As they walked out of the village, Donald paired up the boys. “Because we are not an even number, one of the elder boys will have to go alone.” Donald nodded toward Sean. “How about you? Take the westernmost position and keep others away from the creek.”
Sean seemed ready to accept the task when his little brother, Scipio, tugged on his sleeve. “I want to hunt with you,” the boy said quietly. Looking to Donald, he added, “Can’t I go with him?”
“No, Scipi,” Donald answered with a firm shake of his head. “The ground around Wiccan Creek is dangerous for someone as young as you. I would go myself, but as leader I must stay close to the middle to oversee the search.”
Scipio gave him a pitiful look. “Please?”
“No.” Donald’s tone let it be known the matter was settled. “You can hunt with me and Willie if you wish.” Donald hesitantly nodded toward Marc. “Or with him.”
The eldest boy’s reluctance to acknowledge Marc by name was obvious to all.
Scipio’s stubborn frown stated that neither offer was acceptable.
Marc agreed with the decision to keep Scipio away from the creek, for the youngster was intensely inquisitive and hard to manage. Donald proved to be a good leader in situations when anyone named Marc or Valeria were not involved. On a sudden impulse, Marc provided a solution. “I’ll go in Sean’s stead.”
Sean looked grateful. “I appreciate it.”
The seven-year-old flashed Marc a wide, toothy grin. “Thanks.”
Tousling the lad’s hair, Marc watched irritation grow dark on Donald’s face. He did not like having his authority questioned by anyone, especially Marc. Then, Donald’s expression changed into one of suppressed pleasure.
“Many perils exist there. If you should lose your footing on a slippery rock, or have an embankment crumble beneath you—” His smile deepened as he stood straighter, shoulders back. “Yes, you go,” he said quickly.
Too quickly. Besides the potential hazards, Donald probably liked having him as far away as possible. The fact that the creek also bordered the Forbidden Vale was not lost on him, either. But Marc wanted to get a closer look at that area and why it was so feared. In the past, none of the boys were permitted near there lest they be tempted in a moment of foolish recklessness to satisfy their curiosity. Picking up his pace, he pulled ahead of the others.
Marc knew little of the Vale. Roughly triangular in shape, it started at the intersection of Wiccan Creek and Black Rock Hill, expanding to the north and west until it hit another row of hills, the names of which he did not know. He remembered stories of strange sounds and smells emanating from there. If true, he would soon find out.
Ahead he saw the faintest outline of Red Cliffs above to his left. Without them as a landmark, he could lose his way for the dim light and misty air made everything appear dreamlike. Distant trees looked more like disfigured faces, watching him. Ribbons of rock along the sides and peaks of hillocks became squinting eyes, stalking him. The very ground itself seemed to melt away into the gray emptiness.
Marc crossed half a dozen gentle knolls before he heard the rush of water from Wiccan Creek. Following the sound, he soon came upon it, finding it to be much more than a creek; the melting snow had filled it to nearly overflowing. He headed north, intently searching for any sign of deer.
After a half hour of finding nothing, he glanced across the creek and saw a very large bush quivering in a jerky fashion as if something fed upon it. Could it be the deer they sought? Excited at the prospect, he looked for a way to cross over and, as luck would have it, a recently felled tree provided a natural bridge a short distance upstream.
Making use of that tree, Marc crept closer to the bush, keeping his muscles taut, footsteps silent. Though the bush had no leaves, he could not see through it due to its dense tangle of branches and twigs. Arcing around, he hoped to see a deer at any moment, but saw nothing. The bush stopped moving as well. Overcome with curiosity, he approached with his staff held at the ready. Puzzled, he poked at the bush, jumping back in surprise as two hares scurried off, zig-zagging across the ground until the fog swallowed them up. Laughing at his reaction, he marveled at seeing not one but two of them. He had not seen any for quite some time.
“Go, my friends,” he called out after them, waving goodbye. “Have many babies, for our cook pot is in need of something to fill it.”
Marc looked around. He and his father had never hunted here. This must be a good place for game. How far did it extend? Even though the mist had thinned out some since leaving home, he still could not see far. A higher vantage point was needed. Moving away from the creek, he followed the natural slope of the land which became ever steeper. A hill. Perfect. If high enough, he would be able to see quite far.
After several minutes of climbing, the mist dropped away giving him an unobstructed view for miles to the east and south, all the way to Red Cliffs, the tops of which jutted from the fog like a ruddy island in a cloud sea. Even so, the shallow angle of his gaze obscured the details of the nearby region almost as much as before. He needed to go much higher, high enough to look down through the ground-hugging mist. Further uphill he saw a clear spot high on the right, possibly a ledge of some kind. In the center of it stood a huge tree. That would do nicely.
As he climbed, Marc began to feel odd, something akin to a mixture of dizziness and a headache. He did not seem sick or winded, yet the feeling continued to intensify. Dismissing it as hunger, he pressed on. Soon he drew close enough to see the tree was even larger than he first thought—it stood at least a hundred feet tall—and it seemed familiar in some way. Very familiar. Had he seen it before? Maybe. His father and him had hunted many times in the meadows and woods east of the creek. He had probably noticed it then but forgot about it until now.
Reaching the clearing, he looked about and found himself on a wide, level area cut into the slope of the hill, barren except for the tree. A layer of small, round stones, none larger than the end of his thumb, covered the ground. The up-slope side of the hill had been hewn away leaving the exposed rock smoothed like an enormous wall. Strange symbols were carved into it at regular intervals. Clearly this was all manmade. The north end of the ledge tapered into a path that led down into a valley with a small lake and dense forest.
Trying to shake off the strange feelings, he turned his gaze skyward. The giant tree towered majestically above him, its thicket of bare limbs stretched out in all directions. Many of its secondary branches were larger around than his waist. Marc gazed in awe at its sheer size. Never had he seen a tree this large—or fertile. Thousands of nuts—brown, wrinkled and the size of a baby’s closed fist—hung from its branches. Food, and lots of it! He looked for a way up but found none; the lowest branch was ten feet away, and the massive trunk could not be climbed for there were neither footholds nor could he even begin to put his arms around it.
Turning his attention to the reason that brought him up here, Marc looked upon the valley below, the landscape dappled with varying amounts of mist. To his right, the creek flowed by the foot of this hill then headed toward the western edge of Red Cliffs. Further right lay the wooded area where he saw the hares; hundreds of acres heavily populated with trees would support much game when and if the sun returned.
Regarding the tree once more, he thought about how he might manage to harvest the nuts when another, more powerful, wave of that odd feeling rolled over him. The hairs on his neck stiffened as ice water flowed through his veins—someone, or something, watched him. Rapidly turning in place, he looked around, eyes searching for the threat but saw nothing. What about above him? Walking over to the trunk of the tree, he looked upward, bracing himself against the smooth bark.
Immediately, his head reeled as if he were falling down. A ripple of nauseous dread slithered through his core while dozens of voices mumbled incoherently. Panic replaced the odd feeling as he suddenly realized where he stood—the Forbidden Vale! In his pursuit of a higher vantage point, he unknowingly passed over t
he ridge line of this hill—Black Rock hill—and into the Vale.
Jaw clenched tight, he whipped out his knife and spun about in a defensive crouch, expecting to see some sort of evil denizen coming for him, but he remained alone. Sprinting to the south end of the ledge, his feet scattering handfuls of the small stones about him, Marc scampered down the slope, his heart beating so fast he feared it would burst forth from his chest. He ignored the pain of cuts and scrapes and continued his flight downhill until a drop-off blocked his path. Now well on the south side of the hill, he saw nothing followed.
Marc dropped to his knees and offered an earnest prayer of thanksgiving for having been spared a horrible death from whatever lived in the Vale. Resting to catch his breath, he thought about what just happened. When he touched the tree he heard a jumble of voices, but not with his ears. He heard them in a different way, almost as if they were inside him. The idea frightened him. He desperately wanted to drive the memory from his mind, to pretend it never happened. Denying it would do him no good, but answers might.
Where did these voices come from?
As he continued downhill and toward the creek, he pondered that question. Did magical or evil spirits live in the tree? Or ghosts perhaps? He shuddered, realizing they might be the specters of hunters less fortunate than himself. Maybe the tree killed them, capturing their souls for whatever reason. Another twinge of fear hit him—could the tree be responsible for some of the terrible things that had taken place in the Forbidden Vale? If so, then the tales he heard last night and countless nights before were true. Many claimed the dead haunted the Vale. Possibly, but of one thing he had no doubt— if anything could be haunted, it was that tree.
While still several hundred feet from the water, Marc paused to survey the best route down. In his haste to escape, he lost the path he took up the hill and now needed to find the fallen tree in order to cross back over. Scanning the course of the creek, he found the bridge he sought to the south. North of it were two small pools that would be good for fishing. Closer on his left lay a waterfall with a large pool behind it. Yes, that would make for even better fishing and—
His heart leapt when he saw it move. Freezing in his tracks, Marc watched carefully and it moved again. Unsure if his eyes played tricks on him, he cautiously crept closer, careful to remain hidden in the scant cover, hoping the thunder of the falls would cover any sound he might make. There it stood, right by the top of the falls—a handsome buck thrashed about in the water.
Marc could not believe his good fortune. First he ventured into the Vale and lived to tell about it, and now this. He advanced further, positioning himself behind a large tree for a better view, cheek pressed against the rough bark. The animal appeared to be stuck between two rocks that jutted up out of the torrent about four paces upstream of the falls. By the way it held itself, he knew its left-front leg was injured. Since it could not escape, he abandoned his stalking and scooted the rest of the way down.
Seeing him, the buck made a valiant effort to free itself but remained trapped by the fast moving water. All he had to do was pull it to shore and the animal was his. As Marc removed a leather rope from his pack, he once again felt the odd sensation he now knew came from the giant tree—the haunted tree. He turned to where he knew it would be and saw it perched high upon its strange ledge. Did it call to him, warning him to stay away? Or did it want him to return so it could add to its collection of souls? In either case, he would most definitely never go back there.
Putting aside those thoughts, he studied the hill and saw the waterfall sat more or less along the continuation of its ridgeline, putting both him and the deer just inside the Vale. His heart sank. Not again. He looked over at the buck he so desperately wanted and then back at the tree. Was it worth the risk to remain here?
On an impulse, he shouted up the hill. “I mean no disrespect and intend no trespass. I do not know if I am on your land or not, but there is a dying animal here that I wish to feed my people with. If I do not take it, its death will be a waste. I beg of you your patience, that you allow me to capture it and then I will be gone. If you wish me gone now, give me a sign and I shall leave.”
He waited for a time, taking tense, shallow breaths, but nothing moved above him on the hill. No sound came to him other than the rush of the water and panting breaths of the buck. Even the feeling he got from the tree remained unchanged. With a mixture of apprehension and relief, he bowed his head and spoke once more. “My most humble thanks.”
By now the frigid water had taken a toll on the buck for it moved less. Marc made a noose in the end of his rope then, carefully stepping on several rocks that sat just below the water’s surface, eased out into the turbulent current. With a wide swing he threw the rope and missed, coming up short. He tried again. This time he caught most of the nearest antler, but before he could pull the noose tight, the animal shook it off.
After several more tries he realized he had but no choice to get closer. Another, deeper, rock lay between him and the buck. Taking a chance, he planted his left foot on it. Painfully cold, the knee-deep water tugged at his leg, but he did his best to ignore the discomfort and concentrate on snaring his next meal. The noose fell across the animal’s face causing it to violently rear up in alarm. Instinctively recoiling, Marc lost his balance and fell into the churning flood.
The icy water instantly seized him in its agonizing grip, his mind suddenly screaming in panic. As he desperately tried to grab hold of something, anything, the swift current propelled him headfirst over the precipice, directly toward a nasty looking rock. Half way down, Marc felt himself abruptly move to the side and fall unharmed into the water beside it.
Gasping for air, he immediately tried to swim ashore, but the flow proved too strong, slamming him painfully against the slick boulders by the water’s edge. Since that effort proved fruitless, he tried to avoid further collisions while his frantic mind raced, trying to figure out what to do. He remembered several pools lay ahead, places where the current usually slowed down. Yes! If he could ever make it to shore, those would be the best chances to try.
As the first pool approached, Marc swam as hard as he could to the west side of the creek, hoping to end up out of the faster flowing center. No sooner had he neared the edge, an eddy current pushed him back into the middle, unable to reach any handhold. With this first opportunity lost, he knew he had to get out at the next pool. Numbness crept over him, a feeling much like being stabbed with thousands of tiny, razor sharp knives. Soon, he knew, he would be unable to move.
Redoubling his efforts, he again swam to the side of the creek as the second pool came near only to find a large rock blocked his way, the flow parting around it like the bow of a ship. Unable to go past it, he faced it squarely, impacting the rock with bone-jarring force. Dazed and panting to regain the breath knocked from him, he held fast to its slimy surface. Struggling against the current, he slowly climbed half-way onto the rock then stopped, unable to go any further. Something had hold of his right leg.
The rope! It must have stayed with him as he went over the falls and gotten tangled around his thigh. Encouraged by this good turn, he worked it loose from his leg, gathered in what he could, then climbed the rest of the way onto the rock. Shivering, he pulled the rope taut. The other end seemed to be snagged beneath the water somewhere upstream. Not wanting to abandon what could very well be his lifeline, he tugged on it in various ways. The harder he pulled, the more he felt it start to give.
Careful to not lose his balance, he gripped the leather as tight as his cold-numbed fingers would allow, and pulled again with more force. On the third try it broke free. Quickly reeling it in, he found a bit of bark lodged in the braid. Only too late did he realize his efforts dislodged a submerged tree branch that, now freed, surfaced and rushed toward him. The branch hit his rock and slid over the top, knocking him off his feet and back into the water.
Coughing, he righted himself and got his bearings. Immediately downstream he saw the fallen
tree. On instinct, he wadded the rope into a ball, held one end fast, then mustered all his fading strength and tossed the rest high into the air and toward the tree. As he raced beneath it, the loose end of the rope fell into the water next to him. Seizing it, Marc quickly tied the ends together and let out a whoop of joy. All he had to do now was climb.
That would not be easy for the frigid water had sapped much of his strength. Hand over hand, he strained against the relentless current that clawed at him. By the time he was half out of the water, his progress slowed. Each inch gained demanded more than he could give, but he found the strength somehow and advanced. Once his knees cleared the surface, he could go no further, the cramping muscles of his arms too fatigued to obey his will.
Marc’s resolve crumbled. He slid back into the water, his left elbow hooked on the rope. As he prepared to accept his fate, he felt the haunted tree touch him once more. What did it want? To mock him? To tell him he may have escaped the Vale but would die anyway?
That made him mad. As his anger rose, the fear and resignation evaporated, replaced with a determination and knowledge that he would survive this. From deep within came a reserve he did not know he possessed, a warm ocean of power flooding his very being. Rise! he commanded his arms, and he rose. Hand over hand, briskly, tirelessly, he moved. In seconds he found himself atop the fallen tree, astounded at what happened.
Although intense shivers convulsed every muscle, Marc untied the rope and carefully moved to the western side of the creek. Thanks be to God, solid ground! Stripping off his wet clothes, he danced around for several minutes to warm up. When he felt stronger, he gathered his clothes and headed upstream, collecting dry branches and twigs along the way.
Haunted Tree (The Magus Family Chronicles Book 1) Page 3