by JM Guillen
Then, another, which knew how to fly so well that it had fallen from the deep emptiness of the night sky.
Then one, which had never flown but had always believed that it would. Carefully, for more years than even I could count, it had rolled and turned in the riverbed, shaping itself for the day it would taste the wind.
Several more were smooth, and several more were round, but those weren’t quite good enough. I needed stones that yearned for the taste of wind, stones that would not mind the fires of battle.
In only a minute, I found the stones that I needed, seven in the end. This was auspicious to me, and so I carefully nestled them into my leather purse next to my other treasures.
Then, the tree.
Maple formed part of the ever-singing melody, the vast chorus of existence, which drifted into the vastness of eternity. As it was the part of creation I was closest to, I could not help but feeling giggly and giddy as I walked closer to it, my hand caressing its old, uneven trunk.
Good morning.
The greeting echoed back as I was, in truth, greeting a part of my very self. I gazed up into the bower of the tree, the wafting leaves casting dappled early morning light across my smiling, open face.
Before I knew what I was looking for, my eyes found the clumps of the seeds, hanging ’neath the yellow and green. It was a little late for the seeds to still be on the trees, but I knew that didn’t actually matter. I needed them. For all I knew, the tree had kept them here for me, waiting until I would arrive.
“Thank you.” The words echoed in the air around me, thanking myself as I said them. I reached, and the seeds came loose in my hand, released without needing plucked.
Maple seeds are now called samaras— but I remembered their Old World name, “Spinning Jennys.” Each was like a tiny wing, and when it caught on the wind, it spun ’round and ’round, carried far and away. I took two handfuls of them, filling my pockets.
Spinning Jennys made amazing tools in the right hands.
“That’s enough, I think.” It did not feel as if I were talking to myself, but of course I was, in a deeply personal and intimate way. “I suppose that if I need more, I’ll just come back.”
The answer came not in words. It was the rustling of wind in the leaves, the creaking of bough. It came in the kiss of dappled shadow and the sweet smell of the wood.
I needed one more thing. I peered through the leaves, seeking the perfect one.
There.
The brilliant yellow of my eyes, it hung twice as high as I was tall. Its edges remained sharp, not the least bit curled. No brown spots or wind-tears marred it.
“Just the one.” I smiled as other leaves rustled across my face.
The tiniest touch of wind released the leaf. It drifted down, seeming to relish the feel of the breeze as it dropped into my hand.
I cupped it gingerly, as I would a fledgling bird. I leaned over it, whispering my truth into the leaf.
“Tommy Maple.” The world trembled as I spoke my Name.
The leaf grew warm in my hand, reached for me the tiniest bit, as it once might have reached for the sun. My power came alive inside it. It might never be green again, but it would never tear or blemish.
Carefully, I folded it and placed it in my pocket.
I turned, my hand on the old tree again.
The maple sang the song of my heart. Behind that song was the ever present lullaby, a beckoning into the bower of sleep. I stood there, with one hand against the rough bark, for several moments. Unbidden tears trailed down my face.
May we meet on far shores, Tommy.
I cannot say how long I stood there, awash in memory and want. I knew only that the world had awakened once more.
My world.
The first day of autumn had arrived.
17
Later, with my heart again stalwart, I found myself wending through the ever-thickening wood. I could still feel the creature, knew by the sheer sense of wrongness that it lurked somewhere near. Yet I had no direction. I only faintly noted the long darkness of the shadows or caught the sweet smell of rot on the wind. Twice, I believed that I had found the right track, only to have the wind shift and realize that I was moving away from the creature I sought.
Finally, I gave in. I reached into my stuffed pockets and pulled out one of the maple seeds.
“I’m hunting the cold shadow in the wood.” I fixed my gaze on the seed, settling it on my open palm. “Show me.” I gently blew upon the seed.
At the touch of my breath, it soared aloft.
It flew sharply to my left, both against the breeze and against the direction I had blown it. The seed, caught upon some wind all its own, sailed straight through the air, over a small rise.
Resolutely, I followed in that direction.
Soon, it was obvious that I drew closer.
The shadows of the wood became disconcertingly darker. They lived, shimmying and darkening strangely. As I watched, they wafted from side to side, as if blown by some non-existent breeze.
But they by no means blew in the wind. Not at all.
They reached hungrily as if they could grasp me, wrap themselves around me, drag me away to some dark den that had never seen light, and feast on all that I was. Behind my mind, I could imagine it, as if some dim part of myself could perceive a hungry darkness, hiding just beyond sight.
The shadows remained black as pitch, as if it were full night instead of early morn.
I stepped away from them, trying to keep a rein on my pounding heart. Slowly, I crept forward, my eyes wide and my hands trembling.
As I edged forward, root, bramble and thorn pulled at me, leaving scratches on my skin and tears in my clothing. It might seem accidental, mere happenstance, to any mortal-born, but I could hear the strange whispers among the shadows, where normally I would hear only welcome. Malice twisted its way into the soul of each leaf and branch. They were animated by empty, endless hunger.
I strained for every breath.
I spun on every sound.
Every breeze carried the hot, fetid breath of a great predator, stalking me from within every shadow.
Of course, no wood could truly grudge against me. As the Herald of Autumn, I went as I pleased. Yet here, the world did not hearken to my golden call. No birds of prey ghosted my passing, and no wolf stalked behind.
No, the further I went, the less the forest rippled with autumn at my passing. This place knew neither autumn nor spring. It had become never dying but always dead. Color and light and life had bled from this land.
I was being stalked. I felt it by bow and horn, by Hunter, hound, and hawk.
I wished I had taken the Old Man’s boons or had him Oath he would come along. Cut off from my kind, I had never felt more alone.
I faced death with no ally at my side. In the past, Hraefn, or perhaps Black Horn Jack would have stood at my side. But those days were not these days.
I was alone.
In a small clearing, I marveled at the empty hopelessness of the land.
This was much more than the simple death of winter or the death that comes with fire or plague. It wasn’t drought of water, for the ground held only a light powder of dust. Instead, the world turned hollow. Every trace of life had been drunk from every last blade of grass.
Even the wind mourned.
As I stepped forward, I cast my eyes all about, turning ’round in an effort to locate the nothing that stalked me. More than the death of the wood, here, everything fell silent. Nothing moved, as if the spark at the center of all life had been devoured.
Yet I was still being hunted.
I crept forward, my eyes darting among the skeletal tree branches. Soon, they knitted so closely together that I could not see the sky, but still, I saw no watcher. I simply felt the gaze like filth dragged across my skin.
Reaching into my leather purse, I grabbed the sling-shooter and one of the stones. I knew its Name even as I touched it. It was the one two boys had thrown while playing so lo
ng ago.
I nocked the shooter, creeping forward. My breath caught tight in my chest, but still I edged onward. Soon the clearing drew in at the sides leaving just a narrow passage through the briars.
Then, from silence, sound.
The hoarse cry called ahead of me in the trees. It was distant, little more than an echo. When compared to the silence, however, it roared like thunder in the night.
I smiled. It was her. I knew it in my bones.
Hraefn.
I peered forward, expecting to see one of my oldest and dearest friends, preening her black feathers or combing her black tresses, somewhere in the trees.
No. She wasn’t there.
I strode forward eagerly. Hraefn and I had stood fast in darkness greater than this. We had stood together when Rome had crashed upon our people like a wave of swords. We had stood together as champions against the spirits of the Ban-sidhe.
But no.
“Hraefn?” When had it become so misty?
Carefully, I peered around. I heard the call again from up ahead. Cautiously, I slipped forward, ever looking for my friend with her laughing, wild eyes.
Hraefn. Hreafn Whisperwing. Hreafn Twice-cunning.
Hraefn of Mist and Shadow.
“No hiding, petulant brat. Come forth!” I couldn’t hide my smile.
It would be good, having someone familiar here, someone who would stand at my back. Yet I felt more than that. Of course, I missed her. I missed the way she smiled, and I missed the way she smelled in the night.
The cries fell silent, and my smile slowly eroded from my face as I crept through the mist. Chill ran goose-flesh up my arms as I heard her voice, one last time, like a distant, warbling echo.
Something was wrong.
Placing the stone back into the sling, I edged forward. Something was harrying my mind, tugging and worrying at me.
Why had I thought Hraefn would be here? What—?
Bait. The noise had been bait. I spun ’round, desperately darting my gaze into the sharp darkness of the trees.
“I know you’re here!” I called into the cold wood, my voice a tremor. I held the sling in front of me, ready to loose the stone at the slightest motion within the trees.
The darkness mocked me. It toyed with me. It waited in the depths with teeth from another age.
“Come then! Why not?” I spun another time. I could feel its weighty gaze full of finality.
Then, I saw it. I stopped, cold fear like ice in my chest.
Ancient, bleeding eyes met my gaze. For long moments, we simply stared at one another.
It was not Hraefn. It was not my oldest and dearest friend.
The huge raven in the trees had twisted into a dirge of blackness and night. Its eyes burned with that hollow, ochre-red of the creature I had fought in the streets. As it opened its mouth to loudly caw again, I saw the madness, the empty darkness seeping from its eyes and mouth, dripping to the ground.
Like night given form, it was horrifying.
With its third scream, it took flight, all warped claws and razored beak and shadowed wing.
Without thought or plan, I dropped to a knee and pulled back my shooter. For the second time in its long existence, the stone was given flight. I could feel its cry of joy as it took to the air.
The raven swerved to the side, and the stone sailed off into the shadows.
The not-raven screeched. The sound was like broken glass in my ears. I spun toward the sound, and—
It was gone.
I panted, my breath visible in the all-too chilled air. I turned twice, thinking I saw those maddening, hellish eyes, but no.
Nothing.
I could still feel it, however. Like a thorn behind my heart, I sensed a broken place within the melody of the world. Whispers, strange and lost, seeped from the dark places between the tree branches.
“Tommy…” It was familiar, every voice I had ever known. “Nothing, Tommy. Nothing is what we thought you were.”
No. That was the raven.
Strange images flashed in my dreaming mind. I reeled, seeing what wasn’t there.
It was a raven, and it was a woman as well.
I blinked, trying to understand.
She lay in wait in the deep holt of the wood, lay in wait for the children there. Her hunger was nigh insatiable. More were coming, but she grew too impatient.
Their eyes were a sweetness. She pulled them out, with fingers that weren’t, while they screamed.
Then the raven lunged again.
Still stunned by the strangeness of the whispering and the odd images, I rolled aside as its talons slashed at me, inches from my eyes. I swung the sling wildly and felt myself connect with a wing. The raven squawked loudly and flapped over to a low-lying branch.
“Autumn.” The thing croaked. Drawn out, the word was bent as if one could torment a word. The bird canted its head at me, its hateful eyes burning.
I am back in Old Man Coyote’s lodge. He sits across from me, looking into the fire.
“Can’t quite do much o’ nothin’, Tommy.” His eyes have been stitched shut.
For the first time, I wonder why he looks like a cowboy, a white man.
“No.” I shook my head, meeting the bird’s gaze.
It found Molly. After I left its corpse, the spiders found her. They crawled into her, into her mouth and nose and ears. They dug into her sweetness and ate. They devoured her until there was only darkness left—
“No!” I drew a second stone, even as I stood, trembling. With a smooth motion born of the hunt, I spun. I cupped it, drew, and let fly again.
The stone sang. It had never flown but always had it wanted to. As the seasons drifted by, it yearned.
And now, it flew.
The stone tore through the darkness and strange glamour. It struck the raven squarely in the side of the head. The not-raven fell from its branch.
In my dreaming mind, I could hear the screaming. In the real world, there was only silence.
I ran over to it, wishing that I had found myself some boots after all. I wanted to stomp it. I wanted every bone in its body broken, those cruel eyes smashed.
The stone had caved in the creatures head. Buzzing around the caved-in skull were hundreds of small, stinking flies, weaving as if they did not understand what had happened. They were like filthy, rotten smoke, oozing from the corpse into the air.
“No. Not this time.” I scrabbled in my bag of Eddie’s treasures and found one of the bright yellow bottles. Popping the top, I doused the corpse with the sharp-smelling liquid, spraying all around it. Once the bottle was halfway empty, I pulled out one of the wooden matches Eddie had given me.
I could almost hear his words:
“Shadows are burned by fire.”
Purifying orange flame danced and leapt among the darkened trees. It consumed the tiny flies. In the dreaming world behind my mind, they screamed as they burned.
Their death felt strangely satisfying.
“Well told, Eddie.” I smirked, putting the matches in my pocket.
While caught in the grips of my Telling, the mortal’s dreaming mind had understood something that not even Coyote had grasped: the Old Man had held the sun’s fire but never used it.
Secrets like that were rare to come by.
This darkness could burn.
I smiled. “Who needs your boons, Old Man?”
Only the silence of the wood answered.
Reaching into my pack, I grasped my third stone and fit it to the cup.
Sling ready, I crept along the path.
18
The narrow path shrank to little more than a twisted tunnel through bramble and briar. Grim sunlight bleakly pushed its way through the tangles, shafts of light that did little to illuminate the darkness. These spots of light grew fewer as I went on. Eventually, the dark and mist darkened so that I could scarcely see my hand in front of my face.
I shivered with the cold, not the cold of winter, but the cold of the grave
. The frosty mist writhed along the ground. The world underfoot grew weary, exhausted, taking its final, wheezing gasp.
Among the withered underbrush, I reached the end of all things. Every step I took, I took carefully, testing my weight before trusting the ground.
I cast about, paranoid that more of the creatures grew close. Though I didn’t feel the eyes as I had before, these cold shadows could take any form, could infect any creature. If the not-raven were any indication, these shadows did not need a man at all. The abominations could be anything from a serpent to a wolf.
Caution labored my every step, my every muscle tensed.
I felt it before I saw it.
A slumbering weight drug me down, like a world-weariness in my shoulders. It wasn’t truly harder to walk, merely harder to want to walk. Exhausted to the bone, the ever-present cold drank my warmth from me. As I trudged forward, a curious hopelessness stretched from my heart to my mind, like a cobweb of ice and sorrow.
I stopped, blinking. What—?
Similar to Coyote’s Dreaming of homesickness, this sudden weight seemed sourceless. I hadn’t noticed the feelings at first; I simply kept putting one foot in front of the other, pushing my way through mist and shadow so thick that they had weight.
But this was wrong, was somehow—
Its growl rumbled like thunder, like the tumbling of stones beneath the world. I saw eyes, fiery red with hunger and rage, before I saw anything else.
It was tall, whatever it was. All I could see were those gleaming hunter’s eyes, shining in the mist. For an eternal moment, I lost myself in them. For the first time in my thousand-thousand days, I truly knew what it was to be the hunted. I had never understood helplessness before this.
I was a fox, and the sun dipped toward slumber. I heard the blaring horn, felt the hounds draw closer. My heart pounded with terror.
