Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  Here and there, children blew on numbed fingers and stamped their feet, subsiding into stillness again at a parent’s sharp look or pinch. When a spark stubbornly refused to catch, even the adults stirred restively, chafing chapped hands against tunics or clasping them under their woolen mantles. Darak curled and uncurled his toes inside his fur-lined shoes in a vain effort to take away the ache of the cold. He could only imagine the pain Struath must feel, crouched in the snow, forcing fingers gnarled with age and the joint-ill to spin the firestick again and again. He felt a reluctant admiration for the old man whose expression remained impassive.

  Finally, a spark flickered and grew strong, drawing a victorious whoop from Red Dugan, quickly stifled when Struath turned that single blue eye on him. Struath and Yeorna lit their torches from the sacred fire. One by one, the head of each household lit a torch from theirs. As Darak dipped his torch toward Struath, the Tree-Father’s eye bored into him. Admiration gave way to animosity. He would not let Struath take his brother, no matter what curse the Tree-Father flung at him. Surreptitiously, he flicked his forefinger against his thumb; no sense ill-wishing himself.

  The crowd quickly dispersed, each family eager to get out of the wind and relight the household fire. Tinnean lingered beside Struath. Darak waited, his gaze drawn to Krali and Griane. Krali’s long gray hair masked her face, but her shoulders shook in silent sobs. Today, she had watched Struath carry her father’s bones into the barrow, but surely she was remembering all the others she had lost: her mother to the blood-cough, both sons to the plague, and the niece who was a daughter to her in all but the birthing.

  Darak took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He would not think of Maili now.

  Griane clasped her aunt’s hand. Although her eyes were dry, she was gnawing her upper lip, a sure sign of distress. Their eyes met. Her chilly stare commanded him to do something, say something, but what words could possibly assuage Krali’s grief? Griane had grown up in Krali’s hut. She called her “Mam.” She was assistant to the tribe’s healer. If she couldn’t comfort poor Krali, how could he?

  As he hesitated, Tinnean broke away from Struath and approached the two women. He touched Krali’s shoulder gently. When she turned to look at him, he opened his arms. With a soft cry, she leaned into his embrace. His arms came around her, hugging her hard. His lips moved as he whispered something. When Krali straightened, tears still stained her lined face, but she managed a smile as she touched Tinnean’s cheek. The smile vanished as Red Dugan approached.

  “Stop your sniveling, woman. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

  Griane’s head snapped up. “You’re a fine one to talk, Uncle Dugan. Drunk before midday.”

  Darak stifled a curse. She should know better than to taunt him when he had been drinking. Without waiting for Dugan’s inevitable bellow, he started forward. His shout forestalled the blow, but it was Tinnean who stepped between Griane and her uncle.

  “Enough. Please. This day is sacred to the Oak. Would you dishonor his spirit—and those of our ancestors—by quarreling?”

  From their truculent expressions, it was clear that both Griane and Dugan were prepared to do just that. Tinnean stared from one to the other. Dugan unclenched his fist. Griane whirled away so abruptly that her long braid slapped her uncle across the chest. Dugan muttered something under his breath, but contented himself with shoving Krali toward their hut.

  A great puff of steam filled the air as Tinnean let out his breath. Before Darak could speak, Struath strode forward.

  “Forgive me, Tree-Father. I know it was not my place to speak, but …”

  Struath shook his head, smiling. “It is the duty of every priest to guide his people. You did well, Tinnean.”

  As Tinnean stammered his thanks, Struath’s gaze met Darak’s and his gentle smile shifted into one of satisfaction. Darak spun away, narrowly avoiding a collision with Sim. Quickly righting his flaming torch, he seized the Memory-Keeper’s arm to steady him. The old man clung to him, wincing, and Darak eased his grip.

  “You’ve a strong hand, Hunter.”

  “And you’re too silent by half, Memory-Keeper.”

  Four yellowed teeth flashed beneath the long white mustache. “I was a hunter, too, once. Before I found my true path. As Tinnean has.”

  Darak glanced over his shoulder to find Tinnean staring worshipfully at Struath. “Paths can change.”

  “For some men.” Sim’s rheumy blue eyes regarded him steadily. Darak waited, trying to curb his impatience. Perhaps Sim sensed it, for he chuckled. The chuckle turned into a wheezing cough. Darak pounded him on the back until the old man raised a protesting hand. “Some paths change,” Sim managed between gasps. “Some are set. Didn’t the blackbird sing to him on his vision quest?”

  Darak scowled. “And didn’t an eagle scream at Jurl?”

  “Any creature with sense would scream at Jurl.” Sim chuckled again and hawked a gob of phlegm onto the snow.

  “A bird came to them both, aye. But Jurl was no more destined to be a priest than Tinnean.”

  “Let him go, Darak.”

  “He’s a boy. He doesn’t know what—”

  “Let him go. Or you’ll lose him.”

  Darak offered Sim a stiff bow. “With respect, Memory-Keeper, I think I’m a better judge of that than you.”

  With a final glance at Tinnean, he strode back to their hut. Crouching beside the fire pit, he touched his torch to the stack of peat and dried dung. The smoke burned his eyes and he turned away, coughing, to seize a handful of dead twigs.

  Let him go or you’ll lose him.

  With a quick, savage gesture he broke the twigs in half. The last thing he needed today was Old Sim and his homilies. He took several deep breaths, letting each out slowly. Twig by twig, he fed the fire, keeping each movement small and controlled. By the time the spark had grown to a flame, he was calm again.

  Sim meant well, of course. And he could forgive the old man’s meddling, for he had grown up on the Memory-Keeper’s tales, had listened to that reedy voice intoning the ancient legends at every rite. His youngest son shared the title now, but it was Old Sim who held the tribe’s heart—and its awe. Who among them had seen sixty summers? Not even Mother Netal and she was as ancient as Eagles Mount. Sim looked like a good breeze would topple him, but the stringy old man had outlived all his children save Sanok. Still, Darak wished he’d stick to the familiar legends and leave off interfering in matters he could not understand.

  A draft at his back announced Tinnean’s arrival. Without looking up, Darak said, “Close the bearskin before we freeze.”

  Pale sunlight leaked through the smoke hole in the roof and the chinks in the turf and stone walls, but neither sunlight nor fire could dispel the cold. Darak pulled his mantle closer, scraped the remains of yesterday’s porridge into two bowls, and held one out to Tinnean.

  “We cannot eat until after the battle, Darak. You know that.”

  Of course he did. He’d been distracted by thoughts of Old Sim and his hands had moved without thinking. Thankful that drink was not forbidden, he reached for the jug of brogac, sighing as the fiery liquor settled in his belly.

  Tinnean’s frown deepened, but he merely turned away and pulled off his dusky woolen robe. Beneath it, he wore the tunic their mam had made him. She had scraped and sewed the doeskin herself, presenting it to Tinnean when he had completed his vision quest and been accepted into the tribe as a man. He peeled it off now, shivering. Skinny as a stick, pale skin pebbled with cold, he looked about as manly as a newborn calf.

  Darak lowered the jug as his brother crouched beside the stone basin that held their water and broke the ice with his fist. Shivering, Tinnean splashed water on his shoulders, then bent to pick up the chunk of wool-fat soap.

  “You must have washed before.”

  “I cleansed myself with Gortin and Struath.” Tinnean glanced at him, then looked away. “I meant to come back, Darak. I wanted to talk to you about … about what
we saw. But—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He’d lain awake the rest of the night, waiting for his brother, but that was unimportant now. “Why wash again?”

  “I want to be clean. Before … the ceremony.” Again, that half-fearful look, the inadvertent flinch.

  As if he thought I’d strike him.

  With an effort, he kept his voice light. “Well, don’t scrub so hard. You’ll wear your skin off.”

  The sudden smile made his breath catch in his throat. He tried to remember the last time his words had brought a smile to his brother’s face. Tinnean shot him another sidelong glance, this one mischievous. He whistled, scrubbing his body harder.

  “Fine, then. Don’t blame me if you catch your death of cold.”

  “Fine, then. I won’t.” Tinnean’s smile became a grin.

  Darak grinned back at him. “Impudent pup.”

  “Old woman.”

  Darak flung a stale oatcake at his brother. Tinnean ducked and hurled the soap across the fire pit. Darak caught it one-handed and tossed it back, glimpsing downy fuzz under Tinnean’s arm as he reached up to snatch the soap out of the air.

  “You throw like a girl,” Darak said.

  “You drink too much.”

  “I do not.” He took another long pull from the jug. “What else is there to do at Midwinter?”

  “Pray.”

  “The gods don’t hear my prayers.”

  “The Forest-Lord does. Else you wouldn’t be the best hunter in the tribe.”

  “If the gods heard my prayers, you wouldn’t be leaving.”

  Tinnean took a deep breath. “It’s what I’ve always wanted, Darak.”

  “Two summers ago, you wanted to be a hunter.”

  “I was a child then.”

  “You’re still a child.”

  “I am fourteen. Almost.”

  “At fourteen—almost—you should be thinking about girls, not gods.”

  “I do think about girls.” Tinnean ducked his head. “Sometimes. At night.”

  Darak frowned. “You’re too young to be thinking about girls. And little good it’ll do you as a priest.”

  “Priests are not forbidden the … pleasures of the flesh.” Despite his solemn voice, Tinnean’s beardless cheeks flushed pink

  “But they are forbidden to marry. And if you die without children, our family name dies with you.”

  “You might marry again.”

  Darak slowly lowered the jug.

  “I know it’s been scarcely five moons …”

  “Leave it, Tinnean.”

  “I grieve for Maili, too. And for Mam. For all those who—”

  “I said leave it.”

  Two small creases appeared between Tinnean’s brows, but he just threw handfuls of water across his soap-streaked chest. Darak frowned at the jug dangling from his forefinger. The mood had turned dark, the atmosphere in the hut charged with tension again.

  “Will you hand me my mantle, Darak?”

  Darak rose and pulled off his own. Hunching to keep from knocking his head on the curving roof stones, he dried Tinnean briskly, ignoring his brother’s look of surprise. A drop of water stole down Tinnean’s cheek. Darak wiped it away with his thumb, the simple gesture bringing that sweet smile to his brother’s face.

  Encouraged by its reappearance, Darak said, “All I’m asking is that you wait a bit. Till you’re sure.”

  The smile died. “I am sure.”

  Tinnean slipped on his tunic again, then spread his woolen mantle across his bed of skins and laid out the ritual garb: white woolen undertunic and leggings, braided leather belt, and the brown woolen robe of the initiate. Before sunset, he would stand with his tribe before the heart-oak, wearing that robe for the first time. He would be blessed by Struath and formally acknowledged as his initiate. And he would never again live in the hut of his birth.

  Tinnean smoothed the folds of the robe, the gesture so loving that Darak looked away. This was his last chance. He had to say something. But all he could do was stand there, fists digging into the damp folds of his mantle, as Tinnean added his few personal belongings to the pile of clothes: his bag of charms, his flint dagger, his flute.

  Tinnean gathered the ends of the mantle in his fist. “I must go, Darak. I can’t keep the Tree-Father waiting.”

  He’d carved the flute for Tinnean from the bone of a crane’s leg. He’d taught him to play it. Struath had sat here, listening to the music, smiling at Tinnean’s gift. Now the shaman was stealing him.

  “It’s not like I’m leaving forever. I’ll sleep in the priests’ hut, but I’ll see you every day. Every day, I promise.” Tinnean’s blue eyes were soft now and pleading. “Can’t you be a little bit happy for me?”

  Darak tossed the mantle aside and placed his hands on Tinnean’s shoulders. “Give this up. Then I will be happy.”

  He remained utterly still, as if his brother were a deer he was stalking. Tinnean’s eyes searched him for a long moment. When his shoulders slumped, Darak’s heart slammed into his chest. He had his brother back. Maybe the gods heard his prayers, after all.

  He was still smiling when Tinnean said, “Even if I gave this up, you wouldn’t be happy. I’m sorry, Darak.” Tinnean stood on tiptoe to press a light kiss on his forehead. “May the Oak-Lord be with you.”

  Darak shook his head, the unspoken words of the blessing like ashes in his mouth. In the end, Tinnean completed the blessing himself. “And may his spirit fill you with power, with light, and with peace on this Midwinter night.”

  Tinnean’s lips brushed each cheek. He smelled of soap and wool; a hint of peat smoke lingered in his hair. Darak’s hands tightened on his shoulders, but he couldn’t bring himself to look into his brother’s face. Instead, he stared at the rushes, silently willing Tinnean to stay.

  With unwonted firmness, Tinnean removed the restraining hands and slipped out of his grasp. Darak only looked up when he heard the shouted greetings from the men carving up the carcass of the bullock. Jurl’s bellow rose above the others, hailing his brother as “our new little priest.”

  Darak picked up the jug of brogac. His brother was the last of his family and the gods had taken him, as surely as they had taken his mother and his wife. He hadn’t been able to prevent that, but damned if he would sing their praises. He would march into the forest with the rest of the tribe, but he would offer no gift to the heart-oak. Let the others sing the night away after the priests crossed into the First Forest to witness the battle of the Tree-Lords. Let them shout joyous greetings when Struath returned at dawn to proclaim that the Oak had defeated the Holly.

  This year, his voice would remain silent. As silent as the gods who had turned their backs on him.

  Chapter 2

  STRUATH’S KNEES ACHED. Piety, he reflected, did as little to ease the miseries of old age as the three layers of furs upon which he knelt. He leaned forward and threw another handful of herbs on the fire, quelling the sigh of relief that the brief change in position offered. As he settled back, Tinnean’s stomach growled. The boy shot him a quick, guilty look and Struath lowered his head to hide his smile. Next to him, he heard Gortin sigh and his smile changed to a frown.

  Perhaps he should have elevated Gortin to Tree-Brother. His initiate was dutiful and devout. It was not his fault that he was also … dull. Struath appended a silent prayer of forgiveness to that thought. But to name Gortin Tree-Brother would give his tacit consent for Gortin to follow him as Tree-Father and that honor must go to the boy who knelt on his left.

  Five more winters. Maker, grant me that much time to make him ready.

  Others had come into their power young. He had been barely twenty summers when he had assumed the title of Tree-Father. Yeorna had risen from initiate to Grain-Mother within one turning of the year. Of course, Muina had to step down when her moon-blood ceased to flow and Aru had died in the plague, but difficult times bred change.

  Besides, Tinnean was special; he’d known that even before the boy
had returned from his vision quest. He had only to sit before the fire and stare into the flames to fall into the trance state. His nature made him easy to love—and a priest who was loved by his people would be followed without question. He could be impulsive, allowing the beauty of a summer morning to lure him into the forest when he should be honing his skills, but he was learning to curb that aspect of his nature. A few moons ago, he would have aroused the whole tribe when he saw the sky-flames. Last night, Tinnean had come to him.

  Struath shifted uncomfortably on the furs. He had withheld the terrible omens from the rest of the tribe, even from the Grain-Mother. Gortin knew, of course. His initiate shared his hut and had heard Tinnean’s story, but both had accepted his explanation: the sky-flames represented the red of the Holly-Lord’s berries and their sudden disappearance proved the Oak-Lord would triumph in tonight’s battle. He could trust Gortin and Tinnean. He’d been less confident about Darak, but Tinnean had assured him that Darak would say nothing.

  The boy’s face had clouded then, as it always did when his brother’s name intruded on their conversations. It infuriated Struath that Darak should steal the joy of this day. Any other man would be proud of the honor shown his brother. And any other man would recognize how important Tinnean’s pure faith was to the well-being of the tribe—especially now.

  After all his tribe had suffered, he had taken extra precautions to ensure the gods’ blessing for the Midwinter rites. He had fasted for the requisite three days. Risen before dawn to cleanse his body in ice-cold water. Braided his hair fifty-two times, one plait for each living member of the tribe, each plait tied off with a finger bone of the tribe’s dead. Despite his careful preparations, the bullock had stumbled before the sacrifice, Bel had hidden his golden face behind the clouds, and the ritual fire had taken forever to kindle. Although faith and experience told him balance would be restored, in these last six moons it seemed that the Lord of Chaos would triumph over the Maker for control of the world.