Fox couldn’t pull away. He was rendered completely immobile by the man’s touch. And so he listened, for he had no other choice.
“You have to take what you know and run with it!” said the man. “Everything you need, right now, you already have. And you, of all the Blessed in the world, can not take this time for granted.” He closed his eyes briefly, as though what he was about to say caused him great pain. Then he opened them again, staring straight at Fox with his astonishingly deep eyes. “There will come a time, sooner rather than later, when your gifts could save not only your life, but the lives of those you love. How much more blood do you want on your hands? You already have a lifetime’s worth ahead of you.”
He let go, and Fox could breathe. He pulled himself away, scrambling as far back on his pile of rugs as he could, scrubbing at his face with his hands. His jaw and ears were painfully cold where the stranger had touched him. His mind was reeling, and he didn’t know what to ask first. Finally, when he regained control of his tongue, he said quietly, almost frightened of the answer, “This is real, isn’t it?” And though the man did not answer, Fox knew. Then after a moment he said, “Tell me what to do.”
“You are Windkissed,” said the man. “So listen to the wind.”
As Fox began to feel himself pulled away from the dream, sure he was beginning to wake, he said, “Why do you care? About me, or my gift?”
Something of a smile played around the man’s mouth, and again Fox felt that surge of familiarity. “We all have our reasons, lad,” he said.
It was only when Fox awoke that he realized he’d never asked the man who he was. And then, just as he thought it, he was somehow sure that he didn’t want to know.
✽ ✽ ✽
Fox watched the wedding ceremony without really seeing it. He clapped when everyone else did, and came out of his reverie enough to notice that Picck and Rose seemed to be the most genuinely happy out of all five couples. He did his best to enjoy the festivities afterwards, eating whatever was handed to him, dancing with Lai. But behind his forced smile, his mind was hard at work. Reliving his dream over and over. For, unlike most dreams that melted like morning frost at sunrise, this one haunted him. He could remember every detail, every word.
And he remembered the warning. About saving those he loved. He watched Lai, dancing in the circle across from him, and felt an ice cold grip tighten around his heart. Who more might be lost because of him? And how many more tragedies were waiting in his path?
Three days after the wedding, the Foxglove men set out for the first of many hunting trips. This time, they would be heading out to the site of Fox’s battle with the Desolata. Here, at least, Fox had a guide. Someone to teach him how to be a skillful trapper and woodsman. But to learn about his Blessing? He had no idea where to begin.
Chapter Twelve
Whitethorn
There was a simplicity to Father’s teaching methods. You ate what you trapped. And if you couldn’t trap anything, you didn’t eat. “The woods are full of life,” he said. “Not just the lives of the beasts, but the ability to give life to us. You learn how to use it, every piece of it, to survive.”
“So, what do I do?” asked Fox.
Father settled in with his back against the hillside, his feet propped up on a stump. He pulled out his knife and began to whittle at a scrap of wood. “I guess we’ll find out,” he said.
That first night, Fox caught nothing larger than a squirrel. It wasn’t nearly enough to keep him fed, and his stomach protested loudly, making him toss and turn all night. Father, however, seemed to have caught an entire basket of fish and a beaver while Fox was working, and ate heartily.
The next day, Fox was a bit more careful. He blamed his initial excitement at finally being treated like a man, as well as the constant distraction of the island dream, for his abysmal performance the previous evening. Today, he took his time in setting traps, and then settled himself down at the river’s edge, about a mile from the cabin, and began hunting for mussels. When, in the late afternoon, he returned to Father’s side with his pockets full of mussels and two large grey weasels hanging over his shoulder, Father looked him up and down, and nodded in approval.
Fox had helped Father with the trapping countless times. He’d grown up tagging along on the shorter trapping trips, and clinging to the doorframe of Father’s workshop long after he was supposed to be in bed, watching him work. The care and maintenance of the traps fell to him during the winter months, and Fox felt he was more than qualified as an apprentice. But then, it had always been at Father’s bidding. They laid traps where Father said, and Fox was merely an assistant. Now, it was up to Fox to make the calls. And Father watched silently. He made repairs on the cabin or whittled or took long naps in the sun while Fox set a cooking fire and began to skin his weasels.
It was early on the morning of the third day, as Fox went out to check the snares, that an idea occurred to him. An idea so strangely simple, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. He picked up his pace and hurried off deeper into the woods, until finally he stopped in the center of a small ring of trees. It was right near the heart of this piece of trapping territory. Fox sat on the sun-dappled forest floor and closed his eyes. He breathed slowly and carefully, taking in every little noise of the forest around him. He could hear the river not far away, gurgling and splashing over rocks as it wound through the trees. Buzzing insects filled the air around him, enjoying the spring blooms. He could hear clearly the things that were close. And then, he breathed deep.
There it was. The now-familiar and overwhelming cascade of smells and sounds. They made his head ring, but he focused hard. And the pieces became clearer. From a mile north, a family of otters playing on the riverbank. Two miles to the east, a buck scraping his antlers against a tree, shaking leaves to the ground in a shower of fresh green. Father, back at the cabin, chopping wood.
When Fox opened his eyes, he was flat on his back. He sat up, rubbing the back of his head tenderly. If that was going to keep happening every time he experimented with his powers, he would have to start doing so lying down. Then he scrambled to his feet, dusting off the grass and leaves that clung to his clothes, and set off north. While the buck was a tempting find, the otters would be much easier to bring back to the cabin on his own. As he hiked, he smiled to himself. How fine would it be to hunt after a sure thing, rather than always looking for tracks and signs and waiting?
Father looked stunned when Fox came strutting back into view just before midday with not only three otters hanging across his shoulders, but holding a large rabbit proudly by its hind legs, its ears dragging on the ground. Fox tried not to look too pleased with himself as he started skinning the day’s catch. Then, for the first time since their arrival at the cabin, Father began to help. He set the fire and began tending it as Fox carefully began slitting the first otter along its stomach. And then, Father began to talk. He talked, Fox was interested to note, not as a father would to a son, but as a man would to a fellow trapper. He did not give direct advice, but instead talked as he might to an equal. However, there were gems of wisdom tucked into his conversation, and Fox stored them away in his mind. He adjusted his technique as Father talked, taking in the unsolicited but extremely welcome tips on how to keep the meat from spoiling, or how to get the most use from a pelt.
They worked as long as the light held out, scraping clean the four hides together. Then they hung the pelts to dry and feasted on a stew Father had made from the hare meat. All the while, the otter meat was smoked on a line over the fire, sending tantalizing scents out into the trees and making Fox’s mouth water. And he wasn’t the only one. He could feel the wolves growing closer. Through smell or sound, he wasn’t sure, but he knew they were there. Just outside the cabin’s line of vision. But once again, Fox was not afraid of them. And he kept their presence to himself. But before they turned in for the night, Fox was careful to drop a handful of otter strips on the ground outside the cabin. It was his own pr
ivate thank you to the wolves, for their help in disposing of the Desolata.
That night, after Father had fallen asleep, Fox rummaged silently around in the cabin gear for something to write on. He found a scrap of old parchment wrapping, the type Father sometimes used to package up his smaller wares before the caravan. Fox crawled back to the fireside where he slept, and rescued a small, charcoal-blackened stick from the fireplace. Then, he started to scribble down everything he knew about his Blessing.
He was one of the few children in Thicca Valley who could read. He’d picked it up quickly as a young boy, scanning the notes on Father’s trading papers. Lists of what people wanted, and who was willing to pay. Mother said it was uncanny how fast Fox managed to learn sometimes. Father said it was the gift of a natural trapper.
Fox wrote quickly, scratching out a few simple sentences. He wrote everything he could remember about his recent experiences with breathing. And, he supposed, with the wind. Then he sat back and re-read his scrap of parchment. His own personal learning text. Then he folded it up and tucked it carefully inside his vest, right next to the green hibbin fur he still carried. And somewhere, he knew, the strange man from his dream was smiling with satisfaction.
✽ ✽ ✽
Two more hunting trips followed, each one taking them farther out into Father’s trapping territory. And Fox, practicing more and more with his gifts to find game, was bringing in more each day than Father had ever expected.
He allowed himself to swell with pride a bit as Father said this winter would be their best caravan in years. And as they talked each evening while they smoked deer meat and settled into the long, messy process of tanning hides, Fox clung to the advice that Father spouted off, often cleverly disguised as stories. By the end of their third trip, the news had spread to the whole valley: the young Foxglove would be joining his Father on the caravan this year. He was becoming a man.
“Of course you are,” said Lai when he told her. “I knew you’d be allowed to go this year!”
They were sitting in the back kitchen garden, shelling peas and letting Fermia nuzzle at their feet. Since the wedding, it had been increasingly difficult to find time together. Lai was kept busy with Widow Mossgrove, and Fox was out on the trails and in the woods. But whenever they caught a moment, they would fall eagerly back to their old habits. They helped out at the Five Sides or else spent all day up to their knees in the river, fishing and digging up mussels and roots.
Fox was partial to hanging out at the tavern these days. Not only because it made him feel at home, but because he loved to watch Picck and Rose. They had settled wonderfully into their new life together. Picck no longer slept on a mat beside the fireplace, but instead in their new suite of rooms upstairs, at the far corner of the Five Sides. He was smiling again, and you could often hear him and Rose singing from the kitchen as they worked. The sound of their mingled voices made Fox feel warm as summer midday. Today was no different. The back kitchen door was propped open, and they could hear Rose and Picck talking and laughing, and every now and then they caught a whirl of color as the couple danced across the room. They were every bit as playful and loving as they had been on the wedding day.
“You know,” said Fox thoughtfully, “it’s a good thing Picck never was a miner. I don’t believe that woman could survive a whole hour without him.”
Lai giggled, and then added, “Dream save us if he ever became a waresman! All winter apart?”
Fox rolled his eyes. “There’d be more weeping than in one of Radda’s tragic plays.”
They laughed over this for awhile, and then Lai said, “Speaking of the winter, how’s your mum taking it? Both her men being gone for the caravan?”
Fox shrugged. “She’s not. She says she doesn’t have to worry about it for another four months. But I expect she’ll be a mess.” Then he smiled and said, “But then, I won’t be here to have to worry about it!” And, putting on a fake, overly-proper voice like some of the older women in town spoke in, he said, “Be a dear and pop in on her for me, won’t you?”
Lai laughed and threw a handful of peas at him. “I hope they sell you for room and board” she said. “It’d serve you right.”
A breeze tugged at Fox’s hair and shirt collar, and he could hear talk from inside the tavern as clearly as though the speakers were sitting beside him. He listened for a moment as a traveling waresman exchanged news with the Hatcher suitor who had won Filia Beckweed. He could hear their conversation long enough to gather that they knew each other, before the wind whipped the sound away from his ear again. He shook his head to clear it, and noticed Lai watching him.
“What was it this time?” she asked.
“Talk from inside. One of the new ones, Filia’s husband.”
“Rale,” Lai supplied helpfully.
“Yes,” said Fox. “And a waresman. From his voice, it sounded like the man who came in selling that fancy wine. Sounds like they might be from the same parts.” He hesitated, then voiced a concern that had been on his mind quite a lot lately. “What if it’s going to be like this forever? Just bits and pieces of things on the wind I can’t control?”
He had told Lai all about his experiments with using his gifts. “Listening to the wind,” as the dream stranger had suggested. She’d seen Fox’s little scrap of parchment where he took notes, and though she couldn’t read it, she knew he was taking his studies very seriously. Fox had not, however, told her about the dream itself. Instead, he made it sound like he’d simply decided to take on his own learning. To discover how to work his gift, with or without the Shavid. Perhaps even to figure out what his Blessing truly was.
Lai frowned slightly. “Well, would it be so bad? I mean, it’s dead useful, right?”
“When it works,” said Fox. He’d discovered that, through no change in his own behavior, there were times when his gift was stronger than others. Times when he could smell and hear only within the reach of his normal, albeit heightened, senses. And other times when he could feel things from miles away. Other cities, other towns. And no matter how many notes he took on the matter, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it.
Perhaps it was, as Neil had suggested, just the wind. He remembered the older boy commenting on the Shavid way of life. It was, just like the magic itself, unstable. There was often no telling where you’d be going or when, or how long you’d stay. That was the way of the wind. Fox could no more control his Blessing than he could tell the breeze to blow north. And without the Shavid to guide him, he had no way of knowing if they all experienced this. Or if it was just him. Set apart, once again, and different than all the rest.
But, Fox’s determination never wavered. And while wind-borne rushes of sound and smell didn’t truly disappear, Fox became more adept at ignoring them. Or paying them only the slightest bit of attention while focusing only on the ones that mattered; a fleeting sense of when or where his prey was going to be. Or the coming rain that might trap him and Father out in the middle of the woods.
Fox spent his fifteenth birthday in the valley, preparing for his first journey to a neighboring town for trade. It was two weeks into the summer, and he sat in the wide open doorway of his family’s stable, barefooted with his breeches rolled up over his knee. He was making repairs on the family cart, and painting “Foxglove’s Fine Furs” on the side, in fancy lettering like he’d seen on one of the Shavid wagons. He smelled Lai coming up the hill long before he saw her, and smiled. She had such a distinctive scent that he always knew it was her. Even when his senses weren’t heightened. It was almost flowery, but not any kind of flower he’d ever smelled in the valley. And there was something else ... some warm and familiar scent he’d never been able to place.
When she reached him, she flopped down beside him and wrapped her arms in a tight hug about his neck, making him choke and sputter even as he laughed. When she let go, she said, “Happy birthday, you useless weed snake.”
Fox shoved her playfully and thanked her, rubbing his neck where she
’d squeezed him. Then Lai continued.
“Papa’s got a special birthday dessert basket all set for you, only you’ll have to go down to the inn and get it. The happy couple’s got a gift for you as well, and they said you could pick it up whenever you come down. But I wanted to come up and give you this.” She pulled out a lumpy little bundle from the pocket of her dress and held it out eagerly.
It was some sort of woven cloth. Fox took it and began to lay it out flat. It was a scarf, clearly made by Lai’s own hand. It was uneven and knotted in places, without any real semblance of a pattern, but it was clear that she was experimenting with changing colors. Fox counted no less than seven different shades. Green and brown and orange ... Lai was watching him carefully, and Fox beamed at her and wrapped it around his neck. It was surprisingly soft. “I love it,” he said. And as he tossed the long end over his shoulder, something fell out of the folds of wool and hit the ground with a thud.
It was a book. A small, leatherbound volume. Fox bent to pick it up, dusting off the soft, dark walnut cover. He looked at Lai curiously, then flipped through it. The pages were blank.
“It’s for all your writing,” she said, almost shyly. “After you told me what you were trying to do, I traded for it. First chance I got.”
Fox looked up at his best friend, seized almost overwhelmingly with the urge to tell her every bit of his dream. But though he still remembered each detail with a surreal perfection, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He did not want to see the look in her eyes when he told her that his path ahead, apparently, was filled with death and bloodshed. That his choices might save or condemn the people he loved. People like her.
Instead, Fox tucked the little brown book into his pocket and hugged her. Long and tight, more than he normally would have. He let her unique smells fill his nose before pulling away with a quiet thanks.
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 16