A Path of Oak and Ash

by M. P. Reeves

  Carrick leaned in resting his forehead against the cold metal, the sounds of the chaos behind the door echoing in his ears. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to trust Quin.

  “So tell me child, do you prefer the name Rick still? Richard? Or are you wholly Carrick?”

  In the fog at the back of the alley stood a tall man, his head held high like he owned the world.

  “Who are you? How, do you know, how do you know my name?” Carrick tried to sound strong, instead his voice wavered. No, it didn’t waver, it was his own. Looking down, his ruse was gone.

  How did-

  The stranger’s deep chuckle shot chills along Carrick's spine.

  As he approached Carrick guessed the man was in his late forties possibly early fifties. Physically fit, his skin devoid of wrinkles, short styled hair with only the slightest streak of grey. Although dignified, there was an aura of dread about him that flowed thicker than the fog.

  “First, formalities.” With a wave of the man’s hand, Carrick was himself again. “There, now we can truly speak face…to face.”

  Carrick swallowed hard. How did he-

  “I’m glad you accepted my invitation. It is so difficult to arrange introductions these days.”

  “Who are you?” Carrick repeated, louder.

  “An old friend of your fathers. Well, I believe friend might be a stretch of the word. Let’s go with acquaintance.” He stopped about ten feet in front of Carrick, his eyes glowing burnt umber in the night. “After all, you don’t murder your friends.”

  The young druid’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Lorcan?” There was no way. There was no possible way...

  “Clever child!” Sarcastic delight dripping on every word. “Apparently your mother was not exaggerating when she spoke so highly of you. So so highly...”

  “Where is she?” Carrick hollered, ripping the dagger free from his belt he brandished it at the man.

  “Now, now no reason for that.” He chuckled, not the least bit intimidated. “She’s safe...in a manner of speaking. Physically... she is safe.” Lorcan drawled, talking with his hands. “You see my boy...we are in what you would refer to as a quid pro quo situation. I have something that you want and you...have something that I want.” The man ran his tongue over his bleached white teeth, smirking. “Bring me the heart of the forest and I’ll give you your mother back. I’ll ensure you’re set up in a nice house, and your dear sweet mother will never have to work again. You can go to the best schools, date the prettiest girls’ money can buy...have a perfect human future and put all this nonsense behind you. Just…think it over.”

  “Carrick?” Conall called out from somewhere nearby. He must have been by the front entrance to the building..

  “Back here. Hurry!” Carrick shouted back, tightening his grip on his dagger.

  Thick clap of Conall’s boots announced his entrance to the alleyway. Carrick whirled around to find his friend a mess; shirt bloody-although not all of it was his- and torn his left arm had a three inch diagonal cut in it, he was leaning on his left leg, the right also torn at the thigh.

  “What are you doing back here? Why are you out of your disguise?” Conall asked him, his serene expression macabre against his clothing. “...and why are you brandishing your blade?”

  Carrick turned back towards his target, ready to chastise Conall for missing the tall stranger in the fog.

  All that lay before him were dumpsters and packing crates. The two of them were alone in the alley.

  Lorcan was gone.

  15

  Carrick was twitchy. Back tense, eyes refused to focus, even his breathing seemed to draw in and out in uneven puffs of tempered air. Sitting at the family dining table within the Elderwood his river blue eyes danced between the painted walls and his uncle. The man was walking with a limp, left foot dragging behind him slightly. Carrick had seen the reason why, when the fell had grabbed onto him he’d inflicted a curse that the menders called the blight. A palm sized chunk of his calf flesh was rotting, graying on the bone and rendering the muscle worthless. An incredibly painful looking wound, one Carrick refused to feel pity for. In fact, at the moment he didn’t not feel much of anything.

  Picking up his fork he looked at the bowl of fresh greens his uncle had lovingly prepared for him despite his injury. No. That’s not entirely true. He did feel something.

  “What is wrong Carrick, your jaw has been clenched since we left Los Angeles.” Erik asked casually, his own food being consumed with no delay.

  “You told me Lorcan was dead. That my father killed him.” The young druid mumbled, head bowed as he fished a tomato around his bowl with no intention of eating it.

  “He did.”

  Carrick slammed his fist on the table. “THEN HOW DID I JUST MEET HIM!”

  Erik blinked, his hooded eyes devoid of emotion, tan skin paling slightly in the fresh quiet of the Elderwood. Somewhere outside Arcedes let out a soft trill.

  He did not respond to his nephew's outburst, instead he took his time finishing his meal. The mere minutes were agonizing for Carrick. The rage he had felt so strongly fading into guilt for his outburst. At first he was certain it was a trick like his uncle had cast upon him before. However no he sensed no energy change, no forced control.

  He was remorseful by his own heart. Here his uncle had saved his life, welcomed him into his home and how did he repay him? By screaming and slamming like a small child.

  Exhaling sharply, Carrick hoped the pain in his chest would leave with his breath. It didn’t. With both hands he ran his fingers through his hair, settling his head in the cradle of his palms with elbows on the table.

  Funny, his mother would have gotten all over him about placing his elbows on the dinner table. Here, such things never seemed to matter. In a way, he wished it did.

  Erik cleared both plates from the table, setting them by the washbasin under the window. “Lorcan...didn’t stay in otherworld Carrick, nor did his soul return to this plane through renewed life.”

  Carrick’s head snapped up. “People can come back?”

  “There are those that return and start again and there are those at peace with the mark they have left in this realm and linger in otherworld for a time.” Erik poured himself some tea, the heavy lemongrass aroma wafted through the room.

  “If he didn’t stay, then how?”

  Erik winced as he sat back down at the table. “Foul magic for a foul purpose. His followers apprehended a powerful man from the human world, one with great influence in the endeavors of mankind. They brought him to the gatekeeper at the shore. His flesh is no longer his own, Lorcan transferred his essence to other world in his place. A complete exchange of life for life.” Erik ran his hand over the medallion on his chest, with a deep sigh he looked up at the ceiling. “The only time it has ever been done completely. Others have tried over the centuries. Two souls sharing flesh. It has never ended well.”

  “If you know who he’s skin walking in, can’t you just take out that human?”

  “That’s the thing my boy. We don’t know. Just that he has resources. Lots and lots of resources.” Erik took a swing from the ceramic cup. “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “It was dark and there was this fog everywhere.”

  “Anything at all we could use?”

  Carrick frowned, he thought he had actually gotten a good look at Lorcan’s face but every time he tried to bring up the memory his mind went empty.

  There was nothing, just impressions. Impressions and those eyes...

  “His eyes were weird, like...glowing orange fire pits. And his voice was. British? Very proper but creepy.”

  “I see."

  “What’s the forest's heart?”

  “The what?”

  “The forest's heart. That is what he wanted.”

  Erik’s brow dipped while he bit his lower lip. Something Carrick had done himself for years when trying to recall answers during a test at school. “I have no idea. The forest
doesn’t have a heart, nor has any relic been named as such.”

  “It sounds like something from a movie.”

  Erik let out a hearty laugh that ended in another wince. “This time I’m inclined to agree with you. Did he say why?”

  “No.”

  “Did he say anything else? Lorcan rarely makes a demand without a threat.”

  Yeah, he’ll give me my mother back. “No.”

  “You’re lucky my boy. Few meet that man and live to answer such questions.” Erik paused, his eyes darkening. “Very few.” Erik stood slowly, spreading his palms wide on the wood tabletop. The sapphire ring on his right middle finger glimmered, refracting sunlight from the open window. “I must report and confer with the elders on this at once. I do not want you leaving Dre’ien without my explicit permission.”

  “Your leg...”

  “I will visit the menders again today as I was instructed. Do not go mothering me boy I am not a lamb.” Carrick nodded, grateful that there were concoctions to cease the spread of blight upon his uncle. In fact, the menders had been able to repair the flesh that had been eroded. Unfortunately, it was a consuming process. There was no insta-fix potion available like in his video games, rather a series of enchantments and pastes spread upon the wound over a series of weeks. All in all it seemed quite painful and tedious, but it beat amputation by leaps and bounds.

  "Are we still to go to the meadowlands this afternoon?"

  "Unfortunately I may be unavailable to assist you with your studies." Erik pulled his woven cloak over his shoulders in a fluid motion despite his injury. "I will find a suitable replacement if that is in fact the case."

  Carrick did not like the idea of being cooped up in the house all day. On the other hand, if his uncle was busy... “May I go to the librarium? I’d like to do some reading.”

  “Yes of course, the gateway to enlightenment is ever open.” Erik paused by the door, leaning heavily on his cane. “Carrick....I know that I am sometimes hard on you. Coming to this place and living as we do is a feat nay have managed that were not born into it. Yet you are my kin, the last of my kin outside of your father, and I took the risk. I just wanted to say Carrick...that I am proud. Proud of the progress you have made and the man you are becoming.”

  Carrick didn't know what to say to that, nor did he wish to admit that his eyes were blurring. The whole time he was growing up he had held little imaginary conversations with his father in his head, Atta boys and better luck next times as life tossed its punches. Now getting exactly what he had always wanted he found himself overwhelmed with guilt. He wished to stop Erik; lament the great stakes he faced, gain his much needed assistance in solving this enigma. Yet he could not, Lorcan had made it pretty clear that his mother's life rested on his ability to do this alone.

  Hunched over at the table, Carrick just nodded as Erik disappeared into the quiet solace of Dre'ien.

  16

  “Please let me go." Liz Waters slurred for the hundredth time, her bloodshot eyes darting back and forth underneath the cloth hood that had been thrown over her face. Handcuffed, two men-she could only assume based on their cologne-dragged her down the hallway by the crooks of her elbows. She refused to walk. One of the two things she remembered overhearing from the crime survivor television interviews her mother liked to watch. Rule number one was be as difficult as possible while looking for every opportunity to escape.

  "Please..." Rule number two was something about referring to yourself as a person. Supposedly it was to make the kidnapper less likely to murder the kidnapped. However, after seeing her father shot at point blank range she highly doubted reciting her favorite color and extracurricular would save her life. Not that she could recall any particulars on what she liked at the moment, whatever had been in that needle they put in her neck left her loopy and incoherent.

  "I won't tell anyone...just let me go." The fog was finally starting to clear after-how many hours had it been? Or days? She didn't know. "Let me go." She rasped, throat parched to the point that her next attempt at speech invoked a coughing fit.

  There was a metallic sound-the jingle of keys maybe-then the click of a door release. Handcuffs came off just moments before she was pushed forward, freshly freed hands bracing her fall against the cold concrete floor followed by a loud click resonating from behind her. Locked in. I'm locked in. Panic overtook her as she ripped the hood off of her face. This was the part she feared the most, winding up locked in someone's basement or homemade prison for days-or months or years-at the mercy of her captor's every whim however twisted it may be. Her potential window to escape virtually gone.

  Scrambling to her feet she whirled around to the door, yanking on the knob with all of her might. Nothing. Not a budge, not a dent. It didn't stop her, she beat against that metal till her hands were bruised and her voice was gone. Resting her head against the cold metal door her shoulders sagged, deep sobs forcing ragged breaths. Trapped...

  "Elizabeth?" A voice called out from behind. Rather than fight or flight her body reacted in the obscure tradition of the possum. Her breathing stopped, her heart stopped. She literally and unequivocally, froze.

  So preoccupied with getting out she hadn't bothered to evaluate the conditions of her confinement. Fresh fear licked her heart as Liz turned around slowly, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

  Thankfully no objects of torture were in immediate view. It was a less than dimly lit jail cell, the only light source a six inch by four inch barred window more than 8 ft. off the ground on the back wall. A metal bunk bed and toilet the only visible fixtures, what lurked in the black corners of the concrete cage was anyone's guess. Including her cell mate.

  "Who's there?" Liz choked out pressing her back against the metal door, her eyes darting back and forth between the dark edges. There was something moving to her left, a tall thin form in the darkness.

  Bare feet shuffled into view, Elizabeth Waters managed to choke out a timorous gasp.

  Then promptly fainted.

  17

  When most think of a library, it’s a large stuffy brick building with wall to wall shelves teeming with books, a quiet place decorated in signs about how learning is fun. A place where you could still rent vhs tapes and find old newspapers on microfilm.

  This was not that place.

  Nestled in the trees across the bridge towards the seat was the knowledge center of Dre’ien. The librarium was a rectangular building without doors or windows, open air access was available on all four sides via large covered decks filled with tables and benches. Heavy vines grew up the white stone columns that held up each of the four awnings, keeping nature connected to the manmade structure.

  The inner cloister was two stories high, the walls lined with tome filled armoires arranged by author and subject. Trees cut through the stone flooring at random, the building clearly being constructed around them. Their trunks hollowed in part, recesses home to many rolled scrolls.

  There was no card catalogue, no computer indexing system. If one was looking for a topic or a particular volume, all one need do is ask Cormac Bablethun. The libra was a position of great respect, the person who served in this role also held a seat on the council. For it was assumed after one consumed the volumes of knowledge available within the librarium such a person would be an asset. To know history was to not repeat it.

  The librarium was fairly empty, only two other patrons were visible. Twin red headed girls sat back to back on a bench under one of the hollowed oaks, a thick bound book in each of their laps. Neither looked up as his boots squeaked against the marble floor tile. The desk of the Libra was at the center of the librarium, a circular hand carved desk in a dark cherry color. The designs at the base were exquisite, carved druid youths, wolves, and stags appearing to hold up the desktop. A runic inscription along the lip of the desk read something about salvation and knowledge, Carrick didn't know all of the symbols yet to accurately translate it. The Libra himself-assumed by his position within the circular desk-was hu
nched over a mound of papers with his back to Carrick.

  "Mr. Bablethun..." Carrick spoke softly, it was a library of sorts after all.

  "Canna not see that I'm filin’?" Cormac bellowed as he whirled around, his gray hair billowing in all directions. When he saw Carrick he squinted, adjusting oversized glasses with lenses so thick his dark eyes appeared as miniscule specs on his wide face. "Ah. Apologies, I thought ye were one of 'em." He stabbed a thumb towards the peaceful looking twins with a frown. "Bloody pests those two."

  Cormac scooped up the pile of papers and books, turning back towards Carrick he dropped the load on the desk between them. His attention clearly still on his work.

  "May I ask you a question sir?"

  The Libra did not answer, his eyes focused on several pieces of parchment that he was laying out side by side. As the minutes ticked by, Carrick wondered if the old man had forgotten he was there. Not wanting to be rude or get accused of being human again he debated on the least intrusive reminder of his presence.

  He settled on clearing his throat.

  The Libra jumped, his glasses rattling about on his face. "Oh! Wha?"

  "May I-"

  "No need for such formalities here my boy." Licking his thumb, the Libra rolled the scroll in front of him, setting it aside. "Now, what can I do for Brannon's only son?"

  It was Carrick’s turn to appear startled. "You know me?"

  "My little ones bring me all sorts of news." Cormac waived a frail hand over his desk, the dark spots Carrick had dismissed as dust moved. Spiders. Massive amounts of arachnids spun a funnel shaped net, raising it into the air close to the old man's head. "I've known the Slaine family well over the years, ever since Maev wed Osin under the Ash." He shot Carrick a yellow snaggletoothed grin. "Yes...I remember when Erik and Brannon were but small boys. Making noise, never putting things away. Just like those two she devils."

  "I see." Carrick managed to mutter, unable to take his eyes off the spiders. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched their intricate creation. Of all the creatures in the world he had always hated spiders. With their many legs, hairy little bodies and all those eyes. It took every ounce of will power available not to scream, take off his boot and squash the lot repeatedly until nothing wiggled or squirmed.