Wild Magic (6 page)

“Today should be a day of celebration. The curse—gone. The Beast—gone. The pain and the shame—gone, gone,
gone
! Two hundred and fifty years . . . Have I not suffered enough? Been punished enough?”

He left the table, returned to the ledge, and gazed upon the landscape. The whole of Elvendale lay before him, green and glistening in the morning sunshine. Stray clouds cast shadows upon the land, passing over the valley like a giant's footprints, heading home to the hills of the north.

He could see wood smoke rising from a dozen homestead chimneys. Across the valley, elves were busy with breakfast. Kitchens were filling with laughter and light, cooking and conversation. Parents, partners, children, friends . . . They were all there, gathered around their glowing hearths.

Finn wistfully turned his gaze south to the Morvern Mountains. Was his family still there? He didn't know. So much time had passed since he had seen them last. Families change.

But some things don't.

Finn felt his gaze wandering. He tried to stop it, but he couldn't. His eyes were drawn, as they always were, down the mountains to the immense green smudge below. A place of fearsome magic, untouched by time.

The Whispering Forest. The place where it all began.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

The Whispering Forest was a dark, wild, unknowable place. Acres and acres of trees, tall and menacing, whispering their secrets as the centuries rolled by.

Elves never entered the Whispering Forest. It was forbidden. No one could remember the reason anymore, but they still obeyed the rule. They knew they could travel the length and breadth of Elvendale. Climb any mountain, swim any river, follow any path, explore any cave. But they couldn't enter the Whispering Forest. Even if they had lost an arrow and could see it, lying among the trees, they couldn't go in to fetch it. It was lost. Gone for good. And the strange thing was, if they returned the next day, the arrow would actually be gone. Though who had taken it, they would never discover.

Whatever the reason, it didn't matter much. Elvendale had forests that were truly beautiful, full of ferns and streams and pools of warm sunlight. But the Whispering Forest could look dark and shadowy even on the brightest days. Why would anyone choose to go to such an unappealing place?

And why would anyone choose to defy an elven law? There weren't many. Elves valued freedom and the right to roam. But they were a civilized society, and civilization is based on laws and respect for them. To break a law was an act of defiance. It was like saying,
I care nothing for you and your view of
the world.

Elves weren't like that.

But Finn wasn't a pure-blooded elf. He was half human. And it was the human blood in him that made him wild and rebellious. Made him ride into the Whispering Forest when all his companions had given up the chase. At least, that's what he told himself later, when it was too late to change anything.

It had happened one bright autumn day. Finn was out hunting with his friends. His horse, Aspen, was thundering beneath him, keeping pace with the other faery mounts. Ahead ran the hounds: twenty of them, with sleek black coats, red ears, and panting tongues. They were storming across a field, pursuing a hind—a young, female red deer—when it disappeared into a small thicket of trees.

The hounds followed. Finn heard a chorus of excited yelps, then the deer emerged and ran on. Only it wasn't the same deer. It wasn't a hind anymore. It was a stag with spectacular antlers. And it wasn't red—it was white. Pure white with a silvery sheen, like ice on a frosty morning. This was no ordinary stag. This was a living, breathing vessel of magic. It raced across the field faster than thought and, in a frenzy of baying and barking, the hounds burst out of the thicket and gave chase.

“Fly, boys, fly!” shouted Perlal, the best of the riders. He was half out of the saddle with excitement, though he was in no danger of falling. He was too good a rider for that.

Finn grinned. He didn't know if Perlal was calling to the hounds or the other riders, but it didn't matter. They were all in this together: a fast, glorious pursuit of perfect beauty.

Finn leaned forward and whispered in his horse's ear. “Run, Aspen! Like the wind!” His horse
harrumphed
and obeyed. The wind whistled past Finn's ears. His eyes sparkled with speed-tears. His hair streamed out behind, longer than Aspen's tail. Had there ever been a chase like this?

The stag leaped a boundary ditch and headed down a lane: a shadowy tunnel of green, with trees arching over on both sides. There was no way out, but the stag was swifter than the hounds and knew it. On it went, faster and faster, down the lane and into a meadow.

Beyond the meadow lay the Whispering Forest.

The stag bucked insolently and vanished into its cool, shadowy embrace. The hounds followed. By the time Finn and Perlal emerged from the lane, there was nothing to see except the tails of the pack stragglers, waving between the trees.

Perlal slowed his horse and reached for his hunting horn.

“No!” cried Finn. “What are you doing?”

“Calling back the hounds,” said Perlal. “It's over. We're not going in there.” He put the horn to his lips and blew.

“But we're so close!” protested Finn. “The stag was tiring. The hounds nearly had him.”

“I think not!” laughed Perlal. “A creature like that will run till his legs wear down. Let him go, my friend!”

Perlal sounded his horn again. The hounds started to appear, emerging from the shadows with lolling tongues and wagging tails. The other riders arrived too, laughing and joking as they relived the drama of the hunt.

But Finn didn't greet them. He was lost in thought, staring hard at the forest. He rode to the forest edge and peered into the gloom.

“Finn!” cried Perlal. “Leave it be! The hunt is over. It is time for feasting! For making merry!” He laughed loudly.

Finn turned in the saddle and scowled at him. Perlal was shocked. Finn was in a terrible temper. He was frowning so hard, his eyebrows met in the middle. The eyes beneath them were fierce and flinty. Colder than the caves under Hamelin Hill.

“Finn,” said Perlal, serious now, “come away. You know you cannot enter that forest.”

Finn said nothing, simply glared at the trees.

Perlal turned to the other riders for support. Instantly, they were by his side.

“Finn!” This was Fennon, the oldest of the group. “Come away. The forest is forbidden. The Elf King himself does not ride there.”

Finn swung Aspen around. “Does not—or
dares
not?”

“Does not,” replied Fennon. “He obeys the elven laws of this land and you should too.”

“
Pah!
” spat Finn. “How old are these laws? Times change.”

“But forests don't,” said Fennon darkly. “This is wild talk, Finn. We are your friends, but there's not one of us who will ride with you if you enter that forest. Act wisely, my friend.”

“You delay me,” said Finn. “With every word, the stag disappears deeper into the forest and I must have him. Farewell to you all.”

With that, he turned Aspen and thundered into the Whispering Forest.

“Finn!” Perlal spurred his horse forward but stopped at the forest's edge. He would go no farther.

“Perlal,” shouted Fennon after him, “leave him. We've lost one friend today; let's not make it two.”

“Do you really think he's lost to us?” said Perlal, coming back.

“Who knows?” said Fennon. “He may return with tales of hidden treasure. Dragons. Gold. Wonders beyond our imagination.”

“He may die,” said Perlal.

“Perhaps,” said Fennon. “But I think not.” He gazed toward the forest, with its whispering trees and hidden secrets. “I think Finn will live to curse this day.”

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Finn rode deeper into the forest, searching for any sign of the fleeing stag. The forest wasn't as dark and lifeless as it had appeared from the outside. Sunlight was filtering through the canopy of leaves, dappling the trees and daubing the earth with golden puddles. Squirrels were sifting through the fallen leaves. An emerald woodpecker drummed on a log. But there was no sign of the stag.

Then a pheasant flew from the undergrowth, protesting loudly, and Finn caught a sudden flash of silver between the trees. With a smile, he gripped the reins tighter and spurred Aspen on.

Soon he saw the stag. It was bounding through the forest, effortlessly clearing every hurdle. But no matter how fast the stag ran, Aspen kept pace. Finn howled in excitement. He knew he was riding beyond reason, endangering both his own life and Aspen's. One stumble and their necks would be broken. But he didn't care. He felt wild, free, immensely powerful—and he had to have the stag. Absolutely
had
to have it.

The stag ran on, never pausing in its stride. It knew the forest so well, it didn't need to think where it was going. But suddenly there was a tree blocking the way. An immense sycamore, recently uprooted. The stag was forced to change direction. Now it was running through unfamiliar trees. It twisted and turned—but the horse was coming closer. It leaped and dived—but the horse was coming closer. It panted and strained—but the horse was coming closer.

And then, to its horror, the stag found it had run onto a precipice—a rocky outcrop. There was no escape. It couldn't leap to freedom. There was nothing but a perilous drop below.

There was a thunder of hoofbeats. The stag spun around to face the death bringer.

It was an elf. The most beautiful elf it had ever seen. Hair as dark as a crow's wing. Eyes the color of wood violets. But the eyes were cold. This elf would show no mercy. No compassion.

Finn reached for an arrow, set it into his bow, and let it fly:
ffooooooo!

The arrow flew through the air and hit the stag. It fell to the ground, mortally wounded. But strangely, the arrow rebounded, flew back through the air, and struck Finn in the thigh. He tumbled from his horse and the two of them—hunter and hunted— lay there, united in blood.

And then, with the light fading in its eyes, the stag turned to Finn and cursed him: “May you never be healed. May the wound in your thigh return every month, to weep for three days and three nights, ending on a full moon. And on that night, may you be transformed into a beast. And may you hunt, over and over and over again, as you have hunted me. May you be haunted by your loathsome desire to kill, driven by your savage desire for blood. May you find no peace—just endless pain and torment—for all eternity.”

The stag fell back against the earth and Finn heard the death rattle in its breath.

“Wait!” he cried. “Is there no cure? Can I never be healed? I never meant for this to happen. I was lost in the excitement of the chase. My blood was hot. I didn't think.”

The stag sighed, long and deep. Its eyes closed.

“Please!” said Finn. “I must know! Can I be cured?”

“No,” whispered the stag. “You cannot. But there is hope. There is always hope.”

“What do you mean?” said Finn. He began to drag himself across the mossy earth, desperate to hear the stag's last words. “Where is the hope?”

The stag opened its eyes one last time. “One day, perhaps, you may pass the curse to another. In the bite of the Beast.”

“Who will that be?” Finn cradled the stag's head in his arms. “A stranger? A foe?”

“A human child. One who will be as you once were. Of this world, yet not of it.”

“How will I know this child?” said Finn. “Will there be a sign?”

The stag shuddered in Finn's arms. There was barely a breath left.

“Will there be a sign?”

The stag gazed into Finn's eyes. Why should it say anything more? Why should it unravel the curse it had so artfully spun? Should Finn not suffer forever? No. Nothing should suffer forever.

“Please,” begged Finn.