by JM Guillen
We simply looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment.
Awkwardly, Coyote held a hand to me.
I took it and shook. “No promises. I’ll go and see what I see. No debts incurred.”
He smiled at me. “Fair enough, O Herald. Fair enough. These things, the cider, all part of hospitality.” He opened his door. “If’n yeh want more, however…”
“Perhaps I’ll decide you owe me after all.”
“Agreed. And yeh’ll give a call.”
I glared at him, briefly. “I suppose that’s my only choice.”
As before, he twisted the door as he pulled. It opened not only inward, but somehow sideways. A pale, flickering light shone into Coyote’s lodge. It took me a moment to comprehend what I saw. I gaped at him, trying to keep my face straight.
“It’s the closest I can get yeh, if’n yeh ain’t going to town.” He smiled. “Put yeh right next to the highway, ’bout a half hour from the crick.”
I sighed but said nothing. Keeping my eyes on him, I stepped into the bright light.
Eyes gleaming, Coyote shut the door.
15
Coyote’s door opened into a restroom stall. The light in the restroom glared the antiseptic, brilliant white that humans seemed to prefer. I blinked, trying not to breathe in the strong cleaning chemicals.
I couldn’t quite believe that this wasn’t Coyote’s idea of a joke.
Opening the door of the stall, I caught sight of myself in a gleaming mirror. I was a mess. My hair had tangled and twisted from my battle with the hollow darkness, and mud streaked the side of my face, making me look as if I wore the First People’s war paint.
Dirty and naked in a human washroom, I felt positively a fool.
I went to the basin to splash my face with cool water. The fixtures looked to be copper, but I tested with a touch before I turned them on.
Caution paid twice. Cold iron slept everywhere in the human world.
The water tingled, delicious against my face, clean and cold. I washed up as best as I could, running it through my tangled hair. I dried myself with one of those small wind dryers and held my hair beneath it until the flow was fuzzy and warm.
Better. A touch, at any rate.
I prepared to stride out into wherever I was, full on naked, without being harried by questions.
I took a deep breath and centered myself, relaxing. I gathered my Name around myself, preparing. My mind drifted down a storybook lane, watched over by ash, rowan, and maple, each a dizzying, brilliant orange or yellow. I felt the cool wind, felt the crunch of leaves beneath my step. Holding my gaze on the mirror, I let all except the autumn fall away from me.
My eyes gleamed, aspen-gold.
Memories of the Old Man stepped to the sleeping part of my mind, dreaming and forgotten. The scent of Molly, the sounds of her sweet whimpers, drifted away as well.
No mere man, I would not be held by guile or feminine beauty. I was no mere sprite of the maple tree.
When the autumn wind came, it neither asked permission nor apologized for the cold in its wake. The autumn wind needed no companionship.
No home.
I stepped from the restroom, wreathed in orange-gold glamour. Coyote’s door had led to some trucker-stop alongside the highway, a place where a man of the roads could find almost anything he needed. A glance to the window told me that it was still raining and still early.
Everything was bathed in that strange yellow-white, flickering light that such places have.
“I—” The man behind the counter became confused at my nakedness. “I didn’t see you come in.” Behind the young man, a small radio sang about how Alabama was someone’s sweet home.
Breathe.
I hurled my will against him. I forced him to drink the cider of ten-thousand windy nights. He heard the howling of wolves on the hunt, felt the sweet kiss of dawn through yellowed leaves.
He blinked like a sheep.
“Yes, you did.” My Telling washed through my voice. I had no time for the seduction of story though; I needed to move quickly.
He nodded slowly, his mouth a touch agape. My glamour was neither subtle nor kind. I hated treating the mortal-born with such roughness.
“I wandered in off the road. I nodded at you and made my way to the restroom.”
“You looked a fright. Maybe you had been mugged.” He continued nodding slowly.
“There are some things I need. I’m going to take them.” I held his gaze. “What will you tell your task master?”
“Homeless wandered in.” He shrugged, slow, weak. “Didn’t watch him like I should.”
I nodded. “Wandered in. Cleaned up in the restroom and then stole some things.” I glanced above him at the silent guardian. “Will that unblinking eye give lie to your tale?”
He blinked up at the recording device. “Um. I can fix it. Make it not see. Broken.”
“That would be best.” I turned from him as he stood there, stupefied.
Stations like this were built so that men who traveled could find all manner of things they needed: plenty of food and drink, as well as supplies for their engines of iron and smoke. Machines held stories and songs.
I even found a rack with some clothing.
The thick down jackets had been made for hunting. I also selected a pair of their indigo canvas pants. It took me no time at all to find what would fit my slender frame—after all, it was my story. I pulled on the pants and coat.
“Much better.” I smiled.
No boots, though.
I could have them if I sincerely wished. I could Tell it so that the clerk was wearing my size or had found them abandoned outside. But footwear was the least of my concerns.
If what Coyote said held water, I would be heading into the hills.
As I turned back toward the door, my gaze fell upon the most perfect item of all: a sling-shooter.
I picked it up, admiringly. It had a hard grip, molded to the hand. The “Y” of the shooter spread wide, and the rubber length held a wide cup in the center. Several of them were offered for sale, along with small metal shot.
I eyed the shot. It was certainly steel, and therefore would bite me if I tried it. Still, the sling was perfect.
“I’m going hunting.” I met the young man’s gaze. “Is there anything else you have that I should take? Anything I haven’t seen?”
“Autumn’s going hunting.” His voice lilted, sing-song, little more than a whisper.
I scowled at him. This was always the problem with mortals taken without their leave. Their minds were a strange kind of slippery that wandered.
“Stay with me.” My voice turned sharp. “I’ll be heading into the wood, north and east of here. Is there anything I should know?”
“Darkness. Darkness sleeps in that wood.” His eyes grew wider as his dreaming mind began to ramble secret things. Certainly, he didn’t actually know of the hollow creature, not when he was awake and aware.
“That’s what I’m seeking”—my gaze found the placard on his chest—“Eddie. I’m going after it into the wood.”
Eddie trembled. “It’s like coldness that walks.”
“Yes.” I opened the shooter.
“You’ll never kill it with th—that.” His voice held the tiniest stammer.
“It’s not for you to say.” I grabbed a clear rain-slick and held it under my arm. “What else should I take, Eddie?”
“Shadows are burned by fire.” He reached for a small collection of silver flick-lights that were hanging by the counter. “We have Zippos, and then there are these.” He held up something like a small torch. “They use butane gas, and we have that too.”
Gas? I looked at the bottles, and picked one up. It sloshed inside. Not a gas then, but water of some kind. Water that burned.
He had several of the bottles, six or seven.
“Are these bottles the only thing that you have that burns like that?”
His gaze remained distant. “’Course not.
We have propane outside for the RV’s.” He shrugged. “Besides, this is a gas station. There’s always that.”
I knew that the humans burned gasoline for their cars, but nothing about the loading of such gas. That was probably right out. I didn’t even understand how the plastic yellow bottles could hold gas, much less the best way to make it flame.
Unless…
“Eddie, let’s talk some more. Then I’ll let you get along.”
His smile grew wide despite his distant eyes.
16
I left the gas station over an hour later with a leather purse strapped across my shoulder, full of Eddie’s gifts. I still wasn’t completely certain how it would all work together, but I had the best chance I thought I was likely to get.
Now, to keep my eyes open.
The rain had slowed, and the bitter, near-pitch sky hung quiet.
I meandered my way into the wood behind the station, feeling my shoulders unclench as soon as my feet touched the mossy earth. The new world empire that the mortals had built was certainly wondrous, but it was all dead metal and broken songs. The realm of living, growing things sang my name as I stepped among the deep shadows, and I was home.
Well, as home as a wanderer such as I could ever be.
I didn’t quite feel the aching hollowness that I had felt when stalked by the hollow creature before, but I definitely sensed something amiss in the wood. Shadows loomed just a touch longer and darker. I watched each step that I took, carefully marking my way back to the station.
It would never do to become lost.
I traveled for almost an hour before the eastern sky started to brighten, the drear black of the night soon burned away in the fiery dawning sunlight. The whole while I delighted in feeling the subtle currents of the world again welcome the passing of autumn.
Yet even as I watched well my path, even as I felt the earth turn beneath my feet, I listened. I canted my ear and listened through the silence of leaf fall and the scurrying animals of the wood. I listened for something within and around the silence, something only I would hear.
There. Was that…?
I heard it, like a great brass bell, ringing in the distance. I felt it, a secret song in my heart. I had known that if I were patient for long enough, I would hear its voice, like a chorus of beckoning friends.
The litany of the maple tree was the closest thing to home I had.
Like hearing my own soul, whispering softly in the shifting shadows, the voice spoke of mother, of father. It murmured of secrets that I ever held, clenched tightly behind memories, behind dreams.
With so many maples scattered across the countryside, I was surprised I hadn’t found one before now. My relationship with the tree was a sacred one, and I simply assumed that I would find one when I needed it. The fact that I stumbled upon one now was quite usual.
Here I am. My thought was completely wordless, simply a feeling. Finally. Finally home. I can rest if I wish.
That was dangerous in a way. Resting ’neath the bower of the maple might mean I wouldn’t awaken for long and long. That, I suspected, was the snare that had caught Jillian and so many others. Some place in the wild had sung them to sleep, and they drifted off into the vast twilight at the edge of the world. As time went on, more and more of my kind tired.
Then, they slept and never awoke.
I nodded respectfully as I approached the tree. My breath caught in my throat, and I couldn’t help my wild, manic grin as I strode into the small clearing. Maple stood there, boughs wide, holding up the sky.
Just being near the tree felt as an embrace.
A trickling stream ran ’neath the tree, as I had known it must. There, I found round stones worn smooth by the rush of ten-thousand spring floods and river courses. Carefully, I stepped into the creek, feeling the sting of mountain-cold water. With the tree singing in my mind, I dipped my fingers into the shimmering water, looking for stones that knew how to fly.
No, not this one. It was dark and looked to carry strange dreams.
This one neither. Not quite round, it had teeth that would bite me as certainly as the creature I hunted.
I sorted for several moments before I found a stone that once had flown. It had been thrown here, less than three score autumns ago, by two boys who had wandered this far.
Then, another, which knew how to fly so well that it had fallen from the deep emptiness of the night sky.
Then one, which had never flown but had always believed that it would. Carefully, for more years than even I could count, it had rolled and turned in the riverbed, shaping itself for the day it would taste the wind.
Several more were smooth, and several more were round, but those weren’t quite good enough. I needed stones that yearned for the taste of wind, stones that would not mind the fires of battle.
In only a minute, I found the stones that I needed, seven in the end. This was auspicious to me, and so I carefully nestled them into my leather purse next to my other treasures.
Then, the tree.
Maple formed part of the ever-singing melody, the vast chorus of existence, which drifted into the vastness of eternity. As it was the part of creation I was closest to, I could not help but feeling giggly and giddy as I walked closer to it, my hand caressing its old, uneven trunk.
Good morning.
The greeting echoed back as I was, in truth, greeting a part of my very self. I gazed up into the bower of the tree, the wafting leaves casting dappled early morning light across my smiling, open face.
Before I knew what I was looking for, my eyes found the clumps of the seeds, hanging ’neath the yellow and green. It was a little late for the seeds to still be on the trees, but I knew that didn’t actually matter. I needed them. For all I knew, the tree had kept them here for me, waiting until I would arrive.
“Thank you.” The words echoed in the air around me, thanking myself as I said them. I reached, and the seeds came loose in my hand, released without needing plucked.
Maple seeds are now called samaras— but I remembered their Old World name, “Spinning Jennys.” Each was like a tiny wing, and when it caught on the wind, it spun ’round and ’round, carried far and away. I took two handfuls of them, filling my pockets.
Spinning Jennys made amazing tools in the right hands.
“That’s enough, I think.” It did not feel as if I were talking to myself, but of course I was, in a deeply personal and intimate way. “I suppose that if I need more, I’ll just come back.”
The answer came not in words. It was the rustling of wind in the leaves, the creaking of bough. It came in the kiss of dappled shadow and the sweet smell of the wood.
I needed one more thing. I peered through the leaves, seeking the perfect one.
There.
The brilliant yellow of my eyes, it hung twice as high as I was tall. Its edges remained sharp, not the least bit curled. No brown spots or wind-tears marred it.
“Just the one.” I smiled as other leaves rustled across my face.
The tiniest touch of wind released the leaf. It drifted down, seeming to relish the feel of the breeze as it dropped into my hand.
I cupped it gingerly, as I would a fledgling bird. I leaned over it, whispering my truth into the leaf.
“Tommy Maple.” The world trembled as I spoke my Name.
The leaf grew warm in my hand, reached for me the tiniest bit, as it once might have reached for the sun. My power came alive inside it. It might never be green again, but it would never tear or blemish.
Carefully, I folded it and placed it in my pocket.
I turned, my hand on the old tree again.
The maple sang the song of my heart. Behind that song was the ever present lullaby, a beckoning into the bower of sleep. I stood there, with one hand against the rough bark, for several moments. Unbidden tears trailed down my face.
May we meet on far shores, Tommy.
I cannot say how long I stood there, awash in memory and want. I knew only that the world had
awakened once more.
My world.
The first day of autumn had arrived.
17
Later, with my heart again stalwart, I found myself wending through the ever-thickening wood. I could still feel the creature, knew by the sheer sense of wrongness that it lurked somewhere near. Yet I had no direction. I only faintly noted the long darkness of the shadows or caught the sweet smell of rot on the wind. Twice, I believed that I had found the right track, only to have the wind shift and realize that I was moving away from the creature I sought.
Finally, I gave in. I reached into my stuffed pockets and pulled out one of the maple seeds.
“I’m hunting the cold shadow in the wood.” I fixed my gaze on the seed, settling it on my open palm. “Show me.” I gently blew upon the seed.
At the touch of my breath, it soared aloft.
It flew sharply to my left, both against the breeze and against the direction I had blown it. The seed, caught upon some wind all its own, sailed straight through the air, over a small rise.
Resolutely, I followed in that direction.
Soon, it was obvious that I drew closer.
The shadows of the wood became disconcertingly darker. They lived, shimmying and darkening strangely. As I watched, they wafted from side to side, as if blown by some non-existent breeze.
But they by no means blew in the wind. Not at all.
They reached hungrily as if they could grasp me, wrap themselves around me, drag me away to some dark den that had never seen light, and feast on all that I was. Behind my mind, I could imagine it, as if some dim part of myself could perceive a hungry darkness, hiding just beyond sight.
The shadows remained black as pitch, as if it were full night instead of early morn.
I stepped away from them, trying to keep a rein on my pounding heart. Slowly, I crept forward, my eyes wide and my hands trembling.
As I edged forward, root, bramble and thorn pulled at me, leaving scratches on my skin and tears in my clothing. It might seem accidental, mere happenstance, to any mortal-born, but I could hear the strange whispers among the shadows, where normally I would hear only welcome. Malice twisted its way into the soul of each leaf and branch. They were animated by empty, endless hunger.