Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  They all treated him differently now. He missed Struath holding his face and Yeorna clasping his hand and Griane’s gentle fingers pushing the hair off his forehead. He had known touch in his other life—the brush of leaves, the scratch of a bird’s claws on his branch—but leaves and claws held far less power than human hands. While he regretted the lost pleasure of physical touch, his daily struggle to reach the other trees with his spirit left him trembling with exhaustion. Worst of all, his connection to the Holly grew weaker with each step away from the grove.

  That made the boy’s heart tattoo beat very fast. He knew the Tree had been hurt. He knew it was not-right for him to be separated from it, just as it was not-right for him to go to the Oak’s resting place. But somehow, he must convince the forest to allow them to pass, to recognize that as long as the Oak was lost, nothing was right in the world.

  Despite his reluctance to leave his folk unprotected, Darak took to ranging ahead to scout for shelter and bait springpole snares with bits of suetcake. He knew he risked exhausting his reserves of strength, but his folk needed more than a few squirrels or wood pigeons each day to maintain the relentless pace he set. And as long as the wolf trailed them, they must maintain it.

  The first time the trail turned east, he exulted in the belief that the forest was relenting. After several days of winding east, then circling northwest, he realized it was simply choosing the easiest route for them, as if it understood the limits of human endurance.

  Oak and ash gave way to spruce and pine. The air felt noticeably colder and the frost-covered compost crunched underfoot where before it had felt soft and spongy. Game grew scarcer; some evenings, he returned with only two or three squirrels to share among five people. After one bone-chilling night when their fire was reduced to mere embers, they began collecting deadwood as they hiked and ripping up golden clumps of deer’s hair that grew beside the trail.

  None of his folk complained. Not Struath when Griane bandaged his blistered, bleeding feet. Not Yeorna when she tumbled down a slope. Not Griane who was always digging into her magic bag for a mortar and pestle to smash icicles for water, for pouches of roots and bark to brew a lukewarm tea, for ointments to bring the feeling back into numb fingers and toes. As for the Holly-Lord, he grew more silent every day.

  Their battles were less glorious than those of legend, in which heroes slew shape-shifters with lightning bolts and wrestled three-headed demons unleashed by Chaos. But they were just as valiant as Struath dragging deadwood to camp when he could hardly stand or Yeorna and Griane working halfway through the nights to fashion mittens and socks from Tinnean’s robe. With her supply of nettle-cloths dwindling, Griane cut up her doeskin skirt for bandages and wore Tinnean’s spare breeches.

  They fought the triple nemesis of cold and hunger and exhaustion—and their enemies were winning. Each day, the trail grew steeper, the wind crueler. Each night, Darak fell asleep, worrying how he would keep his folk alive.

  Then one morning, he rounded a bend in the trail to find sunlight streaming through a break in the trees. He raced ahead, drawing up short when he burst into the open.

  The rolling highlands seemed to stretch on forever, as limitless as the sky crouching over them. Earth and sky seemed to have changed places, transporting him to a boundless wilderness of clouds: undulating gray hills, vast purple plains, and towering ranges of silver-white mountains.

  Shaking off the sky’s spell, he skirted the stunted firs to pick his way over a lichen-covered ledge of rock. Bracing himself against the wind’s ferocity, he peered down.

  He blinked, afraid his eyes had misled him. After so many days in the forest, the watery sunlight made them tear. When he saw another flash of white at the bottom of the gorge, he threw back his head and gave a hoarse bellow of triumph.

  “Have you gone mad?” Griane’s breath steamed in great puffs as she drew up to him. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard. She shoved him away, gasping. “Merciful Maker, you have.”

  “Nay, girl. Look.” He pointed at the foaming water tumbling through the rocks below.

  “Is it … could it be the river that leads to the Summerlands?”

  “I don’t know.” The legends said the Summerlands floated between two rivers carved from the earth by the Maker’s tears. This one looked like an ordinary mountain stream, but it did wind south through a sea of evergreens. “No more melting icicles for water, girl.”

  “And no more stringy squirrels. Not that they weren’t delicious,” she added with a quick glance at him. “But fish …” She breathed the words with prayerful reverence, then frowned, gnawing at her upper lip. “It’s awful steep, Darak.”

  “I’ll make it down.”

  “Getting back up is the trick.”

  “I’ll make it.”

  He grinned at her and she rolled her eyes. “Just don’t break your neck. I’ve nothing in my magic bag to cure that.”

  Darak turned to call to the others, but the words died when he saw the Holly-Lord gazing north, his body rigid. Following the direction of his gaze, Darak understood why.

  The edge of the gorge had seemed like the top of the world. Now he realized that the top of the world was that distant peak of snow and ice and stone, so high that wind-driven clouds obscured the summit. The morning sun tinged the snow on its upper slopes gold, while violet shadows clung to its flanks. It was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

  The Holly-Lord smiled. He took a step toward the mountain. Yeorna plucked at his mantle. When he ignored her and took another step, Darak seized his arm and swung him around. “You can’t go there.”

  “I must.”

  “Do you want to find the Oak-Lord?”

  “Aye, Darak.”

  “Well, you won’t if you freeze to death.”

  “But the forest—”

  “Damn the forest. You’re not going there.”

  “It is where I belong.”

  “But not where my brother’s body belongs. And as long as you’ve got it, I won’t let you do anything to harm it. Do you understand me?”

  The Holly-Lord stared up at him, his eyes as soft and pleading as Tinnean’s that last morning. He banished the thought and stepped closer. “Do you understand?”

  The Holly-Lord bowed his head. “I understand, Darak.”

  He whirled around. As one, the others backed away from him, even Griane with whom he’d been laughing only moments before. He stalked back to the gorge and stared at the endless expanse of trees.

  “Do you want us to die?” he whispered. “Who will find the Oak-Lord then?”

  A thin, dry cough tore at his lungs. He wiped the blood from his lips and raised his voice. “Hear me, forest. I am Darak, son of Reinek and Cluran. I am Darak the Hunter. I am Darak, who was given fire by the Trickster God himself. And I say it is enough. I won’t allow it. Do you hear me? These are my folk and I will not allow it.”

  The coughing took him again, worse this time. He bent over, clutching his chest until the spasms stopped. Blood flecked the wind-scoured rocks at his feet. On his hands and knees, he crawled to the very edge of the precipice and hawked a bloody gob of phlegm at the evergreens far below. “My oath. With blood and water, I seal it.”

  A hard knot of pain swelled inside his chest. Perhaps his Mountain knew. Perhaps that was why the clouds on its summit roiled like his belly and turned as gray and forbidding as Darak’s eyes.

  A hot flush suffused his body and quickly ebbed. Was this what it meant to be human? These sickening, blood-pounding changes? If all men experienced this drain of energy, he could understand why they lived such short lives.

  Darak made him lead the way south along the edge of the gorge. All that day, he felt those storm-cloud eyes on his back, just as he could feel his Mountain’s presence through the earth. A deeper thrum than the trees, it felt like the echo of thunder beneath his feet. With each step, it faded, just as his connection to the trees was fading. They made no effort to stop their journey south. He wanted
to believe that they had heard Darak’s oath or had grown too sluggish to fight, but he feared they no longer recognized him.

  He lagged behind the others to rest his hand against the low-hanging bough of a fir. Panic seized him when he felt no response to his questing energy. He closed his eyes, desperately seeking a connection. Long moments passed before he felt a faint answering thrum, followed by a stab of pain in his palm.

  He snatched his hand back. The tip of a thorn poked through his woolen mitten. Dazed, he looked about him, searching for a bramble bush or a quickthorn. Finally, he yanked the mitten off.

  He carefully sucked the blood away as Darak had taught him and stared down at his hand. Sharp and beautiful and achingly familiar, the slender, green spike of a holly leaf sprouted from the boy’s palm.

  He heard Darak shouting, saw Griane turn and trot back to him. Quickly, he severed the thorn with his teeth and pulled the mitten on again. When Griane saw him shivering, she pulled his mantle closer and scolded him for letting himself get chilled. Then she smiled and patted his cheek. For the first time, neither her smile nor her touch gave him comfort.

  Chapter 16

  DARAK’S SATISFACTION at defeating the trees soon leached away. It took most of the day to reach the stream and by then, the gushing torrent he had seen from the precipice had dwindled to a leaf-clogged creek. Evergreens gave way to stands of sedge and high bush blueberries, barren of fruit. When he caught the overwhelming scent of peat, his shoulders sagged. He shoved his way through the sedge, only to draw up short.

  If he were a god, he could have dropped their entire valley into the bog and still had room to spare. Hummocks of sphagnum moss sealed off most of it, but the frozen line of the creek ran through the middle. Here and there, a dead tree rose above the surface, leaning drunkenly toward the shore.

  “It’s not so big,” Griane said, with a defiant tilt of her chin that made him smile.

  “It’s big enough.”

  “Can we cross?” Yeorna asked. “Or should we go around?”

  Lose your footing on the slick hummocks and you’d plunge into the slurry of peat and icy water beneath. Yet going around would cost them half a day, maybe more. The prospect of slogging through the tangled underbrush only made the bog more tempting. Besides, no wolf in the world would attempt to cross that shifting surface. If they managed it, they would increase the distance between them, maybe even lose the beast altogether.

  Darak muttered a curse. Where was the damn wolf? Ever since Struath’s vision, he’d been looking over his shoulder. It had picked up their trail. It could certainly outdistance them. By now, it had to be close. What was it waiting for?

  He forced his mind to return to the problem at hand. Hoping he was making the right choice, he dropped his hunting sack and handed his bow and quiver to Griane. “I’ll try it. If I make it through, I’ll come back and lead you across.”

  “And if you don’t make it through?” she asked.

  “I’ll get wet.”

  “You’ll catch your death.”

  “You’re the one who said it wasn’t so big.”

  “It’s big enough.”

  “It’s not the first bog I’ve crossed, Griane.”

  “Fine. Go. Serve you right if you fall in and lose your toes to frostbite.”

  His exasperated sigh earned him an offended sniff.

  He pulled the precious fire bundle from his belt and handed it to Struath before shrugging off his mantle. As an afterthought, he removed his bearskin shoes as well; if they got wet, it would take them days to dry.

  Carefully, he tested the closest hummock. The frost-hardened grass crunched beneath his toes, but it seemed sturdy enough. Judging from the line on his spear, the water was only ankle-deep. As long as they stayed close to shore, they could avoid the soggier masses in the middle.

  He felt slightly ridiculous, leaping from hummock to hummock like a child playing hop-frog. Griane would probably tease him about his awkwardness, but better to be dry than graceful.

  He glanced over his shoulder, checking his progress. More than a dozen hummocks so far. At least three times that many to reach the far side. A tangle of sedge and laurel hid the others from sight, so he shouted out that he was fine.

  He was gathering himself for another leap when he felt something, like and unlike the gaze of the Watchers. A quick glance around the bog showed nothing unusual, but the sensation lingered. Then he heard the high-pitched whining. He was still trying to figure out how mosquitoes could be here in the middle of winter when the hummock shuddered.

  He gripped the spear, steadying himself. The whine crescendoed to a painful shrill. The rest of the bog was utterly still. Whatever had awakened lay directly beneath him. He glanced down and caught his breath. Between his bare feet, the hummock had grown opaque.

  Before he could move, the hummock lurched. He clung to his spear, fighting for balance. The crusty surface split open, spewing cold muck over his feet. The sickly sweet odor of rotting meat assailed him and he fought back the urge to retch.

  A fissure snaked between his feet. Ghastly green light spilled out. Two tiny lights flickered. Stars, he thought. Stars shining in the depths of the bog. Then the stars blinked.

  He froze, his mind denying what his senses told him. Even when he made out a nose and a mouth and a wild tangle of hair, he couldn’t move. The creature—man? demon?—stared back at him. Its mouth opened, rounded with surprise. A hand reached up.

  That broke the spell. He tugged at his spear, but the muck held it fast. Translucent fingers groped for him, the brown water of the bog clearly visible through them. With an oath, he wrenched his spear free. Clods of mud and peat showered him. He twisted the spear and brought it arcing downward. The hand remained upraised as he sliced through air.

  The apparition’s mouth moved, but Darak didn’t wait to hear its words. He thrust the shaft of the spear through the quaking bog, then reared back and vaulted toward another hummock. The slick mound disintegrated, plunging him into the muck. The shock of the freezing water made him gasp. He staggered to his feet, tugging at his spear.

  A head rose out of the fissure. Two hands grasped the edge of the hummock. His spear burst free of the bog and he reeled backward, cursing as his ankle twisted. Ignoring the pain, he planted his feet and drew the spear back.

  If not for the otherworldly translucency of its flesh, it might have been an ordinary man kneeling at the edge of the fissure, dressed in what appeared to be an ordinary tunic. Even as it raised its arms skyward, its hands dissolved. Then the arms. Its face shattered into a shower of green mist. The headless torso swayed, eddying around the disembodied legs that still knelt as if in prayer. Then, they too, vanished.

  The shrill whine ceased. The hummock settled with an obscene belch. In a moment, the bog was as still as ever.

  Discovering his arm still poised to hurl the spear, he let it fall to his side, only to raise it again when he heard a crash in the underbrush behind him. He was still struggling to turn in the imprisoning muck when Griane shoved her way through the sedge, her face as wild as her hair.

  “Darak? Are you all right?”

  Unable to trust his voice, he nodded and waded toward shore, sinking ankle-deep into mud that only reluctantly released him for his next step. Heedless of the slime dripping from his fingers, Griane seized his hand and pulled him to shore. Her arms went around him, skinny and strong and warm.

  A wave of shivering racked him. She whipped off her mantle to wipe his hands.

  “Do you have a pair of spare breeches in your pack?”

  Looking down, he realized he was soaked to the thighs. He nodded toward the wolfskin bundle she had dropped at his feet.

  “Take off your breeches.”

  “Griane …”

  “Do as I say.”

  When he fumbled with the knotted thong, she asked, “Are your fingers numb?”

  “Nay. But my feet are.”

  In the end, he had to let her peel off the breeches.
She knelt beside him, wiping his legs clean and steadying him as he pulled the new pair on. At her command, he sat and let her dry his feet.

  “How long were you in the bog?”

  The skin looked very white. Frostnip, probably. Too soon for frostbite.

  “Darak?”

  “Not long.”

  “A count of ten? A count of fifty?”

  “Less than fifty.”

  She pressed his big toe very gently. “Did you feel that?”

  “Nay.”

  “It gives. Still soft inside.” She slid his shoes on. With the same strange detachment, he noted that his toes were too numb to feel the fur inside. “I don’t want to rewarm your feet now.”

  He nodded. If the sensitive flesh thawed and re-froze, it would be even worse.

  They both looked up when they heard the others calling. Griane shouted back. Moments later, they emerged from the underbrush. “What happened?” Struath asked. “We heard the whining …”

  “Later, Tree-Father.” Griane’s voice, though respectful, was firm. “We must find a place to camp.”

  Darak rose and pulled her to her feet. She clung to his hand for a moment, darting a quick glance back at the bog. “I think we should go around.”

  Through his chattering teeth, he managed a shaky laugh.

  Long after they disappeared, Morgath crouched in the thicket of sedge. It had taken all his willpower to keep from bolting when the portal opened. He had conquered the wolf’s terror and watched in horrified fascination as the spirit vanished like mist before the sun.

  That fate might have been his. His body trembled as he recalled those first moments after emerging from the portal, triumph giving way to helpless terror and then to the wild desperation that had led him to fling his power at the first creature he encountered.

  Now he reminded himself that he was Morgath, the most powerful shaman in the world. If the owl had not flown past, he could have taken one of the priests in the grove. He controlled his fate, not chance or luck or the Trickster God.