“Who’s he found?” Rab asked. Sedemay glared at him. She wasn’t at all amused by her husband’s sudden demotion to village nuisance.
Raulf noticed Alina Fleete watching him avidly.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Rikild Blighton said. “Tell us who you’ve found.”
The villagers looked at Raulf expectantly.
“Go on, son” Jos said.
A sly smile slipped over Raulf’s face. He stepped forward and took hold of Alina and Emelota’s hands. “Follow me,” he said.
“It’s Raulf,” Petyr said, shielding his eyes. “He’s calling to us, but I can’t make out the words.” Drawing under the shelter of the trees, he squeezed Shallah’s hand. “Maybe he brings good news.”
Shallah could tell she didn’t have Petyr’s attention. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other restlessly, watching for Raulf to reappear, for he seemed to have turned back for something. She knew Petyr would have scaled the barrier of trunks and bounded up the hill after him if he could, but his weakness forbade it.
“Petyr,” she said softly, sure he wasn’t listening, “we really made it, didn’t we?” She spoke the words as though she didn’t quite understand them, as though expecting to be corrected. A nagging thought pulled at her mind, refusing to let her be.
Petyr turned to her and was about to speak when they both heard a sound they’d yearned to hear for so long. Shallah was sure her ears were deceiving her. She heard a chatter of voices, each one as familiar as her own. She heard Betta Carberry’s infectious laugh, and Averill Olney’s girlish giggle. She heard Gemma Goss scolding her husband Leland, and Roana Quigg bossing the other girls about. She heard Gamelin Turvey’s bragging tone, and Hylde Rundle’s scornful retorts.
She heard the sounds of Trallee.
The villagers came spilling down the hill, a mess of shining faces, the children stampeding ahead. Petyr stood frozen to the spot as he glimpsed the two faces that mattered most.
“My daughters!” he exclaimed. “Shallah, they’re here. They’re safe, all of them – the entire village!”
Grabbing her by the waist, Petyr swung Shallah around, powder flying off them both in all directions. He kissed her hard on the lips, smiling like an imbecile.
“We did make it,” he murmured into her neck, grasping her close. “We’re here! It’s done.”
“Petyr,” she said, when he let her go.
“Come,” he said, seizing her hand. “Let’s go and meet them.”
She held back. “Petyr,” she repeated, “do you see Liam?”
All at once Petyr’s giddy motion subsided. He went so quiet that Shallah thought he must be holding his breath. She knew what he was thinking: how could we have forgotten him? Where could he be?
“I-I don’t know,” he stuttered. “I don’t see him, Shallah.” He was utterly at a loss, searching for words that wouldn’t form, struggling to refocus. “Should I …”
She placed a soothing hand on his back. “Go,” she said. She wanted him to know she understood. He’d waited too long for this moment. He couldn’t turn back now. “Go,” she said again, and he sprang forward, out of the trees, out of her grasp.
But Shallah stayed behind.
Chapter Thirty
When the people of Trallee emerged from the remains of their forest, they found themselves in a new world. Spread out before them was a vista so foreign and so beautiful that few could find the words to describe it. Even the most boisterous of children were struck dumb by the sight, shocked into a silence their parents could never recreate, however they tried. Having never known anything but the forest, the outside world was a wonder.
It brought tears to their eyes.
They stood on a field of grass atop a cliff, overlooking the sea. Miles of glittering waves greeted their eyes, extending all the way to the horizon. To a people dying of thirst, the sight of so much water was cause for jubilation, and the villagers embraced one another with relief. The children peered over the edge, goggling at the great distance between themselves and the water below.
Above them the sky stretched clear and blue, the bright expanse so gigantic that some actually shook to behold it. The sun garnered the most attention, as parent and child alike pointed and stared, overawed. None ran for the cover of the few remaining trees. None showed any fear. Even Rab Hale, stubborn fool that he was, couldn’t help but gape at the glowing globe they’d all feared for so long.
Every villager had that same thought: how could anyone be afraid of something so beautiful?
Toward the west, the sea gave way to land, its lush, rolling grasses falling steeply into a valley.
Nestled at the valley’s center was a village.
It couldn’t have been much bigger than Trallee, just a simple collection of homes, no more than a dozen families living together. Already its folk could be seen climbing the winding path up the mountain, their skin the dark bronze of people who’d lived all their lives in the sun, their cheeks ruddy from life by the sea.
The villagers ran forward to meet them.
The wolves came out of the west. They rounded the hill, scuttling over the debris, leaping from trunk to trunk. Their coats shone in the sunshine, though the animals seemed wary of so much light and ducked their heads to keep as much distance as possible between themselves and the sky. They wouldn’t find true calm until night fell and they could enjoy their new land as they liked best; by cover of dark. They’d not yet met the moon.
They traveled side by side, in a line that would never break, for it bore the strength of all their loss, and all their loyalty. At the center of the line was its strongest bond – the wolf chief. With five of his kin on either side, the chief moved forward, nimble as a pup, his dark grey fur offset by the evergreen branches they picked their way through. He chose their path wisely, for he’d sworn to protect not only his band, but the charge on his back. It wouldn’t do to endanger them all so close to the end.
As they approached the cedar trees, the chief slowed his pace, his kinsmen matching him step for step until he gave them the sign to go on without him. Eager to leave the forest behind, the wolves ventured forth at a trot, their silky coats brushing against Shallah’s skirts as they passed through the trees like sudden gusts of wind.
She stood in the speckled shade of the few remaining trees, her hands clasped before her, knowing that it had to be, for the other prophecies had come true, but still worried, doubting.
The wolf chief will return him to me, she thought to herself. The chief will come. The chief has kept him safe.
The chief will come.
As they entered the trees at last, Liam climbed off the chief’s back and ran into Shallah’s arms. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she hugged him close, breathing deeply of his scent. He was so tiny in her arms, so easy to lose.
“My darling,” she whispered.
There was so much she wanted to tell him, so much he should know. She wanted to make him understand that none of it was his doing. The forest would have perished of its own accord, had they been there to see it or not. She wanted him to know the black oaks had used him abominably, but he shouldn’t blame them, for pain made monsters of them all, even herself. She wanted to tell him it was over now, that he was free of their hold on him. She wanted to tell him he’d saved them all.
“I love you,” was all she said. He already knew the rest. He’d known it long before she had.
The little boy gazed at her with his remarkable eyes, those eyes which had led them out of the dark. He kissed her cheek.
Shallah set Liam on the ground and he took her hand. She thought he meant to lead her out of the trees, but instead, he placed her palm on the wolf chief’s back. He led her fingers over his silken fur and down toward his head. Their palms stilled over his snout. She had to stoop to reach it, for the chief had inclined his head.
She was being honoured by a king.
She bowed her head in response, and felt the chief’s mind reach ou
t to her for a moment before pulling back. He proffered to her a single image of her own smiling face. As she saw it she was filled with all the respect he and his kin felt for her, and all the devotion they would give her, for all time.
Then the chief drew away. Liam slipped his hand from Shallah’s and climbed on his back. As they passed through the trees, Liam looked back at her.
“Come,” he said.
It was the first word he’d ever spoken to her.
Shallah smiled. “I will follow you,” she replied.
Petyr craned his neck, searching for Shallah in the crowd. With a daughter on each hip and well-wishers surrounding him on all sides, it wasn’t an easy feat. All were amazed and delighted to see him, all wanted to hear the story of his journey. He evaded their questions deftly. It was easy enough. Everyone was in an easy and cheerful mood. None were inclined to interrogate him.
An air of festivity had invaded the crowd as the townsfolk had joined them, bringing along their jugs of ale and good will. Strangers shook hands in greeting at all sides, as the children ran about in gangs, brown and white faces blending into blurs. Soon the menfolk were singing, arms about each other’s necks, their wives clapping in time. Young men kissed their sweethearts and old women danced as they had in their youth. The celebrations went on for hours, the townsfolk of the valley inviting Trallee back to their hearths to hear the stories of their adventures in the forest which none had ever entered.
When Petyr saw Liam emerge from the trees, he let out a yell and ran forward, seizing him from the back of the wolf chief and hoisting him into his arms along with his girls, their three giggling faces blocking his view of all else. Only one other had sprinted forward as fast as he, a young man from the valley town with an awkward gait and a crooked smile. He stood at Petyr’s side, expectant, though it took a moment for Petyr to notice him, so quiet was he.
“Is that Robin there?” the young man said finally, a funny twang to his speech. As Petyr turned to face him, he saw Liam and the young man lock eyes. Liam held out his arms to him.
“My goodness,” the young man said, as he took Liam in his arms. Already his eyes were wet. “We thought you were lost forever, Robin. I can’t quite believe it’s you. Isn’t this just the best day that ever was? Robin’s come back to us.” He raised his voice so the others could hear. “Did you hear that, everybody? Robin’s come back! Here he is!”
The townsfolk let out a cheer and a number of the women rushed over to kiss the little boy’s cheek. He hid his face in the young man’s neck.
“Is it you who cared for him all this time?” the man asked, full of gratitude. “I must thank you. We’d given up hope of ever seein’ him again. Our Robin … How can I ever thank you?”
“No, it wasn’t me. Please, save your thanks.” Once again Petyr looked about for Shallah so the young man could thank she who deserved it most, but he couldn’t find her.
The young man, too overcome to take in Petyr’s protests, shook him heartily by the hand for so long that Petyr was forced to let his children down, lest they be shaken right out of his arms. The two girls kept close to their father, looking up at the little boy with the strange golden eyes, the excitable man with the strange voice, the dazzling blue sky full of strange puffy clouds. They’d never before seen clouds.
“Are you his father?” Petyr asked doubtfully. The man, though roughly Shallah’s age, more than old enough to have children, didn’t have the air of a father. He was more like an overgrown boy.
“Ah, no,” the young man said, scratching his head of curly red hair. “I’m his uncle. My name’s Barnard. Little Robin here was my sister Amelia’s boy. She was grand, Amelia was, and a magnificent mother besides, but she and her man Greggor perished in a fire that took their home. It was a terrible thing. A spark from the hearth lit the straw on the floor and the whole place went up. The roof was cavin’ in when Robin came runnin’ out. Ran right into my arms, he did.”
Both his parents dead? Petyr regarded the little boy he’d traveled with for so many miles. There was so much they’d never known.
“He was always quick on his feet,” Barnard added. “I’m the one who taught him to walk.” He seemed quite proud of this fact. “It’s me who cares for him now, as best I can. I was worried sick, sure, when he disappeared. Blamed myself through and through. I didn’t watch after him close enough. Let him roam about on his own too often. Should have kept him with me all the time, kept him by my side.” He sighed and kissed his nephew on the head. “But the truth of it is, I didn’t have the heart. He was so forlorn after his parents passed. He stopped talking altogether, though he’d never been much of a talker to start with. His only joy was roamin’ through the village, helpin’ all the ladies with their work. They’d give him little jobs to do, loved him deeply, every one of them. He’s the darling of the whole town. Loves to help out, Robin does.”
Two boys with mischievous faces ran up to them, their arms bulging with fruit and loaves of bread. The townsfolk were spreading out a small feast.
“Robin, come eat with us!” one of the boys cried, a peach rolling off of his pile. Robin waved at them, but shook his head. He wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.
“Get on with you,” Barnard cried, shooing the boys away. “Robin’s right tuckered out. He’ll come find you when he wants you.”
Though Petyr longed to join in the merriment, there was so much he still wanted to know. “How did he come to be in the forest?” he asked.
“Well isn’t that just the question?” Barnard replied. “These trees here,” he gestured to the forest, then realized the oaks were no longer there. “These trees that were here,” he corrected himself, “they wouldn’t let a mouse get through. Not one person from the village has ever ventured into that wood, though I do know of one who came out. So, when Robin up and vanished, we just couldn’t make it out. He must have gone in, there wasn’t any other place he could have gone, but we just couldn’t see how.
“He’d been having awful dreams, nightmares you might call them, ever since his parents passed. Personally, I think he was feelin’ the guilt of having kept on livin’ while his Mum and Pap … Well, there wasn’t no sense in that. I told him it was only right that a little one like him should live. But I don’t think he heard me. He’s awful clever, Robin is. Much cleverer than me, that’s sure. He thinks things through on his own and comes up with his own answers, and I think his answer was that it was all his fault, poor lad. I think those dreams were tellin’ him so.
“On the morning he disappeared he had another one of those dreams, and I saw him standin’ in the close looking off at the trees. I should’ve known. I should’ve put it together. Probably thought he was no good to anyone. Probably thought he had to be punished.” The young man shrugged his shoulders. “But what does all that matter now? He’s come home to us, safe and sound. He’s back!”
Petyr and Barnard began to make their way through the crowd.
“You call him Robin?” Petyr said, as Old Brice greeted him with a stately nod and a smile. You really did it, boy, the nod seemed to say.
“Robin, the songbird,” Barnard replied, tickling his nephew about the ribs. The little boy giggled. “Always has a tune on his lips, our Robin does. Didn’t he ever hum a song for you that whole time he was with you? Little Robin can’t go a day without takin’ up some melody. He loves the mournful ones best of all, because those were the ones Amelia favoured. She’d sing him to sleep, she would. Sing him into his dreams.”
Alina and Emelota began to pull on Petyr’s hands, urging him away. Petyr reached out and pinched Robin’s nose. Robin smiled at him.
“You’re home,” Petyr said.
“Home to stay,” his uncle agreed.
Robin wrapped his arms around his uncle’s neck and looked out at the sea, at the sky. The sunlight graced his cheeks, warming his body like a blanket, holding him.
He was home.
As Petyr joined the fray, taking up a cup of ale, he was swarme
d by the crowd. Old Thurstan Turvey ordered him to take a seat at his side and tell him the tale of his journey.
“Yes!” The throng was unanimous. “Tell us how it went. Do tell!”
Petyr couldn’t think where to begin.
Only one other got equal attention, an older man from the town below whom many knew by name. He stood taller than most, though somewhat stooped with age, and his eyes held a certain sadness that came from a life of loss. He ambled among the villagers, greeting many, and he asked the same question to each friend he met.
As he spoke with Milo Carberry, Petyr turned to listen.
“Have you seen my daughter?” the man said.
“What’s her name?” Petyr asked.
The man looked at him for a moment, his eyes lingering on the little girl in his lap.
“Shallah,” he said. “Her name is Shallah.”
Shallah hung back in the trees, listening to the din of voices. It was just like being in Trallee where she’d always kept herself apart, listening from afar. It was comforting to know that though her home was gone, she could still find it in these voices, these people. Soon, she would join them, but not yet.
She’d one thing left to do.
The ground leading through the trees was patterned with footprints, the white powder no longer smooth, but alive with movement. She added her own prints to the rest, pausing in the shadow of the cedars.
She’d come to the end. The forest destroyed behind her, there was no going back.
Blind and weak and afraid, she’d found her way. She’d survived.
“I’m here,” she said to herself. “I made it.”
She placed a hand on the nearest tree, leaning her cheek against its tough bark. These trees, the last left standing, wouldn’t last long. Already their branches hung low, their needles fell. They’d been left here for a purpose.
They were left here for me, Shallah thought.
She stroked the grooves beneath her fingers. A tree just like this one had led her to lose her sight. These trees had enclosed her village, had kept them afraid and alone. She’d lived all her life among them. She’d climbed them, sheltered beneath them, hid behind them. She’d hated them and she’d loved them.
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