Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

BY THE FOURTH DAY in the cave, the Holly-Lord noticed that the ugly colors—bruises, Griane called them—were fading from the boy’s body. Yeorna could limp around the cave, but Struath still dozed most of the day. Darak could see out of both eyes now, but his movements were slow and careful. Even so, he always left at first light, returning at day’s end with fresh game or fish.

  The Holly-Lord no longer asked to accompany him, but the women found tasks for him. Griane showed him how to rub a fish with herbs and bury it in the embers in a little den of clay. Yeorna showed him how to cut off the tails and fins with her dagger and grind them into a magic powder that would save a man from drowning. He had no idea that fish were so useful; he had just thought them beautiful.

  He learned many other things during their days together. Caves were damper than huts. Catching fish was easier than mending clothes. Being a female was much harder than being a male.

  Yeorna laughed when he told her that. “That just shows how wise you are, Holly-Lord. Women have been telling men that for ages. And men never believe them.”

  “I do.” He pushed the bone needle at the strand of sinew again. Griane took the sinew from him, sucked one end, and poked it through the hole in the needle. She was a wonder.

  She could even play the long bone in Darak’s pack. Just by blowing into one end and twiddling her fingers over the holes, she made sounds as beautiful as birdsong. When he tried, it sounded like the wheezes Struath made while he slept.

  “Blow a little harder, Holly-Lord.”

  “What is a lord?”

  “A lord is like a chief,” Yeorna said, which did not explain anything.

  Struath grunted as he sat up. “It is a title of respect. To show how important you are to us. Just as I am called Tree-Father.”

  “What is a father?”

  Struath blinked very fast as he did when he was surprised. “A father … well, in my case, of course, the word is used to convey respect rather than paternity …”

  Griane interrupted, her voice brisk. “When a dog fox and a vixen mate, they have kits.”

  “Aye.”

  “When a man and a woman mate, they have children. Babies.”

  “Aye.”

  “When a woman births children, she is a mother. And the man is called a father.”

  “Ah.” He regarded Struath for a moment. “Do you have many children?”

  Struath blinked even faster. This time, Yeorna answered. “Our people call Struath father because he protects us and teaches us. Just as a fox teaches his kits how to survive.”

  “So you have a name of wiseness—Tree-Father. And a name for yourself. Struath.”

  “That is right, Holly-Lord.”

  “Your names are strange to me. When I first saw you—before I knew your other names—I called you One-Eye and Fox-Fur and Fur like Autumn Birch-Leaves.”

  “Then choose a name that describes you,” Griane said.

  “I cannot see myself to … describe.” He repeated that word, savoring the way it made his mouth twist and pucker. “Even if I could, I would describe Tinnean for it is his body that I wear. It does not belong to me.”

  “The holly tree does not belong to you either,” Yeorna said. “But it is part of you. Just as Tinnean’s body is part of you for now.”

  Darak would not like to hear that; Darak would not want any part of Tinnean to be his.

  “But I think I understand,” Yeorna continued. “You need a name like ours—a name that sets you apart from all others.”

  He nodded. “Choose one, Griane.”

  “The Tree-Father would be better. Or the Grain-Mother—”

  “You choose.”

  “Well … all right.”

  “What name is it?”

  “Well, I can’t come up with something just like that.” She snapped her fingers and gave him the look that said a scolding was on the way. “A name’s not like threading a needle or gutting a fish, you know. It takes a lot of thought. You don’t want to get stuck with something awful just because you rushed me, do you?”

  “Nay, Griane.”

  “You’ll just have to be patient. And don’t start pestering me about it twenty times a day, either.”

  “Griane. You are speaking to the Holly-Lord.”

  She got red in the face when Struath said that and started apologizing. He did not like it when she scolded him, but it made him feel that he belonged. “I will not pester, Griane. My oath.” He spat into the fire just as Darak had spat into the gorge. Griane looked startled; he wondered if he had done it wrong. Perhaps spitting into gorges was permitted and spitting into fire was not. He sighed. There were so many things to remember, so many things to try and get right. No wonder Darak frowned so much.

  Darak did more than frown when he returned from hunting and heard the music. He strode around the fire pit and ripped the flute out of his fingers.

  In the silence that followed, only the fire dared to make a sound, crackling just as it always did. Then Yeorna, Struath, and Griane all began talking at once. Darak just stood there, staring down at him. The others always smiled and clapped when he blew into the flute. He was still trying to guess why Darak was so angry when his voice rose above theirs.

  “You have no right.”

  That silenced the others again, although the words made no sense to him.

  “Why shouldn’t he play the flute?” Yeorna asked.

  Darak’s voice shook. “Because it was—it is—Tinnean’s.”

  Now the clenched fists and the narrowed eyes made sense. He rose, a little afraid that Darak would throw him to the ground, but the big man just watched him, breathing like a winded deer. Before he could speak, Griane shoved between them.

  “It’s not his fault. I gave him the flute.”

  “You always find an excuse for him, don’t you? And you.” Darak glanced at Struath who was on his feet as well.

  “He is the Holly-Lord. He needs no excuses from me—nor insolence from you.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “Do you think it’s easy for him?” Hands on hips, Griane scowled up at Darak, fearless as a she-wolf protecting her pups. “Do you think he wants to be here? Far from his home, cold and tired and hungry all the time, not knowing where the Oak-Lord is or whether he’s safe.”

  “I can imagine how that feels.”

  Griane flinched. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “I know you can. Better than any of us. So why are you unkind to him?”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. He stared at the dirt.

  “He has lost everything, Darak.”

  His eyes snapped back to hers, the anger burning hotter than ever. “And gained my brother’s body.”

  Struath took his place next to Griane. “That was not his fault.”

  “How do you know? How do you know he didn’t steal it? That he didn’t push Tinnean’s spirit out so his would be safe? Why are you so willing to trust him?”

  “Why are you so willing to doubt? The Tree-Lords have always been our friends. Why should they turn on us now?”

  Darak pushed Griane aside. “What happened that night?”

  “He’s already told you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Stop bullying him.”

  Darak seized the front of his tunic and shoved him up against the wall of the cave. The blows Griane rained on his back and arm made him wince, but he ignored Struath’s shouts and Yeorna’s pleading. Staring up into those glittering eyes, the Holly-Lord wondered if this was how a rabbit felt when a wolf caught it.

  “Where is my brother? What happened to him?” Darak raised his fist and froze.

  “Aye, that’s my dagger you feel at your back.”

  He hardly recognized Griane’s cold, flat voice.

  “You’d defend him? You? Who loved Tinnean?”

  “Aye, I will defend him. Just as I defended Tinnean when you bullied him. And tried to defend Maili when you brutalized her.”

  Darak whirled around so fast
that Griane stumbled backward. “Aye, go on. Hit me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  He gazed at his upraised fist for a long moment before slowly lowering his hand. “I have never hit a woman. Including my wife.”

  Head down and shoulders hunched, Darak stalked to the cave’s entrance. When he knelt down to shove aside the branches, the Holly-Lord stepped forward. The last time Darak had walked away from their camp, the wolf had attacked; he could not let that happen again.

  “The Oak disappeared.”

  Darak went very still. Slowly, he rose.

  “I felt his fear. Not as you feel it. For us, it is …” He tapped his chest. It was so hard with words. “A shift. A change … inside us … in the part we all share. The energy.”

  Darak nodded; that was good.

  “When we are frightened or hurt—if lightning should strike one of us—the hurt one’s energy changes. It grows fast and loud and shrill. Like the flute.”

  “Like a scream,” Yeorna whispered.

  “It was like that when the Oak disappeared. He … screamed. We all felt it. I lost the Holly. I was in a dark place. Uprooted. And then I felt … I think I felt Tinnean.”

  “What did you feel?” Darak’s voice was low and hoarse.

  “We touched. Not flesh but …” Helplessly, he looked up at Darak who kept swallowing as if something had lodged in his throat.

  Struath spoke first. “You touched him the way you can touch the other trees?”

  “Aye. Like that. I felt him. He screamed like the Oak.”

  Darak’s head jerked back, slamming into the rocks at the top of the cave. He hunched over again, breathing hard, hands fisted at his sides. Without looking up, he said, “Go on.”

  “I am sor—”

  “Go on, damn you.”

  “The Oak disappeared. Tinnean disappeared. It all happened very fast. I cannot say which happened first. They were just gone. I tried to go back. And then I felt rooted again. I did not understand why until I woke up inside Tinnean’s body.” He sighed. “I am sorry. I do not tell it right.”

  Darak raised his head. When the Holly-Lord saw his hard eyes and grim mouth, he knew he must find other words.

  “You said I drove out Tinnean’s spirit. To … steal his body. I think to steal must be a bad thing.”

  “It means to take something that does not belong to you,” Yeorna said.

  “Ah. Then I did steal. I did not mean to, but I did.” Although he wanted to look away, he forced himself to meet Darak’s cold, gray eyes. “But I did not push out his spirit. It was gone. He was … empty.”

  “And that’s why you took his body?”

  “Any spirit—tree or man—needs a body to shelter it,” Struath said. “If it loses one, it must find another or … disappear. The Holly-Lord’s spirit found Tinnean’s body and he clung to it.”

  Something changed in Darak’s face, the softening he rarely saw.

  “Are you sure he’s gone? Are you sure he’s not still inside?”

  Struath shook his head. “I would have felt him.”

  “When Jeok had those fits, you forced the demon out. And Jeok was there.”

  “You wish me to force the Holly-Lord’s spirit out of Tinnean’s body?”

  “I’m only asking—”

  “Tinnean is not here.” Darak’s head jerked back toward the Holly-Lord. “I would know. But if you want Struath to make the test, I will let him.”

  “Make the test, Struath.”

  “Darak—”

  “Make the test.”

  “Nay.” Struath’s voice was as loud as Darak’s. “Do you admit that he is the Holly-Lord?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you believe that he cast out your brother’s spirit and stole his body?”

  Darak hesitated, then shook his head.

  “And yet you want me to commit this … this sacrilege? To force his spirit out? And risk losing it forever?”

  “Do you have the power?”

  “I don’t know. Aye. I think so.”

  Darak’s eyes widened. “You’ve done it before.”

  Struath bowed his head. “It was a wren.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “A small, brown, beautiful wren. I pushed its spirit out. For a moment, I was the wren. I felt with its body. Saw through its eyes. And then I fled back to my body.”

  Struath shuddered. After a long time, he raised his head. “The wren died. Such a tiny creature—I could hold it in the palm of my hand. And I killed it. Through pride. Through arrogance. Through my eagerness to test the limits of my knowledge. I vowed I would never commit such a sacrilege again.” Slowly, Struath turned and walked to the back of the cave, his figure lost among the shadows.

  When Darak reached for the branches again, the Holly-Lord said, “Please. Do not go. I do not want the wolf to kill you.”

  He heard Darak’s quick intake of breath, but all he said was, “I will not go far, Holly-Lord.”

  Darak crouched outside the cave, staring into the darkness.

  Stupid. Stupid to attack the one person who could help him find Tinnean. The Holly-Lord wasn’t his enemy. The wolf, the one who had destroyed the Tree and cast out his brother’s spirit—those were his enemies.

  Ever since this quest had begun, he’d had to struggle to contain the frustration of not knowing where Tinnean was, the fear that he might be suffering—and the guilt that his refusal to attend the Midwinter rite had caused it. When he’d heard the music and seen the Holly-Lord playing Tinnean’s flute, frustration and fear and guilt had coalesced into rage.

  It was like and unlike the thrill of the hunt: that same burst of excitement when he spotted his prey, the same pounding of heart and pulse that climaxed at the kill. But always during the hunt, there was the center of calm, the strange separateness of being in the moment and yet standing apart, observing the quarry, the surroundings, and his reactions from a distance.

  This time, there had only been the pounding of his blood, and the roaring in his ears, and the saliva thick in his mouth. And then he’d heard Griane’s voice, accusing him of brutalizing his brother and his wife. He’d seen himself through her eyes, standing there with his fist upraised for a blow. His mouth had gone dry as if he’d swallowed ashes. Even now, the taste lingered.

  During the day, he could keep his senses focused on hunting, on searching for signs of the wolf. Only at night did the fear return. During the darkest time of the night—after the moon had disappeared below the treetops and the sky to the east refused to brighten with the hope of a new day—that was when despair threatened to overwhelm him. When he thought of Tinnean, lost forever, with no hope of forgiveness or farewell. And Maili, safe in the Forever Isles but just as lost to him, with no chance to make amends for those nights when he’d gone a moon without touching her and the need was on him so bad that he wouldn’t let her turn away but poured his lust into her while she lay still and silent beneath him.

  He told himself that he had been a good provider, that he had only tried to protect Tinnean from his boyish impulses, that he had always tried to be patient with Maili, no matter how many times she flinched from his touch. But he had only to remember the cold accusation in Griane’s eyes for those beliefs to leach away like rain seeping into soft, summer earth.

  Long after the others had curled up around the fire, the Holly-Lord watched Darak. He sat against the wall of the cave, knees pulled up to his chest. Although his head was lowered on his forearms, the Holly-Lord knew he was waiting. Helpless, he waited, too.

  Finally, Darak’s head came up. He rose into a crouch. Struath’s eye snapped open. Griane’s hand slid out from under her mantle, but froze when Yeorna seized her wrist.

  Darak must have seen. He saw everything. Picking his way around their still figures, he approached slowly. The Holly-Lord found that comforting until he remembered that Darak moved the same way when he was stalking an animal he intended to kill.

  Darak broke a dead branch into smaller pieces. One by one
, he threw them on the fire. He poked the flames with a longer branch until they crackled and hissed. Only then did he squat down just out of reach as if to assure him there was no danger of attack.

  Darak poked the fire again, although the flames were already high. “I won’t lay hands on you again,” he said in a soft voice. “You’ve my oath on that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Darak frowned, even though he had spoken politely. Remembering that the giving of the oath was important, he added, “You have my oath that I did not cast out Tinnean’s spirit.”

  Darak crouched there, still and silent. Then he nodded.

  “Shall we spit?”

  For the first time, Darak looked at him, clearly surprised. “If you like.”

  Rather than spitting into the fire as he expected, Darak spat into his palm. He did the same. He hesitated a moment when Darak held out his hand, then crawled closer to allow the big man to clasp his. He flexed his fingers until the ache went away.

  Darak did not notice; he was staring into the fire again. He knew that expression almost as well as the angry one. This was the look that always came over him when he was thinking of Tinnean. He did not know the words to make that expression go away, but he knew the comfort of touch; Griane had taught him that.

  Darak tensed as he reached toward him. He hesitated, his hand hanging in the air between them. Then he leaned forward and patted Darak’s leg. It was a very hard leg.

  “We will find him.”

  Darak’s breath leaked out of his body. “I’m sorry. That I shoved you. I don’t … I usually have better control of my temper.”

  “You were angry. And frightened.”

  Darak’s scowl reminded him, too late, that Griane had told him men did not like to admit to fear. He sighed. It was so much easier to be a tree. Perhaps if he offered sorry for sorry—just like oath for oath—it would make up for his mistake.

  “I am sorry that I blew on Tinnean’s flute.”

  Darak closed his eyes. His throat moved. That was not good. He had made another mistake. He should not speak of Tinnean unless Darak did.

  Before he could offer another sorry, Darak opened his eyes. “I wasn’t ready for it.” His large, blunt fingers clenched and unclenched. “Hearing the music. Seeing you …” Just for a moment, their gazes met.