Into the Heartless Wood

by Joanna Ruth Meyer

  “But what are they?”

  Taliesin shrugs. “They’re nothing for me, or for you, to concern ourselves with. Now, as to the matter of your father’s house.”

  “Our house?”

  He regards me with mild confusion, as if not remotely understanding my frustration. “Yes. Let me see.” He shuffles through the papers on the desk for a moment, then pulls one out. “Your father’s house, awarded to him by the king, is now forfeit to the crown. I’m afraid you will have to find some other place to live.”

  “WHAT?” I jerk to my feet, barely keeping myself from lunging across the desk at him.

  Taliesin just hands me the paper, which I scan in a white-hot rage. It’s hard to read when anger is making spots dance in front of my eyes, but I vaguely absorb its contents: the seizure of my father’s house and possessions. I can’t focus on the other things Taliesin said—can’t think about “execution” or “life imprisonment.” I feel myself separating—my mind going one way, my body frozen here.

  “I’ll take Awela then and go pack up the house,” I say heavily, sinking back onto the ottoman. I think of Mother’s cello in the closet, of the telescope and books in the observatory, of Awela’s toys scattered about her little room, of her lace curtains, one of the last things Mother ever made. “I’ll have everything sorted out by the end of the week. You have my word.”

  Taliesin frowns. “I’m afraid you don’t understand.”

  If he says “I’m afraid” one more time, I’m afraid I may kill him. “What don’t I understand?” I say through gritted teeth.

  “The house and all its contents are forfeit to the crown. You can’t go back.”

  “But our things—”

  “Now belong to King Elynion,” says the captain, enunciating each word loudly and slowly, as if he’s speaking to a very stupid child.

  I try to focus on breathing, try not to let the panic crawl into the edges of my vision. “Awela, then. Where is she?” I stare Taliesin down, daring him to keep her from me.

  “The child is being looked after, but she is no longer your concern.”

  “She is my sister! Of course she’s my concern. I demand to see her!”

  “Owen.” Taliesin sighs, steepling his fingers as he peers across the desk. “I’m afraid I must come to the point. As the son of a known traitor—”

  “My father is not a traitor!”

  “—you are suspect as well. If you will sign a document swearing you know nothing of your father’s actions and are not in collusion with him—”

  “How could I be in collusion with him? HE’S NOT A TRAITOR!”

  “—then His Majesty is willing to offer you a post in the army. If you enlist, your sister will be raised as a daughter of the court, and never want for anything. She will of course not be told what befell your father.”

  “And if I do not join?” I hate this man with my whole being, and for a moment I wish I could drag him and the damned king into the Gwydden’s Wood and leave them for the tree sirens. Memory flashes through me: my mother’s heart, pouring her lifeblood onto molded leaves. Seren’s eyes, her skin shining in the rain, violets tangled in her hair. I can barely breathe.

  “If you do not join the army, Owen, I honestly don’t know what will become of you. Your sister will still be looked after, but I can’t think you’ll ever be allowed to see her. Because what will you be? A beggar? A thief? Your sister must be protected from you and your father both.”

  I drop my head into my hands. “Please let me see her. She’s lonely and scared. She needs me.”

  Taliesin scoffs. “She doesn’t need you. Now give me your answer. Will you accept His Majesty’s generous offer? Will you sign the statement that you know nothing of your father’s actions, and enlist?”

  I think of Father, head bent over his star charts, ink staining his fingers, his cup of cinnamon tea gone cold on the desk. I think of Awela, romping in the grass like a newborn lamb, her face stained with strawberries. I think of dancing on a hilltop to the music of a phonograph, four minutes at a time. I think of my mother turning to ash in a bloody wood.

  “I appeal to the king,” I say quietly.

  “Speak louder, boy. I can’t hear you.”

  I fling my head up, locking my eyes on Taliesin’s. “I appeal to the king. It’s my right as a citizen of Tarian. You’re bound by law to uphold that right.”

  The captain sighs, like I am the greatest inconvenience he’s ever had to deal with in his life. Maybe I am. “Fine,” he says, standing from his chair. “But I’m afraid you’re not going to like it very much.”

  I’m not sure what I was expecting of the interior of the palace, but it isn’t this: a foyer under a low ceiling, the walls covered in wood paneling, the carpet a deep mossy green. Taliesin leads me down a corridor lined with more wood paneling, carved intricately with leaves and vines. I have never seen so much wood in my life, and think fleetingly there must be a reason the Gwydden seems to hate the king so much. That’s foolish, of course. She has no particular grievance with the king—she’s centuries old and he was crowned only thirty years ago, when my father was a boy.

  Glass lamps flicker from sconces on the wall, and it takes me a moment to realize they’re not oil but electric, eerie and buzzing. I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of electricity, but now that I’m suddenly confronted with it, I find it more unsettling than anything else.

  I’m surprised when the captain ushers me into a parlor off the main corridor. I was imagining we’d have to walk a long way to reach the king. He gestures at the claw-footed sofa facing an enormous pianoforte. “Wait here.”

  He steps back out into the hall, and shuts the door behind him.

  I pace the room. Apart from the sofa and the pianoforte, there’s a real wood-burning fireplace on the left wall with a narrow bookshelf beside it, and a window looking north. A clock hangs above the fireplace, the seconds ticking down. There aren’t any electric lights in here, just an ordinary oil lamp on the end table.

  I pace until my legs begin to ache, then trade off between peering out the window at the dim stars and perching on the sofa, neck craned around toward the door. I try not to look at the clock. An hour passes. Two. Three. Midnight approaches, and my stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten since the train. I wonder if the king forgot about me. I wonder if Taliesin even told him I’m here.

  I grow stiff with waiting, my mind inventing terrible things: Awela locked in a prison cell, my father executed and buried in an unmarked grave, Seren, her silver fingers dripping blood, laughing as she steals my soul.

  I ache for home, for the telescope in the observatory, for Awela sleeping soundly in her bed downstairs, for Father drinking tea at my elbow.

  It’s after four in the morning by the clock on the wall when the door at last, at last, creaks open.

  I jerk up from the sofa, heart racing, and stare straight into the face of King Elynion. I know him from newspaper articles, from his portrait that hangs in the common room at the inn. He’s far more imposing in real life. His piercing eyes are green, his beard is neatly trimmed, and his dark hair lies loose on his shoulders. He doesn’t look a day over forty, and he’s thin as a sapling.

  Belatedly, I bow. My legs nearly give out.

  “Well then, Owen Merrick. You have proved a very inconvenient ending to my day. Make your request and be done with it.”

  I gulp as I straighten up again, pleading with my body not to shake.

  He folds his arms across his chest. “Well?”

  “Your—Your Majesty.” I chew on my lip. “I’d like to see my sister. And I’d like to know what my father is charged with, and to visit him as well.”

  The king frowns. He’s wearing a green suit and jacket embroidered with gold thread, which glistens in the lamplight. I catch the scent of earth and damp leaves, and realize it’s coming from him.

  “No,” he says.

  I blink. “What?”

  “No. You may not see your sist
er. You may not know what your father has done—if indeed you do not already know—and you may certainly not visit him. Is that all?”

  It feels as if the room is closing in around me, and for a moment, I think I catch that same scent of decay that drenches the Gwydden’s Wood. “Your Majesty, why can I not see my sister?”

  “Because it is best for her if she forgets you and your father, and never remembers her life under the stars.”

  There’s a roaring in my head. “Why?”

  “So she does not grow up to commit the same treason.”

  “I don’t understand what my father has done! Why won’t you tell me?” My voice is high and strained—I’m shouting at the king.

  He grabs my shoulders, his fingers digging into my skin. “It is by my grace alone that you are not currently languishing in a cell with your father. I believe my captain already presented you with my generous offer: Enlist in my army, train with my soldiers. Prove you are loyal to Tarian, to your king.”

  His fingers squeeze tighter still, and I gasp at the pain. “I am loyal. So is my father.”

  He laughs. “Tread carefully, Owen Merrick. Take the chance I give you. Enlist. Train. Prove you are no traitor. Perhaps one day I’ll take you into my personal guard—maybe even let you see your sister again. But right now, there’s too much at stake. So. Will you take my mercy? Or shall I throw you in prison and set the day for your execution?”

  Spots dance in front of my eyes. Fear bites even deeper than the king’s fingers, and I feel the intensity of my own helplessness.

  “Answer me, boy.”

  I suck in a ragged breath.

  He shakes me, hard. “Answer me!”

  “I will take your mercy,” I whimper.

  He lets go of me, and I tumble to the floor. He brushes some speck of dust from his jacket. “Do not dare appeal to me again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank me for my magnanimity.”

  I’m trembling violently, and realize to my horror that tears are pouring down my face. I press my forehead into the carpet, groveling before him. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  I hear his step, the creak of the door, and I’m alone again.

  It takes me some moments to collect myself. I wipe the tears from my eyes, untangle my limbs, stand. I can’t stop shaking.

  Taliesin appears at the door, holding a sheet of paper and a pen. The pen drips ink on the carpet. “I understand you have decided to enlist.”

  “Give me the damned paper,” I growl at him.

  He hands it over. I grab the pen and scrawl my name at the bottom of the page without reading a word.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  SEREN

  CANGEN SAYS GRAVELY: “WE DO NOT HAVE THE POWER TO SPIN you a soul. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Then what can I do?” My voice cracks, breaks. “How can I forsake the monster I was created to be?”

  “We can change your form.” The sunlight gilds the rowan berries in Criafol’s crown a liquid gold. “We can make you appear human. Essentially, you would be human, in all aspects but one. But your choices, your actions—those are up to you, as they have always been.”

  Hope grips me once more.

  Fierce.

  Bright.

  Pren says: “Temporarily. We can temporarily make you appear human. Our mother’s magic is stronger. We cannot thwart it forever.”

  I kneel before them,

  bowing my head to the earth.

  Dirt

  scratches

  my cheek.

  I whisper: “Then make me human for as long as you can.”

  “Do not bow before us, little sister.” Pren touches my face, lifts it to his. His expression is steeped in sorrow.

  I say: “Please. I cannot bear to be the thing she made me a moment longer. Even if it is only for a little while. I want to know what it is like to be something else. Someone else.”

  All three of my brothers sigh, but they do not rebuke me.

  Cangen takes my hand.

  He lifts me to my feet again.

  “It will hurt, dear one. The changing.”

  I think of my mother,

  piercing my arms with her claws,

  stripping the skin from my back.

  I think of Owen’s mother,

  dead in the mud

  because of me. “I do not care about the pain.”

  Cangen says: “Then come with us and be, for a little while, reborn.”

  Cangen walks with me. His rough hand encircles mine. Pren and Criafol flank us.

  We return to the pool where Cangen first found me,

  the waterfall crashing from the rocks above our heads,

  sunlight refracting through the water.

  Patches of rainbows glint,

  dance.

  I kneel on the edge of the pool,

  my face

  to the wood,

  my back

  to the waterfall.

  Pren asks me, solemn: “Are you certain?”

  I think of dancing with Owen under the stars

  to the music of his magical device.

  Of the hatred in his eyes

  when his mother turned to ash.

  Of

  his

  blade

  at

  my

  throat.

  You are only a monster because you choose to be.

  This is me.

  Choosing.

  I say: “I am certain.”

  I bow my head.

  My brothers begin to sing.

  Their voices twine together in an intricate counterpoint,

  around and between and through,

  swelling louder and louder

  until their song seems to envelop the wood.

  The ground beneath me

  shakes.

  The waterfall behind me

  roars.

  Their music sinks into me,

  slips under my skin,

  through muscle and bone,

  down to my heart.

  It is slippery and silver,

  sharp and cold.

  Pain sears through me.

  My skin cracks and

  falls

  from

  my

  flesh.

  My bones bend and

  bend and

  bend

  until they snap

  in a blaze of agony.

  I am enveloped in fire,

  in a million stinging wasps,

  in the flash of white-hot lightning.

  I am falling,

  drowning,

  broken.

  I am devoured

  bit by bit,

  torn apart

  by ravenous teeth.

  But through it all

  I see

  Owen on our hill.

  I taste

  strawberries and cream.

  I feel

  his mouth warm and soft on mine.

  I slide sideways onto the earth, and suddenly I can breathe again.

  The sky wheels wide and blue above me.

  The pool laps quietly beside.

  A voice says: “Easy. You must take it easy, at first.”

  Hands grasp my arms, help me sit up.

  I focus on three craggy faces, one hung heavy with a mossy beard.

  Criafol says: “Look into the pool. See what you have become.”

  I drag myself to the water’s edge. I do not have the strength to stand, to walk.

  I am strange and uncertain.

  I feel heavy and light all at once, and I do not recognize the weight of my limbs, of my head, of my body.

  Hair blows about my shoulders, unencumbered by leaves.

  There is no scent of violets.

  I look into the water, waiting for the ripples to dissipate, for the pool to grow still.

  But when it does—

  When it does, I do not recognize the face looking back at me.


  It is a pale, round face, set with green eyes and framed by yellow hair. I hold up my hands, staring at them in turn: human hands, human fingers. My skin is strange and smooth. All of me is unfamiliar.

  I turn to my brothers with tears on my cheeks.

  Criafol says: “Why are you crying, little one?” He looks as though his heart might break. “We thought this is what you wanted.”

  “I do not want to go back.” My voice is strange and high. “I do not ever want to go back to being her monster.”

  Droplets of water catch in Pren’s beard. “This form is only temporary. We thought you understood.”

  “There has to be a way.” I tremble. This body feels the cool touch of the wind in a way my other body never did. “I want a soul. I want to be mortal. To be truly human. I will do anything.”

  “Dear one.” Cangen peers at me with sad eyes. “We do not have that power.”

  “There has to be a way.” My vision blurs as the tears keep coming, more and more, like I am a spring that cannot be quenched.

  Pren sighs. “There is one way, but dear one, you will not like it.”

  “Tell me. I will do anything.”

  Pren looks at Criafol, at Cangen. Both of them shake their heads.

  “Please.”

  Criafol waves his hand. A dress of leaves folds over me, bringing a little warmth back into this frail body.

  Pren says: “To become wholly as you are, you must give up the thing you hold most dear: You must carve out your heart, and bury it in the green earth. Then, and only then, do you have a chance to become human. To become mortal. To be given a soul that will endure even when your body is gone.”

  Anger sprouts vicious thorns inside of me. “If I carve out my heart, I will die!”

  Pren shakes his head. “That is the only way that we have ever heard of. I am sorry, little one.”

  “How long do I have in this form?”

  Criafol says: “We do not know. We hope for as long as you need.”

  I need forever.

  Cangen’s brows bend close together on his craggy face. “Where will you go? You will need food, clothing, shelter.”

  “I will go to him. I will go to Owen.”

  Pren says: “The boy has gone to the palace of the Soul Eater.”

  My human body shakes at the name of the only monster I fear more than my mother.