Once at the falls, he took the oilskin from his pack and donned it, tying it about his middle. He looked at the buck. From the way it barely kept its head above the water, he knew it was close to death. A pang of empathy coursed through him for he had almost shared its fate. Now that his shivering had eased, he decided to try once more to bring the deer to shore. This time he would take better precautions.
Removing another rope from his pack, Marc tied one end to the trunk of a stout sapling, the other around his waist. Well secured, he once again braved the icy water and tried to snare the animal. After several attempts he met with success and jerked the noose tight. Studying how the current had the deer trapped between the two rocks, he reasoned it could only be freed by putting himself directly upstream of it.
He moved out into the water as far as his tether would allow and pulled hard on the line affixed to the animal. At first the buck remained solidly jammed into the narrow space, but soon it became aware of his actions and put up a little fight. As it squirmed in its trap, some of the water slipped around it, allowing Marc’s efforts to pay off. In less than a minute he hauled it ashore.
The unfortunate animal lay shivering at his feet, its breathing labored, its left-front leg badly broken. The buck’s ribs were clearly visible under its ragged, matted fur. Marc thought about the hardships of the last two years, unconsciously touching his own all too prominent ribs.
The deer unsuccessfully tried to stand, then crumpled to the ground once more. Letting out a resigned sigh, its big, brown eyes met his gaze, pleading for him to end its suffering. Gently patting its cheek, he took out his knife and, with hands still shaking from the cold, cut deeply into the artery on the buck’s neck. If the animal was half as numb as he was earlier, he doubted it even felt the blade. As its blood poured out, it went limp, relinquishing its claim on life.
With the wood he collected earlier, he started a fire between two medium-sized bushes. Next, he took two long branches that had snapped off the bridge tree when it fell and made a framework spanning the tops of the bushes, directly over the flames. After wringing out his clothes, he spread them upon the branches to dry and rested by the fire.
How would he get the deer home? It was too heavy to carry very far. If he left it here and went for help, the predators would probably find it before he returned. Blowing his whistle would do little good, either, not from this far away. The buck had to go with him somehow. A memory surfaced—his father once dragged a deer home lashed to a litter made from two poles. That would work nicely.
A half hour later his clothes had dried. Marc dressed, put out the fire, packed his things and, with a great grunt of effort, slung the deer over his shoulders. Barely able to carry the load, he carefully made his way to the bridge. Not wanting to fall into the water again, he inched his way across. Lowering his load to the ground on the far side, he hurried back for the two long branches, his pack and staff. After securing the buck to one end of the branches, he picked up the other ends and headed east.
The journey to Broken Rock drained what little strength remained in him. During that time, the presence of the haunted tree slowly faded in power as the distance grew between them. Now safely beyond its reach, Marc wondered why he continued to sense it. Was it, in effect, shaking an angry fist at him in frustration? Or did it inform him it would not be so lax the next time he came near? And would there be repercussions later for his trespass? He wished he knew.
Barely able to put one foot before the other, he rejoiced when the two peaks of Broken Rock came into view. Rising alone out of an otherwise flat and rock-less meadow, it stood three times the height of a man, cleaved in two as straight and clean as if a giant had struck it with an enormous ax. The mystery of its origin sparked many tall tales. Somehow, Marc knew none of them were true. For him it was a welcome place, one of pleasant memories of hunting with his father.
Reaching the rock, he dropped the litter and leaned against the face of the stone, panting for breath. After a minute’s rest, he dug in his pack for his favorite possession—a wooden whistle his father had carved for him. Deeply fatigued, he climbed to the top of the rock and, cupping his hands around the whistle to better direct its sound, blew long and hard. After repeating the blast several times he heard answering whistles come from the northeast. Relieved, he slumped into a seated position and waited for the others to arrive, grateful to have survived the day.
Twice he cheated death, grand bragging rights around the fire on any day. What would he tell the others about how he discovered the buck? That he crossed into the Vale and found the haunted tree? Or would doing so make them fear he had cursed the whole village by escaping the Vale’s wrath? God bless them all, he hoped not. He decided for now to keep those details to himself. His story about falling in the water and escaping would have to do.
Laying back, he gazed up at the iron sky, watching the dark mist drift slowly by. In all, he considered today to be a good day.
Chapter 3
Having finished her work, Valeria laid down on her bed to rest while waiting for the men to return. Soon fast asleep, she dreamt, finding herself walking down a path in the woods. It was a warm summer afternoon, the plants and trees lush and green. Bright patches of sunlight fell here and there, texturing the foliage and earth with contrasting highlights. The heady fragrance of wildflowers and their brilliant colors permeated the area around them. Cheerful twitters and chirps from hundreds of birds filled the air. The simple peace of it all pleased her.
Suddenly, there came an anguished wailing in the distance. Turning about, she saw a wall of seething blackness surge rapidly toward her. The churning clouds at its forefront bore a striking resemblance to tumbling skulls. Her skin prickled with fear as she sensed its menace. As the towering mass neared, the icy wind that moved before it engulfed her, the smell of it making her gag; like carrion and burnt hair, the stench of death itself. When this evil breath touched the flowers, they instantly paled and shriveled away. The leaves on the bushes and trees withered, crumbling into drifting ash. A bird tried to escape the threat but its feathers and flesh dissolved away in a puff of red gore, leaving a bleached skeleton that tumbled to the ground.
Seized with terror, Valeria tried to flee as the frigid darkness engulfed her. Nothing could be seen beyond the reach of her arm, not even the sun. Winds howled around her, mocking her feeble attempt to escape its power. She desperately tried to call out but found she had no voice. Blindly flailing about for shelter, she ran into a man. With strong hands he put her behind him. He wore a heavy, dark blue, hooded robe covered with embroidered letters and symbols of unknown meaning. Drawing out a sword of golden fire, he held it up high, brandishing it before the tempest. With a shriek of agony, the winds ceased and the blackness fell in upon itself.
Peering around him, she saw a gigantic beast with dozens of arms and legs that sprouted from a squat and headless body; it possessed neither eyes nor ears nor mouth. Each arm gripped a fierce-looking weapon, each foot a rotting corpse. With a hideous, bone-shaking bellow, the beast began its attack, swinging wildly at the man who neatly parried each blow. The ground shook violently as it lurched about. Every so often, the man hacked off one of the attacker’s hands which fell to the ground, disappearing in a cloud of putrid smoke. The injured arm would then pull back into the beast as if it had never existed. With the loss of each appendage, the others became larger and stronger.
When the man had cut off all but three of the beast’s arms, it circled one of its legs around to the side, making a grab for her. Squealing, she jumped in front of the man as the scimitar-like talons of its foot snapped closed on empty air. In one fluid move, the man spun about, severed the foot and returned to deflect blows from two of the arms. As the beast reared up preparing to strike, his sword rapidly lengthened, piercing its foul heart. With an incredible rush of air, the monster collapsed and disappeared.
Rejoicing, Valeria moved to look upon the face of her savior, only to find the cloak empty. What became o
f the man? How did the garment remain suspended in the air while retaining the shape of being worn by someone? Reaching out, she gingerly touched the edge of the hood, pleased at how the thick, velvety fabric felt to her fingers. With a sudden movement, the cloak flew open, spun about her, then closed up tight, once again putting her in darkness, now one of warmth and protection. Turning in place, she saw a distant light approach. No longer afraid, she waited as it came near. A pure, brilliant blue—not unlike the sun in its intensity—the light flowed over her, through her, caressing her spirit. Silhouetted before it, she saw a figure of a man carrying something large over his shoulders. Her heart fluttered with gladness.
“Val,” a voice said.
Strange, it did not sound like a man.
“Val,” it repeated, seemingly coming from everywhere at once.
Who spoke to her? It wasn’t the man in the light. Turning left and right she saw no one else. She looked at the man, able to see only the lower half of his face even though he stood almost within reach. Leaning closer, he smiled and whispered, “It’s time,” then vanished.
Valeria awoke with a start, confused.
“Val,” her mother, Aula, said softly.
“Uh, what?”
“Wake up, dear.” Aula helped her to sit up. “You were having quite a dream.”
Valeria looked around, blinking, giving her mind time to adjust. She was in her home. “Oh… yes. A strange one. At the end I....” Brief snippets of her dream cascaded in her thoughts until, in a flash, she understood the man’s name and what he carried. Smiling, she hugged her mother. “Praise God. The men are returning and Marc has caught a deer.”
Aula’s eyes widened in surprise. “Was it one of those dreams?” Val nodded. Her mother’s smile held more than a little pride. “Well, we better get ready for that, now shouldn’t we? Go. Greet them while I tell the others.”
Jumping out of bed, Valeria hurried toward the southern entrance of the village. This was not the first time she had dreamt of things before they happened. Often these dreams—or visions, as her mother called them—were filled with vivid, yet puzzling, imagery she could only sometimes understand. When she did glean some meaning from them, they often proved to be about inconsequential happenings. Today’s vision—if it came true—would be the most significant to date.
She scanned the path leading to the southwest toward Broken Rock but saw no one. Sitting on a rock she waited, contemplating the dream. While the last part of it seemed clear, the rest mystified her. What did it mean? Who was the warrior and what manner of beast did he defeat? Valeria knew of no such creature and doubted it could even exist. It must symbolize something else. And what of the cloak? What did its illustrations represent? The detail of the memory surprised her. She saw every stitch, every seam, knowing its construction intimately, as if she had sewn it herself.
The jubilant singing of the men and boys in the distance jolted her from her thoughts. About a minute later they exited the woods with Marc taking the lead. Behind him a large buck hung by its feet from a pole borne by two hunters. When the group got closer to the village, they draped the deer over Marc's shoulders so he could proudly bring his kill home for all to witness. Her head spun at the sight of Marc—so eerie, exactly as she had foreseen. A warmth flooded out of her mind and through her body as it always did when one of her visions came true.
She faced the village and cheerily shouted, “They’re back. Come see. The men are back.”
Laughing, Valeria ran toward Marc. His unsteady gait showed he was near exhaustion. The animal’s blood darkened most of his left side; a true badge of honor for any hunter. Numerous cuts and bruises covered his exposed skin, but they must not be very painful for he gave her an ear-to-ear grin.
“You caught it,” Valeria said, her voice pitched higher than normal due to her excitement. Seeing that he caught a deer—that anyone had caught a deer—seemed almost too good to be true.
“He sure did,” Garrett bellowed from beside Marc.
Marc’s gaze briefly met hers before turning downward. “Well, I didn’t exactly catch it.”
“That doesn’t matter,” their leader insisted with obvious pride. “You hunted well and now we’ll eat well.”
The men let out a long cheer, fervently shaking their fists and weapons above their heads. Seeing an embarrassed smile return to Marc’s face, Valeria gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m very proud of you.”
As his face reddened, she wanted to kiss him again, only this time on the lips. Intending to do just that, she leaned toward him once more, but then stopped, feeling a sensation of unease to her right. Looking that way, she saw Donald scowl, his jealousy exposed. He envied the attention she paid to Marc, attention she would never give to him. Now she understood why he treated Marc so poorly.
What made Donald so unable to face the truth? Every time he tried to win her over, she made her lack of interest quite clear. Some of the other girls thought her foolish for turning him down, citing his handsome features and that he would be a good provider and protector. As true as those points might be, she did not love him and he did not love her. Without love, nothing else mattered.
A throng of women and children poured out of the village, engulfing the hunting party. They marveled at Marc’s prize, pelting him with questions. When he reached the common house, two of the men relieved Marc of his load.
Garrett put his hands upon Marc’s shoulders. “Go, rest yourself. You have done quite enough for today.” He turned to her and winked. “Someone should see to his wounds.”
Valeria took Marc’s hand, leading him toward her home. “Come, let me clean those cuts.”
“I can care for myself,” he protested weakly.
“I’m sure you could, but you heard Garrett. You need to rest.”
“Very well.” His tired smile warmed her all over.
It pleased her he was more agreeable than when she sewed up his tunic last night. Then he acted as if he did not care for her, yet she knew he did, and more. She enjoyed this chance to be alone with him. After getting a bowl of hot water along the way from the cookhouse, she took him to her family’s hut and sat him on her bed. From a bag of fabric scraps, she selected a handful of blue cloth strips to use as bandages. Yes, those would look good on him.
While tending to his wounds, she savored the lean hardness of his muscles. Letting her gaze drift off task, she looked upon him. He was shorter than most of the other men, but every bit as strong. His curly red, shoulder-length hair remained much the same, but the rest of his face had changed over the last few years. His jaw now squarer, firmer, his piercing blue-gray eyes more commanding, sitting deeper beneath a pronounced brow ridge. Marc’s lower, richer voice had a quality to it that made her want to listen to his words. There was something else about him, something different, but she could not put a word to it. Whatever it might be, it drew her to him.
She gently finished tying a strip over a one-inch gash on his left elbow, then let her fingers trail lightly, almost surreptitiously, down his forearm before reaching for another bandage. “Tell me about catching the buck.”
He casually shook his head, his hair rippling as it brushed against his broad shoulders. “I didn’t catch it.”
“Well, I assume it didn’t jump into your arms.”
He laughed, his fatigue lowering his guard enough to allow his gaze to disclose how much he cared for her. That simple revelation thrilled her, but she tried not to let it show. For whatever reason, Marc was not ready to admit how he truly felt. Until then, she would have to be patient.
“No, nothing that simple,” he said.
Marc told how he took the westernmost part of the search for the deer, saw the bush and rabbits, then climbed the hill to look around. He hesitated a moment before describing how he found the buck in the water, fell in, roped the fallen tree, returned to pull out the deer, then made it back home.
“You left out a part of the story,” she said, tying another strip into a neat
bow.
Marc tensed slightly. “Uh, no.”
She instantly knew he lied. “Marc, what are you keeping from me?”
He looked away. “Nothing.”
With a finger alongside of his jaw, she turned his face to meet hers. “You left out part of the story after you climbed the hill. What was it?”
He squirmed a bit, averting her gaze. “Nothing.”
She felt from him a sense of—what? Discomfort? Embarrassment? Valeria touched his shoulder to reassure him, but as she did so, she knew the answer. “You’re afraid of something you did. Tell me. Please. I promise to keep it secret.”
He remained silent for a moment, then looked at her, trust in his gaze. “You swear?”
“Yes.”
He chewed on his lip for a dozen heartbeats then said quietly, “I accidentally entered the Forbidden Vale.”
His eyes told her he spoke the truth. Her heart skipped a beat as she sharply inhaled. “What?”
“You heard me. I trespassed into the Forbidden Vale and lived to tell about it.”
Her thoughts raced madly. That was impossible, wasn’t it? Why did not the evil of the place immediately strike him down? Would it come for him any minute? Tonight, maybe? After all, evil came out after dark. She studied his face and saw he did not seem very upset at the moment. Realizing her escalating emotions were getting the better part of her, she took in a deep breath and tried to calm herself. “How?”
Marc told her the complete story. “And all the way home I kept... feeling that tree. I can still feel it now if I think about it. It’s—” Marc suddenly looked past her, his face worried. “How long have you been standing there?”
She turned and saw their friend, Sean, in the doorway. His expression revealed he had heard more than enough. Standing, she approached him and drew him inside. “Swear to keep this secret.”
Haunted Tree (The Magus Family Chronicles Book 1) Page 4
