The Paladins (26 page)

My mind seizes around her message, the faded dream I had days ago suddenly clear.

“Maple, Pine, and Ash are also our friends, but beware the Hemlock, for he is cunning, and the Alder cruel.

Nervous, I scan the area, I see no alder. No hemlock either, but I spy an oak nearby. Can I make contact through my element? “Er, hello?”

Nothing happens, and I’m almost glad no one’s here to see this.

“Hey, can you hear me, anybody?” I wait, but all is quiet. How do you talk to trees? What good would it do if I did? “Can you help me? I’m lost.”

Nada
.

This is just sad.

You were wrong, Mother. “They aren’t listening!” There’s little point yelling at a bunch of trees in the woods, but I’m past caring, and it makes me feel better. “We aren’t superheroes, Maggie. We’re more like super zeroes. Wait, I’ve got it. How about, Not-so-Super-Girl.”

I laugh at my own lame joke and then question my eroding sanity. It must be stress, but I can’t stop until my giggle ends in a choking fit. I wipe my streaming eyes. My hand burns, and I glare at the swollen marks in my palm, then at the purple thorns on the ground that made them. “I thought you guys were supposed to be my friends.” Some wielder I turned out to be.

“You must bend them all to your will.”

My mother’s words repeat their challenge in my head. In the cemetery, when I asked the vines to move, they obeyed. Why can’t I do that here in the labyrinth?

Focusing on the prickly vines at my feet, I ask them to move. My heart rate slows. I feel it beat, hear the blood inside my chest rushing from one chamber to the next. The vines shiver, just a bit at first, then more. They retreat under my gaze. Not just the ones I fell on, but all of the purple-thorned ivy.

Emboldened, I ask for help. I have no plan, no idea who I’m addressing, or even what I hope for. Still, I send out wave after wave of general truths. I hurt. I’m tired. Thirsty. Need Gideon. Find Rosamond …

If nothing else, the thoughts are cathartic. The list delineates what I need, and gives me focus. I can’t quit, not with my friends still out there and maybe in worse shape than I am.
Suck it up, Rae. Fight!

Timber groans. I whirl trying to pinpoint the noise. My pulse doubles. Then my chin drops as the trunk of a nearby oak bends at his would-be waist.

I fear he’ll topple and crush me. Instead, two huge limbs reach down and the tapered branches near the ends encircle me. My feet leave the earth as I’m lifted up. I take a breath, hold it in, and wait to die.

Like the actress in the clutches of King Kong, the giant oak hoists me into the air. Wind blows my hair back. We’re moving too fast, and my stomach dips roller coaster-style. I squeeze my eyes shut as my body rockets into the canopy above.

What have I done? God save me!

Is this tree my friend or enemy? I haven’t figured it out yet, and it may not matter, because at any moment, the Tree King could hurl me to the ground from spite or accidently drop me trying to help.

A scream strangles in my throat. I pray and plead. Send my fear out to the tree on waves of emotion hoping he’ll understand.
Please. Don’t hurt me.

The oak doesn’t seem to hear. He sways back and forth, though there isn’t a stitch of wind. Limbs creak with his stretching. Thin branches extend as human fingers and strain until they’re leaning far enough to meet with the tree nearest us, a mountainous sycamore.

The sycamore sways as well. Branches from both trees work like careful arms reaching toward each other, leaves mesh to become quiet hands. The hand-off from one tree to the other is smooth. It occurs to me this might be cool, if it weren’t so brain-obliteratingly scary.

Remembering to breathe, I shuttle air in and out of my spastic lungs. I’m not relaxed, exactly, but not completely petrified anymore either. In fact, I keep my eyes open as the sycamore rocks.

He swings forward, depositing my body into the arms of the smaller maple next door. Slowly, I begin to grasp they aren’t plotting my death. They’re moving me.

The dance goes on from tree to tree. Wood moans as the forest sways, heeding my call for aid. Their song closely resembles a pod of whales as they communicate.

I have no idea where they’re sending me, but I trust them. What choice do I have? They are as kind and attentive as if I’m a baby in a swing. I send them my gratitude. Respect and thanks flood from me to each tree as I cross the miles by way of the fearsome wildwood highway.

Over time, the trees and I come to an understanding. As I travel among them, I relax, and our connection improves. I’m learning to listen instead of screaming emotion at them out of panicked desperation. And the trees have a lot to say.

It’s funny because they don’t talk. Not in the traditional sense. Trees emit feelings that leave an imprint on my mind. Like hands in wet cement, when I open myself up, trust them, I receive their messages as an impression. My brain discerns their meaning, translates it somehow, and boom, I comprehend.

The longer I’m passed along, the bolder I become. There’s no question the trees are friendly. Powerful, regal, wise. I’ve always loved trees, but never guessed they were quite this awesome. Their energy rubs off on me. A steady breeze brushes my skin as I travel. Instead of cowering in a ball as I’d first done, I stretch out, experiment with balance, actually assist in my hand-off from one set of limbs to the next. First, I’m on my hands and knees, crouching like a toddler. I think of my kitty Edgar, remembering the time we got stuck in a tree. If he could see me now!

Each tree has a definite rhythm, slightly different from his brothers. Once I’m comfortable, I try and stand. The oak gently steadies me as I wobble and trip. Working as my spotter, if I lean too far one way, the oak gently corrects my balance. An hour or two later, I’m running down the heavy limbs, leaping into the waiting arms of the elm ahead.

This
is magic I can handle. No way could I ride the treetops without the Earth element imparted to me.

My feet slide across the bark of a maple, and I’m in the air again. A laugh escapes. I’m both exhilarated and scared to death. I wonder briefly if this is how it feels to leap from a plane, or BASE jump. A jumper must trust the equipment and instructor to risk so much. There’s faith and belief involved. That’s how I feel anyway, as I land in the soft needles of a pine tree. Adrenaline blocks any pain.

My tree hopping might be more accurately described as surfing. I’m high as a kite, and I’m not talking feet in the air. The woods share their knowledge. Infuse me with energy, life, and power. I’m one with the forest, me and not me all at once.

As the woodland thins, a meadow and lake loom in the distance. Willows crowd the left bank, their greedy roots snaking into the water, drinking their fill. I slow, asking the one closest if she’ll receive me.

She will. I leap falling several feet from the taller elm to the willow below. She raises her wispy-thin arms. Bands of skinny branches wrap my body, curl around me like ropes and deposit my feet on firm ground. She’s all grace and beauty as she straightens, and I tell her so.

Thank you
, I say, feeling the loss of her energy immediately. I’m tempted to climb right back up into the safety of the trees, but this is where the forest ends, and I still have to find Gideon. Tall, yellow grasses swish against my legs as I wade through the dense foliage toward the water. Sparrows dive for the bugs leaping from my path. Crickets saw their legs together in sing-song chirps. Frogs burp. The scene is deceptively pretty.

Yet, having left the trees, the ache returns to my muscles. Pain keeps me tethered to our reality. I’m filthy, caked in mud from the swamp, sweaty, bloody, and very sure I stink. Mother always said you know it’s bad when you can smell yourself.

The lake shines as clear and blue as a postcard from the Mediterranean, but the last time I wanted a wash, things got ugly.

Now, I have allies. I face the trees.
Is it safe?

My impression from them is yes, but with hesitation. Unsure what to make of their answer, I go with the yeses. Piece by piece, I strip to nothing, groaning inwardly at how freeing it is to have everything off. My toes hit the icy water first.
No time for complaining
, I warn myself and dive in, bringing my dirt-stiff clothing along for a rinse.

I dunk my head under and find the murky water surprisingly refreshing. Next, I rub my clothes against my skin to shed the blood and grime from both. Any degree of clean is better than the filth I dove in wearing.

Weeds tickle my feet on the gloppy lake bottom. My heart jolts as the plants wind their long tendrils over my ankles, and climb my calves. I gasp when they reach higher.
Whoa there, that’s getting personal.
I jump aside, but the bottom is covered in the strange vegetation. It suctions onto my stomach and thighs, it doesn’t hurt but freaks me the hell out. I’m sloshing through the water toward the bank, lake weed grabbing at me as I pass.

“What do you want?”

Peace, be still
…

The impression presses in on me. I take a breath, and try to relax. The oak helped when I trusted him, so I choose to trust again.

Peace
…

I allow the mushy, green plants to creep over me. The trees were cool and helpful, but this is just gross. I feel beyond awkward standing naked in waist-deep water while some kinky pond scum feels me up for kicks.

As I wait, my skin begins to tingle, then burn. Cuts and scrapes sting as though doused in antiseptic. My mind opens to the plants, and at last I understand. They’re healing me.

Time passes. I lose track of how much as the lake weed soothes my injuries. While my hair dries under the fading sun, my mind strays to Gideon, as always, and then Cole. Finally, the lake fauna is done with me and retreat to their beds in the mud.

I climb out of the pond and dress in my soggy, albeit cleaner, clothes. The cuts and scrapes don’t hurt as much and appear less red and angry. The stiffness in my body is all but gone.

Wielder of the Earth Element, huh? Not bad. I like my new title better all the time.

Cole

Silent as a pair of foxes, Gideon and I put as much distance as possible between us and the last surviving Weird Sister. I turn her words over in my mind, searching for answers.

“Pollute the silver circles of sight. The dead may not enter
…
Therefore use the dead.”

Silver circles … What does that mean? Does he own a pair of magic glasses, or crystal ball that we need to steal or break? How do we pollute them? If it’s a metaphor, she could mean water or the moon. A lake can be polluted
and
silver, especially if it ices in winter. And her suggestion to use something dead leaves me dischuffed, to say the least.

I rub my grumbling torso as if that will stave off the hunger gnawing my gut. At this point, I’ve gone so long without food, I think my body’s eating itself. Trapped here before in spirit form, we never ate. Who would have guessed there were perks to being a ghost?

Tired as we are, we bash on. Gideon keeps company with his own thoughts, which I suspect are half-crazed over Raven. His jaw clenches so tightly, I wonder how his teeth don’t crack. Could be his injury, fatigue, or both, but his limp’s more pronounced and he slows our pace. Not that I’m pointing it out. I adjust my gate to match his while trying not to appear patronizing. Life was easier when I was a prat, but not very satisfying.

Now, I fantasize about playing the hero, rescuing Rose, reuniting her with her family. Of course, they’ll go wild with gratitude. Her mother will probably cry and hug me. Her father will shake my hand and call me son. Rose and I will date. I’ll take her to the cinema, buy her presents, and do all the corny shite normal couples do. We’ll take our time getting to know each other. Life will move on, unfold as it should.

It could happen.

A flash draws my gaze to Gideon who’s casually squeezing a glowing sphere in his palm like a stress ball. Dark veins run over its orange base reminding me of cooling magma. He doesn’t appear to feel the heat. Nothing burns his skin. The ball slides up his hand to his first finger, and he spins it like a basketball.