The Beast of Noor

by Janet Lee Carey

  The Falconer nodded and Miles sighed. It gave him such pleasure to please his master. He saw him clearly now in the soft window light and searched his age-lined face for a smile. There was none, but the meer’s nod had been enough.

  The old man searched Miles’s face too, his golden eyes steady and piercing. Miles quickly turned to his flute, covering three finger holes. The Way Between Worlds was tucked up on the shelf again. There was no way the Falconer could know what he’d just done, unless …

  Miles swallowed. It was true the man was a seer and read the future at times. Miles had seen him packing boneset to take to Hallard’s barn when Jara fell from her horse. The leafer had known Jara’s leg was broken, how it had happened and when, without a word from the farmer, and he’d been there to help reset the leg within the hour.

  The Falconer crossed to the alcove and closed the window. Miles tensed. Stupid of him. He’d left the window open. Stepping back up to the table, his teacher flipped through the music book. Hummed the tune. “Try this one,” he said.

  Miles played it dutifully, though with little feeling, for it was the same song as the week before. Blowing a steady stream of air into his wooden flute, he fixed his eyes on the silver ervay that hung upon the wall. So beautiful. So perfect. And he was ready to play it. More than ready. So why did his teacher still make him use an old wooden flute?

  The thought made his finger slip, and the note blew sharp and shrill.

  The Falconer did not frown but simply said, “Hold your elbows so.”

  Miles lifted his arms higher. His hand slipped again. Another sour note.

  The meer tipped his head. “Where are you, Miles?”

  “Here.”

  “And where is the song?”

  “It’s here,” said Miles, holding up the flute.

  “It’s not in you, then?”

  “It is in me,” said Miles, seeing at once his teacher’s meaning. “But this flute is rough. I’ve grown past it,”

  The Falconer raised his bushy brows. “Have you, now? Well,” he said, waving his hand. “Put it away, then.”

  Miles happily stuffed it in its pouch. He saw Aetwan eyeing him from his corner perch and ignored the falcon.

  The meer stood and ran his hand along the book bindings on his high shelf. Miles willed his tapered fingers to stop at The Way Between Worlds, to pull it down, to open it at last and share the magic there. But the Falconer’s hand passed the golden letters and stopped at Entor’s Herbal.

  “Sir,” said Miles. “When will you be teaching me some magic?”

  The Falconer sat beside him and rested his elbows on the table.

  Silence.

  He’d asked so many times to learn magic from the meer, and always his teacher held it back.

  “You know why your mother and your da sent you here.”

  “Aye, to improve my music and to learn some ways of healing.”

  “Healers are needed all over Noor,” said the Falconer, “and there aren’t that many of us skilled enough to do the work.”

  “But I’ve studied that two years now, and I want more.” Hearing the strength behind his words, he added a quick, “Sir.”

  “I don’t think your mother would want that.”

  “I’m the one that’s here,” said Miles. “I’m fifteen now. She doesn’t have to know.” He wanted to say he needed a spell to break the Shriker’s curse, but the Falconer had a wary look.

  “I can see you’re hungry to learn.” He tipped his head. A ray of sunlight fell across his shoulder. “You have some promise of the Gift. But a man must know himself before he learns the ways of magic.” He emptied the leather pouch and laid a circle of jessu root upon the table. “You’re dabbling in things beyond your skill. Magic can be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

  Miles started. Was the Falconer saying he was too young, too inexperienced, or was he saying there was something wrong with him because he was a Sheen? Everyone in Enness thought the Sheens were worthless, but the Falconer didn’t think that, did he? Miles felt sick with anger. He wanted to shout at the old man. Claim his right to magic. He leaped to a stand and felt himself swaying. He looked at the Falconer’s face, met a solemn frown, and lost his nerve. He’d already crossed a boundary line and stolen a spell from his book.

  The Falconer pushed the willow chair away from the table. He took the empty pouch and his cutting knife. “Come, boy. The sun is high. We’ll fetch some herbs.”

  They had walked for nearly an hour in the woods when the Falconer decided to gather elm bark. “You know the way to the grove,” he said. “You may as well take the lead.”

  Miles felt a rising pride as he stepped ahead of his teacher. He walked as quietly as he could, so as not to disturb the woodland animals about. He hoped the Falconer would notice that.

  The old man followed behind him with his staff. As they rounded a sharp bend, the Falconer said, “Knowledge of the trails is a good thing, son. But I’m sure you know it’s not safe to come here at night after what happened to Polly Downs.”

  Miles clenched his jaw and kept walking. The Falconer didn’t know his plan to try to break the Shriker’s curse; he couldn’t possibly know. “I’m aware of the dangers,” he said at last.

  The meer suddenly passed him and stood before him on the trail. “Are you?” he asked sharply. “I hope you are, boy.” The Falconer’s copper eyes were bright. He looked down at him so fiercely that Miles’s knees began to quake.

  THE ENOCH TREE

  Pier could not escape the sylth Queen, though he ran two nights and a day. And when he fell exhausted to the earth, she gathered in her powers and turned the man to stone.

  —“THE STONE MAN,” A LEGEND OF OTH, FROM THE WAY BETWEEN WORLDS

  MILES WAS STILL THINKING ON THE FALCONER’S WORDS two days later as he herded the sheep through the thick mist in the high meadow. The meer had never warned him so harshly before. Did the Falconer sense something about his plan?

  He paced through the grass with his shepherd’s crook. If he could hike to the giant bolder on Breal’s Moon night, work the spell he’d found in his master’s book aright, and find his way to the Sylth Queen, she might grant him a boon, a power spell to rid the world of the Shriker. If not, the very fact that he’d said the spell that opened the way to the sylth feast should prove he had the Gift and was worthy for Othlore. Once he arrived on the magic isle, he could search there for the spell. Either way he’d be sure to get his hands on the power he needed to break the Shriker’s curse.

  Hanna came up the hill with the lunch basket, her blue cloak floating ghostlike in the mist. Miles rested his shepherd’s crook against an oak tree. “What have you brought me?”

  “Mother and I baked all morning,” said Hanna, puffing from her climb. “There’s fresh barley bread and two kinds of cheese.” She set the basket by the tree. “I ’ve been just over the hill with Da’s meal. He left most of the sweet cakes for us to eat.” She started to unpack the lunch.

  “Not here,” said Miles. “Up there.” He pointed to a sunny spot just above the mist, a high, stony cliff on the next ridge.

  “Why so far up?”

  Miles didn’t answer. Instead he turned and went up the hill. He knew she’d follow, and soon he heard her footfalls behind him. He felt the need to flee the sheep and feel the sun on his face while he ate. The flock was safe enough grazing near the stream under the sheepdog’s care. Koogan would bark if there was any trouble.

  Climbing up the steep hill, Miles broke into the full sunlight, and it was like surfacing through lake water. He passed the maple and hiked a bit farther to the very top of the cliff. Above the fog light glinted off the cliff rocks. Higher up to his right the snow-covered peak of Mount Shalem sparkled blue white in the sun. Miles breathed in the fresh, green smells of spring as he looked out over the foothills. Here and there alders and pines poked out of the mist, but he couldn’t make out Brim village or the harbor down below.

  Miles licked his wind-chapped lips. He
used to look forward to the monthly trip to town when he was younger, wishing with all his heart that he were a village boy, living near the harbor, where trade ships came to port, buying sweets on market day, playing games with his mates. He’d tried to make friends the few times he’d gone to town, but even in those days the village boys had been cold.

  The one time they’d let him join their games, Gerald, Aven, Mic, and Cully had sent him back to “explore” a deep cave. Once he’d crept down the long passage, they’d run off laughing and left him in the dark. It had taken him more than an hour to find his way out. He shivered now with anger just remembering that.

  He was glad the town below was mist covered. Glad he couldn’t see the cottages, shops, and docks. “Come on, Hanna,” he called. “The cliff is safe enough, and you’ll like what you see.” He thought to say, “You can’t see Brim at all,” but he decided to surprise her.

  Down below Hanna stood in the sunlight, clinging to a maple tree.

  “Come on up now, lazybones,”

  “I’m not lazy!”

  “You are too!”

  “I won’t come, and you can’t make me.”

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s a better view up here.”

  “Shut up, Miles!” Hanna lifted her hand and pointed at him. No, not at him, at something … behind him. The rocks underfoot made a grinding sound as he turned to see what she was looking at.

  Miles’s throat tightened. A stunted oak leaned over the cliff’s edge. The tree was strangely formed, with thick roots snaking through the shallow soil, a broad trunk, two bent branches held aloft. But it was not so much the tree that held his gaze as what he saw inside: a man. It was a man, and not just the shape of one caught inside the tree. Miles was sure of that, for he could see the man’s outline clearly, his arms outstretched inside the branches, his knees bent as if he were running, and all of him leaning forward like he was hell-bent on leaping off the cliff.

  Blood sang in Miles’s ears. Run, he thought, but his legs felt boneless.

  “Hanna,” he said in a hoarse whisper. Then louder still so Hanna could hear, “Remember Granda’s tale of his brother, Enoch?”

  No answer from below.

  Miles cleared his throat. “I think we’ve found the Enoch Tree.”

  “Is he … dead?”

  He peered harder at the oak. “Not dead—enspelled inside the tree. That’s what Granda said.”

  A wind crossed the cliff, and the branches waved. Each ending in what looked like hands—wooden hands.

  Miles’s heart pounded in rhythm to the swaying arms. He couldn’t stop looking at the form caught in the oak, but where was his face?

  “Come away,” said Hanna.

  Miles didn’t move. In the bright sun shadows from the windy leaves painted the tree trunk now gray, now black. As the shadows parted, a terrible face appeared. An old, cracked, wild-eyed face, the jaws open wide in a silent scream.

  “eOwey protect us,” whispered Miles through chattering teeth, but not so loud that Hanna would hear.

  The breeze picked up. Branches creaked, and the face was swallowed in shadow again. Granda had said Enoch was sixteen years old when he was enspelled, but the man inside the oak looked very old. Had he aged right along with the tree?

  He stared at his great-uncle, caught inside the tree, and shuddered.

  “Come down by me,” said Hanna.

  Down the steep incline he met her under the maple branches. Hanna turned away from the Enoch Tree, gesturing toward it with her hand. “I can’t look at that and eat, too.” Miles took in her round face, her green eye and her blue. She hadn’t run off, but was trying to be brave, and he was proud of her for that.

  Hanna unpacked the bread. “It’s not just a tree that looks like a man is caught inside?”

  Miles turned. “Climb up with me and see for yourself.” He was feeling braver now.

  “Tell me.” Hanna gulped. “Tell me it’s just a tree.”

  “It’s Enoch, Hanna. I’m sure of it.”

  “I don’t want it to be!”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want! He’s there. It’s real and that’s all.”

  Hanna leaped up and began to go.

  “Wait,” said Miles. “Don’t leave.” He sliced a bit of cheese. “Here, have some. We came all this way. Come on.”

  Hanna took the cheese. “I still don’t like it,” she muttered. She knelt down and tore herself some bread. “Granda never told us why … why it happened to his brother.” She looked over at Miles. “The nights you took your turn sitting up with him when he was sick. Did Granda ever tell you more about Enoch then?”

  Miles shook his head. She wasn’t asking if they’d spoken about the Shriker, or his answer would have been different. “There’s only what he said to us that day in the cave. That Enoch was banished from Othlore.” Miles blushed with the thought. The shame of it. To be chosen for magic, only to be sent away from the meers’ isle. He must have been a stupid boy to let his chance at magic slip away for good and all.

  “Would the Sylth Queen imprison him for that?” asked Hanna.

  “I don’t see why she would hex him for something he’d done on the meers’ isle. He must have done something here on Enness.” Miles glanced quickly up the hill. The Enoch Tree leaned so far over the edge it seemed a single push would topple it right down. What was Enoch running from so very long ago? And why was he screaming?

  He turned and chewed his meal. His cheeks swelled out with bread, but he felt a gnawing emptiness no bread could fill. Enoch’s story was a mystery, like most of Granda’s tales. Still, Enoch’s ending was warning enough. If it was the Sylth Queen who hexed Enoch, he’d have to take extra care when he went to meet the sylth folk in Shalem Wood tomorrow night.

  Miles tossed his crumbs to the ravens and watched the birds fight over them. The Falconer was so protective of his magic. If it weren’t for that, he would never have had to steal the spell.

  “… must have been very bad,” said Hanna.

  “What?” Miles started. She couldn’t hear his thoughts, he knew. He tried to see her expression, but her face was half hidden by her blowing hair.

  “I said Enoch must have been very bad. Else why would the Sylth Queen have punished him?”

  “Ah,” said Miles. “Well, remember Granda didn’t say it was her that hexed Enoch for sure.” He needed the reminder more than she to keep up his courage to enter Shalem Wood.

  Hanna peered up through the maple branches. “I know what Granda said was true,” she said. “About the sylth folk and the magical Otherworld. I’ve always known it. But I’m not like you. I never wanted to be different or claim the part of Mother’s clan with—”

  “Magic in our past?” he said. “Don’t you know how good magic can be?”

  “How can you call it good? With Enoch caught like that inside a tree, with what happened to Rory Sheen and all that’s come of that!”

  “They were spoilers. They didn’t know how to handle magic.” Miles wanted to say, “It’ll be different with me,” but he stopped himself.

  “It’s not that I mind magic so much.” Hanna paused and sent a single glance back at the Enoch Tree, then turned her head again. “It’s the darker parts I mind.”

  She didn’t speak the Shriker’s name, but Miles knew well enough what she was thinking. Her face seemed pale, even here in the sun, and her brows were drawn. I’ll break the Shriker’s curse, which holds us down, he promised silently. I’ll free the Sheens forever.

  “The Shriker’s not here, Hanna. It’s daylight now, and if he comes at all, he comes only at night.”

  Hanna tried to brave a smile, failed, and started to pack up the basket. Miles leaped up and stretched against his tense muscles.

  They left the island of sun for the misty lands below. The sheep baaed loudly when the two leaped over the shallow stream as if they were trespassers and strangers to the meadow.

  DREAMWALK

  The dreamwalker finds the hidden way whe
n the world is dark.

  —A SAYING OF THE DESERT FOLK OF KANAYAR, FROM THE WAY BETWEEN WORLDS

  HANNA RACED THROUGH THE DARK FOREST. NOT FAR behind she heard the pounding paws against the earth, the ragged panting sounds coming from the beast’s bloody mouth. No stars or moon to guide her as she flew. Run faster now through the blowing trees! But which way? She ran uphill and down. The wind shrieked. The monster howled. The wild sounds clashed in the air. Joining together, flooding Shalem Wood. The beast was nearly on her. Paws pounding the forest floor, loud, louder.

  “Hanna!” a child’s voice called. She crashed headlong into a tangled thicket. She was caught now, and the beast was gaining on her… .

  Hanna opened her eyes and found herself standing by the hearth, struggling with her wool blanket. She’d been dreamwalking again. Her little brother, Tymm, was crouched behind Da’s high-backed chair.

  “You called out,” he said in a trembling voice.

  “It’s nothing, Tymm. I was only dreaming.” She took his hand. “Come off to bed now.” They crossed the room and climbed the creaking ladder to Tymm’s sleeping loft. Cricket cages hung from the low ceiling, all woven by Tymm’s deft fingers.

  Tymm pulled the quilt up to his chin. “Why do you walk in your dreams?” he asked. “Is it because of your eyes?”

  Hanna blushed. “It’s nothing to do with that!” Her voice sounded sharper than she wanted. She took a slow breath to calm herself, then worked her face into a smile, the more to ease Tymm back to sleep again. “Now, it’s off to the dream world with you, or Mother and Da will be angry with me for waking you.” Tymm turned over on his cot, and Hanna climbed down the ladder.

  Silence filled the cottage. She could wake Mother and Da and tell them her dreamwalk, but they worried enough over her strange visions. If Granda were still alive … Thinking of him made her eyes prick.

  Wiping away the dampness with the back of her hand, she crossed the moonlit room and tiptoed down the hall toward Miles’s door. It was rare to awaken from a dreamwalk without Miles at her side. Granda had taught him to listen out for her at night and follow her when she wandered off, lest she harm herself in some way. She often awoke in the garden with Miles’s hand on her shoulder, a worried look written on his face.