In Stone's Clasp (3 page)

Jareth swallowed. Then, slowly, he began to speak. She listened attentively, then laughed.

“These do not worry me at all. It is natural and healthy for a young man your age to begin to dream of mating. And to have…appropriate physical reactions. Have no fears about these, Jareth. But I find it hard to believe your parents would be concerned about these dreams. They are not unfamiliar with such things. Is there more you wish to tell me?”

In a low voice, he spoke of the other parts of his recurring dream: of the
taaskali
woman, of the gods bringing spring, of the stranger sitting behind him whom he trusted but whom at the end, he always feared.

“And I dream that everything around me—even the rocks, even the grass—has a
voice,
” he continued, trying to put the images and sounds and sensations into something as confining as words. “Sometimes, I think the trees are trying to talk to me.”

Sweat gathered on his skin, trickled down in slow rivulets. Here in the smoky darkness, the only light provided by the glowing stones, his thoughts didn’t seem quite so foolish. “And when I walk with bare feet in summer…it’s almost as if I’m walking on something that’s—that’s
alive,
” he finished in a whisper.

“There is something else you haven’t told me,” Paiva said. Jareth swallowed. Did the woman see into his very thoughts?

“Yesterday—yesterday I found a blessing cloth.”

Paiva’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “There was no mistaking it. It smelled like summer, and it glowed, just like the stories said.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I let it go. Larr wanted to keep it, and so did I at first, but—when I touched it, I couldn’t. I just…couldn’t.”

Paiva reached into a pouch and threw marked bones for a while, perusing the symbols in silence. Then she took Jareth’s hand in hers and held it for a moment. Her hand was gnarled, the palm sweaty and moist. She closed her eyes and concentrated. At last, she sighed and released him.

“Whatever these dreams are,” she said, “I sense nothing evil in them, or in you. You are as sweet as the day I brought you into this world, Jareth.”

He blushed, and thought that “sweet” was hardly a compliment for a growing young man like himself.

“That you dream of the gods is a sign that you are protected by them,” she said, “and perhaps you are simply more aware of the spirits than the rest of us. The dream of the
taaskali
is clearly associated with the blessing cloth. As for the man standing behind you, he may represent your fear of the dreams. No one likes to be different, child, and these dreams are telling you that you are different in some way. Blessing cloths don’t come to just anyone. And it is at this point in the dream that you awaken, wanting to trust the dreams and yet afraid of them.”

She pursed her lips, considering. “Prepare something nice for the tree spirits to eat, since you seem so close to the forest, and leave it out at sunrise.”

He nodded his understanding. And for the rest of the time, they sat in silence, letting the heat penetrate them and cleanse both skin and spirit.

The next morning Jareth went out at first light to leave the offerings. He had gone to his old friend the oak, who had given him the branch that was going to be a wonderful staff. At the oak’s feet, he offered his week’s share of honey, dried fruit and milk, pouring it all so it formed a puddle. Then, unable to resist its inviting branches, he climbed the oak.

The wind shifted and Jareth gently swayed in his perch. The breeze stirred up the heady fragrance of the pine trees that were neighbors to this ancient oak, and he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

He was tired of winter. It seemed to him as if it had lasted forever, that he had been waking to falling snow and crusted ice in the water basin for years. He had to remind himself that while this winter was harsher than most, it, too, would eventually yield to spring.

He was glad he had gone to see Paiva yesterday. He had slept well last night, and all his dreams had been pleasant. Smiling, he settled back into the crook and let his thoughts drift. He closed his eyes.

The Change must come.

Jareth jerked awake, wondering who had spoken. The words had been very clear and had probably saved his life; it was hardly wise to drift off to sleep in a tree.

“Hello?” he called down. He peered through the oak’s skeletal branches, but saw no one.

A chill ran up his spine. Maybe it was the tree talking to him. There were spirits in the woods and waters, everyone knew that. It was just that nobody had really ever seen one.
Just like no one had ever seen a blessing cloth,
he thought.

He waited, his breathing shallow, rising from his reddened lips in soft little puffs. The voice did not come again, but he had heard it:
The Change must come.

Like one in a dream, Jareth climbed down the tree, landing softly beside the damp spot where he had placed his offering. The liquids had soaked into the ground, and the fruit had been taken—by spirits or squirrels, he didn’t know or care.

He felt drawn as he threaded his way through the closely growing trunks to a clear space in the woods. Even here, the light was dim; it was winter still, after all. Slowly, Jareth knelt on the soft blanket of snow, his knees getting wet almost immediately. He unwound the wrappings from both his hands.

The Change must come.

He didn’t know what he was doing, or why, only that he must. Jareth leaned forward, stretched out his pale, pink hands, extended his fingers, and plunged them through the snow, past the carpet of fallen leaves and pine needles, into the cold, nearly frozen soil.

And the Change came.

Jareth’s hand closed around the berries. They were small and warm, kissed by the sun, and slightly dusty. They nestled in his work-roughened palm like small animals. He felt them, their life, their essence; different now from when they had been on the vine, but bearing no pain at the separation.
This is what berries do,
he thought. They began as small white flowers, transitioned to fruit, and fell from the mother plant to begin the cycle again. Whether it was human hands that plucked them or animal teeth, it mattered not to them.

He couldn’t resist tossing a handful into his mouth right then, bursting the skins and feeling the sweet yet tangy juice and pulp against his tongue. He took the nourishment into himself with gratitude.

Everything was different since that long-ago winter day, when the earth itself had summoned him.

Everything.

Savoring the berries, Jareth glanced at the other harvesters. Like him, they were barefoot, their feet coated in pale dust. But they didn’t
feel
the earth beneath their feet as he did. They grabbed handfuls of berries without a second thought, distracted only by the occasional tasty bite of the luscious fruit, not, as he was, by the marvel that the berries inherently were. The sun beat down on Jareth’s golden hair, cut now to shoulder-length as befitted a man.

Twenty summers he had known, and for nearly half of them he had been the
Kevat-aanta
—the Spring-Bringer. Rumors of what he could do had traveled, and he was embarrassed by the adulation he received. More
huskaas
had come to Skalka Valley in the last nine years than in the last fifty before, he had been told;
huskaas
eager to meet the nearly legendary figure and to compose their own songs about his ability.

The seasons had changed before, of course; but now, they changed when Jareth asked it of the earth, the way he asked it. He took nothing for granted anymore—not the stones and grass and soil beneath his feet, not the rustling of the leaves and the heady smell of pine, not the taste of berries in summer.

He loved this land. He belonged here. He was well aware that his ability to connect with the earth and all the wondrous living things that took sustenance from it was a precious gift to be cherished, not a right to be demanded. He’d talked about this with Paiva, who nodded her approval and said that he was quite wise for one so young. Not for the first time, Jareth had chafed at the “compliment” Paiva bestowed. He wondered if Paiva, who seemed as ancient to him as his beloved oak tree, would ever consider him an adult.

A few rows away, his boyhood friend Larr placed his basket down and straightened. Their eyes met. Larr frowned, stretched and rubbed the small of his back, then continued with his task. Jareth felt a stab of sorrow. The
huskaas
might sing his praises as highly as they did that of the gods, but Jareth knew he was no better a man than Larr or any other. A distance had grown between them since that day that Jareth had been unable to bridge. Jareth was the Spring-Bringer, who could touch the earth and make things grow, but the gift had come with a high price. It had forever set him apart from everyone else.

What Paiva did not know—what no one knew—was how fearful Jareth was that the gift would one day disappear as mysteriously as it had come. Each time Jareth held a handful of seeds, sensing the adult plant dormant within—all that life within one small space—he wondered if it would be the last. Each time he knelt in the snow and asked summer to slip into autumn, or winter to turn to spring, his heart raced with worry that this time, the earth would not listen. He cherished his bond with the earth, and was glad that through it he could take good care of his village, but he wondered sometimes if Larr were happier than he. Jareth’s parents had passed a few years ago, and he had no siblings or other kin. The most popular man in the village lived alone.

Jareth picked up his pace and grabbed more handfuls of the little miracles. A high voice calling his name caught his attention. It was six-year-old Altan Lukkari, dust flying from his bare feet, short legs pumping as he ran. Jareth smiled. He had assisted Paiva in bringing this bright little boy into the world. But in Jareth’s eyes, Altan would always have a shadow—the stillborn twin sister their mother had named Ilta, who would never get to run barefoot on dirt paths on a warm summer day. Ilta had died in the womb, the birth-cord meant to give life wrapped tightly around her little neck, bestowing death instead. The sight of the tiny, grayish-green corpse had horrified Jareth, and he wondered if he would ever be able to look upon Altan without thinking of the tragic Ilta.

“I thought you were supposed to be practicing your
kyndela,
” Jareth chided halfheartedly. The last
huskaa
who had come to the valley had been impressed by Altan’s sweet voice and ability to remember songs and had given the child an old
kyndela.
Altan had taken to it and now spent most of his time teaching himself to play. His parents had promised him that he could be apprenticed to the
huskaa
of Two Lakes when he was thirteen if he continued to show such dedication to the craft.

“I was, but Mama sent me to find you,” Altan gasped. “Oooh…” He squatted and reached for a handful of berries, popping them into his mouth. Juice dribbled down his face and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. “Those are good.”

“Yes, they are,” Jareth agreed, “but I doubt your mother sent you to find me so you could eat berries. What’s going on?”

“The headman from Two Lakes is here. He needs your help. His youngest daughter has gone missing.”

By early afternoon, Jareth and Orvo Relaanan, the headman, arrived in Two Lakes. It looked like everyone in the village had turned out to meet them, but two women stood in the forefront of the gathered crowd. One was Kivi, the headman’s wife. In the prime of life, she remained a handsome woman, with a full figure and only a few wrinkles around her blue eyes.

And her eldest daughter…

Jareth tried not to stare, but it was difficult. Taya Relaanan, his own age or slightly younger, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She was petite, like her mother, with large eyes the color of the sky in autumn and a soft, pink mouth. It struck him that if he were to hold her, her head would barely reach his heart, and then blushed at the thought. Her breasts nicely filled out the front of her dress, but the sash about her waist accentuated her trimness. Right now, her eyes and mouth were swollen with crying. When she looked up at him, lip quivering and hope in her eyes, Jareth was lost.

He had been determined to find the little girl from the moment he had heard her worried father speak, the man’s big, rough hands clasping and unclasping. But now Jareth’s resolve was doubled. He couldn’t bear to see this lovely young woman cry anymore. He found himself longing to hear what her laughter sounded like.

Jareth jumped from the wagon seat. “Where was Vikka last seen?” he asked, trying to regain his composure.

“Right outside the house,” Taya said. Her voice was soft and husky from crying. “I was inside spinning and she was carding the wool for me. When I came out she was gone.”

“We’ve searched the areas where we know the children play,” her mother said. “No one has seen her.”

Jareth nodded absently, his mind already working. His eyes fell on the stool and the abandoned pile of wool Taya had mentioned, and he knelt on the ground. He had never tried anything like this before and he hoped it would work. If it didn’t…

Taking a deep breath, he placed his big hands on the soil, feeling the yellowing blades of grass, the small stones, the earth itself. He had touched it so before, coaxing the seasons to change. But this time was different.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his eyes closed. “Tell me about the little girl, who sat on a stool here earlier today.”

He heard voices murmuring at him, but he ignored them. He strained to listen for the voice of the earth, praying to the gods who had given him this gift that it would answer.

Earth am I, soil and sand, ever-changing and ever the same. I am the flesh that was once living beings, and the anchor to the roots of the trees and grass and all growing things. Earth am I, and I shall speak.

The child scorned the stool, and pressed herself to me as she worked, singing songs of harvest and coming snow. Passed the hours so, golden sun streaming over and warming us both. Up she leaped, with a shout of joy, and away she ran. The long-eared one surprised her and she gave a merry chase. More, I know not.

Relief and awe commingled swept through him. The earth had deigned to respond to his question.

Jareth opened his eyes. “She ran after a rabbit,” he said. He moved farther along the ground, searching with eyes and fingers for tracks. He found them, and again knelt and asked the grass for aid.

Grass am I, green in my youth, dry and yellow as the winter comes. I cover the earth and grasp it safely in my roots, holding it here instead of letting it rush away with the wind and rain and snow. Grass am I, and I shall speak.

The long-eared one was not afraid, for the child could not hope to catch one as fleet as he. Across me they came, both laughing and free. Their path took them to the forest, where the trees and the moss and the stone stand guardians over things more ancient than the season’s grass. More, I know not.

Hope surged in Jareth. Despite his initial uncertainty, every time he asked, he received an answer. Once at the forest’s edge, Jareth placed his hands on the gnarled roots of a tree and again asked for its wisdom.

Farther he went into the forest, listening to the trees and the stones and the soil tell him of the carefree flight of the little girl. Hushed and reverent, the small crowd followed him. Vikka had been gone only a few hours, but her sense of adventure was great and it took some time before he found her, curled up sleeping in a hollow area beneath an overhanging pine bough. If he had not known where to look, he would have walked right past her.

Thank you,
he thought, tears of gratitude stinging his eyes.
Thank you for keeping her safe.

He moved aside the sheltering bough and she blinked sleepily. She was clad in a white underdress with a red over-tunic, stained now from grass and dirt. Her eyes were large and trusting and her hair was such a pale shade of yellow it was almost white.

“Hello,” she said, smiling and unafraid.

Charmed, Jareth smiled back at her. She was the cutest little girl he’d ever seen.
If I am ever a father, I want a daughter just like her.

“Looks like the warm day lulled you to sleep,” he said gently, kneeling and extending his arms. Vikka crawled into them, her smooth brow furrowing as she realized the import of what had happened from the faces of her family and village standing behind Jareth.

“Oh,” she said as he picked her up. “They will be angry with me—the rabbit was so funny I had to follow him….”

“Shh, shh, sweetheart,” soothed her father, taking the precious burden from Jareth’s arms. “We’re not angry. We were worried about you, that’s all. You’re lucky the Spring-Bringer found you or you might have slept away the night in the woods.”

Still drowsy, Vikka looked at Jareth. “Thank you, Spring-Bringer,” she said, yawned, and slipped her hands around her father’s neck.

“Yes,” said Taya, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Spring-Bringer.”

He knew that everyone thought he had magic, but he could have sworn that it was Taya who was magical. His heart sped up and his tongue cleaved to his throat. Unable to speak, he offered her what to others might seem a paltry gift.

At his feet, blooming in a patch of sunlight, was a single flower. He bent, his fingers closing on the green stem, and whispered softly, “I would give you to this lady, as a token of my feelings for her.”

Wildflower am I, petals red as blood, heart blue as sky, I follow the sun on its path from dawn to dusk. Wildflower am I, and I shall speak.

I sense what you feel for this woman, and know this, that I offer myself freely, gladly, as a token of your love.

He winced as he plucked it, hearing the stem break with a snap, feeling it die between his fingers. Almost overcome with the sensation, he turned and handed it to Taya.

“This is for you,” he said, his voice trembling. She took it between her own slender fingers and trailed it over her cheek. And at that gesture, Jareth envied the flower.