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A tangle of huckleberry and some low-growing shrub with leathery leaves filled the spaces between the trees. Most were evergreens; pines, hemlock, and cedar but the browning leaves of a few maples covered the forest floor. I extended my little light and noted that the undergrowth thinned where the trees grew denser. With that in mind, I made my way along the line, looking for any kind of break.
I found one, a path of sorts. Looked at head on, it wasn’t visible. From the side, however, someone had created a space of some ten or twelve inches between clumps of green. The path had been paved with shreds of bark and pine needles and it wended its way through the trees.
The witchlight brightened with no effort on my part. My heartbeat sped up.Who’s in control here? Me or the forest?
There were two kinds of witches; those who cultivated their gifts and those who treated them more like a religion. I hadn’t had much time for church before my gift appeared, and even less time since. The thought that I could attribute my current circumstance to some all-knowing Mother Goddess didn’t sit well with me, so I ignored the idea as much as possible.
The light, though, spreading unbidden between the gnarled old trunks, made me wonder.
Once found, the path led me deeper into the woods. The air was misty and smelled of growing things. The ground began to rise, not steeply, not yet, but it soon would. The quiet allowed me to take a deeper breath, at least until something abruptly drowned out the expected rustling of small creatures.
A man spoke, his voice riven with anger. “Damnation.”
I picked up my pace, moved by a mix of curiosity and concern. Walked faster still, broke into a jog, and some two hundred feet up the path, I found my quarry.
Rafe Gallagher knelt on the ground in a clearing, surrounded by a circle of fir trees and vine maples. Holes had been dug at regular intervals and he held one hand extended several inches about the dirt. He muttered something, words that were unfamiliar but recognizably powerful. At some unseen cue, he produced a trowel from his cloak. He dug up dirt and pine needles and threw them aside. When he'd made a pit that was deep enough to hide the trowel, he stopped, again holding out a hand.
While I didn’t know what we were waiting for, his tension had me hold my breath.
Whatever he wanted, it was not there. Crawling, he found another spot and began to dig, still muttering. If he noticed me or my light, he gave no sign.
The strangeness of his behavior both intrigued and repelled me. Logic suggested that he too searched for the Ferox Cor, and if he – with all his power – couldn’t find it, I didn’t stand much chance.
Still, when he threw the trowel to the ground, I cleared my throat. He froze. Something in his stillness frightened me more than his wild digging had done.
“Who’s there?” he snarled.
I cleared my throat again. “Vincent. Vincent Fairchild.”
“Did Mother send you?”
“No. I’d hoped to find a way to some sort of civilization.”
“You won’t. Not here.” He spoke calmly, as if his hands and nails weren’t black with dirt. “The bluff is too steep to climb, and unless you know one of the natives who called this place Per-co-dus-chule, you’d never find your way.”
“Per-co-dus-chule?” I mangled the pronunciation, though Rafe didn’t seem to notice.
“This place we guard. Did you think our name was the only one?” He swiped a hand across his face, leaving a streak of dirt and blood.
“I guess I never gave it any thought.”
His laugh was bitter. “I’m not surprised. Did you know the first man to sail a tall ship into the Sound named the bluff behind us Magnolia, because he mistook the madrona trees for the pretty flowers he’d known in his youth?”
A collection of rainwater dripped off my hat as if to punctuate the absurdity of the situation. “I didn’t know that either.”
“Hmph.” He found the trowel and tucked it away. “Find my cane.”
“Pardon?”
“My cane. Where is it?”
Now I was thoroughly confused. “There, leaning against that tree.”
The witchlight wasn’t sufficient for me to read his expression, but since he didn’t seem to be joking, I retrieved his cane and held it toward him. “Here.”
Standing, he reached in my direction, making one unsuccessful swipe before clasping the cane in hand. Without any thanks, he tapped the ground, pausing between taps as if listening for a response. He began to walk in my direction. I was too caught up in his actions to get out of his way. He only stopped when we were chest to chest.
“Move, Fairchild.” His tone brooked no argument, yet I held my ground.
