He felt Griswold's eyes on his back, but he didn't mind. They felt kindly and concerned this morning.
The old man's voice spoke quietly from somewhere behind him. "You'll find that having someone, or something, to take care of always eases the pain." When Wat glanced up at him, he was staring out the window, his eyes seeing things far beyond Wat and the cottage. He heaved a sigh that, to Wat, seemed full of heartache.
He turned from the window and smiled. "They missed you, boy. Claimed the meat didn't taste as good from these old hands."
Wat smiled at the unlikelihood of that. "I can see how you've mistreated them."
Griswold reached out and flicked a nearby feather at him. Wat blew it away before it touched him. "Missed me."
"Of course." The old man sniffed. "I meant to miss."
Wat snorted. Then he jumped back as one of the falcons aimed for his finger instead of the meat. "Oh, no you don't!" Still looking at the birds, Wat asked Griswold, "Aren't you going to ask of my mother?"
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Griswold turned his gaze back to the window.
"I learned a long while ago to have patience with regard to your mother," he answered at last. He turned back to Wat and smiled. "And I can tell from the look in your eye that Brenna will be well. Besides, knowing you, you won't be able to keep it to yourself much longer."
The birds had finished off the meat and seemed well satisfied. Wat wiped his hands on his tunic and picked up the larger one. The nestling looked puzzled, but didn't protest or try to get away.
"She was as I saw her in my dream," he said as he stroked the silky feathers. "Lord Sherborne had her put in the pillory to punish her for my thievery. She was glad to see me, but insisted I leave." He used one of his fingers to pet the small falcon and continued speaking flatly. "In the end, it was my moment of truth, and I failed to do what was right."
Griswold turned from the window and clucked his tongue. "Such self-pity in one so young!"
Wat looked up, startled at the censure in the old man's words.
Griswold leaned toward Wat. "That was no moment of truth, boy. That was a ... a challenge, at best. And one you rose to, I might add."
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"Where's the challenge in leaving my mother to pay for my sins?"
"Often letting someone help us is the hardest thing to do," Griswold replied. "Besides, a moment of truth is not a test, something to be failed or won. Nor is it earned. It is a simple moment in one's life when all the elements unite within to release one's true spirit."
Still sullen, Wat turned from his grandfather back to the falcons. "Anyway, she as much as said she would be better off without me. And she will be."
"Hmm." Griswold nodded his head. "Are these birds better off without their mother?"
Wat jerked his head around to look at Griswold again. "No! She died protecting them. Fighting for them."
"Exactly. Just as your mother fights for you. It is a different way from the falcons' mother, but do not doubt that she fights for you. And that it costs her much. No one is ever better off when parted from the ones they love."
A trickle of understanding began inside Wat's head.
"And Olin?"
"Who?" Griswold's eyebrows drew up in puzzlement. "The blacksmith. She said that he had asked her to marry him, now that I've ...run off."
"Oh. Hmm." Griswold came over and put his hand on
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Wat's head. "Well, with you gone, she will need someone, even if only a blacksmith, to look after. As I told you before, it eases the pain."
The full force of this new knowledge washed over Wat, cleansing him of the bitter taste of abandonment. Knowing her sacrifice, he felt more loved, yet more alone, than ever before.
To cover his grief and confusion, he turned his attention back to the falcons. He put the larger one back and picked up the smaller one. "We need to find names for you two."
"Have you named many things in this short life of yours, Wat?"
Wat looked up at where Griswold stood, looming over him. "No."
"Well, have a care! Names are not to be given lightly and must speak to the true nature of a thing." Griswold crossed over to the hearth. "Go outside and gather up a handful of dirt," he instructed. "If you are to name them, we must have a ceremony."
When Wat returned holding a handful of dirt, Griswold was kneeling by the hearth. He spotted Wat and straightened. "Bring the bucket of water closer to the birds."
Wat did as he was instructed, then knelt before the peregrines' makeshift nest. Griswold nodded. "Now pick one up
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and hold the bird in your hands, taking the full weight and measure of its true nature."
Once again, Wat reached out and picked up the larger of the young falcons. He held her in his two hands, feeling, judging, and closed his eyes. A vision of her proud, fiercely intelligent eyes filled his head, as well as a sense of patience and caution, as if this falcon would always weigh all the options and consequences before acting. "You are the more intelligent one. You are patient and wait to find out what is going on before you jump in. I will name you for that intelligence." The bird stilled, almost as if waiting to see what name would be bestowed. "Gaelen."
Griswold started slightly, but nodded his approval. "Good. Now touch your finger to the earth, then touch it again to the bird's head and say these words: 'May the spirit of the earth be like strength to you.'"
Staring into Gaelen's keen eyes, Wat solemnly repeated the words.
"Now dip your finger in the water there and place a drop on her head."
Wat did this and repeated the next set of words that Griswold gave him. "May the purity of this water cleanse your mind."
Griswold nodded again. "Hold out your hand."
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Wat did as he was told and received a pinch of ash from the hearth. "Now sprinkle this along the bird's back and say, 'May the fierce beauty of fire fill your spirit.'"
Wat repeated the chant.
"Now lean close and blow gently in her face, but not too hard."
Wat took in a small breath, then exhaled it softly at Gaelen, who blinked and shook her head.
"May the air be strong beneath your wings and fill you with long life." The bird settled at these last words. "Now say, 'I name thee Gaelen.'"
"I name thee Gaelen."
When Griswold nodded his head toward the bucket, Wat put Gaelen back and picked up the smaller bird. Again, he held it in his hands and let his mind fill with the essence of the bird in front of him. Fierce, angry eyes filled his vision and a sense of impatience, eagerness. "You, however, are smaller and much too quick to stick your beak in before you are sure of the situation. And you are little and fiery, so I shall name you Keegan."
"Now repeat the ceremony," Griswold instructed in a quiet voice. Wat did, surprised at how easily he remembered the words. When he finished, he returned Keegan to the nest and rose to his feet, feeling calm and still inside.
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From his place by the window, Griswold spoke. "How did you know those names?" he asked.
Wat shrugged and tried to remember where he'd heard them. "From stories Mother used to whisper in my ear, late at night, after the last of the fire had died down."
"She remembered, then. And told you of them." Griswold sighed deeply and closed his eyes, as if in relief, or thanks, Wat couldn't be sure. "It is more than I had hoped for."
When he opened them again, the moment had passed. "You have named them well," Griswold told him. "And remember, when you know the true name of a thing, it gives you power over it. Now come. I have something I want to show you."
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***
Chapter 12
Griswold struck out on a winding path that led south, away from the part of the forest Wat was familiar with. Wat fell into step behind him, and they walked along in their customary silence. Wat let the sights and sounds of the forest soothe him, washing away his earlier sense of despair. He became absorbed in his surroundings: the tall regal
trees, the filtered rays of sun, the small chipmunks and rabbits who scurried about on the ground. When he returned his attention to the path, he realized that he had no idea how long they had been walking. Nor was he sure he could find his way back without Griswold to guide him.
Griswold paused and opened his mouth to speak, but Wat interrupted.
"Yes, yes. I smell it. It's water again, but different water. A richer, wetter kind."
Wat smiled to himself, well pleased. Two could have at this sport.
Griswold eyed Wat. "Don't get cocky, boy."
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In a short while, the trees grew larger than any Wat had yet seen. They were older, too. Their branches hung low, as if tired, but there was a deep underlying strength to them. Griswold stepped off the faint path they'd been following and headed for an especially dense tangle of trees. The old man wound his way through the trunks and disappeared. Hurrying slightly, Wat followed Griswold into the trees, then stopped, his breath struck from him.
Before him was a small pool, its surface a radiating mirror of gold and green light reflected back from the sun and branches above. The tiny body of water sat at the base of a slight hill, with a trickle of water feeding into it from above. Surrounding the pool were more of the huge trees Wat had noticed earlier. Some of their heavy, thick roots draped over the edge into the pool, as if they had reached down for a drink.
Wat turned to look at Griswold, who, in the strange reflective light thrown off by the water, seemed to have grown taller, straighter, younger. The old man was looking up at the surrounding trees, his face aglow.
"Here, Wat. This is where I come. This is the place from which I draw my strength." His voice dropped to a whisper. "This is the heart of the forest."
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Wat believed it. He could feel the thrumming of the living trees all around him, like the heartbeat of a man, only deeper.
He followed Griswold to the edge of the pool, averting his gaze from his reflection. But again, some unspoken force called upon him to look. Slowly, he turned back to the pool, bracing himself for the impact of his own image.
He looked, then sucked in his breath. He was ...beautiful. Well, not beautiful, exactly. But his eye. It was whole and unmarked. No scars, no ugly red stain.
"Come, drink with me." Griswold's voice interrupted his discovery. The old man reached into a small crack in the rock nearest him and pulled out an old, finely wrought silver cup. He dipped it into the pool, rippling Wat's reflection. The old man filled the cup with water, drank deeply, and handed it to Wat.
"Keep in mind, once you've drunk from the heart of the forest, nothing will ever be as it was. You will take part of the essence of the forest inside you, boy. And it will forever be a part of you."
Wat looked at the trees around him and tried to decide if he minded having the forest inside him. Having it be a part of him forever. Slowly, it dawned on him that he
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didn't mind. It didn't bother him a bit. In truth, it was a wondrous thing, to carry the essence of something as fine as the forest inside you, almost as if you were joined somehow, by some unseen force.
He looked up to find Griswold nodding at him. "Ever since my birth, I have been chosen as keeper of this forest, the guardian of this woods. It is my charge to tend to it, maintain its balance, clear it when fouled, and protect it when threatened. I have toiled for many years. But as you see, I grow old, my limbs are gnarled and stiff. Oh, I still have great power, but for how much longer?"
Griswold looked away from Wat and stared down into the pool. "There are so few left that follow the old ways. I have been greatly burdened by the fact that when I pass over, there will be no keeper for the woods."
Wat looked around him. "You mean it's your task to take care of all this?"
Griswold turned his gaze back to Wat and leaned forward, eager. "Until you..." he whispered. "The day I saw you, hope was born in my chest. And to find you were of my own blood!" He threw back his head and cackled with joy. "My wish, the one I hadn't even known I carried, had been granted. I have someone to pass all my knowledge to,
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my skill, my secrets." Griswold stopped smiling. "Providing the forest accepts you."
"Accepts me? How?" Wat asked.
Griswold shrugged. "We will begin teaching you her mysteries, letting you in on her secrets, but only she can decide if you are a worthy guardian."
"But what do I have to do to be worthy?"
"There is no easy answer to that," Griswold said. "But the forest will test you, take your measure, and if it likes what it sees, then you will have passed."
"Will it hurt?"
Griswold frowned. "What of pain? We are talking about a gift from the gods, a gift greater than most will ever dream of. What is a little pain when measured against such things?"
"You mean it will hurt."
"Ach. I mean no such thing. I only mean that it does not matter in the great scheme of things. Now, if you are willing, drink deeply and you will be set upon this new path."
Wat looked around at the clearing. Griswold offered him a chance to have a place in this world, to be a part of the great scheme of things here in the forest. Finally, he would
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belong somewhere, be needed by something, have a purpose to his life. There would be danger, especially with these Normans. And pain, if he correctly heard what Griswold was not saying. But his grandfather thought he could do it.
And, truth be told, Wat ached to do it. To become a part of this place, learn the same skills and secrets Griswold possessed. The idea thrilled him to his very toes.
Wat looked up and met Griswold's eyes. "I am willing," he said. He lifted the silver cup and drank the water, which was tinged gold with sunlight and sweeter than any he had ever tasted. As it ran down his throat, he felt his body begin to hum. The thrumming he had noticed became louder in his ears, and he could feel his own heart change its rhythm to match it. He felt the vibration of the earth where his feet touched it. The air shimmered and strobed; it, too, beating with the pulse.
Wat looked up to find Griswold peering at him intently. "What potion was in that water?" Wat asked as he handed the cup back to his grandfather.
Griswold threw back his head and laughed, a deeper, richer sound than Wat had yet heard from him. "Nothing, boy. Nothing but the purest of springwater mixed with the essence of the woods. Now come, it is growing late." He
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hoisted himself from the boulder on which he sat and waited for Wat to do the same. As they left the sheltered clearing, Wat noticed that for the first time, Griswold did not stride ahead. Together, side by side, they made their way back to the cottage.
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***
Chapter 13
The peregrines grew quickly. Wat had been with Griswold for nearly a fortnight, and in that time the birds had lost most of their fluffy, white down. They were now covered in mottled brown feathers, with little bits of downy fluff peeking out here and there.
"They'll be old enough to fledge in a week or so. Have you given any thought to their first flight?" Griswold asked. With a sigh he lifted Keegan from the table and plopped him onto the floor.
"No, my thoughts hadn't gotten that far," admitted Wat. But it was a good question. How would he get them to take their first flight? He watched as Gaelen walked over--waddled, actually--to see how Keegan was faring on the floor. Together they went over to the hearth and inspected the sooty ashes.
Wat knew the peregrines wouldn't stay with him forever. They would need to make their own way in the wild. It wouldn't be right to have these proud birds dependent on
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him, any more than it would be to have them belong to Hugh, or Lord Sherborne. Wat knew the only thing that kept him from being just a kindlier version of Hugh was his intention to release them back into the wild. But thankfully, they were not ready to fly quite yet.
"Well, think about it!" snapped Griswold. "And get them out of my house
!" The old man picked up the branch they used as a broom and herded the birds in Wat's direction. They had been busy testing their wings and flapping about in the ashes, and the hearth was a sooty mess. Wat stood up and gave a low whistle. "Gaelen, Keegan, come!"
Between the broom and Wat's voice, the young falcons' attention was diverted from the ashes. They followed Wat outside, their awkward bird gait matching his own uneven stride.
He sat down on a patch of grass with the sun on his back. The falcons sat next to him with their taloned feet stretched out in front of them. Wat smiled. They had no idea how silly they looked. He sighed, his feelings mixed at the thought of losing his companions. He had no idea how long they would stay with him once they learned to fly and hunt on their own. Their departure would leave a bleak hole in his heart, but then he would have more time to spend at the lessons Griswold set before him.
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Ever since that day at the pool, Griswold had been busy stuffing knowledge into Wat's head: the names of plants and trees, their elemental properties and how to call their power from them, what their best uses were. It was endless. His grandfather had him listening to the stories the Ancient Ones told as the wind rustled through their leaves. Oak, birch, alder, and rowan all shared their stories with Wat until his head was so full it threatened to burst.
Griswold had taken him on treks deep into the forest, to hidden and forgotten nooks and crannies where the sacred places lurked. He'd instructed Wat on the sacred names used to invoke their power, although Wat had no idea what that power could do.
Today, Wat's task was to begin learning the sigils. As he sat outside with the falcons, he began tracing into the earth the elemental symbols that Griswold had been teaching him. In the ground next to him, he made a circle then crossed it with two lines. The rich earth rose up in furrows around his finger, and the rich loamy scent filled his head. Next, he practiced the sigil for air by drawing a circle and placing a dot in the center.
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