Wooden Bones (6 page)

This gave Pino an idea. He might not be able to tell the direction from down here, but maybe he could up higher.

Picking the tallest tree, one with plenty of branches from top to bottom, not an oak but some kind of pine, he started climbing. He hated to waste so much time, but it would be much worse if he chose a certain direction only to find later he'd chosen wrong.

The rough bark chaffed his hands, hands already raw from crawling through the cave. The higher he climbed, the thinner the branches became. He had to be careful. Many of the slender ones broke off at his touch; others scratched at his back and chest. Soon he was covered with dozens of cuts.

He climbed and he climbed and soon he was exhausted, his
arms and legs painfully throbbing, but each time he thought of resting, he only had to think of his papa to get a new burst of energy. Bits of bark rained down on his face and pricked his eyes. Dry needles spiked his bare skin. He climbed until the trunk thinned. He climbed until he passed through a blanket of fog, through the very clouds.

When he came out the other side, the branches, though still sickly, were not as black. A bit more green sprouted here and there.

The air felt cooler. The trunk was now so thin that it began to sway. This startled Pino, but he still couldn't see beyond the other treetops around him. He climbed. The trunk swayed violently. He climbed, sweat trickling into his eyes. He climbed, clenching each branch so hard his hands turned white, until finally he reached as high as he could go.

Blinking away the sweat from his eyes, trying to remain as still as possible so the tree wouldn't sway, he swept his gaze across the treetops. At last he was high enough. This tree might not be the tallest in the forest, but it was higher than most. The trees that poked up through the clouds were few and far between; they looked like birthday candles on a white cake.

Pino could not see the lake, but he
could
see a hazy purple mountain range far off in the distance, stretching as far as the eye could see. He knew those mountains. His papa had spoken of them. They were the mountains that bordered the western shore of their country.

If that was west, then Pino knew which way was north. He peered over the frothy white broth and didn't see anything that distinguished north, but regardless, that was the direction he needed to go.

He just had to keep it firmly in his mind as he crawled down the tree.

Going down seemed to take much longer. A few times he slipped and nearly plummeted, which made him even more cautious.

When he passed through the fog and had a good view of the ground, he picked out a stone just north of the tree as a marker. When he got down, he would walk toward that stone. And he would try to keep walking in that general direction.

Nearly to the bottom, it suddenly occurred to Pino that he was going about this wrong. Why walk at all? He'd brought one tree to life; why couldn't he bring another? Since he had this special gift, he might as well use it to make life easier for himself.

Perched on one of the lower branches, he pressed his palms flat against the bark.
Come alive
, he told the tree.

Nothing happened.

“Come alive,” he said aloud.

Still nothing. He tried again and again, his voice getting louder and more frantic. He tried with his eyes open. He tried with his eyes closed. He concentrated, his forehead furrowing, the veins on his temples pulsing. He imagined it. He willed it. He wished for it as hard as he'd ever wished for anything in his life.

And yet, nothing.

Howling with rage, Pino climbed the rest of the way down. What good was a gift if it wasn't available to you when you needed it? He jumped to the ground and started for the stone he'd picked out above, walking first, then running. When he reached the stone, he picked another not far away, hoping he was keeping a straight line. Running faster. Not letting himself
rest. If he couldn't ride a tree, he had to run as fast as his legs would carry him.

As he ran, another thought occurred to him, one that quickly dissolved his anger at not being able to use his gift and replaced it with fear.

If he couldn't use his gift, what would happen to him if the wolves came again?

*  *  *

There is something that happens to the human body when it is pushed past the point of exhaustion. There is something that happens when every ounce of strength is spent; when every breath burns in the lungs and every muscle throbs in agony; when every swelling joint and every quivering tendon screams in protest. There is something that happens when the saliva in the mouth tastes like acid and the heart pounding in the ears drowns out all other sounds.

Eventually all feeling goes away, all sensation departs, and the mind disengages from the enormity of the pain the body is sending its way.

That is the place where Pino went as he dashed through the dark forest—a timeless place unmoored from his surroundings, disconnected from the here and now, where the rotting trees and the uneven ground were a passing blur. He was vaguely aware that he was running—north, heading north—but it was like someone telling him a story. Even his worry was gone. He was somewhere else.

He was somewhere at peace.

That was the most amazing thing. For the first time in Pino's life, he was not filled with self-doubt. He did not feel that creeping anxiety that came from being different. He was not tormented by the relentless desire to be just like others, to
not stand out in any way. He did not think about those awkward times when he got to play with other children, when he never knew quite what to say or how to say it.

It was hard to be like other children when you weren't born the same way they were born, when you were once made of wood instead of flesh.

In any case, he thought of none of that now.

Right now, he just ran.

*  *  *

In such a state of mind time had no meaning. It could have been minutes or hours, and the only sign that time had passed at all were the trees. Pino was so in a trance that it took him a while before he noticed that they looked healthier.

Gone were the black and withered things, the scorched bark and the branches that turned to ash at the merest touch. In their place were towering pines with reddish bark, trees that would have been impossible to climb because they bore no lower branches at all. Their trunks were as wide around as houses. Their limbs, high above, were a deep, rich green.

The sky peeking through the gaps was no longer gray; it was crimson melting into lavender. Though the light was fading, the fog had dissipated, and so the way ahead actually seemed brighter than before—a dusky light, to be sure, but still easier to see.

Healthy ferns sprang up where rotting ones had been. Leafy vines sprouted between beds of pine needles. Even the smell was different—the moist air full of life.

Pino thought the first tall trees were the biggest he'd ever seen, but then they got taller still. Mountains of wood. They weren't trees at all. They were like gods. Birds—he heard chirping, something missing before. Gray squirrels scampered out
of his way, diving into a thick tangle of ivy. There was even a butterfly—a butterfly, of all things!—fluttering its yellow wings from one blooming white flower to another.

He'd gone from some of the blackest woods to some of the most beautiful in the blink of an eye.

But where was Sapphire Lake?

He'd no more thought this than he passed over a small rise—and saw a hint of blue ahead, peeking at him between the massive trees. Even from a great distance it was an incredibly vibrant shade of blue; as he drew nearer, it only became more so.

When he finally reached its shore, standing in the tall grass lining its banks, it didn't seem like a lake at all. It seemed like a bit of sky had fallen to Earth.

Hands on his knees, gasping for breath, Pino stood there on the soft bed of grass and absorbed the beauty of the lake. A pair of swans darted from the reeds and swam along the shore, their passing barely ruffling the water.

Papa.

The thought of his papa, still alone and dying in that cave, broke his reverie. Now he needed to find this girl with no arms and no legs. Where would such a girl be? Scanning the shore, he saw not a single living soul, and the thought of searching the perimeter—miles around—drained Pino of what little strength he had left. His legs, still burning, shuddered. He did not even know how much longer he could stand.

“Hey!” he cried.

It might not be the smartest thing to do—maybe the wolves were in this place too, or other hungry predators—but he was desperate.

“Hey!” he shouted again. “Anyone out there? Anyone at all?”

There was no reply. When he'd summoned his breath, he tried again. He went on shouting until his voice failed him, until his throat grew hoarse. Knowing his papa was counting on him, he tried to shake it off and shout anyway, but then his body had finally had enough.

His knees buckled. His legs gave way. He crumpled into the grass, his head and shoulders draped over the bank, one outstretched hand just touching the surface of the water. He expected the water to be cool, but it wasn't. It was warm.

When the ripples created by his touch had stilled, he saw only his reflection staring back at him—his scratched and bruised face, the red cuts and welts mixed with the layers of dirt and sweat caked on his cheeks. With the dark circles under the eyes, and the skin drawn tight against a gaunt face, it did not even look like the face of a boy.

He was looking at that face when he heard a rustle in the grass.

Seized with panic, thinking the wolves had followed him, he scrambled to his knees and spun to face them. But it wasn't wolves who'd emerged from the forest.

It was people.

There were at least a dozen of them, men and women alike, tall and slender, all but a few of them with spiky blond hair and eyes as blue as the lake, their pale, freckled skin camouflaged behind clothes fashioned out of their surroundings. Their vests and pants had been woven from the grass. Their body armor—for that's what the plates strapped to their arms, legs, and chests looked like to Pino—had been constructed using the reddish bark from the giant trees.
Even their crossbows were made of the same stuff, making them nearly impossible to see unless they moved them.

Which they were doing.

Raising them up.

Pointing them at Pino.

Fingers tightening on the triggers.

T
hese people of the woods, they did not have kind faces. Their faces were like their polished granite arrowheads—hard, cruel, and razor sharp. The man in the front had the hardest face of all. He was the oldest of the bunch, his hair more white than blond, his cheekbones so sharp Pino could have pricked his fingers on them. His skin was weathered and bleached. On his left cheek he bore a small scar shaped like a crescent moon.

“You're trespassing on sacred land,” he said, lowering his crossbow slightly. “The penalty is death.”

“But—but I didn't know—,” Pino protested.

“Ignorance is no excuse.”

“Wait!”

The man again raised his crossbow. Pino thought about diving into the lake, but he knew the arrows would strike him before he even touched the water. He couldn't believe the voice in the cave had sent him to the lake only to have him die.

“I'm here to see the girl with no arms and no legs!” he cried.

With his voice still ringing in the open air, Pino closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He was sure the arrows were going to fly. A few seconds passed, the breeze humming over the water and whispering through the grass.

“What did you say?” the man asked.

Pino swallowed, cracking open his eyes. The woods people were still pointing their crossbows, but now their faces looked more confused than angry. “I said I'm here to see the girl with no arms and no legs,” he repeated.

“How do you know her?” the man demanded. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Pino told them his name and why he'd come. He said he'd been told she could save his papa, who was right this minute dying in a cave, and at this they murmured and exchanged glances.

“Do you know where she is?” he asked hopefully.

Finally the man in front lowered his crossbow. The others quickly followed suit.

“Of course we do,” he said. “You speak of Elendrew, the one with special sight. She is our queen.”

*  *  *

With the blindfold over his eyes, Pino couldn't see a single thing. They hadn't walked long, an hour at most, but he'd already lost his sense of direction. He heard a growing chorus of crickets. He heard water murmuring over polished rocks. He heard the whispers of the woodsfolk, all of whom kept their voices too low for him to make out what they were saying.

Worrying about his papa, he was about to ask how much farther it was when the crunch of pine needles on soft earth changed to the dull thudding of wooden planks. He heard a creak and a thud, like a gate shutting, then someone took his hand and placed it on rough rope.

“Hold this,” a woman instructed.

Before he could ask why, the planks beneath him shuddered,
and he grabbed the rope for balance. He heard a rhythmic ticking, like someone banging two sticks together. His stomach dropped suddenly, as if they were moving upward. How could that be?

The ticking went on for some minutes, until the planks shuddered, then fell still. Finally his blindfold was removed.

The sensation of rising had been a correct one; they were high up in the giant trees, so high that when Pino peered over the rope that acted as a rail on the wooden platform where he stood, he could not see the forest floor. It was lost in the labyrinth of leafy green branches and foliage below.

Of all the stories his papa used to tell him at night, none could prepare him for the awesome sight of the city in the trees. At most it might have been only thirty or forty dwellings, each of them no bigger than the cottage Pino and Geppetto used to call home, but what other word could describe such a splendidly constructed place?