Grimenna Page 16

  Suddenly Renn seemed to have a notion, for he stopped and turned back to her. She stumbled to a stop and blinked at him in the dark, unable to keep her teeth from chattering as shooting panic swept over her. Even if he wasn’t a spirit in disguise, she had the racing fear he could suddenly abandon her at his own whim.

  “Forgive me. You must be freezing,” he said flatly.

  “I’m fine,” she said through numb lips, thankful he did not have the intention to abandon her after all.

  “No, you haven’t shoes or a cloak. You won’t make the night like this,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” she said strongly as she hugged her arms around herself to ward off the chill of standing still. “Let’s keep moving.”

  Suddenly he was standing before her, fumbling with Yulin’s red cloak. “Lay down on the horse, share his heat. You will help keep him warm as well.”

  “Alright,” she nodded, shaking with bitter cold. She clutched at the horse’s mane with numb hands and he helped to lever her up. She lay down along the horse’s back, looping her arms and pressing her face into its warm, wet neck. Renn tucked her under Yulins cloak, under which his lingering warmth and scent clung, immediately shielding her from the prickling rain.

  It sent relief sweeping through her, for Varloga did not smell of horses and earth, nor was he warm. “What about you?” she asked.

  “I can walk faster now without you blundering behind, I will keep warm.”

  Slightly stung by his comment, Paiva receded under Yulin’s hood and buried herself into the rising warmth of the horse. Hidden beneath she let the tears come unrestrained, her heart crushed under the weight of longing for her home and her family. She reconciled her father’s true identity, and knowing what he truly was made it that much harder to bear. He could have had any life he wanted but he had stayed to be her father, to be a husband, because he loved them.

  They trudged on until the rain stopped and the clouds suddenly parted and filled the woods with cold moonlight. The sky opened up above and soon was glowing brightly with stars. She did not know how far they had gone before Renn decided to stop in a clearing beneath a great wounded tree that was barren of leaves, its naked branches twisted up into the sky like skeletal fingers.

  He tethered the horse and helped her off, then wearily sat against the tree where she joined him. She did not ask him, but it seemed they would go no farther for the night, and she huddled beneath Yulin’s cloak and canted her head up to the swollen moon. She was bone-weary, but she imagined Renn must have been beyond that. Not only had he been tied to the pillar without proper food, he must have received a few bruised ribs from his encounter with the rangers in Quarrytown.

  That made her think of her mother. “I shouldn’t have left her,” she half-whispered, half-sobbed out loud without thinking.

  “I forced you. I’m sorry,” he said, his breath clouding in the chilled air between them. “I am sorry for it all.”

  “Don’t be. I shouldn’t have blamed you for anything. But I did. And that was wrong. This is the second time you have saved me now. So thank you, and don’t be sorry.”

  He remained quiet for a moment, his face impassive, then he shook his head. “You helped me as well. You gave me bread when I was starved. You sent Yulin to free me.”

  “By all the shining stars,” she said looking up to the celestial bodies above, “I want to go home.”

  “We will have to find your father.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed with relief. “I can’t do it alone. I’m afraid of these woods, and I’m a woman. I wouldn’t be able to fend off raving Wildermen or hungry wolves or Folka. I mean, I’m probably the only woman whose ever crossed the Panderbank.”

  “No,” he answered. “There are a few women out here. It’s only a river. Many women have crossed it searching for their husbands or sons… or fathers. Sometimes lonely Wildermen cross the river and steal women, hiding them away in the mountains where no one can find them ever again. There are even children born out here. Wildermen have many tales of such things.”

  She blinked at him.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you tall tales,” he apologized. “You’re already very frightened.”

  “You will help me?” she asked, though she was ashamed at how her voice broke and became raw. She did not want to sound like she was begging.

  “Go where you will, so long as it is in the Wilderlands. I promised your mother I would keep you safe,” he said. “I assure you I still remember how to keep promises. I wasn’t always a brute.”

  “You’re not a brute,” she said, not entirely sure how she found him. “A brute would have let me drown in the river or die of cold. A brute would certainly not have risked his neck to come to Quarrytown.”

  “I am simply trying to control the damage I have caused,” he said incisively. Her mind spun to Ceitra.

  “But you didn’t cause it,” she chided. Again he shook his head, then pursed his lips and leant his tired head back against the tree to close his eyes in resignation.

  “But I did,” his voice was bitter. “Ceitra used your family so that she could condemn me.”

  “No. No, it’s not that at all. She isn’t even human. She is an Incarnate of the Strix.”

  “The Eater of Hate,” he murmured. His eyes opened and stared into the dark of the woods.

  “What do you think of my father’s stories? Do you really think he’s a heretic?” she prodded, watching his brow furrow.

  He considered this, and she could hear the strain of weariness in his voice when he answered. “I think people should be allowed to believe in anything they want, as long as they find some comfort in it and cause others no harm.”

  “But what do you believe, of the old stories, the old ways?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t care for them. I don’t understand them either. I have never found any comfort or direction in spirits or gods. I just don’t care.”

  “You have no faith, in anything?”

  “I have faith in Berg horses because I know they can outrun a ranger’s charger. I have faith that I will die if I do not eat. I have faith Folka will kill me if I do not kill them first. That’s all I need to believe to keep me alive. I do not yearn for the protection of something greater than myself. My prayers are empty, my thoughts are small.”

  “I’ve never met anyone quite like you,” she blinked. “Everyone believes in something, whether it’s the Forest or the God.”

  “I believe in the Forest, just not the way you do. Whatever these spirits and gods are, they were made by man and are his own reflection, not the Forest’s. Man should have known his place, and tread lightly over the roots and green things that gave him life. I believe in life and the struggle to live. It is the common ground on which we all stand.”

  Paiva found a deep truth in what he said. She had never before thought there was anything in between the divide of the two beliefs. But there was. There was Renn’s reflection, and it stirred her.

  “We have many leagues to go tomorrow,” he said as his head slumped forwards in exhaustion. “All the newly branded pass through Crowbill’s camp. It is a good place to begin searching for your father. I must rest, we can talk tomorrow.”

  She nodded and let him rest. The wool of Yulin’s cloak was still damp but she curled beneath it into the hollow of the tree. She closed her eyes to the low breathing of the horse and the call of wild things in the woods and wondered if it would be sleep or Folka that came to claim her first.

  — «» —

  Renn half-woke to the gray light of dawn. His body was warm. There was someone curled against him — a comforting, warm presence. Slowly his mind drifted back to sleep until a jarring thought burst through. In a moment of confusion he thought he had woken in a Wilderman camp with one of his comrades tucked beside him. He lifted his head and looked down at Paiva, and to his relief found she d
id not have a beard.

  She was yet asleep, her breathing slow. She had rolled over and curled against him in the night, searching for his warmth. He allowed the initial shock he had felt to wash away while he studied the morning light glistening on her eyelashes. He sat up quietly into the chilled morning air and drew away from her quickly, not allowing time to savor a delicate feeling that took shape.

  He went and peered into the trees, still dripping from the night’s rain. The air was fresh, damp and earthy. All about warblers twittered and small creatures and insects stirred. He went in search of food, leaving her to sleep off the last of her chills and wake in the peace of her own thoughts.

  — «» —

  They followed the river upstream while they ate handfuls of berries and chewed on the succulent roots of a sweet plant the Wildermen called Grompsin Grass. Paiva donned the red cloak for she had nothing to keep her warm besides her own thin dress, and he was quite comfortable in his ripped oilskin.

  Renn led them deep into the woods where the trees became old and wide. There were few old trees in the lowlands, most of the forest having been coppiced and felled for timber through many generations and was young in its verdancy. Here the trees became tall as the very tower of the Keep and as wide as horse carts. They stretched endlessly up towards the sky where their great branches were woven overhead like a tapestry. Entwined and mossy, so strong and old a castle could have been built atop them that would have crowned the clouds. The forest floor became barren and easily passable, the sunlight low and muted giving no nourishment to low-growing things aside from rings of mushrooms and beds of moss.

  Paiva felt as if she were in a cathedral and her very bones vibrated with the energy of such a deep and sacred place. The forest that surrounded her farm was thick with slash and rooting things, brambles and rabbit bushes. It made the forest thorny and prickly, and she realized it was through man’s own hand that it had become so. This was old forest, virgin and untouched but for the Wildermen who passed through it and the many creatures that lived within. Undisturbed, primal, and wild. So quiet and hushed not even the horse’s hooves disturbed it.

  They passed through miles of these trees and she wondered how Renn could have found his way. But he knew where there were great upheavals of boulders that lay mossy and twined with ancient roots. One led to another; they were markers the seasoned Wildermen used for navigation. Each rock had a name, and in the four directions of the compass it pointed depending on the path you were going.

  It was a path committed to memory, a web of trails and unseen meridians that was a creed for the Wildermen. The Rock of Regret, which was where the newly branded were disposed of, led straight to the Mossy Rock. The Mossy Rock would point you further north towards the Spiney Rock or west towards the Crumbled Rock. They went north towards the Spiney Rock, and from there it led to three more in different directions, or back towards the Mossy Rock.

  Paiva did not know at first how Renn could commit this all to memory but she learned the Wildermen had formed songs and stories that helped to serve as a map when wandering the woods. She thought how her father would have filled a whole book in recording their folklore. Paiva sensed that Renn secretly delighted in sharing them with her. They were stories that only the Wildermen knew, and if they were ever pardoned and left the woods, stories that they would leave behind.

  Each rock held true to its namesake. Spiny Rock was a line of jagged slabs that were heaved onto their sides into the ground, so they resembled the spine of a giant, decaying, monstrous creature. From there they went uphill and northwest to Far Fall Rock, that sat atop a cliff so high and steep it made the trees below look like rabbit bushes. It was a huge mass suspended over all the land, its weathered face peaked into the wind. Renn decided to make camp there and left Paiva with the horse while he went in search of food.

  Paiva crouched on all fours and peered over the rock, feeling her senses spin as her mind tried to register and understand the depths into which she looked. At first it felt her own weight on the rock would somehow displace it, making it tumble from the cliff face where it would send her crashing to the trees below. It held fast, her own presence unfelt in the magnitude of its existence. There was a high wind that ripped through her hair, and it drew her eyes upwards from the gorge below to the sky where great billows of clouds roiled and churned in pinky oranges and subtle purples. She felt as if she was among them, eye-level with heaven. Slowly her senses calmed, a great sense of wildness and of being alive and set free overtook her. The Forest was a majesty, a kingdom unto its own. When she had first seen the Keep she was in awe of man’s abilities to construct such a place, to carve stone from the hills and lock it into a structure so tall and magnificent. But gazing down on the forest from the rock she was beyond awe. She was taken apart, she was no longer human. She felt a part of it all, welcomed back to the place where all life seemed to flow from. There were no walls to guard her from it, to keep out its dangers and unpredictable powers. She was raw and exposed and dismantled, her soul awakening to its beauty.

  The smell of woodsmoke made her turn back to Renn at the edge of the trees behind her. He was busy ripping the meat off a grouse and spitting it over a small fire, his pipe dangling between his teeth though he had no tarweed to light it with. When he caught her looking at him he gave her a wary glance.

  “I see why it is called Far Fall,” she said.

  “Many Folka have been driven off this rock, falling to their deaths below. A few Wildermen too, some willingly who have leapt. Used to be called the Tall Rock.” He bent his head back to the fire and sucked on his pipe before continuing. “There’s a story that tells if a Wilderman does not touch the Rock of Regret upon coming to the woods, he will forever be haunted by it. He will surely be led to Far Fall, and when he stands before the Forest at its peak all his regrets will come back to him and make him jump. Wildermen have a high regard for stones and rocks, mountains and hills. They seem to think they all talk to one another. Ulrig is especially keen on talking to the rocks, he’s always muttering at them. He seems to think they’re the only ones who remember anything.”

  “Did you touch the rock?”

  “I have, I slept under it my first night cast off. I didn’t know these stories until later. I also know they are only stories, stories passed down from the old Wildermen to the youngest ones. It’s a warning. It tells to leave behind regret or you will not survive the woods. That’s what I make of it.”

  “But there is truth to it.”

  “Surely. There’s truth in all their stories.”

  “As there is in my father’s.”

  He fell quiet and sucked on his empty pipe while he roasted the grouse, seeming to have forgotten their conversation. She looked back over the Forest and found that in the moments she had looked away the sky had darkened and the first stars had begun to glimmer above the pillars of clouds.

  “I didn’t know what this place was like,” she said.

  “Oh it changes you,” Renn replied. “The pardoned often have a hard time going back to the lowlands. Ulrig, who runs the camp I settled with, he was granted a pardon and he came back. He just didn’t know how to live amongst civilized men anymore.”

  “I didn’t know you were allowed.”

  “Of course you’re allowed. It’s no man’s land out here. There are no rules except to not cross the Panderbank. If it’s not the Folka and the wild beasts trying to kill you, it’s the other Wildermen. They’re like wolves, they form packs, they claim territories and drive off others from hunting it. It is man returned to the wild, and wild he becomes again. There are even those that camp up by the Highpeaks. They’ve abandoned all hope of ever returning to the lowlands.”

  She rose then and came down to the fire, sitting across from him and smelling the roasting meat with hunger.

  “Who claims this part of the woods then?”

  “No one really, there’s just t
he River Runners run by Crowbill that flit through here. They don’t have horses usually so they’re not hard to get away from if they prove to be any trouble.”

  “How did you survive? Who did you meet?” she asked curiously.

  “There is not much to tell,” he shrugged. “I was a complete dolt. Went from having servants emptying my chamber pot to not having a pot for anything at all. I had to wise up very fast. Unfortunately anyone who recognized me tried to kill me, being the very son of the Lord who had damned them. Eventually young Lord Rennik did die; in fact he was thrown into a gully to be rid of. A Wilderman crawled out of it, covered in muck and filth. That man they called Black Renn.

  “Crowbill and his band found me after that. We got on fairly well; I learned much about the woods from him. When I left his gang to hunt Folka there was a bet on my head that I wouldn’t make it through the winter.

  “The River Runners prefer the sanctuary of the riverbank to roaming the deep of the woods where the Folka lurk. I took my leave of them and headed out, following stones and valleys. I had my troubles with different bands. I was still unused to the rough customs of these men. Some ran me off, some tried to kill me, some tried to steal the boots off my feet. I wandered far and wide, and only in the autumn did I find Ulrig at Far Reach. I never would have made it the winter if it had not been for him.”

  His eyes shone in the firelight as he reflected. She was quiet as she absorbed his story.

  “The truth is, I could not return to my old life. If I was ever granted a pardon and forgiven, I could no more shed this life that I have lived than I could my own skin. I am a Wilderman, and the forest is my home. Why would I want to return behind stone walls and shut all of this out?” He inclined his head towards the sweep of forest as a howl of wolves rose up, greeting the darkness that settled over the hills. It sent a chill up her spine. He pulled the meat from the fire and offered it to her. She did not move to take it.

  “What happened with your brother?” she asked, swallowing dryly. She was profoundly curious and afraid of this question. The grouse dripped its grease over the ground between them. Another chorus of howls rose up chillingly and the wind spluttered sparks from the fire.