Part 18 (1/2)
”I do not tell that tale. Ever.”
Silence fell around the circle. The Memory-Keeper's smile disappeared. Even Girn looked uncomfortable.
”Forgive me,” he managed. ”I did not mean to be rude. But that story . . . it's not just a legend about things that happened long ago. Those . . . things . . . happened to me. To my wife. To my brother.” He realized he was rubbing the stumps of his fingers and clenched his hands together. ”I do not tell that tale,” he said, his voice softer now and under control. ”I cannot.”
He knew he should offer another tale, but each one conjured memories of other feast days. It was hard enough to be away from home when he should be sharing this day with Griane, but to celebrate it with strangers when his son . . .
Lost. Lost like Tinnean.
With an effort, he quelled the rush of fear. Later, when he was alone, he could confront it. If he had no heart for this celebration, he could at least avoid ruining it for his hosts.
He stared down at his hands. A rowan petal lay on his knee. He picked it up and rubbed it gently between his thumb and little fingers. Then he looked around the circle of expectant faces and cleared his throat.
”With your permission, I will tell another tale. It's one that rightly belongs to my wife, but it's a good tale for the Ripening, and I don't think she'd mind if I told it.”
He rose and took a deep breath to steady himself. ”You'll have heard how Griane the Healer led the Holly-Lord back to the grove of the First Forest. But the tale barely mentions her adventures in the Summerlands and that is a wonderful story. For in the Summerlands, Griane met the Trees-Who-Walk. One of them was a rowan-woman. Just like the one in the legend. This is how it happened.”
He conjured Griane as he spoke, recalling the emotions that had flitted across her expressive face when she first told him the story: fear, awe, wonder, joy. He was surprised to feel those emotions now and find them reflected in the faces of his listeners. When he described the thunder of the tree-folk's feet as they pursued her, the children gasped. When he told how they used their own shoots and leaves to create a raft to carry her back to the First Forest, the men nodded thoughtfully. And when he described her farewell to Rowan, many women wiped their damp eyes.
”And she stood on the bank of the river and watched the raft grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared behind the wall of mist. And still she waved, for she was alone and frightened. But then she smelled the sweet fragrance of the rowan sprig and realized she carried Rowan's love with her. Griane still has those blossoms, though they are no longer soft and white like this one. And every year at the Ripening, she looks at them and remembers the kindness of the tree-folk and the tear Rowan wept when they parted.”
A sigh eased its way around the circle. A little girl shouted, ”Tell it again!” and the laughter warmed him. He bowed and excused himself, suddenly tired. Instead of returning to Girn's hut, he sought the privacy of the beach.
He sat by the water's edge, content to watch Bel sink into the sea, trailing a s.h.i.+mmering streak of orange behind him. When he heard the crunch of pebbles, he took a deep, calming breath.
”Are you all right?”
It was Urkiat, of course. Darak nodded without turning, hoping Urkiat would leave him alone. Instead, more pebbles crunched as he strode forward. ”The Memory-Keeper shouldn't have made you speak.”
”He didn't know what had happened.”
”You should have told them.”
”And spoil their celebration?” Darak shook his head.
Urkiat scuffed at the pebbles. ”Doesn't it bother you? Their complacency? Their happiness?”
”Resenting other folks' happiness only adds to your misery.”
But he understood. When he'd first looked around that circle of happy faces, he had resented every father who sat beside his son, every husband with his arm casually flung around his wife's shoulders.
”Sometimes I hate them,” Urkiat said. ”All those who don't know what it's like. Who'd rather live in ignorance than face the truth.”
”And what is the truth?”
”That there's nowhere to hide. Nowhere safe. They're like a plague. A hailstorm that flattens the barley or lightning that strikes a tree. They won't be satisfied until they've destroyed us.”
”Sooner or later, balance will be restored.”
Urkiat spat.
”We've survived plague and hailstorms and lightning strikes,” Darak reminded him. ”We survived the Long Winter when the world teetered on the brink of extinction. We'll survive the Zherosi, too. Somehow.”
”It took only a handful of people to restore the world after Morgath destroyed the One Tree. It'll take every child of the Oak and Holly to destroy the Zherosi.”
A seabird cried overhead like a mother keening for a lost child.
Darak rose. ”We'd best go back.”
”I'm sorry. You wanted to enjoy the peace of the evening, and I've ruined it. I just . . . I thought I could help. Share your worries. Or talk about . . . things. I didn't want you to feel alone.”
Darak considered reminding him that he had been a hunter for the first half of his life. He liked being alone. He still hungered for the quiet of the forest, the peace. And then the sudden rush of excitement when you saw the prey, the muscles tensing in your arms as you drew the bow, the moment just before you released when the world seemed to go absolutely still. And that perfect moment when your arrow found its target and the blood pounded in your ears and every fiber of your being sang.
Urkiat was watching him, his face strained.
”Thank you for your concern,” Darak said, wis.h.i.+ng he sounded less stiff and formal. He still didn't know what to make of Urkiat. He could kill with dispa.s.sion and then suddenly erupt in anger over an imagined slight. One moment, he seemed as world-weary as an old man and the next, he behaved like an awkward boy. Now he was watching him like a dog that had been beaten by its master.
”I was proud when you agreed to let me come with you.” Urkiat's voice was little more than a whisper. ”Proud to think you needed me.”
”I did. I do.”
Urkiat nodded eagerly.
G.o.ds, he was tired. All he wanted to do was sleep. But Urkiat was his only ally, and he needed to be able to count on him. ”It's hard. Being away from my family. Worrying about my son. Sharing this day with strangers.”
Wasn't this obvious? Why should he have to explain it? But Urkiat kept nodding, hungry for the words, so he forced himself to continue. ”I should have expected the Memory-Keeper to ask for a tale. It's customary. But to have asked for that one . . .”
”You've never told the tale? I thought you just said that. To shut him up.”
”Nay.”
”Not even to Griane?”
”I've told her . . . most of it.” He frowned and steered the conversation away from Griane. ”Sometimes, the children ask me things. 'What did you eat?' 'Were you scared when you met the Trickster?' 'Did you cry when he cut off your fingers?' ”
”They ask that?”
”Those are the things they wonder about.”
”And you don't mind?”
”It's . . . different with children. I remember what it was like to feel small in a big world, to feel clumsy and stupid and scared. If Darak Spirit-Hunter can admit to being afraid, they know it's all right for them to feel afraid, too.”
”So you always answer them?”
”I'm their teacher. I owe them honesty.”