The Herald of Autumn (Echoes of the Untold Age Book 1) (2 page)

“
It is mine to call, mine to cast.
It rests within me still.
” Those words echoed through eternity. He drew in
a powerful breath, and then, cupping his hands, whispered a secret into
existence that no mortal would ever hear.

For an instant, the world was aflame.

A glowing light erupted from his
hands, singing a forgotten song. The element flared with what fire was before
there were men to name it. It was what fire dreamed of being again.

He held it high. The old,
salt-and-pepper haired man faded. Now Coyote stood on two legs like a man. The
sun’s fire burned white and eternal in his hand, but it burned him not. No, he
wielded the fire, shaped it with secrets and shadows.

Then, the man returned.

Yet his words drawled strangely.

“I could kill yeh here,
Tommy
Maple
.” His voice thundered when he said my name, though he no longer
uttered a Telling. He held the fire toward me so I felt its heat, even from
five strides away.

I squinted against the light. “If you
meant me dead, I would be so.”

He smiled. “Clever boy.” He cast the
fire, throwing it as one might a river stone.

It landed at my feet.

The ground trembled under the burst
of yellow-white flame. The fire whispered, both beckoning and threatening.

The forest debris caught instantly.

I crawled away. In my weakened state,
my ridiculous attempt at Telling had left me thoroughly exhausted.

The sun neared setting. Soon, summer
would be gone.

“True fact. I could kill yeh, but I
won’t. I need yeh, O Herald.”

“What for?

“Ne’ermind that. Yeh just remember
that I had yeh here. I had yeh, and I let yeh live. Cross me, and I’ll find yeh
like this again. Next time, we won’t be friendly.” He leaned closer. “This is
just the first step of our little dance. We ain’t through by a long shot.” He
rocked back on his heels and glanced at the sky.

“Easy to threaten now.” I scowled.
“Yet I’ll wager you are going to make away before summer’s last sun sets.”

He said nothing before walking away.
Then, he turned back, as I weakly rolled away from the rapidly catching fire.

“Yeh’ll want to head to town, two
hours north. The road’s this way.” He pointed and grinned, a helpful old man.
“And, Tommy, we’re playing nice.” That grin turned feral.

“If yeh come a’ hunting, I’ll know.
I’ll know it before you start.” He canted his head to the side, curious. “Yeh
come huntin’, and I’ll be mist. I’ll be shadows.” His grin twisted with
terrifying madness. “Yeh won’t see me again until next time autumn rolls
’round, if’n yeh follow.”

I nodded. I completely followed.

Then, like a snowflake in the sun, he was gone.

The sun yet clung to the horizon
while the strange flames coerced me into retreat. With minor effort I crawled
away from the weirding fire. It didn’t spread as if it were hungry; instead it
meandered, sampling the earth around it. It scorched its secret name into the
carpet of leaf clutter and twigs. Without the Old Man’s power, I knew the fire
would soon wither and die. Still, while it burned, it echoed of his strength. I
dragged myself for uncounted minutes until it became a flicker in the shadows.

Then, I fell to my back in the
leaves. Autumn’s birth shouldn’t be long now. I needed only to wait for the
last golden ray of summer to succumb to the eventide.

My alertness nagged at my mind.
Typically I awoke with the first dawning day of autumn—not as the summer died
into night. When the sun roused me for my season, I wandered the wood, innocent
and forgetful, for days before I fully came into myself.

Never was I aware as I was now. Not
this close to summer.

I knew the reason, of course. Old man
Coyote had Named me, brought me into myself. I must learn why.

I pondered him, his not-so-veiled
threats, and his mysteries until the last brilliant shaft of sunlight shot past
the treetops.

From that secret place behind my
heart where poems are born, a shudder rippled through the earth.

All creation whispered my Name.

“
Tommy Maple
.” The trees
rustled. Already traced with gold this far north,
t
hey bowed their heads to me as I sat up.

“
Tommy Maple
.” A stag stared
at me from across the clearing. It snorted, mist spreading in the cool air.
Thrice it pawed the earth at me, an ancient greeting, the mark of a creature
Oathed to the Hunt.

“
Tommy Maple
.” The birds in
the sky, the moment they felt my gaze, veered as one toward the south.

The world belonged to me once more:
the gold and red, the mist in the air, the bite of frosted wind. I pushed to my
feet, then began to walk, feeling the early fallen leaves dreaming beneath my
feet.

He meant for me to meet him in the
town.

A ludicrous proposal, of course. Who
of the fairest folke would play his game with Old Man Coyote? It would be a
trap. Still, if he meant me harm, he had me. He could have taken me at any
moment.

He had my Name.

“I need yeh
…
Yeh just remember that I had yeh here. I had yeh, and
I let yeh live.”

Terror washed over me. I wish he’d
taken an Oath, even a minor one, before he’d left. If I had been stronger
perhaps I could have
…

I laughed at that thought.

Oaths hardly bound the Old Man. He
would look me square in the face, make any promise I wished, and then kill me
without breaking his Oath.

The slumbering leaves rustled
deliciously under my feet as I came upon the road, flanked with miles of exploding
red and gold. On the other side of the road, a squirrel caught my gaze and
immediately scrambled toward an old, acorn-heavy oak.

The rusty, faded-blue truck rumbled
and rattled along, drawing nearer. It was perfect. I couldn’t have drawn him in
a Telling.

The white-haired man belonged to this
land, as if he had wandered these hilly woods since his first step. His blue
coveralls had worn thin in all the wrong places. An aged but gleaming shotgun
hung on the rack in the back window of his truck.

He pulled up next to where I stood,
eyeing my nakedness critically.

Then he drew deeply from a briarwood
pipe. “Bet there’s a story here. I’d like to know it.”

I smiled. “It’s a good one.”

He let the quiet moment grow long.
“You from away?”

I nodded.

He sighed.

“Name’s Kenneth.” He opened the
truck’s door.

I extended a hand. “Timothy.” I would
not be giving him my Name.

“Think I got pair of my boy’s jeans.
He’s wicked short, but I bet they’d fit.” He said “sho-at” instead of short.

I nodded again.

Kenneth stepped out. He rummaged
behind his seat until pulling up a worn pair of jeans and throwing them to me.
They squeezed, but I could wear them.

When I started to thank him, he
raised a gnarled hand.

“No thankin’ me, boy. I’ll get your
gawmy ass to town. You can pay me with the story of how ya got here.”

I suppressed a grin.

That made twice he’d asked.

Still a bit dizzy from my
Telling-spar with the Old Man, this was thankfully different. An eager human
made for a simple Telling.

It couldn’t get much simpler than
this: I needed clothes, money, and food.

If I crafted the right story, Kenneth
would have all I needed. He would have it and give it happily since I chose how
it ended.

“Are you sure you want me to gaw your
ear off?” I asked Kenneth as we lurched along the rutted bumpy road.

He let his gaze wander from the road
to me.

“Ayuh. Wicked boring out here. I
gotta tell the boys about the naked, red-head lad I found in the woods.”

My smile broke wide open. That made
three times.

It was all I needed.

“Well,
sir, that’s a complicated one. I have one thousand beginnings.” I paused. “No.
That’s not right.” I caught his blue eye in the mirror. “A thousand thousand,
each stranger than the last.”

Time drifted by, like a rainy
afternoon.

I guided Kenneth through the
wandering, shadowy path of my Telling, yet once done, he asked for more. I gave
even as I took, leaving him with lost secrets that he could never tell and the
wild imaginings of a much younger man. For a season, he would almost hear the
whispers of the autumn wind. For a year and a day he would dream of the Hunt,
the prey, and the wild chase.

He would remain fey-touched until his
last.

I believed our trade fair.

He left me with a thick jacket to
cover my back, boots for my feet, and his son’s pants. Though he had no food to
offer before the Telling, he found a forgotten chocolate bar that I downed
quickly. He offered thirty-seven dollars.

I only took thirty-three.

I gave his shotgun no thought
though.  I sought a bow neither of ash nor rowan. He would have granted me
both. He would have begged to. But I could always call my bow if I truly needed
it. The many turnings of the years had taught me that unfamiliar weapons only
created situations where I must call for my bow sooner.

That was dangerous. Merely holding my
bow was only a few steps away from calling the Wild Hunt.

“Ya sure ya wanna go? I could put ya
up for a spell.” His eyes shone; the man had seen and would never forget.

I smiled at his unintentional
wording.

“You’ve gifted me enough, Kenneth.”
My overtaxed voice cracked.

If he had me for one night, he would
have me for a dozen, always begging for another Telling. With no interest in
food or sleep, he would wither away, drifting on my meandering tales.

I must leave before he became fully
entangled in my glamour despite a wistful pang in my heart.

No. Home, love, that wasn’t part of
who I was. I didn’t get family; I didn’t get friends.

The Herald of Autumn would find no
restful place to lay down roots. The leaves changed, the wind blew, and the
Herald wandered on.

Ever wandered.

I reached out and clasped his hand as
a goodbye. “Thank you for everything, Ken.”

His grip was like old oak. Words
flickered behind his eyes, but those words were lost.

His handshake would have to convey
enough.

I glanced at him once more, then
stepped out into the frost-touched evening. He waved through his window, saying
something at last. I waved once before walking away.

Mount Chase, a tiny town of only a
few dozen families, cloistered around me.

Near its heart rested the Inn of the
Hollows. Kenneth had told me it served less as an inn these days, more as a bed
and breakfast. I had never been here before, but true to his word, I could make
out its flaking, hand-painted sign from the road.

It was perfect.

The inn sang with history. Old wood
shingled its long, sloping roof. Its stone pavers slept in the earth,
surrounded by a garden of mums and aster, with bellflowers throughout. This
building had obviously sat through the wearing of years.

I rang the old, brass bell at the
door, chiming a song into the listless night.

Yellow light shone from one of the
upper windows.

“A moment!” The woman’s voice sounded
sleepy.

I regretted rousing her from her bed
as I heard rustling inside.

A light came on downstairs. Then she
opened the door a touch, peering out at me, almost coy.

Projecting the innocence of a
harmless traveler, I said, “I was told you might have a room.”

“Occasionally.” Now she smiled. “When
someone is from away. You don’t have any people here?”

I shook my head.
No, I don’t have
any  people anywhere.
It was only a thought, but its bleakness sung on my
face, in my posture, from my stance.

She gaped, almost affronted, as if
she had heard the words.

“Well, you do now. My name’s Molly. I
collect vagabonds.” Her grin flashed, both beautiful and lovely.

“Timothy.” I extended my hand.
“Timothy Ash.” I sank just a whisper of my glamour into my touch and gave her a
charming smile. When she took my hand, I knew she would catch the faintest
whiff of frost-kissed pumpkin. She would hear crunching leaves and feel the
caress of the harvest moon.

Yes, I saw it in her eyes, the first
whisper of wonder, as she bid me, “Step on in.”

I did, glancing around. It was alive,
warm. Now, what had obviously been a small inn two hundred years ago had been
reshaped into Molly’s home.

It was perfect inside as well. Like
beautiful, living art, it reflected the world that was.

My world.

“Let me start a fire. Frost gets
fearsome, even this early.”

While she arranged logs atop the
andirons in an old, large fireplace of flat river stone, I sat at one of the
places at the bar. It had once served numerous patrons as they sat with their
cups, reminiscing and lie-telling. Now the wood had worn smooth and shiny.

I frowned at the cunning brackets
holding it together. I touched one gingerly, anticipating sharp pain.

None. It was iron, but not angry
iron. Not cold.

“...brings a young man like you out
this late? Don’t you have any bags?”

I attempted to seem rueful. “I came
to, along the road. I had no bags when I awoke.”

In an endearing gesture, her eyes
widened, even as she made a small tsk. “You have to be careful out there,
Timothy. It can be dangerous out this far.”

I hid a small smile.

Lurking somewhere close, Old Man
Coyote had enough glam to make the entire town rave and rage if he wished.
Rave, or simply abandon everything. They would walk into the red-leaved trees
and never look back. When they reached the ocean they would never stop smiling
while they drowned.

Dangerous was an understatement.

“I know, Molly. I’m glad you’re here.
You’ve saved me a night in the wind.”

She blinked up at me, a smudge of ash
on her pretty face. I saw a glimpse of her enchanting smile before she turned
back to the stuttering flame that refused to catch.

“I can help you with that.”

She babbled flustered politeness as I
walked over but stood still as I stepped close.

She smelled like cinnamon. Like
cinnamon and myrrh. As I drew near, she trembled and flushed. “Everything is
wet. It gets mist covered; I didn’t expect a guest tonight...”

I bent over her hearth. This corky,
wet elm would never light for her.

“I’ll set the hearth, Molly. I have a
touch for it.” I met her eyes and held them.

Her smile warmed like the sunrise.

“Well, if you’ll do that, I might
have something else that can warm us as well.” She walked toward the kitchen.

Each step, part of a dance I knew
well. Awash in me, curiosity filled her mind. Inevitable as the tide, unseen
forces attracted us. She allowed herself to relax, to drift on the filaments of
glamour I’d cast about us.

I Dreamed my fire. Dry, crunchy oak
leaves, juniper that had been laid up before the cold, and pine heartwood
steeped in sap. October wind breathing, biting.

You owe me a bit yet, Old Elm, from
before. One small boon, we’ll call square.

My fire stuttered to begrudging life,
then flickered with light and shadow. The shadows told the story of a battle
long ago, where we had stood fast against the strange armies of the First
People. All others had left us, but I stood with Elm. We stood, and we
survived.

Square,
Tommy Maple
. This is
the last time you call me, else you evoke a boon and a debt.

Agreed, old friend.

Molly turned, setting a cup on the
long bar, followed by a second. She poured amber fire from a stout glass bottle
into them. She smiled as she walked back, handing me one.

“You got that going quick. You don’t
need a drafty, old inn if you can scratch up a fire that fast,” she teased.

“I’m hoping the company here will be
better than with the bears.”

She laughed at me then, genuinely.
Her eyes glistened in the light. “I’m not much company, I’m afraid.”

“You’re perfect.” I could not stop
watching the firelight dancing in her dark hair. “You are an unexpected gift on
a long, empty road.”

The moment meandered while our gazes
wandered across each other. I could not say how long it was, for such moments
roam outside of time. The lovely curve of her ear, the sweetness of her neck
and hips entrapped me. She, eyes wide, reveled in the thrill of the Great Hunt,
the darkened wood, and the mystery that lay at the heart of an autumn night.

“You’re an unusual man, Timothy Ash.”
Her voice fell to a whisper. She took a long draw from her cup.

I sat, sniffing at the glass.
“Bourbon?”

She pushed her dark hair from her
face.

“Warms you up, loosens the tongue,
and makes friends of strangers.” She raised her glass.

I did the same.

Then, with abandon, she practically
fell backward into the overstuffed couch.
“I
love this place, you know.” She smiled, languid, at nothing in particular.
“Other girls want the big city, or beaches, or mountains. This place, however”
—
she took another sip
—
“it’s
real
, Timothy. I can feel the days and months and years etched into
these old rooms.”

I rolled the bourbon on my tongue as
she prattled musically about the inn and traditions. My ears perked at her next
question.

“So, tell me, what happened on the
road? You said you came to. Were you jumped by someone?”

Not a question I wanted to answer. I
thought for a moment and then looked square into her green eyes.

“That’s a long story.” I held her
gaze over my glass. “I’d tell you what happened, Molly, but it’s boring tale.”
I sighed. “I have a better trick for you if you like.”

She leaned forward. “What’s that,
Timothy?”

“Any fool can wander in off the
darkened road and tell you some sad tale of woe.” I shrugged. “You have to
admit, there are better stories to be told.” The bourbon turned warm on my
lips.

She twirled a finger in her dark
hair. “I suppose that’s possible, Timothy.” She started to laugh but stopped.

My eyes, the color of aspen leaves
under the hunting moon, filled with wonder, filled her with wonder.

“What if instead of telling some
dull, true story, I tell you a secret story made of every smile you have ever
forgotten? A story that will change the way moonlight tastes?”

She laughed and took another sip.
Then, she saw my hunter’s gaze. “S—such a story sounds precious and rare. I
don’t know that I deserve a story like that.”

I took her hand. “You do, Molly. You
deserve a story that will sing lullabies to your restless heart. You deserve a
story that will make the child you were dance with glee; that will make the
shadows whisper secrets. I can tell you a story about the girl you were, the
woman you are, and all the infinite women you may yet become.”

She stopped for a long moment then,
her gaze wide. Her hand trembled, sloshing her drink around her glass, and her
eyes grew wet. When she spoke, her voice quivered.

“Alright, Timothy. I’ll play.”

I grinned. “Only if you want it,
Molly. My stories aren’t for women who hide from their own mystery. I see what
your eyes never have. I know the secret turnings of your heart.”

Her smile returned, brilliant and
fearless. “That’s a brave statement. Tell me.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It is.”

That was three.