Key to the Journey (The Chronicles of Hawthorn, Book 2)

by Rue

  Pounamu cradled Hazel’s head in her lap.

  Flynn saw the air strangely disturbed, like heat rising from the earth at midday, where her auntie’s hand rested on Hazel’s forehead. She recognized some magick at work, but it felt different from her own kind of magick.

  Hazel took small sips of water.

  “Pass that waterskin to Po, my darling. He needs to wash those cuts on his arm.” Pounamu nodded toward her satchel, “I have some linen wraps and manuka honey in my bag. Can you patch him up, Flynn?”

  She bobbed her head and retrieved the items from her auntie’s satchel. A small packet tumbled out when she pulled out the wraps and as Flynn picked it up she identified the contents with alarm. “Why did you have these?” She held up the packet of tutu berries and stared at Pounamu.

  “We are safe now, my darling. That thread of the web did not touch us, thank the Goddess.” Pounamu made no further explanation.

  Flynn stared at the packet in her hand and wondered what thread could’ve led to any one of them choosing death. She shuddered and dropped the packet back into the satchel. Her heart stirred with a mix of gratitude and suspicion; it seemed Auntie Pounamu had indeed been keeping secrets. Zip’s words echoed hauntingly in her mind, “…your precious witch is more than she seems, as well.”

  “Pass me the water, eh?” said Po.

  Her thoughts were interrupted—she handed the water to Po and let him wash out his wounds. She patted it dry with a bit of cloth and spread a thin layer of honey over the scrapes and cuts.

  Po inhaled sharply, but made no other indication of the pain his rescue of Hazel had caused.

  Once she finished coating his wounds with the honey she wrapped the long strip of linen around and around, finally tucking the end tightly back under. “There you go. Try to stay away from birch trees for a while, all right?”

  “You couldn’t bribe me to go back into ‘Death Forest’, eh?” joked Po.

  “I am pleased it will not live up to that name, on this day,” said Pounamu, as she continued to tend to Hazel.

  The truth of Po’s words, the possibility that they all could’ve died, hurt Flynn’s heart. How could she inherit the wand and save all of Aotearoa? She put three lives at risk to save Hazel without ever weighing the true cost—five lives when she counted Zip and the falcon. Flynn turned her full attention to her still-unconscious friend and gently rubbed some coconut oil on Hazel’s parched lips.

  “This is a good place for you to start your journey, my darling.”

  “What? Oh, no. I have to go back to Moa Bend and take care of Hazel. She needs me.”

  Pounamu opened her mouth to respond, but instead Po’s determined voice filled Flynn’s ears.

  “I’ve seen more in the last three days, than I’ve seen in all my solar returns. I believe you really can save us, Flynn Hawthorn, and if the witch of the wood has a plan to help you find your mana, your strength…”

  Flynn felt the weight of her people return to her shoulders. “But, Hazel—”

  Po resumed his speech, “I’ll take her straight to Mistress Nokomis at the Healing Hut. I’ll watch over her every day, and I’ll send word—”

  “I’ll send word when she is well,” Pounamu interrupted. “You and I will meet on the astral plane, my darling. When the Grand Coven has come around, you can return and take your place in the levels with Hazel.”

  “What if she needs me?” Flynn couldn’t bear to leave Hazel in such a condition. She was doing it again, putting Hazel before the needs of Aotearoa, and deep down she knew it wasn’t right.

  A moa at least as large as Mr. Mango came into view, a cloud of dust rose in his wake. The scraping thunder of his clawed talons grew closer.

  Po stepped into his path and gave him the signal to stop. He took two waterskins to add to the one strapped to the moa. He left the bow and quiver, and looked around for a boulder he could use as a mounting platform.

  He motioned for the moa to follow him and heaved Hazel’s limp body over his shoulder—once again. He struggled up the boulder, secured Hazel to the moa with her infamous belt, and climbed on behind.

  Flynn clutched at Hazel’s leg. “Po is taking you to Mistress Nokomis. You’re going to be all right, Hazel. I promise.”

  Hazel leaned back against Po and whispered to Flynn, “You make the best promises.”

  Tears flowed freely from Flynn’s eyes.

  Po gave the moa the signal for haste and called over his shoulder, “We’ll be home before your shadow is half your height.”

  They disappeared around the tip of Atahu Forest and Flynn watched the dust settling. She glanced up at the midday sun and back down to the tussock land. Her shadow barely extended beyond the edge of her sandals. “I should go home, Auntie.”

  “You know you cannot. He waits.” Pounamu picked up the bow and quiver. “Would you like to take these with you?”

  Flynn felt the weight of the adze in her belt and thought about carrying more. She had no idea how long it would take to train her falcon to hunt and she always had more luck with a bow than a snare. “Yes, I guess I better.”

  Pounamu embraced Flynn, carefully avoiding the sharp beak of the hooded falcon. “Reach out to me anytime. I will feel your need.”

  “Yes, Auntie.” Flynn released her hold on the ancient timeless woman and sighed. “I’ve never been alone before.”

  “I think, perhaps, you have always been alone, my darling.” She adjusted her curved sword and gave Flynn a final nod.

  “Safe journey, Auntie.”

  “May the Goddess smile on your waterskin, sweet child.” Pounamu wandered off toward Hokitika.

  Flynn took one last longing glance toward the path to Moa Bend. She stroked the falcon thoughtfully and set her feet to the north—to the Cliffs of Tapu.

  The sun slipped past midday and a cool salty breeze ruffled the falcon’s plumage. Flynn could hear the distant screeches of the sea birds and felt tempted to walk closer to the shoreline before turning back to the north. An image of Hazel’s dry cracked lips flashed in her mind and she had to admit that fresh water, not scenery, was her highest priority.

  The inland route would take her past the western edges of Dreamwood Forest, but it would also bring her closer to the legendary hidden springs in the Ti Kouka range.

  She gave her waterskin a little shake and chose the inland route. She had more than a belt knife and a waterskin, but Flynn would always remember this moment as the beginning of her Seeking.

  The rolling hills were cloaked in late summer bounty. Flynn thought about the journey ahead and the possibility of scarce game, and decided to pay better attention to the plants underfoot. The warm sun came as a welcome change from the damp, dank heat of Dreamwood.

  She saw a thick mass of bitter weed and stopped to collect some leaves. She had seen Mistress Tamsin use them to successfully stop bleeding and to ease the burn of a bee sting.

  Her eyes were drawn to the long spindly fronds of the sorrel plant and she stopped to carefully collect a root. She may need a little pick-me-up and Flynn knew she could roast the root and brew herself an energizing tea.

  Her eyes scanned the ground and she noticed her shadow had lengthened. A warm surge made her heart swell with gratitude for Po’s quick actions; she would never be able to repay his kindness. He must be back to Moa Bend by now and Hazel would be safe in the Healing Hut. Flynn eagerly awaited a message from Pounamu.

  She hadn’t made much progress northward, but she had collected some food and a few medicinal herbs when she decided to stop and eat. The sun drooped lazily on the horizon and Flynn wanted to spend some time with her bird.

  She ate her last heel of bread and gave a few pieces to the falcon.

  Flynn set her satchel on the ground to make a clumsy perch near the base of a tangled manuka bush and tied the falcon’s leash to a thick branch. Her skill at the one-handed falconer’s knot had improved, but she could not tie it without looking—that would come with more practice. She slung t
he quiver of arrows over her shoulder, picked up the bow, and headed off to find a rabbit.

  “I’ll be back with some real dinner,” she announced to the bird.

  She found a game trail with some fresh tracks and hid herself in a stand of brush, careful to avoid the tree nettle in the heart of the thicket.

  Her mind wandered while she waited. She would miss the First Harvest festival in Moa Bend.

  First Harvest came between Summer Solstice and the Autumn Balance and consisted of a small celebration for the local inhabitants of Moa Bend, no delegations from other villages, no huge ceremony, and no gifts or tokens. Flynn enjoyed the simplicity of the ceremony and she had always felt useful in her role, even without magick.

  The villagers modestly celebrated the blessings of nature. The summer crops of beans, kumara, peppers, peas, tomatoes, cucumber, and calabash would be harvested and enjoyed. Flynn knew the importance of thanking Earth Mother and Sky Father for the plenty of the summer months and carefully storing what could be stored for the long hard winter. Harvests had been shrinking for the last few years and everyone was conscious of the need to use resources wisely in the colder months.

  Flynn felt a special connection to the kumara ritual because the act took no magickal talent, but it held an honorable and important place in the annual festivities. She always got to accompany the High Priestess, Kahu, into the field and pull up the first tuber of the harvest. This would be taken to the Ceremonial Lawn and suspended from a pole as an offering to the gods and goddesses.

  A second kumara would be pulled and roasted, and the High Priestess would eat a bit of that root and sing a karakia to Sky Father and Earth Mother to remove the tapu, sacredness, from the rest of the crop. The designated “lifters” pulled the remaining crop and all the tubers were loaded into the flax baskets and arranged in the storage pit for winter. Of course, everyone’s favorite part was the delicious feast of kumara, wild boar, crabs, and fish that roasted all day in the hangi, earth oven, next to the village meat cutter. The smell from the earth oven would fill the entire village. Flynn’s mouth watered at the thought of sitting down in the community arbor and feasting with Hazel and their families.

  She would have to remember to watch for the Rua star to appear in the northeastern sky, in the moment before dawn, and hopefully she could find a kumara to cook for herself.

  A scampering sound on the game trail snapped her attention back to the present.

  Sometime during her kumara musings she had knocked an arrow.

  A large brown hare popped into view and sat back on its haunches.

  Flynn drew back the arrow and let it fly.

  The hare turned toward the movement, but the arrow pierced its throat before it could react.

  Flynn touched her own throat and forced herself to swallow the bile rising from her stomach. She’d never liked hunting. She looked forward to the day she could loose her falcon and simply clean the catch. She didn’t relish taking the life of another creature, especially not after watching her friend walk the fine line between the here and the hereafter.

  She ran to the fallen game, grabbed the hare by its long back legs and jogged back to the spot where she had secured the falcon.

  The hooded bird turned toward the sound of Flynn’s footfalls.

  “I hope you didn’t miss me. I’ve got something for you.”

  Flynn quickly skinned the hare. She realized she didn’t have time to properly prep the skin and use the hide. She turned to hang it over a branch in the thick manuka bush and noticed the falcon had collapsed to the ground.

  She wiped her hands in the long grass and slipped the hood off the bird. She felt the small chest rise and fall with breath, before a surge of information raced up her arm and slammed her onto her backside.

  Flynn held her forehead and took several deep breaths.

  The images and feelings had most definitely come from the bird this time. She didn’t understand everything she had experienced, but she felt fear, anger, disappointment, and most of all a horrible spinning nausea at the smell of blood.

  Grabbing the skin and entrails, she jogged a few paces from her camp. She dug a hole with the handle of her adze and buried everything. She quickly gathered downed branches and kindling on the way back and made a hasty fire with her Watcher tool—the fire starter.

  After fashioning a sort of spit with a couple of forked branches and a green stick, she set the hare to roasting and returned her attention to the falcon.

  She used a bit of her precious water to rinse her hands.

  Cautiously approaching the bird she whispered reassuringly, “The meat is cooking now, is that better?”

  The yellow-lidded eye fluttered open and the intense black orb turned toward Flynn. The bird opened and closed its sharp curved beak.

  Flynn leaned closer. “Can you speak?” she asked doubtfully.

  The falcon twisted its neck and struggled to right itself.

  Slowly she moved her hands to the bird’s body and set it back on its talons. As soon as Flynn’s hands touched the bird, information poured into her consciousness.

  At first she only saw a series of images.

  Bloody hunks of meat.

  A mouse running for its life.

  Entrails.

  A rabbit racing for cover.

  Then, the feelings came flooding through.

  Nausea.

  Fear.

  Dizziness.

  Profound shame.

  Sounds trickled through the connection.

  Voices.

  Laughter.

  Flynn recognized the mockery in the tone of the human voices and an understanding slowly coagulated in her mind.

  This majestic falcon had a deep fear of blood and the Vignan falconers had mocked her and berated her for this weakness—which they could never understand. She had been given to the High Priestess at the Winter Solstice ceremony because she was a beautiful bird and a terrible huntress.

  What an insult! Flynn couldn’t wait to tell her mother about this insincere gift. Thoughts of her mother had to be pushed away. She needed more information from the falcon.

  She wanted to know the bird’s name, but she wasn’t sure how to ask such a question. She pictured her own face and thought the word, “Flynn.” Next she held a picture of the falcon in her mind and waited.

  She saw the image of trash being burned and waste being thrown into the compost.

  “Para? They named you ‘Trash’,” Flynn couldn’t believe such cruelty.

  The bird tilted her head strangely.

  Flynn could feel the confusion and concern. The falcon had never before experienced empathy from a human. Flynn reached for the feelings around the word ‘Para’ and then pushed them away violently.

  The bird fixed her with a hunter’s eyes and blinked twice.

  She stroked the bird reassuringly and Flynn held an image of the falcon in her mind, again waiting.

  A bright, round full moon came into her mind. She watched it wane to the black of the new moon and wax again to full. The image of that first night of the full moon pulsed with light.

  “Oturu!” Flynn shouted.

  The falcon flapped its wings nervously and blinked its thin yellow lids in concern.

  Flynn took a deep breath and focused on the image of the first night of the full moon. She let the sound of the word “Oturu’ hum through her mind.

  The falcon let out a loud cry.

  The sound of satisfaction warmed Flynn’s heart. “I’ll call you Oturu.”

  The smell of burning hare meat interrupted their communications.

  “Oh, Mahuika shouldn’t trust me with fire!” Flynn pulled the charred carcass from the fire and laid it on the grass. She looked at the terribly overcooked meat and laughed until she cried.

  The falcon hopped to the end of its leash and pressed on Flynn’s hand with one talon.

  She wiped her eyes and looked at Oturu. She touched the bird and felt gratitude flowing toward her along with th
e image of the cooked meat.

  Flynn nodded and took two small sticks from the kindling next to the fire. “I suppose we can find some pieces that are edible. They definitely won’t have any blood on them.”

  Oturu gave a joyous cry.

  They enjoyed a meager meal together and Flynn fished her cloak out of her satchel. “I don’t know if you sleep, but I have to rest or I won’t be able to make it too far tomorrow.”

  Flynn reached for the falcon’s hood and Oturu ducked her head sideways. She set the hood back down and gently touched the bird. “What’s wrong?”

  She saw an image of herself sleeping and an image of shadows moving in the dim light of a faery fingernail moon.

  “I think I understand. You’ll watch over me at night?” Flynn wasn’t sure if she understood the message, she had only been speaking falcon for about an hour, but fatigue demanded she sleep. She pulled her cloak over her shoulders and tucked her back against the brush.

  The embers of the fire flickered and glowed.

  Her eyelids grew heavy.

  Oturu backed up close to Flynn and gazed protectively into the darkness.

  The last image Flynn received from the bird, before sleep pulled her under, showed a falcon soaring through the dawn-streaked sky and returning to Flynn’s glove—without a leash.

  A loud screech shocked Flynn awake in the dim hours between moon set and sun rise.

  Oturu screeched again and flapped her wings wildly, tugging the manuka branch that held her leash.

  Flynn rubbed her eyes and squinted to see what had excited the falcon.

  A pack of wild boars had discovered the buried entrails and two large males were fighting over the choice morsels.

  She froze, remembering a story Po had told her about one of his hunting trips with Mistress Rehia. They found a pack of wild boar feasting on human remains in Ti Kouka peaks. Rehia had recognized the man’s bow and they had stopped in Piper Run to tell his family of the man’s passing, and return his bow to his eldest son.

  The smaller male lost the battle over the rabbit innards and turned to find an easier meal. His black eyes landed on Flynn—he snorted and sniffed the air.