The Will and the Wilds

by Holmberg, Charlie N.

  I turn the question I’ve been asking myself on him. “What are you doing?” It’s barely more than a whisper. I touch the side of my neck. I feel like a log before a weak woodcutter—half-split and waiting for a second swing. My body is alive in a way it very much shouldn’t be, missing pieces of soul aside. “Because of Tennith? A kiss above all things should mean nothing to you.”

  His countenance darkens. “Enna—”

  I gasp—the Will Stone has gone ice cold against my wrist. I drop my hand from my neck and clasp it.

  Maekallus reaches out and wraps his hand around my fist. Bumps ripple across his skin as the chill travels up his arm.

  He senses it the same time I do, for our eyes lock. Not with fear, but hope.

  “Gobler,” we whisper.

  And it’s close.

  CHAPTER 19

  Narvals have the ability to hide themselves from mortal eyes. They are seen only when they want to be seen.

  My body buzzes as if a lightning storm rages within it. My heart is weary from racing from one thing to the next without rest. My father, Tennith, the gobler. Maekallus, whose eyes look so utterly human they make the very marrow in my bones ache. I need to think. I need a dark corner to cradle my head and sort through the last quarter hour of my life, but the Will Stone pulses its bitter chill against my hand—his hand—demanding only one focus.

  Freeing us.

  “It isn’t far,” I whisper.

  Maekallus leans forward, reaches into my basket to draw my silver dagger. He remains slightly hunched, his knees bent, ready for an attack.

  “Bring it here.”

  I swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. “Be careful. We might not want to kill him immediately.”

  He glowers at me, pure mysting. “You can stop me whenever you want.”

  “I don’t want to,” I snap. “I’ve no desire to take away your agency.”

  He rotates the dagger in his grip, and it strikes me that the silver doesn’t pain him anymore. Or if it does, he doesn’t show it. “Don’t you? With so much power, Enna, you can do almost anything you want. With me, with anyone.”

  I glance back to the space between trees where Tennith had been standing only moments ago. He will be safe; his leathers are marked with protective runes, and all the hunters of Fendell know the safest trails to take, none of which delve too deeply into the wildwood. Even Maekallus’s glade it not so far from the tree line. I erase the awkward encounter from my thoughts and focus on the biting chill in my hands.

  The Will Stone found the gobler, so surely I can control it. I close my eyes and focus on the stone’s warning. Come here. Do not fight. Come. Obey.

  My hands tingle. I open my eyes. The cold is strong enough to make my teeth chatter. I drop the stone and snatch my basket, hugging myself against the side of an old tree. “It’s coming.”

  Maekallus remains in the center of the small grove, blade ready.

  It doesn’t take long. The gobler’s footsteps, faster than a walk, slower than a run, announce its approach. My breath catches when it comes to the clearing, and I shrink away, fumbling for the stone. Stay where you are. Do not fight!

  Maekallus curses, straightens.

  My gaze jumps from him to the gobler. “What? What’s happened?”

  “Wrong one.” His voice is low and hard. The voice of a stone.

  I dare to step away from my guardian tree. “You’re sure?”

  He gestures to the docile gobler. “It’s a she, Enna. The one that got me was male.”

  I gawk at the gobler before us, obedient and slightly confused, eyes glancing at my left arm, where my sleeve hides the print left by another of her kind. Perhaps my ministrations have only blocked its magicked call from afar. This gobler’s skin is a light gray, her neck buried beneath rolls of fat. Thick arms and legs, pudgy fingers, large watery eyes. I see nothing to mark her female, but Maekallus would be the expert here, not I. Details for my book will come later.

  The gobler begins to speak harsh gibberish that sounds like a threat, but with a thought, I will it silent. Do not listen, I add.

  I step farther from my tree. Maekallus has lowered my dagger. The mysting remains silent and frozen, held in place by the power of the stone.

  Maekallus is thoughtful. He quietly surveys the gobler, his first knuckle tucked under his chin. The tail of his red hair falls down the center of his back, reaching the base of his shoulder blades. It curls at the ends. I rub my warming fingers together, remembering its softness, then curse myself for thinking of such a thing.

  “Is it alone?” he asks, not looking at me.

  I clutch the stone. It remains cold, but not terribly so, perhaps sensing that the threat has been neutralized. “Yes.”

  “We can still use it.”

  Without words, I will the gobler to look at me. She does. It unnerves me how easily a wild mysting like this heeds my unspoken command. I keep my left hand, and thus the Will Stone, from her sight.

  “Why are you here? Answer me.”

  She answers in garbled tones.

  Maekallus translates. “To search for the stone.”

  My stomach tightens. “Do you know where it is?”

  She replies. Maekallus answers, “No. Only that it is close. Here, in the mortal realm, in this wooded country.”

  I let out a small breath of relief. Had my father not killed that first gobler, I might not have survived to summon Maekallus. My soul might have already departed for Shava, whole.

  Maekallus points my dagger at the mysting. “Do you know the gobler with the vuldor-tusk knife?”

  The gobler replies, and as Maekallus lowers the weapon, his eyes widen.

  I rush to his side and take his arm. “What? What does she say?”

  “She knows him.” His gaze remains locked with the gobler’s. “His name is Grapf.”

  I spin toward the gobler, the remainder of my soul—less than half—stirring, warm. “You must bring him here, to us.”

  The gobler frowns, speaks. Maekallus says, “He will not come by my bidding.”

  “Convince him.”

  “He will not be convinced.” Then Maekallus orders, “Kill him.”

  The gobler shivers. Speaks. Maekallus’s expression darkens as if the corruption has consumed it.

  “Tell me!” I beg.

  “She says she will not succeed. She is too weak.”

  Tears tickle my eyes, but I blink them back and take a step toward the mysting. “Then bring me something of his.”

  “Enna?” Maekallus asks.

  I turn to him. “The scrying spell. The one I copied in Caisgard. If this creature can bring us something of Grapf’s—a shred of clothing, a buckle, anything—then we’ll know the instant he comes here. We can find him, and with the Will Stone—”

  “We’ll break the spell,” Maekallus murmurs, motionless. His lips press into a hard line. “Command her, Enna. Leave no room for error.”

  I consider this for a moment before looking back at the gobler. I wonder if she understands mortal speech, or if the Will Stone makes her believe my will is hers. But that is not pertinent. “You will return to the monster realm, the Deep. You will report your failure in locating the stone. You do not believe it is here after all.”

  Maekallus nods his approval.

  “You will seek out Grapf’s living space. If it is not near, you will seek out his person. You will subtly collect something of his—slough from his body, clothing, anything that he owns. You will bring that item back to this glade, and leave it by that tree.” I point to the tree where Maekallus cornered me earlier, and hope the light of the lowering sun is red enough to mask my flush.

  “She should eliminate herself.”

  My belly tightens. The danger is real. If my will wears off in the monster realm, or if someone follows her, she could reveal us—and there’s no denying she’d as soon kill me as not. She has no soul, just like the gobler who marked me, who would have torn me apart had my father not been there. But to
will another creature to kill itself? What if I had done something similar with Maekallus? With Attaby?

  Yet they are different. Attaby is harmless, and Maekallus has human origins. A partial soul. This gobler . . . she is a monster, through and through.

  It doesn’t matter. I can’t curse her with such a fate, and so I pretend not to hear. “Then you will go into the monster realm and never return. Under any circumstance. You will die before you step foot here again. You will die before you reveal what has transpired here. You will forget ever coming here after you have brought something of Grapf’s to this tree.”

  The gobler’s eyes glaze over.

  I glance to Maekallus. He nods. Thorough enough.

  I squeeze the stone. “Go.”

  She departs. I don’t move—don’t breathe—until her footsteps merge with the dying song of the forest. I don’t relax until the Will Stone returns to its cool state, whispering of Maekallus and nothing else.

  Fatigue pricks me like angry hornets. I falter. Maekallus lunges forward and grabs my arm in a painful grasp to keep me upright. I force my legs to steady, to stay on my own feet. I will not lean on him. I can’t.

  “My father is unwell.” My breath is too heavy, but I find my balance, and Maekallus releases me. “I need to go home.”

  “Can you?”

  I laugh. It soothes that soulless hole inside me ever so slightly. “I’ll manage.”

  “I can hide myself from mortals.”

  “And they’ll only see a woman floating through the wildwood.” I glance at him, but he is serious, and it dampens my mirth. I pick up my basket, trying not to stagger. Maekallus drops my dagger inside. “You are healed, and the gobler will return.” Please, please let her be successful. If the spell wears off, or she is killed, I do not know how I’ll ever free Maekallus and break the bond between us. We will perish together. “You can watch this place, and the stone will warn me when she returns.” I cross the small glade and carefully step over tree roots. “I will come back sooner if it’s more than a few days.”

  I slip and fall hard on my backside. I wince, and in the split second I close my eyes, I feel I could sleep forever.

  Maekallus walks over, hands on his hips.

  I sigh. “If you would be so kind.”

  He bestows upon me a wry grin that I want to slap off his face. He is the reason my body is a century old beneath the skin. Why I am only a piece of what I once was. But no, that isn’t fair. I am the one who summoned him. The gobler—Grapf—is the one who bound him here.

  Maekallus picks me up. Yes—he is warmer than he once was. Warm enough to be human. I rest my cheek against his bare shoulder. So tired, yet sleep doesn’t come, even when he traipses across level ground.

  “You’ll need to show me where you live,” he says after so long.

  I open my eyes. “I suppose I must. But mark my words, Maekallus. One snide remark, one wrong move, and you’ll be flying back to your glade so fast the falcons will squirm with jealousy.”

  Maekallus takes me nearly to the edge of the wildwood, setting me down when my home becomes visible, barely, through the trees. He watches me go—I feel his eyes—but when I turn back, he’s nowhere to be seen.

  I slip into the house, trying to shake my weariness. My heart nearly stops when I check on my father.

  For a moment, I’m sure he is dead.

  But his chest moves, and I rush to his side, energy restored. “Papa?” I ask, feeling his forehead. Still no fever, but his skin is clammy and gray. He looks twenty years older. I hurry to get him a glass of water and help him drink it. I’ve never seen such a sickness before. Grasping the Will Stone, I picture the town doctor in my mind and plead for him to come. It will be faster than seeking him out myself. And while I don’t wish to force others to my bidding, I will not be refused in this.

  I make tea and start stew, hoping to give my father something heartier than broth. I slice mushrooms thin and add them to the pot of water simmering over the fire. To my relief, only an hour passes before the physician arrives at my door.

  He looks confused. “I don’t recall making an appointment with you, but—”

  “Here, quickly.” I grab his arm and hurry him to Papa’s bedside. I chew on my thumbnail as the doctor inspects him. Papa responds to his questions, though more with sounds than words. I clutch the Will Stone and pray. Find what is wrong with him, please. Let him live. Live, Papa.

  Don’t leave me alone.

  The doctor frowns once he’s done with his assessment. “It could be a number of things. Gray fever, though you’ve said he hasn’t been feverish.”

  “Correct.” My voice is small like a mouse’s. Even as I say the words, doubt creeps up my neck. Was he feverish while I was away?

  “It could be failure of the heart or kidneys,” he suggests. My legs weaken, and I lean against the wall to stay upright. “Could be an ailment of the stomach.”

  “He’s eaten nothing sour, and he hasn’t thrown up.” Has he? Could I have missed those symptoms, too?

  The doctor stands. “Keep an eye on him, look for any changing or new symptoms. Lots of water and rest. Send me word.”

  I offer him payment. I don’t see him to the door. Instead, I kneel at my father’s bedside, stroking his hair back from his face. Trying to be strong, like my mother was. A few tears blur my vision.

  “You’ll be all right. Just rest.” I can’t believe it’s a failure of his organs; Papa is so healthy. Gray fever? Perhaps, but I know little of the disease.

  I devote myself to his care, body and fractured soul, even read to him while he slumbers, pausing every other page to watch his chest rise and fall. Night comes. I make up a pallet at my father’s bedside and lie down, my weary limbs heavy.

  I don’t sleep.

  I think it is fear for my father, so I lie there, listening to him breathe. There’s only a light rasp to the sound, and it’s even. Peaceful. I’m so tired. I close my eyes and wait for sleep to come, but it remains elusive. Hour after hour passes, and my body is so fatigued I could cry for lack of rest. It isn’t until the blue light of predawn that I realize the insomnia might be my body’s objection to what I’ve done to my dwindling soul. Yet would my own body truly torment me so?

  Papa stirs as dawn breaks. I force myself out of bed, will myself to be alert. To my relief, the stone lends me its strength. I make porridge and tea, trying a different blend of herbs. My father is only partially lucid. I help him sit upright and feed him, but he only takes a few bites of breakfast, followed by a few sips of water.

  “You need to eat if you’re going to regain your strength,” I chide him. He doesn’t respond. I run my knuckles over his growing beard. “Papa?”

  He sighs.

  I help him back into his bed. Clean the kitchen. I should check on the mushrooms, but . . . I’m so weary. The thought of climbing up and down the ladder exhausts me. The little farm will be fine for one more day.

  Near noon, my father begins to cough. I hurry to his side. He coughs harder without breath, until his skin’s gray cast borders on blue. I lean him forward and beat my hand against his back. Mucous flies from his lips and onto the blanket. He gasps for air, then settles back down.

  I grit my teeth, steeling myself. At least this is something I can tell the doctor. I take off the top blanket and launder it. I can hardly keep my eyes open as I scrub it and hang it outside.

  I check on my father once more. He slumbers, peaceful.

  I drop onto my pallet and will myself to sleep.

  Everything is red as candlelight inside a closed fist. It pulses. Far off, an inhuman shriek fills the air.

  The smell of rotting eggs stirs around me. I try to move, but my feet are caught in something—the floor is like a giant, spongy tongue, sucking against my shoes. My breath is too fast as I try to pull free. I stumble. My hand hits the tongue and starts to sink.

  I hear their giggle—the grinlers. They’re hungry. Their shadows blot out the red light.

&nbs
p; I feel one sink its teeth into my neck.

  I start awake, my throat aching as though I’ve been screaming. The sun is high; I didn’t sleep long.

  My dress clings to the perspiration coating my body. I stare at the wall, trying to calm my breathing.

  Never in my life have I had a nightmare like that. So foreign, so real.

  I pick my heavy body off my pallet and find some bread and tea to settle my stomach.

  Papa coughs again.

  I speed to his side and beat his back. He gasps for air between spells. I will him to breathe. More mucous comes up—ugly brown slime. I catch it in a handkerchief. Papa settles down, but his breathing is harsher, uneven.

  “Papa.” I sit on the bed beside him. Tears spill over my eyelashes. “Papa, please get well.”

  Another attack. His whole body heaves. I roll him onto his side and slap him between his shoulder blades.

  “Please!” I cry through the hard, wet sounds.

  He settles down. I press my forehead into his shoulder.

  “Please, Papa,” I plead. “Everyone I love has left. Don’t you leave, too. Please breathe.”

  I clutch the Will Stone until my hand hurts, but I don’t think it hears me.

  I wake up with tears streaming down my face, wetting the shoulder of my father’s shirt. I still see the muted red light. I hear the screams of creatures I can’t name. I shudder as the twisted images recede too slowly from my mind.

  I wipe my nose and eyes on my sleeve. Evening now. My hands shake. I’m so tired.

  My father needs me. I drag myself to the kitchen and get yesterday’s stew. Try to feed him. He gets perhaps two swallows down before refusing to take any more. The spoon shakes in my hand, like I’m trying to lift a horse instead of a utensil.

  I start the fire, if only for the light. It takes too long. I cough as soot puffs into the air with my clumsiness. So tired. The flames build, and the rug before the hearth beckons to me. But even if I could sleep, I fear what sleep will bring.

  Papa’s coughs echo through the house. I force strength into my legs and hurry to him, help him through the fit. Try to force tea down his throat with little success.