though. She’d spent as much time in their hut as Red Dugan’s, sometimes even sleeping next to Tinnean, the two of them curled up like puppies. Some of his kinfolk had even speculated that they would marry someday, although she was a year older than Tinnean. He’d gotten plenty of elbows and giggles from the women, along with comments about how sweet it would be, the two brothers marrying the two sisters.
Frowning, he watched her help the Holly-Lord spread the wolfskins. Was that why she had followed them? Because she was in love with Tinnean?
Surely not. After he married Maili, Griane rarely visited their hut, devoting herself to the path of the healer. Still, she clearly cared for Tinnean. She had scarcely left his side while he was ill, teaching him words, bringing him hot apple cider, fussing over him. Just like she was fussing over him now.
But that wasn’t Tinnean. He’d have to remind her of that.
He motioned the others under the roots, seating himself between Griane and the Holly-Lord while they shared the pheasant and two of Griane’s oatcakes. They passed the waterskin around, each person taking a small sip. When they curled up to sleep, he covered them with the spare mantle and Tinnean’s robe, then settled himself with his back against a root.
Night fell fast at Midwinter, the light fading from cream to gray to charcoal in moments. As the hard edges of the tree trunks melted into the darkness, the shadowy Watchers took on greater substance. They circled the clearing, darting from tree to tree, pausing now and then as if observing him. The forest was oddly silent, though now and then he heard a furtive rustling among the trees as though the Watchers plotted among themselves. If the First Forest did not welcome fire, neither did it welcome strangers.
Dagger in hand, he kept watch. Only when he glimpsed the first patches of gray between the latticework of naked branches did he allow himself the luxury of sleep.
Chapter 13
GRIANE’S STOMACH GROWLED as Yeorna carefully broke their last two oatcakes in half. Only four days from the grove and their food was almost gone. She should have brought more, planned better. No wonder Darak always chided her for being impulsive.
He was frowning at her now. Before he could berate her for her oversight, she thrust out his portion of oatcake. He just shook his head and crawled out from under the slab of rock that had sheltered them the night before. Muttering a curse, she followed.
She found him blowing on his fingers, still frowning. He shot her a quick glance as she stamped feeling back into her feet, then turned away. When the numbness in her toes gave way to an unpleasant prickling, she held out the oatcake. Again, he shook his head.
“You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Don’t be silly. We’re all hungry.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
She recoiled before the anger in his face.
“Griane.” His breath blew out in a great billow of steam. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
He met her gaze calmly enough; only the muscle twitching in his jaw betrayed his tension. She
threw back her mantle and bared her throat. “It may be skinny, but it’d take more than one bite to sever it.”
His mouth twisted in a reluctant smile and she caught her breath. He smiled so seldom that she forgot how much he resembled Tinnean.
“Aye. Well. I’m sorry all the same.” The smile faded as quickly as it had come.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“I meant the fire.”
Darak had spent their brief rest periods crafting a new firestick. Each evening since he had completed it, he tried to call forth fire. Each time, he failed.
“I just …” His hands clenched convulsively at his sides. He shoved his fists under his armpits as if to prevent them from betraying him further. “I feel so damned helpless.”
It was the first time in her life she’d ever heard him admit to that. Somehow, that scared her more than the towering trees or the ever-present Watchers. He must have seen her fear, for he gave her a quick, forced smile. “You wouldn’t have anything in your magic bag for that, I suppose.”
“Nay. But if you’re costive, I could brew you up a draught of dandelion root and yellow dock that’ll have your bowels moving in no time.” This time, his grin was genuine, encouraging her to add, “Or if it’s a bad case, there’s some suetcake left. I’d be happy to mix the herbs with the suet and then—” She put her fingers together and shoved them upward.
Darak backed away, laughing. “With your cold fingers? I’d be bound up tighter than an owl.”
She gave him her sweetest smile and held out the oatcake. “Try the oats, then. Very good for the bowels.”
“You’re as bad as Mother Netal. Both of you convinced a man’s fate depends on the state of his bowels.”
He took the halved oatcake, broke it in half again, and gave one portion back to her. They munched in silence, chewing each mouthful as long as possible to savor it. The brooding look descended on his face again.
“I never understood it,” he said.
“What?”
“Tinnean’s fascination with magic.” He kicked at an inoffensive pile of leaves, before adding, “Did you?”
She shook her head. The lines in his face relaxed just a bit. “That’s what I like about healing. Not so much the charms and the prayers, but knowing that yellow dock and dandelion root are good for the bowels, coltsfoot’ll soothe a cough, and elder leaves’ll take the fire out of a burn. Things you can see and touch.”
“Aye. Like knowing if you strike the flint just right, you’ll chip out an arrowhead.” His eager expression died. “Or if you spin the firestick, you’ll make fire.” He raised a hand, cutting off her protest. “I’d best fetch Struath. I’ll need his blessing before I hunt. And the Forest-Lord’s if I’m to be successful.”
“The Forest-Lord has always brought you game.”
“That was before.”
She wasn’t sure if he meant before Tinnean had been lost or before they’d come to the First Forest. “He may be a god, but he’s as much a part of nature as we are. I cannot believe he wants us to die.” When Darak remained silent, she added, “And if you think that, then you might as well give up now and go home.”
“Don’t worry, girl. I’m not giving up. I’ll defy the Lord of Chaos himself if that’s what it takes to get Tinnean back.”
Darak knelt before the shaman. Together, they intoned the prayer to the Forest-Lord. Yeorna dribbled some of their precious water over his hands and he splashed it on his face, hoping the meager ablutions would suffice. With one of his arrows, he etched crude pictures of squirrels, rabbits, and birds in the hard earth. The Tree-Father blessed his bow and arrows, his sling and snares. Finally, he cut open his unscarred arm, and painted each stone, each arrowhead, feeding the weapons with his blood.
It was a relief to focus his senses on the hunt, to relinquish his thinking self to his physical one, aware of each footfall and breath, attentive to each small shift in wind and landscape. For the first time, he felt in control again and—at least for a little while—he could put aside his fears for Tinnean and forget the momentary weakness that had led him to confide in Griane. A man should bear his fears in silence. It was one of the first lessons his father had taught him.
Only yesterday, Struath had remarked that a winter forest was an empty, lonely place. Darak could not understand how a man who could see into other worlds could be so blind to his own. Everywhere, he found signs of life. Wood pigeons cooed overhead. Squirrels skittered through the branches with a noisy scratching of claws. Powdery pockmarks in the snow pointed to a small community of hares.
He found signs of other hunters in the forest: a weasel’s burrow under a rotted log; black and scabby slashes on an ash where a bear had clawed it moons ago; the pungent scent markings of a male fox on a tree stump.
He almost missed the squirrel, its fur the same mottled white as the birch it was climbing. It leaped onto an oak and he blinked as the color of its fur deepened to a dark gray. Could all the animals in the First Forest change their coloration as easily as the ermine shed its summer coat for winter white?
He thrust aside his wonder and slipped a stone into the sling’s pouch. Deliberately, he slowed his breathing, allowing the familiar calm to steal over him.
Forest-Lord, guide my arm.
Eyes fixed on the squirrel, Darak whipped the sling behind his body and over his head.
Stone, fly true.
His body flowed forward in one smooth, powerful motion as he released. He caught his breath as the stone soared through the air, let it out again as the stone smashed into the squirrel’s skull. It tumbled out of the tree, landing with a rustle of leaves.
Only when he felt his muscles relax, did Darak realize how tense he had been. He mounded the leaves into a small pile and carefully laid the dead squirrel atop them. Then he knelt beside his offering and bowed his head.
“Forest-Lord, to you I offer the first kill.” He abandoned the rest of the ritual words and simply added, “Hernan. I don’t know why the gods sent the plague to our village, but I know it was not your doing. My curses were never meant for you. You have always been good to me. Never more so than now. Thank you for not abandoning me.”
For a long moment, he knelt there, savoring the peace that filled him. Then he raised his head and found himself staring into a pair of golden eyes.
The fox was easily as large as a wolf. It sat so close he could have reached out and touched it if he’d dared. The utter silence of its approach made him wonder if it was real, but the breeze ruffled the ruddy fur on its shoulders and there was no mistaking its gamy scent. Surely apparitions didn’t smell. But just as surely, no ordinary fox bore the unmistakable fragrance of honeysuckle.
He sank back on his haunches. The fox observed him with a single twitch of its black whiskers. His fingers closed on the haft of his spear, then relaxed. Denizen of the First Forest or sign from the gods, he was loath to kill it.
“Gods, you’re beautiful.”
Its tongue lolled out as if the creature were grinning at him, the friendliness of its expression considerably lessened by the two long shears on its upper jaw.
“You’re real. Aren’t you?”
The fox blinked. And then, without even seeming to move, it was on him.
He might have been sinking into the deep waters of the lake, so slowly did he fall. Sprawled full-length on the ground, he stared up into eyes the color of clover honey. Bees buzzed all around him, although reason told him that was impossible. He tried to grope for his spear, but he seemed to have lost control of his limbs.
The somnolent drone of the bees filled his ears, just as the golden eyes filled his vision. The slitted black pupils opened wide. Flames erupted in the two dark pools. The flames coalesced into images: a child crouching beside a fire pit, a man standing over him.
Although he only saw him from the back, he knew the man was his father, watching the child struggle to call forth a spark with his firest
ick. The child’s mouth—his mouth—was clamped tight. As the small fingers spun the firestick, a grimace of pain replaced the frown of concentration. His fingers moved faster—too fast. The firestick shattered. Mouth twisting, he hurled the broken halves across the hut.
The child’s shame washed over Darak like a sudden sweat. His father removed his belt and walked away. Head bowed, the child followed.
Then they were both standing outside the hut, the child bent over against the turf wall, the man behind him, arm upraised. Darak would always remember that whipping; it was the first he’d ever received from his father. And he would always remember the words that accompanied it: “The whipping is not for breaking the firestick, but for cursing it and throwing it away. Until you learn to control yourself, you will never be a man.”
The child’s fingers dug into the crevices in the wall, his body flinching with each of the ten blows. When it was over, he straightened slowly and turned. A low moan escaped Darak when he beheld Tinnean’s tear-streaked face.
Even before the man turned, Darak knew whose face he would see. Even before the man spoke, he knew what words he would say: “You cannot be running off into the forest whenever the whim strikes you, Tinnean. You must learn to control your impulses.”
Darak’s throat closed in silent protest, but he could only observe his dream-self, staring after Tinnean: the tight mouth, the slanting cheekbones, eyes gray as a winter sky and just as bleak.
Gods, I look just like my father.
It was his last conscious thought before darkness engulfed him.
When he returned to himself, the sun stood mid-sky. His head ached and his arse was cold from the damp seeping through his breeches. He sat up carefully and looked around. The fox was gone, but where it had sat, a small fire blazed.
He pushed himself to his knees. The fire burned atop a perfect oval of naked earth. He stretched out shaking hands; if the fire’s origin was otherworldly, its heat was completely real. The flames curled like beckoning fingers and a shiver raced down his back.
Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Page 10
