The Lost Gate (3 page)

“What will we hear from
him
but lies?” said Gyish. “I know what drekkas and drowthers are—they'll say anything to save their worthless lives!”

“If he is so determined to save his life,” said Aunt Lummy, “why would he harm these children, whom we trusted to his care?”

“Because they hate us! Drekkas hate us worse than drowthers do!” Gyish was almost frothing at the mouth. Danny realized that he was seeing now what lay behind the muttering and grumbling that were Gyish's usual form of speech. The old man's wrath and shame at having lost the war and the seat of Odin had made him into this poisonous old gnome—or so he seemed, because he stooped to point a quavering finger at Aunt Lummy as if he meant to jab it through her heart if she took one more step toward him.

“Piffle,” said Auntie Uck. “You're behaving like a child, Grandpa Gyish, and Zog, you're just a bully. Let go of the boy at once—you've probably broken his shoulder and you know we don't have a first-rate healer anymore.” She turned to Gyish again. “Which
you'll
rue if you let your anger give you a stroke!”

It took Uck's no-nonsense tone and unintimidated look to get Gyish back to his normal level of grumbling, while Zog tossed Danny on the ground and stood there, fists clenched, waiting for Danny to be such a fool as to try to rise again.

He needn't have worried. Danny's shoulder hurt so badly that he could only lie there, holding it with his other hand, trying not to cry.

“Danny,” said Uncle Mook, “tell us what happened.”

“I already told you what happened!” shouted Crista.

Uncle Poot silenced her with a glare. “We already heard your lies, girl. Now we'll see if Danny can come up with better ones.”

“Well, boy?” asked Zog. “You heard them! Answer!”

“They were staying small,” said Danny, “and giving themselves huge boobs.”

“So what!” shouted Gyish. “So what if they were! It's what they do! They're stupid little girls, it's what they do!”

“I knew that if I went to fetch you, Uncle Poot, they'd lie and say they were trying to be big.”

“I wouldn't have believed them,” answered Poot.

“But you wouldn't have punished them, either,” said Danny. “So they'd just have kept on doing it.” He heard the other adults murmur their agreement.

“So now you're a critic, is that it?” Uncle Poot replied. “Telling me that I'm not good at training youngsters?”

“It doesn't excuse you putting them in a sack!” said Zog. And the adults murmured their agreement at that, too.

“I didn't have a sack,” said Danny. “I stood there right in front of them and took off my shirt and walked right over to them. It was plain enough what I was doing—if they'd been paying any attention. I didn't expect to actually
catch
them with my shirt! I just wanted to give them a scare, remind them to take their study seriously. But when I found that two of them were in the shirt, I didn't know what to do. If I just let them go, they'd mock me and I'd never be able to get them to do what's right without bothering some adult. The whole point of having me watch them is so none of you has to be bothered, isn't it?”

Even as he said it, though, Danny realized that he had just declared that it was impossible for him to tend the clants if the other children didn't want him to; he wouldn't save the adults any time at all, and so they might as well have one of them do the minding and leave Danny out of it. But what choice had he had? The accusation Crista made was so terrible, and with Gyish and Zog calling him a drekka, one who could be killed whenever it was convenient, there was a great danger that the trial would end suddenly with Zog tearing his head off and tossing it into the trees.

“So you trapped them in your tee-shirt,” said Aunt Lummy. “And you didn't let them go. Where are they now?”

“Crista's clant was going for my eyes and so I did brush her aside. And then to get away from her, I climbed a tree.”

“And yet you are not in a tree,” said Uncle Mook. “And you seem to have neither your shirt nor the clants of two disobedient and stupid girls.”

“I tied the shirt to a branch and climbed down and I was just going to fetch Uncle Poot and turn their clants over to him when Great-uncle Zog and Grandpa Gyish attacked me.”

“No grandpa of yours!” shouted Gyish, though this was only partly true, since Danny's mother, Gerd, was Gyish's firstborn granddaughter.

“I believe you,” said Mook. “But what you don't know—what you could not possibly understand—is how terrified those girls are now. There's nothing worse for an inexperienced child than to have your outself trapped and be unable to bring it back. It's like you're suffocating and can't draw breath.”

The others present murmured their agreement.

“I'm sorry,” said Danny. “I really am. It's not as if I planned it. I only did what came to mind, to try to get them to work on what they were assigned. I didn't know that it would hurt them.”

“Look at his shoulder,” said Auntie Tweng. “Look at that bruise. It's like a truck ran over him.”

“He was trying to get away!” said Zog defensively.

“He was in agony,” said Tweng. “How dare
you
punish the boy before the rest of us were called?”

“I didn't punish him!” Zog roared. “I
brought
him!”

“You know your strength, and you're responsible for what you do with it,” said Tweng. “You and Grandpa Gyish did
this
to him? It's at least as bad as anything he did to those two girls—why, I wouldn't be surprised if his clavicle was broken along with a few thousand capillaries.”

Since neither Zog nor Gyish was even slightly educated in the drowther sciences, they had no idea what they were being accused of having done, but they were clearly angry and abashed at having the tables turn like this.

“And while you're torturing this child,” said Tweng, “and refusing to let him speak, has anyone thought that only
he
knows where he hung that tee-shirt with a brace of stupid disobedient fairies inside?”

Danny could have kissed her then and there, if he'd thought that Auntie Tweng would stand for it. Within a few moments, uncles Poot and Mook had Danny on his feet and helped him keep his balance—he was faint with pain—as he led them back to the tree.

It was farther than Danny had remembered, or perhaps pain magnified the distance, since every step jostled him and made it hurt worse. But finally they were there, with all the Aunts and Uncles—and now a fair entourage of cousins, too—staring up into the tree.

“I don't see it,” said Zog. “He's lying.”

“He said he put it high in the tree,” said Auntie Tweng. “Of course you can't see it. The leaves are in the way.”

“I can't climb that thing,” said Uncle Mook.

“Can you get the tree itself to bring them down?” Aunt Lummy asked Uncle Poot.

“Is it on a living branch?” Poot asked Danny. “Green with leaves?”

“Yes,” said Danny.

“Then we should try another way,” said Poot, his voice now gentle, “before we ask this scarlet oak for such a sacrifice.”

“Then Zog,” said Auntie Tweng. “Send up a bird to untie the shirt and bring them down.”

Zog whirled on her, but then seemed to swallow the first terrible thing he had meant to say. Instead he spoke softly. “You know my heartbound died in the war. Such birds as I can speak to now have no such skill as the untying of a knotted shirt. I can make them attack and kill, but not untie a knot.”

“Then someone has to climb the tree,” said Uncle Poot.

“Make a clant first,” said Auntie Tweng, “and see how high it is, and how dangerous the climb might be.”

Uncle Poot was one of the foremost clanters of the Family, and he must have been showing off a little, for he sat down at the base of the tree and formed his outself into a clant using the leaves and twigs of the living oak. The smaller branches merely bent toward each other to form the leaves into the vague shape of a man. It progressed up the tree by joining higher leaves into the shape and letting lower ones fall away behind it. Soon it came back down, little more than a rapid quivering of the leaves and branches, yet always shaped like a man, and Uncle Poot opened his eyes again.

“How could you climb so high?” he asked Danny. “How could such slender branches bear your weight?”

“I don't know,” said Danny. “I climbed up them and they didn't break and I didn't fall.”

“I can't send another child up there,” said Uncle Poot. “As we were so recently reminded, we have no healer capable of dealing with grave injuries.”

“Then let me go,” said Danny.

“With that shoulder?” asked Aunt Lummy. “I don't think so!”

“I can do it,” said Danny. “It's only pain. I can still move my arm.”

So he climbed the tree for the second time today, slowly this time, testing the strength in his left arm and shoulder every time before relying on them to hold him.

When he was far enough up the tree that he could see none of the people below him, he came to a place where he couldn't find any kind of handhold at all. The next higher branch was simply out of reach. Yet he had come this way. This high in the tree there were no alternate routes.

I was moving faster, Danny thought. I was almost
running
up the tree. I must have leapt upward and reached it without realizing it.

Yet he knew this was not true. Such a leap as this he would have noticed and remembered—if for no other reason than to brag that he had done it.

He had climbed the tree in the same kind of single-minded trance that came over him when he ran. He didn't remember picking his way or watching his footsteps when he ran his fastest, and likewise he had no memory of gripping this branch or that one when he had made his first climb, though he remembered every handhold and every reach on this second time up the tree.

He closed his eyes. How could he possibly go back down and tell them that what he had climbed before, he could not climb a second time? What could they possibly think, except that he refused to go? What if someone else got to this same place, and saw the tee-shirt hanging far out of reach? What would they think? Only that Danny didn't want to free the girls from their imprisonment. Then Uncle Poot would ask the tree to sacrifice and break the living branch, and Danny's punishment would be severe indeed. Who would think him anything but a drekka then?

Yet he knew there was a way up, and not just because of the logic that the tee-shirt was knotted around a branch, so Danny must have been there; he knew there was a way because he could sense it, where it began and where it led, even though there were no handholds that his eyes could see.

So he closed his eyes and reached upward, sliding his hand along the rough trunk. Ah, if only you could speak to me, Scarlet Oak, if only we were friends. If only you could bend your branch to me.

And as that yearning mixed with his despair, he twisted and flung his body upward. What did it matter if he missed the branch and fell? His days were numbered anyway, if he did not bring those girls back down.

His hand gripped a branch. He opened his eyes.

It was not the next branch up, the one that he had reached for in vain a moment before. It was the very branch the tee-shirt hung on.

How did I get from there to here?

But even as he asked himself the question, he answered it. I could not have done it with hands and feet. Nor is there any magic that lets a twelve-year-old boy leap upward three times his own height.

No, there
was
such a magic, only Danny had never seen it. The whole world had not seen it since 632
A.D
. He had to close his eyes and breathe deeply as he took it in.

I must have made a gate. A little one, a gate that takes me only there to here. I must have made it when I climbed the first time, and when I leapt again just now I passed through it.

He had read about gates like this in books. They were the gates that were within the reach of Pathbrothers, or even Lockfriends sometimes, back in the days when gatemagery was still practiced in the world. And now that he was thinking of it this way, Danny could see just where the gate began and ended. It was nothing visible, not even a quivering in the air or a rearrangement of the leaves, like Uncle Poot's temporary clant had been. He simply knew that it was there, knew where it began and ended,
felt
it almost as if it were a part of him.

Danny had
made
a gate. How many others had he made, not knowing it? It must be gates like this that had allowed him to get past the watching trees at the perimeter. How long had he been making them? How many were there?

As soon as the question formed in his mind, the answer came. He could sense the placement of every gate that he had ever made. There were scarcely two dozen of them, but from his reading he knew that this was really quite a lot. Even a Pathbrother could only make a dozen gates of any size, because each gate required that a portion of the gatemage's outself remain behind with it. A trained, experienced gatemage could close the gates that he had made himself, erase them and gather his outself fragments back into the whole. But Danny had no idea how such a thing was done. And there was no one to teach him.

I've made two dozen gates without knowing that I was doing it, without feeling it at all. Yet I've been finding the ones that lead outside the compound, because I could sense without realizing it exactly where they were and where they led and how to use them.

Now every one of them is lying about inside the compound, waiting for someone to stumble into it and find himself abruptly in another place. It only had to happen once, and the discoverer would know there was a gatemage in the world again, and one with strength enough to make a gate rather than merely find and open up a gate that someone else had made.