Foxfire

THE SUDDEN STAB of fear stole Keirith’s breath. He told himself that his father’s head might be bowed in prayer, that the splayed legs simply meant he was dozing. But when his father failed to respond to his call, fear swamped him.

He scrambled up the hillside. Clumsy in his haste, he tripped. Pebbles skittered through the grass, clicking against each other like bones. When he straightened and found his father watching him, he breathed a shaky prayer of thanks and continued climbing.

A gust of wind tugged at his woolen mantle, and he shivered. As a boy, cold had never bothered him, but Xevhan had grown up in the sun-baked plains of Zheros, and his body still seemed to resent the brisk springs of the north.

He clambered onto the ledge and sat beside his father. The hill blocked the worst of the wind, but even with the warm slab of rock at his back, he hugged his knees to his chest.

His father’s smile widened. Keirith smiled, too. Then he remembered his duty. “It’s a steep climb. You know Mam worries.”

They sat in companionable silence. Only here—away from the hill fort, alone with his father—was Keirith truly content. Although the tribe seemed to accept his appearance and his power, the gulf would always exist. He was a fisherman with a shaman’s gift of touching spirits. A child of the Oak and Holly who had taken the body of a Zherosi priest. The man who had been cast out of his tribe for his crime against nature.

In the last two years, he’d learned to expect the reactions when newcomers learned this tawny-skinned, dark-eyed man was the eldest son of the great Darak Spirit-Hunter: confusion or surprise from the refugees who hadn’t heard the story, suspicion or fear from those who had. All received the traditional night of hospitality, but only those who accepted him were permitted to stay longer.

His father accepted the half-truth with a nod. He didn’t need to press. Their spirits had dwelled together in one body. They had shared each other’s deepest fears and darkest thoughts. And the bond created during that perilous time had only grown stronger in the intervening years.

“I’ve only to look at your face to know that.” His father hesitated, then asked, “Is it your mam? Or . . . Rigat?”

His father shrugged and traced a sparkling vein of quartz with his thumb. So now it was Fa’s turn to elude and his to pursue.

Suppressing a grin, Keirith pulled off his mantle and draped it around his father. “No wonder you look so tired,” he said, his voice oozing solicitude. “Now you just rest a bit and—”

Keirith curbed his impatience. Even before Temet brought the last group of refugees to their valley, they could barely grow enough barley to sustain them. One bad harvest meant the difference between starvation and survival.

“And,” his father continued, drawing out the tale, “they agreed that the lower slope of the eastern hill was the best place.”

Again, a foregone conclusion. On every side of the valley, hills plunged down to the lake. The few strips of arable land were already under cultivation, and the hilltops were too exposed.

Try as he might, his father couldn’t hide his satisfaction. In fact, he looked so smug that Keirith knew the council had approved their plan.

He had gotten the idea from the Zherosi holy city. If the Zherosi could build low walls of rubble to keep the earth from sliding into the sea, why couldn’t their tribe construct terraces to keep the rain from washing away the newly sprouted barley?

“It’ll be brutal work hauling the rocks,” his father said. “I’d give the rest of my fingers for a couple of bullocks.”

Bullocks—like level ground for planting—were a thing of the past. Breaking the rocky soil with foot plows was arduous enough; leveraging the boulders would test the strength and willpower of the strongest men.

Although he had kept his voice light, his father gave him a sharp look. “There was the usual discussion. But not half so bad as the business about the name.”

With their village comprised of refugees from many different tribes, dissension was inevitable. It had taken a full year to agree on the name Alder Tribe. But a new name could not change old allegiances; Keirith still considered himself a member of the Oak Tribe that had cast him out.

Hircha and his family had chosen to share his exile from Eagles Mount. It had taken two moons to reach this remote upland valley, their progress slowed by six-year-old Callum and the three sheep. It was a welcome haven after their long journey, but the only trees for miles were the alders that lined both banks of the stream.

Still, there was a stark beauty to the rolling moors. At Midsummer, the fragrance of gorse sweetened the air. In autumn, the hills blazed with the scarlet fire of bracken. If the tiny lake froze solid in the winter, it provided amusement for the children who greased their shoes with tallow and slid across it, squealing and laughing. If the stream was small enough to jump across, its pools were rich with trout, and the cheerful splash of its water soothed the spirit during the harsh winters.

His father’s gaze shifted south to the distant blue-green blur of pine-covered hills. Longing softened the lines on his face carved by age and worry and years of squinting against sunlight and bitter winds.

“Who’d have thought I’d end my days so far from the forest,” he mused. Before Keirith could reply, he added, “Do you miss the old days? When it was just us?”

Relieved to abandon thoughts of his father’s mortality, Keirith said, “Oh, aye. I’d love to live in a damp cave again. With three sheep. And a screaming babe.”

Callie had named the irascible ram after their mam’s uncle. He had wept when Dugan died and refused to eat a bite of the meat. Not that he’d missed much, tough and stringy as it was.

“But he just doesn’t have the same spirit. It seems more an obligation to him than a pleasure. When Old Dugan chased after a ewe, his eyes would roll and his tongue would hang out and those great black ballocks of his would swing back and forth like waterskins.”

The wistfulness in his father’s voice made Keirith laugh. “And all these years I thought it was your heroic deeds that won Mam’s heart. When really you were chasing her through the First Forest with your tongue hanging out.”

His father’s hand shot out to cuff him. Keirith accepted it with good grace, but his mood darkened as he considered the question again. “I do miss when it was just us. And the village at Eagles Mount.”

“That’s an old battle,” his father said, responding to the thought rather than the words. “Let it go.”

That stubborn look came over his father’s face. He and Conn called it The Obstinate Scowl, a tribute to the gestures and expressions they had named when they returned from their vision quests and were desperately trying to mimic what they considered manly behavior.

“For years, you accused Gortin of holding a grudge,” Keirith said. “But you’re doing the same with Elasoth.”

“Aye! Besides, Gortin never thought I caused Struath’s death. He just couldn’t bear to hear me criticize him. Elasoth voted to cast you out of the tribe.”

“Aye. Well. I’m stubborn as a rock.” His father’s expression softened. “And you’re a better man than I am.”

No point in reminding him that he was a grown man now. His father would always look upon him as his child, to be protected against any threat. “This is our place,” he had told the thirty-five survivors from their old village when they straggled into the valley two years ago. “It was our sweat, our hands, our bodies that made a home here. Those who stay, stay on my terms.”

And the terms were clear: to accept him as chief, his daughter as a hunter, and his firstborn son’s gift of touching spirits.

Although Keirith knew some people still feared his power, others had benefited from it: Duba whom he had brought back from years of silence after the death of her son; little Luimi whose silent cries of terror sent him racing to the deep pool into which she had stumbled. In truth, he used his gift so infrequently that most would have forgotten it were it not for his swarthy skin and dark eyes. But his father was always watching, always listening, fearful that someone would turn on him again.

Observing his anxious gaze, Keirith said, “You’re right. These are old battles. And we need to save our strength for new ones.”

His father’s mouth tightened. He rarely spoke of Faelia, but Keirith often found him at this spot, gazing south as if he expected to see her striding over the hills. Hoping to ease his fears, Keirith had used his power more often this last moon, calling on Natha, the adder who was his spirit guide and vision mate. But even with Natha’s help, he had found Faelia only once, sitting in a forest clearing with Temet and his band of rebels.

His visions gave him glimpses of the world beyond their valley, fleeting images of villages abandoned, forests razed, men dragging logs onto the great ships that carried them south to Zheros. He had hoped his visions would show him Hua, but the boy whose spirit he had healed so many years ago seemed as lost to him now as the dream of creating a spirit-linked network of communication among the tribes.

Gazing over their valley, the disturbing visions seemed unreal. Children raced to greet a returning band of hunters. Girls carried bulging waterskins up from the lake. Only the hill fort that crowned the highest promontory testified to the danger that lurked beyond.

The westering sun bathed the hill fort in warm, golden light. Clumps of greening moor grass studded the earthworks. If not for the thin curls of smoke drifting up from the huts, no one would guess that a village lay behind that carefully constructed wall of earth.

“We’re more than one hundred strong,” he finally said, “but half are children and old folk. If the Zherosi come in force—”

It was the first time his father had ever admitted the possibility. Lacking the oaks and pines the Zherosi coveted and navigable waterways to float the logs to the sea, there was little here to tempt them. But Keirith’s gaze lingered on the hills to the west where the two peaks they had named The Twins protected the pass. Sentinels stood silhouetted against clouds striped rose and gold from Bel’s dying rays. Day and night, they kept watch, every man and woman between the ages of thirteen and fifty taking a turn.

“Urkiat once compared them to a lightning strike,” his father said. His voice was just a little too casual; even after fourteen years, it was hard for either of them to discuss Urkiat.

“Lightning strikes just happen,” Keirith reminded him. “The Zherosi plan everything.” Including the rape of a land and the annihilation of a people.

His father sighed. “I just keep going round and round and coming up with the same answers. If we attack their fortresses, we’ll provoke reprisals. If we wait . . .”

For twelve years, they had lived in total isolation. Since then, each new wave of refugees brought news of the outside world and each time, the news was grimmer. The Zherosi were pushing east. The twice-yearly tribal Gatherings had been suspended. Some tribes bought peace with a tribute of pelts. Others even countenanced the destruction of the forests. A few fought back, most in scattered bands like Temet’s, but the tribes were as likely to betray the rebels as aid them, for their villages paid the price in steeper tribute or summary executions.

Keirith eyed the thumbs drumming an agitated tattoo on his father’s thighs. “I’m sorry, Fa. I wish I had the answers you need.”

For a long moment, his father studied him. “I was remembering how you flew with the eagle all those years ago. And wishing you could do that now. Fly over the mountains and spy out the land for us.”

Fourteen years and still he could recall every moment of that brief flight and the welter of emotions that had accompanied it. The exultation of finally overcoming the eagle’s wariness. The terror of those first giddy moments when they soared, spirit-linked, over Eagles Mount. And the wonder of seeing the world in a way he had only dreamed.

He fought the urge to keep talking, to share the memories. Like picking at an unhealed scab. He had always thought the ache was akin to the dull throb his father sometimes complained of in the stumps of his severed fingers. Or the twinges his mam got when the joint-ill stiffened her hands and made it hard for her to mix her healing brews.

Because concern etched deeper lines in his father’s face and because he trusted him more than anyone in the world, Keirith said, “It’s hard. Harder than I expected. To give it up. The way you felt, I suppose, when you stopped being a hunter.”

“Nay. Nor have I forgotten that I lost fifteen years of my life trying to be something I wasn’t. Gortin knows you would never use the power to hurt any creature.”

He thought of Xevhan whom he had killed. And Urkiat whose death he had caused, even if it had been his father’s hand that drove the dagger home. Flying with the eagle was a pleasure he didn’t deserve.

Faint shouts from the village saved him from answering. With a muttered curse, his father pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the hand Keirith thrust out to help him.

As they started down the slope, Keirith said, “It can’t be strangers. The sentinels would have blown their horns. . . .”

He glanced over his shoulder and found his father standing perfectly still, one fist pressed against his chest and a distant expression on his face, as if he were listening to voices only he could hear.

“I just got up too quickly.” His father took a careful breath, then smiled. “You can let go of my arm now. Before you twist it off.”

Keirith relaxed his fingers, but kept a grip on his father’s arm as they made their way down the slope. As they started up the rise to the hill fort, his father’s breathing grew labored, but when they neared the top, he fell into the long, loose-limbed stride his mam liked to compare to a wolf on the prowl. Keirith thought of it as his “chief’s gait”—purposeful and calm. Combined with his height, it gave him an air of authority few would contest. At another moment, he might have teased his father, but now he simply doubled his pace to keep up.

“Don’t tell your mother,” his father said quietly. Without waiting for him to agree, he strode through the narrow break in the earthworks and into the village.

The crowd was already drifting away, old folk shaking their heads and muttering, mothers shooing children into their huts for supper. When Keirith saw his brother’s bright red hair, he suppressed a groan.

Clearly, the dispute had something to do with the doe lying on the ground before Gortin and Nemek. Two arrows protruded from her side. Their owners glared at each other. Mam dabbed Rigat’s nose with a blood-spattered cloth, while Madig, Rothisar, and Jadan stood behind Seg, shoulder to broad shoulder. The three hunters were so inseparable that Faelia had once speculated sourly that they probably pissed in unison.

Although he had addressed his question to Gortin, Madig stepped forward to stand at Seg’s side. “Just a quarrel over which of them has the right to claim the kill. Nothing to concern yourself with. Alder-Chief.”

The hesitation was just long enough to be noticeable. Madig had been chief of his tribe, and although he served on the council of elders, it still stung him that the title belonged to another.

Keirith’s father eyed the two arrows. “Neither shot would have been a clean kill. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“We were hunting together,” Rothisar said, then glanced quickly at Madig who gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Except Rigat, that is. Seg spotted the doe and signaled us. We let him draw first. ’Twas his right. And then . . .”

“He still got off a shot as the doe bolted,” Madig said, clearly proud of his son’s achievement. “And ’twas that shot brought her down.”

Keirith silently willed his brother to look at him. When Rigat gave a small, cool shrug, Keirith quelled the urge to walk over and shake him. Perhaps his frustration showed, for Rigat’s cockiness vanished, replaced by the same pleading expression their mam wore.

After a few more questions, Keirith’s father said. “I’m not denying what you felt, Seg. Nor can I explain it. A hunt . . . well, it’s always a mystery, isn’t it? Every sense pitched so keen you think you’ll snap in two. I’ve always imagined it must be similar to a shaman having a vision, but I’m a man with no magic, so you’ll forgive me, Tree-Father.”

A quick smile for Gortin, a self-deprecating shrug. Around the circle, heads nodded. Even Madig smiled, for like all the hunters, he understood the mystery, too. Poor Gortin merely looked confused. These days, his old mentor often was.

“Whatever happened, the credit for the kill belongs to both of you.” He waited long enough to receive nods from all the men before adding, “Rigat. Seg. Clasp hands.”

With a bellow of outrage, Seg launched himself at Rigat, only to be yanked back by his father. “You see how it is?” Madig demanded.

Fa nodded without taking his eyes off Rigat. “A good hunter doesn’t need to boast about his skills. Or belittle the abilities of others.”

Madig shoved Seg forward. Mam pushed Rigat. Their fingers met in a fleeting touch. Both boys were turning away when his father said, “You can put your energy to better use than fighting. Go to the lake and fetch water for every family. And at every hut, you will apologize for disturbing the peace of this village.”

Seg glanced at Madig, who gave him a sour nod. Rigat glowered, but even he knew better than to defy Fa twice. Without a word, he strode toward their hut.

“Tree-Father. Memory-Keeper.” His father acknowledged Gortin and Nemek with a small, formal bow before turning back to Seg. “You’re going to be as fine a hunter as your father.”

A rare smile lit Seg’s face. “Thank you, Alder-Chief.” Madig punched him lightly on the arm as Rothisar and Jadan hefted the doe onto his shoulders. Seg staggered a little, but bore the doe proudly through the earthworks.

Nemek offered his father a sympathetic smile as he walked away. Gortin just stood there, muttering to himself. Then Othak stepped forward and touched him lightly on the shoulder. Still muttering, Gortin let Othak lead him toward the hut they shared, one hand clutching his blackthorn staff, the other clinging to Othak’s arm.

Mam was gnawing her upper lip, a sure sign of distress. Her mouth went still as Rigat emerged from their hut with two waterskins slung over his shoulder. After a quick glance at Fa, he strode off, red head high, pointed chin thrust out.

His father nodded once as he walked toward Mam. The chief’s confident gait was gone. Now he moved like a tired old man.

Keirith loitered at the lake, helping Elasoth and Adinn repair the fishing nets. While his fingers tied on new stone sinkers and replaced broken strands of nettle-rope, his eyes followed Rigat, who scampered back and forth to the hill fort with a zeal that belied his earlier defiance. His moods had always been as changeable as the weather in spring, but he seemed positively cheerful now, reveling in his ability to complete his task before Seg.

The sun had dipped behind The Twins when Rigat made his way back to the lake yet again. But instead of refilling his waterskins, he veered west, following the shoreline to the stream. With a sigh, Keirith rose and followed him.

For years, he had been aware of Rigat’s power, but he had yet to determine its full extent. He had forced himself to talk about his gift, hoping it would encourage his brother to confide in him. But even as a child, Rigat had evaded his questions, offering either plausible explanations or wide-eyed looks of confusion. After the refugees arrived, he’d warned Rigat about careless displays of power. Until today, his brother had obeyed.

He pushed through the tangle of alders, cursing as low-hanging branches snagged his mantle. The swollen stream cascaded over the rocks, obscuring all sounds except his undignified crashing through the underbrush. Pale shafts of light filtered through the leafless branches, but he still missed Rigat at first. Then he spotted the faint gleam of his hair and discovered him sitting on a rock. He picked his way along the muddy bank until he stood over him.

When Rigat winced again, Keirith felt a pang of sympathy. Fa had smacked Faelia’s bottom as a child, and once—only once—taken his belt to Rigat. Keirith wondered if he realized that all of them would have preferred physical punishment to his silent disapproval.

Fastidious as always, his brother had cleaned the last traces of blood from his face. Thankfully, his nose was only a little swollen. Keirith tweaked it gently and squatted beside him, staring up into the face that could be so expressive one moment and the next, a mask.

Keirith had rarely heard such misery in his brother’s voice. He offered an encouraging nod, recalling that moment of anger so many years ago when he had “pushed” Fa. He hadn’t meant to do that either. Or invade his spirit. The power had just poured out of him, as wild as the stream after the spring thaw. He shuddered, recalling his father’s inarticulate terror echoing inside of him, then pulled his mantle closer, pretending it was just a chill.

Rigat’s eyes widened, just as they had all those years ago. Before he could deny it, Keirith said, “Tell me how you do it.”

“Nay.” When he had told Gortin about flying with the eagle, the Tree-Father’s horror had terrified him. He refused to scare Rigat that way.

After another hesitation, Rigat said, “I used to talk to Old Dugan. That was fun. At first. Sheep are pretty boring.”

“Not like we’re talking now. It was more like seeing things. And feeling things. The way he could see and feel them. Like if I wanted to talk about how noisy the stream is, I’d picture the water and hear the different parts of the song and—”

“You know. The roaring where the water pours over the boulders and the foamy hiss when it reaches the pool and the little gurgle when it tumbles between the rocks.”

Rigat spoke impatiently, as if anyone with ears should be able to hear the stream’s song. His description reminded Keirith of how he had communicated with the adders in Zheros. But he had needed Natha’s help for that; Rigat simply concentrated.

Rigat looked away. “Feel people’s spirits. Without touching them,” he added quickly. “It’s like there’s this little flame around them. And each one’s different. I think that’s why I never got lost when I was little and went exploring. I’d just concentrate on Mam and I’d feel her and I could always find my way home.” Rigat hesitated and shot him a quick glance.

Rigat just stared at the stream. The intensity of his expression pulled Keirith’s gaze toward the water as well.

Small enough to hold in his hand, the stag was perfectly formed from the tines of its antlers to the water dripping off its hooves. It bounded toward them and froze in midair. Then it dissolved into the foam, spraying them with a fine mist.

“Earth’s easiest to work with,” Rigat explained, “but water’s not too bad. Fire’s harder. I can’t do much of anything with air.”

Rigat blew out his breath in exasperation. “I’m not stupid. I saw the way Mam and Fa looked at me when I did something. Like they were scared.”

The same way they had looked at him when they learned about his powers. Only then, their anxiety was leavened by anger because he had kept his gift a secret.

Keirith frowned. He expected to have moments of unspoken communication with his father, but sometimes Rigat seemed to possess that same ability of knowing what people were thinking. Was that another aspect of his power or was he simply as skilled at reading a person’s expression as he was at conjuring animals out of water?

“They’d have cast you out that much quicker. People are scared of things they don’t understand. And they don’t like people who are different. That’s why they hate me.”

“I try!” Rigat blurted. “I hide my power, and I’m polite to the old folk, and I do my share of the work. More than my share. I even tried to be friends with Seg in the beginning. But nothing helps. They all know something’s wrong with me. They just can’t figure out what.”

Keirith seized Rigat’s shoulders. “There is nothing wrong with you. You can’t help it if you have a gift. But you can learn to use it wisely. And to control your temper. What were you thinking? Defying Fa in front of the whole tribe.”

“I didn’t mean to. The ‘nay’ just popped out. I couldn’t back down after that or everyone would have thought I was a coward.”

Rigat’s head jerked up, blue eyes blazing. This time, though, he bit back the retort. As Keirith watched, the fire slowly died.

“In some ways. But remember how many winters we came close to starving? How Mam worried every time Fa or Faelia went hunting?”

“I know we need them. I just wish we didn’t.” Before Keirith could reply, he asked, “Doesn’t it ever bother you? That you should be Tree-Father after Gortin instead of Othak?”

Keirith almost smiled; to a boy of thirteen, the events that occurred before his birth must seem like ancient history.

“What matters,” Rigat continued, “is the power. Everybody knows you have it. And you use it. Sometimes. So why—?”

He’d wondered about that so often over the years, desperately seeking an explanation for his kidnap and rape and casting out. To destroy the Zherosi? The earthquake had done more damage than he had. To discover his path as a healer of spirits? But he’d helped only a few people. To save his father’s life? Aye, perhaps that was the reason. Who else could help the children of the Oak and Holly withstand the Zherosi?

Perhaps anyone with determination and sensitivity could tap into magic. Or perhaps burdening some mortals with power was simply a cruel joke of the gods.

“I think we’re like Fa and Tinnean,” Rigat said, jolting him out of his thoughts. “We’re brothers, too. I’m a hunter like Fa. And you wanted to be a shaman like Tinnean. It took both of them to save the world. So maybe it’ll take both of us to do . . . something.”

Rigat eyed him suspiciously, seeking the hidden barb. Apparently satisfied none existed, he said, “I don’t know. But it can’t be an accident that we both have power. It must mean we’re supposed to do something important.”

Keirith rose and stalked away. Talking about his power always made him uneasy, but he had to put aside his discomfort and help his brother understand.

“I loved the power, too. I could do things no other boy in the village could. Maybe things no other boy in the world could. I felt . . .”

At his sharp look, Rigat’s eager expression became uncertain. “Aye,” Keirith admitted. “But I’m not a god. And neither are you. Our power should be used for helping people, not for stupid pranks. Suppose when you pushed Seg he’d loosed his arrow and hit one of the other hunters. Did you think of that?”

Rigat hung his head. “I won’t do it again. I promise.” Then he grinned. “But you should have seen his face. He whirled around like there was a demon behind him.”

“Instead of one behind the gorse.” But Keirith had to smile, too. It was hard to stay angry with Rigat for long. Then his smile faded. “You’ve got to tell Mam and Fa.”

Rigat looked even more horrified. “Nay, I’ll tell them. But not tonight. Not when they’re already mad at me.”

He hesitated, torn between his desire to keep Rigat’s trust and the memory of his parents’ anger after Gortin revealed the truth about his powers. But Rigat’s vision quest was only a few days away. Then everything would be out in the open. At least within the family.

Reluctantly, Keirith nodded. Rigat threw his arms around his neck and hugged him. It unnerved him that his baby brother was almost the same height as he.

As they walked back to the village, Rigat’s analogy nagged at him. They did seem to be reliving the past, but instead of emulating the heroic deeds of their father and uncle, they were repeating the pattern of secrecy that had pitted their family against the rest of the tribe.

As Gheala rose over the hills to the east, Keirith silently entreated the moon goddess to illuminate his path—and Rigat’s—in the days to come.