R. L. LaFevers (11 page)

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Wat believed it. He could feel the thrumming of the living trees all around him, like the heartbeat of a man, only deeper.

He followed Griswold to the edge of the pool, averting his gaze from his reflection. But again, some unspoken force called upon him to look. Slowly, he turned back to the pool, bracing himself for the impact of his own image.

He looked, then sucked in his breath. He was ...beautiful. Well, not beautiful, exactly. But his eye. It was whole and unmarked. No scars, no ugly red stain.

"Come, drink with me." Griswold's voice interrupted his discovery. The old man reached into a small crack in the rock nearest him and pulled out an old, finely wrought silver cup. He dipped it into the pool, rippling Wat's reflection. The old man filled the cup with water, drank deeply, and handed it to Wat.

"Keep in mind, once you've drunk from the heart of the forest, nothing will ever be as it was. You will take part of the essence of the forest inside you, boy. And it will forever be a part of you."

Wat looked at the trees around him and tried to decide if he minded having the forest inside him. Having it be a part of him forever. Slowly, it dawned on him that he

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didn't mind. It didn't bother him a bit. In truth, it was a wondrous thing, to carry the essence of something as fine as the forest inside you, almost as if you were joined somehow, by some unseen force.

He looked up to find Griswold nodding at him. "Ever since my birth, I have been chosen as keeper of this forest, the guardian of this woods. It is my charge to tend to it, maintain its balance, clear it when fouled, and protect it when threatened. I have toiled for many years. But as you see, I grow old, my limbs are gnarled and stiff. Oh, I still have great power, but for how much longer?"

Griswold looked away from Wat and stared down into the pool. "There are so few left that follow the old ways. I have been greatly burdened by the fact that when I pass over, there will be no keeper for the woods."

Wat looked around him. "You mean it's your task to take care of all this?"

Griswold turned his gaze back to Wat and leaned forward, eager. "Until you..." he whispered. "The day I saw you, hope was born in my chest. And to find you were of my own blood!" He threw back his head and cackled with joy. "My wish, the one I hadn't even known I carried, had been granted. I have someone to pass all my knowledge to,

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my skill, my secrets." Griswold stopped smiling. "Providing the forest accepts you."

"Accepts me? How?" Wat asked.

Griswold shrugged. "We will begin teaching you her mysteries, letting you in on her secrets, but only she can
decide
if you are a worthy guardian."

"But what do I have to do to be worthy?"

"There is no easy answer to that," Griswold said. "But the forest will test you, take your measure, and if it likes what it sees, then you will have passed."

"Will it hurt?"

Griswold frowned. "What of pain? We are talking about a gift from the gods, a gift greater than most will ever dream of. What is a little pain when measured against such things?"

"You mean it
will
hurt."

"Ach. I mean no such thing. I only mean that it does not matter in the great scheme of things. Now, if you are willing, drink deeply and you will be set upon this new path."

Wat looked around at the clearing. Griswold offered him a chance to have a place in this world, to be a part of the great scheme of things here in the forest. Finally, he would

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belong somewhere, be needed by something, have a purpose to his life. There would be danger, especially with these Normans. And pain, if he correctly heard what Griswold was not saying. But his grandfather thought he could do it.

And, truth be told, Wat ached to do it. To become a part of this place, learn the same skills and secrets Griswold possessed. The idea thrilled him to his very toes.

Wat looked up and met Griswold's eyes. "I am willing," he said. He lifted the silver cup and drank the water, which was tinged gold with sunlight and sweeter than any he had ever tasted. As it ran down his throat, he felt his body begin to hum. The thrumming he had noticed became louder in his ears, and he could feel his own heart change its rhythm to match it. He felt the vibration of the earth where his feet touched it. The air shimmered and strobed; it, too, beating with the pulse.

Wat looked up to find Griswold peering at him intently. "What potion was in that water?" Wat asked as he handed the cup back to his grandfather.

Griswold threw back his head and laughed, a deeper, richer sound than Wat had yet heard from him. "Nothing, boy. Nothing but the purest of springwater mixed with the essence of the woods. Now come, it is growing late." He

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hoisted himself from the boulder on which he sat and waited for Wat to do the same. As they left the sheltered clearing, Wat noticed that for the first time, Griswold did not stride ahead. Together, side by side, they made their way back to the cottage.

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***

Chapter 13

The peregrines grew quickly. Wat had been with Griswold for nearly a fortnight, and in that time the birds had lost most of their fluffy, white down. They were now covered in mottled brown feathers, with little bits of downy fluff peeking out here and there.

"They'll be old enough to fledge in a week or so. Have you given any thought to their first flight?" Griswold asked. With a sigh he lifted Keegan from the table and plopped him onto the floor.

"No, my thoughts hadn't gotten that far," admitted Wat. But it was a good question. How would he get them to take their first flight? He watched as Gaelen walked over--waddled, actually--to see how Keegan was faring on the floor. Together they went over to the hearth and inspected the sooty ashes.

Wat knew the peregrines wouldn't stay with him forever. They would need to make their own way in the wild. It wouldn't be right to have these proud birds dependent on

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him, any more than it would be to have them belong to Hugh, or Lord Sherborne. Wat knew the only thing that kept him from being just a kindlier version of Hugh was his intention to release them back into the wild. But thankfully, they were not ready to fly quite yet.

"Well, think about it!" snapped Griswold. "And get them out of my house!" The old man picked up the branch they used as a broom and herded the birds in Wat's direction. They had been busy testing their wings and flapping about in the ashes, and the hearth was a sooty mess. Wat stood up and gave a low whistle. "Gaelen, Keegan, come!"

Between the broom and Wat's voice, the young falcons' attention was diverted from the ashes. They followed Wat outside, their awkward bird gait matching his own uneven stride.

He sat down on a patch of grass with the sun on his back. The falcons sat next to him with their taloned feet stretched out in front of them. Wat smiled. They had no idea how silly they looked. He sighed, his feelings mixed at the thought of losing his companions. He had no idea how long they would stay with him once they learned to fly and hunt on their own. Their departure would leave a bleak hole in his heart, but then he would have more time to spend at the lessons Griswold set before him.

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Ever since that day at the pool, Griswold had been busy stuffing knowledge into Wat's head: the names of plants and trees, their elemental properties and how to call their power from them, what their best uses were. It was endless. His grandfather had him listening to the stories the Ancient Ones told as the wind rustled through their leaves. Oak, birch, alder, and rowan all shared their stories with Wat until his head was so full it threatened to burst.

Griswold had taken him on treks deep into the forest, to hidden and forgotten nooks and crannies where the sacred places lurked. He'd instructed Wat on the sacred names used to invoke their power, although Wat had no idea what that power could do.

Today, Wat's task was to begin learning the sigils. As he sat outside with the falcons, he began tracing into the earth the elemental symbols that Griswold had been teaching him. In the ground next to him, he made a circle then crossed it with two lines. The rich earth rose up in furrows around his finger, and the rich loamy scent filled his head. Next, he practiced the sigil for air by drawing a circle and placing a dot in the center.

A light breeze rose on the air, and the nestlings twisted their necks and looked up to the sky. They had heard something that Wat had not. He looked up, alert.

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A
kek, kek, kek
sounded overhead. A peregrine soared high above the trees. Gaelen and Keegan cocked their heads and watched, riveted by the acrobatics of the mature falcon. As Wat looked skyward, he wondered if the falcons recognized the bird as one of their own.

One of their own.
The words touched on a familiar longing in Wat, and he was pleased to find it much less painful than before. While it was true that his mother loved him, she had been forced to leave his side and could not claim him as her own without causing herself much pain and suffering. He felt he had more in common with these birds in front of him than with any other person he had ever met, except, perhaps, Griswold. Wat sensed in the old man a love of the wild beauty and solitude of the forest that ran as deep as his own.

The peregrine in the air swooped down closer. He circled the small area where Wat, Keegan, and Gaelen sat, almost as if he were wondering what they were doing down there in the clearing.

"What are you doing here?" Griswold asked.

Wat jumped. As usual, he had not heard the old man approach. "I was just practicing the symbols you taught me."

Griswold nodded. "Good, good. I see that you have earth and air. Now show me the one for water."

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Wat knelt down and carefully drew four squiggly lines in the dirt. No sooner had he finished the last of them than water rose up from deep below the ground and began filling the furrows he had made. Surprised, Wat looked up at Griswold. "Is it supposed to do that?"

Griswold stared in stunned silence as the sigil filled. "I don't know. I've never seen anything like that before." He looked from Wat to the sigil, then back to Wat again. "Your powers grow quickly," he said at last. "Hopefully, they will be ready in time."

"In time for what?" Wat asked.

"For when they come looking for you."

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***

Chapter 14

"If you're hungry, pluck it yourself!" Wat gritted out through clenched teeth while glaring at Keegan. The young falcon glared back. Neither of them budged.

Gaelen sat off to the side, watching the dead pigeon that lay at Wat's feet as if hoping it would somehow miraculously pluck itself.

Over the past few days, Wat had been thinking of ways to prepare the young birds for life in the wild. One thing had become quite clear to him: there would be no one to prepare dainty little strips of meat for them to eat. They needed to accustom themselves to dealing with prey as they would find it. Besides, plucking fat little birds was a task he hated. The small, weightless feathers always found their way into his hair and under his tunic, and they clung to his hands for hours.

His plan had been first to give the falcons the plucked pigeons he snared, letting them tear the meat off the carcass themselves. They had taken on that challenge eagerly.

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Next, Wat had tried to give them the pigeon unplucked. But they balked, refusing to touch the pigeon or even attempt to remove its feathers on their own.

Yesterday he had given up and plucked it for them. But not today. He was not going to cave in today. Hunger was a great teacher, and they had to learn. Soon.

Gaelen began her pitiful peeping again, and Keegan joined in. Wat did his best to ignore them and go about his chores, but their noise got sorely on his nerves. "Now I know why mother birds are so anxious to stuff food into young beaks!" he fumed at them, his arms full of the kindling he was gathering.

He ignored the falcons as long as he could. Finally, he could stand it no longer; his ears felt as if they would burst from the high-pitched clamor. Tossing aside the kindling, he stormed over to them.

"You want it plucked? So be it. I'll pluck it for you." He grabbed the dead bird from the ground and took it to the stump he used for a plucking post. He tore the feathers from the dead pigeon in a flurry of frustration. When it was plucked clean, he went over and waved it in front of Keegan and Gaelen's beaks. At the smell and sight of fresh meat that they could recognize, they became frantic with hunger.

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"Oh, now you want it, do you? We'll see about that." He picked Keegan up with his free hand and carried him across the clearing. He found a branch that was within his reach and placed the bird on it. "There."

He went and fetched Gaelen and put her next to her brother in the tree.

"Now." He waved the plucked pigeon in front of them again. "If you want this, you're going to have to come get it. I will teach you something today or one of us will the trying!"

Wat walked back to the plucking stump and climbed up onto it. He held the pigeon out for the birds to see and jiggled it invitingly. "Come on now," he coaxed. "Gaelen, Keegan, come."

The birds shifted on their feet, unsure. Gaelen lifted her wings and stretched them a bit. Then, without warning, she launched herself from the branch. She flew straight to Wat, talons stretched out in front of her, and snatched the prey on the first pass. She tumbled to an awkward landing, her tail feathers spread out and her wings askew.

"Good girl!" Wat shouted, and leaped up into the air.

Keegan was not to be outdone by his sister, who was already tearing into her meal. With a screech, he pushed