Hanna slumped back in her chair. She’d wanted to blame the Falconer for everything. Or if not blame him, find him to be so powerful that he could rescue Miles, here, now, tonight. “I want Miles back,” she admitted. It was all she wanted. She’d hardly been able to eat or sleep since he disappeared six nights ago. Now that the words were out, tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to stop them, but her face and lips were already wet.
The Falconer held her, and she cried into his wool shirt. The shirt smelled of winterleaf, and under that a woodland scent like Granda’s used to have, and that made her cry all the more. He patted her shoulder in quiet rhythm until her sobbing ceased. She sat back, and the old man looked into her eyes. “I’ve set my mind on finding him, Hanna. You should know this. I’ve walked by day and night as well. I miss the boy, and there isn’t much time.”
The Falconer held out his hand to her. Palm upward, as if the words he was about to say had a weight and she might need his help to carry them. “Your brother is in danger as much from himself as from the beast.”
“How is that?” whispered Hanna.
“If Miles stays in the beast form beyond the next full moon, he may not be able to change back.”
“Why?”
“It is an old law of shape-shifting. One cannot stay in another form from full moon to full moon without the risk of being trapped inside the shift. A meer is trained to know this danger, but Miles wasn’t schooled in magic. He wasn’t ready to receive such a gift.”
“Who gave it to him, then?”
The meer frowned. “I can only guess at that. There are few who would have such power. Few indeed.” He fell into silence.
Hanna stood up and paced before the fire. “Miles may have changed back already. He may be a boy again.”
“We can hope this is so, but we cannot know for sure.”
She turned her back, envisioning the beast’s massive, dark body, his pointed ears and coal-bright eyes. She shuddered. “Miles wouldn’t choose to stay in the Shriker’s form for long.”
“He’d want to stay strong to pursue his enemy.”
Hanna licked her lip, tasting the saltiness left from the tears. The Falconer was right. Miles would never let himself be weaker than his enemy. He’d always prided himself on his fitness for a fight. He’d come home from Brim with a bloody lip as often as not, and that for only a slight—someone calling him “dirty Sheen,” or a boy like Mic or Cully tossing a dirt clod at him.
She looked at the Falconer’s broad shoulders, thinned with age, but still strong. “What are we to do?”
“For now you’d best take your rest. I’ll look more tonight after I take you home.” He stood and tugged his cloak from the hook. “Come,” he said. “Night has fallen. You don’t want to keep your mother and da waiting.”
The partial moon shed little light on Shalem Wood, but the stars glowed crisp above the trees, and the Falconer, who was used to the ways of the wild, led Hanna home without the need of candle or rushlight.
TORN CLOAK
Eelan saw the lake shimmering in the air, but it was only sunlight, and the people’s thirst increased.
—THE BOOK OF EOWEY
THREE MORE DAYS PASSED WITHOUT ANY SIGN OF MILES, and the helpers dwindled to just a few. No one came to Mother and Da to say Miles was lost for good. Nor did Brother Adolpho suggest they hold a Crossing Over for him. Still, the silence people paid the family was eloquent enough.
The few village folk who’d left field or fishing boat to help them search went back to their daily tasks and left the Ferrells to walk the woods with the Falconer, Brother Adolpho, Taunier, the woodsman Hewn, and Old Gurty. So there were only eight of them left, nine including Tymm, who was too young to be of any real help.
At midday the search party met at Fisherman’s Pole, a jagged rock outcropping halfway up Mount Shalem that gave all a fine view of forest and meadow below.
“Where’s Hewn?” asked Da.
Gurty clucked and looked down the hill. “The woodsman is never one to be on time.” They sat down and started their meal, sharing news of their search among themselves.
In the small circle of seekers Taunier was the first to share his news. He tilted his head so his dark-skinned face and black hair shone in the sunlight as he spoke. Hanna’s heart beat faster. She couldn’t help admiring him, though she tried not to show it. As Taunier tore his bread, he told about the trail of broken branches he’d followed, which led to the slain body of a deer, wolves’ work from the looks of it. There was little left of the carcass and no sign of Miles.
Hanna’s mother whimpered as he said this, and Hanna squeezed her hand. The word “wolves” still came hard to Mother’s ears.
The rest shared details of their search. There was nothing new. Hanna ate without tasting her food, the hope of finding Miles she’d felt the week before slowly fading. Across from her Brother Adolpho whispered to the Falconer, who nodded thoughtfully. The square-shouldered, brown-robed Brother and the tall, slender meer were altogether different and the same, like earth and tree come together.
The wind strengthened. The air faintly smelled of seaweed and fish that secreted Turnbow Bay. Da stood leaning against his shepherd’s crook. Throughout the meal he hadn’t bothered to look at the others, but kept his eyes moving uphill and down, scanning rock, river, and tree line, looking everywhere for his firstborn. Hanna followed the line of his gaze and spied the woodsman Hewn hobbling up the hill with his black bear hound, Kip, trotting alongside.
He stopped halfway up to shout, “Found something!” then hunched over and coughed from having to call so loudly. They came down through the long grass and gathered round the old man. Kip licked Hanna’s elbow. She shuddered and pulled away from him. A good dog, she knew. But Kip was so like the Shriker, with his broad-set shoulders, his long black fur, and his strong jaw. It’s only a dog, she thought. The Shriker’s three times his size at least. She set her jaw and made herself give the bear hound a pat. Kip panted happily and wagged his bushy tail.
“It’s this,” said Hewn, drawing a torn piece of dark green cloth from his leather waist bag.
“A piece of Miles’s cloak!” cried Mother. “It must be! I’d know the color anywhere!” She took the cloth and rubbed it across her cheek.
“Where did you find it, man?” demanded Da.
Taunier held up a grimy hand. “Wait” He drew a cloak from his weathered pack and lifted the corner for all to see. The green cloth matched the ragged hole in Taunier’s garment. “I tore my cloak somewhere in the woods this morning.” he said. He folded the torn piece inside his cloak and placed them in his pack.
Mother moaned. All else were silent, but it was a sound any one of them could have made.
Da turned his back on Taunier as if he’d cheated them in some way. Hanna felt a pang. Taunier had been so helpful, so willing to search for Miles when the rest of the villagers had abandoned their family.
“I have to go back to the blacksmith’s,” said Taunier suddenly.
“It’s not your fault,” said Hanna. “It’s only that we thought—”
“I’m expected to work the forge.” Taunier set his jaw and started down the hill. He did not promise to come back on the morrow as he had before.
“Call out to him, man,” said Brother Adolpho, “and tell the boy good-bye.” But Da stared at his flock and could not speak to Taunier. There’d been a moment of hope. The only moment they’d had since Miles disappeared. Now it had passed, and Da’s back was stiff with its passing.
Hewn elbowed Gurty. “Will you come search with us?” he asked.
Gurty stood stony faced, as if she hadn’t heard him. A gust of wind blew her gray hair straight back from her brow. The corner of her yellow shawl fluttered out behind her. “Garth Lake,” she said.
“Ah, well,” said Hewn, feeding a bit of his bread to Kip. “Have it your way, old woman.”
The Falconer sent Aetwan flying and stepped up beside Gurty. “I’ll walk with you,” he said
. “It’s the way I’m taking.”
Hanna didn’t wonder why he’d look to her. She’d found Pyter, after all. “I’ll go with you too,” she said.
Mother crossed her arms and frowned. “You’re to come home before dark,” she said, and Hanna agreed.
They stood in a circle before leaving, and Brother Adolpho offered up a simple prayer. “eOwey open our eyes to find the boy Miles, who has lost his way.”
Then they all parted and trailed in three directions through the blowing grass.
HUNTING
Kwium loss his way and slept in the hollow of a tree.
—THE BOOK OF EOWEY
DEEP IN THE WOODS OF ATTENLORE, MILES HID INSIDE a hollow log, waiting to regain his strength. He awoke nightly to lick his wounds, to creep out and hunt small game, to drink, but always he returned before dawn—the sun of Attenlore being too bright for his hound’s eyes.
Many times when he first awoke and felt the chill of loneliness, he longed to change back into a boy again. He’d imagine hands. Arms. A human face: his human face. He’d work on the image until his head pounded. Then a strange beast scent would waft through the air, filling him with fear, or a noise outside his shelter would startle him. Head lifted, ears cocked, he’d wait until the scent changed or the noise passed: all thoughts of shape-shifting back into a weaponless boy chased away again by his fear. And so he did not turn. He kept his thick hide, his fangs and claws. They were his only protection against the one who hunted him.
Days and nights fled by. The boy dreamed inside the beast, the coursing of sun and stars all the same to him in his dwelling.
Late one afternoon beetles scratched inside the rotting wood. It was beyond human hearing, but Miles’s sharp hound’s ears caught even the smallest sounds. He raised his great head in the dark log and ran his tongue along his teeth, feeling the gap where his fang should have been. He was hungry. He must eat. It was daylight and he should wait, but he’d killed only rabbits, stoats, and other small game in his nightly hunts, and his belly wanted more.
Miles crept through the rotting log. At the opening he paused and blinked. How the light stung his eyes here! He shut his eyes and sniffed the air. The stench of his injured hide filled his nostrils. He sniffed beyond the odor, testing the air for the scent of other beasts, of the one beast who wanted him dead.
Layer on layer of odors entered his brain. The smell of damp woods filled him. Birds in the copse nearby had a dusty smell. Flowers, a radiant scent—like smelling light. He marveled at it: the world of hearing, of taste, of smell, opening anew to him. Compared with this, his boyhood ears had been stuffed with cotton. His tongue, swaddled. His nostrils, corked like bottles.
Miles pushed his way outside. Bits of wood came away on his back as he left the log. He narrowed his eyes against the light falling through the branches and wove stiff legged toward the gurgling sound of a forest rill. At the stream he lowered his heavy head and drank.
Thirst eased as he lapped the cool water with his curled tongue. Now his stomach rumbled louder. He was weak with hunger. Before he could track the Shriker, he would have to kill and eat larger prey.
Padding across the streambed, he squinted against the bright sky and peered at the blowing grass.
A sweet smell filled his lungs, but the flowers bobbing in the wind were stripped of color. All had gray blooms, or black or white. Even the wild roses on the edge of the lea were dark gray. He blinked, confused, I’ve slept too many days inside the log, he thought, and my eyes aren’t used to daylight.
Skirting the meadow, he hid behind a wild bramble upwind of the stream. From this shady spot he could spy on the animals that would come to drink. He’d hunted in Shalem Wood many a time with a bow slung over his shoulder. And he’d returned with game for Mother’s stew pot. He had no bow this time, he had no knife, but he didn’t need them. He was the weapon.
Sunlight fell across the standing stone in the midst of the meadow. Miles looked closer. It was a stone, wasn’t it? Or was it an ancient tree whose branches were broken? It had three thick spires coming out the top, like broad fingers reaching for the sky.
Beyond the stone tree (he decided to call it that, whatever it might be) water spilled between the rocks, calling the thirsty to the stream. Miles crouched behind the bush and waited. His wounds were healing, and all he needed now was food.
A flash of white in the corner of his eye gave him hope. His first victim, and it was something large! He licked his muzzle. A white horse emerged from the woods to drink at the stream. The horse stamped and swished its long tail in motion with the breeze.
Miles rose to get a better look. Just then the horse lifted its head, and he saw the shining horn. A unicorn. A female, he was sure. Proud and more beautiful than any creature he’d ever seen. Ah, if Hanna could see her! How many times she’d dreamed of it. Though in her dreamwalk the unicorn was hunted down by wild beasts, and she’d awaken, screaming. Well, this unicorn was safe enough. He wouldn’t attack her for her meat. He’d let her drift back into the woods.
Miles’s stomach growled. He wanted her to finish her drink soon so other creatures would come to the water’s edge. Those he could kill and eat. Drool dripped from his mouth and splashed onto his paws.
The unicorn tilted her head and stiffened, sensing his presence, or so he thought, but then Miles heard something too, A rustling sound in the woods off to his right. He cocked his ears. The unicorn lifted her head and tensed.
Suddenly the Shriker burst from the forest and charged. The air around him darkened as he chased the strip of light across the lea. Miles ducked behind the bush.
At the edge of the meadow the unicorn wheeled round and raced toward the stone tree, her hooves digging up the soil, sending clumps out behind as she gathered speed. Run! thought Miles, as if his thoughts could press her on. He wanted to run himself. But he was too weak to fight the Shriker now. He needed meat first, and lots of it.
Across the meadow a fox dived into the underbrush. The Shriker took no notice of him. He was after bigger game.
Miles’s heart pounded in time with the unicorn’s galloping hooves. In his mind he heard Hanna’s screams. No! Don’t kill her! Don’t! His legs trembled as he watched the Shriker plow into the unicorn’s side, sink his teeth into her flesh, tear a long gash down her neck. Hanna’s dream! It wouldn’t end this way! He wouldn’t let it end this way!
Bolting from his hiding place, Miles bounded for the Shriker and knocked him to the ground. The unicorn stumbled toward the stream, too hurt to run.
The enemies fought as they had before, barking, snarling, circling. They rolled through the grass, tearing fur and flesh. The Shriker bared his teeth and bit again. Pain knifed through Miles’s leg. He howled and fell onto his side. A bloody strip of hide dangled from his left foreleg. He lifted his head in the waving grass. Tried to rise. Fell.
The Shriker bounded across the lea again and knocked the unicorn down. The unicorn flailed under the monster’s weight. The monster bared his bloody teeth as he went in for the kill.
No! Miles rose one last time and charged. He hit the Shriker broadside, and they rolled along the ground, tumbling into the stone tree. The Shriker threw his full weight at Miles and wedged him against the stone trunk. Miles kicked and kicked, but the beast was stronger. With his last bit of strength Miles lunged forward, snapping his jaws shut. Wrenching his head back, he tore open the beast’s old neck wound.
Fresh blood spilled down the Shriker’s chest. He howled, fell back, then turned and ran into the woods. Miles collapsed.
The sun lowered behind the high hills. Miles ran his tongue along the gash in his side and bathed his foreleg where a strip of skin hung down along the bone. New wounds, but his old wounds had not torn open again. He had been lucky this time.
A cool breeze passed through the meadow. Grass whispered about his head. The day dimmed to dusk. He didn’t have to squint now. Miles stood, weakened from his long battle, ravenous with hunger. Across the field he
saw the white form in the grass.
He padded over to the unicorn. Such a beautiful creature. Even in death her legs were partly bent as if she were running. He shuddered. Hanna’s dream. It had all happened just as she’d seen it, but he never thought he would be one of the dark beasts in chase.
He nuzzled the unicorn’s side where the Shriker had feasted on her flesh. The smell of her sweet meat filled his nose. His belly tightened. His head grew light. She was already dead and he was hungry. So hungry. The boy fought against his hunger, but the beast drooled over the meat.
Miles turned his head this way and that. No one would see him eat. His body cried out for the food. He bowed his head and trembled as he sniffed the unicorn’s neck.
THE OLD MEN OF MOUNT SHALEM
The trees seemed as old as Noor itself, standing burned and broken in the midst of the lake.
—THE WAY BETWEEN WORLDS
AFTER AN ARDUOUS HIKE HANNA, THE FALCONER, AND Gurty reached the mountain lake and stood together looking down at the water.
“It’s a ghostly place,” said Gurty. Hanna felt the same, for mist was blowing across the lake, a common sight in the morning, but it was a rare thing to see so late in the day. It seemed as if the lake itself was forming its own clouds, which rolled thick and white and fingered through the woods.
Through the mist Hanna could see three tall, leafless trees on a tiny isle in the midst of the lake. All were blackened, as if they’d burned in some long ago fire. They stood like three giant sentries who had died on their feet and never lain down to be buried.
Crickets sang a summer song in the grass below, but the lake had the look of winter to it. A chill air blew across its hidden surface. “Why did we come here?” asked Hanna.
“Do you hear them?” asked Gurty.
“Aye,” said the Falconer.
Hanna thought Gurty was talking of the crickets but saw that the old woman was looking at the burned giants.
“Attenlore,” whispered Gurty.
The Beast of Noor Page 13