Feynard

by Marc Secchia

  The Lurk encompassed her waist with his paw and lowered her to the ground. “But who may heal the hurts of the heart?” he asked, and let his great head sink down upon his chest as his eyes closed.

  Kevin’s throat constricted. A world of pain and sorrow attended those simple words. What secret hurt lay hid within that great heart? What troubles was he alluding to? What had driven him away from his own kind and motivated him to help the other races, contrary to every hatred held and injustice suffered by the Lurks in seasons past? Why did he not fit their mould?

  Suddenly, Alliathiune sat down with a bump next to him. Kevin shifted uncomfortably and kept his nose buried in his book. Was that a sniffle? He read on, but the Dryad kept making various small noises until he had to look up.

  “Are you–er–what’s, er … are you cold, Alliathiune?” If her teeth rattled any longer, she was going to chip a tooth, he thought crossly. “Goodness gracious, I suppose you must get cold sometimes, wearing that skimpy little–ah, gosh–frightfully sorry, old girl.” He bit his tongue. Alliathiune gave his blanket a woebegone look. “Oh! Here …”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, in her littlest voice.

  “You don’t carry a blanket, do you?”

  “No.”

  Kevin tucked it carefully around her shoulders. “You did fine work on the Lurk,” he offered, rather lamely.

  She laid her head on his shoulder and began to cry softly.

  He sat there petrified for the longest time, seeing nothing of the manuscript before him, his heart pounding against his ribcage and his thoughts spinning out of control. What was there to cry about? Was he the cause? Alliathiune had always been the strong one. Numbly, he allowed her to lift his arm and place it around her trembling shoulders. He drew her close, until the jasmine scent of her hair drifted to his nostrils and the chill of her small body pressed against his side. A warm rain of tears splashed his shirt.

  Kevin’s voracious reading habits had occasionally ranged to novels of romance and passion, although he had never been able to understand the attraction, and prudishly shied away from any description of what he regarded as the baser passions of the human condition. His own experience was necessarily skewed to the intellectual, for it was only in the illimitable, vaulting realms of the logical or fantastical that he could truly escape, and be free. Bodies were weak vessels that trapped a person like the criminals they used to bury in dank places far beneath the earth. He had often identified himself with descriptions of monks, only for him science was the holy aspiration, not God–not that he discounted the existence of some higher power, but he believed that any higher power who allowed the kind of suffering characteristic of his own wretched fortune must be evil. Thus he had trained himself to think in cool, rational terms, to control through the application of his mind those aspects of daily life that he was able, and to disparage the workings of the physical and emotional facets of his being, which were products anyhow of mere atoms and chemicals, whereas the psyche was something altogether different–something almost sacred, to his thinking.

  Therefore nothing in all his years had prepared him for the wondrous sensation of a living, breathing female body pressed against his own. In a flash he understood completely what those novels had been about. In another flash, he understood that he was incapable of thinking about anything else in the universe than this all-consuming sensation, the presence and scent of her skin, and the intimacy. A thousand protective constructs of his previously omnipotent imagination had been destroyed as by the softest breath of her lips; not merely obliterated, but he knew they could never be built back the same way again. He was adrift, lost and vulnerable to every squalid fear that had ever found foothold in his subconscious. Without knowing it, he groaned between his clenched teeth. What on Earth was this feeling? He could not name it, did not know what was happening–he knew only that it hurt, sweetly, and he never wanted it to stop.

  “Kevin? Good Kevin?”

  Her concern reached him, brought him back like a lifebelt thrown to a drowning man. “Yes … I–ah … golly gosh. I feel quite dizzy all of a sudden.”

  Alliathiune was biting her lip, he saw. Above that, her mysterious hazel eyes, so close to his, danced with secrets he could scarcely imagine. “Thank you for holding me,” she said. “That’s what friends do. Have you ever had a friend before?”

  “No.”

  “I would be your friend.”

  For the first time, Kevin allowed himself to meet her gaze unreservedly.

  He saw his own green-gold gaze, burnished by the firelight, reflected in her pupils, and for an endless moment neither he nor Alliathiune seemed able to breathe. The air was thick between them, fraught with a strange tension.

  “Eyes of glory,” whispered the Dryad, voicing her thoughts as if he were not present. “Powerful, wizard eyes; eyes that betray the true person. Why did I not recognise it before? These are the eyes of Driadorn’s champion, even cased in such a frail shell. Why did Zephyr and I ever argue? Why doubt? How could one Dryad presume to stand in this man’s way?”

  Alliathiune blinked. Her eyes turned golden with mysterious power. At once, an older female voice began to speak from her mouth, “Judge a Lurk by his secrets, will you, little Dryad? Every Seer must rid herself of all selfishness, of all attachments, of all affairs of the heart, for that path leads only to sorrow and destruction. Did you not read my letter? Did I die in vain, that you should make the same mistake? The one thing you desire is the one sacrifice demanded.”

  The Dryad’s soft voice pleaded, “But this agony is too great, and too bittersweet! This is the power of the Forest itself, an elemental thing, a soul-fever that will never fade. Oh mother, I would rather die. My life is a meaningless irony.”

  Kevin gaped! What in the name of–was this Dryad magic?

  Cold as a bitter winter’s breeze, the other voice replied, “It can never be. It cuts to the quick of all that you ever can or would be. Dryad, and Seer. Twin secrets entwined, hid within your being.”

  And just as suddenly as it had appeared, the gleam of enchantment faded from her eyes. A tremor rocked her body, and Alliathiune’s hazel eyes gazed at him one more, just as close, just as captivating and captivated.

  “I would be your friend,” she repeated.

  Kevin said the only thing he could think to say. “I’m afraid I have no experience of friendship. Who would befriend an invalid? Who indeed, would Father allow to befriend me? Any servant or nurse or doctor who came too close would be dismissed. He could not risk them speaking to outsiders. I came to believe that friends were what other people had. I am not worth being friends with.”

  Did she remember nothing of what the two voices had said? Alliathiune smiled at him with her eyes. “Perhaps, good outlander, you will permit me to form my own judgements in this matter?”

  To summon up humour required an intolerable inner wrench, but Kevin did it. “The Mighty High Wizard so permits.”

  “Of course, you recognise I am never stubborn, nor generally fond of doing my own thing.”

  Kevin grinned. “Never, good Dryad.”

  “And you’ll permit mild and infrequent displays of temper from this friend, as any brief, balmy Budding season breeze?”

  “Now you’re pulling my leg!”

  “Friends make each other laugh. Shall I tell you a secret?”

  “If that’s what friends do,” he said, very carefully. The air itself trembled between them, fragrant with magic. He dared not move. He hardly dared to breathe.

  “It is.” Alliathiune drew a deep breath. “I would like it if you weren’t so bothered by the magical aspect of my nature, good Kevin. I understand that I am different to anyone you may ever have encountered, but in the Forests of Driadorn and our world of Feynard, I am–well, perfectly natural. Different to you, but distantly related to Humans. Once a moon I enter a tree to rest for a darktime, for we Dryads are in some way part of all nature around us–tied to it, you might say. We cannot exist without the
sustenance–the Sälïph-sap–we gain from trees.”

  Kevin nodded encouragingly. “Are your kind truly related to Humans, Alliathiune?”

  “Informed studies performed by the Unicorns show that there are great similarities between many of the two-legged creatures of the Hills,” she replied, as if quoting a text. “There are various legends about the origin of the different races. Amongst my kind, the Dryads, I am special. I’m a Seer.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to cry ‘you don’t say!’, but Kevin bit the offending appendage lest it break this spell that encircled the two of them. He quelled a shudder as she continued:

  “A Seer is one in whom the magic of our great Forest has expressed itself in a unique form–there are few Seers, perhaps one every three or four generations, and only amongst the Dryads do they appear. Seers have a great duty towards the Forest, to protect it and nourish it, and to use their powers to confound its enemies, which are legion. Because of this special position and greater magical powers than others of her kind, the life of a Seer is lonely. Others are jealous–or afraid. Seers do not have many friends.”

  What was she hiding? Alliathiune’s voice was replete with nuances, as though she were trying to tell him something without saying it. Who had made a mistake and died? What was the one sacrifice demanded of a Seer? Now Kevin’s head was whirling for three reasons: her proximity, what he had seen before, and what she had told him now. Where lay the truth in this? He must not forget a word! And he knew he would not.

  “Dear–uh, good Alliathiune, are you saying you have few friends?”

  Her head bobbed slightly before setting back against his shoulder. “This darktime I shall enter one of these gloamingbark trees, good Kevin. I fear to enter these ancient citizens of the true Old Forest, for not all the spirits are kind. I fear also that Zephyr has only touched the surface of its dangers.”

  “He wishes only to protect us.”

  “It is not only the holiness of the Sacred Grove that keeps creatures from travelling these parts, good friend.”

  Those two words–good friend–made him feel as he had never felt before. And yet, did friends keep secrets from each other? That said, he was keeping many secrets, too! “You should understand,” said Kevin, as cautiously as a rabbit exiting its burrow, “that one cannot say we know each other well. It would be foolish to assume that there are no secrets between us. Yet, I believe friends should keep no secrets–in time. Is that true?”

  She stiffened immediately. “Are you keeping secrets, good Kevin?”

  “Of course.” His laugh was low and as bitter as aloes. “Those most painful to me. I wish I could speak, but my fears prevent me.”

  “Friendship walks hand in hand with trust. Trust grows stronger given time and faithful companionship.”

  “Very wise.” He pursed his lips and stared at the fire. And took the plunge. “Might it be true that you keep secrets, Alliathiune, even within the secret you just shared with me?”

  “Do you read minds, High Wizard?” she replied, in a small, wooden voice. In an instant, she cast off the blanket and leaped to her feet. “We have spoken enough this darktime. I shall enter that tree now.”

  With a flick of her long green tresses, she moved away, leaving Kevin staring into the fire with tears in his eyes. Idiot! He had pressed her too far.

  And the words he would have spoken, died unspoken.

  Chapter 11: The Old Forest

  Chilly and damp dawned the morn, in accordance with Kevin’s dreary mood. Soon they would prove his hypothesis. Ahead lay but four lighttimes of the Old Forest and they should reach Elliadora’s Well. They breakfasted in haste upon fruits and waycrust, each preoccupied with his or her private thoughts about the way ahead.

  His eyes were red-rimmed after reading his tome of wizardry until the last embers of firelight had dimmed, and the single glance he cast in Alliathiune’s direction that morning was a reproachful one. She, rather than looking refreshed, had dark circles under her eyes, as if she had been crying all darktime. Yet she summoned for Zephyr several yellow-tail sparrows with a warbling bird-whistle she trilled with her tongue, and instructed them in the messages they should bear to Thaharria-brin-Tomal and Dryadell, home of the Dryads. The Unicorn then cast the spells that he had prepared the previous evening over each of their company in turn. Kevin flinched when it came to his turn, but he came to no harm.

  As they hiked along, the forest rose above their heads. Presently, the tall broadleaf trees gave way to thickset stands of maggar and flakebark trees, and towering above them, the mighty, spreading old kalar trees, true giants of the Forest at over three hundred feet tall. Kevin soberly paced eighty-two paces around a single kalar’s trunk. Now he felt small!

  They might try to follow the ancient Shilliabär road, he observed, but here many roots had conspired to tear it up and the undergrowth obscured the mustard-coloured bricks.

  To take his mind off trudging up the long, ever-ascending slope–and especially off what had passed between him and Alliathiune the previous evening–Kevin reviewed his mental map. To the northeast of Shilliabär they should locate the primary tributary of the Barlindran River and follow it eastward, ever ascending into the tall hills surrounding Elliadora’s Well. Here, proclaimed the maps depicting Driadorn’s extraordinary geography, lay the headwaters of the seven rivers that fed the Forest, all originating from a single point–the Well. Kevin thought it unlikely that seven great rivers should originate at a single place, but kept his doubts private for fear of provoking a Zephyr-style diatribe on the extent of his ignorance.

  By midmorning the dark trees closed in completely, plunging the company into gloom so thick it made Zephyr mutter that he doubted if indeed Indomalion stood in the sky. The flakebark trees were so ancient that the trunks were completely obscured by mounds of rotting bark, which the trees shed year-round. Alliathiune declared she had never seen flakebarks so old. The travellers were forced to slip and slide over fetid, rotting mounds of bark as tall as the stalwart form of Akê-Akê. The Faun looked fierce in that semidarkness, all muscle and scars and clannish war paint, which he had painstakingly applied before setting out that morning. Zephyr cast Kevin a meaningful look at this development. Evidently the Faun was not yet forgiven the sins of his fellows.

  After lunch, however, matters took a turn for the sinister. Firstly, the X’gäthi appeared to warn them that several animals had been–definitely now in the past tense–tracking them for a short turn of the glass. Secondly, the road disintegrated and vanished into the undergrowth, until it was only through the X’gäthi tracking skills that they were able to keep to it with any confidence. Zephyr worried that the road would become impassable. Kevin was more worried about all the bugs and spiderwebs–at least, until their dinner-plate-sized spinners began to drop from the branches above and one plopped softly down on the back of his neck. He had a screaming fit and fainted.

  He woke, spluttering, to find Alliathiune pouring water on his face, down his neck, and everywhere else.

  “I said, gently!” cried Zephyr, thrusting her aside with his muzzle.

  Alliathiune stuck her tongue out at him. “It worked, didn’t it? Good Kevin, the spiders have all been vanquished in your absence by the indomitable X’gäthi.”

  There was more than a hint of Harold in his tone as he snarled back, “Are you quite done with your vicious mockery?”

  Tears welled unexpectedly in Alliathiune’s eyes and she lurched away; blindly making for the nearest tree. The Dryad pitched onto her face as though felled by an axe. Everyone started as one.

  “Stay back!” cried Zephyr.

  The party froze mid-breath; the X’gäthi blades quivering with the effort of restraint; Akê-Akê with his bow partly drawn and an arrow taut against the bowstring; Snatcher with his club upraised and ready to strike.

  “Stand well back!” The Unicorn extended his horn, testing the environment with a delicate application of magic.

  The ground beneath the D
ryad’s prone torso trembled like flour sifted through a sieve. The patterns on her arms and legs writhed with sinister abandon, making her limbs and muscles twitch and spasm uncontrollably. Tiny, tender green shoots broke through the soil, waving gently back and forth as though caught in their own breeze, growing steadily into tiny creepers that slithered along her skin with a vile purposefulness and perversely intimate touch. Alliathiune’s face contorted as though she experienced hideous pain, but no screams came from her open mouth.

  Kevin found himself frantic with guilt. Could they not do something for her? Why had he snapped so? It was his fault she was being attacked by that … thing! His hand moved to his pocket.

  “Kevin, do not interfere.”

  “Zephyr! What is it?” rumbled the Lurk. The X’gäthi muttered and shifted forward, only for the Unicorn to motion them back.

  “A Glothum trap.” Zephyr bit off the words in his distress. “An ancient magic called anti-glödryan. I said before that the Glothums were among the most creative of the peoples of Driadorn. So were their wizards. I had no idea these things still existed!” And he cursed eloquently, but bade them sternly not to interfere.

  “Look,” said Snatcher, “must we perforce stand impotent and not interfere? Those repulsive vines will surely soon strangle her.”

  As they watched helplessly, the tendrils grew longer and wound tighter and tighter around the Dryad’s body, slowly subduing her struggles until only the barest quivering of her muscles reassured them that she was still alive. It was incredibly difficult to watch as their companion was entrapped and defeated by the strange plant. Had it not been for Zephyr’s cautions, they would have fallen upon it tooth and nail to rescue her.

  Zephyr shook his mane and shifted his forelegs uneasily. “My understanding is that we should not attempt to halt the process, or the entire power of her Dryad magic would turn against us and I cannot say that we would live to remember the experience, at least not in the forms and bodies we presently enjoy. Her own Dryad magic has been subverted by the anti-glödryan and ensnares her even as we speak.”