by James Fahy
“Are we sinking?” Robin felt more than a little claustrophobic at being buried alive. He pictured them rolling deeper and deeper into the earth, the weight of rock and soil above them increasing with every second.
“No, not really, we’re moving sideways. You really have no sense of direction, do you?”
There didn’t seem to be anything to do but sit, listening to the rapid roar of ground soil washing over the strange orb which enclosed them. Robin watched Woad’s face in the soft flickering light of the faun’s cantrip, wondering worriedly how much air there was in their odd cage.
“Well, the spooky old ladies at Erlking were right after all, weren’t they?” Woad said after a short while. “They said you’d be under the earth soon.”
“Bully for them. I didn’t think they meant like this,” Robin admitted. He still had his pack with him, he noted with some relief, but in the same moment he realised that he had lost Phorbas. Jackalope had taken the knife with him when he had left in the night.
He felt bleakly lost without his blade.
Calypso is going to kill me when we get back, he thought bleakly, then amended this. If we get back. We have quite possibly been eaten by a burrowing plant.
“We left Hawthorn,” he said. “We just … left him … with that creature and his army.”
“It wasn’t really our choice. Don’t worry too much. That old guy is tough as boots,” Woad replied, sounding remarkably unconcerned. “He’s survived Strigoi dog-face before. And escaped right from under his nose. He’ll be fine … probably.”
Robin didn’t feel quite so sure. Strigoi clearly didn’t like having been made a fool of by Hawthorn's previous escape from custody. He had a horrible feeling the vengeful servant of Eris might decide to make an example of him this time around. What would happen to him then? He voiced these concerns to Woad, who shrugged after a moment.
“Then I suppose he’ll have his shaggy Fae head on a spike along the walls of Dis, as a warning to others,” he predicted. “Either way, it’s not something we can do much about from inside here anyway, so I don’t see how worrying will help. Hawthorn clearly wanted us away from that mad crow-feathered psychopath, and away we are. We should probably be more worried about ourselves at the moment.” He considered this for a moment, frowning seriously in the glimmer of his own magic light. “Although I don’t really see what we can do about our own situation either.”
Robin rolled his eyes at his unhelpful companion. “Well then, maybe we should just not worry about anything at all then, eh?” he said, sarcastically.
Woad beamed at him. “That’s the spirit, Pinky!” He tapped the side of his head. “Now you’re finally starting to think like a faun.”
“God help me.”
Eventually, after much rocking and high speed shuddering through the black tomb of the earth, just when Robin was beginning to worry about how much longer Woad’s light cantrip could last and how much more disturbing this surreal experience would be in the dark, there was an uncomfortable lurch in his stomach, telling him that the ball of woody vines had slowed and seemed to have changed direction. It was a little like being on a rollercoaster car which was shut in with no windows. He could feel the movement, even if he couldn’t see it.
“We’re going up,” Woad said hopefully. “Back to the surface?”
Moments later, there was a muffled crash outside the spherical walls, and their odd transportation lurched to a halt altogether. With a slow creaking of vines, the roots around them unfurled from above, like the opening petals of a great flower. Daylight streamed in, much to Robin's relief, momentarily blinded them both, and sweet, fragrant fresh air, which both boys took in great lungfuls.
As the sphere around them collapsed outward into a star-pattern of pale roots and thick fibrous vines, Robin and Woad stood up unsteadily, blinking in the brightness.
Robin had never tasted fresh air so gratefully.
They were in a large swathe of long green grass, dotted here and there with swaying clumps of poppies, countless red blood drops on a wide green skirt. The sky above them was free of mist, a high cobalt autumn bowl of blue. And to their left, at the edge of the flower-filled grass was a forest, composed of the tallest line of trees Robin had ever seen in his life. The trees soared into the sky, taller than the tallest redwood, and their foliage was a rusty golden riot of autumn leaves, reds, yellows and amber, all flashing and shimmering in the bright sunlight. The line of trees edging the long grass stretched away unevenly, further than Robin could see in both directions.
“Welcome to the Elderhart forest, you two,” a familiar voice said. Robin turned away from the trees. Standing off to one side, not far from where their ball of vines had surfaced, spilling freshly turned black soil onto the green carpet like a giant molehill, there were two figures. One of them was a stranger. A very strange-looking stranger. A man, or at least male. He was easily seven feet tall, with long arms and legs. His skin was dark and whorled like the patterned bark of a tree, tinted a mossy green. His hair, a wild cascade of unlikely greens and golds, matted like wild grass to his head, and was trussed up here and there with strands of ivy and gold. This mane rested atop extraordinarily long and pointed ears. His face was handsome, in a long, fox-like way, glowing like polished green oak, although it was hard to make out much of his features, as most of his face and much of the skin of his body, Robin saw, was covered in paint of some kind. Tribal whorls and patterns in swirls of berry red and charcoal black chased across the huge man’s face and body, lined with chalk and flecks of gold like crumbled autumn leaves.
The stranger was dressed, after a fashion, in the same way that trees themselves were sometimes dressed in moss and vines. 'Decorated' was probably a better term. Across his shoulders and down his back there fell a long glossy cloak of what seemed to be iridescent silk. The cloak made him look quite regal, in a primal way.
He looked exactly how one might imagine a forest might look, if it decided to come alive and go for a stroll.
The eyes of this improbably tall man were trained sharply on the two boys. They were a deep emerald green, without pupil. They were faceted, like a dragonfly’s. As Robin took in the sight of this odd person, he realised that he hadn’t seen the man blink yet.
The figure at his side however, was significantly smaller, dwarfed by the pagan god nearby. Dressed in a long coat of patched furs and animal hides. It was also wonderfully familiar.
Robin didn’t think he’d ever been more grateful to see anyone in his life.
“Karya!” he cried, tripping over the roots as he stumbled out of the collapsed root ball, over the disturbed soil and into the long grass. “It was you? You saved us?”
The girl nodded, glancing at Woad, and looking concerned. Her brow furrowed. “Why are they only two of you?” she asked. “You told me you were on Briar Hill. Where are Hawthorn and Jackalope?”
Robin shook his head, unsure where to start. “A … a lot has happened,” he began haltingly. “Karya, where’s Henry? I thought he’d be with you? And where on earth are we? And who …” He looked up at the intimidating, silent figure of the huge man beside his friend.
“A lot has happened at my end too,” Karya said grimly. “Evidently, we both have much to tell each other, Scion. Not much of it good. But this is not the time. It’s not safe here, out in the open. Not with the beast abroad. We need to get into the forest, off the grasslands.”
“How did you drag us under the earth, boss?” Woad said, excited. “That was powerful mana right there! We must be more than half a day’s hard ride from Briar Hill here.”
“Oh, that wasn’t me,” Karya told him. She indicated her companion. “This is Praesidiosilvestris. Or Splinterstem, if you’re wanting to save time … which we are. Best not to trip over the high tongue, Scion, you’ll only hurt yourself. He was good enough to fetch you, once I determined where in the Netherworlde you were. He’s a dryad. The steward of Rowandeepling in fact. I will explain more once we are out of the o
pen.”
The dryad nodded sombrely to Robin and Woad.
“It’s an honour to meet you,” he said. His voice was very deep. “Your friend is wise however. It is not safe to linger out of the trees. The scourge will scent us. We will meet the fate of others.” He looked around at the open meadowlands, soft green grass and wildflowers, his alien green eyes gleaming. “Plus, I dislike this open space. It is not natural to be so far from the wood. It makes me feel adrift.”
The dryad, Splinterstem, beckoned them to follow and set off through the long grass without another word, scattering crimson poppies before him.
“But–” he began. Karya gave him a sharp look.
“Save your ‘buts’,” she insisted. “It’s safer in the forest, there’s more cover. We’ll talk on the way.” She seemed to consider her words. “Well, not ‘safer’ as such. In fact, it’s pretty lethally dangerous within a hundred miles of this forest scourge in any direction at the moment, but it’s at least easier to hide if we come across trouble. Come on.”
“Come on where?” Robin asked, as they made their way from the open sun and began to pass into the cool dark green shadows of the monumental trees.
“To Rowandeepling, of course,” Karya replied. “To the secret and safe sanctuary of the dryads. That one we talked about, where no outsider is ever allowed in.” She smirked a little. “Well, unless you’re as persuasive as I am, that is.”
Woad sniggered behind him as they moved into the trees. He gave the faun a questioning look, wondering what he could be finding funny in this situation.
“'Save your buts', she said,” Woad explained, sniggering again. “But she’s the one who just saved them for us.”
*
The forest soon closed around them, and as they walked single file behind the tall and strange figure of the dryad, Robin had time to marvel at it. He had never seen anything so immense and wild.
It occurred to him that, although he had explored the tangled woods of Erlking Hall, and although he had played in other woodlands as a child (Gran being awfully fond of the Macc forest, or rather certain restaurants on its borders), he had never before walked through a forest in the mortal world that had no path. It seemed natural to him for woods to be filled with dirt pathways, usually well-trodden and often signposted here and there with blazes and different coloured arrows pointing out circular pleasure walks for daytripper and dog-walkers.
Even in the Netherworlde, when he had trudged through the Barrowood with Woad and Karya, they had been following a beaten, meandering trackway of sorts. But here, in the vast and untamed primal spread of the Elderhart, there was no path.
Their route took them through bushy undergrowth and alongside tufty, overgrown roots. A great golden carpet of deep autumn leaves covered the floor as far as the eye could see between the endless trees, piling up here and there against the great dark boles like crispy sand dunes.
The forest itself was nothing like the picturesque woods of Erlking, or even the dark and twisted tangle of the Barrowood. It was enormous in every sense. The trunks of the trees were improbably massive, like buildings carved out of wood. They shot up all around them into dizzying heights, tall piercing columns turning the forest into a hushed city, their interlocking web of branches far overhead providing a russet and orange sky, constantly in distant, whispering movement.
Sunlight filtered down in thick, glowing beams, tinged golden by the leaves which drifted softly through it, a perpetual soft and papery snow. A constant lulling haze of autumnal butterflies.
The dryad set a swift pace through this unspoilt, autumn paradise, and they they struggled to keep up. Their marching took them around, over and, on occasion, under great tree roots, occasionally rearing up out of the earth to form natural archways, bridges or tunnels. These were thick with lush moss and tiny flowers, or else hung with secretive curtains of vines and ivy. It was a dream of a forest, every child's delight.
As they moved doggedly forward, further from open ground and deeper and deeper into the mysterious sylvan wonderland, Robin filled Karya in on events since they had parted.
Karya actually stopped dead in her tracks when Robin related the news of Jackalope's to her, so that he almost stumbled into her back, knee deep in papery rust coloured leaves.
Splinterstem, their dryad guide, who had uttered not a word since they entered the forest, stopped and looked back at them questioningly.
“I can’t believe it,” she said quietly.
Robin nodded understandingly. “I know. It’s a lot to take it. I mean, we all knew he was a little, well, harsh, but even I would never have suspected–”
“No, no,” she cut him off impatiently. “I don’t mean it’s hard to swallow. I mean I can’t believe it. At all. You’re wrong.”
Robin blinked at her, searching her soft golden eyes. Countless papery leaves fell silently all around them. She was frowning at him.
“I’m pretty sure I heard what I did,” he said carefully, not wanting to upset her. “I mean, I was there. He told us himself. He was pretty insistent.”
“Then he’s wrong too,” Karya insisted stubbornly, the tips of her ears a little pinker than usual. “He has to be!”
Robin didn’t think it was really the kind of thing you accidentally misremembered, killing your own brother. He told her as much.
“Jackalope is a lot of things,” she retorted firmly. “Sullen, proud, more than a little rude and yes, quite annoying. But I don’t believe for a second he’s a murderer.”
“You are aware you just pretty much described yourself, aren’t you?” Robin raised his eyebrows. “Minus the murdering thing.”
“I would have felt it in him.” She shook her brown tangle of hair irritably. “There’s a darkness there, I’ll grant you that much. A weight. Guilt clearly, but … murder?” She shook her head again, ignoring Robin’s attempt at a playful barb.
Woad, who was bringing up the rear of their marching party, popped his head around Robin’s shoulder.
“Are you sure that you just maybe don’t want it to be true, boss?” he suggested, in a quiet voice that, for him, was almost meek. He shrugged. “You know, on account of him having those shiny silver eyes and cheekbones and looking heroic with his shirt off and stuff?”
Karya’s cheeks flushed and her mouth set in a thin line. She glared witheringly at Woad.
The faun held his hands up defensively, shamelessly using Robin as a human shield.
“I’m just saying!” he squeaked. “People see what they want to, right? Many a bad judgment made in light of a bishy dish? Remember that time Pinky kissed a Grimm?”
“Oh be quiet, Woad,” Robin groaned.
Karya folded her arms. “So, he’s gone then? Just like that? Out in the wilds, alone again?”
Robin nodded. “To be fair, that was always his plan anyway. To leave,” he said sadly.
Karya turned away, signalling the dryad to continue deeper into the winding wilds of the forest.
“I know,” she said quietly, sounding ruffled as they set off again. “But I suppose I just didn’t think he actually would.”
*
The morning wore on as they picked their way deeper through the woods, up and down the undulating land beneath the trees. The going was uneven, the floor of the forest rising and falling in great hills and valleys, an undulating sea, and not once so far had there been the slightest break in the trees, not once even the smallest open space or clearing. The sky was hidden from them by the canopy high, high overhead, so they traced the passage of time from the slanting of the sunbeams, the hidden orb in the sky moving the ghostly bars of light which penetrated everywhere as surely as the shadows of a sundial.
Robin continued with his tale, avoiding for now any further talk of Jackalope, a sore subject for all involved. He explained to Karya about the centaurs' return, and that they had brought with them the unwelcome and worrying presence of Strigoi himself.
“That at least makes some kind of sense,” K
arya confirmed, as they slogged up a wide long hill, leaning on tree boles and grabbing at low branches for support as they forged onwards through the woods. “The Shard of the Arcania is in the area, lodged in this great dangerous monster. Eris would surely send no one less that Strigoi to recover it. He’s clearly been using the centaur herds to scour the hills. They’re good at scouring…both in the search and torture sense. Unlucky for you lot to run into them.”
“Good thing you and leafy Mr Mossface grabbed us when you did,” Woad said. He was the only one of them who didn’t seem out of breath. “And none too soon either. We were in a bad situation. They would have had us spear-ka-bobbed in another moment or two.”
“We didn’t all get grabbed,” Robin interrupted the crude faun. “Hawthorn got captured. We left him with Strigoi.”
“It’s not like you had a choice,” Karya said pragmatically. “You’re no match for Eris’ wolf. None of us are.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t feel terrible about it,” Robin argued. “We just abandoned him.”
“Good. He would want you to,” Karya insisted. “If what you’ve told me is correct. He would gladly trade his freedom again to ensure that both you and that mask you carry are far out of Strigoi’s reach. He told Strigoi he’d defend you both to the death. With the both of you gone, he didn’t have to. It probably saved his life.”
“They seemed to have some kind of personal beef if you ask me,” Woad observed. “The old man and Evil-in-a-Can.”
“Beef?” Karya asked, scrambling over roots. "What does bovine produce have to do with Strigoi?”
“More of a personal dislike than a merely political one,” Robin elaborated, rolling his eyes at the girl. “I noticed that too.”
“I doubt very much that Strigoi has ever left a pleasant impression on anyone he’s ever met, to be fair,” Karya reasoned, as they finally crested the current hilltop. “Even the Grimms are afraid of him. Hawthorn has his pride remember. He’s lived free in the wilds since the war. Wily and clever. Strigoi was the one who finally caught him and slammed him in the Hive not too long back. That’s not going to endear him to the Fae at all.” She brushed errant leaves from her hair where they had fallen and become tangled.
