New Harnwood, at the start, was little more than a clearing with a few muddy huts in it. Though huts was maybe too strong a word to use. The buildings had been made by rootlings, and they were built on a rootling scale and with a rootling’s idea of what a house should be. As forest creatures they were used to living outside; ideas like roofs and walls were alien to them, and the huts were of little use if what you wanted from them was shelter. Nonetheless, the buildings had been treated with a sense of wonder by the villagers as Sark walked them through New Harnwood.
Sark too had changed. His skin was lightly furred with a silvery down that caught the dim light filtering in from above, and when he moved his long hair out of his face there was a subtle point to his ear. It reminded Cahan of the way Udinny had changed after meeting the Boughry. When the rootling accompanying Sark spoke in its burbling, gentle language, the hunter understood it. He was not the only one who noticed, the boy, Issofur was constantly following the hunter. Ont too – though the look of pain upon his face could not be missed. It hurt the man that the forest had passed him over for another. Then he pushed out his shoulders, and stood taller, as if centring himself and fixing his mind and coming to terms with what was. Ont reached out to touch the branches that made up the hut nearest to him.
“These look freshly cut,” he said. The rootling chittered something.
“There is a small copse of a few thousand trees of many ages to the north of here,” said Sark.
“And we can cut them?” said Ont.
“Yes,” said Sark, and as if sensing something in the other man he added, “and your great strength will be needed to move them, even with all the floatvine growing in Wyrdwood.” Ont nodded, smiled.
“I will gladly help,” said Ont.
“We must take these down,” said Furin, pointing at a hut, “and start again. They are built a little small for us. Tell your friend,” she pointed at the rootling by Sark, uncertainty on her face, “that I do not mean any insult.”
“They do not mind, firstmother,” said Issofur.
“They do not,” said the hunter – he sounded a little vague, as if he were half asleep. “They do not think like us.” What he said was true, and as the makeshift village was taken down more rootlings appeared, first at the edges of the forest and then slowly coming a little closer. The villagers were nervous at first, but as the work went on they accepted the rootlings. Even finding them amusing, with their constant curiosity and mischief. Some of the braver ones they gave names to.
Good days followed, good weeks and good months. The seasons changed and the people of New Harnwood grew a proper village. The nearby copse was more akin to a large wood, grown in the ghost of some ancient fallen cloudtree The people, at first awed by the strangeness of Wyrdwood, the massive size of the cloudtrees, the strange creatures the like of which they had never seen, slowly became used to this new place. They hunted sparely, did their best to use every part of the trees they took down. Firepits were made and charcoal burners set up. A large wetvine was found and diverted to make tanning pits which were situated far from the village, downwind so as not to fill New Harnwood with their stink. Wild crownheads were penned, soon to become tame when they realised they would be fed regularly. Fields were marked out, ploughed and planted and the villagers were pleased to find no sign of bluevein here, none at all.
Though Cahan already knew that.
In the square a shrine to Ranya was built. Ont questioned Cahan about the god, and he told Ont what he knew, how he had made his own shrine as simple as he could, not knowing what Ranya looked like. For a time the shrine was only a large rock and a wicker Star of Iftal, though that did not last. Soon it was a cleared area with a raised stage where Ont stood and talked to the villagers each morning. Encouraging them to look out for signs and find their own way. That he did not ask for any form of sacrifice seemed to confuse them, so he started to ask what they could give back to the forest. Small offerings of food were made, and Ont took them out into the wood. Soon after this started Cahan began to see signs of shyun, the forest children, mostly their structures of sticks and stones. He warned Ont and the villagers not to be frightened of them, but to remain wary and had Ont place their food offerings in the structures. Though the forest children themselves were rarely seen, Venn said they watched and regarded the village with curiosity rather than animosity.
After they had been there long enough for moss to begin growing on the roofs of the buildings, Ont finally told Cahan he had found what he believed was a good place for their shrine and that he needed some help.
Intrigued, the forester followed. He had become more and more desperate for distraction the quieter their lives had become. It seemed without something for him to concentrate on, the gnawing within – the constant knowledge that all around him in the decay of the leaf litter and once-living things there was power that he was denied – only grew. He had to be careful only to sit on rocks, never on the ground and he knew Venn had noticed. The trion had many questions but Cahan either headed them off or avoided them. The same with Furin, and he knew that hurt her. He had felt himself growing nearer to her and, though he had little experience of people, he felt it was mutual. She needed someone too, her son was slowly becoming distant, more and more comfortable among the rootlings or in the forest than with people. Cahan’s sleep was haunted by thoughts of her dying, of her lying down beside him and him waking to a corpse, sucked dry. Not by his cowl, but by the darkness within, the quiet hunger that had silenced it.
Ont’s request to go into the forest was a welcome one. They walked away from the village and towards the copse of trees they had been gifted, or Woodedge, as the villagers now called it. Cahan offered Ont some of the dried meat from his pack.
“No thank you, Cahan,” he said, “I have stopped eating flesh.”
“Odd choice from a man that was once a butcher,” said the forester as he chewed on tough meat.
“Yes, but I noticed that, though Sark hunts for us, he never eats meat. Not any more.” He paused, looking about himself in the wood, along the many meandering paths made by the forest creatures that lived there, until he found the one he recognised. “He only eats what he can forage – berries, roots and mushrooms mostly.”
“You think it will make you closer to the forest?” Ont shrugged.
“I think it cannot hurt.” He paused, looking around. “West here, I think.”
“What are we looking for, Ont?”
“A shade tree,” he said.
“We can barely move for shade trees.”
“Not like this one,” he said, and led them forward. Cahan could not deny he was intrigued. The land began to rise, gently at first, then more steeply. At the top there was what looked like a natural wall, or a very old fortification. It was made of huge smooth stones with many years’ worth of earth and growth forming gently sloping banks against them. Ont led Cahan around them until they found a way in, an arch made by placing one stone atop another. Leaning against it was one of the strange statues found throughout Wyrdwood, the Forest Men. This one held a spear and its other arm ended in a round hand with vicious-looking hooks for fingers. It looked liked it could get up and walk at any moment, and would have been frightening if it was not covered in moss and vines and had clearly been there for many lifetimes. “That scares most of the villagers. I think it is why they have not come in here before.”
“I always wonder who made them,” said Cahan.
“Maybe those who fought the Osere, or the Osere themselves,” said Ont. “Come, look inside.”
Within was Ont’s shade tree. Some oddity in its make-up had meant the branches did not grow straight as they did on most shade trees, instead they looped and twirled around themselves, growing into a huge tangle. Despite this it looked healthy; though it was not much taller than the butcher himself it was clearly very old.
“Your tree,” said Cahan.
“Yes, see, it is like Ranya’s paths.” He looked like a child waiting for a parent to tell them they had done well. “It looks like something you already know, but it is not. It goes in many directions but still reaches the light. It is different to what we know but not wrong.” He looked frustrated, like he would like to smash something with his huge hands and he let out an exasperated breath of air. “Gah, I do not have the words, I am not good at this.”
“No,” said Cahan. “I am sorry you think that. I did not speak because you made me think. They are good words, Ont. It is a good tree.”
“At first I thought to dig it up, bring to the village.”
“We probably could but—”
“No, Cahan, no.” He walked to the tree and knelt down, carefully moving aside the curling branches so Cahan could see what was there. A stone, almost as tall as the butcher and twice as wide. “It is a taffistone, a real one, not like the fake one we had in Harn. I think the villagers should come here. I think we should call it Ranya’s Grove, and bring them here.”
“A good idea, Ont,” said Cahan.
“I intend to live here, I will build a hut outside the grove. Care for it.”
“The people will miss—”
“I will still go to the village. But I need to get closer to Ranya.” He clasped his hands, wringing them in front of him. “What do you think?”
“I think it is a good idea. But do not become too fond of being alone. It can be hard habit to break.”
“I know,” said Ont, “I have seen how you still push away those that become close.”
“Yes,” said Cahan, and he had to fight to keep his temper in check. Not that he was angry with Ont, he was angry with himself. “I should get back.”
“I will stay awhile,” said Ont. “Make a start on my hut. Would you bring the villagers here in the morning?”
“Will you be safe alone here, Ont?” The monk nodded.
“Yes, and I am not really alone. I have been coming into the forest for a while now. Getting to know it. I feel like I have friends here.” As Cahan walked away he noticed a few shyun stick shrines around the grove. Some with food on them, some without. He glimpsed one of the forest children, only for a moment, as it vanished into the thick undergrowth. The childlike figure, the long black eyes like stripes on either side of its smooth head, and one on top. He heard its voice, the sound of wind through leaves. He wondered if these were Ont’s friends.
In the village all were busy and he hurried to tell Furin of the grove in the wood and what Ont had found. When he had news he always sought her out first; he was happy to be in her company but if she moved to touch him he moved away, the cold ghost of bad dreams wafting across his skin. It could not be long before she asked him about it, and as he explained about Ont’s tree and the taffistone he wondered if today would be the day, but she did not get the chance. A shout went up from one of the lookouts on the squat wooden towers built to support the walls they were yet to finish.
“Intruders!” came the shout. “Intruders coming!” Cahan felt himself wilt. A war inside him: he was glad something was happening, a distraction from the gnawing within, though a gentler part of him had been enjoying the peace.