xiii. In which Arthur meets the Lord of the Wood #2
“It’s a real acorn, then?” Arthur asked. “We always thought it was a carven trinket.”
The image in the basin shifted once more. A stag dragged itself through the forest on a shot leg. Men shouted somewhere behind
him.
Ira yanked the basin from Arthur’s lap, sloshing him with water. The cat hissed as water splashed over her.
Arthur stared, but Ira emptied the basin and spoke as if there had been no interruption.
“The acorn came from the heart of the wood. It is—it was—a silver oak tree, the first tree that ever grew here and the source
of all Shiftleaf’s magic. All that’s left now is a stump.” He dried the basin and hung it back on its branch. “That’s why
the forest is dying.”
Arthur’s heartbeat quickened as he thought of the sickness. The trees oozing black. The skeletal animals roaming the forest.
Ira dropped into his armchair, running a hand through his hair. Several strands came loose from his knot, falling about his
face or tangling around his antlers. Calyx crept from its place by the stove to wind around his feet.
“If not for George,” Ira said, “it would be dead already.”
Arthur’s fingers dug into his knees. “What do you mean?”
Ira looked sideways at him, his eyes flickering over Arthur’s face. Arthur wondered whether he was trying to find more of
George.
“He really told you so little of me?”
Arthur nodded. “How many times did he see you, really?”
Ira’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. “Many. He stopped by whenever he traveled between Seacliff and Port Lorne.
Sometimes he’d stay a day or two to keep me company.”
He stood abruptly, swearing as he tripped over Calyx.
“Accursed thing,” he growled, kicking it away. The tangle of plants slung itself back toward the stove. Muttering to himself,
Ira grabbed two bowls from a cupboard, ducking to avoid catching his antlers in the items hanging from the ceiling.
Arthur’s head spun with questions, but they whirled through him so quickly he couldn’t grab hold of one. George Throckmorton
had always been the one solid thing in his life. Even in memory—despite the space he’d left behind when he’d gone—George had
felt dependable and real. Steady. Someone Arthur could look back on for comfort when life shook him, again and again. Now
the very memories shook. How much of what his father had told him through the years was untrue? Why would he not have told
his children the Lord of the Wood was his friend?
Unbidden, Charlotte’s criticism of Arthur’s own bedtime stories came to mind.
You never mention the sickness. Or the disappearances. You don’t even tell the children about Dad’s disappearance.
He told the stories as his father had told them, preferring to remember George’s stories to the realities of the forest. Had
his father edited his tales for similar reasons, or had there been something else to it?
He could certainly see why George might not have mentioned Calyx.
Ira shoved a bowl of stew into his hands. “Eat.”
His brow furrowed as Arthur picked up a spoonful of stew only to let it plop back into the bowl. Freya purred at Arthur’s
feet, stopping occasionally to glare at the Lord of the Wood or his chlorophyllous companion.
After a long while, Ira took the bowl and spoon away. Washing them, he nodded toward the corner of the room. “You can take
the bed.”
“What?”
“The bed,” Ira repeated. “You can have it. I’ll be fine in my armchair.”
Arthur dragged a hand over his face. “Oh. Yes. Thank you. I suppose there’s no point leaving until morning.”
A long silence as Ira dried the dishes.
Then he said, “You’re not leaving.”
“Well,” Arthur said, taken aback, “no—not now, of course, but—”
“Not ever.”
Arthur had misheard. He thought Ira had said “not ever,” as if he expected Arthur to remain in this wintry vale for the rest
of his life.
Before he could ask Ira to repeat himself, however, Ira said, “This is your home now.”
Arthur twisted around. Ira’s shoulders hunched, but when he turned from the counter his expression was firm. A pit gnawed
at Arthur’s stomach.
“No, but—but—” He floundered, his mouth dry. “Lottie—the children—for heaven’s sake, Mrs. Livingston, she’s counting on me
to go to Port Lorne and—”
Ira gave a sardonic smile. “How do you propose leaving with the bridge out?”
Arthur’s heart sank. He’d forgotten the bridge. “Surely there’s another way?”
“There isn’t,” Ira said bluntly, “and if there were, the forest would kill you before you made it halfway home.”
“But—you could take me. If you showed me the way—”
“I don’t leave the vale.”
“You showed Dad the way out.”
Ira’s jaw tightened. “That was long ago.”
Arthur tried to rein in his panic. “Please. Please, I— Surely it wouldn’t take long, I only traveled a couple of days to get
this far. If you could just—”
Eyes smoldering, Ira lunged across the tiny space and grabbed Arthur’s collar.
“I don’t leave the vale,” he growled.
His fingers clenched at Arthur’s throat. Arthur swallowed with difficulty. His eyes stung.
Ira released him, backed away. He closed his eyes and let out a breath, dropping into his chair. Calyx climbed up behind him.
Arthur pressed into his own chair, his heart rabbiting. The pit gnawing at his stomach widened.
Ira’s voice was hoarser than ever. “I’m sorry.”
Arthur didn’t know whether he meant for the situation or for grabbing him like that. After a moment, Ira jerked his head back
toward the corner.
“Take the bed. You’ll be more comfortable.”
Mechanically, Arthur drifted toward the bed. Freya followed, winding about his legs. He lifted her onto the bed after him.
Outside, branches clattered in the breeze, but the windows didn’t rattle. He missed the rattling of his window in the attic.
The windows in the kitchen.
He peeled off his socks. Across the room, in the dim red light of the stove, Ira seemed an ancient, immovable figure, splayed in his chair, gazing silently into the coals with greenery draped around his shoulders.
A stoic god instead of the amiable fairy prince Arthur had always imagined.
His antlers gleamed faintly gold, illuminating their curves and pointed tips.
Arthur crawled beneath the patchwork quilt, turned toward the wall, and buried his face in the cat’s fur, thinking of home.