Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

“What?”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Nay. Did … did you?”

  He wasn’t sure. Judging from the look on Griane’s face, it must have been a fever-dream, after all. Then he remembered the touch of that warm paw.

  “Spirit catcher.”

  Cuillon’s face loomed next to Griane’s. He felt his hand being lifted. Even through the bandages, Darak could feel the bag of charms. “They are here, Darak.” Cuillon’s smile seemed more like a grimace.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Lie still,” Griane said. “You’ll ruin all my good work.” The scolding was familiar, but her smile was as false as Cuillon’s. Then he saw the Tree looming behind them and understood.

  He struggled to rise, but even without their restraining hands, he hadn’t the strength. All he could do was shake his head. Struath and Yeorna dead. His body crippled. And all for nothing. He wanted to weep, to shout, to demand an explanation from the Maker who had allowed this to happen. But they were watching him, their desperate eyes begging him for hope. This brave, skinny girl and this ancient spirit, trapped in a body that could no longer contain it. All that remained of his pack.

  You spend your life, trying to be strong for those you love. Not wanting them to see your uncertainty lest they be afraid, too.

  He controlled his features, waited until he could trust his voice. “As long as the Oak’s spirit lives and the Holly’s, there is hope.”

  “I should have stayed,” Cuillon said. “Then the Holly would be alive.”

  “With the Oak dead, the Holly might have died, too. And taken your spirit with it. Isn’t that so?”

  “I … perhaps. I do not know.”

  “And you never will.” Heedless of the pain, Darak laid his hand over Cuillon’s. The rough gray flesh extended up his arm, disappearing into the torn sleeve of his tunic. Time was running out—for Cuillon and for Tinnean.

  “We’ll find a way to restore the Tree.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know,” he repeated in a gentler voice. He fumbled for words to comfort him and again found his father’s. “Let it go, Cuillon.” So easy to say. So hard to do. “There is a way. There must be.”

  That night, he dreamed of Tinnean. His brother stood in the shadow of the dead Tree. The spirit catcher’s fire blazed through the branches, clothing the naked boughs of the Oak in Midsummer green. The light made Tinnean seem taller, but his laugh was just the same.

  Wiry arms wrapped around him, so much stronger than he remembered. He kept pulling away to look at Tinnean, then seizing him, pulling him close, as if he might escape again.

  “You’re back.”

  Tinnean laughed again. “Nay, Darak. It’s only a dream.”

  “But you will come back.”

  “Aye.”

  “How? Tell me how.”

  Tinnean rolled his eyes. The familiar expression of impatience sent a jolt through him, just like touching the spirit catcher.

  “You know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’ve already seen.”

  “When? What did I see?”

  “The Tree.”

  “The Tree is dead.”

  “Not that one.”

  Tinnean slipped out of his arms. Darak reached for him, desperate to keep him, but his body was leaching into the Tree, his flesh changing to creamy bark, his fingers branching into twigs that sprouted leaves as blue as speedwell.

  Darak jerked awake, his cry drowning out the twitter of birdsong.

  “Are you all right?” Griane asked. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. A bad dream.”

  The dream returned the next night. Tinnean no longer laughed and the green light of the spirit catcher flickered uncertainly. He woke the third night to find his hand clenched around the bag on his chest.

  His fingers twitched as if his flesh still held the dream-memory of clasping his brother’s hand. That memory led to others. Walking along the shore with Tinnean, cradling the small fingers between his as if they were as fragile as the birds’ eggs they had stolen from the nests in the marshes. Watching the Northern Dancers flash green and white in the night sky, Tinnean’s fingers tugging his each time the colors flared. Squeezing those fingers hard to capture Tinnean’s wandering attention as he instructed him how to take a sighting on the point of the Archer’s arrowhead, promising that the star could always help him find his way home.

  He had hoped his ordeal on the tree would satisfy the gods. Now he knew they wanted more. If it were only the gods, he might refuse; a man always had the right to choose his own path. But how could he refuse Tinnean? The dreams were clear and unrelenting. When he’d begged his brother not to ask this of him, Tinnean simply sighed. When he’d pleaded with him to wait until they found another way, Tinnean said that there was no other way. When he’d offered himself instead, Tinnean smiled and said this was his responsibility, his choice, his gift.

  In the end, though, it rested with him. To deny Tinnean this terrible gift or bestow it. To keep Tinnean’s spirit safe or set it free. To hold him or let him go.

  The darkness overhead was yielding to light. It must be closer to dawn than he realized. Then the heavens pulsated, light streaming earthward, and he knew the Northern Dancers had returned.

  A bolt of light illuminated the Tree. Another stretched out beside it. Together, they arced together over the grove, crackling and hissing in the music of the Dancers. Their shapes changed with the music, now curling up like smiles, now twisting into spirals, then breaking away to join a third arc.

  Bathed in their light, the Tree seemed to come alive again, broken branches reaching skyward, dead leaves glowing. The jagged scar on its trunk danced with the luminous ribbons of light. The circled trees took up the rhythm, limbs moaning as if in ecstasy.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose as the dance passed over him. His temples throbbed as they had when Morgath invaded him, and he was equally helpless to withstand this assault. Even with his eyes shut, the light penetrated him. It found each of the places Morgath had touched: the cheek he had caressed, the lips he had kissed, the genitals he had fondled. It burned his flayed arms and scarred chest and maimed hands. And still the light danced, into his mind, into his spirit, seeking out the hidden places where shame and guilt crouched, where the desire to control lay, where the desperate hope that life might return to what it once was still clung.

  With a power as relentless as Morgath’s, the light illuminated each dark corner of his spirit and scoured it with cold fire. He pressed his lips together to keep from crying out and waking the others. Only if he allowed the dance to continue would he find some measure of peace—for Tinnean and for himself. As if the Dancers recognized his acceptance, they grew quieter, their touch gentler. The merciless fire dwindled to a pleasant glow and then to embers.

  Darak opened his eyes to find the curtain of light passing away to the south, leaving a tenuous fringe of rose hovering over the Tree like the promise of dawn. He watched the sky lighten from black to slate to the soft purple of heather. Then he shook the others awake and told them what they must do.

  Chapter 51

  CUILLON SIMPLY NODDED. Perhaps the Holly-Lord had known all along what had to happen and, like Tinnean, only awaited his signal. Griane looked horrified and threw a dozen questions at him. When she asked for the third time if he was sure, he held up his hand.

  “I am not sure. Of anything. But I have spent the last three days going over and over this. If I have to do it again, I don’t think I will be able to do … what I have to.”

  Cuillon held out Struath’s pouch. His fingers brushed against something long and hard. Even without opening the pouch, he knew it was the forefinger Morgath had taken. He felt a strange relief, knowing that all of him was here at the last.

  Griane had to help them remove the spirit catcher. Darak fought the urge to snatch it back when she laid it in Cuillon’s palm. The light blazed in joyful greeting. C
uillon carefully picked it up with his thick, knobby fingers.

  “I understand now why humans burn so hot and bright. Even if your time is short as I measure it, it is very full.” Sadness tinged his smile. “I will miss you. And hot cider.” Griane’s laugh was half a sob. “And laughter. And crying, too.” He wiped the tear from her cheek, careful not to let the leaves scratch her. “And my name. Thank you for that, Griane. I am sorry I did not like the first one.”

  “Yours is better.”

  She hugged him hard, then released him. Cuillon turned to him expectantly. He had to say something. He would never have this chance again. He cleared his throat, groping for the words.

  Cuillon smiled. “It is all right, Darak. I know.”

  It wasn’t enough. Sometimes, the words must be spoken. “You are a better man than I ever was. Or could be.”

  Cuillon shook his head. “Thank you. For all you have done. And for my brother. I will always remember.”

  He held the Holly-Lord for the last time and whispered, “Be well.” And then he added, “Take care of him for me.”

  Cuillon’s sigh shuddered through both their bodies. The Holly-Lord was the one to step back, but Cuillon had always been stronger than any of them. He smiled, raised the spirit catcher to his lips, and swallowed it.

  Taut as a bowstring, he watched Cuillon’s eyes widen, then roll back in his head. Darak caught him as he fell. Griane knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. “I think he just fainted.” She looked up at him. “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know. Wait, I guess.”

  The words had barely left his mouth when Cuillon’s eyes fluttered open. The hard fingertips touched his cheek almost shyly. “Darak.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Very gently, Cuillon took his hand and laid it against his cheek, the whiskers soft as dandelion fluff. “It’s me.”

  Darak started to shake, his body recognizing the truth before his mind could accept it.

  “Tinnean?”

  A quick nod, the familiar shy ducking of the head. Two skinny arms wrapped around him, even stronger than they had felt in the dream. Strong enough to hold him while he wept. Strong enough to press him close, their heartbeats thudding against each other. Strong enough to keep the joy, the wonder, the miracle from shattering him.

  When he calmed, he swiped at his face with his sleeve. Then he could really look at his brother, studying him as he might a stranger. His face was the same, of course, and yet he seemed … older. Remembering those brief moments he had existed within the World Tree, Darak understood. He had merely touched the wonder; Tinnean had dwelled in it.

  Tinnean’s expression grew abstracted. “There is not much time.”

  Darak’s guts twisted. Unable to trust his voice, he nodded.

  “They are so much stronger than I am. And they are eager for the battle.”

  Darak knew then that Tinnean had heard Cuillon’s voice and the Oak’s.

  Tinnean’s gaze strayed to the dead giant looming over them. “We were wrong about the battle. We always believed that our prayers and our chants determined its course. But it was always their strength, their wisdom.”

  “Then … it wasn’t because I stayed away from the rite?”

  “Other men have missed the rite.” His mouth quirked up as he glanced at Griane. “That one year, Red Dugan got so drunk he couldn’t stand, never mind chant.”

  Relief left him weak. “I thought … I was afraid …”

  Tinnean’s fingers closed around his wrist. “Nay, Darak.”

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, unable to look into those shining eyes. “For fighting your choice. For refusing my blessing.”

  “Then give it to me now. You don’t have to,” he added quickly. “You have already done so much. But it would mean … it would make me so happy.”

  His voice broke. Darak pulled him into his arms. There was nothing to him. A good wind would blow him over. It had been hard enough in Chaos to let go, even knowing he was freeing his brother’s spirit. But now? He hugged him fiercely, wanting to keep him from this act, wanting to keep him safe, wanting to keep him. Knowing he could not.

  Still, his heart clenched into a small, scared fist when Tinnean pulled away. “I must go.”

  He kissed Griane and whispered something to her. She nodded, tears streaking her cheeks. Then Tinnean laid his hands on his shoulders. “You must tell the tale, Darak. Of the World Tree. Of Chaos. Even of Morgath.” His gaze grew stern. “Him you must speak of. Else he will dwell in you forever.”

  Tinnean’s gaze held him until he nodded.

  “This isn’t good-bye. Not really. I’ll always be here.” Tinnean gestured around the grove, then laid his palm atop Darak’s chest. “Always.”

  Darak covered his brother’s hand with his. “Go. Quickly.” He could not bear it if this were drawn out any longer. “With my blessing. And my love.”

  One final time, he held him.

  Remember everything about this moment. How his breath comes short and hard. How his fingers dig into your back. The smell of his hair, its softness against your cheek. Remember.

  Darak let him go.

  Remember his eyes, as blue as blossoming speedwell.

  Tinnean’s left arm shook, but his smile never faltered, even when the holly leaves budded on his fingers.

  Remember his fingers, slender as a girl’s.

  The leaves burst open, shiny and green. They twined up his arm. Red twigs sprouted along his right. The sleeves of his tunic ripped as the twigs grew into branches.

  Remember his arms. Remember how bony and strong they are.

  Roots tore open the bandages on his feet. They spread across the ground, wriggling into the earth.

  Remember his toes. Remember how skinny and pale they are.

  His breeches fell in shreds to the ground. The flesh hardened as his ankles fused together.

  Remember his legs. Remember the scar on his left ankle where Crel’s dog bit him.

  Deep runnels appeared as the bark spread up his legs. His tunic strained and split open.

  Remember his belly. Every rib showing. Remember his chest. Not a hair on it.

  The branches spread out from his shoulders, green holly on his left, bare oak on the right. His chest swelled, twice the size now of a man’s. Green leaves slapped his jaw. Bare twigs scratched his neck. A mass of leaves and twigs sprouted from his mouth. And still, Tinnean smiled.

  Oh, gods. Give me strength. His smile. Remember his smile. So sweet it fooled the bees.

  Leaves and twigs twisted in his hair. Bark encased his cheeks. His nose thickened into a shapeless lump.

  Maker, help me.

  Blue eyes peeped out from the tangle of foliage.

  “Tinnean!”

  And then his brother’s eyes closed, enveloped by the encroaching bark.

  He did not remember falling to his knees. At some point, he was aware of Griane helping him to his feet, pulling him away. He stilled her hands and made himself look.

  The Tree was tiny compared to the dead giant looming behind it. Barely twice his height. The Holly dwarfed the Oak, its green-leafed branches almost obscuring the small bare ones of its brother. The trunk rose slender and straight, the bark as pale as the tree he had seen in the cavern. As pale as Tinnean’s flesh.

  He closed his eyes, only to open them a moment later when Griane clutched his arm. A shudder rippled through the Tree. The battle of the Oak and the Holly was beginning. This, too, they must witness.

  The air pulsated with the same rhythm he had felt in the World Tree. The energy flowed up through the earth, around the circle of watching trees, into him and through him, raising the hair on the back of his neck, just like the Northern Dancers and Morgath’s dark magic. Perhaps Struath was right; he’d always claimed that magic was natural and it was only men who perverted it.

  Another shudder swelled the Tree’s trunk. Like his mam’s belly when she was carrying Tinnean. She’d raised her tunic so he coul
d watch his unborn brother moving inside of her. He had been thrilled and horrified, even when she told him it didn’t hurt.

  The boughs of the Holly shook, offering the challenge. The Oak rattled its branches, accepting. Then they attacked, lashing each other with their branches. The Holly engulfed the smaller Oak. Her voice quavering, Griane sang, the tune nearly as old as the music of the World Tree—the song to welcome spring. He couldn’t sing; his mouth was dry as sand.

  Maker, protect him.

  The Holly’s spiky leaves gouged long gashes in the Oak’s branches, but the Oak fought back, battering the bigger tree. Green boughs snapped off and fell to the ground. Could Cuillon feel each bough being severed? Was it the same agony he had felt when Morgath took his fingers, one by one?

  Maker, don’t let him be hurt.

  A great bulge ran up the trunk to the fork where the Oak and Holly branched into separate trees. The Oak swelled as the power traveled through it. New twigs burst out of the branches, became branches themselves and reached across the grove.

  The Holly shivered, retreating before the Oak’s newfound power. As if sensing victory, the Oak attacked, flattening the Holly’s conical top, lashing the green boughs that refused to submit.

  Cuillon’s dying. The Oak is killing him.

  The Holly dwindled, now to his height, now to Tinnean’s, now to the size of a child. And still the Oak battered it. The energy raced through him, hotter and wilder than bloodlust. He found himself shaking, wanting the release that the Oak’s victory would bring, terrified that it would mean Cuillon’s death.

  The trunk shuddered and went still. The air grew calm. The bloodlust faded, leaving him panting and spent.

  The Oak stood tall and proud in the dim light of the grove. A sprig of Holly nestled near the fork of the trunk. And only a handspan from it, Darak saw two tiny flowers, the leaves heart-shaped like speedwell, the blossoms as blue as Tinnean’s eyes.

  Chapter 52

  FOR THREE DAYS, Griane watched Darak sitting by the young tree. He allowed her to change his bandages and spread the ointment of goldenrod and Maker’s mantle on his arms. He ate when she thrust food into his hands, drank when she raised the waterskin to his lips. He even answered when she spoke to him. But he never left the tree. By day, he leaned against it, one hand always touching the trunk. By night, he curled up in the shallow pit between the two roots that had once been Tinnean’s feet. When the nightmares tore him from sleep, he allowed her to hold him, but clutched the roots until the shivering stopped.