Phillips Harbour
Thursday, October 22, 1868. Midday.
After they part ways with Mr. Shaft and Caliban, Slate relaxes for a little while, then grows anxious again. Are you sure this is wise? she asks her mistress, as they ride into the Old Forest. Maybe it'd be better for all of us to stay together, now. Mrs. Everchild was by herself when she ...
"I don't like it either, dear," murmurs Bernice, threading her fingers through the horse's mane. "But we're going to the Great Oak... and as nice a man as Mr. Shaft is, I don't know that the forest elders would care much for him. I'm not sure what they would have thought of Mrs. Everchild either. They've been wounded many times, it seems... they're cautious, for them to trust us, we must trust them. We'll be safe within their shelter."
Didn't someone say that the Deep Woods is where St. John has been seen? the equine whickers, her ears back as she minces over dry leaves. Today is as cold and windy as the day before, despite the bright sun overhead. What if they're on her side? What if this is a trap? But she goes on, just the same.
Bernice's green eyes betray worry at Slate's words. "The possibility is there," she admits. "If what Mr. Shaft and Caliban told us about St. John is true, and she hates mankind and favors animals, she may have a draw to the old forest. That's part of what we need to talk about. It's the best we can do." She reaches down to give her friend a gentle stroke along the neck. "The forest isn't just one mind... there may be some that agree with St. John, and some with us. I have some thoughts on the matter that they might consider."
As always, the world beneath the branches of the Still Forest feels quiet, muffled. They ride unmolested beneath a canopy of reds, oranges, and yellows, with the shadows below made stark by glimpses of the bright blue sky above. A short while later, Slate's strides bring them before the single towering oak tree: the heart of the wood.
The young woman dismounts with a whirl of skirts and dry leaves, the rifle on her back swinging as she lands. She approaches the towering oak with head bowed, the light streaming through its canopy dappling her tan skin and auburn hair. Rather than speak immediately, she Listens.
She waits in silence for a long time, at least for a human; time passes differently for trees. But it takes time to adjust to the rhythm of the woods. After a while, she realizes the forest is troubled; beneath its veneer of calm and protection, it's uneasy and bestirred. The leaves whisper of fear and fire, of violence and death. Of endings, Of change.
The uneasiness mirrors Bernice's own, her closed eyes twitching under their lids like those of someone in fitfull sleep. Finally, she speaks. "Elders... some time has passed since we touched. I can hear your distress. What has happened?"
This will pass, the voice of the oak says. All things pass.
(Even us.) The north's soft voice is hard to read: -- rebellious? or resigned?
Fire has not touched us this day, but we felt its heat on the wind. Is it gone now, young one? the oak asks. We think it gone.
Townes nods, kneeling down in the leaves, to rest while she communes. "The fire is gone, quenched by those in the town. It was set by the one known as St. John, used to drive out Everchild, whom she killed."
(Man quarrels with man. It is not our concern,) comes the south. But to use fire, and so near -- you are certain of this, young Speaker? the old oak says.
(You are certain of this), the north echoes, not a question and not, perhaps, even directed at Bernice.
"The flames towered before me, and even before they were sated, we saw what was left of Everchild, torn to pieces," says the woman, hanging her head down and shivering a little despite the memory of the intense heat. She lifts a hand to her hidden face. "The cat... Islington, he saw it happen."
(And she used fire. Careless of the consequence.) The northern woods sound bitter.
The doctor looks up again, lifting her face to the golden canopy above. "That is what I came to warn you about. I am told St. John calls herself a friend to the beasts, to the woods. Was it a friend who called a Great Hunt down on my kin? Called red-eyed interlopers from beyond our world to tear apart every Speaker but one?" Her voice drops to a whisper, her trembles becoming more pronounced. "Elders, do you know why she slew us?"
What? What is this of which you speak? The oak asks, surprised.
(Man fights Man,) the south whispers, (it is his nature.)
Bernice's voice and Voice quavers. "Man fought man that day, it's true. She fought to take from our custody the very branch that I was banished from these woods for... she intended to claim it to bring here, to Open the way. And she used another artifact to do it, winding a horn of strange power that turned my bretheren into deer that were chased down by creatures that looked like wolves, but couldn't have been. If I could show you my memories of that night..." The young woman covers her face again. "She considers herself a friend to the wild, but those she has no use for..."
She wanted that staff? The oak's voice vibrates with the bredth of its reach.
"And when the druids wouldn't give it, she killed all of them," Townes whispers, her mouth dry. "Mine... and the ones that supposedly were with her."
(she wanted that staff), the north echoes again. (if we did not know these things, it is only because we closed our eyes. because we chose ignorance rather than risk action.)
(/And if we did act?/) the southern voice rages, angry. (/What then? What could we do to her, when her own kind is impotent to stop her?)
We have been threatened by Man before, yet we remain, the oak says, unperturbed. Man passes. All things do.
At this, the young woman nods, wiping her grim face with her sleeve. "All things pass. All things change. It is up to us to decide whether that change is destruction or growth. I am a tiny thing, weak, frail, and my life is short. But I will throw it against St. John, your foe and mine. I would know if she takes shelter in these woods."
(She does. Even now,) says the north. (She has been here all along. Taking shelter here.)
The oak's branches rustle in anger. We do not betray those who seek protection here.
(not even if they betray us?)
Bernice nods slowly. "When I came to you with that branch of hatred, you told me to take it away, and I did. When we did not agree with what she did, she destroyed us. What will she do when she does not agree with you?"
The woods are silent then, in some deeper communion that has no words for Bernice to hear. But she senses the mood is with her. After a long while, the great oak speaks to her again. What do you seek, little Speaker? What do you hope for now?
Townes looks down at her hands, folded in her lap. "When disease spreads among the herd, the predators cull it away. It is the way of nature. She is a disease spread among us. I will marshal what strength I can among the humans, among the Closers, locate her lair, drive her from it, and prevent her from Opening the way. If it is within my power to remove her capacity for destruction, to cull her away, I... I.. I'm afraid. Tired. But I will do this."
Another long silence. We would have no part in the affairs of Man, the great oak says.
(But we cannot be neutral in this), comes the northern voice. (If we offer protection to the one, then we take her side. We are already involved. We are taking part, even now.)
(We are not the only ones in these woods with ears,) whispers the east wind.
The young woman clasps her hands together. "When I came to you last, I offered myself to you, gave you the use of my hands. You can direct me in your interests... if there is some other way you wish me to deal with her threat, I'll do it!" Her earnest face glances about, especially northward, pleading. "Even taking back your protection of her... You can choose not to welcome her and still have no part in this." Bernice shifts nervously in her patch of leaves, wondering what agents even now are listening.
This time, the north voice breaks the silence first. (/Will we wait for the other to kill this little Speaker, too? To bring the branch of death and disaster amongst us before we admit that there is a problem? She asks. What other option do we prefer?)
The forest speaks now in a ponderous voice, sourceless and layered with multiple voices. When you are ready to strike, we will help you, little Speaker.
Bernice lets out a breath she didn't even know she was holding, and falls to her hands in the leaves, some measure of relief washing over the cold lump of fear resting in the pit of her stomach. "Thank you, elders... I'll protect this forest..." Her hands ball up into fists, clutching the soil under the leaves. "...with my life."