“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. ”― T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land and Other Poems
Once, there was a young man named Roland who lived in a village called Strangleroot. In those days, the town was known for its wealth and prosperity. Set in a wide valley half-ringed by mountains, its residents boasted homes of timber and stone, golden rings upon their fingers, and all were pious worshippers of the Light.
Strangleroot was also set hard against the last vestige of an ancient forest, peopled by trees like sleeping gods whispering half-heard prophecies in their perpetual twilight slumber. If you had asked any villager, they would have told you they had tamed the forest, that its trackless miles held no fear for them.
But that was a lie.
Pillaging the forest granted them great riches: wood for their cookfires, paper for their religious texts, and new land to expand their holdings. They claimed ownership of that ancient expanse as a right granted by their mastery of all things and the mandate of the Light.
But that was a lie.
The woods, while but a remnant of that Brobdingnagian expanse that birthed all things, were dark and deep. Whispers spoke of evil wolves that prowled its darkling paths, wild men who worshipped devils, half-seen terrors neither human nor animal, and lurking demons. Only the forester’s axe and fervent prayer held those threats at bay.
But that was a lie.
Like all the residents of Strangleroot, Roland was warned about the forest and its dangers.
“Stay out of the woods, whatever you do,” had warned his mother. “Dark things walk there, and the Light cannot penetrate to help you. They’re like to take your soul.”
“Don’t go farther into the woods than the Light illumines,” had opined Father Harold Maunder, the village’s priest, during one holy day’s service. “Grab your axe! Grab your saw! Hew from the edges! The Light has given us the wealth of the forest and the means to seize it with both hands! Hew and chop, build and grow! Let the Dark tremble in fear at our approach!”
“You see all that I have?” had asked John O’Sullivan, the richest man in town. He gestured at his fine home, his handsome wife and children, his mill, and other businesses, as well as his submissive servants. “All won by the sweat of my brow and the effort of my two hands alone, wresting it from the forest. Industry, not idleness, is the path of the Light.”
All those examples Roland took to heart. So, when he fell deeply in love with Anne, he followed the rules set forth by his elders. He worked the edge of the forest, harvesting lumber to build a home and clear land. He took Anne for his wife, and they lived in their little home set far enough from the woods that they need not fear wolves, except in the leanest of times.
Anne would sing as she helped Roland, while she mended clothes, and while she did anything else. Roland would hum her songs as he went to the edge of the forest to hew down the ancient trees and bring new land under the plow, treasuring Anne’s music like a talisman against the dark. Those were the happiest days of his life.
But they were not to last.
A sudden sickness swept through Strangleroot, afflicting only the eldest daughters of founding families. None knew its origins, but it was widely whispered that it was a curse from the evil that lurked in the forest. Dark pustules around the mouth and under the neck were the hallmark of the dread disease. Some daughters recovered, but they were never the same ever after. They went about with haunted eyes and shaking hands, refusing to speak of what they had endured.
Some daughters did not recover. Poor Anne was such a one. Roland came home one day to find his once hale wife sorely afflicted. She lay on their bed, ropes of black trailing from burst pustules around her mouth and dripping down her neck to her shoulders.
Desperate for a cure, Roland rushed to the physician, but no poultice nor potion could cure her. Abandoning medicine, Roland turned to Father Maunder. The priest called down the power of the Light on Anne, but the Light was impotent. He called on the old grandmothers, but their tinctures and teas did naught.
In the end, all he could do was sit by her bedside and weep. Her eyes turned black the next day, and the day after, she died.
Roland sorely grieved her loss. He tore his hair and beard and rubbed ashes into his face and clothing. For days, he neither ate nor slept, but wandered Strangleroot as one lost. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and still Roland mourned Anne’s passing.
A year after the pestilence, most of life in Strangleroot had returned to normal. Even Roland, now unsmiling and usually silent, had taken up his axe again. He worked mechanically, more to occupy his hands and mind than out of any love for the work, and no one heard him hum Anne’s songs anymore.
Perhaps that was the key to what happened next. Or perhaps it was simply that the forest was not through with Roland.
One day, Roland was at the woods’ edge, his axe in hand. Bright sunshine held sway all around him, but ahead, shadows clotted beneath the boughs, thick as drying blood. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him: what would it be like to walk beneath those clustered boughs, to set foot on ancient paths, and to disappear ‘neath the Oak King’s shadow, if only for a moment?
Roland shook his head to clear it of such blasphemous ideas. No sooner than he set foot in the forest than would demons come to rend him limb from limb. He had not forgotten the warnings of his youth, nor the pestilence that had ripped his love away. He raised the axe, ready to continue felling trees, but something rustled amongst the saplings. He stayed his blow, axe poised to kill should a wolf or evil impling emerge. Then, a flash of pale flesh, the reflection of dark eyes, and the echo of a laugh he had never thought to hear this side of death’s dry land.
“Anne?” he called.
The trees rustled. He thought he heard her voice singing softly amongst the oak leaves, but her words were indistinct.
“Anne?” he called again. “My love, can it be?”
Leaves crunched underfoot, but the tread was too heavy to be that of his beloved. He raised the axe, loss and rage boiling in his heart.
He delayed his blow. A human head emerged from between green leaves, attached to a human neck, which sat atop human shoulders and a human torso. Two very average arms and two unremarkable legs appeared, as well.
Roland slowly lowered his axe but did not put it away. While the newcomer certainly appeared human, there was no arguing that he had come from the forest. From the Dark. Could he be one of the wild men, possessed and rendered mad by worshipping false gods?
And now that Roland looked more closely, the man was not so unremarkable as he had at first seemed. He was tall, broad-chested, and bore a thick, flowing mustache. His blue-green eyes twinkled and, beneath the archaic homespun tunic, Roland caught the glint of gold about the man’s neck.
“Here now, who—” Roland began, but something stopped him.
The man, seeing the axe in Roland’s hand, raised his own empty ones. “I mean no harm to you or yours.”
Roland said nothing, but studied the newcomer’s face. “Do I know you?” he asked at length.
“No,” the man said with a smile. “But I know you, Roland, son of Arn, son of Tinus, son of Urus, son of Dannotalos, son of Allam.”
What witchcraft had given the man the names of his ancestors? Roland spat to the side and made the sign of the evil eye.
The mustached man laughed. “You’ll find no evil intent in me, Roland.” He stepped forward. Roland raised his axe again, but the man forestalled him. “My name is Arleno. I come to help you, not hurt you.”
“And why should I trust you? You come from the forest, and all know it is a place of evil and death.”
“Evil and death? Fah!” The man laughed. So great was his charm that Roland began to doubt the truth of it himself. Then a shift of leaves put the man in full light, and it seemed to Roland that two beings stood before him. One, a man, whole and hale. And another, rotted and putrefying, riding just beneath the first’s skin. The leering grin of a dessicated skull seemed to echo the man’s bold laughter.
“Foul spirit! I see you there. The Light illumines despite your lies!”
“Spirit? Perhaps. But foulness should be proved before laying accusations at a stranger’s feet.”
“What is it you want of me?” Roland demanded.
“I think it might be that I can offer you something, Roland. What is your heart’s desire?”
Roland’s laugh was bitter. “What I desire most is not something you can offer.”
“Oh? So sure, are you?”
Anne’s laughter echoed through the woods. Roland’s head jerked up, longing and fear warring in his eyes. “Anne!”
“Just so.”
“You pretend you can give me back my Anne?”
“It is within my power, but it is not so simple.”
“Liar! Even the Light cannot breathe life into the dead!”
Arleno shrugged. “The Light is not the only Power. There are older forces in this world, and you might be surprised at what can be accomplished.”
“Roland, please…” Anne’s voice faded into the arboreal shadows.
A sob broke from Roland. “If there is even the smallest chance, I must take it. How can I not?” He fixed Arleno with a glare. “What must I do?”
Arleno smiled and spread his hands. “It is not complicated, my friend. But I do not say that it will be easy. After all, your dear Anne is more than a year dead. Such a feat requires a price. Are you willing to pay it?”
“Damn your eyes, devil, you know that I am!”
Arleno’s smile widened to the point that it seemed like his face would split. Again, Roland perceived that strange duality: the putrefied skull grinned out at him from behind Arleno’s beaming face. “Very well, very well. You must undertake three tasks.”
“Three tasks, you say? What madness is this?”
“Tut-tut! Three tasks are not too much to ask for a working of this magnitude.”
“What would you have of me?”
“First, you must find the God-Who-Is-A-Mountain. Within the god’s chest beats a heart of purest silver. Bring that to me, and I will give you your second task.”
“You speak in riddles, demon. Tell me plainly, where am I to seek this god?”
“Travel north from Strangleroot for half a day and enter the crevice you discover there. You will find what you seek.”
Arleno held out both hands. In one was a flute carved from bone. Hideous faces chased one another up and down its length. “Play this, and the God-Who-Is-A-Mountain will fall into a deep, deep sleep.”
In the other, there was a knife. It was an ancient, heavy thing with a wide, triangular blade wedded to a hilt of some dark wood Roland did not know. A sigil was engraved between the crossarms: a triskelion set within a circle. “You must use this blade to cut out the heart,” Arleno said.
Roland clutched both to his chest.
Roland followed Arleno’s directions to the letter. He departed Strangleroot at dawn, carrying with him the dagger, the flute, and a small amount of food. He traveled north through the surrounding farmsteads and small holdings until the sun stood directly overhead. By this time, he was at the foot of the great mountains that half-encircled the town.
Before him, he found an oval-shaped rent in the base of the tallest peak. Sunshine penetrated only a few feet into the space, picking out jagged stones Roland would have to traverse. Overhead, the rest of the mountain bulked into the sky, its top still crowned with snow.
Fear pricked his heart, but Roland would not relent. “Anne, I know not if you can hear me, but I am coming, my love.” So saying, he plunged into the dark crevice.
Inside, the ground sloped downward. Roland found that after a few moments, his eyes adjusted and he was able to see with some detail; dim light came from the opening, but there was another light source that he could not make out. It seemed like the dim, red glow came from the very air around him.
For hours, Roland struggled on that ruinous trail, always downward, always toward the secret heart of the mountain. As he journed, he fancied he heard something. Thud-thud, it went. Thud-thud-thud. Then it could no longer be denied. The sound reverberated through the cave.
A little while later, Roland came to a narrowing. Ruddy light streamed from the other side, and he could feel the thud-thud-thud in his skull. He ducked down to try to peer through the opening and got his first glimpse of the God-Who-Is-A-Mountain.
Beyond the opening, the cavern widened, forming a massive bowl with a flat bottom. Stalactites jutted from the ceiling like gargantuan teeth, and veins of silver and copper wove through the stone of the walls.
In the center of the bowl’s floor was a single immense throne carved from living rock. The god sat upon that throne, his rough-hewn form magnificent. To Roland’s eye, he seemed carved from stone himself, sculpted with some massive chisel. Four arms erupted from shoulders the width of a peasant’s shack. The head that sat on those shoulders was equally immense, with two red-glowing pits for eyes and a great, gaping mouth filled with molten stone. As Roland watched, the god sniffed at the air, turning its massive head this way and that, as though scenting something in the air.
“I smell you, little child of the forest. Long has it been since your kin visited me. Come out that we might speak.” The god’s voice was the thunder of boulders crashing down a mountainside.
Roland squeezed through the opening and stood in the god’s presence, gripping the flute behind his back.
“Ah, I see you now, little forestling,” the god wheezed. “What boon do you seek?”
“Boon?” Roland could not help but ask.
“The children of the forest oft came seeking my favor in ages past. They would leave me gifts in return for plentiful snows to engorge the river and for the safety of their flocks on my flanks. What do you seek?”
Roland was unsure how to answer. Arleno had said nothing about such a situation. Nervously, he fiddled with the flute behind his back.
“What is it you have hidden there?” the god asked.
“Nothing worrisome. A simple flute is all,” Roland answered.
“A flute of bone?”
“Yes, such a one.”
“Ah,” the god sighed. Roland thought he sounded sad. “Then you have not come to seek a boon. You have come as a thief and murderer into my house.”
Roland saw no profit in lying. “Yes, but I bear you no ill will. In truth, I did not even know of your existence. I am no child of the forest! I am a man of Strangleroot, and we have tamed those cursed woods.”
“Ah, a man of Strangleroot, you say.” The god laughed. “And yet, I smell the forest in your blood.”
“No!” Roland shouted. Then he shook his head. “It matters not. I must take your heart of silver. It is the only way to return my lost love to life.”
“My heart in exchange for the life of a loved one? Ah, hm, hm,” the god trailed off. He seemed to be mulling something over. Eventually, he spoke again. “I was wrong, hm, ah. You do come seeking a boon from me, forestling. I grant it. Take my heart, with my blessing. But I ask a favor in return.”
Surprised at this turn of events, Roland asked, “What favor? If it is within my power, I will grant it immediately.”
“Do not use that cursed flute to put me to sleep. I would look you in the eye when you take my heart and my life.”
The mountain god’s courage and compassion shook Roland to his core. He threw the flute as hard as he could against the wall. It cracked, and fey flames danced along the cleft. The flute fell to the floor with a black, smoking crack down the center.
“I will not use the flute,” Roland said.
“Come, then,” the mountain god bid him. “Climb upon my dais and take my blessing back with you.”
Roland quickly stepped to the god’s side, feeling dwarfed by his immensity. True to his word, the god refused to close his eyes, instead staring directly into Roland’s own.
“It is good that I can honor our ancient agreement in these, my final moments,” the god said, and sighed. “Long have the forestlings lived protected in my shadow. I shall miss them.”
With a great cry, Roland brought the dagger down. There was a crash like thunder, and the cave shook. Stalactites broke and fell to the floor. Roland held up a massive chunk of silver as large as his head, which he had hacked from the wall with the dagger.
“What have you done, forest-borne?” the god asked.
Roland bowed his head. “I could not take your heart. To destroy you for my own gain would be wrong. I ask instead that my boon be this: shape this piece of silver so that it looks like your heart, and let me carry it away to do with as I will.”
The god thought about this for a moment, then agreed. “So shall it be.” He took the silver in his hands, molding it as one would wet clay. In moments, he held a perfect human heart. The god handed it to Roland.
“Take it with my blessing, child of the forest. And do not let centuries pass before your kind and I visit together once more.”
Roland accepted the heart, retrieved the broken flute, and left.
“You have brought the heart?” Arleno asked.
Roland had ventured once more to the edge of the woods, and the other man had appeared mere moments later. Somewhere beyond the fringe of leaves, Anne sang softly, her words not quite clear.
“I have,” Roland replied, holding the silver heart out with both hands.
Arleno took the heart and held it to his chest, stroking it with the fingers of one hand. “Yes, I can still feel the echo of the God-Who-Is-A-Mountain. Or should I say, who was a mountain. Now, only the mountain remains.” He passed the heart back to Roland, who set it on the ground.
Arleno studied Roland’s face intently. “Did you use the flute? Where is it?”
Roland brought out the cracked remains of the flute and handed them to Arleno. The man accepted them, but when he saw that it was broken, he clutched them to his chest. “What have you done?” he hissed. “How came this to be?”
“It broke in the god’s chamber.”
“Then how is it that you were able to cut out his heart?” Arleno demanded.
“He was awake when I used the dagger.”
Arleno studied Roland’s face. “I can find no falseness!”
“No,” Roland replied. “Now, what is my second task? Where is Anne? Is she safe?”
Arleno laughed. “Anne is in the Otherworld and safe enough. You should worry more about your own safety, especially in the next task.”
“What is it?”
Arleno’s smile was fey. “You must go to the River Tri. There, you will find a beaver lodge. Swim inside, and you will find a great bird. Feed the silver heart to the bird and bring me what it vomits forth.”
“What will it vomit?” Roland wanted to know.
“It matters not, only that you bring it to me as quickly as possible.”
“And this will free Anne?”
“No, you will still have one final task to complete. But I promise, Anne will be freed if you complete it successfully.”
Distraught and angry, Roland took the heart and left.
The River Tri flowed down from the root of the mountains, through the town of Strangleroot, and from there, into the trackless forest. Roland found the beaver dam just south of the town, between it and the forest.
Roland stood on the edge of the pool. To get into the lodge, he would have to swim while carrying the heart. That would be no mean feat. Then he would have to hold his breath long enough to find the entrance—another challenge. No doubt the beavers would take a dim view of him entering their home. And once inside, he would have to force-feed the silver heart to some gigantic bird? He bowed his head and prayed to the Light for help.
It was not the Light that sent aid, however.
Casting about, Roland spied a stand of sweetgrass. The folk of Strangleroot had little use for it and razed it whenever they found it. There were whispers that the demon-ridden denizens of the forest used it in their rituals. No townsperson would tolerate that heathen practice. Now, though, those waving stalks of grass promised a solution to a pressing problem: how to carry the heart underwater. Quickly, Roland gathered stalks, their sweet fragrance perfuming the air, and set to work.
It took longer than he had anticipated, but at last his work was done. The heart now rested in a woven sling. Roland draped the sling across his shoulders and double-checked that the heart was secure before venturing into the water. He gasped at the cold, but pressed on. If this would give him back Anne, he could suffer any amount of discomfort. As he neared the den, he ducked under the water.
He struggled to orient himself; the water was brown and murky. There! He could just make out the branches used to construct the lodge. Suddenly, something lunged at him, driving him away from the lodge. A beaver? He twisted, and his attacker disappeared into the gloom.
Lungs burning with the need for air, he dove toward the structure. The entrance was somewhere here, but where? Something slammed into his side; pain lanced through him, and stars danced in his vision. He fought back, punching and kicking at his assailant. It vanished again.
His lungs ached. Roland frantically scrabbled between branches, hoping to find the entrance. His vision was blurring; it took every ounce of willpower to keep from breathing in the water. Again, the beaver slammed into his body, fighting to protect its home from this invader. Roland battled back, but it was a losing fight.
Suddenly, with the swish of a wide black tail, the beaver was gone. Blackness danced at the edge of his vision, and his strength was failing. Then he saw it: the opening. With the last vestiges of his strength, he pulled himself through. He lay gasping on the lodge floor.
Roland lay on the earthen floor of the lodge, gasping in great lungfuls of air. The atmosphere was humid and close, but he did not care. When he was able, he sat up, supporting himself on one elbow. To his surprise, there was light within the lodge, mostly from the two vent holes in the ceiling. It was at least enough that he could pick out his surroundings.
There it was; a great heron-like bird lay against the far wall of the lodge, eyeing Roland sideways. Its breathing was hard enough that he could feel it on his skin. Roland took out the heart and held it out, like an offering. Sunlight from a vent hole struck the heart, sending sparkling silver lights dancing across the lodge’s interior.
The bird’s interest was piqued. It eyed the heart, head cocked to the side, then switched to the other eye. It’s waiting, Roland thought. But for what? Then it raised its head and opened its beak, issuing a harsh craw-craw-craw. It shook its head back and forth, beak wide open, almost as if—
Roland took the heart and dropped it into that waiting maw. The bird snapped its beak shut, head sinking down on its sinuous neck to rest on its breast. The great black eyes closed for a moment, and Roland wondered what was supposed to happen next. It looked for all the world like the bird was falling asleep.
Then one beady black eye opened. Wider and wider it stretched. Roland heard rumbling and gurgling growing louder. The bird squawked, whether in alarm or in discomfort, Roland was unsure. It raised its head again, beak open, head bobbing back and forth, back and forth. The rumbling grew louder! The bird’s craw-craw-craw intensified.
And then, with a great lurch, an enormous white ball of mucus shot from its open mouth to land at Roland’s feet. He stumbled back in surprise, but realized that this was what he had sought. Grimly, Roland tried to wipe the mucus away from the object it enveloped and eventually succeeded. He stared at it in confusion. It was a cocoon of enormous proportions.
Meanwhile, the bird had returned to its rest, head pillowed on its body, eyes closed in slumber. Roland grabbed the cocoon and departed the lodge the way he had come.
“You have done what I asked?” Arelno’s face was strained with barely suppressed excitement.
“Yes,” Roland said, offering the cocoon.
The man took the cocoon gently, almost reverently. Squatting down at the edge of the forest, he drew the heavy, triangular-bladed dagger once more, then deftly sliced through the silk. Blue liquid spilled from the opening, and a sweet scent perfumed the air. Roland thought it smelled of honeysuckle and summer sunshine.
Arleno then reached inside the cocoon and pulled forth a blue bundle. It took Roland a moment to realize what the bundle was in truth: a baby. It had light blue skin, a tuft of dark hair, and delicate, shell-shaped ears.
“A forestling!” Roland breathed. He clenched his fists. This was the spawn of those who had sent the pestilence that robbed him of Anne, a child of demon-ridden monsters.
“Just so,” Arleno agreed. Then he held the child out to Roland.
Roland, fists still clenched, backed away, a look of horror on his face. “I will not touch that unclean thing, Light preserve me!”
“Do you wish to see your Anne once more?”
Roland nodded, unable to speak.
“Then take it you must. Your final task revolves around this creature.”
Hands shaking with suppressed fury, Roland took the baby from Arleno. He held it stiffly, half afraid it would cast a spell over him or place a curse on him. It made a small noise and turned over in his hands, eyes firmly shut in sleep.
“What am I to do with it?”
“Take it deep into the forest, where you will find a fallen tower of dark stone. I will meet you there and guide you in the final task.”
“Meet me? Why can you not show me the way yourself? The woods are dark and deep. How will I find the tower?”
“Anne will guide you.” Arleno stepped backward into the woods and vanished, leaving Roland holding the forestling babe.
Roland stared at the forest. Green leaves danced lightly in the summer breeze. The drone of cicadas echoed across the land and within his skull. Delicate laughter came from the other side of the screening of saplings.
“Anne? Wait, I’m coming!” Roland cried, stepping into the forest. The leaves closed behind him.
The sounds of the outside world dwindled. It was as though the entire forest held its breath in waiting. A spark of light caught Roland’s eye. A will-o’-the-wisp danced out from behind a tree.
Roland heard Anne’s laughter, then her voice. “Follow, Roland, I will lead you so that you may do what must be done.”
The wisp darted away, and Roland followed, pushing through saplings and young trees before reaching older growth. Here, the boles were thicker, the canopy higher, and the sense of anticipation stronger. Seconds became minutes became hours, and still the wisp danced ahead. Snippets of songs Anne loved to sing drifted back to him, half-heard words, and promises for the future.
Before he knew it, Roland found himself deep within the woods. Here, the trees grew to immensity, their presence intruding on his mind in a way he had never experienced. The very air felt alive and watchful. He scanned around, seeking signs of the ruins Arleno had mentioned, but found precious little. Was that hump a fallen wall? Could that ridge be the remnants of a foundation? Small signs he found at first. A ruined hearth. A half-fallen wall. A rust-eaten sword blade, its grip long rotted away.
Suddenly, a howling cry cut through the forest silence.
Unconsciously gripping the forestling child to his chest, Roland glanced around and realized his error. He had neglected the time in his preoccupation. Darkness was falling; the great boles of ancient trees were now almost lost in the gloaming. Fog swirled at the edges of his sight, further obscuring his vision. Anne’s wisp danced ahead, curving around tree trunks and flying down into dells.
The howl came again, quickly followed by another from a different direction.
The wolves! Had they sensed him? Did they hunt him?
The call came again, closer now.
“Hurry! Hurry!” piped the wisp.
Roland ran after Anne’s wisp, his only thought to escape. His feet sank in the deep humus, slowing his progress. Tree trunks loomed out of the twilight, forcing him to change his path. The sound of his own breathing overrode everything else.
“Run, run!” Anne cried.
Roland’s foot caught in a rotted stump, plunging his leg deep into the soft earth and sending him tumbling. Wrenching pain flared, and he bit back a cry of mingled agony and despair. He found himself on the forest floor, ankle bent at a drunken angle, but the forestling child still clutched safely in his hands. Tears stung his eyes, but he fought them back.
Did the wolves follow? He listened, but all he could hear was his ragged breathing. He could see naught but swirling mist and encroaching darkness now.
Wearily, Roland pulled himself to his feet. He tested his strength, and his ankle bent sickly, sending white-hot pain lancing up his leg.
Broken, damn.
The sound of something rushing through the fallen leaves came to him.
The wolves! They had found him!
He tried to run, but his ankle would not hold him, and he fell, catching himself on the tumbled, lichen-scored wall of an ancient tower. The tower!
“Hurry!” a voice cried. Roland saw Arleno standing a little way away, gesturing for him to come. He hobbled to the man. The wisp danced circles of dim light around them.
“Quickly, the wolves will be upon us in a moment. Place the child on the forest floor.”
Roland did so.
“Take this!” Arleno handed him the triskelion-scarred dagger. Roland took it and wondered why the hilt felt hot in his hand.
“Now, do what must be done! Life for life, Roland.”
“You cannot mean—”
“Of course! If you wish Anne to have a new life, then life must be taken from someone else.”
Roland hesitated, staring down at the helpless creature lying in the leaf litter.
“It is an enemy of your kind, Roland,” Arleno hissed. “It took Anne away from you in the first place! It is only fitting that ending its miserable, worthless life would restore what you have lost.”
Roland gripped the dagger and knelt by the babe’s side. Yes, he thought. How fitting. A life for a life.
The forestling child curled toward him and opened amber eyes.
A wolf snarled on Roland’s left. The pack had found him.
“Kill it now!” Arleno shouted.
The pack circled, wary but hungry. Then three broke off from the others, heads down, lips drawn back from glittering fangs. They approached slowly.
“Do it now, before they reach us! There is no other way to save your wife, Roland!”
Roland stared down at the forestling. It stared back, amber eyes wide. It waved a small hand at him. Roland thought of the children he and Anne would have had if she had not been taken away. Would one of them have looked at him with the same expression? What would they have grown to become?
“Fool, do not hesitate!”
The wisp danced faster, agitation lending her speed and changing her color to a deep red.
“I cannot.”
“You must!”
Roland sat back, his ankle shrieking in agony. He still held the dagger, but lowered it to the ground. “I will not take this child’s life. How could I ever look Anne in the eye, knowing that this child died so that she might live again?”
“It is a monster!”
“It is a child. I will not slay it.”
Arleno snarled and held out his hand. The wisp darted to him and sat on his palm. Saying nothing more, Arleno slipped into a crack in the ruined tower wall and was gone, leaving Roland alone with the wolves.
He could see them clearly now as they approached. A great black she-wolf led the three. A red-brown and a gray she-wolf followed, flanking the leader to prevent Roland’s escape.
The darkness deepened fast now, the circling pack no more than gliding shadows. Only the wall, the three wolves, and Roland were real.
And then the wolves were gone. In their place, three women approached, strange smiles on their faces. The first had skin the color of the night sky and eyes that glowed like stars. The second had skin the color of a burnished acorn, and her eyes glowed like embers. The last was Anne, but transformed.
“What do you seek in our forest, mortal man?” the first one asked, one long-nailed hand reaching toward Roland.
Roland’s laugh was bitter. “I had thought to seek a new life for my wife, Anne, but I see she already has it.”
“Your wife is indeed here,” the second woman replied. “You may yet be reunited, but there is a price to pay.”
“You sound like that old liar Arleno. Where has the devil gone? Damn him! I have undertaken three tasks at his bequest and failed only in one.”
“Arelno’s tasks were only the beginning,” Anne said. She stepped forward and claimed the forestling child, holding it to her breast. Briefly, she sang a soothing song, and the forestling laughed. “And who says you have failed?” she asked.
Roland gripped the dagger’s hilt, unsure whether he should pay the price asked, strike out, or strike himself down. Grief for all that had gone before raged through him.
“Foolish man,” the first woman said, now just inches from Roland. She touched the dagger; the blade turned to rust and the hilt shot roots deep into the soil, branches snaking outward as it rose over Roland’s head.
“Do you wish to pay the price?” she asked.
He shivered as he stared into her depthless, starfire eyes.“Yes,” he said, looking to where Anne waited, seeing both the wolf in the woman and the woman in the wolf.
The first woman laughed, and then there was no woman and only the wolf as she leaped for his throat. White teeth ripped, severing more than arteries. Blood fountained across Roland’s body. Futilely, he clutched at his throat, as though mere flesh could stem the tide of blood, but it was too late. Already, his vision was fading, and he felt his body toppling.
Light, take me, he prayed. But there was no Light. There was only the slowing flow of blood from his throat and then the sensation that he was no longer a part of his body. His awareness spread with his blood, and he felt every rib, vein, and petiole of the leaves beneath him. He dripped into the rotting humus beneath, the scent of decay strong in his nonexistent nostrils. Down, down, down he flowed, through the decay into the decayers. His blood danced along miles-long, thread-thin mycelial filaments that connected tree roots with soil, with other fungi, with lifeforms so small they were invisible, with something hard and white and ancient:
Bones.
The last of Roland’s consciousness flowed slowly, half-congealed already, along bones almost turned to stone. An image came then, a message from those very remains stored in and transmitted by mycelium, an image that blazed bright in Roland’s dying mind, of a tall man with a hearty laugh and drooping mustache. A gold torc gleamed among white bones buried in rich, black loam.
And Roland knew the truth. It came to him in a burst that threatened to shred his disspating consciousness entirely.
With that truth, Roland awoke.
He lay on the forest floor where he had fallen. He stretched his legs, then stood, lifting his head to scent the air. It was redolent with forest scents — pines, oaks, maple, and others, but there was more. He caught the scent of the pack and, somewhere far off, the copper tang of blood rode the night breeze.
The black wolf stood before him. “Welcome, little brother.”
“Join us,” the red-brown wolf growled.
“Run with me!” Anne invited.
Roland threw back his head and howled.
THE END
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