Tangle Box (14 page)

In the end, she waited almost three years for her mother
to come. She went to the old pines at least once a week. She waited through the days and sometimes the nights as well. The waiting was hard, but not unbearable. Although she never saw her mother, she sometimes felt her presence. The feeling came in a rustle of leaves, a small animal sound, a whisper of wind, or a scent of new flowers. It was never the same, but always recognizable. She would tell the Earth Mother afterward, encouraged, and the Earth Mother would nod and say, yes, that was your mother. She’s watching you. She’s judging. Perhaps she will show herself one day.

And one day she did. At midnight, at midsummer, she appeared in a glimmer of moonlight, spinning and leaping from the forest trees into the clearing to dance for the child who had waited so long to see her. There was magic in the dance, and Willow knew then and forever after that her life would be special and wondrous.

Now, after the passing of many years and many visits to the old pines, she had come once again. She had come to tell her mother of the child she was carrying, of the journey she was undertaking, and of the warnings she had received. Her emotions were sharply in conflict. On the one hand she was elated by the anticipated birth of her child with Ben; on the other, she was daunted by the prospect of her journey and frightened by the warnings given to her by the Earth Mother and her father. The latter bothered her most, cautions from two of the most powerful and magical creatures in Landover, both telling her that she must be wary, both warning that this child she so wanted would change everything about her life.

She tried to sort through her emotions as she waited for darkness. She pondered the warnings she had been given. There were no new insights to be gained by doing either. The exercise was merely a means for coming to terms with what she was thinking and feeling. If Ben had been there, she would have talked it through with him. Since he wasn’t,
she was forced to use what had worked for her when she was small and growing up alone.

Mostly, she was hopeful that her mother would be able to help. They would communicate as they always did through the wood nymph’s dance. The dance would provide a vision, and the vision would give insight. It had done so on many occasions. Willow hoped it would do so now.

Twilight deepened and the stars appeared. Two moons were visible in the northern sky, not far above the horizon, one pale mauve, one peach. The night air was fragrant with the scent of pine needles and wildflowers, and the clearing was hushed. Willow sat thinking of Ben. She wished he was with her. It would have made things much easier having him there. She did not like being away from him. She did not feel complete when she was.

It was nearing midnight when her mother came. She leaped out of the trees in a series of flitting movements that took her from one patch of shadows to the next. She was a tiny, ephemeral creature, with long silver hair, pale green skin like Willow’s own, and a child’s body. She wore no clothing. She darted along the edges of the clearing as if testing the waters of a moonlit lake, and then disappeared into the trees to hide.

Willow waited expectantly.

Her mother returned in a flash of silver skin, spinning swiftly past her, fingers brushing at her cheek, a light ripple of velvet, and then she was gone once more.

“Mother?” Willow called softly to her.

A moment later her mother danced out from the trees into the very center of the starlight that cascaded down through the heavy boughs. She spun and twisted and leapt in the radiant glow, her arms moving fluidly, reaching out for her daughter. Willow lifted her own arms in response. They did not touch each other, but the words began to flow between them, heard only in the mind, visions born out of thought.

Willow remembered her promise to her father and spoke first of his desire to see Willow’s mother dance. Her mother drew back immediately, and she let the matter drop. She spoke of Ben and her life at Sterling Silver. There was happiness in her mother’s response this time, though it was small and measured, for her mother could not understand life beyond the forest and the dance, life of any kind beyond her own. In a detached way she was happy for Willow; she was not capable of anything more. Willow had learned to take what her mother offered and make the most of it.

She let her mother speak to her then through the dance, let her share in turn the joy she was feeling. Once Willow had found that joy exhilarating. Now she found it lacking, an oddly empty, circumscribed happiness bound up in self-indulgence and personal gratification, bereft of interest in or concern for others, ultimately puzzling and somehow sad. Neither could ever really understand the other, Willow knew. Still they shared what they could, giving back reassurance and gratitude, reaffirming the bond that existed between them.

Then Willow told her mother of the baby and of the quest that would take her from Landover to Earth to the fairy mists and back again.

Her mother’s response was immediate. The dance grew wilder and more frenzied. The silence of the night deepened and the world beyond that starlit clearing slipped farther away into the darkness. There were only mother and daughter and the dance they shared. Willow watched, awestruck by her mother’s grace, her beauty, her strong presence, and her instinctive response to her daughter’s special needs.

And so out of the strange, impossible spinnings and turnings of the dance appeared the vision Willow had anticipated, rising up into the light to fill the space between them.

But the vision was not of her child, but of Ben. He was lost, she sensed—lost in a way that he could not understand. He was himself, but at the same time he was someone else. He was not alone. Two others were with him, and she started as she recognized who they were. Nightshade the witch and Strabo the dragon. All three floundered in a morass of mist and gray light that emanated as much from within as from without. They journeyed onward hopelessly, searching for something that was hidden from her, casting desperately about in a futile effort to find it.

Then she saw herself, consumed by an identical patch of mist and grayness, as lost as they, searching for something as well. She was near them and yet far away, close enough to touch them and yet nowhere she could be seen. She was dancing, spinning through a prism of light. She could not stop.

There was something more. In a subtle shift of sound and light, the vision revealed one final horror. In its telling of what would be, she could see that Ben was forgetting her and that she was forgetting Ben. She could see it happening in the gloom and shadows; they were turning away from each other. They would never find each other again.

Ben
, she heard herself call out in despair.
Ben!

When the vision faded, she found herself alone. The clearing stood empty, and her mother had gone. She sat staring at the space through which her mother had danced and tried to comprehend what she had been shown. There had been nothing of her baby; everything had been of Ben. Why? Ben was safely back at Sterling Silver, not lost in misty darkness. And what set of circumstances could possibly bring him together with Nightshade and Strabo, his sworn enemies?

None of it made any sense. Which made it all the more maddening.

Her dilemma now was acute. She wanted to turn around
and go back to Sterling Silver at once to make certain that Ben was safe. The urge was so strong that she came close to setting out without another thought for the matter.

But she knew she couldn’t do that. Her commitment now was to her baby and to the quest that would ensure its safe birth. She could not afford to burden herself with other concerns, no matter who was involved, no matter how compelling, until she had fulfilled the Earth Mother’s quest. Ben would agree with that. In fact, he would insist on it. She would have to ignore the vision for now. She would have to let events take their course until she could afford to do something to affect them directly.

She rose then, more tired than she had expected, drained by the events of the day, and moved to the center of the starlit clearing. She bent to where her mother had danced and began to dig with her hands. It was not difficult; the soil was loose and easily gathered. She scooped up several handfuls and placed them in a pouch she had brought to carry extra foodstuffs—one portion of the magic her baby required. She laced the pouch tight, hefted it in her hands, and tied it again to her waist.

She looked off to the east. The sky was beginning to lighten. The dance had lasted through most of the night.

She looked about the clearing one final time. It sat empty and silent, the ancient pines solemn witnesses that would never tell what they had seen. So much had taken place here over the years, so much that remained an indelible part of her life. Now this.

“Good-bye, Mother,” she said softly, speaking mostly to herself. “I wish you could come with me.”

She stood there alone, thinking again of the vision, and she closed her eyes against what she was feeling. What of Ben? What if the vision were true? She squeezed her eyes tighter to make the questions go away.

When she opened them again, she was thinking of what lay ahead. Earth, Ben’s world, somewhere through the fairy
mists, where the second soil collection must take place. But where in his world? To what place must she go? What kind of soil was required to fulfill her obligation? What form of magic?

And her guide …?

She saw the cat then, sitting on a log to one side, licking its front paw. It was colored silver with black paws, face, and tail. It was slender and well-groomed and did not appear feral. It paused in its licking and regarded her with emerald eyes as brilliant as her own. She had the strangest feeling that it had been waiting for her.

I know this cat
, she realized suddenly.

“Yes, indeed you do,” the cat said.

Willow nodded wordlessly. She should have guessed. The fairies had sent her Edgewood Dirk.

Horris Kew trudged along the road to Sterling Silver whistling nervously in the midday sun. Another few miles, two or three at most, and then they would see. Anticipation mingled with trepidation and caused a serious burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. He was sweating profusely, and it was from more than the heat. The tic in his eye jumped wildly. He looked like he was juggling invisible balls.

He gave an anxious glance over his shoulder. No problem, everything was in place. The pack mule was still tethered to the other end of the rope he held, plodding obediently after. The twin chests were still roped tightly in place on the carry rack. Biggar was still perched atop them.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Horris,” the myna said.

“I was just checking,” he replied irritably.

“Don’t bother. That’s why I’m back here. You just keep walking. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Try not to fall on your face.”

Horris Kew turned crimson.
Try not to fall on your face! Ha, ha! Big joke!

Still looking over his shoulder, he opened his mouth to tell the bird to shut up, tripped, and promptly fell on his face. The road was dusty and dry, and he plowed a fair-size furrow in it with his nose and came up with a mouthful of grit. He heaved himself back to his feet and spit angrily.

“Don’t say anything, Biggar!” he snapped, and began brushing himself off. His scarecrow body performed a series of violent contortions as he worked to get clean. “There was a rut! A rut! If you hadn’t distracted me, I would have seen it and been all right!”

Biggar sighed wearily. “Why don’t you just conjure us up a carriage and we could ride to the castle, Horris? Or maybe a horse. A horse would do.”

“A horse! Great idea, a horse!” Horris clenched his hands angrily. “We’re supposed to be supplicants, you idiot! Poor, penniless supplicants! Remember the plan?”

The mule yawned and brayed loudly. “Shut up!” Horris screamed furiously.

Biggar blinked and cocked his head thoughtfully. “Let me see. The plan. Ah, yes. The plan. I remember it now. The one that isn’t going to work.”

“Don’t say that!”

“Don’t say what? That the plan isn’t going to work?”

“Shhhh!” a frantic Horris cautioned, tucking his head down between his shoulders for protection, glancing hurriedly about. His eye jumped. “It could be listening!”

“Who, the Gorse? Out here, in the midday sun, in the middle of nowhere?” Biggar sniffed. “I hardly think so. It’s a night creature and not given to prolonged exposure to sunlight. Vampiric, I think they call it.”

Horris glowered at him. “You’re mighty brave when it isn’t around, aren’t you?”

“I’m merely making a point.”

“I didn’t notice you making it last night. I didn’t notice
you saying anything about the plan not working when it was explained to us.”

“So you believe the plan is a good one, do you, Horris? Is that right? You think it will work?”

Horris tightened his jaw defiantly, standing in the middle of the road facing mule and bird, fists on hips. He was a boxer leading with his chin. “Of course it will work!” he declared.

Biggar sniffed in obvious disdain. “Well, there you are. I rest my case. What is the purpose of my arguing with this creature, this Gorse, if you’re going to stand around nodding in agreement with every cockeyed idea it comes up with? What am I supposed to do, Horris? I can’t protect you from yourself. You won’t listen to anyone when you’re like this. Certainly not me. After all, I’m just your pet bird.”

Horris gritted his teeth. “Pets are supposed to revere their masters, Biggar. When do you think you might start doing that?”

“Probably when I get a master who’s worth the effort!”

Horris let his breath out with a hiss. “This isn’t my fault! None of this is my fault! The Gorse is here because of you! You were the one who summoned it up in the first place!”

Biggar clacked his beak. “You were the one who did the conjuring, if I recall!”

“You told me what to say!”

“Well, you didn’t have to say it!”

Horris threw down the rope to the mule. He was trembling all over. It was hot standing around in the midday summer sun, out of the shade of the forest trees, on a dry and dusty road. The robes he wore—a supplicant’s robes—were coarse and sweat-stained and they stank. He had been walking since sometime after midnight because the Gorse wanted him at the gates of Sterling Silver just before sundown of today so that they would have to admit him into the castle for the night. He was tired and hungry (no food
if you were a supplicant either, unless you could stand eating those detestable Bonnie Blues), and his patience was exhausted.