Hungry Heart - Book #3 - Ch. 10 (Patreon)

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Chapter Ten – Ancient Magic

Varg looked at the three eagleshifters who turned into their human shapes under their very eyes. They were old indeed, dressed in tattered clothes, but looking no less noble as they rested against their gnarly wooden canes. The one in front who had spoken earlier appeared to be their leader. Varg took a knee and gestured for Toru to do the same. The young tiger seemed to be in awe at the apparition and followed his example without saying a word. Duril joined them, and only Claw remained with his back turned to them, too lost in his grief to care.

“Travelers,” the old eagleshifter said. “What brings you here, to this old place?”

Varg wondered briefly how old The Quiet Woods were, but at the same time, he thought that maybe the moon messenger didn’t mean the forest but the place as it used to be since the beginning of time. “We joined our friend,” he replied, “on his road home. We found this forest in quite a strange state.” He wasn’t entirely sure how much the eagleshifters knew of what had happened lately at The Quiet Woods, or about them.

“We are Silverlight,” the eagleshifter spoke again. He said the name as if it belonged to all three of them, and Varg didn’t question it. “We see that, without our guidance, Shearah lost her way once more.”

“Can you help us?” Toru asked in an anxious voice.

Behind them, Claw’s wails were turning into a long pain-laden murmur with no beginning and no end.

“Help you? Why would you need help?” Silverlight asked, and his words were echoed by the other two eagleshifters.

“Our friend,” Toru pointed out, “he lost many of his loved ones.”

“Loved ones come and go,” Silverlight replied. His voice seemed devoid of any emotion known to man. He could be as old as the world, if the wrinkles etched deep into the papery fabric of his face were anything to judge by.

“But not like this,” Toru said passionately. “They… just died. Without a fight, without saying one last word. Such death isn’t fair!”

“We cannot bring back the dead,” Silverlight continued in the same emotionless voice.

Varg wondered if his instincts weren’t finally playing tricks on him. The moon above them, round and pale, told him that the eagleshifters were her messengers. How could they be so cold and unfeeling to their plight?

“What can you do?” Toru spat, his young voice filled with hurt.

“We’re here to take Shearah where she belongs. Amarant is no longer able to contain her. She’s too strong.”

Too strong? What could that possibly mean? But Shearah was a wind spirit, forever young, wasn’t she? Varg decided that he had kept silent long enough. “The moon sent you,” he raised his voice to make it powerful enough to get his point across. “If you are here only to contain Shearah for destroying the forest she herself made and the creatures inhabiting it, then your purpose is way beneath your power.”

“How do you dare to speak like that to us?” Silverlight leaned over his cane and stared Varg down. His eyes were bottomless silver pits, and Varg lost his bearings for a moment as he stared back.

“You don’t know who we are. How long have you been asleep?” Varg questioned without moving his eyes away from the wrinkled face and frightening eyes.

Silverlight straightened up and for a few moments, he turned his head slightly, consulting with his brothers in a language that sounded as old as Eawirith, of which Varg knew no word.

“We know who you are. You’re far from your path, travelers,” Silverlight insisted.

“We have no set path before us,” Duril intervened. “We only know that we must be here now, on this road, for our friends. And Claw is one of us now, too.”

The healer was speaking words he believed also. Varg didn’t have to look at Toru to know that the young tiger thought the same.

“You lack guidance,” Silverlight concluded. “It is not our place to give it.”

“We don’t want it, anyway,” Toru said petulantly. “We just want you to give that wind spirit a good spanking and have her make Claw’s friends alive again.”

Silverlight appeared slightly taken aback by Toru’s brash words. “We are keepers of the ancient magic. Shearah, as a wind spirit, is part of it, too.”

“So, can’t she take a beating for being so naughty?” Toru asked.

Varg caught his friend’s wrist. “Silverlight,” he said loudly again, “our friend is in pain over the loss of his friends. And it all seemed to have happened at a whim of the one you claim as being part of you. What use is your ancient magic if you cannot undo her work?”

Duril came to their aid once more. “She only has to understand that the Vrannes are creatures that need to be nurtured and cared for, just as the rest of the forest does. Amarant agrees,” he pointed out decisively, displaying as much force of will as the rest of their group.

“Amarant,” Silverlight said the name of the old oak tree slowly. “We haven’t spoken to him in centuries.”

“He spoke to me,” Duril continued. “And Shearah is too wild to listen to him. He’s right. How can she care only for what is beautiful and reject all that doesn’t please her eye? Is ancient magic so dull and narrow-minded?”

Varg would have given Duril a standing ovation for his words. As the one who had spoken to the old oak, he was the most equipped of them to get the eagleshifters to see their point of view.

“Dull? Narrow-minded?” Silverlight appeared to take each of those words as a personal offense. As personal as that could be, seeing how he was the voice of three heads, not one. “The Quiet Woods shouldn’t have existed.”

Varg was baffled to hear such words. “Did you allow Shearah to play with life?” he asked and stood, no longer willing to kneel in front of such obtuse power.

“From this playing with life, as you call it, master wolf,” Silverlight said pointedly, “your world emerged.”

“Let’s say that it is so,” Varg continued. Claw’s murmurs of grief still reached them, and a part of him wanted to damn the eagleshifters and rush to his side so that he could offer solace and comfort. “That doesn’t make it less your responsibility to care for it and see to its wellbeing forever and ever until the end of time.”

Silverlight fell silent again and consulted with his brothers, just like before. “Your tongue is sharp, master wolf. And yet, the task of saving the world falls on your friend’s shoulders, not ours.” With that, the eagleshifter turned toward Toru and gave him a pointed look.

The young tiger jumped to his feet. “Ha! And that means you get to sleep and laze around all day? If you don’t want to help us, we’ll find a way. Take your evil witch with you and leave already!”

It wasn’t exactly what Varg hoped to achieve since the moon above had sent these messengers, but their senseless ways convinced him that Toru might be right.

“Don’t call me an evil witch,” Shearah finally spoke.

Varg wondered why she had been so silent until now. Like a child, she must have hidden for a while.

“Evil, evil, evil,” Toru repeated with passion. “Can’t you see what you did? Claw’s friends are nothing but sawdust because you’re stubborn and mean!”

“I’m not!”

“Shearah,” Silverlight said sternly. “It is your doing.”

Varg observed the wrinkled faces with as much attention as he could give them under the silver light of the moon.

“I don’t like ugly things. And look what they did to Amarant.”

Only then, they all turned toward the old oak; save for Claw, still lost in his own misery. Duril let out a gasp of surprise at the sight. The old oak was leaning on one side, and there was a gaping rent in its trunk. That must have happened when the Vrannes had chosen to release them from inside the ancient body simply by biting into the wood. Without a doubt, the tiny creatures had saved them from the terrible fate of being suffocated at Shearah’s whim.

But at what cost! The ancient tree had looked as good as dead before, but now it looked like an old man who couldn’t continue to live any longer. The crown that had been so high above that it was hard to see without tipping your head back all the way, now was touching the ground with several of its branches. And the majestic tree looked as if it had shrunk in on itself, nothing but a shadow of what it had been before.

“They did it to save us,” Duril said. “Shearah, it is because of you that the forest is dying every night. And doesn’t your heart bleed, not even a little, at this sight?” The healer moved out of the way, to allow an unhindered view of what remained of the trees that had once been the shapeshifters inhabiting The Quiet Woods. The gesture seemed unnecessary with the wind spirit most probably being able to see everything anyway, but it did appear to make the right impression on the eagleshifters.

Once more, they held counsel in low voices. “Shearah, how is it we find Amarant in this condition?”

The wind spirit’s voice became anxious at the accusation. “It’s not because of me, it’s them! Them!”

“Amarant wouldn’t fall because of little teeth digging into his old trunk. There must have been a grander power to bring him low like this.”

Varg pondered. Did they truly mean that? Was it because of the wind spirit that Amarant, an ancient creature that had lived through millennia, was now dying?

“No, no, it’s not my fault!” Shearah pleaded.

“You killed the old witch, too,” Toru joined the chorus of accusers.

“I didn’t kill her!” Shearah protested some more. “Why are you all so mean? All I’ve ever wanted was to create beauty. How can that not be a good thing?”

“At the cost of sacrificing Amarant who always cared for you, despite your childish ways?” Silverlight continued to chastise her.

“I hate you all!” A swish of wind followed and the eagleshifters all turned into their bird forms, soaring into the air.

“What is going on?” Toru asked, his arms stretched toward the sky, as if he was trying to catch either the wind or the eagleshifters flying away.

***

Duril took in the situation with wide eyes. It was all going very wrong, and there was something nagging him at the back of his mind, trying to get him to think. It took him a couple of moments to realize that the tiny Vranne hidden inside his sleeve was scratching his skin as if it was trying to get his attention. He opened his palm wide, wishing for the creature to climb on to it, which it did.

“What should we do?” he asked in a whisper. He could tell that his friends were at a loss. Toru was impatiently trying to catch the wind, by jumping up and down, while Varg stood there, in the moonlight, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. Claw’s mourning continued, creating an eerie music that combined with the soft breeze shaking the leaves of trees. They were falling, more and more with each passing moment, and it hit Duril right in his chest as the thought crossed his mind. The forest was starting to die again, but now there would be no other morning, with Shearah struggling to revive it again. Dawn would not come again over The Quiet Woods.

“I need wings,” he cried out, not entirely sure what made him say such an astonishing thing.

But as soon as he said the words, it was as if magic coursed through him. Up and down his good arm, Vrannes began to run amok, yet quickly Duril realized that they were doing something. He cried out in surprise as he stretched his arm and, instead of its human shape, it now took the form of a wing made from an intricate web of twigs. For good measure, he moved his arm up and down a few times. The air dislodged by it raised a small wind that pushed him upward, making his feet lift from the ground for a few moments.

The same thing happened to his other side, but here, where his arm wasn’t whole, the Vrannes appeared to have a hard time repeating their feat. A smaller wing sprouted from his shoulder eventually, and when Duril moved both arms, he realized that he would have to compensate for the difference in length through skillful balancing.

“Duril, what are you doing?” Toru asked. “You’re flying!” he replied to his own question. “You really are!”

“I must go after them,” Duril said with determination. “I cannot allow them to leave us like this.”

Toru embraced him briefly, even as he was floating above the ground. “Don’t let them get away,” he said, and Duril couldn’t stop thinking that Toru had grown up a lot during their latest adventures. In the golden eyes, he read trust and confidence, and it was all he needed so that he would soar high into the sky, as the shapes of the eagles were still visible as black shadows against the pale face of the moon.

***

Toru took Varg’s hand. “Duril is flying, did you see him?” he asked.

“The moon,” Varg whispered, “she never lied to me.”

The wolfshifter was angry; that much Toru understood. But why at the moon? He couldn’t understand. “Can you talk to her?” he asked and wondered if his question wasn’t too naïve.

“She talked to me,” Varg replied and his head dropped, chin against his chest.

“Young tiger,” someone whispered, and they both looked around.

Toru recognized it. It had been the way Duril sounded while being one with the old oak. “Amarant?” he asked hesitantly. “Are you not dead yet?”

“Not yet,” Amarant replied. “Come closer.”

Toru grabbed Varg and pulled him along. Whatever it was that made his friend so sad and mad, maybe this old being had an answer for it. If he was anything like Demophios, he had to know things that are hidden to most living beings, things that hailed from a past lost in the darkness of time, just like the moon.

“Who did this to you? Was it Shearah, the evil wind spirit, or the Vrannes?” he asked as he knelt by the fallen crown.

“My old heart is failing. It’s no one’s fault,” Amarant said.

“That cannot be true. You just pretend to be so tough and understanding because you’ve lived for thousands of years,” Toru retorted. “I’ve known someone just like you. He was very annoying and now he’s lost in the desert,” he added.

“Nothing is lost forever, and no one,” Amarant said in a gentle voice. “But I’m not important. You must look inside my trunk. There’s someone there who needs your help.”

Toru didn’t hesitate. As Amarant’s gentle voice guided him, he put his hand inside one of the long crevices splitting the trunk and immediately felt a tiny body. He cradled it gently in his palm and brought it out. “It’s the old witch!” he exclaimed. “She’s not dead, right?”

“No, she’s not dead yet,” Amarant confirmed. “All of my power, I want her to have it.”

Toru scratched his head. “How do we do that?”

“Will she be powerful enough to bring back the dead?” Varg asked, speaking for the first time since Duril had soared into the air, bent on following the eagleshifters on their path toward the moon.

“She doesn’t need to,” Amarant said enigmatically.

“Ah, ah,” Toru complained, “you all act the same. Demophios said things like that, too. But Claw’s friends are all dead! Don’t they need to be revived? Will she do it? But she’s so tiny,” he said as he held the bug in which the other Shearah was trapped with as much care as he could muster. His hand was just so rough and clumsy.

“Master wolf, bring us one of the Vrannes. They’re everywhere on the ground. You only need to catch one and bring it to me.”

Varg moved right away. Maybe ancient creatures like Demophios and Amarant were annoying more often than not, but they always meant well. Toru felt hope swelling inside his chest, bringing a couple of tears to his eyes. He wiped them away and sniffled.

“You can cry, young tiger,” Amarant said in the same soft voice. “There’s time for new magic, now that you are here, walking through the world and following your destiny.”

Toru shook his head stubbornly. He couldn’t even explain why he was crying. But as he held that puny creature in his palm, his heart went out to the old witch. Yes, she was a bit not all there, but she had tried to help them, and Toru didn’t want to lose her. She and Agatha would be great friends if they ever met.

One of his tears, like a drop of silver, fell on the tiny body. Toru’s eyes grew wide as he noticed the old witch twitching one of her crooked insect legs. “She’s moving! Did you see that?”

Varg was back, holding a Vranne by one of its branches like he was bringing a naughty child to heel.

Amarant began speaking right away. “Give Shearah to your friend, Toru. The Vranne will know what to do.”

He trusted the ancient oak, but he still hesitated before letting Shearah drop onto Varg’s palm. The wolfshifter put the Vranne beside the bug’s body.

“Now, master wolf,” Amarant instructed gently, “raise your arm and present your offering to the moon.”

Toru wondered if Varg would do it. He was angry at the moon for not talking to him or whatever the reason was. So he felt relieved when Varg complied with Amarant’s request and his body stretched taut to lift his palm as close to the sky as he could.

A soft ray, spun of gentle silver, cast its light over Varg’s palm. And Toru witnessed, wide-eyed and bewildered, as under that benevolent radiance, the small Vranne embraced the bug, its minute branches turning into tender tendrils, wrapping them around the body that belonged for now to an old witch that maybe could bring back the dead.

The light of the moon enshrouded them both, and from Varg’s palm, they soared into the air, a spiral beam that sent silver sparks flying. Then, it suddenly died, and Toru was about to ask the ancient oak what was going on, when he noticed someone on the ground.

Varg was the one who offered a hand to help that person to their feet. Toru couldn’t believe his eyes. “You’re not an old witch! You’re a young witch!”

Silver bells followed, sounding at his words. “I’m as surprised as you are, Toru,” she said.

Her hair was long and silver, and her face was round just like the moon. Her eyes were so big, they seemed to take up most of her face, but she wasn’t strange or ugly. She was just different from anyone Toru had ever seen in his life.

“Young or old,” he said, “you have to bring back everyone.”

Shearah – it was her – looked around. “The power of the Vrannes is amazing,” she said.

“Did they turn the trees into sawdust?” Toru asked.

She shook her head and walked closer to where Claw sat, curled inside himself with grief. “No. But it was necessary because now everyone will receive the lives they were meant to live.”

She carefully picked up a Vranne sapling, blew over it, her breath a beam of silver light, and then placed it on the ground. The sapling appeared to have been eagerly waiting for that purpose to be given to it for a long time because it tumbled over itself as it hurried toward the pile of dust in front of Claw, making all manner of strange sounds much resembling those of an excited baby finally given a favorite toy.

Toru watched in fascination as the sapling threw itself into the big pile of dust, burrowing into it for a moment. Soon, something stirred and then emerged from it. No, it wasn’t something, but someone, Toru quickly realized. And he even recognized that someone.

Beast let out a victorious howl and ran to Claw, who had gotten to his feet, as bewildered by everything as the rest of them were.

“Is it you, is it really you?” Claw asked in a tremulous voice.

Beast pulled him into a powerful hug. “In the flesh,” he said. “I was dreaming that I was a tree. And then you all,” he said as he waved at Toru and Varg, “came to rouse me from a long, strange sleep. But I wasn’t dreaming, was I?”

Toru nodded with importance. “We made a young witch out of an old one with tiny legs and a bug body. And she gave you life.”

While they were talking, Shearah went on with her work. A smile spread across her face as she gently selected Vranne after Vranne and blew over them. Just like earlier, the saplings ran into the pile of dust.

The next to come to life was Willow, and Toru observed with mounting joy as he also ran into Claw’s arms. “We will never doubt you again, my friend, never again,” he promised.

***

Varg watched as the young witch revived, one after the other, all the shapeshifters. His role in it was done, he realized, but maybe not entirely. He knelt by the crown of the ancient oak. “Are you truly dying?” he asked.

“My life has always had a purpose,” Amarant explained, his voice devoid of any regret.

“May I tell you what I think has happened all these years?”

Amarant chuckled softly. “Why don’t you enlighten me, master wolf?”

“Since you’ll fall quickly into the habit of talking in tongues so that we don’t understand what you mean, I will. All these years, as the wind spirit went about her work, resisting what you were advising her to do, you gradually gave your power to the saplings. Am I right?”

“You might know even more than I do,” Amarant said. “I was not aware of doing so until tonight. I knew that I had to die to let them go free as Shearah kept them all prisoners inside me so that she could do her work.”

“Did you sense your power waning?”

“I did. I wasn’t aware I was giving my power to them, but I should have known. After all, as she neglected them, I tried to nourish them with my dried-up sap.”

“It appears that it was enough, after all,” Varg said. He rested his back against the old trunk.

“Not quite enough. I needed more to give them the life they yearned to have. Or, better said, to help Shearah grow into what she was meant to be.”

“What did you need?” Varg inquired.

“You,” Amarant replied simply. “And your friends, the talker to the trees, and the valiant young tiger. You’re one loved by the moon, and as much as my branches used to stretch toward the sky, I’ve never quite managed to catch her eye. I suppose an old oak like me wouldn’t be able to, anyway,” he added.

“You’re selling yourself a little short, don’t you think?” Varg replied with a snort.

“Wolfshifters are her favorites. For so long I’ve waited for one to walk into The Quiet Woods without even knowing what I was waiting for.”

“You’re not just flattering me, are you? And I thought she deserted me.”

“Not at all. We’re all beings of the world. We’re thrown into it, we grow, and we fade. But it is the things that bring us together that matter the most. Just like you and your friends.”

Varg couldn’t find a word to contradict the old oak with. “Ancient magic. Ancient wisdom. Thank you for everything, Amarant.”

“I should be the one to thank you. Because of you, I accomplished my purpose.”

“What was your purpose? If you don’t mind my asking,” Varg said. “To make the forest be itself again?”

“Not quite. To make it live on its own. Independent. Shearah created something beautiful, indeed, but she didn’t know how to let go. That stunted its growth, and it would have happened even without the Vrannes coming here.”

“So, are you trying to say that it’s all for the best that the eagleshifters took her away?”

“That is their purpose,” Amarant confirmed. “When they brought her to me, those many years ago, for her to find rest, I accepted because I knew that her soul was still needed here. She’s been my friend since the day she came here.”

Varg looked over at the happy faces of the shapeshifters as they returned to life. Toru was happy to be pulled into a hug by Claw who was, again, introducing him, to everyone. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Ask away, master wolf. My strength is waning, and I might not have long.”

“Why is the witch also called Shearah? Is she part of the wind spirit?”

Amarant remained silent for a while, and Varg wondered if he hadn’t already lost him to the eternal darkness.

“You could say that,” the ancient oak agreed. “As she journeyed throughout the world, happy to bring new seeds and new creatures here, Shearah left traces of herself hanging from my branches. I collected them all and cherished them, until one day, I had enough to make someone out of them.”

“That is quite the story. So, in a way, even though she is now gone, she is still here, right?” Varg asked.

“Yes. What we create, what we give to the world, will always carry a part of us, forever.”

“Words to live by,” Varg admitted. “Where are the eagleshifters taking Shearah now?”

“Where she belongs, the place from where she came,” Amarant explained. “Go celebrate your friends’ new lives, master wolf. I need my rest.”

“Can’t the witch use her power and Vranne saplings to keep you alive, as well?” Varg asked. “There seem to be so many of them, and they have you to thank for not getting destroyed during all these years.”

This time, the silence that followed stretched long enough for him to understand that the old oak could no longer hear him.

***

A tremendous sight appeared before his eyes, as he flew, following the eagleshifters as closely as possible. The dark green of tree crowns was replaced by marshes and cliffs jutting out of them like hands reaching for the sky. Duril had to adjust the movement of his wings more often than not, to compensate for the unpredictable currents in the air and avoid losing height. He trusted the Vranne saplings that had given him wings, but it was up to him to be able to fly.

The eagleshifters didn’t appear to notice him. Eventually, they stopped on the top of one of the cliffs and held counsel between them, their heads leaning in, forming a tight circle. Duril managed to land on a small patch of smooth stone, close enough for him to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“She is asleep now,” one of them said.

Since they all referred to themselves as Silverlight together, Duril doubted they were even distinct creatures.

“So let her sleep. The forest needs to live and die by its own design,” another added.

“We left Amarant there,” a third intervened. “Is it wise to have ancient magic left exposed to the whims of those who don’t know how to handle it?”

So the ancient oak held the same kind of magic as the eagleshifters. It all made sense, Duril thought. After all, Amarant had been chosen as a temporary place of rest for the wind spirit.

“Wise or not, we have our purpose to fulfill,” the first spoke again. “And protecting a dying tree is not it.”

“The Quiet Woods will disappear without Shearah there,” the second said.

“There are other forces at work. Our mistress’s favorite was there,” the third made his opinion known.

“The wolf,” the first confirmed. “If needed, Amarant will know what to do.”

They were talking about Varg, Duril realized. But were they really sure that The Quiet Woods would perish now without their maker? He wanted to believe otherwise.

“I am still concerned about the ancient magic we left to chance when we abandoned Amarant,” the second insisted.

“No one would know what to do with it, even if they knew that it existed,” the first said. “It is not our main concern.”

“But the travelers have come to The Quiet Woods,” the second continued. “If they are there, the evil within--”

“The evil within cannot access our ancient magic. It doesn’t know how.”

Duril felt a slight frisson at hearing the eagleshifters talking about the faceless enemy they had clashed with repeatedly without being able to claim that they were any closer to defeating it than they had been at the beginning of their journey.

“And do not speak its name casually,” the first Silverlight scolded the second. “I shouldn’t have to remind you of such a thing.”

“Forgive me, brother,” the second hurried to say. “Still, about the ancient magic--”

Duril’s foot chose to slip from the edge he was perched on at that very moment.

“Who is there?” the first eagleshifter asked loudly. “Show yourself.”

There seemed no point in remaining silent or trying to hide. Duril used his wings to lift himself into the air so that he could face the eagleshifters. “It’s me, Duril of Whitekeep,” he said, somewhat timidly.

The three eagleshifters traded glances. “The talker to the trees. How do you come to have wings?” the third of them asked.

“He could be the answer,” the second said animatedly.

“We will see about that,” the first Silverlight added in a stern voice.

TBC

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