The Will and the Wilds

by Holmberg, Charlie N.

  I crouch outside our little home, tending the oon berry I’d uprooted in the wildwood and transplanted here. I had to wait for the moving sickness to wear off the plants before I could meddle with them, and today I weave their slender, thorny branches together, creating a loose braid between the small bushes. Thorns stick to my gloves, and an occasional burst berry stains them. The winter will strip them of everything but the thorns, but they will continue to dissuade mystings, even in a frozen and withered state. I do not yet have enough to surround the house, but thus far we’ve seen no mystings in these parts. I make sure to follow the rules—staying inside at night, washing my clothes in lavender, carrying silver, never straying too far into the wildwood. I no longer have the Will Stone to warn me, so my days of frivolous adventure have come to an end.

  I finish my work, wipe my hands on my apron, and tuck hair behind my ears. I’ve always preferred my hair short, but I haven’t taken the time to trim it in a while. It sits on my shoulders now. A piece falls forward again, and I brush it away, jangling the silver band I still wear on my right wrist. I’ve never taken it off.

  Walking back to the house, I wave to my father, who’s gutting a doe he caught near dawn at the edge of the wood. He’s turned his focus on building up our stores for winter, and I’m glad. Not only for the food and security, but because Papa seems to be the most himself when he’s working with his hands.

  I scoop up my basket from the doorstep and venture into the wildwood, toward the thicket of oon berry I discovered not long ago. It’s warm enough to pull up more plants, move them to our land, and coax them into the growing hedge. I pull dried lavender from my pocket and sprinkle it beside me as I walk, staring up into the trees to see which welcome the change of season and which resist. A jay calls from a nearby limb. The air smells of rain, though it hasn’t rained for two days.

  When I reach the thicket, I kneel down and examine the plants. The old ones are too thick in root to upend with any ease—I hunt for the offshoots, the daring ones that fell away from their parents last winter and sprouted in the spring. I gently ease my spade into the earth, loosen the soil, and scoop my protection from its home. I set one in my bag, then another, wincing when it pushes a thorn through the seam of my glove. The spike in my chest warms again, but perhaps that is just from the exercise. Ignoring it, I stand in the thicket until I find three more young plants to uproot. My work done, I set my tools and gloves in my basket and walk the rest of the way around the thicket, over a fallen tree branch, and—

  I hear the hiss of the viper half a heartbeat before it lunges from the foliage ahead of me. Enough time for my heart to plummet, but not enough for me to act.

  But the snake stops midstrike, midair. Nothing holds it, and yet it lingers there as if frozen, its long neck compressed, its mouth agape, revealing dripping fangs and a struggle for air.

  I stagger back from my near death, struggling for air myself. I lift my eyes from the snake to the invisible being I know holds it. I fight to speak, to act, for I’m stiff as the ancient trees around me and cold as the depths of winter. A deep ache radiates through my chest, and I wonder if the snake had sunk its fangs into me after all.

  I manage a wheezy “Maekallus.”

  His invisibility drops at his name. His fingers are coiled behind the serpent’s head, and his yellow eyes regard me, narrowed and wary. He slowly stands from a crouch, the viper writhing in his grip. He wears a cloak of strange make, fastened at his left shoulder, and pants of layered leather pinned together by small metal studs. They end at hooved feet.

  Save for the blunt end of his horn, he is the same mysting I summoned the day after the first gobler attacked.

  I’m at a loss for words. A lump hard as granite sits in my throat. I feel my pulse around it, quick and hard. My eyes burn without tears. The horn in my chest—the one that once protruded regally from his forehead—feels like an ember.

  I lift a hand, not quite reaching, and take a step forward.

  The viper writhes in his grip. Frowning, he moves to strike it against the nearest tree.

  “No!” I call, staying him. “Please don’t hurt it. I . . . I was trespassing in its territory. It was only protecting itself.”

  Maekallus raises an eyebrow at me before shrugging and flinging the snake far to my left. I don’t see where it lands, but it will survive.

  I swallow, my mouth dry as week-old bread. My pulse thumps hard against my chest and neck. Does he hear it? “Do . . . you remember me?” I ask.

  He scoffs. “I gave you back your soul, not my wits.”

  There’s an edge to his voice. Not an angry one, but . . . one I don’t remember him having, even before he took that first piece of my soul. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know exactly . . . how it works.”

  Yet I do know, but I try not to dwell on that knowledge, because I desperately do not want to fall apart before this man, this mysting. I don’t wish to show him the weakness I’ve been harboring like poached meat for too long.

  He does not feel the way he once did. He remembers, but he isn’t . . .

  Tears threaten my vision, and I blink and shove the thoughts away, clawing for composure. “W-Why are you here?”

  He gives me that narrow gaze again, then a shrug. “The Deep isn’t a friendly place.”

  “No, it’s not.” The lump has reformed and chokes my words to a whisper. I swallow again. Take a deep breath. “I—”

  “He is not me.”

  Four simple words. They would be nonsense to anyone else, but they rake across my skin like briars. Even with the fullness of my soul, I don’t have the strength to hold back the tears that pool in the corners of my eyes.

  He shifts awkwardly, averting his gaze. His inhuman gaze. “I shouldn’t be here,” he grumbles as a tear streaks down my face.

  I cross my arms over my chest, as if I could somehow keep more of me from breaking. As if I could squeeze out the hurt like pus from a wound. I tremble within my own arms, wishing I did not want so badly to be in his.

  He turns and walks deeper into the wildwood. I can’t bring myself to watch him go, yet I feel each footstep as if my body were the forest floor. Before he gets out of earshot, I croak, “Maekallus.”

  He pauses. Looks back.

  I don’t dare to meet his eyes again. I won’t be able to say the words if I see his eyes, but I have to speak them. No other opportunity will present itself. I will down that lump in my throat without the aid of any otherworldly charm.

  “I forgive you.”

  He doesn’t reply. A moment later, his footsteps carry him away, and the warmth from the horn embedded in my chest dies.

  I break like a dam, rooted where I stand.

  Not even the threat of serpents can move me.

  Looming night finally drives me from the wildwood. I have no protection against the predators that lurk in its shadows, monster or otherwise. Uneven steps take me to the house. I drop the basket and the collection of oon berry by the woodpile and retreat inside. My father reads by the fire. He calls my name. I continue to my room. Not to punish him—no, he has been nothing but good to me all my life. But I can’t face him. I can’t face anyone or anything, even myself.

  I thought the heartache was terrible before. Now I would sacrifice my whole soul just to make it stop.

  I barely have tears left to cry, yet they come, pulled from some awful reservoir inside me. I should never have gone into the wildwood. I wish I had never seen him.

  I grab fistfuls of my hair and drop to my knees, sucking air into my lungs, forcing my breaths to be even. I am a fool. Three times over I am a fool. Four times. Ten.

  Fumbling for flint, I light the single candle on the bedside table. I wipe my nose on my sleeve before reaching under my bed. I find the wooden box there, the one that once held my mother’s wedding ring. I open it and hold it toward the light. The shards of the Will Stone sit inside the container like scabs of blood. I pour them into my hand and crush them against my fingers until the skin thr
eatens to split.

  “Can’t you make it stop?” I plead to the lifeless charm. “Can’t you make me hate him? I can handle hate so much better than this. Can’t you grant me so much?”

  Two tears splash against my knuckles. I don’t bother wiping my eyes.

  Bending over, I press my forehead to the floor. “Can you not give him what he lost? Bastards have souls.” I whisper the words, not wanting my father to hear me, not wanting him to know how pathetic I’ve become. “Please. Make me forget, or bring him back to me. I want him here.”

  A few more tears escape and join weeks’ worth of long-dried sisters against the wooden floorboards. The sting of the broken stone in my hand lessens. I lift my head, blinking my eyes clear, and open my hand to see blood streaking my skin. I sit up in alarm, only to realize my hand is undamaged—the pieces of the Will Stone have somehow liquefied against my palm. The droplets slide off my hand like oil and mix with the tears on the floorboards. They seep into the woodgrain and vanish, leaving not so much as a smudge of crimson behind.

  I run my hand across the wood. Dry, save for my tears. Enough pieces of my heart fuse together to leap within me, and I run to the window that faces the wildwood, searching the darkness beyond.

  I am there hour after hour, until the morning sun illuminates the trees. There is no sign of him, or of any other mysting. The spike in my chest never warms.

  Of all the injury I’ve suffered, none of it compares to the misery of that disintegrating hope.

  CHAPTER 33

  A human soul can change the behavior, and even the appearance, of a narval. One might conclude it could do the same with any human-made mysting. This is a question that may never be answered, however, as no man, scholarly or otherwise, should ever tinker with the nature of souls.

  The day after the incident with the viper, I pull my great tome of mysting notes from my shelf. I haven’t opened it since before . . . before Maekallus lost his soul, and I gained mine. I haven’t needed to. Haven’t wanted to.

  I hold it carefully in my hands as though the pages are much older than they are. Turning them carefully, I read my grandmother’s words mixed with my own, tracing charcoal over faded letters. I add detail to the sketch of the grinler. Darken the eyes of the orjan. Turn to the passage on narvals. I write in the margins, detailing the magic potential of their horns and the long-term effects of harboring a human soul. Or part of one. In the bottom corner of the page, I draw a picture. My drawing is not as refined as my grandmother’s, but it’s a decent likeness.

  I fill in other notes as I remember them, sketch the profile of a slyser. I draw pictures of a descent ring and a portal ring, adding beneath them, For educational purposes only. Do not recreate. Even if this book is never published, it will someday be passed on. I want another to have this knowledge, but perhaps future generations can learn from my mistakes.

  I consider adding the scrying spell, but I do not remember its words, and have since lost the paper. Should I ever desire it again, I know where to find it in the Duke of Sands’s library.

  I close the book and return it to the shelf, tracing my finger down its leather spine.

  It happens then.

  Warmth blooms in my chest like a sunflower unfolding its petals. Subtle, but powerful enough to make me pause. It has been cold since Maekallus saved me from the serpent.

  Thinking the sensation a trick, I cough to dispel it, but the orb of heat only grows stronger. Not uncomfortably so, but undeniable.

  Leaning back on my heels, I press my hand to the spot, centered just beneath my breasts. I feel the hard nub of the horn. It tingles beneath the dark fabric of my dress.

  Holding my breath, I wait. Feel. Listen. The horn grows warmer. If I close my eyes, I almost feel . . . a tug. Light as a whisper, but it’s there.

  I stare at the leather of my book. Why has he come back? Is he just passing through? Does he mean to speak to me? Or is the horn whispering of something else entirely? I struggle to understand it, but the spike only responds with heat and that faint, gentle tug.

  I cannot follow it. I cannot tear myself open again. I cannot—

  I run.

  I swing around the corner of the house and burst through the front door, startled by the cool evening air. I stop, straining to find that tug over the hammering of my heart. It pulls me toward the wildwood. I’d sworn never to return to it, but I break that promise without a second thought.

  My boots pound ungracefully against the tamed earth of my father’s land. I pass the first trees, shoulders tense, searching, searching. A tug. I follow its lead. Two mice scurry from my path. I duck under a tree branch, swipe away a cloud of gnats. I focus on that feathery pull, on the heat stirring inside me, stronger and stronger and stronger, guiding me south, close to the tree line. It fuels my legs, and I run faster than I ever have before. It’s as if the wildwood were no longer there, just a straight, even path ahead of me, and I must reach its end. I must.

  I sprint, stepping through a dried stream, picking my way over rocks. A beehive sings above me but allows me to pass. A breeze pushes against my back, urging me faster, stirring the debris around my footfalls. I’m pulled deeper into the wood, then closer to civilization.

  I stop ten paces from the tree line, gasping for air, sweat dancing across my hairline. I lean on a young oak for support and stare, heart pounding over that blossom of heat. A cry rises up my throat and dies at my lips.

  He looks up at me, hair red as the changing maple, eyes amber as topaz. His feet, his human feet, are bare and muddy. His shortened horn extends a hand’s breadth from his forehead before ending at a flat break. Its point radiates in my chest.

  “Enna,” he says. That edge is gone from his voice. I’ve never heard a more beautiful sound. His expression droops. Lines etch his forehead. His gaze drops to the earth. “You should never forgive me.”

  Tears frame my vision. I shake my head. “How?” I whisper. “How are you . . . ?”

  A soft smile warms his eyes. He pulls back the edge of his cloak until he bares the center of his chest, the flesh over his heart. There are strange markings there. At first I think them corruption, but as I take a staggering step forward, I see the color is wrong. It’s the color of old blood, or perhaps wet rust. Shaped like droplets of ink splattered on parchment.

  The Will Stone. The drops that melded with my tears and fell through the floorboards.

  “There I was, sitting at the edge of the immortal waters, and it started to rain.” He drops his cloak. “It doesn’t rain in the Deep. Just a few drops, right here”—he points to his chest—“and suddenly . . .” The corner of his lip quirks up, but the half smile is mournful. “Enna, I’m so sorry.”

  A tear escapes my eye and traces the edge of my cheek. “But . . . ,” I choke out.

  I recall what Maekallus said the Will Stone was—the petrified heart of the god who first created the mystings. And if Grandmother taught me anything, it is that the heart and soul are forever intertwined.

  The Will Stone heeded me to the last.

  It gave Maekallus a soul. It gave him its soul.

  “I’m not asking anything of you.” His voice is warm and lovely and draws me toward him like a baited snare. “I only wanted to . . . see you once more. To tell you that. Don’t forgive me. Ever, Enna. I hurt you.”

  I shake my head, moving closer, closer. “You didn’t.”

  He lifts a hand. He’s close enough to touch my face, to wipe away a tear, but his fingers hover in the air. “Now you’re the one lying to me.”

  I laugh. It’s a pitiful laugh, half-chuckle and half-sob. He smiles at it nevertheless, that wicked grin I’ve grown to adore. I’m glad to see his transformation has not dulled the sharpness of his canines.

  “I promise to only speak the truth,” I whisper, leaning into his hand.

  “You should never make a promise to a mysting.”

  “I did before. It worked out, in the end.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. His voice is
even smaller than mine when he asks, “Did it?”

  I take his hand in both of mine. Step around him. Pull him toward the tree line. Toward my world. “It did.”

  He hesitates. It’s so slight I almost don’t feel it. Drawing a thumb across the skin where horn meets head, he says, “I’m not one of them, Enna.”

  Reaching up, I measure his horn with my hand. He could cut off what remains of it close to the skin, claim it as a birthmark, but this protrusion is part of him. I don’t want him to lose it, and I doubt he wants that, either. “No, you’re not,” I whisper. “But neither am I.” I squeeze his hands. “You and I, we’ll always be different. There will always be something wild in us. Others will see what they want. It’s always been that way. But for now”—I can’t help the smile that pulls on my mouth—“it’s short enough to hide with a wrap. You’re obviously not from Amaranda, and who knows what your native customs dictate?”

  He grins and reaches for me. I leap into his arms, taking his jaw into my hands. His skin is warm and blissful beneath my touch. He holds me tight against him, and I seize his mouth, kissing him with all my hurt and all my glee. He is almost savage with the kiss, claiming me and parting my lips, seeking permission with the tip of his tongue. I wholly give it to him.

  I kiss him, my tears wetting his skin, my laugh dancing across his lips.

  Beneath my singing heart, the horn burns a brilliant heat.

  And so does my soul.