Evergreen

by Marissa Doyle

  Another wave of surprise, tinged now with doubt, made her already shaky courage ebb further. Stop them? said a tree to her left. They cannot be stopped.

  “But I have to!”

  We know them. We inhabit this place with them. They dwell here because there is nothing to trammel them. They are angry now because something is holding them. We do not know what it is.

  “I do,” Grace said. “Some men are using them for their own evil purpose, and I have to stop them. Which means stopping the Shadows.”

  They cannot be stopped. They are too powerful. When they move over the land, it is in a great cold, toothed wind.

  “I know. I’ve felt it.”

  The tree fell silent. Then a different one spoke. We do not try to oppose them. When they roar over us, we hold firm with our roots and let them blow over our branches.

  “Cra-a-ak!” Crow said. It was clearly a warning.

  “I have to go. I—I hope I shall speak with you again soon,” Grace said and climbed to where Crow sat. “Are the Rookwoods here?” she asked nervously.

  Crow did not reply, but flew farther up the slope and looked at her expectantly.

  “Yes, I’m coming. I suppose I was talking too long, but couldn’t you just have said so? I wish you’d talk to me. It’s not like you, and it’s giving me the willies.”

  So was the fact that the trees were growing shorter and bushier, making her feel more and more exposed. She knew with the rational part of her brain that the dense fog provided cover even while it kept her from being able to see, but rationality was not winning. Then the trees stopped being trees and became waist-high, then knee-high scrub, growing in thick islands in the gray stone, and she knew she was nearly at the top of Mount Marcy.

  Instead of flying, Crow now hopped along the bare rock, which alternated smooth, weathered, lichen-speckled expanses with patches of rough cobble and boulders. Grace followed him cautiously, listening for voices. Walking here was disorienting—she was on top of the highest mountain in the state with nothing around her but fog-filled air. Heights did not usually trouble her, but she found herself looking down at her feet as she walked to avoid vertigo.

  “I hope you know where you’re going,” she muttered to Crow.

  He seemed to. He took her to a sheltered spot against a low rock face. She huddled there, grateful for something solid to lean against. “All right, Crow,” she said after catching her breath. “Now what?”

  There was no answer but the ever-restless wind that swirled the fog around her and the angry, buzzing roar she sensed from above.

  “Crow?”

  Nothing. Had he abandoned her here, now when she most needed an ally? “Crow!” she called, a little more loudly.

  But Crow had vanished.

  For a long moment, she struggled not to cry as her fear threatened to overcome her. But what help would Crow have been as she faced the Shadows anyway? Now she was alone, just her and the Shadows and the colonel and the Rookwoods all about to converge in this place. It was time to decide what she would do when they did. If she found Colonel Roosevelt first, she could maybe warn him and the others to leave the mountain and take shelter, if he would listen to her…a large if, since running away was not his usual response to danger. And what if she didn’t get to him before the Rookwoods did?

  Think, Grace! If only there were some way to turn the Shadows against them. But first she had to free them—except that she had no idea how they had been trapped. She was only a dryad with a dryad’s magic, not a powerful wizard.

  For a few brief seconds the fog billowed and lifted, and she saw that she was actually still some way from the summit. Gritting her teeth, she left the shelter of the rock face and, step by step, shuffled her way up. She came to a patch of low, scrubby vegetation and crept into it, crouching near its edge in the lee of a boulder. She still couldn’t see though the thick mist, but maybe up here she’d be able to hear if—

  A hand fell on her shoulder. “My dear Miss Boisvert, you astonish me,” Mr. Rookwood said behind her.

  * * *

  Grace did not scream, though it was a near thing. Instead she stiffened and did not stir, even to look behind her. “Mr. Rookwood,” she acknowledged, rising to her feet, and was glad to hear that her voice barely shook.

  He came around to face her. “As greatly as I esteem you, I did not think it would be possible for you to escape the closure I put on the cabin,” he said, and she realized that he did not sound angry or even annoyed—only puzzled and perhaps a little admiring. Good—let him wonder how she’d gotten out. She did not answer, but shrugged her shoulders.

  John Rookwood suddenly loomed out of the fog. “No sign yet. I— What the devil! How the hell did she get here?”

  “I imagine she walked, John,” Mr. Rookwood said. “I will keep an eye on her while you keep looking for Colonel Roosevelt.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. I’ll keep an eye on her and you go look. Maybe you’ll be able to find Kit while you’re at it. I’m damned if I’m going to work with him again any time soon, Henry.” He grinned at Grace. “We can make ourselves very cozy here.”

  “I daresay you could, but you won’t. I will remain here. I concede that Kit perhaps isn’t ready to take on more duties, though you may recall that he performed his earlier role in this commission more than adequately.” He looked sternly at his brother. “Go.”

  John Rookwood went, muttering under his breath. When he had disappeared into the mist, Mr. Rookwood sighed. “Do you see what I have to work with? John is a competent wizard but sadly lacking in several other qualities, among them common sense and decorum. I would give a great deal to have someone working with me who possesses those qualities.” He looked at her.

  Hadn’t he given up? “I’m afraid my answer is still no, Mr. Rookwood. My mind hasn’t changed in the last few hours.”

  “I see,” he said softly. “I had hoped your presence here meant…” He was silent for a minute. “Perhaps I have been approaching this the wrong way. I would be prepared to give a great deal to have you in my firm.”

  “There’s nothing you could offer me that would possibly change my mind.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Not even Kit?”

  Involuntarily, she met his gaze—and could have kicked herself when she saw the quiet satisfaction there. She’d given herself away.

  “I saw the two of you when the Shadow escaped us and blew past you that day,” he said almost gently. “It was clear what your feelings—both his and yours—are. I think that I can presume to speak for Kit if I say that he would welcome partnership with you. In all senses of the word.”

  But I don’t know that I love him! part of her protested, even as another part gloated Kit could be mine! It was a third part of her, however, that finally answered him. “Mr. Rookwood, I’m afraid my gray vision is not as developed as yours, and I don’t think it ever will be—not enough to do what you do anyway. And Kit… Why should I take Kit under these circumstances? If I ever… If Kit and I are ever together—and note that I said if—it will be because we choose each other. Not because you’ve given him to me.”

  To her surprise, he smiled. “You are still very young, Miss Boisvert. It’s easy to forget that in light of your other qualities.”

  “What does my being young have to do with any of it?”

  “‘Gray vision’, as you call it, tends to develop with age and maturity.”

  “No. My father or mother would never see as you do.”

  “Are you sure? Do not be so quick to make such assumptions, because you can never know what motivates a person at the deepest part of his or her soul. And as for Kit…there are no guarantees in life. The bird in hand generally is worth more than two in the bush—”

  “Henry!” John Rookwood was there, his voice hoarse with excitement. “He’s here!”

  Mr. Rookwood’s manner underwent an abrupt transformation, from the courtly gentleman to something harder and more stern. He pushed her down into the scrubby g
rowth. “Watch her.”

  A faint scent of balsam drifted up to her, along with a wondering, What manner of creature are you?

  Startled, she stared down at it and realized that what she had taken for some scrubby alpine plant was in fact a patch of balsam fir, growing as tall as conditions here on top of the mountain would permit it.

  “I’ll do better than watch her.” John Rookwood turned toward her, bending as if he intended to hoist her over his shoulder. “There’s a nice drop-off a few yards that way.”

  Grace froze.

  “You will do as you’re told,” Mr. Rookwood said coldly. “Kindly restrain your penchant for violence. It is not an asset in our business, as I have frequently been forced to remind you.”

  “What are we going to do with her afterward? She’s a witness. We can’t let her—”

  “We will worry about that later. I am confident that, given time—”

  “She’ll be joining us shortly?” John Rookwood finished, mimicking his brother’s measured tones. “Well, I think you’re wrong…and even if you aren’t, I don’t want to work with her unless you give her to me. Then I might reconsider.” He gave her a look that made her skin crawl.

  “She’s not a pet dog to be given to anyone.”

  “Except your precious son, who doesn’t know how to handle her. Sorry, Henry. I get her, or it’s over the mountain with her.”

  “And if you do that, what about Miss Roosevelt? We must assume Miss Boisvert has told her what is going on here. I will not jeopardize the success of this commission with an unnecessary occurrence just to satisfy your vanity.”

  Occurrence. Throwing her off a mountain cliff to her death would be an “occurrence.”

  “No,” she whispered and let her terror and grief and helplessness flood out of her at the gentle touch of the balsam.

  The balsam absorbed her fearful thoughts. I am low and cannot hide you, though I would if I could, for you are kin. I know others of my kind are tall, not far away, if you could reach them. But I can only do what I can do here.

  “We’re wasting time,” Mr. Rookwood suddenly said, cutting his brother off in mid-sentence. “If anything happens to Miss Boisvert while I’m gone, I will not be pleased, John. And in the meanwhile, you might take a moment to reflect on who owns the majority of this partnership.” He disappeared into the fog. Scowling, John Rookwood leaned back against the boulder.

  Grace leaned toward the balsam. “I have to do something!” she muttered.

  But what? It was her same old complaint—what were dryads good for? What was she good for? She couldn’t do anything useful.

  Why not? asked the balsam. Why is what you can do not valuable?

  “Because…well, it isn’t. Dryads look after trees. What use is that against the Shadows?”

  “What?” John Rookwood jerked his head toward her. She bent over her knees, pretending to sob, and heard him make a wordless, derisive sound.

  We do not oppose them. We hold fast with our roots and let them blow over our branches.

  The words of the tree she had spoken to on her way up the mountain floated through her head, and she caught her breath. They did not oppose the Shadows…but when the Shadows had passed, they were still there. She did not have to stop the Shadows—she only had to let them blow past her.

  “Help me!” she whispered to the balsam around her, shifting so that she could untie her boots. “You weather the storms and wind here. Lend me your strength!”

  Overhead, the Shadows seethed. She could imagine Mr. Rookwood out there in a sheltered spot, lying in wait for the colonel for the perfect moment to release the Shadows. They would sweep him off the mountain in their headlong rush from their fetters. She couldn’t stop them—but if all she could be as a dryad was a guardian, then she would shield the colonel and the rest of them—and hope that she could hang on.

  She finished wiggling her boots and socks off and climbed quickly to her feet. John Rookwood tensed. “Don’t try to run away, dryad. All you’ll do is give me an excuse to toss you overboard.” Bloodlust vied with a different kind of desire in his expression as he looked at her.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. Quite the contrary.

  The rough balsam spread around her feet, clinging hard, rooting into the thin soil that was mostly particles of weathered rock. If it could root there, she could too.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her bare feet down into it, toes wiggling into the rocky soil. Please. Please… This time, she knew she could not stay to become the forest’s guardian. But she could borrow it for a little while, perhaps…

  And just as she had on the bank of Lake Henderson and again in her hollow, she felt herself reach down through the rocky soil and into the mountain, deep and deeper, surging downward into its very heart. Help me. Tree and soil and rock, give me your strength. Help me hold fast.

  And the balsam did. She felt strength flow into her, not only from the patch at her feet but from the waist-high scrub below and from the small trees she’d spoken to below that. She took a deep breath and felt it surge through her, glowing—

  And then a sound—no, not quite a roar but a dark echo of one, as if a photographic negative could be sensed through the air—rolled over the mountain. It might well have been mistaken for a distant rumble of thunder, but she knew better. Mr. Rookwood had released the Shadows. Whatever was about to happen would happen soon.

  “Ha!” John Rookwood had felt it too. He braced himself against the boulder and squinted up into the sky.

  The temperature dropped. Grace flung her arms into the air and remembered the chestnut trees of home who had always watched over her. I protect what is below. Dryad. Guardian.

  “What the hell are you doing?” John Rookwood grabbed for her.

  She threw her head back and shouted “Here!” to the Shadows. Her feet rooted deep into the ancient stone of the mountain…and then her outstretched arms seemed to grow as well, branching out longer and wider until she was sure that she had twenty arms, not two—and they spread wide, weaving and intertwining, sheltering the top of the mountain and everyone on it.

  And then the Shadows sensed her in return. Bursting out—how had Mr. Rookwood been able to restrain them?—they screamed down toward the top of Mount Marcy like an angry swarm of bees, wanting only to destroy anything in their path. And right now, she was the largest anything on the mountain, shining like a beacon with the power lent her by the trees and blended with her own.

  She braced herself for the blow, for the freezing blast that cracked limbs and uprooted trees. It hit her like a wall of ice; winded, she could not even cry out. The blizzard gust whirled and shrieked, tearing at her with malevolent gusts.

  She gasped for breath as her branches creaked and bent and strained under the onslaught. But they would not break.

  With the Shadows’ cold came their contempt for the living, their anger, the dark, despairing empty want that was at their core. It ripped at Grace just as their wind did, flaying her hope, her confidence, her self, till tears ran down her cheeks and froze on her skin. She was nothing; she had defied her family, deceived her acquaintances, destroyed her best friend’s happiness—

  But her roots sank deep into the mountain, and the trees around them whispered her name, not letting her fall into the blackness at the Shadows’ heart. She wavered and ached. But she would not let go.

  And then a great wind, a cold hurricane, seemed to rush down the side of the mountain, howling in defeat. Grace heard the rustle and clatter of the branches of tens of thousands of trees as it passed. Then all was still.

  * * *

  Grace opened her eyes, expecting to see her upraised arms turned into enormous branches spreading across the mountaintop, and saw that they were still arms clad in a waterproof coat, not bark. Above, the clouds had drawn back, taking the mist with them, and an endless panorama of tree-covered peaks could be seen around them like a great green, undulating sea. The sun emerged, lighting it all with a golden warmth
.

  And then she collapsed into the balsam beneath her.

  John Rookwood dropped as well, taking cover behind the boulder. The Robinson boys stood not thirty feet away, backs to them, marveling at the view that had suddenly opened up with the clouds’ dispersal. “What did you do?” he said from behind gritted teeth.

  A large black bird descended from the sky and landed on the boulder above them and looked down at Grace gravely.

  “Crow,” she said, squinting up at him. “I did it.”

  John Rookwood frowned. “That’s no crow. That’s—”

  But Crow exploded into flight, flapping up and out into the empty space between the mountains, and vanished from view. Grace watched him, then looked at John Rookwood.

  “Go,” she said to him. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”

  “The hell there isn’t!” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small pistol. “I’m not going to let you get away with making a fool of me!”

  Everything seemed to move very slowly. Grace looked at the pistol, at its dully gleaming steel barrel aimed at her throat, then followed John Rookwood’s overcoated arm to his face. His features were distorted with anger and frustration. But the hand holding the pistol did not waver. “Oh, yes, my delicious little dryad,” he murmured. “Be afraid.” He leaned forward and drew the muzzle of the gun along the edge of her jaw in an obscene parody of a caress.

  She had thought she was herself again, no longer connected to the trees and their vast reservoir of power. But as she felt John Rookwood’s pistol on her skin, a tide of anger rose in her.

  “No,” she mouthed. Then, more loudly, “No!” She met his eyes and let her anger burn into them. He opened his mouth to speak—and it stayed open.

  She pushed the gun away. He let her, eyes still fixed on hers as if he’d been mesmerized…and she realized that that was precisely what had happened. It was like what she’d done to poor Tom Livingston back in Newport, but without any intention to Captivate—only to command. And with the trees’ strength still thrumming within her, she realized she could make him do anything. Like stand up and flap his wings like a chicken. Or go and confess what he had done to Colonel Roosevelt. Or throw himself off the top of the mountain…