Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  “It’s so hard … to have you look at me. With his eyes.”

  He lowered his head so Darak would not have to see his eyes. “If I left …”

  “Nay. We must stay together. This … I’ll be fine.”

  “Who is Tinnean that you would kill to have him back?”

  Darak’s head jerked up. “He’s my brother.”

  “Aye. But what is that?”

  “He’s … I thought you understood. Tinnean and I, we’re the same blood. The same father and mother.”

  “The same litter?”

  “Aye. But more than that. He’s … part of me. Like …” Darak hesitated, frowning. It was the thinking frown, not the angry one. After a moment, his face smoothed out. “Like two trees growing from the same roots.”

  For the first time, he understood. Darak felt the same incompleteness, the same loss he did. Of course the big man expressed those feelings in strange and often frightening outbursts. That was the way of all humans, it seemed. They were so very young, so raw and fragile despite their fierceness. No wonder the Maker loved them.

  He got to his knees and waited for Darak to look at him. He had spent much time studying that face. He knew that the two vertical lines between the brows could mean anger if the lips were pressed together and the brows went down. Those same lines could mean sorrow if the brows went up and the throat went up and down, or puzzlement if the mouth turned up on one side.

  He saw expectation on the face now—brows up, forehead creased, lips parted. When he took Darak’s big hand between his, expectation changed to surprise.

  “The Oak is my brother.”

  He watched the hard lines ease and the eyes widen. For once, his words had been right.

  Darak’s hand gripped his hard. “We will find him.”

  “We will find both of them.”

  Although no spit was exchanged, this oath felt even more powerful than the other.

  Chapter 21

  WHEN HE ROLLED OVER the next morning, he discovered Darak crawling into the cave, brushing snow off his back and shoulders. The Holly-Lord sighed; if the weather was bad enough to keep Darak inside, there would be no escape for any of them.

  Struath and Yeorna treated Darak as they always did, but Griane did not speak to him at all, just stabbed her needle in and out of the shoe she was mending for Struath. He found her silence strange, for surely she had heard their words the previous night, just as she could observe Darak teaching him to chip flint with the rock called “hammerstone.” Darak even moved his fingers so they gripped it correctly when he had always avoided touching him before. She must understand that he and Darak had exchanged sorries and that everything was all right now.

  Sometimes, he would catch Darak watching Griane. She watched him, too, when she thought he was not looking. When they both looked up at the same time, Griane’s face flushed red and she would stab the shoe again. Darak just frowned; once he muttered something under his breath.

  He decided the flushing and frowning was caused by something other than Darak pushing him or Griane drawing her dagger. He was not sure what it was, but since his flute playing had started the bad feelings, he felt he must do something to make them go away.

  “Yeorna, would you please tell the story about the rowan-woman and the alder-man?”

  She smiled and the unpleasant fluttering in his belly eased. “You’ve heard that twice since we’ve been here.”

  “It is my favorite.”

  He had been surprised to learn that people had once been trees. Always, he had thought of them as wolf-kin because of their fierceness and their meat-loving and their habit of traveling in packs. When Yeorna told about the rowan that lifted up its roots and walked out of the forest to become the first woman, the story began to make sense. If Griane had grown weary of standing in the forest, she would have done that.

  “Perhaps Griane could tell a story,” Yeorna said.

  Griane’s voice was not as sweet as Yeorna’s, nor did it fill the cave as Struath’s did, but her stories were very exciting. Like the time she and Tinnean had leaped over the Midsummer bonfire and their tunics caught fire and Darak rolled them both on the ground and nearly squashed them and shouted that they had no more sense than mayflies to be leaping the bonfire when the flames were so high. Or the time she stayed out all night in the forest because she wanted to find a vision mate like the boys did, but she was afraid to close her eyes, because as soon as she did, she heard all sorts of scary sounds, and she wanted to go home, but she was too afraid to move, and then Darak found her and carried her home and put her to sleep with Tinnean, and stopped her father from beating her with a leather strap the next morning.

  “Tell about the time you filled Darak’s shoes with porridge,” he said. “And you could hear him shouting all the way across the village and he smacked your arse and—”

  “Nay.” Darak’s voice was very quiet.

  He caught his breath. He should not have spoken of the arse smacking. He was making things worse. Yeorna must have understood, for she said, “Griane, have you come up with a name yet?”

  Darak looked up. “A name?”

  Griane glanced at him, then flushed and looked down at her mending. “The Holly-Lord asked me to choose one for him.”

  “What have you chosen?”

  “I was thinking … I don’t know. I thought of one, but …”

  The Holly-Lord leaned forward. “What is it, Griane?”

  “Cuillonoc.”

  He repeated the name, slowly shaping it with his tongue and letting it roll off his lips. Yeorna clapped her hands, just as she did when he blew on the flute. “It’s perfect. That was the name of the very first chief of the Holly Tribe. Isn’t that right, Tree-Father?”

  Struath stared at the roof of the cave, stroking the underside of his chin. Recognizing the beginning of a story, the Holly-Lord stretched out his legs; Struath’s stories were usually long.

  “Long, long ago, before my father’s father’s father was born, before there was an Oak Tribe or a Holly Tribe, there were The People.”

  He sighed. It was not only going to be a long story, but one about people he did not know.

  “The People came from the south where the soil was rich and black, and the rivers teemed with fish, and the barley grew taller than a man. The summers were long and warm, and in winter, the snows only lingered for a moon before melting away.”

  The Oak would have liked this place. “Did they have forests?”

  “Aye, Holly-Lord. And they worshiped in the sacred grove of the First Forest and witnessed the battle of the Oak and the Holly at Midsummer and Midwinter.”

  Now the story began to interest him. He must know these People, after all. In the beginning, only the trees and the birds and the beasts had observed the battles. Then came a strange creature, no larger than a bear cub, which fell to its knees when it entered the grove. He wondered if this was one of Struath’s People or if they had come later.

  “The People had lived many generations in this place when a new people arrived. At first, the two tribes lived in peace, trading with each other, sharing knowledge, even intermarrying. However, each spring brought more of the strangers and in time, there were too many for the land to support. These newcomers dug stone out of the earth for their places of worship. They cut down the forests for their fields. They stole the children of The People to sacrifice to their—”

  “They cut down the trees? All of them?” Surely, Struath was mistaken.

  “They did not worship the Holly and the Oak. They did not believe that we share this land with our tree-brothers and with the birds and beasts of the forests and the fish of the rivers.”

  He shook his head, unable to imagine such a people or such a world.

  “And so The People fled to their boats and journeyed down the river until they came to a great sea.”

  “What is a sea?”

  “It is a large expanse of water, as big as the First Forest.”

  This
seemed as improbable as the existence of a people who wished to cut down all the trees, but Struath nodded firmly, so it must be true.

  “The People journeyed for many days. Each morning, they watched the sun rise over the forests to the east and each evening, they watched it sink into the great sea. Some of The People grew afraid and wanted to turn back. Others wanted to drag their boats to the shore and build their new village right there. But many voices were raised against this idea, because the village would be far from the forest.”

  He nodded at The People’s wisdom; who would want to live far from the forest?

  “Their shaman said they must go on and they obeyed him because he was the wisest of men.”

  Darak made a little snorting sound and Struath frowned.

  “And in time they came to another river,” Yeorna said. “Isn’t that right, Tree-Father?”

  “Aye. After many days and nights of travel. The People decided to follow the river. As their shaman advised.”

  Without looking up from his hammerstone, Darak said, “Who—being the wisest of men—knew that winter was coming on and if they didn’t find a place to build their homes soon, they’d freeze their arses off.”

  This time, Griane snorted. Her face flushed when she caught Darak’s glance, but this time, she did not look away.

  Struath cleared his throat. “The People followed the river east for two days and two nights until they reached a lake.”

  “Your lake?”

  “Aye. And when they paddled up the lake, they saw the sign that their shaman—with his farseeing wisdom—had promised.” Struath paused, looking around the cave. He wondered if he was supposed to guess what the sign was.

  Fortunately, Griane blurted out, “The oak. He saw the oak.”

  “The oak on the hill?”

  “Aye, Holly-Lord.”

  “Tell him about Cuillonoc, Tree-Father.”

  Yeorna’s interruption reminded him of the reason Struath had begun this story. He sounded out the name softly. The first part rolled around his tongue nicely, but the last part felt like he had something caught in his throat and was trying to cough it out.

  “Well, after a time, the Oak Tribe—for so they called themselves now—grew so large that there was not enough grain in the fields to feed them.”

  The People must have bred like rabbits. Yet, he had not seen so many of them during his time in Darak’s hut. Less than the leaves on one branch of a small sapling. Perhaps their breeding habits had changed over time.

  “It was decided that half of the tribe would find a new home. And so—and this is the wondrous thing—they sailed across the lake, and on the opposite shore, they found a holly. Just as the first tribe had found an oak. And just as the Oak and Holly are connected, our two tribes always remember that we come from the same roots and we share the same past.”

  “And the man who led them across the lake was Cuillonoc. Forgive me, Tree-Father.” Struath smiled and waved away Yeorna’s apology. “So. What do you think?”

  “I think your people move around a lot.”

  “About the name.”

  “Oh. I do not like it.”

  Darak’s head jerked up. Yeorna gasped. Struath frowned. But Griane’s face held his gaze longest. As he watched, the light in her eyes died just as surely as the sun must have when it sank into the waters of that great sea. He knew it was his fault—all their faces told him that—but he was not sure what he had done other than speak the truth.

  “Is there another name you would prefer, Holly-Lord?” Struath asked.

  “Nay. I just do not like that one.”

  Griane flinched. Hoping to make things better, he said, “It sounds like a cough.”

  Before he could say more, she had shoved aside the branches at the cave’s entrance and crawled out. Before the branches had stopped rustling, Darak went after her.

  “I did something wrong.”

  Struath cleared his throat. Yeorna sighed. The fire hissed. Nothing ever seemed to bother the fire.

  “Griane spent a day thinking of a name,” Struath said.

  “I know.”

  “She wanted it to be a name with meaning.”

  “I understand.”

  “A name you could be proud of.”

  “It sounds like a cough.”

  Struath cleared his throat.

  “It does not feel right in my mouth.”

  Yeorna sighed.

  “Is Griane angry because the name sounds like a cough?”

  “She is not angry,” Yeorna said. “She is hurt.”

  “But I did not touch her.”

  “Your words hurt her.”

  He had never imagined you could wound with words. He found that more frightening than anything else he had learned since becoming a man.

  “Do you remember Darak’s face when you described the battle in the grove?” Struath asked. “When you told him Tinnean screamed?”

  He pressed his palm against the front of his tunic to ease the sudden pain in his chest. “My words made Griane feel that way?”

  “Well. Not so bad as that,” Struath said.

  He stared into the unfeeling fire. “I do not like words.”

  Darak crawled back into the cave, brushing snow off. He squeezed his shoulder and squatted beside him again.

  “What words should I have used?” he asked Struath.

  “You could have said … it was a fine name. A name you liked.”

  “But that would be not-true.”

  “A lie,” Struath corrected. “But only a small lie, Holly-Lord.”

  “Lies are different sizes?”

  “Sometimes, we speak words to avoid hurting another’s feelings. Those are small lies. They do not harm the teller or the hearer.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Yeorna sighed. “Suppose a girl—a girl you liked very much—made you your favorite food in the world. And it wasn’t—”

  “Hot apple cider.”

  “What?”

  “Hot apple cider is my favorite.”

  “Oh. All right. Well, suppose the hot apple cider tasted bad.”

  “How could hot apple cider taste bad?”

  “Forget hot apple cider,” Darak said. “Say a girl asks if you like the oatcakes she made. You say, ‘Oh, aye.’ Even if they’re hard as rocks. Or if a girl asks,

  ‘Do you think my hair looks pretty this way?’ You say, ‘Oh, aye.’ Even if it looks like a nest of snakes.”

  Yeorna cuffed Darak, but she was smiling. Even Struath’s lips were twitching as he said, “What Darak means is that if you like a person, you sometimes need to hold back a little of the truth.”

  “But you’ll end up with hard oatcakes,” Darak said, dodging Yeorna’s hand with a grin.

  Their smiles faded as Griane crawled into the cave. Darak helped her to her feet and stood by her as she hovered near the entrance, dragging the toe of her shoe in a long arc in front of her. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss. It was silly. It’s only a name.”

  He stood up. He always felt better standing at important moments. “It is a fine name. I like it. And I think your hair looks pretty that way.”

  “I … it’s a mess.” She smoothed her braid, darting an uncertain glance at Darak who suddenly seemed interested in kicking melting snow off his shoes.

  “Thank you.”

  “I am sorry I made you unhappy.”

  “Nay. It’s your name. If you don’t like it—”

  “Just the last part. The Oc.”

  “That’s the part that sounds like a cough?” Darak asked.

  He thought it was impolite to mention the cough. Griane’s glare confirmed that. She stuck out her tongue. Darak pulled her braid. She swatted his hand away and muttered something under her breath that made him grin. The pain in his chest eased at bit, then flared when he realized how much he would miss their strange displays when he returned to his Tree.

  “Suppose you left off the Oc,” Yeorna suggested.

&nbs
p; “Names have power,” Struath said. “Cuillon conveys authority and dignity. It brings to mind the founder of the Holly Tribe, but is yours alone. What do you think, Holly-Lord?”

  He sounded it out and nodded. “It feels right in my mouth.”

  Struath nodded. Yeorna clapped. Darak grinned. When Griane smiled and hugged him, the ache in his chest went away.

  Cuillon. He had a name. He only hoped it held enough power to keep the holly thorns from piercing his hands again.

  Chapter 22

  EACH NIGHT SINCE they had arrived at the cave, Struath had reached for another vision, but exhaustion and pain had hindered him. Tonight, he was determined to succeed. Soon, they must leave the sanctuary of the cave to seek either the Summerlands or a portal to Chaos. Only Brana could help him determine the true path.

  He stared into the fire, waiting for the others to sleep. The flames beckoned him. He felt his body falling away and jerked upright when he realized his head was nodding. He called upon his years of discipline and again, felt himself drifting.

  It might have been a moment later or moonset when he heard her voice.

  “Wake up.”

  Struath knew he was curled up in his mantle, yet he was also perched on a windswept pinnacle, watching dark clouds race across the moon.

  Peck, peck, peck between his eyes.

  “Forgive me, Brana.”

  “Why should I? You never even thanked me for saving you.”

  Struath shuddered, remembering their last flight. “Again, I ask your forgiveness. And offer my thanks. If you hadn’t broken the Trickster’s spell—”

  A derisive caw cut him off. “If the Trickster had wanted the wolf to have you, you’d be dead. He’s playing with you. He enjoys that. So does the wolf.”

  She cocked her head, no doubt expecting him to ask about the wolf again. But tonight, Struath had a more important quest.”

  “Brana, I need your help.”

  “You always need my help.”

  “Is the Oak in Chaos?”

  “That is beyond my power of Seeing.”

  “Can you open a portal for us?”