Enchanted Forests (36 page)

Margery away, but she kept yelling. "Your daughter killed him!

He never would have come here, if not for her!"

Eleanor sat up, staring numbly at the crying woman, at the

mangled body by her side.

Ananias walked over to her. "You should go back now." His

low voice was firm, turning the words into a command. "Take

Margery with you."

Eleanor couldn't go back. Not with her own daughter still

missing. She opened her mouth, searching for words that would

make Ananias understand.

Somewhere, a twig mapped—close enough that Eleanor froze

at the sound, far enough that she couldn't quite tell where it

came from. Ananias whirled around, gun raised.

"Show yourself!"

The bushes in front of nun rustled—a wild rhythm, not in time

234 Jarmi Lee Simner

with the wind—but no one answered. Ananias stepped back,

bracing the musket against his shoulder. The end of the wick

glowed orange. The other men raised their guns, too.

Manteo stared at them, his eyes wide. Then he dropped his

musket and fled into the woods. Eleanor wondered whether the

other Indians waited for him. Had he already betrayed the set-

tlers to the Savages?

For just a moment, Ananias hesitated. A strange, worded look

crossed his face. Then he fired into the bushes. Smoke filled the

air, heavy with the smell of gunpowder. The forest went sud-

denly still.

And Ananias fell slowly backwards, making no sound as he

hit the soft earth. Eleanor screamed.

Suddenly everyone was shooting at once- Smoke burned

Eleanor's eyes; the acrid smell of gunpowder clogged her throat.

She buried her head in her hands, praying the Savages would

spare her.

The shots cut off abruptly. The smoke drifted slowly away, too

gentle for the noise that had made it. When it cleared, every last

man had fallen.

Eleanor stared at the bodies, splattered with blood, but she

couldn't make herself believe they were real. She felt as if she

were in a dream that she couldn't shake off. Her thoughts were

as slow as the tendrils of smoke rising through the trees. She ex-

pected the Indians to come for her, too, but they didn't There

was only the wind, crying as it blew through the leaves, and the

soft sound of Margery's sobs. Eleanor saw Manteo's abandoned

musket on the ground; she reached for it The musket was splat-

tered with mud, but somehow, the wick had stayed lit.

Finally. Eleanor crawled to Ananias' side. There was a ragged,

bleeding hole in his chest, the sort an arrow might make. Around

it, his shirt was stained bright crimson. There was no arrow,

though, not in the wound and not on the ground nearby. Ananias'

face held a wide, startled look, as if even now he didn't under-

stand how he'd died.

Eleanor should have started screaming. But she just sat there,

feeling strange and cold, watching her husband's blood trickle

onto the dead leaves. The forest twilight deepened, but she

barely noticed. Did Virginia lie on the ground somewhere too,

her skin slowly growing cold?

Eleanor froze at the sound of soft footsteps behind her. Clutch-

ing the musket, she slowly stood and turned around.

Manteo's dark eyes stared back at her. "I did not think English

VIRGINIA WOODS             235

men were so easily frightened." His voice was strange and som-

ber, even flatter than usual.

"You killed them." Eleanor felt hot rage, bitter as the gunpow-

der that lingered in the air. "You warned your people before we

ever arrived!" She aimed the gun at Manteo. Manteo stepped

sideways, but Eleanor followed, keeping him in range. She

wanted, more man anything, to shoot that gun, to watch Manteo

fall screaming to the ground. She held her fire, though, praying

mat in turn the other Indians would hold theirs.

"I did nothing." Manteo's face twisted into a frown. "The

Croatocm are dead. They died the same way as the English."

Eleanor braced the gun against her shoulder. How dare he

deny what he'd done?

"Listen." Manteo took a deep breath, his eyes on the musket

all the while. 'The men expected an attack, so they got one. That

happens sometimes in these woods. I've tried to warn them, but

they never listened. My people died the same way—only they

feared musket shots, not arrows."

"People don't die of fear," Eleanor said. Had Manteo gone

mad?

"That may be true in England, where you've cut down your

forests and scrubbed clean your dark places. Not here."

Eleanor thought of the arrows that should have littered the

ground. She thought of the startled look on Ananias' face. But

she knew she'd go crazy if she believed Manteo's words.

"What about our crops?" Eleanor's voice came out higher and

more frightened than she expected.

Manteo shrugged, but his eyes were still on the musket. "The

crops near the forest were hit worst" He lunged forward, reach-

ing to grab the gun out of Eleanor's hands. Eleanor pulled the

trigger, praying she was fast enough.

Nothing happened. The gunpowder must have gotten wet; it

wouldn't ignite, no matter how long Eleanor held the trigger in

place.

But Manteo's hands went to his chest as if the musket had

fired after all. He tumbled, face first, to me ground.

Eleanor stared at him, not believing what she saw. If she rolled

him over, would she find a bloody wound in his chest? No, she

told herself. People didn't die of fear, no matter what Manteo

said. They died of arrows and gunshots.

Yet she couldn't bring herself to turn Manteo's body over, no

matter how long she looked at it.

236 Janni Lee Simner

The wind brushed her cheek—had it ever stopped? It whistled

through the leaves, high and sharp, crying like an animal in pain.

Not an animal, Eleanor realized. Ice trickled down her spine.

A child. Her child.

"Virginia?" Eleanor looked wildly around. The wind contin-

ued to cry. "Virginia, where are you?" Eleanor started forward,

in the direction of the voice, then stopped when she felt herself

trembling. Would she really find her daughter? Or just another

mangled body, nothing human left to it? She looked past the

fallen men, to where Margery lay sobbing on the ground. Beside

her, Hugh's torn body still bled.

Eleanor took another step. For a moment she wished she were

like Virginia, too wild and foolish to be afraid.

Too foolish to be afraid. The thought hit Eleanor like ice. Vir-

ginia didn't fear anything—and her body hadn't been found.

The men had feared Indian arrows, and Manteo had feared the

musket she held. Eleanor glanced once again at Hugh. What fear

could tear a child apart like that? Eleanor drew her arms tightly

around herself; she didn't want to know.

"Mama?" Virginia's voice, low and uncertain, but still very

much alive.

For a long moment Eleanor stared at the dark trees. What did

she expect to find, when she followed her daughter's voice?

She heard footsteps, too light to belong to a man, too awkward

and heavy for an animal. Only a child walked like that Eleanor

shivered. The day had grown cold, and clouds had moved in

once more, dimming the few ribbons of light that reached the

forest floor. The light only grew fainter further in.

Eleanor closed her eyes and thought of her father's painting.

She thought of his bright colors, of the light between the trees.

She tried to imagine the forest around her like that—green and

soft, branches swaying gently back and forth.

Maybe Manteo wasn't mad after all. Maybe what Eleanor

found was up to her.

She took a deep breath, opening her eyes once more. The she

followed her daughter's call, deeper into the woods.

And she tried not to be afraid.

IMPOSSIBLE LOVES

Joy comes in many shapes

Ties or Love

by Lawrence Schimel

Lawrence Schimel, 22, has sold stories and poems to over

forty anthologies, among them Weird Tales from Shake-

speare, Phantoms of the Night, and Friends of Valdemar.

He lives in Manhattan.

My father and I hardly spoke when he picked me up at the train

station, nor during the long drive out to the farm through the

snow-covered landscape. He'd recognized me instantly among

the sea of young men who disembarked, waited patiently as I

threaded my way to him through the crowd, pack slung over my

shoulder. "Welcome home, son," he'd said, shaking my hand

firmly, and I could tell by the tone of his voice and the force of

his grip that he was real proud of me, and real glad to have me

home alive once more. He didn't push at all, as we drove, no

questions about what I would do now that the war was over, if

I had ever killed a man, or how I felt to be home. All the ques-

tions I had been dreading during the long train ride from New

York, when I wasn't thinking about her.

Staring at the bare trees that lined the road I couldn't help

worrying about her. Would everything be the same? So much

might've happened: lightning, loggers, fire ... I tried not to think

about it. almost wished my father did ask me questions, anything

to keep my mind from forming disaster scenarios.

But when we pulled up to the house, my worst fears were re-

alized as I stared at the acres of barren furrows that stretched into

land that before I left had been forest. I stepped out of the car,

staring at all the missing trees. I was about to go racing off into

240 Lawrence Schimel

the woods to make sure she was still there, make sure she was

all right, when my mother saw me from the kitchen porch, came

rushing out into the cold in just her apron to throw her arms

about me. I kissed her, of course, took one last look at the forest

over her shoulder as I hugged her tight, then dutifully followed

her inside. But I couldn't help thinking about the forest the entire

time, couldn't help worrying. I was quiet all through dinner, and

even my sisters were subdued by my silence, noticeable since in

all the letters I got from home Mother wrote how they were at

that age when they could talk a hole through a wall. I could feel

my mother casting worried looks to my father. They thought it

was the war, I knew, and were dying to ask me what was wrong.

But they were afraid to. My mother wanted to take away my

pain, make me her same happy boy I was before I left and I

loved her for it, but how could I tell them?

I wasn't thinking about the war at all. I was thinking about a

tree, and the woman who is its spirit; a woman whose eyes are

filled with starlight; a woman whose hair is green in spring and

summer, golden and red in fall; the woman who held my heart.

I kept my silence, letting them think it was the war that ab-

sorbed my thoughts as I bided my time until I could rush out into

the woods and see her.

As I ran along the familiar path after dinner, I couldn't help

wondering if she had missed me as much as I had her, if she had

missed me at all-1 couldn't write her, as the other guys had done

with their loves. She couldn't read. had never learned because

she was so pained by the trees it took to make paper. And even

if she could, I'd no way of getting a letter to her. Where was I

to send it, 14th oak behind the McLeran's farm. General Deliv-

ery, Pine Plains, New York? I kept to myself and, when the other

guys got letters from their loves, read them aloud to the rest of

us and showed off the locks of yellow, red, brown, or black, I

thought of the four leaves I kept pressed between the pages of a

book of poems by Wordsworth. I made whistles from the hats of

her acorns, played slow and lonely songs on them in the eve-

nings, as I thought of her.

Snow crunched under my feet as I ran beneath the bare. skel-

etal trees. Their long, moonlit shadows cut across my path like

solid bars trying to prevent me from reaching her. I ran faster,

desperate to see her again. I knew I couldn't really see her now,

that she was dormant until Spring, but I needed to at least see her

TIES OF LOVE             241

tree. I needed to see if she had left a sign of some sort, that she

was still safe. That she still loved me.

My heart pounded with the exertion and anticipation as I ran

along the last curve of the path before her tree. I cried out with

relief when I saw that it was still whole and upright. I paused to

catch my breath after my run and, standing in the snow as 1

stared at her tree, I felt warm with love. Her branches were cov-

ered with hundreds of yellow ribbons, fluttering like leaves in

the moonlight.

The Heart or me Forest

by Dave Smeds

Dave Smeds has written two fantasy novels and numerous

short stories which have appeared in magazines and an-

thologies here and abroad; he has also been a graphic art-

ist and a typesetter and holds a third degree black belt in

Goju-ryu karate. He lives in Santa Rosa, California, with

his wife Connie and children Lerina and Elliott.

Though the rain had passed hours ago, the trees dripped, creating

an ominous whisper among the freshly fallen autumn leaves. The

loam gave up a fecund aroma—a primal breath as old as the land

itself. In his fifty-three years, Oxal had intruded beneath these

boughs only twice. This time felt no more familiar or welcome.

The Forest of the Old Ones did not lightly tolerate the presence

of humans, certainly not a company of fifty armed soldiers, some

with axes.

The rider ahead tugged his beard, nervously eyeing a raven

that watched from a tall, leafless spar. Saddle leather creaked as

he reined back and leaned close to Oxal.

'This is a fool's quest," he murmured.

Oxal raised an eyebrow. "Yet here you are, Yram. Are you

calling yourself a fool?"

Yram scowled and nudged his mount back into formation.

Oxal regretted his curtness. Yram's skepticism was warranted.

Other men—good men—had failed at this search. Yet the pike-

man should not have spoken so. It was disrespectful of the lord

who led the quest. Oxal would not be party to such criticisms.

He considered it vital to behave as a proper soldier, playing the

THE HEART OF THE FOREST      243

role right down to the ancient practice of going beardless so that

an enemy would have less to seize during combat—though

Ayana teased him with spousal good will that he shaved only to

hide the gray in his whiskers.

The company halted as they came to a large meadow. Here the

woodland presented a choice of obvious paths—either along the

stream that fed the expanse of peat, or over a hill strewn with

rock outcroppings.

Oxal favored the former for its flatness, its proximity to water,

its promise of fresh game for the night's cookfires. The scree

draping the hill could slide underhoof.

At the head of the procession, a tall figure in blue and gold

dismounted. Oxal had never been one to admire the physiques of

other males, but he did so now. Prince Rahnnic radiated the lithe,

angular beauty of the Arith. In an ordinary human, his aspect

might be called delicate, but in him the smooth complexion and

subdued musculature somehow conveyed the impression of viril-

ity and strength.

Yet this prince was a stranger, unproven in many ways. Hand-

someness mattered little here. If Rahnnic could not determine

which route to take from the meadow, he had no business leading

a mission into the forest.

Oxal watched keenly as Rahnnic knelt and lifted a handful of

soil. Sniffing it deeply, the Arith royal scanned the treetops. He

tilted his head, as if listening. Finally he began to walk. Stopping

periodically, he repeated his odd ceremony until he had wound

past both the stream and the hill and come to stand across the

meadow next to a dense thicket. Three pikemen and the standard

bearer clung to his heels, guarding him vigilantly.

With sudden confidence the prince waved for the remainder of

me column to join him.

The main knot of riders started forward, tracing their lord's

route along the fringe of the clearing. But the rider just ahead of

Yram chose to cut straight across the meadow. Yram, Oxal, and

roe rest turned as well.

Halfway across, the hair on the nape of Oxal's neck began to

stiffen. The grass, toughened by a long dry summer, gave good

purchase for the horses' hooves, yet as a mass it seemed to wob-

bte, as if the layer of turf were suspended over liquid.

Prince Rahnnic turned from his examination of the forest and

saw his riders in the open. Shock blanked his features. "Go

back!" he shouted.

244 Dave Smeds

The echo had not yet faded as the ground gave way beneath

five of the horses.

Oxal's mount dropped from under him. Boggy soil poured in

from every side, submerging the animal and burying Oxal to his

shoulders. Caught like the victim of an avalanche, only a desper-

ate surge of strength freed his arms. From the waist down, his

body was trapped.

Enveloped in the muck, his mount thrashed frantically. Just in

front of Oxal's the ground trembled. Oxal dug quickly, uncov-

ering the gelding's face. The beast snorted, eyes rolling in terror.

"Easy, easy," Oxal murmured, knowing that if the horse strug-

gled too much, it would die- Broad, gentle swimming motions

would keep them from sinking further, but rapid wiggling would

draw them under.

Oxal had cared for his roan since it had been a day-old colt.

Though terrified, it obeyed him and grew calm. Only then did

Oxal have the chance to look about him.

Yram and his mount were nowhere to be seen. Of the other

victims, the head of one companion remained above the surface.

Ropes landed among the stricken warriors. Oxal grabbed

one. Meanwhile -from the periphery of the meadow unmounted

men, their armor and heavy gear shucked, crawled across the

uncollapsed area with digging implements. Valiantly they dug

where their comrades had vanished, trying to create breathing

funnels.

Prince Rahnnic sat cross-legged, entering into a spellcaster's

trance. Oxal wasn't certain what sort of magic could help—

perhaps an enchantment to harden the ground—but he did know

it would be too late. Sorcery was a sluggish affair, otherwise sol-

diers would be obsolete.

Before the spell took effect, the diggers uncovered Yram's up-

per body. He had suffocated.

"This is how the Forest of the Old Ones greets intruders,"

muttered a veteran sourly as the last body was pulled onto solid

ground. Three men were dead. That it could have been worse did

not lessen the sense of gloom.

Oxal, brooding over his last words to Yram, occupied himself

brushing the mud from his gelding's coat. His was the only an-

imal saved. Four mounts and a pack mule would remain part of

the bog forever.

For the dead riders there would be a pyre. The captain raised

THE HEART OF THE FOREST       245

an ax toward a sapling, glaring defiantly at the forest as he did

so.

"No," declared Prince Rahnnic. "Killing trees will not bring

him back, and it will only anger the guardians of this place.

Gather fallen limbs.*'

Reluctantly the captain nodded, though he made it a point to

have the pyre built at the very edge of the woods, where the

flames would lick at the tips of extended branches.

The company watched with tightly pressed lips as the fire

burned- Many faces turned back toward Irithel, toward home.

"Do any of you wish to leave?" asked the prince.

The company stirred. Here and there, a man muttered under

his breath. Yet Oxal knew that no archer, pikeman, or horse sol-

dier would wish to return to the capital wearing the badge of

cowardice.

However, it was a good strategic move of Rahnnic to ask.

"For those who would come, this is the way," Prince Rahnnic

said, pointing into the thickets at the meadow's edge. His state-

ment was unequivocal. As the prince threaded between the close-

set trees, a narrow trail appeared where no passage had seemed

to exist. Everyone followed.

Perhaps, thought Oxal, the quest could succeed after all.

As dusk neared they came to a spot where a year earlier a

brushfire had cleared the terrain. The prince announced they

would camp there, beyond the reach of living trees.

When his chores were done, Oxal declined to join his com-

rades at the cookfires, preferring a few moments alone to mull

over his narrow escape from death. He found a granite slab worn

smooth by untold seasons of rainwater and sat, regarding the for-

est. An old oak. its trunk charred from the fire, drew his atten-

tion. Had the tree shifted closer to its neighbor since the

company had camped?

"Sprites are moving the trees with their songs. They will play

such music all night."

Oxal stood abruptly, bowing to Prince Rahnnic.

The Arith lord waved his soldier back down, and joined him

on the slab. "You are Oxal, are you not? You were cool-headed

in me meadow. I would not have cared to lose another man."

Oxal inclined his head, acknowledging the sincerity in

Rahnnic's tone. "You did what you could, Your Highness."

"I could have sensed the trap earlier had my attention been on

the meadow, rather than on the route away from it."

246 Dave Smeds

"Hindsight," Oxal said.

The prince shrugged, unwilling as yet to let himself off so eas-

ily.

Oxal nodded at the trees. "How far can they move?"

"No farther than tfieir major roots can stretch. They are trees,

after all, and are moored to me earth. But they will strain far