Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
PART TWO
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
PART THREE
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
“LORD OF THE OAK. LORD OF THE HOLLY. WE STAND BEFORE YOU. Lords of the First Forest, we come to witness.”
The air trembled. A shiver ran down Struath’s spine as the energy flowed around him and through him, through all of the watchers—a circle of living power surrounding the Tree. A shudder rippled through the massive trunk. The sweeping boughs of the Holly shook as the Lord of the Waning Year offered the challenge. The Oak rattled its spindly branches, accepting.
Then the Holly attacked. The finger-length spikes of its leaves carved long gouges in the Oak’s trunk. Struath sang with the others. Each day since Midsummer, the Oak-Lord’s strength had dwindled, and with it the strength of the sun. Tonight, his power was at its lowest ebb, yet somehow, the Lord of the Waxing Year must prevail.
A great bulge ran up the trunk of the Tree. Twigs burst out of the Oak’s naked limbs. They grew thick and strong, swelling with power. The Oak lashed the Holly, the sharp retort of cracking branches punctuating the singing. Green boughs sagged. Red berries, large as fists, rained down.
The Holly’s limbs shriveled, retreating before the burgeoning power of the Oak. Even as relief surged through him, Struath heard a high-pitched whine. The chanting faltered.
The Oak split with a horrifying shriek of rending wood. Shards of wood, longer than any spear, catapulted through the air. Men and women fled screaming, trampling those in their path. Struath stood frozen as one of the flying spears shattered a man’s head. Another impaled a woman on a birch where her body hung, twitching.
The Tree shrieked again. Struath raised his head as the Oak shuddered and ripped away from the trunk of the Tree. Blackness filled the jagged scar. In the blackness, stars red as blood gleamed with an unholy light as they swirled, slowly coalescing into a shape. A hand, Struath realized. An outstretched hand, the fingers curling and uncurling as if reaching for him… .
Copyright © 2005 by Barbara Campbell.
All Rights Reserved.
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Acknowledgments
Writing may be a solitary art, but writers need the support of colleagues, friends, and family to accomplish their goals. To list them all would require a coffee table edition of Heartwood. Short of that, I’d like to acknowledge the following people whose contributions helped improve this book and kept me (relatively) sane while I wrote it:
Jeanne Cavelos, director of the Odyssey workshop. A terrific teacher, Jeanne’s enthusiasm, generosity, and discerning criticism create the perfect environment for writers to learn from each other and hone their skills.
The 2001 and 2002 participants of The Never-Ending Odyssey whose critiques helped shape the book. Special thanks to the following folks who attended both workshops: Daniel Fitzgerald, Marty Hiller, Rita Oakes, Larry Taylor, and Susan Winston.
Laurie Lanzdorf and Michael Samerdyke who critiqued the never-ending first draft of Heartwood and remained my friends 180,000 words later.
Susan Herner, loyal agent and friend, who always kept the faith and always kept me going.
Sheila Gilbert for her insight, her patience, and her sense of humor. Every author should be blessed with such an editor and be welcomed so warmly into the world of publishing.
And finally, my husband David Lofink, who read every word of every draft, made invaluable suggestions that changed the course of the story, and offered love and encouragement in good times and bad. He is my heartwood and I dedicate this novel to him.
PART ONE
Winter has come.
It walks the leafless forest and the frost-rimed fields.
It spreads its mantle of snow on the sleeping earth.
It breathes on the waters and locks them in silence.
It whistles on the hilltops, piercing the air with its
bitter song.
It devours the sun with fangs of icicles.
It clasps my hand with frozen fingers and chuckles
as I shiver.
Winter has come, wearing a crown of holly leaves.
Wintersong
Chapter 1
FEAR IS THE ENEMY.
Careful not to awaken his brother, Darak flung his mantle over his shoulders and eased aside the bearskin that hung across the doorway. As cold as their hut had been, the frigid air outside stole his breath. Stifling a cough, he swiped his watering eyes with the back of his hand.
Scudding clouds hid the face of the moon goddess, but to the north, pale stars flickered, their light too faint to show more than the smudged shapes of the nearest huts. Old Sim’s snores offered a droning counterpoint to the whimper of a babe, quickly muffled as it found its mother’s breast in the darkness.
Darak quelled the unexpected rush of resentment the ordinary sounds evoked. He had only himself to blame. When Tinnean declared his intention of becoming the Tree-Father’s apprentice, he had dismissed it as a whim. After the ceremony took place at Midsummer, he had convinced himself that his impulsive brother would soon tire of the rigorous training. When his brother remained resolute, he had argued with him. Then came the series of calamities that had devastated the tribe, driving concerns about Tinnean’s future from h
is mind. Autumn found his brother spending every evening with the Tree-Father, leaving him to sit by the fire pit, fighting the emptiness of their hut and the bitterness of his memories. Since then, he had clung to the belief that his brother would realize his error, that like all the men in their line, he would follow the hunter’s path.
Foolishly, he had thought time was his ally. Now he knew better.
Control the fear.
He had learned to banish the old fears that stalked his dreams as soon as he awoke. This new fear was harder to conquer. During the day, he held it at bay by driving his mind and body hard, but during the long winter nights, it crept close, a stealthy predator seeking his most vulnerable points. Sleep offered no escape. Better to remain awake, alert, prepared for the inevitable attack.
He paced back and forth, his footsteps crunching too loudly in the hard-packed snow. He would not lose Tinnean. He would not.
Control yourself.
Stillness should come easily to a hunter, yet even when he forced himself to lean against the wall of the hut, his hands kept clenching and unclenching. Silently, he rehearsed the words again. Sling and spear, bow and arrow—those he had mastered, but if he was going to stop Tinnean from ruining his life, words were his only weapons.
He was still trying to find the right ones when he sensed movement. He straightened as the bearskin fell back into place. Of course, Tinnean had come out without his mantle. Darak shrugged off his and wrapped it around his brother.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” Tinnean said.
Darkness masked his brother’s expression. Was that tiny hitch in his voice proof that Tinnean had changed his mind or was he simply nervous about the morrow’s ceremony? Darak knew well how doubt could assail a man at night. He would never wish Tinnean to suffer, but it was only one night, after all, and surely worth a little pain to make the right choice. He took a deep breath, readying himself to utter the words he had chosen, the words that would convince Tinnean to abandon his foolhardy path.
Before he could speak, Tinnean grabbed his arm. Taut as a drawn bowstring, Darak searched the village for an enemy.
A sliver of white light pierced the sky. Tinnean’s fingers fumbled for his, just as they had when he’d first glimpsed the Northern Dancers as a child. He’s still a child, Darak thought. And he still needs me.
The streamer of light writhed like a snake impaled upon a spear, then exploded into a translucent veil of green and white that filled the northern horizon. The hairs on Darak’s neck and arms stood upright as fiery bolts of light shot through the night sky. Beside him, Tinnean’s voice shook as he whispered the prayers of protection. The messengers of the gods could herald good as well as evil, but always the appearance of the Northern Dancers foretold change.
The bolts of light grew soft and fluid, curling around each other, twisting into huge, glowing circles as they wove the wild pattern of the dance. Tremulous fingers sprouted from the bottom of the veil and groped earthward, the innocent rose darkening to stain Tinnean’s upturned face blood red.
Darak reached for the bag of charms at his neck before he remembered that he no longer wore them. Quickly, he flicked his forefinger against his thumb three times. After that, he could only wait; the dance could last until dawn lightened the sky.
Instead, between one breath and the next, the sky flames simply vanished. Darak blinked, his eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness. Perhaps the gods listened to Tinnean’s prayers; in the moons since Midsummer, they had never answered his.
He was still staring skyward when Tinnean tugged his hand free.
“I must go to the Tree-Father.”
Before he could stop him, Tinnean raced off. Once, his brother would have looked to him for answers; these days, he was always running to Struath.
Long after Tinnean’s figure had disappeared, Darak stared into the darkness. Then, with a muttered curse, he flung back the bearskin. Why ask the shaman to explain the signs? Even an ordinary man knew they foretold disaster.
When the tribe gathered at dawn for the first of the daylong rites, Darak observed the Tree-Father closely. If Tinnean’s report had unsettled Struath, he hid it well. His face was as calm as ever, his voice steady as he led the tribe in the chant to honor the dead. Tinnean’s shook, though; so did his hands, the knuckles white as he clenched the woven reed basket containing the bones of those who had died since the harvest. Their bodies had lain on stone platforms in the Death Hut for three moons, allowing time and scavengers to eat away the flesh. The priests had gathered the bones at the dark of the moon and scoured them clean in preparation for today’s interment.
At least they would receive a proper rite. The bodies of those who had died in the plague—forty-three men, women, and children—had been burned and their bones hastily buried after Struath had discovered dead crows and ravens littering the ground around the Death Hut. Even after death, the plague continued its ravages.
Darak realized he was stroking the pockmarks on his cheek and let his hand fall to his side. Frowning, he watched the Tree-Father and Grain-Mother as they walked sunwise around the circle of worshipers. Yeorna’s unbound hair rippled like ripe barley in the wind, the only bit of brightness on this gray morning. Gortin and Lisula followed, their faces solemn. Gortin’s seemed gloomier than usual; Darak wondered if he was smarting at his failure to be elevated to Tree-Brother. After the plague took Cronig, the entire tribe expected Gortin to take his place, but Struath had announced only Tinnean’s initiation.
Today.
Darak’s voice faltered. Tinnean shot him a quick glance as he passed, his brother’s clear tenor ringing out all the louder to make up for his momentary lapse.
It was all happening too quickly. Tinnean had only begun his apprenticeship at Midsummer and today he would become Struath’s initiate. So many changes in their lives these last six moons—and all of them bad.
Struath thumped his blackthorn staff on the snow-crusted ground and Nionik led the white bullock forward. Darak amended his previous thought; Nionik’s election as Oak-Chief was the only good thing to come from the disasters that had befallen the tribe. Chosen in haste after the plague, he well deserved the three eagle feathers braided in his hair. He had seen the tribe through the hailstorm that had leveled the barley and the foot rot that had carried off half the sheep in their small flock.
Bel’s golden face peeped through the clouds. A relieved sigh eased its way around the circle at the sun god’s appearance and more than one face turned skyward, smiling at the good omen. His kinfolk were still smiling when the bullock stumbled.
Several people gasped. Fingers moved in covert signs of protection. Even Struath frowned slightly as he nodded to the chief. Nionik took a firmer grip on the bullock’s nettle-braid halter. He passed the lead rope to Gortin who yanked it hard, pulling the beast’s head back to expose the muscular throat. Struath lifted his bronze dagger high.
“That its blood may feed our dead. That its flesh may feed the living. That its spirit may strengthen the Oak-Lord in tonight’s battle.” With the expertise of many years, Struath plunged the dagger into the bullock’s throat.
The animal staggered to its knees and collapsed, its lifeblood spurting into the basin held by the Grain-Mother. Lisula knelt to catch the last of the offering in the ceremonial cup of polished black stone. Their ancestors had carried it with them when they fled north to escape a horde of invaders. Ten generations of their bones lay in the tribal cairns; only the cup remained, mute testament to their flight.
Before they left the village for the rite at the heart-oak, Struath would remove the heart, lungs, liver, and genitals from the bullock. Yeorna would sew each into a piece of the animal’s hide. Struath would carry the heart into the First Forest and offer it to the Oak-Lord. On the morrow, after the tribe returned from the forest, the tender liver would be cast into the lake to thank the goddess Lacha for sharing her bounty. The lungs would be burned, carrying the bullock’s breath to the gods of lightning and thunder. Th
e genitals would be buried in the fields to ensure Halam’s blessing of fertility for the crops.
Once, Darak had found comfort in these rites, handed down from one generation to the next since the first Tree-Father had sacrificed to the gods. Now, he stared dully at the cooling carcass of the bullock, wondering if the gods even noticed their piety.
A thread of steam rose into the air as Lisula handed the cup to Struath. The shaman proffered the cup to the four directions before raising it to his lips. Yeorna drank next, then Gortin, and finally Lisula who held the cup for Tinnean. Darak saw his lips move in a quick prayer before he lowered his head to drink. That unruly lock of hair fell across his forehead. As he raised his head, Lisula brushed it back, smiling. The gesture clearly surprised Tinnean, but after a moment, he smiled back, ducking his head shyly.
Darak discovered answering smiles on the faces of his kinfolk and found himself recalling the time a bee had stung Tinnean on the lip. Their mam claimed his smile was so sweet, the poor insect had confused his mouth with its honeycomb.
Darak’s smile faded. He had gifts, too: the ability to walk silently through a forest, to face a charging boar, to drop a deer with a single arrow. His tribe respected him for those gifts. But had any face ever lit up at the mere sight of him? Only Tinnean’s, he realized. And that was long ago.
He marched with the others to the cairn. Watched with the others while Struath ducked into the dark entrance of the barrow, carrying the basket of bones. Sang with the others when he emerged again, proclaiming that those who had gone before had cried out a welcome to their blood-kin. Habit impelled him to pick up a stone and lay it atop the cairn in memory of his dead. A few women wiped their eyes. Tinnean wept openly, apparently unashamed of the tears streaking his cheeks. The only tears in Darak’s eyes came from the gusting wind off the lake. He had no tears left to shed for the dead; he hadn’t even been able to weep for the dying.
Bel fought a losing battle against the thickening clouds as they marched back to the village for the ritual relighting of fire. While Struath struggled to call forth a spark from his ceremonial firestick, Darak struggled with the words he would say to Tinnean. The speech he had prepared would not suffice, not with the power of today’s rite still fresh in his brother’s mind and the anticipation of his initiation beckoning. He needed to find new words, better ones. And he had to find them quickly.
Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Page 1