Charlotte Stone and the Children of the Nymet

by Tasha O'Neill

  ‘What you are looking at here is the most sophisticated communication centre in the whole of the Fey Nation.’ The dwarf beamed proudly. ‘Here we have the Willow board and over there is the Ash ‘n’ Elm exchange. Not just about modern communication mind; Fey seers visit regularly too. They read the roots to determine the fate of families and nations; you’ll find them over there by the Norn Interface. Complicated science, that is.’

  They weaved through the pools, some steaming and bubbling gently, releasing pleasant aromas, while others were being stirred to prevent them from freezing over. ‘The nutripools,’ Davlin offered by way of explanation and without slowing his pace.

  ‘This is the pièce de résistance!’ he announced excitedly, coming to an abrupt stop outside a heavy door.

  Silence folded round Luned like a balm after the buzz of the cave as they entered the Tap Room. The air was heavy with the sweet smell of healthy soil, though a bitterness hung ghostly underneath. In the centre of the room the tap root pulsed with a soft green-blue glow.

  ‘That’s the sap rising,’ Davlin whispered reverently. ‘Though between you and me it’s not been flowing as well as it should for the time of year… of course it’ll be nothing for you to worry about, just seasonal change.’ The dwarf checked himself, clearly worried that he had revealed too much.

  Despite the tons of earth above her head and the weakness of the pulse, Luned, who had been feeling somewhat nauseous, felt better to be in the presence of water.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ Luned murmured, mesmerised by the patterns that flowed in the sap stream.

  ‘It can be a real show for sure,’ Davlin nodded. ‘When you know what you’re looking at, you can decipher their meanings. These here show she’s sensing a storm coming.’

  At that moment the walls of the tap room vibrated, causing a light fall of soil from the ceiling.

  ‘What was that?’ Luned was suddenly very aware of the rock and stone above her. Before Davlin had a chance to answer, there was a second, more violent quake and they were both dragged into the sap stream.

  *

  Being an Undine, the ride was easier for Luned as she melted into the flow, but even she was glad it was mercifully short – the poor dwarf had not faired as well. Davlin was covered in gashes and bruises and his left arm was now at a sickeningly unnatural angle.

  ‘What in K’hul just happened?’ Luned gasped as they emerged into fresh air.

  ‘F… Fargale… screaming,’ Davlin gurgled in pain. A medic appeared at his side and called urgently to a colleague before they whisked him off on a stretcher.

  Shell-shocked, Luned tried to make sense of the scene of chaos around her. The air had been fried and was filled with arid smoke, ozone and the moans of the injured residents of Fargale – the lucky ones. It took a while to register what had happened. Black, cracked charcoal replaced healthy bark and soot covered everything. The central trunk was a sickening mass of split and twisted wood and there were pockets of fire everywhere. Something had ripped the heart out of Fargale, and the very same sap Luned had been part of moments ago was evaporating in the heat that still sat in the wood.

  From her vantage point in the upper branches, Luned could see something large lying at the foot of the tree. In the fussiness of her head it took some time to realise she recognised the shape, that she had seen it before – it was the human girl who lived on the cliff. This would need to be added to the file.

  *

  As Charlotte came to, pain flooded her senses. She ached everywhere and could feel something – she didn’t know if it was blood or water – trickling down her chin. Mist swirled across the ground and leaf mould crackled loudly in the silence as she moved. Tentatively, she stretched her neck. Not broken, that was a good start; clearly the spinal cord wasn’t severed as testified by the pain but Charlotte had to suppress the urge to vomit when she caught sight of her hand.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ a voice said behind her. ‘I think we can remove the wood easily enough.’

  Charlotte vaguely remembered before she had been knocked out cold, a stabbing pain in her right hand. One of the tree’s thick roots was frayed and a section of it was plunged into her flesh.

  ‘It hasn’t damaged the muscle too much and, more importantly, it has managed to avoid any veins or arteries.’

  ‘That’s alright then,’ Charlotte said with feeble sarcasm; she was feeling very faint.

  ‘You have been very lucky, Charlotte of Stone. Drink this.’

  Charlotte finally saw the woman; she was young and slim with almost deathly pale skin. She shared Charlotte’s own red hair and piercing green eyes but it was her clothes that were most striking purple silks and green robes in Roman style finished with a mantle of gold encrusted with precious jewels over which she wore a feathered robe as black as night. A black bird swooped through the trees to land on her shoulder.

  ‘Caroc has alerted your kin, they will be here soon; now do as I tell you and drink. Do not put my hard work to waste.’ There was an authority in the stranger’s voice that could not be argued with.

  The potion was warm and sweet and took effect immediately. To her right a disturbing sucking noise told her the woman was removing the jagged, torn root but surprisingly there was no pain. The woman chanted under her breath as she worked and with a few hand gestures a floating ball of light appeared in front of her. The ball glowed eerily in the moonlight and seemed to be awaiting her command. A moment later it sunk into the hole in Charlotte’s hand, knitting together broken skin and bone.

  ‘Just like new.’ The woman smiled as she reached into the heart of the still-smouldering tree and pulled out some dark soot. ‘This tree has been lightning struck, and so have you, little one.’ She sprinkled the soot into Charlotte’s skin. ‘You are now bound to each other.’

  The lady urged Charlotte to sit up and she found, to her surprise, that all the pain in her body had gone.

  ‘I anoint you as a warrior of the order of the Nymet Draoi. You now bear the Mother’s Kiss.’

  For the first time Charlotte noticed the spidery burn marks on her arm that strangely resembled a tree. Where the soot had touched her skin the marks pulsed as if the lightning was still flowing through her.

  ‘What does all this mean?’ Charlotte muttered through her shock. ‘What if I don’t want to be a…’

  ‘It is done, destiny has chosen you and there is no denying her touch.’ The woman took Charlotte’s chin and looked into her eyes with such intensity, any argument Charlotte had formed in her head was forgotten.

  ‘We have but a very short time left, so listen well, Charlotte of Stone. It is as much a mystery to me that wood should choose fire and stone but it is so and a gateway has been opened for you. It is your role from this moment to protect this tree.’ The woman waved at the oak which, in spite of the large hollow in its heart, still stood strong, shimmering even more in the dark.

  ‘In this state, it will have many enemies,’ the woman went on, ‘but it must not fall or we are all doomed.’

  Suddenly from the undergrowth Cicero launched himself onto Charlotte’s chest and let out a plaintive howl before reverting to his usual gurgling purr as he started kneading Charlotte happily.

  The woman stood and gathered her robes around her. ‘I am done here. Tell Lady Aherne, The Morrigan will be seeing her soon,’ she said before fading into the trees.

  Lights bobbed below Charlotte. Aunt Clarissa and the local police officer, PC Taylor, came into view, worry etched on both their faces.

  ‘I’m here,’ Charlotte waved to them. ‘I’m… I’m alright,’ she shouted down to them, not quite able to believe it herself. Aunt Clarissa marched up the bank in half the time that many of her age would normally manage.

  ‘Oh, Charlotte, we were all so worried about you.’ She took Charlotte’s face in her hands and went to kiss her forehead when she noticed the soot. She gave Charlotte a quizzical look.

  ‘I’ve just met Mrs Morrigan, she hea
led me; and she sends you her regards.’

  Clarissa blanched. It was the first time Charlotte had seen her afraid. In fact, she had never seen Clarissa even slightly panicked and she would have bet on it not being possible if she hadn’t seen her now.

  ‘The Morrigan,’ Clarissa corrected, ‘and she never gives without taking. What did she look like?’

  Charlotte thought this an odd question. The woman had obviously known Clarissa.

  ‘Well, surely you know?’

  ‘She has different guises.’ Clarissa was impatient now.

  ‘Well, I… she was… youngish.’

  ‘Charlotte. This is important, girl. You must tell me exactly what she looked like.’ Clarissa reminded her of Madame Cortes with the steel in her eyes.

  ‘Long red hair, pale skin, sort of… well, a crazy look in her eyes… and she had a bird on her shoulder.’

  ‘A raven?’

  Charlotte considered this for a moment, comparing the bird to those she had seen on her visits to the Tower of London.

  ‘Could be, yes, I think it was.’

  ‘Battle ready,’ Aunt Clarissa whispered.

  Charlotte just about caught those odd last words and wondered if she had misheard.

  ‘Time to batten down the hatches, my dear, trouble’s coming to Brackenheath.’

  Children of the Nymet

  The tempeta had been a real bone-shaker; there hadn’t been a storm like it in living memory, and Tar’sel hadn’t had a single moment’s sleep. The sap flow of his family tree, Ashter, had been erratic all night; she had been so scared and he had been chanting to her till day-break to try and calm her. As light rose he tuned into her song, mending any broken branches by adjusting their discordant notes. Ashter was singing happily by the time Tar’sel prepared to join the other weavers to check the land for any trees, plants or wildlife in need of care.

  Tar’sel’s quadrant was the forest edge bordering the Nellpa river delta. He grabbed his pack and a breakfast of stuffed oarweed before heading out across the main communal grove. It should have been market day with the usual brightly painted barrows and knitted throws on which the sellers displayed their wares but today there was simply a large crowd, no doubt assessing the damage, and a torrent of undistinguished chatter filled the air.

  Mercifully, there did not appear to be any trees down so no one would be homeless tonight, but the atmosphere was tense. More than one would expect for a mere storm, however rough. The air was silent of the usual morning chores. No children practising their toning sounds, or farmers singing the fields of blue rice and lotus grain into fruition.

  ‘Tar’sel, there you are, your father is looking for you.’ Tar’sel’s friend Mor’seka broke away from the crowd and strode towards him.

  ‘But I’ve got to get to the delta.’

  Mor’seka shook his head. ‘The delta will have to wait, Tay’mor has ordered you to the Nymet.’

  Tar’sel blanched. Something was seriously wrong; even as the son of the current guardian of the Nymet he would never be permitted to enter such a holy place in normal circumstances.

  The position of Nymet guardian was an elected post and while it had been held by a number of the Aderquaile family line, Tar’sel never thought for a moment he could ever fill his father’s shoes. Now here he was, being summoned by the Nymet Draoi and the sense of responsibility to make his father proud and protect the honour of their family name sat heavy on his shoulders.

  ‘Tar’sel, did you hear me? You have to go, now.’ Mor’seka roused him from the sense of shock that had frozen him to the spot.

  ‘Do you have any idea what I’m walking into?’ Tar’sel asked. Mor’seka was usually the first person in the Barra to know the latest news or gossip so if anyone knew what was going on it would be him.

  Mor’seka shook his head. ‘The elders haven’t said a thing, don’t want to cause panic I guess,’ he shrugged. ‘But there is a rumour going around that the Great Tree has been struck,’ he finished solemnly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tar’sel called as he ran as fast as he could to the Nymet. If what Mor’seka said was true it would explain why he had been summoned; his father was going to need all the weavers he could muster.

  There was nothing obvious when Tar’sel arrived at the sacred grove. No charring and no smoke; perhaps it wasn’t as bad as Mor’seka had heard. Then he heard it: the silence. There was no singing, no morning rites.

  The Nymet sat atop a hillock to the north of the main grove. A circle of willow and hazel trees had been planted many generations ago and woven into intricate knot work creating the effect of a giant tree over fifteen metres wide and now, as it had grown over the years, over thirty metres tall. The knot work had been studded with jewels, agate slices and granite rings, designed to provide privacy while also letting in light to nurture the precious life form inside.

  The sacred tree of life, the Nymet tree, was no ordinary oak. Evergreen and ancient, it held the memories of the before and after, it nourished the land and the people that belonged to it. The Nymet held the very soul of the forest. What would they do without it? What if there was no replacement? What if the Nymet tree was dead?

  Snap out of it, he chided himself. You are here to heal and you can’t do that with such negative thoughts in your head.

  Tar’sel had never been so close; most of the community only came to the base of the hill, and he was not sure where to enter. A cold wind swept through the grasses as he made his way up the hill on a winding path.

  Above him, light glowed through the gaps in the living willow and hazel screen and at the top of the hill a golden dust floated in front of him before settling on the ground. The dust swirled and danced unnaturally and Tar’sel fought to control a fear that was building in his gut. Hand on his blade, he tried to ignore the internal voice of wisdom which told him such things would be useless against spirits.

  The dust formed the shape of a girl, perhaps a year or so younger than him, lying asleep or unconscious, Tar’sel could not tell which, and he bent down to take a closer look. Such strange clothing with unusual markings; he had never seen anything like it. He was drawn to her right hand that seemed to be impaled on something, he winced at the sight, but it was when he noticed the girl’s face that a cold twist knotted in his chest; she was the girl of his vision. There was no colour in this dust, but she had the same nose, same eyebrows, same hair – unmistakeable. Just as he was processing what he was seeing, the dust swirled again before settling into another form.

  ‘Lady Morrigan,’ he gasped at the sight of the woman in her rich robes and jewelled mantle before turning his face away from her. It did not do well to stare at one of the Shriven.

  ‘Tar’sel, son of the Manush de Rukh, hear me,’ the woman announced. ‘I have a task for you.’

  Tar’sel bowed but said nothing.

  ‘I charge you with the duty to protect this crystal child. She comes to save your world, and my sister.’

  Tar’sel risked looking directly at the lady; she needed to see his eyes as he swore to this oath.

  ‘As is your wish my lady, so will I obey.’

  ‘Davlin of Fargale has been ordered to grant you passage through the Albion Gateway, when you are ready of course.’

  ‘I am to journey to Albion?’ Tar’sel was shocked.

  Crossing the Dreamtime was not, strictly speaking, allowed and Anya, Mor’seka and himself could get into a lot of trouble for their stunt at the Nabinder festival. Yet now he was being granted full permission by a member of the Shriven to visit the mystical land of Albion. Visions of the many legends his father had told him throughout his childhood flashed across his mind.

  ‘When necessary,’ The Morrigan nodded. ‘I have noticed your weaver skills are coming on well, they may be useful in time. This is a privilege extended only to you and not to be abused.’

  Her eyes flashed a warning and Tar’sel wondered if she knew.

  ‘The fate of the Triverse is in your hands.’


  Tar’sel bowed again. ‘Gestina. Thank you. I won’t let you down.’

  Clearly pleased, the lady, and the dust, disappeared on the breeze. Suddenly, a willow weave screen was lifted aside to reveal his father, Tay’mor.

  ‘We have been waiting, Son.’ The tone was grave but not accusatory.

  ‘I came as quickly as I could, Father,’ Tar’sel said, touching his forehead and chest in the traditional greeting of his people. ‘How may I serve the Sleeping Mother?’

  Tay’mor motioned his son to enter before speaking.

  ‘You will have heard rumours?’ Tar’sel nodded. ‘Well, they are not quite true,’ his father replied. ‘The Great Tree has not been lightning struck, but it was close. The Draoi were somehow able to deflect the bolt.’

  The female priestesses, in their usual green robes, root-like dreadlocks and the distinctive Nymet tattoo on their foreheads, stood around the oak’s trunk, hands to bark, chanting in low, soft voices. Tar’sel noticed another woman with the same mark and robes lying still on a board to the left of the entrance. She couldn’t have been more than twenty; and her eyes were closed.

  ‘She died in service to the Sleeping Mother,’ Tay’mor whispered. ‘No one is sure exactly what happened, it was so quick, but it is thought that she drew the lightning into herself.’ Tar’sel’s eyes were drawn to a charred area of earth next to the Great Tree.

  ‘I have called you here because the others need time to bury their sister, Tar’sel, their hearts are too heavy to heal.’

  ‘I am to work alone?’ Tar’sel was full of fear. How could he be given such a burden?

  ‘We will work together, Son, you are the only uninitiated the elders would allow to enter here.’

  ‘Because I’m your son?’