Slow and with obvious movements, she crept up onto the short brown grass and looked down upon the animal as it stood in the rushing water, illumined by the white moonlight. Her heart tripped and she felt the movement rise up her throat. The kelpie raised its head and looked at her, but made no move to bolt. For a time, they stood and regarded one another, then with a snort, the horse trotted upstream and with a thrash of its mane, it hurried into a gallop northwards toward the forest.
Rowan let out a disappointed cry to which the horse paid no heed as it retreated. She watched it go, picked up her basket and set off home. On the way, she pondered the stories her mother told her of the Naiads; the spirits of the waters.
She was still thinking of these tales, warmed by a sense of wonder when she reached the main gate to the farm. Her reverie was interrupted by the sight of a black shape moving along the side of the barn towards the yard.
She stifled a gasp, once more fetched up her knife and, gripping it so tightly it felt as though her knuckles would burst through the skin, she slipped through the gate.
Chapter Three
Deep in the forest north of Rowan’s homestead, within the heart of a black oak tree, Riark awoke. There was no sight, hearing or touch as humans would understand it – simply being. He extended his reach to every part of the tree, to the very extremities of the roots and branches. The wind swayed the boughs, and an acorn found its moment to drop. Just as its connection broke, Riark gathered inside it and fell with it. He and the acorn landed on the soft earth in the shade under the canopy, bounced then came to a stop on the mud.
Riark remained with the acorn. To begin with it seemed destined to lie there indeterminately, but one morning a squirrel descended the trunk of the oak, saw the acorn and acquired it for its hoard. Riark would have smiled if he had a mouth, pleased to find a new experience after so many centuries. The squirrel carried him aloft, ran along a branch then leapt to the next tree. On and on the tiny animal darted, jumped and climbed until it happened upon the hollow high up in an ash where it made its store. Thus deposited, Riark determined it was time to move on. He slipped from the acorn into the trunk of the ash, savouring the taste of its sap and the different textures as he coursed through it, towards the ground.
Riark tarried there a while and slumbered until, one day, The First Tree called and Riark paid heed.
At one moment he was in the south of the Impassable Forest and a second later he was inside the First Tree hundreds of miles further north. He waited behind the bark, sensing that he was alone. He took his rest again while he waited for the others.
A vibration stirred him into sentience once again and as awareness dawned, the First Tree changed from a tree to a tree and more. It was time to emerge and Riark gathered his strength and wits.
The bark of the tree began to bow outwards almost imperceptibly then ten rough tentacles began to grow like new branches. Seconds later, the bark between these tendrils also moved outwards and stiff hands forced their way forward, followed by arms. Now a foot formed from the trunk of the tree, then a leg, followed by another foot and yet another leg. These legs walked a long, smooth torso forward and out of the trunk. A taut neck snapped a smooth, carved head out of the First Tree in an awkward nod. The living mannequin stood erect, its head and the tips of its shoulder blades still part of the tree. Riark concentrated and felt the last of his essence leave the tree as he stepped away, yards-long vines resembling hair extended out behind him, finally falling lank against his solid body, hanging down below the wooden imitation of hips. Riark shed the bark and his body gleamed in the bright sunlight like a polished table-top. His limbs flexed as though shaking off an afternoon of inactivity. Features formed into a face, the wood seemingly crafting itself. There were no eyeballs, but the gentle curve of an eye between crested waves of carved eyelids settled into permanent shape. His nose was at first primitive and blocked, but the wood shrank back to give definition. His mane of vines entwined to form a single bunched cat-of-nine-tails that waved and slapped against the back of his thighs. Riark looked up at the sky and raised pupils lifted from the surface of his eyes. He smiled. There was no cavity to his mouth, but the lips curled. Riark, king of the Dryads, had taken avatar.
On the other side of the First Tree, a similar feat was being undertaken by a creature forming from a boulder. Riark exercised his new legs and strolled round, his feet crushing his discarded bark. Wern, king of the Oreads towered above him, some nine feet high, his legs as wide as marble columns and his arms almost forming an arch to the ground. His body formed into the shape of a giant muscular man.
They bowed to one another, but turned sharply at the sound of a laugh emerging from the pool which surrounded the island on which they stood. Samura, queen of the Naiads had arrived. Her ever-flowing waterfall mane rose from the surface and her eyes, blue marbles suspended in a face, translucent and ever-moving, fixed on them in turn.
Riark’s vines whipped suddenly around his body, and the surface of the pool was churned up into a succession of waves, flowing outward towards the far bank. Mayri, queen of the Sylphs, took form, constantly dissipating and re-forming, like gathered breaths on a cold morning. On the foreshore of the First Island and in the shallows of the First Waters, the kings and queens of the world called counsel and prepared to understand one another anew.
Riark walked into the pool, forcing his feet down against his buoyancy. He waded out till the waters were around his waist. Samura wrapped shimmering, flowing arms around him and he could feel the water of her body rushing against the solidity of his own. She soaked into him. Wern trudged downwards, his feet taking up great divots each time he lifted them, and when he smashed into the water, even at a slow pace, he drove the water away from him with such force that Riark was nearly lifted with a wave and carried off. Samura steadied him. Wern carried on into the pool even deeper until Riark and Samura could sit upon his shoulders and yet still be half submerged, wrapping their arms around his great stone neck. Mayri took flight and hovered above them. There was not a sound or movement except for the gentle lapping of breaking waves. Then in one quick motion, Wern shrank into the shape of a small stone upon the bed of the pool. Riark’s body diminished into nothing but a single-leafed twig, floating on the troubled surface. Samura diffused into the pool and Mayri descended as a mist, hanging above it.
As the hours passed, the kings and queens imitated one another in aesthetic, but new of texture. Trees formed of stone, stones formed of wood, water raised into cloud and clouds fell as rain. Stone began to flow or grow. Air thrust roots into the soil. They were four and they were one, as it had been from the first.
New beings entered the clearing – all of them felt it at once and were still until the newcomers were recognised. Riark approximated a human once more and strode out of the pool not on the island, but on the bank. Five Dryads, all similar in form yet subtly different, stood just outside the treeline.
Riark stood ready and, unseen, the soles of his feet grew downwards into reaching, pulsing roots. These found the roots of his counterparts and as they entwined, Riark heard their thoughts, knew what they knew, and lost himself in them. He heard the whole forest and knew that something was wrong. He turned back to the pool and, sad of heart, for this ceremony would not take place again for many a year, he bowed and left his peers. Riark turned towards the forest and ran towards a silver birch. He dived forward, hands clasped together, and his body disappeared into the trunk.
The dive completed as he sprung forth from another silver birch seven hundred miles to the north, and his body curled into a forward roll before coming to a stop in a steady crouch. His five companions appeared alongside him. They cast out roots and conversed.
Visible through the ranks of trees, men were hacking at the forest with axes. Not just one or two at a time, like on the southern border with what men called the Hinterland, but in tens and twenties. All six of them felt an ash die and heard it crash to the forest floor, each hearing without hearing,
its final gasp. Riark surveyed the scene, dismayed. The humans were consuming more trees than they could possibly need to build. He knew consumption was in their nature and that the forest usually sustained its losses, yet the scale of their efforts troubled him.
It was inevitable that, unchecked, these men would unwittingly lop down a Mother Tree, killing the Dryad it had birthed and to which it was still inextricably linked. Perhaps a lone woodcutter could be dissuaded, frightened off or, if necessary, killed, but to stand against such numbers would risk the exposure of his people and, worse, the threat of fire to drive them back. Riark would not risk it, but nor would he allow those who must die to do so without having time to prepare.
He turned to his companions and gave orders that word should be sent to all whose Mother Trees grew in the north.
Riark squatted in the shadow of the canopy and observed the humans work, honouring the passing of each and every tree. He waited for days while his messengers scoured the forests of the world in search of those whose Mother Trees were in jeopardy. His people sometimes wandered afar in forms that were disconnected from the forest for a time, as it had been while he was inside the fallen acorn.
The first of his messengers returned. Nayr’s shapely tribute to female human form moved cat-like through the boughs and alighted soundlessly beside her king.
‘There are four in this part of the wood,’ she whispered, the line of her mouth cracking open and slivers of wood splintering from the new parting as mouth, throat and lungs formed. He saw her chest newly swell.
Riark rested his forehead against hers and for a moment, their grains were as one.
‘My thanks. Have they been found?’
‘Only two so far. The others are roaming and not at root. The others are looking. Shall we attend the trees?’
Riark nodded, and together the roots beneath their feet moved soundlessly under the forest in search of the Mother Trees, vacant but necessary for the survival of their one-time occupants. Grasping the roots of other trees, the Dryad and his consort listened and felt for the Mother Trees then loosened their grip. Riark led Nayr into the trunk of an elm, and they appeared from another some distance away. The sound of the men’s activity had faded a little as they approached the Mother Tree that grew nearest to the felling. She was old, her roots were deep, and her trunk stood far and away taller than her daughters around her feet. Riark stood underneath her foliage, taking pains not to touch her trunk as to do so was to show her a great disrespect.
Riark looked at Nayr admiring the aesthetic of her adopted form, though he had no sexual inclination, nor, in truth, actual gender. She tilted her head when she noticed his gaze and he looked away.
‘I will stand watch here until her child can be found. You should join the search.’
Riark spent a few hours in his human form, but, he was curious to note, he felt more restive when he resembled a human and acutely aware of the passage of time. A sensation something akin to glee flooded through him when he noticed he was tapping his foot with impatience. When he could take no more, he took refuge inside the elm through which he had arrived, and as his physicality diffused, it was though a great burden had been lifted from him.
When Riark slept, it was not as he had once done hundreds of years ago. He vaguely remembered the sleep of man. Enshrouded within the body of a tree, it was as though he was a muscle releasing all tension. It was as though a worrying mind relaxed so utterly that it broke free of the biological connection. He felt his consciousness reach the boundaries of his own mind and his individuality disappearing. He lost almost all sense of self and language. His existence was being without thought. He was impetus and growth.
It would be more accurate to say he was woken than to say he awoke. The being that was Riark drew together, mustered and attended to the world without. The men were drawing ever nearer. Riark’s eyes formed on the trunk, and he surveyed their approach. There was little time before the Mother Tree would be in peril, he judged.
Somewhere in the system of roots, resonating in the dampness of the soil, a sweeping movement drew Riark’s attention. Before he had a chance to examine it further, his curiosity was satisfied.
There was no gradual emergence of the Dryad from the Mother Tree; his kinsman erupted forth; an outthrust shard of timber that broke the surface of the bark as would a leaping dolphin escape the sea. The Dryad slid length first in the grass and then the wood seemed to draw-in towards the middle of the splinter. A humanoid figure drew up from the flowing wood, and Riark sensed the rage, emanating from the Dryad like heat from a fire, so keenly that he was perturbed, sensing that the tree he inhabited might burst into flames. The Dryad’s form was much like his own, but its shoulders hunched forward and its hands clenched into fists as it looked on. Riark slipped seamlessly from the elm and approached. Dryads did not startle, but the newcomer whirled in a near approximation. Etched fury marred his face so that the wood cracked along the grain, steamed and knitted together once more. He seemed poised to attack all and any.
Riark raised his hands high, fingers forming rigid claws aiming at the ground. He thrust them downward an inch, but even as the hands halted, the fingers grew downward as quickly as liquid, driving into the soil and lancing forward towards the other Dryad. The newcomer’s roots drew back, but Riark’s own were faster and grappled with them.
He saw recognition on the newcomer’s face and the calmness that arrived with it. The Dryad fell to one knee, looking up at him. He thrust roots into the soil and Riark did the same.
‘Your Majesty.’ Riark heard the words in his own mind and at once he knew the Dryad’s name.
‘Ashrider,’ he said aloud.
‘Your Majesty,’ Ashrider said again.
‘Rise up, Brother,’ said Riark. ‘I am here for you and your Mother.’
Ashrider did so.
‘It will not be long until the axes are upon me,’ he said, the words sorrowful, but cold. Riark sensed that the younger Dryad was prepared to resist. He guessed he had not long died as a human himself, judging from the rage he now displayed. In time, he would lose the ability.
‘There are many of them, doing much destruction to the forest,’ said Riark.
‘Will you help me defend my Mother Tree?’ asked Ashrider.
Riark looked in the direction of the men’s activity.
‘We cannot risk them bringing fire into our nation,’ he said quietly.
‘They are pests. They devour the forest and threaten my existence. We should drive them back.’
It was an opinion common amongst the younger of his folk, those who were new to the form and still bore the fiery nature that had caused their reawakening as Dryads. Riark had long ago put the loss of the few into some kind of perspective, long ago lost the heat of emotion.
‘If we destroy them, many more will come. If more come, it will lead to confrontation. They cannot defeat us in combat, and if they retreat they will return with fire. You understand?’
Ashrider’s eyes bore into him as keenly as a woodpecker’s worrying of a trunk. Riark sensed that his subject knew the truth of his words, but that his impulse was to stand and fight. Riark feared that confrontation was inevitable and began to ready himself for what would surely come. This young one’s animal instincts were yet to fade.
Ashrider could not meet Riark’s gaze, and the king’s body tensed. The vines of his mane entwined even tighter.
One moment the Dryads were standing quietly under the canopy and the next they burst forth, racing towards the men. Ashrider roared, deep and bestial, unbecoming of his kind, and his limbs powered forward bent on aggression. Riark felt no such emotion as he gave chase. He leapt to the side and disappeared inside the faithful elm, and for a time, Ashrider charged on alone thinking that his king would not intervene.
He drew up on his heels as two beech, standing as pillars ahead of him burst towards one another, shards of bark becoming flying shrapnel as spindly branches wound into a spider’s web of wood to bar his
way. His momentum was too great and had he been a man, he would certainly have struck the web that was Riark. Instead, he merged into one of the beech, and both Dryads occupied the same tree as their essences flowed down into the deep roots.
‘Do not make me.’ Riark’s intentions echoed in Ashrider’s mind. He was horrified, but somehow dismissed the inherent truthfulness of their natural communication. He powered on and sprung once more into human form, running through the wood. The last thought Riark caught before he was left alone in the tree was that Ashrider did not believe his king could truly be capable of such an act.
Riark gave up the chase and set out back towards the Mother Tree. He no longer wanted Ashrider to be able to hear his thoughts if he entered a tree, so he too returned to his human avatar and ran when he was close enough. As he passed the elm, Nayr stepped out of it, but he had no time to consult, and though he had never performed the act in front of another before, he had no time to hesitate. Riark dived deep into the heart of Ashrider’s Mother Tree.
Ashrider screamed from away in the forest, feeling the violation even in human form. He threw his head this way and that, then ripped into a nearby silver birch, arriving inside his Mother Tree, having rent a terrible wound in the tree through which he had travelled. Riark felt the distant silver birch’s pain and steeled himself against it. Ashrider’s essence filled his Mother Tree. Riark battled him, his will stronger and his knowledge infinitely more honed. He had been with this tree before ever Ashrider had died as a human. He had been many trees. He was the forest and he was also its king. He had the mastery and he, Riark, king of the Dryads, used all of it now.
‘Calm now or this is the end, Ashrider,’ he thought, but the only reply was a sense of frantic, raging instinct. Animal instinct – such displays always perturbed Riark, as he no longer understood them.
Dark Oak Page 3