R. L. LaFevers (12 page)

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himself off the branch, sailing across the clearing to Gaelen and stumbling to a halt next to her. He pushed his way to the pigeon, forcing her to make room for him.

"Good job, Keegan!" Wat crowed, dancing around the clearing. He had done it! He had forced them to fly. He had expected to feel sorrow when they flew, as it would signal that their departure was near. But to his surprise, he felt nothing but joy. They had learned to fly without a real falcon to teach them.

Wat settled himself on the ground and watched them eat, his chest filled with pride at knowing he had not held them back.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his back, shoving him into the ground. He twisted his head to get his nose out of the dirt and saw Griswold standing above him, one foot on his back, holding him down. As Wat watched, his grandfather seemed to shrink into himself, growing more still. It was as it had been at the trout pond. Griswold began to meld with the things around him until Wat had to rub his eyes to make sure he was still there.

"Be still, boy," his grandfather whispered in a voice so soft it sounded like rustling leaves. "Someone's coming."

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***

Chapter 15

Just as Wat felt a large bubble of panic rise up to choke him, Griswold relaxed and removed his foot from his back.

"Come out, then. Come out. It is only you."

Wat sat up and looked around. He wondered if his grandfather had gone completely mad, for he saw no one. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a small cloaked figure emerged from the trees. As it passed out of the shade, the sunlight glinted red off its hair.

"Mother!" Wat rose to his feet and went toward her, stopping when he reached her, suddenly awkward.

Brenna put her hand out to Wat's cheek. "I told you I would try to come. Hugh seems to have accepted that you and the falcons are lost to him--"

"Or that's what the man wants you to think," Griswold's voice interrupted her.

"--and while it is not yet winter, I needed to see how you were faring."

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Brenna reluctantly turned from Wat to face her father. Wat watched them eye each other and wondered how long it had been since they had last spoken. At last Brenna nodded. "Yes. That is what he is claiming. Only he can know if it's what he truly believes."

The old man's eyes locked with Brenna's, as if he were going to argue the point further. He shook himself. "Ah, girl. Come here and let me look at you so I can see if the years have been kind."

Brenna looked surprised, but obeyed her father's command and went to stand before him. Wat expected him to reach out and touch his only daughter, but he didn't. His eyes bored into her with a look more intimate than any touch.

Finally, as if unable to stand it any longer, Brenna threw herself into her father's arms. At first, he didn't seem to know quite what to do, then began patting her awkwardly on the back. "Ah, girl. It has been far too long." He cleared his throat. "Come, daughter. Show us what you have in your sack. I certainly hope it is something tastier than two young falcons!"

The old man stood aside and motioned for Brenna and Wat to enter the cottage. "Besides, I'm sure your son is hungry. He always is."

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Wat almost bumped into his mother as she paused at the threshold of the cottage. She stood and stared. "It is just the same," she whispered to herself more than anyone.

"Go in, go in. Don't make me stand out here all day," Griswold said from behind them.

She went in to the table and laid the small sack on it. She took out two round, freshly baked loaves of bread, a small cheese, and a sack of oats. She looked up at Griswold. "I tried to bring you things you couldn't find on your own. I know 'tis not much."

The old man nodded but said nothing as he sat down on the bench. Wat sat down next to him and watched his mother move around the cottage with the ease of one who had lived there a long time. She started to sit down, but stopped herself. Standing back up, she pulled an ale skin from her cloak and held it up before her father, smiling shyly. "And I remembered your fondness for ale."

Griswold chortled in delight. "Do you know how long it has been since I have drunk ale?"

"I can only imagine." She motioned for Griswold and Wat to begin eating, but refused any food for herself. Wat glanced from his mother to his grandfather, scarcely able to believe they were of the same blood. His mother, with her

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red hair and brown eyes, was so firmly of this earth. His grandfather was thin and lacking in substance, his gray hair and eyes the color of smoke. Wat could sense the unspoken words between them, hanging in the air like a dense fog.

Wat cleared the bread from his throat. "How is tiny John Thatcher, Mother? Have you seen him?"

Brenna frowned. "He is well, if just barely. But his mother lost the babe she was carrying."

Wat marveled at the unfairness of it all. Fat, powerful lords like Sherborne hoarding the bounty of the forests while others starved and sickened. Wat believed Griswold when he claimed the forests belonged to no man. They were gifts of the earth, to be used by man as needed and with proper thanks. Wat felt the truth in those words at the very core of his being.

"So, tell me of this blacksmith," Griswold's voice interrupted the silence. Brenna blushed, and Wat squirmed with discomfort for his mother. He knew how it felt to have that penetrating gaze fixed upon one's soul.

"Well, he first made his interest known some years ago." Brenna spoke in a soft voice, her fingers breaking a piece of bread and shredding it into tiny pieces. "And even though I made myself clear in my lack of interest, he has stood by

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me as a friend all these years, offering me his support. He has even shown some kindness to Wat."

"That's true," Wat agreed around a mouthful of cheese, glad to have words filling the air. "He chased Ralph and his gang away that day they were chasing me with the meat hook."

Brenna winced at the memory as Griswold turned to look at Wat.

"Besides," Brenna continued, pushing past that painful subject, "the protection he can offer me won't hurt either." She looked up from the pile of breadcrumbs on the table and smiled weakly.

Griswold scoffed. "You still place trust in those humans from the village?"

Her eyes flashed and she raised her chin. "We are different, you and I.I have come to accept that, and now so must you. I need voices around me, the sound of laughter in my ears. I'm sorry, Father, but there is none of that here in the life you have chosen."

"There is all of that here, and more," he answered. "Can you not hear the laughter in the gurgling of the brook? What other voices do you need than those of the birds waking you every morning?"

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Brenna sighed, reached out a hand, and laid it over her father's fist on the table. "We have had this argument before. I understand your love of these things much better now than I did when I was young. But it is still not the life for me. I am no more of the forest than you are of the village." She looked over at Wat. "My son, however, seems to take after you."

Wat held his breath, wondering if the argument would continue.

After a long moment, Griswold took his free hand and reached out to pat Brenna's. "You are right." He turned to look at Wat. "Have you shown your mother your birds yet? Although, how she could have missed them is beyond me." The old man stood and began clearing the crockery from the table.

Wat took his mother outside to where the birds were cleaning themselves after their last meal. He did not know what to say, how she would feel about these birds who had been, indirectly, the cause of her punishment and humiliation. He cleared his throat. "The smaller one is Keegan, the larger Gaelen."

Brenna knelt down next to their bucket. "They are very beautiful. You have taken good care of them." She reached

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up and touched the feathers in Wat's hair. "They were lucky you were m the woods that day." She turned her gaze back to the birds, and together they watched them in silence.

Wat glanced up and saw Griswold standing in the shadows, watching them. He came forward and laid a hand on both of their heads. "Come, daughter, you should return to the village while there is still light and it is safe for you to do so." The reluctance was clear in his voice.

Wat and Brenna stood up and followed Griswold to the path. He took his daughters face between his hands. "Do not come again, Brenna. I do not think we will be here much longer.

Brenna nodded, but Wat looked up at his grandfather in surprise. The old man had said nothing to him about leaving.

Brenna threw her arms around Wat, kissed him on both cheeks, then turned and was gone.

Wat and Griswold stood together at the edge of the clearing, watching long after Brenna had disappeared. When Wat thought she must surely be halfway to the village, Griswold finally turned to enter the cottage. Suddenly his whole body stiffened, and he whipped his head around toward the trees, sensing something that Wat couldn't. He stood like a

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deer that has sniffed danger on the wind, alert, poised for flight. Wat hardly dared to breathe.

After what seemed an eternity, the old man turned back toward the cottage. He said nothing, gave no explanation, but Wat could see there was a great sadness in his eyes.

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***

Chapter 16

"Breakfast," Griswold called over his shoulder.

Wat made his way to the table, where they broke their fast on the last of the bread Brenna had brought with her last night and some of the oats that Griswold had cooked up in a small iron pot he'd hung over the fire. When they were finished, they spent a few minutes tidying the cottage before Griswold said, "We must go now. And bring the birds this time.

"Did you hear that?" Wat asked the birds. "You get to come this time." Normally, his grandfather insisted they be locked up.

As Wat left the clearing, he whistled low. "Come, Gaelen, Keegan." The peregrines rose up in the air and headed toward Griswold. Wat ran to catch up. When Wat was right behind Griswold, his grandfather sniffed. He paused long enough to turn and look Wat over. "Come to think of it, a bath would do you no harm." He turned and continued on his way.

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Ever since Wat had drunk from the pool, he'd begun to see the forest with new eyes. Each tree looked more alive, each branch more precious, the sound of the burbling brook in the distance and the slight rustle of the breeze in the treetops more meaningful than ever before. It had always been a place of comfort for him, but now he was seeing its strength, the power that a place so full of rich growing things had to offer.

Wat was so lost in his thoughts that it took him a while to recognize the path as it wound among denser trees, ferns, and undergrowth. "We are going to the pool?" he asked, his voice falling to a whisper.

"Yes," Griswold answered curtly, but did not slow down.

The falcons used the journey to practice their newfound flying skills. They alternated between circling in the air above the trees or launching themselves from branch to branch. Wat stopped to watch Gaelen make a spectacular swoop. She looked like a falling stone and then pulled up at the last moment.

Griswold stopped abruptly, and Wat, intent on his observations, walked right into him. He braced himself for a scolding, but Griswold merely grabbed his arm to steady him and whispered, "Do you hear it, boy?"

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Wat cocked his head. He heard many things and didn't know which one Griswold was referring to.

"Listen to the rustling of the leaves, Wat. The Ancient Ones are whispering to you." Wat held himself as still as he could, and listened. The wind in the tree branches moaned and rustled, sounding much like the rise and fall of voices.

"Do you hear?" Griswold asked, his own voice scarcely louder than that of the breeze.

As Wat listened, gooseflesh raised along his skin. It seemed to him that the leaves were whispering a warning.

"Hurry, we've not much time." Griswold's voice interrupted.

Wat began walking faster.

It wasn't until the cluster of ancient trees that surrounded the pool came into sight that Griswold spoke again.

"Call them in, boy. The birds can't fly here. The branches are too dense."

Wat put his wrists out at his sides and gave a low whistle. First Keegan came to a wrist, then Gaelen. When they entered the canopy of trees, Wat placed the birds on a rocky ledge near the pool, where they settled and turned their attention to the water.

The falcons watched with intense interest as Griswold

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retrieved his cup from the ledge and filled it with water from the pool. He drank deeply and then handed the cup to Wat, who drained it. As if this was some unspoken signal, the birds fluttered down to the edge of the pool and began to bathe.

Wat looked over at Griswold, half afraid the birds might be in trouble.

His grandfather waved his hand in the air in dismissal. "It's fine. It's as much their pool as anyone's."

Wat watched the falcons as they splashed water over their wings and used their beaks to comb it through their fine feathers.

"You may get in, too, if you like."

Wat pulled his tunic over his head and waded into the pool. It was unlike any water he had ever felt before. It was warm and soft and seemed almost heavy, as if he were bathing in oil. He dove under the surface and opened his eye. The deep, golden green was so beautiful it made his throat ache. He heard the thrumming again, and in no time his heartbeat matched that of the forest around him. And it wasn't gentle this time. It was full of power, strength, like the strong, steady footsteps of an unimaginably tall giant, or the slamming of an enormous hammer on a blacksmith's anvil. The water called to him, beckoning him, urging him