SPARX Incarnation: Mark of the Green Dragon (SPARX Series I Book 1) (11 page)

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said.

“I know that,” I replied, “but those are the rules. You don’t want to get us in trouble, do you?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. She paused, let out a sigh, then turned to Fyorn.

“Thank you for the lovely meal,” she said.

“It was my pleasure,” replied Fyorn. “Now mind the woods and keep an eye on those boys. Make sure they don’t stray too far.”

Holly nodded, and then out she went, carrying with her the responsibility of “the older sister.” I witnessed my friends racing to the creek before she closed the door behind her. My uncle and I sat alone at the table.

“Your friend Kabor,” he started, “does he have
shadow vision
?”

“Something like that,” I replied. “He has trouble seeing straight on. Don’t let him fool you though – he sees more than he lets on.”

Fyorn stood up and closed the window shutters, eclipsing the daylight.

“That or he makes up for what he can’t see some other way,” he countered.

“I suppose,” I said.

After he sparked up a lantern, Fyorn looked to my backpack on the floor, and then to me. “How many arrows for me today?” he said.

“Oh yes, quite a few,” I announced with pride. “And some fine ones at that. Two full score of arrows, plus another two.”

“Scores or arrows?”

“Arrows.” I shrugged and couldn’t help but laugh over my next words. “I don’t know why you need so many… you must miss a lot.”

Fyorn brushed off the slight with a roll of his eyes and another rub of his stubbly chin. “That’s something Paplov would say.”

A long silence passed between us. “So, how was Proudfoot?” he said.

Uncle Fyorn listened intently as I spoke about our trip, the land-lease deal, and Harrow’s meddling. He shook his head angrily when I mentioned Harrow’s demands regarding the Dim River crossing.

“Unbelievable,” he said, disdain in his voice. “Taeglin is a buffoon. He never listens to anyone.”

I didn’t know exactly what he meant by his comment, but I had heard similar rumblings before. “Yet the Council and all the neighboring territories just give in to his every whim,” I said. “It’s pathetic. No one is willing to take action.”

“Action comes at a very high price. Unfortunately, Taeglin is a very powerful buffoon.”

We both smirked.

“Have you heard about the raids in and around Proudfoot?” I asked. “There was a horrible murder along the Outland Trail. The entire town was buzzing about it.”

My uncle nodded his head in acknowledgement, and then offered his own observations.

“Let Paplov know that Wulvers are not to blame. One of my Kith brothers stopped by on his way back from Whisperwood – the packs there are too busy fighting amongst themselves. But one of the nomadic Outlander tribes has set up camp on a tributary of the Elderkin River, northeast of Old Akeda. They’re a nasty bunch – thieves, slavers, and worse… you name it. Apparently, Gorbag the Torturer runs the show – if you can believe that. I think he’s been killed about ten times now. A new one just springs up out of their ranks to take his place, every time. They’re the ones likely messed up in your raids. One more note: the Council might catch wind of a small band of Scarsanders that slipped past the border guards, last seen skirting the northern edge of the Bearded Hills. Tell him they don’t pose a threat – just a few desperate runners, that’s all. I doubt they even have the scar.”

“What about in the bog lands?” I said.

“Nothing I’ve heard. Why?”

“No reason… just our blue-tail acted up on the way to Proudfoot.”

“They can be skittish,” was all he offered.

I reached into my pocket and felt for the bog stone, bundled in leather. Slowly, I unraveled its cover. A muted flicker of light spilled out of my pocket for an instant and lit up the space under the table. Fyorn didn’t seem to notice. He had taken that moment to stand up. He drummed his fingers along the old wooden slab, as though impatient.

“Well then,” he said, “now that that’s settled, how ‘bout you take those arrows out back, Sir Nud? I’ll look’em over in a jiffy. I just need to tidy up a bit first, before the syrup hardens.”

Before I could say another word, Fyorn got busy collecting dishes from our mid-day feast.
Later
, I decided, and then re-wrapped the stone. I grabbed my pack and went out the door.
I wonder what I’ll find out there this time,
I thought, as I made my way to the workshop. I took a deep breath and shook off the feeling.

Fyorn’s shed was nearly as big as his cabin and just a few steps away. Paplov helped him to build it, many years ago. When I stepped inside, it was cool as the day and smelled of freshly stained wood. After setting the pack down, I casually glanced around the room. It was exactly how I remembered it: a workbench cluttered with tools and hardware, planks of wood neatly organized by size, big cabinets, and at the back, hanging animal pelts stretched onto boards together with paddles for his narrow river-crafts. Bins sat here and there, full of bits and pieces of just about everything, and an axe leaned against the wall behind the door. It was a very familiar looking axe…
the axe
, in fact. The nicks I made had not quite disappeared in all the sharpenings since; abuses to the blade were many.

I stood under the attic door in the ceiling and stared up. It, too, looked smaller than before – no more than a square manhole covered by a board with no practical way to get up into it.

I never should have ventured up there,
I told myself
.

The real world began to fade away…

Chapter XV

The attic

T
ap… tap… tap.

I remember exactly the noise from the attic: crisp and regular, like fingernails on wood.

Tap… tap… tap.

With the back of one hand, I rubbed my itchy eyes. Winds howled over the rooftop as my vision slowly adjusted. The first thing I saw clearly was a lone sliver of light. It shone in from the outside through a vent in the wall. I tracked its course. Over distance, the light spread out into a luminescent sheet, igniting dust motes like silvery sparks as it sliced through the darkness.

The attic itself was a huge, stuffy mess. Dusty junk spewed from every corner: broken furniture and countless old boxes, cords and ropes all jumbled and knotted, boots with holes in them, a cracked wooden shield with a tree sigil, and as many odds and ends as possibly imagined.

Tap… tap… tap.

Where is it coming from?
I waited, and listened, and waited some more.

Tap… tap… tap.

There it is again.
The sound originated at the far end of the loft.

Tap… tap… tap.

Scratch… scratch.

I crept along joists and wriggled between rafters to get to the source. Along the way, I gripped the severed leg of an old wooden table and used it to clear abandoned cobwebs in my path.
A thousand spiders to make those webs
, I thought.

Tap… tap… tap.

Scratch… scratch.

I reached the far side. An old metal coffer occupied the space, illuminated by light from the vent. There were handprints on its dusty lid. The coffer had a caved in side-panel and a broken latch, black and pitted. The latch, it appeared, was just about the only thing in the attic not completely covered in dust. I took it in my hand with a firm grasp, and hesitated. It was cool to the touch. The sounds had completely ceased.
Does the thing know I am near?
Before opening it, with the table leg I tapped on the box.

Tap… tap… tap.

The attic remained silent. Then I scratched it with the edge.

Scratch… scratch.

I waited. All that came after was a dull and unsatisfying silence, like waking up too early in a strange house.

I raised the table leg high above my head, like a club. With the other hand, I undid the latch. Slowly and gently, I lifted the lid – just a crack – and waited.
Nothing.
I could hear my heartbeat from the inside. I could feel the tension pull every muscle taught. I stopped breathing, and lifted the lid a little higher… higher… higher still. My heart began to pound.
Still
nothing…

TAP… TAP… TAP.

“Aaah!” I yelped, and released the lid. I swung the table leg hard and pounded the lid shut, then scrambled back into a pile of broken old junk. My heart pumped wildly as I struggled to regain my footing.

But I did not retreat. Instead, I sat there on the pile of junk, waiting and watching with both eyes fixed on the coffer. I heard the wind gust up again outside, and then fall off into a hush-hush. Slowly, I regained my nerve and crawled back to the coffer. I took a deep breath, and flipped the lid fully open.

This time, a puff of terrible smell rose up, oily like old fish, but with an exotic tang to it. I held my breath and leaned over the coffer to peer inside. Forgotten things, broken and useless, were scattered about its bottom, and a sticky residue covered everything. A thousand dead insects were stuck in there too, and a precious few barely alive ones still tugging on their immobile parts. The tapping started up again.

Tap… tap… tap.

And the scratching.

Scratch… scratch.

Many and more unusual objects filled that coffer as well. These things I could not identify or even begin to imagine the purpose of. Some looked to be tools after some fashion. Others had fleshy surfaces with oily threads sticking out everywhere – bits and pieces of broken creations not wholly natural. And amidst the clutter and sticky mess of tar was a shoebox-sized container made of dark wood. It did not belong with the rest.

Tap… tap… tap.

Scratch.

Tap… tap… tap.

Scratch.

Tap… tap… tap.

Scratch… scratch.

It came from the dark wood box. The sounds were more urgent now.

It did not occur to me that I should just leave the box right where it lay. And it did not occur to me that history might one day paint a fairer picture of the past if only I did just that. The tapping intensified.

TAP… TAP… TAP.

The dark wood box was plain in its design and nailed firmly shut. Scorched onto the lid was a crude representation of the Hidden City of Gan – tall trees and high towers fronting a waterfall, and mist billowing up from its base. I yanked the box free from all the goo and stickiness underneath.

The box had a fair weight to it. My hands shook as I held it. I felt along the edges and found the lid to be tight fitting. Some kind of resin sealed it shut.

TAP… TAP…TAP.

I fumbled. The box dropped back into the coffer.

A long pause followed, and then the pattern changed.

tap… tap… tap.

scritch… scratch.

Submissive. Wanting.

tap… tap… tap.

scritch… scratch.

Like a cry for
help?

I waited a long minute and took deep breaths to gather up my nerves again.
It can’t hurt you
, I told myself.
Whatever it is, it’s stuck in the box
. Hands still shaking, I pulled the box back out.

tap… tap… tap.

I did not let it go.

Box in hand, I made my way back through the attic clutter to the trapdoor, then with a loud thump I dropped down onto the workbench. A bucket went flying and my ankle twisted, but I held on to that box as though the fate of the world depended on it.

The tapping had stopped completely. I gave the box a slight shake. It felt like dead weight inside.

Then I heard a voice – Paplov, on his way over from the cabin. He sounded hoarse, his voice on the verge of loss.

“Nud?” he rasped, and then cleared his throat. He mumbled something to Uncle Fyorn. I didn’t hear all of it, but it started with “He better not be…”

Their footsteps drew closer.

“Nud, are you in there?” said Paplov. “We heard something crash. What are you up to?”

I tucked the box under one arm and slid under the workbench. Then I dragged Fyorn’s big ranging pack in front of me. I heard a click as the door handle turned. Someone stepped in.

“We’re going out to fetch some dead wood,” said Uncle Fyorn. “Wanna come?”

I ignored his call, held my breath and kept hidden under the table. Whatever was in the box stayed quiet as well.

“I guess he’s not in here after all,” said Fyorn.

After they left, I snuck out of Fyorn’s workshop. On my way out, I grabbed the hatchet beside the door. I’m not exactly sure why I took it. I guess I thought a hatchet might come in handy. It did… and it nearly got me killed.

Chapter XVI

An Elderkin perspective

“
n
ud?” called a small voice, like a whisper inside itself. The faint sound twisted its way through a paradox and fell like hissing rain, only to drain away.

I did not respond. I could not respond. How can anyone respond to something like that?

The door to the workshop creaked open.

“NUD?” This time the voice slammed my ears and knocked me out of recall. There was a moment of blurriness, vertigo. Solid hands clamped my shoulders tight. The spin of the world began to slow; the image began to clarify. A part of a face came into view. Borrowed from the here and now, my uncle’s hawk-eyed stare met my own blank gaze. He was expecting an answer.

The arrows.

“I’m back,” I said. “I’m here.”

Fyorn knew all about Pip recall, so I didn’t have to explain myself to him. Carefully, he let go. Once assured that I could stand on my own, he looked up to the attic door, then back to me.

I felt ashamed, too ashamed to bear his penetrating stare. I felt as though the incident had just happened, as though Fyorn had just discovered me cowering beneath the very workbench I now stood at. Not that such displacement is unusual after recall; it just caught me out of sorts.

I turned away and took a few casual steps as nonchalantly as a guilty person can, and made my way towards the backpack. My knees were shaking. Still half in a daze, I stooped over, picked up the pack and brought it back to the workbench. I undid the cord, without looking up. Lightheaded but determined, I hauled out the deepwood arrows and set them in front of my uncle.

Fyorn picked up one arrow and brought it to eye level. He peered down its shaft and gave it a quick bend. Next, he tugged at the feather fletching and wiggled the arrowhead. Then he rested the arrow on one finger and found its point of balance. Finally, he wrapped his hand around the balance point and gave the arrow a gentle shake, as if to gauge the weight of it. He made a satisfied “humph” sound followed by a satisfied nod. A subtle, impressed smile formed on his lips.

“Not bad,” he said and proceeded to inspect a handful more the same way, with the same results. “Not bad at all. Straight, solid and well-balanced… that’s what I need. I like the blending.”

Still examining the workmanship, he hit me with an unexpected comment: “I see now why you have not returned in so many years.”

“Pardon?” I said.

The woodsman’s eyes shifted from the arrow to my arm.

“The Mark,” he said. “When did you receive it?”

“The Mark?”

Fyorn tapped my wrist twice with an arrow, put it down, and then picked up another.

“Your wrist,” he added.

“Oh
that
mark,” I said. “It’s nothing, really. Paplov says it’s a stubborn rash.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Since about… the last time I came here.”

“I see.”

Fyorn fingered through a few more arrows and lightly scrutinized each one with little more than a passing glance. He put what would be the last arrow to inspect down with the rest.

“Let me have a look at that,” he said.

I raised my arm and exposed my inner wrist. The woodsman grabbed my forearm and held it steady, then applied that same examining look.

“How?” he asked.

“A tree’s whipping branch hit me when I was running,” I said.

“So you were running through the woods and you swung your arm into a branch? Is that what happened?”

“Not exactly.”

“I didn’t think so.”

He released my arm. “It’s not a rash, Nud.” Fyorn pulled up his left shirtsleeve, but only for a split second. I could hardly believe my eyes. He too bore the Mark, and like mine, the symmetry of the pattern was so fine and intricate it could have passed as something inked in.

“Such strange ways,” he said to himself, with a slight shake of his head, as though rejecting a bad idea. A moment later, he was back to his usual self.

“Nud, thank you for bringing me the seekers,” he said. “The craftsmanship… masterful, as always. And thank Paplov too for me, would you?”

“Sure,” I said. “And you’re very welcome, as always. You do so much for us, to keep us informed.”

“Did you make any for yourself?” he said.

“Not many,” I responded.

My uncle scooped up half a dozen arrows in his rugged hands.

“Keep these for target practice. Next time you visit, I’ll teach you a few tricks about archery. Deepwood has a special… quality to it. I’d do it now, but I don’t like the idea of your friends running about with arrows flying through the trees.”

“You’re not
that
bad a shot,” I quipped.

He frowned and handed the arrows over to me.

“I have something else for you to bring back as well,” he said. And without a moment’s delay, my uncle was off to the far end of the workshop where he kept his best stock. I tucked the arrows away while he rummaged through a large, wooden bin. A minute later, he was back with an armful of deepwood, neatly tied, which I stuffed into my pack until it bulged. I pulled the drawstring tight around those pieces sticking out over the top, and tested the weight. Although it was not overly heavy, with all the long pieces sticking out it would be awkward to carry. I felt my chaffed shoulders.
Still sore
, I noted. Pips hate burden, and I was no exception.

“I threw in two exceptional pieces of deepwood,” said Fyorn. “Paplov will know which ones. The thick one with the big burl on one end is destined for woodcarving, and the other one… well… I am not sure exactly what it is good for, but surely he will find some use for it. I would throw in more, but your pack is a little on the small side.”

I acknowledged with a nod and slung the pack over one shoulder. It dug into the tender skin there. Having finished in the workshop, we made for the cabin.

As I stepped out of the door, voices of child-like commotion filtered through the trees. And as I made my way along the covered walkway, Holly screamed.

Immediately, I tensed, but the soft echoes of laughter that followed soon put me back at ease.

Once back in the cabin, Uncle Fyorn and I got to talking again. Many small things he revealed to me as we put away the dishes that he had set to dry. Pleasantries aside though, I had a purpose to fulfill, and I’d spent half a day already just dancing around it. The others could be back any minute.
To heck with the dishes
, I told myself. The time had come.

“You need to see this,” was all I said. I walked over to the table. At last, I pulled out my bog stone, unraveled the leather, and placed my curious find square in the middle of the slab. My uncle’s eyes lit up with the first flash of light, as wide as an owl’s. He gaped in wonder at the trail of sparks that followed after.

“How… wherever did you obtain such a thing?” he said.

“Well,” I started, “I was with Gariff on Blackmuk Creek and… well… I heard the wind blow up and a crow caw and… well… it made me look and then, well… I fell into a sinkhole full of bog bodies and… when I got out, this stone was just sitting there, caught up in some gnarly old tree roots, then –” Fyorn interrupted.

“Sinkhole? Bog bodies? Tree roots? What sort of tree roots? What did they look like?”

Remembering is one thing, describing, quite another. Fyorn seemed to get that.

“I was hoping
you
could tell
me
what it is,” I said. And when I tried to answer his questions and describe the event more fully, I fumbled every word. The woodsman put up his hand to interject, his voice calming.

“Enough,” he said. “Clearly, it was not chance alone that brought this fanciful stone to you. Nud, I can tell by the way it happened that there are
Wilder
forces at work here, and that it was meant to be… the Mark, the stone… everything – gift or bane, the
Hurlorns
have chosen,” he said.

“Meant to be? Hurlorns? What are Hurlorns?”

The translucent gem flashed a trail of red sparks, on and off like a firefly. Fyorn fixed his eyes on it. His voice was telling.

“I do not mean to say that it was meant to be in the sense of the greater cosmos or the grand scheme of things, heavens no. How could I even speculate on such a thing? I mean it in the sense of what might be the next best thing though… a higher consciousness in our midst, but it is just out of reach for most. We do not tap into it… not usually, but it is no less there because we are naive.”

His mystifying words might have confused even the Diviner. Fyorn read my puzzled expression like an open book. He let out a heavy sigh.

“I think it is time you learned something of Hurlorns,” he said, “since they seem to have included you in their plans.”

“Plans?”

“Yes, Nud, plans. Maybe ‘designs’ is a better word. Have a seat.”

I took the middle seat against the wall and Fyorn took his directly across from me, the stone between us. He rested his elbows on the table and sat forward, hands folded together, his thick fingers marred by fresh nicks and old scars.

“Hurlorns are far more than just trees,” he began. “That much is obvious. The sages of Gan have studied the most common sorts extensively: ‘Sleepers’ they are called. A holdover from the days when behemoths walked these lands and hunted them for food, it is generally believed that early Hurlorns were more like giant bugs than trees, slow moving terrestrial invertebrates that fed on swarms of insects and vegetation. They had no hope of outrunning or outsmarting the crafty predators that pursued them. However, over time, the early Hurlorns adapted. And they developed some interesting defenses nonetheless.”

The light continued to flicker on and off intermittently as he spoke, with five or ten seconds of dormancy between every flash-stream, usually. It was becoming part of the background, part of what was normal.

“First off,” he continued, “Hurlorns evolved ways to blend in with the forest by mimicking features of the vegetation they consumed – green and brown coloration and the ability to remain absolutely still, for instance. As time went on, they also developed ways to pass messages over distances and to warn one another of a predator’s destructive path. The messaging became more complex over time, and the distances greater. Having become observant and thoughtful, Hurlorns began to record the knowledge they gained and share it amongst themselves so that any one of them could access the whole – the beginnings of the consciousness I speak of. It took millennia upon millennia to evolve the capability into what it is today.”

“At some point, there was a kind of divergence. As the behemoths got better at searching, some Hurlorns became better at hiding, even taking on the physical traits of trees – exoskeletons like bark, appendages like roots and branches, long narrow bodies and even leaves of a sort. A portion gave up movement altogether – content to live out sedentary lives. Those ones are the Sleepers.”

“Others, well, they continued to become smarter. It seemed to happen all at once, actually, according to the sages who look into the past through the natural record.”

The stone flared up super-bright with Fyorn’s last words, and then stopped just as abruptly. A long pause in activity followed, during which I processed what he was telling me.
The tree creature I saw was real,
I thought to myself
.
I had known it all along. No words passed between us until, finally, I broke the silence.

“How would the sages know all of that?” I asked, skeptical.

“Oh, they have their ways,” said Fyorn. “Fossil records, for one. Perhaps brain cavity measurements, movement patterns – I do not know. I have to confess I cannot say how they disentangle the past to such detail, but I will say this: if given the luxury to study a problem for a hundred years, I imagine you might have a pretty good handle on it.”

He certainly had a point. Another bright flare-up occurred… Fyorn waited for the flickering to teeter off, before continuing.

“When prodded, Hurlorns tell a different story of their coming, more myth than fact if you ask me, but if looked at the right way it pretty much matches up with what the sages are saying, although with a little more drama.”

“Behemoths,” I said. “What happened to the behemoths?”

“No one really knows,” said Fyorn. “Perhaps their food outsmarted them.”

I chuckled. “Why doesn’t everyone know about them – the Hurlorn trees?” I said.

“Remember Nud,” said Fyorn, “it is in their nature to remain hidden and to whisper secretly amongst themselves. You will never breed that out of them.”

“Then why did a Hurlorn tree reveal itself to me?”

“You do not say ‘Hurlorn tree,’ Sir Nud… it’s just ‘Hurlorn,’” corrected Fyorn. “You can say ‘tree’ as well, if you like; that will not offend. They feel a close kinship with trees.”

“Okay,” I replied.

“Unless you’re talking about
Spirit Hurlorns
, that is,” he added. “They are totally separate… much more sophisticated… and ‘trees’ simply won’t do for them.”

“All right then,” I said. “Are there any other kinds to worry about?”

“Only one,” said Fyorn. “But there hasn’t been one of those for… well… since I was about your age.”

“What happened to it?” said Nud.

“The forest has many secrets,” he explained. “Sometimes, the secrets are best kept that way.”

He knows
, I decided,
but for some reason he can’t tell me, or won’t tell
me.

Fyorn took a moment to confirm that none of my friends had returned. Following that, he stood up and casually strode over to the lantern to dim the light. When back at the table, the woodsman furrowed his brow as he watched the bog stone flicker on. Arms crossed again, he just stood there and drew in a deep breath, as though to speak. When the words came out, something in his voice had changed. He sounded different, more serious. For many and most, such gravity in tone would not be a strange thing. But for Uncle Fyorn it made all the difference. He had never been so completely earnest with me as he was in that moment.

“Nud,” he said, “the Mark of the Hurlorn is something most often reserved for bearers of precious knowledge that the Hurlorns value, knowledge that must be preserved at all costs. It is received from time to time by great heroes and sages, and those that have performed some great service and proven their worth.”