Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  Gortin cleared his throat, jarring Struath from his thoughts. “Aye, Gortin. I know.” Seeing his initiate’s downcast expression, Struath softened his voice. “Will you fetch the ram’s horn?”

  Gortin nodded, eager and obedient as a dog.

  Gods forgive me. He is a good man, loyal and true. I must be kinder to him.

  Struath rose stiffly, waving away Gortin’s hand. “Are you ready, Tinnean?”

  Tinnean nodded, gazing at him with those shining eyes. Struath wondered if he had possessed such a purity of spirit at that age. He hesitated, then leaned forward to press his lips against the boy’s forehead. Belatedly, he offered the same blessing to Gortin, turning away abruptly when he saw tears in his initiate’s eyes.

  He seized his blackthorn staff and ducked outside the hut. The cold hit him like a blow. He breathed in quick, shallow breaths to keep from coughing, smiling wryly as Tinnean raised his face skyward, sucking in great gulps of the frigid air. Thankfully, Bel had re-emerged from the clouds. At last, a good omen.

  Gortin sounded the ram’s horn three times, its low, mournful call filling the silence of the village. One by one, families emerged from their huts and formed a circle around the fire pit where slabs of meat roasted under hot stones in preparation for the morrow’s feast. A few men cast longing glances in that direction. Patches of damp earth showed through the snow where the men had scraped away the blood and entrails; at least this year, Red Dugan had remained sober enough to complete the task properly.

  Yeorna approached with Lisula behind her, bearing the leather flask of sacrificial blood. Struath nodded, signaling the Grain-Mother to begin the chant.

  A rim of sunlight still haloed Eagles Mount, staining the uppermost branches of the forest orange. The rest of their valley lay in shadow; the circled huts resembled twenty small cairns. Shaking off that disturbing image, Struath walked sunwise around his kinfolk, pressing the back of his left hand to each forehead, blessing each person with the touch of the tattooed acorn. He repressed a pang at the sunken cheeks, the new lines etched by grief. Nearly one hundred people had gathered here at Midsummer; little more than half remained.

  He extended his hand to offer his blessing to Darak, then drew back at the mingled reek of stale body odor and brogac. Instead of hanging his head in shame as any decent man would, Darak had the effrontery to stare down at him, his eyes as menacing and gray as storm clouds.

  He could no more permit Darak to attend the rite in this condition than he could tolerate such an open challenge. But after all the bad omens, he feared that the absence of even one voice would undermine the Oak-Lord’s strength.

  As if sensing his quandary, Darak smiled. That decided him. Struath stepped back and raised his voice so all could hear. “Darak, you are an affront to gods and men alike. Go back to your hut. On the morrow, I will choose a fitting punishment for your irreverence.”

  The strangled cry shattered Darak’s veneer of cockiness. As one, their gazes shifted to Tinnean. The boy’s lips were pressed together to prevent another outburst, but his eyes pleaded with him to relent. Struath hesitated, knowing how much Darak’s absence would wound Tinnean. He turned back to Darak, waiting for some sign of repentance. Instead, his expression hardened into its usual stoniness and he stalked away.

  Worried murmurs rose from the rest of the tribe. Struath quelled them with a peremptory gesture. “Only one who is clean in body and mind may stand before our heart-oak. Only then can we help the Oak defeat the Holly.”

  Tinnean’s head drooped. His shoulders rose and fell in a shuddering breath. When he raised his head again, he nodded once. Struath wished he could call Darak back, if only to restore the light to the boy’s face, but not even for Tinnean would he allow his authority to be undermined.

  Three times, Struath thumped the frozen earth with his blackthorn staff. Three times, Yeorna raised and lowered the dried sheaf of barley, the symbol of the Grain-Mother’s power. Tinnean and Lisula broke the circle; tonight, the youngest had the honor of leading the tribe into the forest.

  Struath eyed the guttering torches and murmured a brief prayer to strengthen the fire. A balky bullock could be ignored. Even Darak’s arrogance could be overlooked; he had refused permission to attend the rites before because of drunkenness. The death of the flames would be disastrous.

  The bones in his hair clicked in a gust of wind. Once, wool and piety had been enough to shield him from the cold, but long before the procession reached the forest’s verge, Struath was shivering so hard that his staff shook in his numbed fingers. The icy air seared his lungs. As he picked his way along the narrow forest trail, his chants barely rose above a whisper. Yeorna, bless her, chanted all the louder so the others would not notice.

  He knew there were whispers in the tribe, though none dared to speak against him openly. After all their troubles, it was only natural that some would wonder if he had lost his power to intercede with the gods. Tonight, he would prove them wrong. And tomorrow, he would humble Darak before the entire tribe.

  It had been thirty years since the elders of the Oak Tribe had named him Tree-Father, the youngest ever to be accorded the honor. Thirty years since Brun—may his spirit live on in the sunlit Forever Isles—had stood before him and gouged out his left eye with the point of the ceremonial bronze dagger. The right eye to see this world, the blind one to penetrate the unseen one.

  Surreptitiously, Struath wiped his cheek. Thirty years and still the cold made tears ooze from the empty socket. Aching joints he understood, and fingers too swollen to close into a fist. But how could an empty eye weep?

  Not that he was ancient, he reminded himself. Mother Netal and the Memory-Keeper were older. Only three of them left who remembered Morgath as a living man, not merely as the central character in a gruesome cautionary tale.

  At the thought of his predecessor, Struath forced his numb fingers to make the sign against evil. “That it may not come through earth, through water, through air,” he muttered. Relenting, he added a quick prayer that Morgath’s spirit might have found light and peace. Power he would not wish him; his mentor had hungered for it too much while he lived.

  The words brought on a coughing fit that left him feeling as weak as a newborn lamb. He thrust the weakness aside, along with the resentment of knowing how few rites remained to him. All across the world, tribes were gathering to drive away the dark with songs and shouts and blazing torchlight. Tonight, all his strength, all his power must be concentrated on the battle in the grove.

  Tinnean and Lisula stepped aside as they reached the clearing. The chanting ceased, leaving only the sigh of the wind and the groan of bare branches. Struath closed his eye, allowing the ages-old strength of the forest to fill him, drawing on the power of the earth beneath him and the sky above him to drive out cold and pride and doubt. Only then did he open his eye to find Tinnean watching him. So young, Maker bless him, and so eager, illuminated by an inner light far brighter than the torch’s flame. Once, he had possessed that radiance—or so Morgath had said.

  Shaking off his memories, he stepped into the glade. Soaring pines reached skyward, dark, jagged silhouettes against the violet sky. The other trees were indistinguishable from one another in the gloom save for the venerable heart-oak. The light from their torches cast strange shadows on the sacred tree, making the runneled bark seem to shift and move, creating a mouth that now smiled, now frowned, and eyes that followed their movements.

  Struath nodded to Tinnean who took his place before the heart-oak. Then he hesitated. Belatedly, Struath realized why.

  Tradition called for him to pass his torch to the oldest male of his family. That honor should have fallen to Darak. An uncomfortable moment passed before Sim stepped forward. Struath nodded curtly and the Memory-Keeper accepted the torch. When he retreated, Struath stepped forward to stand at Tinnean’s side.

  “In the time before time, The People came to this land. Our ancestors worshiped the One Tree that is Two—the One Tree that is the Oak
and the Holly.”

  He paused to allow the tribe to intone the traditional response. “May its roots remain ever strong.”

  “From one People, we became two tribes, forever linked by our common history.”

  Again, the tribe responded. “May our bond remain ever strong.”

  “Since the time before time, we have gathered before our heart-oak to honor the gods and to perform our sacred rites. It is fitting that on this holy day, we gather not only to lend our strength to the Oak-Lord in his battle tonight, but to honor this man’s commitment to the way of the priest.”

  “May his path remain ever clear.”

  Gortin sounded the ram’s horn as Struath faced Tinnean. “Tinnean, son of Reinek and Cluran. Before the gods of our people, do you affirm your willingness to be initiated?”

  “I do so affirm.”

  “Before the sacred tree of our tribe, do you affirm your willingness to be initiated?”

  “I do so affirm.”

  “Before the people of your tribe, do you affirm your willingness to be initiated?”

  “I do so affirm.”

  “Kneel, then.”

  Tinnean knelt between two of the oak’s exposed roots. Struath gazed down at him. His vision blurred. Thirty years ago, he had knelt there to cut out Morgath’s heart.

  Do not taint this sacred place by thinking of him.

  Struath paused to gather himself. Tonight of all nights, his mind must be uncluttered.

  “Tinnean, son of Reinek and Cluran. Do you vow to honor the gods, worshiping them with your body, your mind, and your spirit?”

  “I do so vow.”

  “Do you vow to honor the Oak and the Holly, worshiping them with your body, your mind, and your spirit?”

  “I do so vow.”

  “Do you vow to honor the laws of our tribe, following them with your body, your mind, and your spirit?”

  “I do so vow.”

  Gortin stepped forward, holding the cluster of acorns. He raised them toward the naked branches of the heart-oak before pressing them against Tinnean’s forehead. “The blessing of the Oak upon you.”

  Lisula proffered the leather flask. Struath dipped his forefinger into it and daubed Tinnean’s cheeks with two spots of blood. “The blessing of the Holly upon you.”

  The Grain-Mother touched Tinnean’s chest with her sheaf of barley. “The blessing of the fruitful earth upon you.”

  Even in the fading light, Struath could see the awe on the boy’s face as he took him by the shoulders. He could still recall the shiver of excitement that had shaken his body so long ago, the swell of pride when he rose to his feet, the comfort of Morgath’s hands on his shoulders …

  Struath shook his head, frowning, and Tinnean’s expectant smile died. He offered the boy a quick, reassuring nod and turned him to face the tribe.

  “He knelt before us a man. He stands before us a priest. Welcome, Tinnean. Initiate of the Oak Tribe.”

  “Welcome, Tinnean.” The shout rolled through the glade, shattering the forest’s stillness. The sound was still fading when Struath raised his hand.

  “People of the Oak. The day is waning. On the morrow, we will celebrate the Oak’s victory and Tinnean’s first battle rite. But now we must make ready.”

  The Memory-Keeper began the song, his quavering voice quickly supported by others.

  “Now is the dark time.

  The sun’s light is ebbing.

  The old year is waning.

  The earth is asleep.

  Now at the dark time

  The Oak-Lord awakens.

  The Holly-Lord threatens.

  The battle begins.

  Pray for the Oak.

  Help him vanquish the Holly.

  Pray for the Oak.

  Make the darkness retreat.

  Sing to the Oak

  And the earth will awaken.

  Sing to the Oak

  And the spring will return.”

  As they sang, Struath led the procession around the heart-oak. He offered the first gift, sprinkling blood from the flask over the tree’s roots. Children crumbled oatcakes, women poured libations of berry wine, men paused to tie arrows and fishhooks to the lowest branches. The last streaks of color were fading from the sky when he motioned the priests aside. It was time.

  Only at sunset and sunrise, when the boundary between the worlds was thin, could they make the crossing. The first time, he had expected bolts of lightning or howling winds to mark the passage. Although he knew how it would happen, the wonder was as great as ever when he uttered the ancient words of permission and, between one step and the next, led the priests out of their tribal glade and into the grove of the First Forest.

  He heard Tinnean gasp as the shadowy figures of other worshipers appeared. They came alone and in pairs, men and women, even a few who looked to be children. Some wore animal skins, others robes. Some bore elaborate tattoos, others were unmarked. Countless strangers, from all the tribes who worshiped the Oak and the Holly. All came in silence and in darkness, torches extinguished during their passage; the First Forest did not welcome fire.

  Gheala emerged, full-bellied and fat, from behind the clouds. Tinnean gasped again as her moonlight revealed a grove so large their entire village could fit within it. And at its center, the living heart of this limitless forest, stood the One Tree.

  As always, the sight filled Struath with awe. The One Tree had stood in this grove since the world’s first spring, observing the passing of time as a man might mark the passing of seasons. Each root was thicker than the trunk of their heart-oak. Twenty men with their arms outstretched could barely circle the trunk. But the true miracle was that the One Tree was also Two, for from those roots, from that trunk, grew the Oak and the Holly.

  Tinnean’s eyes were wide, his face as pale as Gheala’s. So I must have looked that first time, Struath thought. He experienced a vivid sensation just then of his mentor’s hand resting on the back of his neck. He hunched his shoulders, shrinking from the memory.

  One by one, each tribe laid its offerings among the Oak’s roots: blood and water, meat and grain, flint arrowheads and smooth stones. One man carried a brace of hares, another a gourd painted with bold green leaves. The gaunt woman before him in the procession offered a bouquet of dried goldenrod. Struath knelt and placed the bullock’s heart next to it.

  “It is not the offering that is important, little rook, but the heart of the one who makes it.” So Morgath had told him before his first battle rite, the deep voice calming his anxiety, the gentle touch stilling his restlessness. Even as Struath shuddered, he realized he had failed to offer such reassurance to Tinnean. As he moved back from the One Tree, he squeezed the boy’s shoulder and was rewarded with a quick, relieved smile.

  By the time each gift had been presented, Gheala’s light had traveled halfway across the grove. Struath’s heartbeat quickened with familiar excitement. In a dozen tongues, they offered the greeting. “Lord of the Oak. Lord of the Holly. We stand before you.” In a dozen tongues, they made the affirmation. “Lords of the First Forest, we come to witness.” And then they waited.

  The air trembled. A shiver ran down Struath’s spine as the energy flowed around him and through him, through all of the watchers, human and tree alike—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.

  “They battle!” Tinnean cried.

  The boy should not have spoken, but Struath understood the need to give voice to the wonder. Around the circle of worshipers, the power surged. Through earth and air, the power of the First Forest resonated, filling his senses, making him want to shout like Tinnean with the joy of it.

  Then the Holly attacked. The finger-length spikes of its leaves carved long gouges in the Oak’s trunk. Struath sang with the others, his voice shaking with cold and apprehension. Each day since M
idsummer, 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.

  Struath flexed his fingers, unaware until now how tightly he’d been clenching his staff. As many times as he had stood here, the battle between the old year and the new was a fearful thing to behold. But all would be well. The Oak-Lord would vanquish his rival, the dying sun would be reborn, and just as their ancient song promised, winter would yield to spring.

  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 smooth flow of energy fragmented as the worshipers searched the grove for the origin of the sound.

  The whine intensified. Struath peered at the One Tree. Surely it was a trick of Gheala’s waning light that made the Oak seem to waver. Or was it his aging vision that created the illusion of a crevice snaking up the trunk of the Tree? In shocked disbelief, he watched the crevice widen, revealing a featureless void darker than the Midwinter night. Before he could puzzle it out, 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.

  A bearded man shoved Yeorna and she fell. Struath threw his body over hers, crying out as feet kicked his ribs and back. The Tree shrieked again. Struath raised his head as the Oak shuddered and ripped away from the trunk of the Tree. The great branches fell to the ground with eerie slowness, the shock of the impact knocking the few worshipers who still stood off their feet.