Wren watched him go, saw Lee get smaller and smaller until he vanished in the dark leaves and shadows of the wood. The forest swallowed him whole. She waited a moment, watching to see if he’d reappear. He didn’t. A cloud moved in front of the sun and gave Wren a chill.
She started shooing the flock down the hill. If left to graze, Wren couldn’t hope to keep them all together without help. By themselves, sheep wandered—often into trouble. But she would be able to get them to the pen, as they always moved as a group. She caught hold of the leader, the one with the bell tied around its neck. Silently, she dubbed him Bell, and cursed herself for doing so.
Don’t go naming ’em, Wren.
Wherever the bellwether went, the rest followed. The flock of sheep bleated their way down the slope and neatly trotted into the pen of split logs where the wind had decided to blow the smoke from Ma’s fire. Wren hoped she wasn’t cooking lamb or anything, especially not until Wren got the gate closed.
Once the latch was thrown, she counted. She did so three times, and after each tally, she got the same answer: two twelves—exactly two twelves. Not a single sheep was missing.
Wren gave only a moment’s glance at the forest before running to the house.
Pa was coming out with his leigh mor pinned over his shoulder, sandals on, and stone-tipped spear in hand. He was wearing his angry look, and Wren stopped short.
“What happened?” Pa asked. “I saw Lee go into the trees. Lose a sheep?”
“We thought we lost one,” Wren said.
Pa bent down to retie one sandal. They had straps that wrapped all the way up his calves. The left one was always coming undone because the cord was too short. “What do you mean thought?”
“We saw a sheep bolt into the forest, but . . .” Wren hesitated. He’ll think I’m lying and punish me. She saw his big hands then looked past him at the house, wondering about the switch. He hadn’t used it on her in months, but she could still remember the sting. Pa had cut the switch from a birch. Wren used to like birch trees, but not since the last time.
“But what? Out with it girl!” His voice was angry, but not a shout—not yet—just a nasty growl.
Too late now. Hiding what I know will only get him madder, Wren thought. Then she said, “I just counted. None are missing.”
“Counted wrong,” he grumbled, as he jerked the leather strap of his sandals hard, tightening the knot.
Any relief she might have experienced when he didn’t get angry was squelched by the instant dismissal. Wren stood up straight and declared in a clear voice, “Counted thrice, Pa.”
The old man fixed her with a withering glare. “Counted wrong three times, then.”
Pa stood up and took two strides in the direction of the wood when Ma caught hold of his arm.
“What if she counted correctly?” Ma asked.
Wren smiled. At least someone believed in her. But Ma’s tone wasn’t the same as when she usually defended Wren. None of the warm pleading was there. Instead, Ma spoke with a troubled intensity.
Pa glanced at his wife, then at the pen where the flock bounced against each other, bleating because they didn’t like the smoke. “All the more reason to hurry.”
“I can’t lose another,” Ma told him, shaking her head. The pleading was in her words that time.
Pa nodded, lifted his spear, and then trotted through the high grass, sending grasshoppers and bumblebees into the air. Both Wren and her mother watched him go.
“Ma, is Lee gonna be all right?” Wren asked.
Ma didn’t answer. She watched Pa until he, too, disappeared into the black shadows of the forest. When they could no longer see him, she turned back to the fire and the pot of water hanging above it.
As far as Wren knew, Ma and Pa had had eight kids, but now there was only herself and Lee. Wren remembered her brother Dale, or thought she could. He was older than Lee and used to carry her on his shoulders and take her to watch the carrion birds—crows mostly. The noisy creatures made a racket, warning others away from their quarry of death.
Dale had died when Wren was too young to remember much. No one ever mentioned how he had died. No one talked about Dale at all. For that matter, nothing was ever said about her other brothers or sisters either. Wren had never met them, and to her they were all just names—like heroes in ancient stories. Wren liked to think they had gone on a grand adventure to a wonderful world on the other side of the forest where there was plenty to eat, and it was always summer. Upon hearing her theory, Pa had accused her of being naive, whatever that was, and Ma had called her innocent. Lee said she was dumb. He’d said that way more then twelve times. Maybe it wasn’t because she couldn’t remember things—maybe Lee was the forgetful one.
I can’t lose another.
Ma’s words had made Wren wonder if perhaps her brothers and sisters hadn’t just walked through the forest but each had been eaten by it. Maybe that’s why no one but her ever talked about them. Maybe they wouldn’t talk about Lee now that he was gone.
They’re food. When they get old, they go into the forest and it eats them. So don’t go remembering their names. Don’t talk about ’em. They aren’t brothers and sisters—they’re food. Got it?
A whole day had passed since Pa went into the forest. Ma had made the two of them porridge for supper, and they ate in silence. Ma had never made porridge for supper before. Ever since Pa left, Ma’s eyes had been on the woods. When neither Pa nor Lee had returned by midday, Ma filled a sack with bread and beans.
“If I don’t come back in two days, you have to go to Dahl Rhen where the clan chieftain lives. You know where that is, right?”
Wren nodded, but Ma told her anyway. “You leave right after sunrise on the third day. You go there and tell them what happened. Someone will take care of you. It’s what a clan does. We’re all family. Understand?”
“What do you mean someone will—”
“Just do as I say.” Ma’s face was tight. There were deep folds across her forehead that had gotten deeper each year. The lines looked like canyons that afternoon.
“And you’ll come get me after you find Pa and Lee?”
Ma wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffled like she had a cold. “Just . . . oh, Wren . . . just do as I say. Just do it, okay? You hear me?” She was yelling, sorta like she was angry but not really. Then Ma grabbed Wren hard and hugged her tight, tighter than ever before, so tight Wren couldn’t breathe. Ma was shaking like she was cold, but Wren knew she wasn’t. When Ma let go, she didn’t look at her. She kept her face turned away.
When you look at ’em, you should see bits of meat.
“Do as I tell you, Wren.”
That was the last thing her mother said before she, too, was swallowed by the forest.
Two days went by. Neither Ma, nor Pa, nor Lee came back.
On the third morning, Wren sat in the dirt between the house and the sheep’s pen, looking at the forest. A golden sun had risen into a fine blue sky. Sparrows flew overhead. Honeybees flitted from one purple clover to the next, and crickets were still playing the same tune from the night before. The forest loomed at the edge of her sight. Wren shivered and stepped back.
Just do as I say!
Wren looked down the trail that led to the road, the way to Dahl Rhen.
I can’t lose another.
She turned back and stared at the forest.
No one knew how big the Crescent Forest was. It curled around all the villages of Clan Rhen like the sliver of a new moon. “It’s a knife we cut our food with, but it’s always at our throats,” Pa always said. Wren never understood what that meant before, but that morning she thought she did. The whole clan used the forest to survive. It provided wood and game, and yet even so the Crescent wasn’t a friend. Farmers tamed the fields, but not the forest—the forest was wild.
Wren got a grass basket and filled it with important things: the sharp stone Lee had given her because he had found a better one; the sheep’s bladder that she
’d filled with water at the creek; the last three biscuits from the clay jar in the house; Pa’s sheep shears. The shears were two joined blades made from real copper. She had to get a stool to climb to the top shelf to take them off the peg. Pa didn’t like anyone touching them, and he’d switch her good when he found out. She didn’t care. A good beating would be welcomed if Pa were there to do it. She’d cut him a new switch herself, prune it up good and hand it over with a smile if it meant she could have them all back.
Wren held up the dual copper blades. They were heavy and hissed dangerously when she squeezed the handle and the sharp edges came together. Like a pair of knives, the ends were pointed and sharp. They could do real damage if she jabbed with them, and she hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. Still, she felt better having the shears along.
She folded her breckon mor lengthwise—summer style, so that the green, black, and blue plaid rode on one shoulder and the skirt was up to her knees. Then she hoisted the basket on her back, looping the leather straps over her arms. Wren started to follow the trail toward the rising sun like her mother had instructed. She took seven strides beyond their yard and stopped.
In front of her on the trail was a sheep, just standing and staring. She looked at the pen. The gate was closed, and she didn’t understand how one had gotten out.
How—
A chill ran through her as she spotted the little tuft of hair on its chin.
It’s back.
“What did you do to my family?”
The sheep just continued its stare.
What are you? she wondered. Looking at those eyes that didn’t blink, didn’t look away. This wasn’t a ewe nor a wether. This is the forest come to visit.
“What do you want?” she asked.
The sheep’s sight shifted toward the trees and then without so much as a baa it began walking that way. It took a few steps, paused, and looked back at her. As it did, she saw it grin.
I might be naive, innocent, and dumb, but I know that sheep don’t smile.
Going to Dahl Rhen was the sensible thing to do, and it was what her mother had wanted. After all, she was only eight. What could she do? She didn’t have a tall stone spear like Pa and Lee. All she had were sheep clippers. They were made of metal, but they were small and so was she. Wren didn’t have anything else except a sharp stone and a tiny bit of food. But right in front of her was a smiling sheep that had lured her brother to . . . to . . . Wren didn’t know where, but she wanted to find out.
Her family wasn’t going to come back. Wren knew this as certainly as she knew her front two baby teeth were long gone. She also knew that bad things happened for no reason, and good things rarely occurred at all. Good things needed an excuse, an effort, a payment. Balls rolled downhill but only went up if pushed. Wren was certain that if she went to Dhal Rhen she would live, but she’d never see Ma, Pa, or Lee again. They would disappear like all the others. Apparently that was the nature of the forest. Things went in and never came out. Even if people from Dahl Rhen came to look. No one would ever find her family because the forest was too big, and no one knew where they went. No one but that creepy, grinning sheep. Wren was the only one who had a chance of finding them. She had an invitation from the forest.
Naive. Innocent. Dumb.
Maybe, Wren thought as she followed the sheep, but I’m not a coward.
Wren left behind the sunny summer’s day the moment she entered the forest. Inside, the world was dark, cool, and still. The whisper of the breeze and drone of the bees faded, replaced with a groaning chorus of creaking tree limbs. No grass grew there. The floor was a spongy mat of deep-green moss.
Ahead, the sheep scampered and Wren chased.
Fallen trees, shattered branches, shafts of sunlight, splashes of colors, they all begged for her attention. Wren spotted pathways that ran off in all directions, made by who knew what. Patches of flowers she’d never seen before grew in low wet gullies. Wren wanted to stop, to look, to listen, but the sheep kept a rapid pace. When it hopped over a small creek, Wren was forced to splash through, getting her legs wet to the knees. Then she had to bound over a deadfall. Wren was terrified that she had lost the sheep as she struggled over the logs and rotted branches. Without the wooly beast, she’d no hope of finding her family. Thinking about that made her realize something else. She was completely and utterly lost. During the merry chase the sheep had led her so quickly that Wren hadn’t had time to look for landmarks or note her bearing. Wren was doomed, the bearded sheep her only lifeline.
Heart pounding with fear, Wren scratched her way through the remaining portion of the deadfall, and discovered she needn’t have worried. The sheep had waited for her on a slope of last year’s leaves. Together they climbed and then slid, curving left and right. They skirted trees thicker than her home was round. They had roots like old hands clutching rocks and dipped giant fingertips into streams.
Before long, Wren had lost the sun. The golden god’s warm face was blocked by a canopy of leaves that grew so dense that the world beneath was dark and ominous. Soon she found mushrooms and great conk plates growing on trees. Darker and darker the wood became as the sheep led her in and down, circling into a great basin. Walls of natural rock dressed in yellow lichen rose around a small pool. The tiny pond was black with dirty, stagnant water. A fractured log protruded from its center. Upon that branch, a great crow perched. Its round glassy eyes blinked twice, then the bird cawed loudly but didn’t fly away.
The sheep pranced to the darkest section of the cliff and entered a crevice. Wren paused at the pool’s edge, looking into the hole where the sheep had disappeared. It didn’t look like a pleasant place. Roots and ivy vines dangled down from overhead like a spidery curtain, a drape hiding the interior.
Witch’s hair, Wren thought.
The way onward was anything but inviting, but she didn’t have a choice. As dark, wet, and narrow as the cave appeared, she had to follow the sheep.
It’s not a sheep. She knew that just as certainly as she knew entering the cave was a trap of some kind. Despite what Lee had said, she wasn’t dumb.
This is where things will get bad. This is where everyone went and never came back. The real question is, are they alive in there? Will I be able to see them again?
The hole in the rock looked a bit like a sideways mouth. This is where I get eaten.
Caw! Caw!
Wren looked back, and the crow flashed its wings and cawed once more.
Holding onto the straps of her basket, Wren bit her lip and ducked her head under the vines and roots, creeping into the cave.
Wren was too young to remember much about most of her older brothers and sisters, but she had been old enough to recall the day Autumn was buried. Autumn was her mother’s sister who had lived with Wren and her family after her aunt’s husband had died. Autumn had more gray hair and less teeth than Ma, and the older woman used to cry more than she laughed. Still, Wren had liked her. Her aunt had patiently taught Wren to spin wool even after Ma had thrown up her hands in frustration. Autumn wasn’t as hurried as Ma, and she would sit quietly and smile or frown depending on how well Wren was doing.
They buried Autumn on the hill in the shade of a hawthorn tree. This happened after she’d gotten sick during the long winter. Pa and Lee dug the hole. Wren helped Ma wrap Autumn in a big cloth with her arms tucked up on her chest. Then they put her in the hole and Pa covered her in dirt. Wren remembered how the baskets of dark soil, leaves, roots, rocks, and worms had fallen on Autumn’s face, slowly covering it up.
What if Autumn had only been sleeping? No worse way to die, she thought. Being buried, being swallowed up, trapped beneath the ground.
Wren had had nightmares after that.
There’s no way Aunt Autumn could have clawed her way out. Not with her arms wrapped up on her chest like that.
The dark ceiling of the cave glistened with a damp sheen, and Wren looked back at the diminishing light of the opening and felt her stomach quiver. Moving in, go
ing deeper, the sounds of rustling leaves faded. Birdsong, and the noise of crickets, became muffled until, along with the light, they abandoned her. The cave became silent as a grave. No worse way to die.
Wren began running the tips of her fingers on the walls, feeling her way forward. Dirt, damp and cold, met her touch. Long, dangling roots—more witch’s hair—tickled her arms and made her shiver. She imagined worms, grubs, ants, and hairy-legged spiders. Wren couldn’t see them, but her fingers whispered of their gruesome presence. Snatching her hands back, she viciously swept her arms and neck, scrubbing off what she imagined to be hundreds of tiny unseen legs. With a grimace, she sucked in a shaking breath then forced her hands out once more. In that awful dark, Wren couldn’t see the sheep but had no trouble guessing where it went. The tunnel lacked any side passages and was too narrow for it to double back and escape past her.
Eventually the damp soil she brushed with her fingers turned dry. At the same time, she reached the end of the dangly roots and gave a muttered thank-you to whichever god or spirit was responsible for the reprieve. Before long, her hands trailed over hard stone, rough at first then smoother. The rock was cold, mostly dry, but wet in some places. Wren didn’t like the wetness. She tried to convince herself it was only water.
A light appeared ahead. The color of green pond scum, and dim like a weak candle, the glow was too steady to be fire, and it illuminated a large round room. Not a natural cavern, this place had been hewn out of the rock. The circular room had straight walls with decorative molding at the bottom and top. Inching closer and looking up, Wren saw the ceiling was vaulted and carved to look like the open petals of a flower. In the center of that ceiling, where there ought to be the daisy’s yellow heart or Susan’s black eye, a large green crystal glowed. Wren had never seen a rock that gave off light before. It wasn’t bright, but in that horrible dark it might as well have been the sun god, Eton.
Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy Page 46
