by Marc Secchia
“I am quite willing to change my mind about things, should I be proved wrong–when and only when all the proofs are in!”
“Then you explain how your boots apparently leaped through time and space?”
“My boots did no such thing! I was merely lost in concentration while you undid the laces and pulled them off my feet, without me noticing … well, anything at all, really. Oh heavens! How stupid do I sound now?”
“That’s why they call me Snatcher,” averred the Lurk, popping his knuckles in that way that Zephyr hated most.
This occasion was no exception. The Unicorn clucked irritably, “Do you mind!”
Snatcher lowered his voice. “He frets about the Mancat, who is sore wounded, good outlander.”
“Will she recover?”
“It is a close thing. The arrow struck deep; close to the heart. Moreover, it was poisoned with heth-niabar, which is an extract of niabar, a red berry common to the fens. It is a virulent but slow-acting substance which attacks the body’s nervous structures, by my understanding.”
“A neurotoxin–is there anything we can do for her?”
“You could try doing whatever you did to the Faun upon Lyredin’s Way.”
“Ah! Snatcher, why not ask for the moon?”
“You’re afraid.”
“Terrified.” A low, mirthless chuckle followed this pronouncement. “It’s selfish, Snatcher, I know, but I fear my grasp of magic is a tad precarious. What you call magic comes with a dire price for the foolhardy–and I’m afraid my actions were the epitome of foolishness, that lighttime.”
“You sought only to help Scillianstar.”
“The Dark Apprentice was about to slay a Unicorn. I thought he was Zephyr. I couldn’t tell Zephyr apart from his fellows, you see. Something just blazed up in me. I remember fire, leaping to my feet, wanting to blast that murdering scumbag off the face of the planet!” He held his hand to the light. “It felt good to be angry, Snatcher. I had all the right reasons for doing what I did.”
“Your motives were pure–that’s what matters.”
“Ignorance is no excuse.”
Snatcher’s gills flared, which Kevin had learned to interpret as a sigh. “Persistent ignorance is no excuse, good outlander. Ignorance corrected leads to wisdom. Do I detect a hint of movement in your fingers?”
“Do you think so?” He tried to flex his fingers, yielding perhaps a quarter-inch of play. “I’m doomed to be lame all my life.”
“Honestly, good outlander, you’d make the most despondent Lurk sound like an optimist! I have more reason than you to bemoan fate.”
“Hmm.”
The Lurk was silent for a long time before whispering, “What do you mean, ‘hmm’, in that tone of voice?”
“It’s hardly my place to say, Snatcher–but don’t you think 235 Leaven seasons is a very long time to mourn someone? Even if she meant more to you than life itself?”
“You have obviously never been in love.”
Kevin sighed bleakly. “No. I’ve never had a chance, or a hope, or anything.”
Snatcher’s flat stare mellowed and he shook his big head slowly. “I’m sorry, good Kevin. Those were hurtful and selfish words.” He rose out of the water and shook himself like a dog. “I should not have burdened you with my story that darktime.”
“If there is one thing your precious Forest has taught me, friend Lurk, it’s that companionship should never be undervalued. I hardly knew what I was missing during all those years of loneliness I wasted in that godforsaken house!” Kevin’s eyes misted over. “I could never go back to that life again. You’ve taught me a better way.”
“Kê!” rumbled the Lurk, bowing stiffly until his eyes were less than a foot from Kevin’s. “It your words which tipped the balance back at ur-malläk tyak, the hot springs east of Mistral Bog. Your prowess saved the Dryad in Shilliabär. You deduced whence this terrible Blight arose. And you defeated the Dark Apprentice at Elliadora’s Well.”
“I’d be dead without you.”
His moments of humbleness Kevin could have enumerated on the fingers of one hand, but as the words emerged, their truth rang clear. It struck him for the very first time that there existed a mutual dependence between them, rather than the one-sided receiving on the part of one Kevin Albert Jenkins, which had always been his perception. That was the role of the victim, which he had played for too long and too well. Did he indeed have something to contribute?
His mouth was catching flies. He closed it with an audible snap.
A frisson of magic sparkled in the pellucid depths of the Lurk’s beautiful eyes. “Yes, good Kevin. We Lurks have a sense of these things–an affinity with matters of destiny, you might say. We see things as they are, and we see deeply where others may not see at all. This is a power akin to the Dryad art of Seeing, only Lurks see in the present and rarely into the future. How do I know that your fate and that of the realm of Driadorn are inextricably intertwined? How does a fish breathe underwater? How does the river salmon find her way back to the hatching ground? Your fate and mine are intertwined, too. Our fates mingle with those of a noteworthy Unicorn and a unique Dryad, and with all our precious company. That, good outlander, is like the way the stars move. It is the way the Forest grows. That is the reason why I pulled you like a drowned rat out of the Deep Bogs, from the lair of the K’xtäk, and succoured you to the Unicorn’s care. That is my purpose–to find the threads that must be woven that the story may be complete.”
“I would never have thought it,” he admitted. “You, the catalyst.”
Snatcher nodded. “A servant of the Forest. The least of us all.”
“Which depends, friend Lurk, on how one determines ‘least’ and ‘greatest’. What is the yardstick, who is the evaluator, and how or to whom is the result expressed?” Kevin made a steeple of his fingertips. “I have a great deal to ponder.”
“As do I–friend Human.”
As Snatcher abruptly moved away, Kevin called after him, “And I expect to see my boots back before morning!”
* * * *
“What were you and Snatcher talking about?”
Kevin wiped meat juice off his chin, drawing an instinctive hiss of disapproval from the Dryad. His attempt to look contrite failed miserably. “This and that,” he offered airily. “Destinies converging, death, past loves, the fate of the Forest–nothing deep or moving, really.”
Alliathiune bit into her waycrust thoughtfully. “Ah, the mysterious Lurk has spoken at last. Has he explained why he decimated the Men of Ramoth?”
“They killed his mate.”
His succinct reply was designed to shock, and drew a sharp gasp of dismay. “That’s terrible,” she whispered, sinking to the ground as though her legs had lost all strength. “How awful–tell me what happened?”
In terse sentences, Kevin paraphrased Snatcher’s story for her.
“How awful!” she repeated. “I feel so bad about how I have treated him!”
“It was a horrific revenge.”
“Grief stored as long as you describe without catharsis can lead to other, darker things, good outlander. When we choose not to forget.”
“There are things,” he said stiffly, staring at the leaping flames of Akê-Akê’s fire as though it were a refiner’s fire for the expiation of guilt, “that are impossible to forget. When your memory has been branded and scarred as with a white-hot iron.”
“I understand.”
Harsh words burst forth before he could stay their course, “You don’t understand! You could never understand! You weren’t there when I …” he floundered, “Oh, blast it!” Kevin covered his face with his hands, making an excellent job of smearing grease into his hair and all over his face. “Why do I have to open my mouth and spout such thrice-accursed baloney?”
Alliathiune seemed torn between upset and amusement. “What is this ‘baloney’, good outlander?”
“Tripe! Rubbish! Nonsense! I swear I’m going to carve out this tongue an
d feed it to the vultures, Alliathiune! I just can’t control what I say any more.”
She said, “Such a remedy strikes me as a touch swingeing.”
“It’s no less than I deserve.”
“Now, what did I tell you about wallowing in self-pity?”
“Oh, God–Alliathiune, it just makes it worse when you’re being nice to me!”
“Why?”
“Because … because of the Well.”
“There is that,” she said, coldly.
Kevin’s hand, which had been halfway to touching her arm in sympathy and apology, had abrupt second thoughts and fled to his lap. “I’d understand if you never forgave me, Alliathiune. You must have felt humiliated–in front of Driadorn’s leaders, no less. I was such a cretin! It was just the cherry on top of an appallingly bad lighttime. You deserve better.”
“I most certainly do.”
He stumbled on, “I’ve never been drunk before. That Human and the Wolverine–they knew exactly what they were doing. I must have blabbed everything I knew about our quest. Half of it was garbage anyway because I was making it up, boasting, to make my part seem more important.”
“Kevin …”
“No, Alliathiune,” he cried, waving her to silence. “No, no, a thousand times no! I told you when we started that I wasn’t the man for the job–but you believed in me! You insisted. I should have been firmer. I should have turned around there and then and demanded that you send me back to Earth, back to where I belong. This whole undertaking is a huge mistake.”
“Kevin, listen to me!”
“I hate myself! Don’t you wish sometimes that you could unsay things? But I don’t suppose you’ll ever forget. Zephyr told me every last, sorry word. I still don’t remember–until the Dark Apprentice. And even there I messed up. My hand is ruined.”
“But you saved us,” Alliathiune said, in a tone that suggested she would rather curl her fists in his lapel and shake some sense into one Kevin Albert Jenkins, than simply speak to him. “I am incredibly grateful. I also remain attached to my body, despite its defects and–”
“Defects? That’s rich!”
“Splutter all you like, good outlander, I am well aware that every single one of the Dryads you met that lighttime is slimmer and prettier than me.”
“Deny it all you want, good Dryad,” he shot back, “but I’ll keep my own counsel on this matter, thank you very much. For the record, I wish to state that I could not disagree more–” he searched the skies for inspiration “–more fundamentally and completely with you.”
“Fine words from him who clasped the Dryad Queen in his arms!”
“Then I’d know what I’m talking about, wouldn’t I?”
Alliathiune bit her lip furiously. Pride and confusion warred in her face. She smoothed her dress self-consciously, and grumbled, “Why are we talking about me, anyway?”
“You brought up the subject of you.”
“Humph.”
“Are you really so sore about what I said?” Kevin asked. And, gazing unguardedly upon the Dryad, it struck him how differently he saw her now, compared to that first lighttime. She was Alliathiune–velvety skin, tangled green hair, stormy hazel eyes, Dryadic patterns, and a smile that had somehow become the sun in his world and the beat of his heart. “I am most incredibly ashamed of my behaviour–”
“Is the green-haired Dragon still breathing fire, do you mean?” They both laughed and Alliathiune laid her warm little fingers upon his arm. “How cold you are! You should move closer to the fire, you poor man, for I cannot abide to see you shivering here in the darkness without word or complaint. Nay, good Kevin, the passing lighttimes have served to cool my fury. I recall that you did attempt a compliment amidst those drunken words.”
Kevin groaned dejectedly. “Don’t remind me.”
“You brought up the subject.”
“Touché.”
“You said I was gorgeous,” she smiled, but there was uncharacteristic uncertainty in her tone and manner, Kevin noticed, “in a drunken shout that echoed off the very walls of the Well!”
“Thanks. Rub it in.”
Her eyebrows flicked upwards. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Do you still think so?”
He was not fooled. Kevin knew what she was asking, but deliberately chose to be obtuse. “Do you still believe in me, Alliathiune?”
“Yes …”
“In that case, I sort of half think I might still be persuaded not to wholly retract the said assessment.”
“By the Hills,” she spluttered, quickly sorting out the gist of his meaning and then bursting into laughter at the delight dancing in his eyes, “you rascal! You impudent … man! Yes. Yes I believe in you–emphatically! Your defeat of the Dark Apprentice at the Well only confirms my first Seeing. You are the warrior we dreamed about. You are Driadorn’s champion. I am convinced that you will win through in the end.”
Kevin demurred, “I don’t know about that. But in response to your earlier question–yes I do. Emphatically.”
Alliathiune ruffled his hair. “You’re such a sweet boy sometimes.”
“I meant it,” he growled, turning the same colour as his hair. “No coterie of giggling, chattering, simpering little Dryads could make me think or feel otherwise. You’re refreshingly different to any of them.”
“All this flattery shall make a Dryad burst into flower!” She drew back, letting her tangled hair hide her face for a moment. “Now, I had a question for you, good outlander. What do you make of the fact that one of the Elliarana trees was rotten inside? Dying? How did that change your perception of the Blight?”
Kevin pursed his lips like an old man sucking a fig, grateful to retreat at last from the shaky ground of Alliathiune’s undeniable charms to territory where he felt more confident. It was hard to admit that someone who was essentially non-Human could move him in this way, but there it was. Emotions were hardly logical beasts, never to be trusted, and should always be subordinated to the higher mental powers.
Why then did that ‘should’ ring so false? He gathered his concentration.
“It was, from my limited understanding of Forest lore, m’dear, a blow of grave consequence. Zephyr described to me how the Dark Apprentice’s fireball blasted one of the trees to splinters and damaged another. It must have been a terrible moment for you.”
Tiny sparks of orange touched the corners of her eyes as fire-lit tears formed there. “The Elliarana are sacred to the Dryads, good Kevin. They are the very heart of the Forest, its life and pulse. This is a catastrophe.”
“I’m truly sorry, Alliathiune.” His fingers gripped her hand as he whispered, “The magic of the Forest fails, you see. Put another way, I suspect that this Blight is more than a physical malady–not that I believe in magic–but I am cognisant of a theory which holds that the magical forces of Elliadora’s Well uphold the health and well-being of Driadorn’s Seventy-Seven Hills. You have intimated many times that the Forest has a life of its own. My Unicorn tutor briefly alluded to the presence and importance of the Elliarana trees, but I wasn’t aware of any relationship between them and the Well itself. Perhaps you could illuminate these deeper mysteries of your Forest for me?”
Tears welled and spilled down the Dryad’s cheeks. She shook her head mutely, too overwhelmed to speak.
An ache constricted his chest at the sight of her tears. “Call me a pessimist and a cynic,” said Kevin, “but those quiet lighttimes upon the Fens gave me ample opportunity to reflect. Consider: the Forest is a gigantic organism. Like other organisms, it heals itself through natural processes, but in the case of Driadorn, through magical processes too. When the Sacred Well was poisoned, the Forest began to react, to heal itself, to fight against the disease. It may have taken time–whole seasons, perhaps, before the magic weakened and the Blight’s effects became more generally evident. During that time, you may have begun to sense what was amiss.”
“I did. It was terrifying–as is y
our logic.”
“For which I apologise–but I fear it gets worse. You have called the grove of Elliarana trees the ‘life and pulse’ of the Forest. There were seven, but one was sick and rotten within. My conjecture therefore proceeds as follows: the Elliarana act as a kind of magical filter, sustaining and purifying the Forest against the many ills that beset it. The Dark Apprentice merely exposed what had existed for perhaps many seasons. The Forest is ailing. It has been under attack for an unknown period of time. Its magic is weakening and with it the advance of the Blight will proceed more swiftly. The Elliarana tree’s death is only the outward symptom of an inner malaise. We are running out of time.”
Her grip intensified until it hurt his fingers, but Kevin ignored the pain and proceeded doggedly. “Dryads function to protect and nurture the Forest and its creatures. They are more intimately connected than any other creature to its basic rhythms, and understand the Forest instinctively. In fact, a significant portion of you is Forest, because I suspect that your Sälïph and you are one and the same–you are the living, embodied spirit of that tree.”
His eyes were as intense as stars as he studied her, but Alliathiune’s reaction gave nothing away. Kevin said, “So what is the Elliarana but the original Sälïph of all Dryads? Are you one seventh less than you had been before? I don’t think so. But what I do think is–when will the Blight touch you too? Will you sicken just as the Forest does?”
“No!” All colour blanched out of her face. “No, that’s appalling! Kevin–”
“I’m right, aren’t I? The Blight is one thing–we must halt the automaton and eradicate its poison. But what if those steps do not bring healing and restoration of what the Dark Apprentice has wrought? Can the seven Elliarana function as six, or must a replacement be … er, planted there? Will the Magisoul accomplish all this?”
“Have you shared these conclusions with any of the others?” she whispered, shuddering with emotions Kevin could only guess at.
