Foxfire

IT WAS STILL DARK when Holtik and Braden came to the grotto, packs strapped to their backs. They carried others that they handed to Callie and Hircha and finally, to him. Keirith hesitated, then slipped his arms through the ropes. Then he strapped on his sword belt.

As Holtik turned to go, Keirith stopped him. “Thank you. For everything. I wish—” But he couldn’t tell Holtik what he wished. He could only add, “You’re a good friend.”

Callie gathered Mam in his arms. The Trickster managed a few tottering steps before he collapsed. Ignoring his protests, Keirith picked him up; he was as light and spindly as a lamb.

When they reached the hilltop, he made out the shadowy forms of the rest of the tribe, huddled in the small stand of pines. Carefully, he set Fellgair down beside Mam and eased through the crowd, seeking Lisula. He heard the fretful wail of a babe, quickly hushed. A man’s low murmur. And the nasal bleat of Young Dugan.

Ennit’s head came up as he approached. “He’s coming with us,” he whispered, nodding to the struggling ram. “Him and Blossom.”

“If we’re meant to stay forever, I’m taking my flock with me. They made it this far. They deserve to come.”

They would be lucky to get the tribe across, never mind the damn sheep. But he had more important battles to fight.

Now that the time had come, his choice weighed heavily upon him. His carefully prepared words fled as he walked toward Callie and Hircha, still sitting at the edge of the trees with his mam and Fellgair.

He eased the pack off his back, crouched next to his mother, and took her hand. “There’s not much time. So I’ll be quick. I’m not going with the tribe. Nay, let me finish! Fa and Rigat and Faelia . . . hundreds of men and women . . . they sacrificed their lives for this land.”

“If you’re doing this,” his mam began in a reedy whisper, “because you don’t want to leave me . . . or because you believe you’re somehow unfit . . .”

“I’m doing this because I want my life to mean something. Fa called me a healer of spirits. Maybe I got that from you, Mam. But I always wondered what part of Fa lived in me. I think I’ve finally discovered that.”

He took a deep breath. “In the days to come, our people are going to need my power to heal. But they also need to hear the tales. Not just the ones about Darak Spirit-Hunter and Griane the Healer, but Fellgair’s tale and Rigat’s. And Temet’s and Faelia’s. Tales of our vision quests and our rites. Simple tales about the way we live, the truths we believe in. Those are the stories I want to tell. I’ll go village to village, like Fa did when he was looking for recruits.”

Hircha shook her head. “Who will listen to what a Zheroso has to say? Even if you manage to convince them that you’re Darak’s son, you’ll only revive the old accusations that got you cast out of the tribe.”

“Hua will listen. And Eilin. I might even be able to find Idrian and Nuala. They all know me. And trust me. They’ll tell their tribes who I am. What I do. And we’ll find others. Tree-Fathers and Grain-Mothers who can help heal the spirits of the wounded. Memory-Keepers who can help preserve the tales and teach them to others. There may only be a few in the beginning. But isn’t that how Temet started? And Fa? In time, there will be more. And if the gods are kind, we’ll keep our ways—and our truths—alive.”

“Holtik will be a better chief. And young Arun already has the makings of a shaman. Please, Callie. Try and understand. More than anything in the world, I want to come with you. But someone must do this.”

“No,” Fellgair said. “You’ve always known your path. Keirith has finally found his. And today is not a farewell. As long as there’s a Grain-Mother or a Tree-Father to open the gateway, you will find each other.”

Keirith rose and opened his arms to his brother. “Please help me,” he whispered. “I can’t do this without you.”

He felt Callie nod, although his shoulders continued to shake. Then his brother straightened. Callused fingers cupped his cheeks. Chapped lips pressed lightly against his.

“We’ll find each other,” Callie promised. “In the grove of the First Forest or the Summerlands or the Forever Isles.”

Keirith heard the crowd stirring and reluctantly released his brother. When he saw Ennit hobbling forward, leaning on Lisula, he knew it was time.

“You don’t have to move. I’ll open the gateway near you. And remain on this side with Nedia, while Barasa leads the way. Is there anything I should know? Or do?”

“They will.” She crossed her hands over her heart and bowed. “Bless you, Lord Trickster. We will always remember you in our prayers.” Her gaze met Mam’s once more. Then she and Ennit walked slowly back to the tribe.

“Aye.” Keirith brushed the untidy hair off her face. For a moment, they simply stared at each other. “No farewells,” he whispered. “You and I . . . our lives were bound together back in Pilozhat. And they always will be. No matter where we are.”

Her coldness shocked him. This could be the last time they ever saw each other. But she just stood there, staring off at the forest as if he had ceased to exist.

Numbly, he watched Callie kiss their mam and carefully slip Fa’s bag of charms free. Callie lifted her hand and pressed her palm against the bag of charms. Then he straightened, swiping at his cheeks.

Deep blue rimmed the eastern horizon as the three priestesses filed sunwise around the stand of trees. Their soft chants ebbed and flowed as they walked past Keirith, as soothing as the cool morning air. But his body was trembling with fear and anticipation.

Hand in hand, the rest of the tribe followed the priestesses, circling the trees like stately dancers. Everything they possessed was strapped to their backs or slung across their chests so their hands would be free to grip those next in line. In the uncertain light, they looked like creatures from another world, bows and spears jutting above the men’s heads like horns, bundles creating large humps on their backs. The smaller children clung like leeches to the men and women who carried them. The older ones stumbled along, still half-asleep, guided silently by the adults.

Lisula and Nedia dropped out of the long line to flank Barasa. Lisula’s lips moved. Behind her, the sky shuddered as a dark sliver pierced the blue. She nodded to Barasa. With Wila’s hand clasped in hers, the Grain-Mother stepped forward and vanished.

One by one, they followed. It was like watching the history of his people—of his life—pass before him. Three generations of the children of the Oak and Holly. People who had sprung from a dozen different tribes. Some he had known since childhood, others he had only come to know in the last moon. All bound together by determination and courage and dedication to their gods.

Holtik, straight and fearless. Mother Narthi, white hair blazing in the gloom. Mirili, with her granddaughter slung in a makeshift sling across her chest. Dirna, with little Luimi clinging to her hand. Duba and Alada, leading the rest of their orphans. Owan, leaning on Takinel’s shoulder.

Although they could not raise their hands, they all paused as they neared the front of the line to cast a farewell glance at his mam, little realizing they were bidding him good-bye as well. But when the time came to enter the portal, none hesitated; they had all witnessed their Grain-Mother and Tree-Father crossing into the First Forest. Even the ewe trotted blithely beside Lorthan.

Fellgair’s eyes were closed, his forehead creased in concentration. A bead of sweat trickled down his face. Keirith glanced back at the dwindling line and saw Ennit draw up short. Fearing Dugan had balked, he raced forward, but after a few steps, he, too, checked his stride.

Ennit nodded and tugged on Dugan’s lead. The ram let out a loud bleat. Cursing, Keirith added his strength to Ennit’s, but Dugan refused to budge. Finally, he circled behind the ram and pushed. Another pair of hands appeared on the wide rump.

Hircha was already crouched among the rocks. Even before she pulled him down beside her, he could hear the shouting.

Sentries raced along the tree line. They were too far away for Keirith to make out their words, but there was no mistaking the upraised swords, pointing at the hilltop.

He glanced over his shoulder. He could make out the two priestesses silhouetted against the rosy sky, but surely from the base of the hill, they would be indistinguishable from the pines.

Another kankh blasted the early morning stillness. Shadows moved among the trees. A cluster of helmeted figures emerged to scan the hilltop.

Dugan let out a bellow nearly as loud as the kankhs. Every head jerked toward the sound. One of the men drew a sword and shouted something. Within moments, a line of warriors marched out of the trees.

“Ennit and his gods-cursed sheep!” Abandoning any attempt to remain hidden, Keirith tugged Hircha to her feet. Together, they ran back to the tribe.

Ennit was on the ground, clinging to Dugan’s lead with Ela. The last of the women cautiously circled them and vanished through the portal. The air was swirling madly— foaming like water over rocks—but even as Keirith watched, the portal shrank until the taller boys had to duck to enter.

Ennit’s grip slackened at the same moment that Callie thumped Dugan on the rump with a branch. With an outraged bleat, the ram leaped over Ennit’s legs and bolted through the portal.

Nedia’s chanting was ragged with effort; even Lisula was clutching the trunk of a tree for support. Still, Ennit hesitated. “What about Griane? If the Zherosi find her—”

Keirith squeezed Ennit’s shoulder and helped him to his feet. Braden ducked through the portal. Ela waved frantically and followed. Ennit whispered, “Maker keep you safe,” and vanished.

She wrenched free of Callie and pushed him through the portal. Keirith caught a last glimpse of his white face as he disappeared.

Fellgair’s breath came in short, hoarse gasps. Only a faint trace of gold remained in the muddy depths of his eyes. His mouth moved, but Keirith couldn’t make out the words.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. His mam deserved a peaceful death. Lisula deserved to be with Ennit and her family. And Hircha . . .

He didn’t know if he was praying that Hircha would go or that Fellgair would find a hidden reserve of power or simply for it all to be over.

As he hurried toward Lisula, a concussive blast of air sent her reeling. The sky split open. Through the jagged rent, Keirith glimpsed Ennit’s terrified face. Ennit thrust his hand through the gap and shouted Lisula’s name. She dragged herself to her knees, reaching for him.

They shoved Lisula hard, and she tumbled through the portal. Ennit caught her and pulled her into his arms. Her head came up. She opened her mouth to speak. And then there was only blue sky before him.

Fellgair lay slumped across his mam’s lap. For one terrifying moment, Keirith thought he was dead. Then he heard the weak pants and let out a sigh of relief. He knelt beside them and took his mother’s hand.

He could hear the sharp crack of stones ricocheting off boulders, a man shouting for the archers to move up. Still, he clung to his mam’s hand. He told himself to remember everything: her swollen knuckles, hard as pebbles; her upper lip caught between her teeth; her clear, steady gaze, as fierce as the will that commanded her failing body.

He raised her hand and kissed the palm, breathing in the faint scent of herbs, the scent that had always meant home and safety and Mam. And then he recalled the words his father had spoken that final day before they had left the village.

“Just tell her that you love her. You do, you know. And sometimes, a man needs to say those words. Especially if he doesn’t know when he’ll get the chance again.”

Her eyes filled as she smiled. A tear slipped down her cheek. He brushed it away and laid her hand atop Fellgair’s. Then he staggered to his feet and lurched off.

Hircha steadied him, eased his pack onto his back, took his hand. When they reached the stony path that led down the northern face of the hill, he paused to look back.

The first rays of sunlight bathed the two still figures in a rosy glow. Birds welcomed the dawn with a burst of song, only to be drowned out by the voices of the Zherosi.

Hircha tugged his hand, and he stumbled after her, following the path she chose, leaning against boulders when she paused, crouching when she pulled him down.

Ignoring the pebbles that dug cruelly into their hands and knees, they crawled forward. His leather sheath thudded dully against the stones. Behind him, he could hear Hircha’s hoarse breathing and the occasional skitter of loose pebbles. He dared another glance at the warriors, but they needed all their concentration to keep their footing on the shifting stones.

He had to squirm out of his pack in order to belly under the pine spar. Hircha shoved her bundle toward him, then clawed her way over the pebbles. He tossed the packs aside and pulled her into the grotto.

They sat there, panting. Then he seized the pine boughs that the men had used as bedding and laid them near the spar, carefully placing them to hide the deep cuts made by the axes. In the full light of day, the ruse would fool no one, but while the sun was still low, the Zherosi might simply see the broken branches and never notice the grotto hidden behind them.

He motioned Hircha against the wall of the cave. She ripped the leather thong from her disordered hair. Gripping it between her teeth, she calmly wove a tight braid and tied it with the thong. Then she drew her dagger and gave him a fierce nod.

The rough bark of the pine scraped her back, but she was too tired to move. Too tired even to squeeze the hand beneath hers.

The voices of the Zherosi were much louder now. Such an ugly, guttural language. As if they were all choking on the words. Or perhaps that was Fellgair.

The newly risen sun slanted across them, but it held no warmth. Even Fellgair’s body, sprawled across hers, failed to drive away the chill.

Where did fallen gods go when they died? Did they cross the rainbow bridge into the silver branches of the World Tree? Or—being human—did their spirits fly to the sunlit shores of the Forever Isles? Or tumble into Chaos? Surely, the Maker would forgive Fellgair’s interference in the affairs of this world and would secure a safe place for him in the next.

Please, Maker. I know he made mistakes. Many mistakes. He killed men—and women. He didn’t always use his power wisely. But he was so young. And he did try to build a better world for your people. Remember that—and forgive him.

He whispered her name. And then Darak’s. His eyes widened, as if in surprise. For a heartbeat, golden fire flared in their muddy depths. Then a deep sigh eased free and the frail, tortured body relaxed.

A tear oozed down Griane’s cheek and splashed on the still face. The Trickster was gone. And the world had changed forever.

But for her, there would only be one. The Trickster who had teased her in the First Forest. The fox-man who had lain with her in the Summerlands. The god who had become a man and had shared—if only for a short while—the beauty and the pain and the fear of being human.

The voices of the Zherosi were becoming fainter. Perhaps they had decided to leave. She hoped so. She would like to die knowing Keirith and Hircha were safe.

Keirith loved her. She had always known that, of course. But it eased her to recall his words, to know that he had forgiven her for the choice she had made so long ago.

The ground rumbled as it had the evening Rigat caused the rockslide. But her boy was gone, so it must only be a storm approaching. The sun was still shining, though. Its light grew more brilliant with every heartbeat. Before her watering eyes, the stunted pines blurred into a smear of green and brown, mingling with the translucent blue of the sky.

Once again, she was flying. Flying into the sun. Dizzy with the giddy exhilaration of it. Insubstantial as a cloud.

Was this what Keirith had felt when he had flown with his eagle so many years ago? No wonder he had mourned when he was forbidden to fly again. And how foolish they had all been to imagine that such a glorious experience could ever be evil.

In the distance, she heard voices, but they were too far away to make out the words. Warmth enveloped her like a loving embrace, banishing the pervasive cold. The tang of pine filled the air. And the sweet aroma of honeysuckle.

His face—impossibly young—filled her vision. His voice—caught between a laugh and a sob—spoke her name. His hands—whole and strong and perfect again—reached down to cup her cheeks.