by Kevin Hearne
Mella gasped. “A woman! We saw two different men, also very tall, and we could see their ribs. And strange skin.”
“Strange how?”
“We couldn’t tell if they were pale with sunburned skin or just naturally kind of reddish.”
“It was the same with the woman we saw!”
“Did she have a little boat?”
“Yes, though we didn’t get a good look at it.”
“Did you understand anything she said?”
“No. What about the men?”
Mella shrugged. “We had no idea what they were talking about.”
“Did they buy anything?”
“No, but I don’t think they had any money. They were almost naked.” Her eyes flicked to Jorry. “Was she naked?”
Jorry’s face was priceless. Panic and indecision and then a silent plea to me to save him from speaking.
“Mostly,” I answered. “She seemed to be lost.”
“Same with the men. Makes me wonder if there was a shipwreck out there somewhere and they were the only survivors.”
“Did you show them a map?”
“We didn’t have one.”
Jorry found his voice. “Any idea where they might have been from?”
“No; that was the weird thing. If you assume they were sunburned pale people, that means they had to be Hathrim or Fornish. But they didn’t look or speak like either one.”
“You’re sure they weren’t Hathrim?”
“Quite sure. My brother speaks their language fluently, and he didn’t recognize a word they said.”
My initial excitement and wonder at finding someone else who’d run into the strange people turned into uncertainty and a touch of worry. “Do you think we should be telling someone about this?”
“Like who?”
“Well, I don’t know. Our parents for starters. You tell yours we saw one, too, and we’ll tell ours what you saw. I have to think someone would want to know that we’re seeing people no one has ever heard of before.”
“Well, yeah,” Mella said, “but—”
“What can I get you?” a voice broke in. We had inched our way to the front of the line as we talked, and now it was our turn to order bacon from Master du Lörryl. Jorry insisted on buying a few slices for Mella, and the strange people were forgotten between their flirtation and the delightful baskets of greasy meat.
I remembered them later, of course, and even mentioned to Father that the du Bandres had run into two lost giant men on their route. But he was too preoccupied by the absence of our best friends among the merchant families to pay any real attention.
“They’re not the only ones lost,” he grumbled. “Are you sure you looked everywhere for the du Hallards, Kallindra?”
“I am, Father, but I will gladly search the clave again if it would ease your mind.”
“I think it would—but take Jorry with you. And don’t just look; ask about. Maybe they’re running late, but maybe they’re nearby and need help, too. Thieves like to take advantage of traders going to claves when they can, you know.”
“Yes, I know very well.” Anticipating his next words, I said, “I’ll be careful, and I’ll return soon.”
We didn’t find the du Hallards that night but discovered why they were late the next day. Just after midmorning, Jorry and Mella were smiling and practically drooling on each other near the Glorious Bacon Wagon, as they had taken to calling it, and I was utterly fascinated by how they seemed to grow more stupid with each passing moment. But then news rolled through the clave like high tide: Tarrön du Hallard had stumbled into the clave on his own, half dead. No word on why or where the rest of the family was.
“Father will know,” I said, and the three of us hurried back to our wagon, thinking he’d be able to give us the truth. He gave us more than that: he put us to work immediately, because Tarrön du Hallard was there, cradled in Mother’s arms, and there was a crowd of people around the wagon, trying to get a look at him, and all of them were asking questions.
“Get rid of these people!” Father hollered at us once we pushed through. “Tell them you’ll give them the facts when we have them but right now we need to get him well. He can hardly tell us what happened when he’s unconscious.”
“Shall I fetch a hygienist?” Mella asked, and Father said several people already had gone to do just that.
We spent a good while just trying to disperse people with promises to report as soon as we knew anything and then fending off new arrivals as they came. Though the du Hallards were closest friends with us—Father had known Umön and Lyra since they were kids together—the whole family was well loved in the clave. Tarrön was a couple of years younger than me, and I think that Father and Umön had been hoping we’d take a liking to each other. He was nice enough and told a good joke, but I’d never felt attracted to him, nor, so far as I could tell, was he attracted to me.
He looked to be in pretty dire condition, though I’d only caught a short glimpse of him in the back of the wagon before Father stepped in front to block the view and discourage precisely that sort of gawking. But poor Tarrön! His lips were swollen and bloody, his clothing was shredded and his skin bruised and lacerated, and there was a nasty gash across his scalp that probably would leave a scar through that pretty, poufy hair of his—okay, so maybe I felt a tiny attraction to him. But he’s still a kid. And so am I, technically. Let’s simply observe that we both have potential.
The summoned hygienist finally appeared to assess the damage. Mother had given Tarrön water, of course—first thing you do—and attempted to clean him up a bit with boiled rags, which the hygienist approved. But he’d lost a lot of blood and used up all his strength just trying to get to the clave, and there was definitely contagion in the blood he had left.
“I know you want to speak to him,” he said, “but he is in poor shape. He needs time to rest, and I’ll need time to cleanse his blood.”
That didn’t really satisfy anyone, but we couldn’t argue the facts. Obviously something horrible had happened, and Father requested that we get both the constabulary and the mariners at Setyrön involved. Normally we took care of our own business at the clave and didn’t want outside authorities involved, but everyone wanted to find the rest of the du Hallards.
Tarrön woke on his own from a bad dream in midafternoon. Mother and I were with him in the back of the wagon along with the hygienist. His head began to turn back and forth in troubled sleep at first, a prelude to his horror, then he sat up, fully awake, and screamed, “No!” And then when he realized where he was and with whom and that he was safe, he just wept, and it pulled tears out of my eyes to see him so upset.
“You’ll be fine, Tarrön,” Mother said, pulling him to her, and Father, who’d been outside, appeared at the back and peered in.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Father asked. “Where’s your family?” Tarrön simply shook his head and took great shuddering breaths, holding on to Mother. “Were you attacked by bandits?” Another shake of his head.
“Really, we should let him rest,” the hygienist said. “Perhaps a tea with a soporific would do.”
Unsure why I spoke, I blurted out, “Did you see a pale giant, Tarrön?” and he startled, eyes turning to me, and caught his breath. The barest nod. “We saw one, too. Halfway to Möllerud. Where did you see one?”
“Nuh, not far,” he managed. “Road to Göfyrd. Top of the peninsula. Due north of here.”
“Sunburned? Starved?”
“Uh huh.”
“What’s he talking about?” the hygienist asked. “He saw a Hathrim?”
We all ignored his question, and Father said, “Did the giant do this to you, Tarrön?”
His eyes shifted to Father and welled with fresh tears. He pressed his lips together, and they trembled, trying to hold back another sob. He nodded once.
“Bryn drown me … and your family? Umön and Lyra and your sisters?”
Tarrön couldn’t keep it in after that. He gave one disconsol
ate moan and dissolved into sobs.
The hygienist’s mouth dropped open, and he turned to Father for confirmation. “He’s saying a Hathrim murdered his family?”
“Not a Hathrim. Something else.”
“That’s three encounters we know of if you count Mella’s,” I said. She had left by that point, and I hadn’t thought to ask her precisely where they had seen their giant or what had happened afterward; we’d been distracted by bacon.
“What did he want, Tarrön?” Mother asked.
He gulped and sniffed. “I don’t know. We couldn’t understand him. He talked for a while and then just—started killing us. I fought back, tried to choke him, but he got loose, took off in his stupid boat.”
The story came out in little spoonfuls after that. Tarrön had come to the clave for protection instead of going to the city, since he realized that no one might believe his story and then he’d be blamed for his family’s deaths. But we knew he was speaking truth; he would have our backing, plus the du Bandres, if the constabulary wished to make anything of it. Once word spread around the clave, another family confessed to seeing one of the strange giants.
When the Setyrön constable showed up, she was willing to believe that Tarrön was innocent and had fought off somebody … but she seemed oddly unmoved that four coastal traders had encountered what sounded like a new race of people from across the ocean.
“You can’t get across the Peles Ocean,” she said in a flat tone that communicated her disbelief. “What you saw was probably a tall Fornish pirate. I hear they have little colonies scattered around the archipelago, maybe even on the Longarm Isles. Been there ever since the Rift, you know, isolated, maybe a bit … uncivilized.”
Father scowled. “You think they’re Fornish pirates? If that were the case, why would they be landing all the way up here? By themselves, in four different places, speaking a language that sounds nothing like Fornish, and somehow growing two or three feet taller than normal while looking like they haven’t eaten in months?”
The constable shrugged. “I don’t know. I admit I’m speculating. I’ll ask around and see if the mariners have seen anything strange. We’ll make sure your family is given proper rites, Tarrön. And if we run into these giants who aren’t Hathrim, we’ll contact you.”
Her attitude didn’t fill me with confidence that anything would be done, but there was nothing to be gained by pushing her further. We assured her that Tarrön could stay with us until he recuperated and we could get him to family in town.
The episode cast a pall over the rest of the clave. Even the honey-apple bacon didn’t taste so good anymore. Jorry remarked in a rare effort at thought that tragedy sort of has its own aftertaste.
“I know what you mean,” I said, “but it feels more like a sponge that soaks up your happiness and squeezes it out somewhere else. It makes everything that’s good just a little bit … less.”
There were few in the audience who couldn’t relate to that sentiment, but Fintan didn’t allow us much time to dwell on it. “Let’s jump back to the west now and see what Nel Kit ben Sah did next,” he said.
My report at the Second Tree did not go as well as I had hoped, but neither did it go as badly as I had feared. It is an enduring truth of life that we must all struggle for our place in the sun, and I am content to stretch out my arms until my leaves collect that which I require.
For most of my life the Black Jaguar and the Blue Moth Clans have been able to go to the Second Tree and have their words accepted without question. I want that to be a reality for the White Gossamer Clan before it is my turn to die and become one with the roots of Forn, and perhaps this is an opportunity to take a step along that branch.
While I ran along the Leaf Road to Pont, word came through root and stem from greensleeves to the south that Mount Thayil had indeed erupted and Harthrad was a total loss. The ash cloud would trail south to fall on most of Hathrir, though some would inevitably coat the southern coast of Forn. It’s as if Mount Thayil coughed and soon it will make all of Hathrir sick.
If the Hathrim are smart, they will hire Kaurian blowbags to funnel the ash into the Rift. Cyclones, I mean: that’s the proper term, and I should use it.
When I arrived at Pont, the merchant clans were already discussing the probable boon to Fornish farmers this eruption would bring; dead Hathrim crops meant a lot of hungry giants, and they would need our produce. But no one was talking about what happened to all the giants in Harthrad, or if they were, it was with pity, because they assumed that they all died in the eruption.
I swung up higher into the canopy once I reached the Second Tree, struggling to find a space where I could send out my shoots and join the sway. There were far more Black Jaguars than there needed to be. They couldn’t all have something important to contribute; they just wanted to drink up all the news and choke out the roots of other clans. Pak Sey ben Kor, that sour cabbage, actually questioned my presence as though I had no right to join the sway like any other greensleeve.
“Why aren’t you on the coast?” he said, making it sound like an accusation.
“Because I have new mulch for the garden to help us all grow.”
He snorted in disbelief. “Doubtful. You’re a dormant seed.”
I’d been prepared to allow him a thorny word or two because he lost his nephew at the Seeking, but my sympathy evaporated at such a stark insult. I told him he had no nuts in his shell and swung up beyond his voice. He would fight me in the sway on general principle, so there was no use fighting before.
I found an unoccupied branch that was high enough that it protested under my weight. I guessed I would be part of the sway in both the figurative and the literal sense.
Caressing the bark of the Second Tree with my fingers and humming in pleasure, I took a moment to appreciate the blessing of being a greensleeve. Odious clan politics aside, I always know my place in the Canopy, and it’s a good one, an important one to the ecology of the forest even if I am not so important in the hierarchy of humans. The First Tree gave me an equal voice, and the Black Jaguars and Blue Moths could not shut me out, much as they would like to.
Pressing my palm flat against the living bark of the Second Tree, which was carved with ridges and festooned with mosses and mushrooms, I closed my eyes and felt the solid patience of the silverbark, the determination to grow and remain, to be nurtured and nurture in return, to give shelter to the small and be sheltered itself by the surrounding canopy and the forest of Forn, to share in the strength of intertwined roots and interests. My bark sprouted, shoots slithered into the bark of the Second Tree, and I joined the sway.
The minds of the Black Jaguars and Blue Moths were there, of course, and I felt them also at the First Tree and on the far coast in Keft as well. But luckily they were not all. I also felt the presence of greensleeves from friendly clans: the Red Horses, the Yellow Bats, the Gray Squirrels, the Invisible Owls.
Sending quick love and acceptance of all in the Canopy and my pledge to defend it with my life, I announced that I brought news from the coastal watch north of Pont. I believe I have seen the giants moving toward Ghurana Nent, I said. Many tens of boats passing in the night. It was no trade fleet. I think it was the entire population of Harthrad. They had fires on the water, and only the giants do this. I think they are going to land on the north side of the Godsteeth and cut down the unprotected trees there to finance the building of a new city.
Much discussion ensued and requests for further details. I had little else to offer, and there was never any question of deception on my part—just questions about my judgment and how I interpreted what I saw. Condescending doubts and suggestions that I might have imagined it all.
See and judge for yourself, I replied. A fleet that size deserves watching even if it is not the people of Gorin Mogen. Pak Sey ben Kor suggested I might not have seen a fleet of ships but rather a migration of sea creatures that emitted their own light from within as some creatures were known to do.
Sho
uld we not confirm? I asked the Canopy. If it is the Hathrim, then surely Forn has an interest in their destination. Our northwestern region has no thornhands garrisoned at all, only greensleeves and a few grassgliders.
Pak Sey ben Kor could hardly argue that we should ignore potential threats to the Canopy or our allies in Ghurana Nent, and so it was quickly decided: the sway ordered him and Tip Fet ben Lot of the Blue Moths to accompany me north in search of this fleet to confirm its existence and final destination if possible. They are not ideal companions and will try their best not to see anything at all, so I must show them something undeniable or my whole clan will suffer for it. Pak Sey ben Kor was quick to let me know that as soon as I withdrew my shoots and descended to the Leaf Road.
“You may have won a small victory in the sway,” he said, sneering at me, “but when we find nothing, your clan will not be able to dodge the shame of your foolishness any more than the earth can dodge the rain.”
Tip Fet ben Lot was only marginally less threatening. “I hope for your clan’s sake you are right, Nel,” he said. He might have added my name to seem friendly, but somehow it conveyed the opposite of friendliness. “The White Gossamers have some good people, and I would hate to see their honor stained in service of a delusion.” I bit back an angry retort. I had made a report according to my duty, not as a political maneuver, yet they had cast it as such.
Pen Yas ben Min arrived with a triumphant smile before we set out, and her appearance curdled Pak Sey ben Kor’s already sour expression. She’d been blessed by the First Tree, and his nephew had fed the roots. Rather than accept his nephew’s faults—or his own, since he’d been the one to present him—he’d resent Pen’s excellence.
She shone with health and new growth, her symbiosis complete. Moss hadn’t begun to grow on her silverbark yet—that would take a season or two, and its lack would mark her as newly blessed for a while—but she had budding mushrooms on her shins. “How was your journey?”
“Full of wonders,” she replied, beaming at me.
“I’m so glad you made it here in time. We were just about to leave on a scouting mission.”