by T.A. Barron
A thrill ran through Kate. She and Aunt Melanie were the only human beings ever to walk in these woods since the time of the Halamis. As she strode quickly to catch up, her feet practically sprang across the forest floor. She understood that this buoyancy came from the thousands of years of living and dying that had occurred beneath her feet. A delicate ring of pink sorrel caught her attention, and next to it she saw an enormous snail slithering across a toppled fir. A cluster of sword ferns shone in the dim light ahead; the fronds, three or four feet long, glowed with a soft radiance.
Aunt Melanie, while working her way through the trees, pointed out some of the herbs and flowers springing up from the soil, from between roots, or sometimes straight from the ragged bark of the trees. Eschewing their tongue-twisting Latin names as “more for show than anything else,” she used only the more expressive common names. Kate liked especially the ones called bleeding heart, sugar scoop, fairy lantern, scarlet paintbrush, and glade anemone.
Like the crater filling with fog, Kate’s heart began to fill with a sense of unaccustomed peace. Everything here seemed to fit somehow, to belong just where it was. She turned slowly around, discovering new seedlings sprouting from almost every surface. Sinuous vines of purple and brown wound around trunks, making little rope ladders for small animals to climb. One tree, long dead, was covered completely with a leotard of light green lichen. Across fallen logs marched dozens of colorful mushrooms, some no bigger than ants, some shaped like luscious red lips, some round and wrinkled like exposed brains. From virtually every cavity in the trees something surprising appeared. Ferns and fungi, conifers and broadleafs, each one unique in dress and design, each one part of the common community. Life of all kinds was here wholly at home.
Despite the accumulating clouds above, sometimes a stray shaft of light would penetrate the intricate mesh of branches to reach the forest floor far below. One of these, stretching like a fiery filament, fell upon a moss-covered rock by Kate’s feet. She leaned closer to study it.
To her amazement, the rock had some lines deeply etched on its surface. Many of the lines had been filled with moss, and she had to trace their pattern with her finger to feel where they ran. When she found one line encircling the others, she realized they were too deep and regular to be accidental. There could be no doubt. They had been carved.
She stepped back a pace to get a better perspective. Then she saw the unmistakable design of the lines. It was a face. A human face. With wide, deep-set eyes, the face glared at her, across time beyond memory. Its open mouth seemed to be shouting something, a warning perhaps, in a tongue Kate could not comprehend.
“Hey, look at this,” she said, pointing.
No answer. She whipped around to see where Aunt Melanie had gone. But she was nowhere to be found. Kate ran a few steps ahead, suddenly finding herself at the edge of a clearing. Not again, she thought. Where could she have gone this time? A pang of fear shot through her, and she noticed her aching hand. For the first time, the forest began to feel somehow perilous.
“Aunt Melanie!” she called.
No sound but the swishing of branches.
Kate ran deeper into the forest. Again she shouted.
No answer.
Then she saw them. Arrayed before her were the most awesome trees she had ever seen. As solemn as a group of pilgrims gathered to pray, they stood together in silence. Drawing in a deep breath, Kate gazed at the uplifted boughs arching three hundred feet above her head, their lacy branches permeated with light. At the base of the trees, heavy burls hung like jowls, bordered by fibrous bark as delicate as strands of hair. Powerful roots clenched the soil firmly, as they had for centuries upon centuries.
Redwoods.
Then, in the center of the grove, she saw the most majestic tree of all. It stood taller and broader than the rest, older than anything else in the forest. It rose straight out of the earth with all the strength and grace of a monarch.
Kate moved closer, laying her hand respectfully on the tree’s gnarled trunk. So thick was its base that she guessed it would take five or six grown men holding hands to encircle it but once. She craned her neck backward, following the narrowing girth higher and higher, through successive canopies of mossy boughs.
Lowering her eyes, she discovered a hollow cavern within the folds of the massive trunk. Although it was only as high as her waist, it seemed to be quite deep. Something about its dark interior frightened her, yet tugged at her as well, so she approached it cautiously. Stooping to peer inside, she suddenly froze. Staring at her from the blackness of the cavern were two gleaming eyes.
The eyes regarded her intently. Then, in a flash, she recognized them.
“It’s you,” sighed Kate. “I called and called and when you didn’t answer I got scared.”
“No need to be scared, dear.” A hand reached out from the cavern and, taking Kate’s arm, drew her inside. “I didn’t hear you calling. As it happens, I was listening to something else.”
“Aunt Melanie, you’re impossible.”
Her heart still beating with excitement, Kate slipped the day pack off her shoulders and sat beside her great-aunt within the hollow of the tree. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she perceived the subtle gradations of colors around them. Rising from the earthen floor, the ribbed wooden walls of the inner trunk were streaked with black, charred by some forest fire perhaps a thousand years before. She looked at the wood bordering the cavern’s entrance and saw that it was only four or five inches thick, yet she knew it must be supporting considerable weight.
As she leaned back against the wood, her body relaxed. She felt safe. As if this tree would hold her, protect her against anything that could possibly happen. She looked through the entrance to the grove outside. The scattered shafts of light and wispy streaks of mist made the scene look more like an impressionist painting than a real stand of redwoods. It was cooler here amidst the trees than it had been near the lake, and she folded her arms against her chest to stay warm.
“We beat the loggers here,” said Aunt Melanie. “Let’s be glad of that. I wanted you to feel the power of this place, when everything’s quiet, at least for a minute or two. Before we head up to where their road comes into the crater, how about a quick taste of hot chocolate?”
Kate nodded at the suggestion. Swiftly, she unzipped the pack and poured out two cups of the steaming liquid. The smell was as delicious as the taste, and she held the cup close to her nose. Stretching out her legs, she realized that she had not sat down since emerging from the Jeep before dawn.
“I saw a face back there,” she said, her voice echoing dully within the hollow. “A face carved in a rock.”
“You mean a petroglyph,” corrected Aunt Melanie. “You must have found one of the Halami warning stones.”
Kate took another sip of hot chocolate, warming her hands against the cup. “Warning stones? What were they warning about?”
Aunt Melanie answered in a near whisper. “This redwood grove was the most sacred of all places for the Halamis. They believed that spirits would gather here, among the redwoods, sometimes even coming and going through the trees themselves. Anyone who enters this grove does so at his own risk.”
Kate fidgeted on the earthen floor of the hollow. “Spirits who live with these redwoods couldn’t be evil,” she said. “This feels like a place for good spirits.”
The elder nodded. “To the trees that touch the sky, Blessed by spirits ever nigh. I feel that way too. But even good spirits can do strange and frightening things sometimes.” She tilted her head in her usual way. “This grove is in the heart of the oldest forest you or I will ever see.”
“And this tree is in the heart of the grove.”
“Yes,” replied Aunt Melanie. “I call this tree the Ancient One.”
The Ancient One, repeated Kate to herself. Older than old. The very center of the Hidden Forest. As she reached to touch the inner wall of the tree, her thoughts drifted from the hollow to the grove to the great w
oods itself. From the first moment she stepped across its green border, she had been struck by the diversity of life around her. Yet now she sensed something else, something even more remarkable. This forest not only had diversity, it had unity. Just as the branches overhead intertwined in a complex pattern, so did the living beings of the ancient forest intertwine in a way she could scarcely begin to comprehend. Perhaps that was what made her feel so peaceful here. Connected, part of this place, in a way she had never felt before.
Lightly touching Aunt Melanie’s thigh, she said, “I’m so glad to be here, with you. I could never be here alone, though. It wouldn’t be the same.”
“Even if I weren’t here,” replied the elder, “you wouldn’t be alone.”
Kate nodded, absently reaching for the delicate frond of a fern that had sprouted near the entrance.
“Maidenhair fern,” said Aunt Melanie reflectively. “See how black the stems are? The Halamis used it for making their baskets. Down lower, the color isn’t so strong, so they used to get it from the highest places they could find. And when it grows near redwoods, the tops are good for making tea that helps to ease a fever. That may be what first tempted them to find a way into the crater, looking for plants like maidenhair.”
Stirring, Kate bumped her bandaged hand against the wall of the hollow. It throbbed, aching. She thought of the bubbling green pool, and the ghastly wormlike creatures it harbored. “Do evil spirits live by the Circle of Stones?”
“Not spirits,” replied Aunt Melanie. “Not exactly.” She cleared her throat.
Kate looked at her uncomfortably, remembering her uneasy feeling about the stones. “What then?”
“It’s best we discuss it later, dear,” she said, her voice again almost a whisper. She scanned the shaft of her walking stick, leaning against the wall of the hollow. The yellow eyes of the carved owl’s head seemed to be observing them. “Some other time.”
“Can’t you tell me just a little?”
Aunt Melanie’s tongue pushed against her cheek. She seemed to be on the edge of answering, searching for the right words. “Azanna,” she said at last. “The Halamis called the Circle of Stones Azanna. What it means is—”
Just then they heard something new. Distant, yet still jarring. Kate, like Aunt Melanie, held her breath, straining to hear. The sound grew steadily louder, until there could be no mistaking its source.
“Loggers,” said Kate. “They’re in the crater.”
9
the walking stick
“COME on,” replied Aunt Melanie, already on her way out of the hollow. “I want to meet them before they reach the redwoods.”
“But what will you do then?”
“I’m going to confront them. Face to face. I’m going to count on the fact they all know me. Heavens, I taught most of them how to read and write! And if Frank’s with them, I know he’ll listen to reason. He knows that cutting down these trees won’t do anything to solve our real problem. Not really. It just postpones things.” She halted, hearing the distant revving of a chain saw. “They’re up by the road cut, trying out their saws. Let’s go.”
“What about Billy?” asked Kate. “He’s not going to listen to reason.”
The dark eyes hardened. “He’ll have to hurt me before he hurts this tree.”
Aunt Melanie strode across the redwood grove, heading the opposite direction from the way they had entered. Grabbing the day pack, Kate followed, her moment of peace now shattered. The noise of the chain saw buzzed through the forest like an angry hornet, searing her ears. She wished they could go faster, wished they could fly over the forest and descend on the intruders like a pair of eagles.
Soon the great trees grew thinner, and they sloshed through a swampy section where the air was alive with mosquitoes. Sometimes they could keep their feet on small stones sprouting from the water, but more often they had to trudge straight through the muck. At last, brushing away a cloud of insects, Kate could see the misty cliffs ahead.
Higher they scrambled, until finally they left the woods and were moving across the rock-strewn rim of the crater. Aunt Melanie turned to the right, traversing just above the trees. The fog grew thicker, covering the cliffs and flowing over the forest. Kate could hear the distant lapping of lake water on the shore below, but saw only a vaguely blue shadow beneath the clouds. Once she caught a glimpse of the dark island through the gathering mist; it seemed closer to the shore than she remembered.
Aunt Melanie stopped suddenly. More chain saws revved from somewhere nearby. “Their road cut is just above us,” she said, breathing heavily. “Thirty yards, maybe. But since the road stops at the hole they blasted in the cliff wall, they’ll have to carry their gear down inside, and that will take some time. A few of them may already be down in the forest, I’m afraid. With this fog, they could have passed us without our knowing it. But judging from the sounds, I think most of them are still up there. And they’ll have to pass by here if they want to—”
She stiffened, her eyes widening in sudden dread. “My stick!” she exclaimed. “I left it in the redwood grove—in the tree.”
The distraught woman started back across the rocks when Kate caught her by the arm. “What are you doing?” she asked in disbelief. “You can’t go back for it now.”
“I must,” panted Aunt Melanie. “It mustn’t fall into their hands. It mustn’t.”
Kate studied her in consternation. “But we can’t leave here now. Not if you want to stop them before they’re all in the forest.”
Aunt Melanie shook loose from her grip. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Wait,” said Kate. “Let me run back for the stick. I can run a whole lot faster than you can. With any luck I’ll be back here before you have to face any of them.”
For a few seconds, Aunt Melanie’s eyes searched hers. “All right,” she said at last. “But be careful. As important as the walking stick is, you are more important to me.”
“I’ll be careful,” Kate promised.
Nervously, the white-haired woman squeezed Kate’s unbandaged hand. “Then run like the wind. And stay as quiet as a Halami, in case some loggers are already down there. Halma-dru, my child.”
Throwing her braid over her shoulder, Kate turned and ran back across the crumbled pumice they had just traversed. She could not see more than a few feet ahead in the fog, so she had to judge distance solely by instinct. After a few moments, she left the rocky rim and veered into the forest.
Before long the rocks were swathed in ferns and mosses. She found herself in the swampy place again, but without any landmarks it was difficult to know where to cross. She felt a twinge of fear that she could easily get lost in this dark forest, full of strange places and, she suspected, still stranger beings. A mosquito stung the back of her neck and she slapped herself.
She plunged forward, stepping through the thick mud, avoiding the deeper parts by staying near the shoots of bright green grasses that sprouted on all sides like miniature bamboo forests. Squelching rapidly through the marsh, she tripped on a branch and landed with a splash on her hands, immersed up to her elbows in cold, murky water. Regaining her feet, she sloshed ahead, not bothering to brush the mud from her legs, arms, and chin.
Finally she reached more solid ground, a grassy meadow much like the one they had met when first they entered the forest. Leaping across a rippling rivulet, she scanned the trees ahead for any signs that might guide her to the redwood grove, but saw none. She entered the mist-filled woods, padding across the springy terrain in the hope of seeing something familiar. But for her own breathing and the crunching of needles underfoot, she heard no sounds. The forest was eerily silent.
Then she heard voices. She ducked behind a moss-covered boulder. There were two people not ten feet from her when she again raised her head from a spray of ferns. To her surprise, they were not loggers, but boys. She recognized them immediately: Jody, who had stolen Aunt Melanie’s envelope, and Sly, Billy’s younger brother. She scowled at the
very sight of them. Sly wore a .22-caliber rifle over his shoulder. He was poking Jody with his finger, goading him about something. Kate pushed apart the ferns, straining to hear what they were saying.
“C’mon, Jody,” urged the older boy with the rifle. “This is your big chance.”
“My chance for what?” replied the other, taking an awkward step backward.
“To prove you’re not a chicken heart.”
“I don’t have to prove anything,” Jody replied. “I just don’t like killing things when there’s no reason. C’mon, Sly, let’s go find the others.”
“Chicken heart.”
“I am not,” protested Jody, pushing a lock of red hair back from his forehead. “Killing them is bad luck, and besides, it’s just too easy.”
“Show me,” demanded Sly, taking the rifle off his shoulder and inserting a bullet. “Show me how easy it is, or I’ll make sure everybody knows what a chicken heart you really are. They already know how you botched getting the envelope.”
Jody said nothing, but glanced over his shoulder at a low branch of a broken-topped Douglas fir towering above them. Following his line of vision, Kate saw nothing but a brownish hump rising vertically from the branch. Then, astonishingly, the hump rotated its head, revealing two perfectly round brown eyes. They studied the scene below with unmistakable curiosity, unaware of any danger.
It was an owl. Not twenty feet above the ground, the bird rested regally on its perch, its chocolate-colored plumage dotted with white spots. Kate sucked in her breath. She knew she should not take any more time here than she had already. But she could not bear to leave now.
“Jody Chicken Heart O’Leary,” recited the barrel-chested boy. “That’s gonna be your name for the rest of your days.”
Jody gave him a sharp look. “Gimme that gun,” he said, reaching out for the rifle.
With a smirk, Sly handed it to him. “Good. Now let’s see you blast that owl over hell’s half acre.”