- Chapter 36






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Chapter Thirty-Six
They came into the Newman village at dusk, when the star moths were just beginning to flutter beneath the thicker leaves, stitching the shadows with silver.
Meri walked a prudent distance behind Sam Moore, so that his lesser aura was not obscured, and began to feel the local trees take notice. They would, of course, have known of him and his mission; the thought would have begun moving from tree to tree the instant he came under leaf, until the whole of the forest was aware. But travel and arrivals were concepts that trees—even elder trees—accommodated uneasily, so that his actual presence came as a surprise.
They knew him now, though, and their voices clamored for his attention, like so many children plucking at the sleeve of a favorite uncle, who has come late to a gathering. He ought, of course, to answer the welcome in fullness—and would, soon.
As soon as he found whether he would succeed in the trial that was about to overtake him. While it was true that he had come to tolerate proximity to Sam Moore with scarcely any discomfort at all, so long as he kept himself centered upon the trees, or the earth, or the air. He did, however, very much doubt his ability to maintain that concentration in the presence of—a number—of auras, each exciting his newly rising kest.
Welcome, Ranger, a strong voice intruded into these thoughts.
Meri sighed, and stopped in the shadow of the ancient elitch tree, letting his guide go on ahead.
Elder, I thank you for your welcome. Indeed, the welcome of this grove lifts my heart.
We lift your heart, the elitch commented, but we do not free you of fear.
I have heard it said that each man must master his own fears, Elder.
The elitch did not answer immediately, which was perhaps just as well.
"Sam!"
The glad cry came from up ahead, followed by others, accompanied by such a rush and chaos of color that the dusky sky took fire from it. The land lurched under his boots, and it seemed to Meri that the tide had rushed far inland, bearing him up upon its shoulders, drowning out the voices of the lesser tress, obliterating leaf and land.
"Tremor . . . tree . . . Gran . . ."
The wave crashed, thrusting him against the broad, rough trunk of an elitch. Meri twisted, got his back to it and braced himself.
The air around him burned with power, drawing his kest, filling him with a desire to embrace that which was not himself; to share, to achieve completeness.
No. He concentrated: The weight of the pack on his back; the breeze that stroked damp cheeks; the scent of sea and salt marsh; the voice of the elitch tree inside his head . . . 
Be at ease, Ranger; there is no danger here. These folk have lived beneath our branches. We know them. We honor them.
Faldana screamed, her voice raw with agony; the glorious, seductive auras bathed the walls, piercing him with longing even as horror froze his heart.
Not here, Ranger. Not these.
The noise of Newman voices faded; the colors became less immediate, and easier to ignore.
Meri felt his knees give and allowed himself to slide down the broad trunk, his pack catching on the rough bark, until he was sitting on the cool ground beneath the tree, alone except for the whisper of breeze, the small murmur of the night wood . . . 
 . . . and an aura of a faint, delicate green, cool, misty, and soothing.
Another Wood Wise. Meri sighed in exquisite relief. Sian had not utterly abandoned him, after all.
He opened his eye, the greeting rising to his lips.
Crouched before him was the merest sprout—hair a riot of leaf-brown ringlets in which a twig was caught there and here, his clothing scuffed and grubby. His eyes were agate blue, startling in the brown face. Surely, thought Meri, a youth of the Wood Wise.
Surely, the elitch spoke dryly inside his head, a son of the land.
Meri considered that, and extended his poor store of kest, only a little, wisping a tendril toward that delicate aura—and yanking back with a barely suppressed hiss as the contact sparked.
"You're the tree-man Sam went to fetch, aren't you?" the sprout inquired, seemingly oblivious to what had just occurred. "I heard the Old Ones welcome you."
"That's right," Meri answered, slowly, and extended a cautious hand. The sprout surrendered his grubby paw with a grin.
"I am Meripen Vanglelauf, of the Wood Wise."
The boy tipped his head, but did his part courteously enough. "Jamie Moore, of New Hope Village." He lifted his hand away. "The trees call you Meripen Longeye."
"That's another of my names," Meri agreed, as the trees volunteered something of the sprout. "This concept is not unknown to you, as I learn that you are properly called James."
Jamie Moore sniffed. "That depends on who you ask," he commented, a small edge to his burry boy-voice. Meri inclined his head.
"That is how it is with names, after all. And, as you had asked me, I gave the name I wish to be known by."
"Oh." The sprout's fine brows pulled together in thought. While he considered, Meri learned, by way of the trees, that the child's mother was Elizabeth, Sam Moore's sister; his father the Wood Wise Palin Nicklauf.
"What should I call you, then?" the boy asked—and his pale eyes grew round. He ducked his head.
"The trees say I'm to call you Master Vanglelauf," he said, subdued.
"And so we achieve a third name," Meri said solemnly, while he put forth the question of Palin Nicklauf's whereabouts.
Jamie nodded and looked about him. "You came a long way to help us," he said slowly. "We—that is, as the headman's nephew and his nearest heir—I welcome you. The rest would do so, but—there was an earthdance two nights ago, and one of the trees came down on Gran's house. They took Sam off to see, because, um—because the village is first in their minds." He slanted an agate blue glance beneath his lashes. "Being villagers."
"Of course," Meri said politely. "As it happened, I saw the downed tree and the damage. I hope that all who were inside escaped safely?"
Jamie looked grave. "Gran, she chased everybody outside, but—they didn't think she was hurt at first. My sister and mother put her to bed and kept her warm, but next day, she was sickening. She's only gotten worse, and it's thought she's dying."
"Thought?" Meri lifted an eyebrow. "Is no one certain?"
"Well—Gran's our healer, see? Violet's her 'prentice, but not so far along as—as she needs to be."
Meri hesitated . . . 
"You're not a healer, are you, Master Vanglelauf?"
"I am not—and it is not certain that a Fey healer would be of use. However—"
"If I ask the trees, will they send?" The boy's voice was at once tentative and fierce, from which Meri deduced an elder Wood Wise who had impressed a sprout with his own insignificance, when measured against the trees.
"It is possible," he said now. "If you are respectful, and ask—do not demand."
The boy nodded, and closed his eyes. Through the kindness of a larch, Meri heard the boy's request, and most gentle it was. In a trice, it had been taken up by the elders and entered the thought of the forest.
"Well done," he said. "The matter is now with the trees, and you may rest easy."
Jamie nodded solemnly, and rose. "Would you like something to eat?" he asked, slowly. "Or—we weren't sure. My mother made up a room in our house, if you'd rather, but—I made a nest out near the barn, if . . ."
A room—he shuddered, rejecting confinement inside one of their dead structures. And yet—did the boy think he was unable to make his own nest?
They meant it as a kindness, Ranger.
A kindness.
He did not laugh. Or weep.
Merely, he inclined his head to the eager sprout before him.
"I thank you for your . . . care. My preference would be, indeed, to sleep under leaf."
Jamie Moore grinned and leapt to his feet.
"I knew it!" he exclaimed, and held out an eager hand. "Here, I'll show you . . ."
 
 
Becca was in the garden before the dew was dry. The seeds she had set the day—or had it been two days?—before were sprouting already. Her task today was to set the seeds into the second quarter of the wheel, before continuing her program of thinning and spreading the plants that overran the rest of the garden.
Though she preferred to set the seeds herself, she had, at Altimere's insistance, a pair of Gossamers with her. And truthfully, they were useful for turning the soil and for grasping those plants that she meant to move while she dug gently 'round their roots. That task, she trusted to no one but herself. She was under no illusion that the Gossamers understood, or cared about, growing things. They assisted her because Altimere willed it, not from any interest of their own.
Carefully, Becca laid out her seed packets. Yes. The first quarter-wheel had been planted with fosenglove, penijanset, aleth and sunspear. The second quarter, then, would be . . . 
She paused, frowning in thought, her hand hovering over the careful packets. It had been her conceit to create a seasonal garden, the plants in each quarter coming to fruition in proper sequence. If she did it correctly, it would appear that the wheel itself was turning as the plants matured.
But it was so difficult to recall! Did lord's purse bloom at the end of spring or in high summer? Did she deceive herself that teyepia blushed into blossom for a sweet, single day in late summer? And fremoni—no, surely fremoni bloomed all summer long!
And duainfey . . . 
"Oh, bah!" she muttered, reaching for her book. It was kind of Altimere to have fetched her herbals and her seed packets back from Artifex—and of course when she had tried to thank him, he had pretended it was the merest nothing. To be able once again to garden and tend to the needs of plants. That was a benediction and a kindness that surpassed all the others he had bestowed upon—
Becca sat back on her heels, frowning at the last page of the herbal. Surely, she had sketched in what she had planned, and labeled each plant and the order of planting, just as, as . . . just as she had been taught? She recalled it! No—she recalled . . . she recalled sending the Gossamers for a pen, and then she recalled the evening's entertainment . . . Altimere had become quite a hectic host, now that the whole of the government had been recalled to the city. Why, scarce an evening went by when there were not visitors, and many of course wished to, to—but there! She must have forgotten, in the rush of getting ready to receive their guests . . . 
What is this wheel that you construct, Gardener? the voice of the garden asked her. Since the severing, each plant is always in season.
Becca shook her head and smiled, fingering through the book until she found the entry for lord's purse. There! This bloom marks the end of spring and the true beginning of summer . . . 
"Here, there are so many of you," she said, pushing the packet containing the lord's purse ahead of the others. "There are so many of you that no single voice can be heard above the riot and clamor. It is as if we two were trying to hold a comfortable conversation in the midst of a storm, having to shout our gentlest wishes over the blare of the thunder and the roar of the wind!"
Here—it was duainfey that bridged the seasons from summer to early autumn. Becca leaned forward and pushed it to the right. Teyepia, then . . . 
But we easily converse amidst this clatter you object to, the deep voice said, pursuing its point. And each plant obeys its natural cycle.
"Why, yes it does!" Becca agreed. "Over near the door the daisies have wilted and gone dormant, while by the bench, they bloom as if it it were high summer! It makes my head quite spin to see it. Even if there are no seasons here, still all of one kind ought to bloom with their kin."
Seasons . . . the tree mused, and said no more. Smiling, Becca put the herbal aside and leaned forward. Using the fork, she scored the turned earth and sprinkled the tiny, fur-covered seeds into the tiny furrows, then covered them gently.
Teyepia liked to be planted deep. She poked holes in the soil with a stick, taking care to start inside the row of lord's purse. Dropping a big striped seed into each hole, she asked the Gossamers to cover them, which they did with a delicacy that made her smile again. Perhaps, after all, she could teach them to care for something other than Altimere's word.
Fremoni seeds went shallow, interleaved with the teyepia, so it would seem that the new flowers sprang immediately from those which had passed their time.
Becca reached for the sack marked "duainfey."
These, as she recalled, were something different. Little knots of plant stuff, that required shallow planting, the hairy roots well-covered and the nub of dried stem exposed to the weather. The illustration showed it a leggy plant with a profusion of dark cone-shaped flowers. According to the text, the flowers were deep purple, the leaves a lucent, light green. She hoped it would take to the soil—she had not seen its like among either of Altimere's gardens, and wondered if she had in fact found the one plant that would not grow in this changeless springtime.
"It could be," she said, after she had tried to set the first root three times with no success, "that it does not grow here because it cannot be planted." She sat back on her heels, and looked down at her reddened fingers. The dried root gave off a protective irritant, she thought absently. That was interesting. Duainfey thought much of itself.
Well, it would not have the better of her.
"Gossamers," she said, leaning forward again. "Please hold this nub upright while I make certain that the roots are well-covered."
Cool fingers brushed hers as the nub was taken from her control. Becca bent to cover the roots—and sighed in exasperation as the bit fell over.
"Come back here," she said sternly. "I'm not done."
The Gossamers, however, did not forth to continue their task. "Oh, really!" Becca muttered, frowning.
At last, she made a pile of soil, pushed in a pocket, set the nub precariously in the little depression and gingerly covered the roots. They went into the earth not as straight as she would have liked, but perhaps straight enough. And if they were touchy, tender plants, Becca thought, frowning down at the tiny white blisters covering her reddened fingertips, it was best to know so immediately.
That is a strange plant, Gardener.
"I agree, but its properties are said to be beneficial, so we will all profit, if it will grow here."
She pushed herself awkwardly to her feet and walked across to the overcrowded flowerbed she had been trying to thin. To her chagrin, new leaves were already pushing into the small spaces she had created in order to let the settled plants breathe and thrive.
"That is far too quick!" she cried. "They'll be smothering each other again in—"
The words died on her lips; she turned and walked away from the garden, through the misty door and up the curving ramp to her room.
 
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