xxii. In which Arthur crosses a bridge again, to worse results
Arthur had been eager to set out, but his body had complaints when he awoke the next morning. He was sore from his haphazard
flight through the brambles; his scratches stung; his hand still throbbed where a thorn had pierced it. A purplish bruise
circled his wrist like a cuff. Similar bruises, from Calyx, colored his throat and torso.
Besides, Arthur had never been an early riser. When he arose before Charlotte, it was only because she frequently slept late
since her illness. Before, no matter how early he’d awoken, she’d beaten him to it. Once, some fifteen years ago, he’d spent
the night in the sitting room, determined not to sleep, so he could be up first. Instead, he’d awoken in his armchair by the
fire, a knitted blanket tucked around him, to the sounds of Charlotte making coffee.
Now, he shuddered with yawn after yawn as he dressed, slipped the rowan cross into his pocket, and checked his knapsack for
the all-important novels. He thumbed through them, comforted by the softness of the well-read pages. Freya twisted about him,
mewling for her breakfast as she did every morning though Ira always gave it to her.
(That had not improved her opinion of him.)
“All set?” Ira asked behind him.
Arthur jumped, embarrassed to be caught with three novels instead of more useful provisions. He flushed as Ira leafed through
a book.
“Your books?” Ira asked, more in curiosity than judgment. “I don’t think you’ll have much time for reading.”
Arthur pinkened.
“If you must know,” he said, “they’re, er, they’re romance novels,” as if that weren’t obvious from the women swooning into
the arms of shirtless, flowing-haired men on the covers. Or, in the case of the novel he’d been telling Charlotte about, into
the arms of a shirtless creature with lots of fur and fangs and horns and burl but also, somehow, perfect humanoid abs. “And
I know there won’t be time for reading. That’s not why I brought them out here in the first place.”
“Then why?”
Why indeed. Not merely one, but three. He’d nearly brought more when he’d set out from the cottage, though he hadn’t been
going on a pleasure trip. He’d brought the books for the same reason he’d brought his watch-repairing kit and his father’s
acorn: They were a comfort.
(Had he repacked the kit? He’d had it on the bedside table since fixing his father’s watch, but he couldn’t bring himself
to check whether he’d added it to his bag while Ira stared at him for packing something equally silly.)
“Romance novels,” he said, still very pink, “promise happy endings no matter the dangers and difficulties. I thought if everything seemed hopeless, they might remind me it’s not.
That we’ll restore the heart of the wood, and you won’t be half a beast anymore, and Lottie will be safe, and I’ll find her and make it to Port Lorne and buy Mrs. Livingston’s clock, and Mrs. Livingston’s cousin will get well, somehow, and we’ll have all this money, and we’ll all live happily ever after.
Except for the romance bit, I suppose, not much hope of finding the right girl in the forest—”
Ira’s brow creased, but he didn’t interrupt.
“—after forty years of finding wrong ones in town, but, well, that’s not a priority just now anyway.”
Arthur paused, his words echoing in his own ears. He’d said rather too much.
“They bring me hope. That’s all.”
Ira considered him, his expression strange and soft. After a long moment, he closed the book and slipped it into Arthur’s
knapsack. “Come on.”
Feeling less foolish than he might have, Arthur closed his knapsack, shrugged on the furs Ira had lent him, and followed.
Freya gave a disheartened meow that suggested she was wasting away due to their neglect, but she followed, too.
Outside, snow was falling. Arthur shivered, grateful to leave the vale’s endless winter. The snow filled in his footprints
and Ira’s pawprints as if they’d never been there.
Calyx unwound from its tree and dragged itself after them. Ira rounded on it.
“Absolutely not. Stay here.”
It clicked despondently. Despite himself, Arthur pitied it. It only wanted to protect Ira, after all, even if its way of protecting
him was deeply unhelpful and had almost gotten Arthur killed.
“Someone has to watch over the vale,” he said to it, “don’t you think?”
He shivered as it turned fronds toward him, feeling, as usual, like it was glaring at him.
“I was only trying to help.”
Ira nudged the plant creature with a clawed foot. “Away with you.”
Calyx moped back up its tree.
They halted before the brambles. Ira’s fingers curled into fists.
He paled, his face strained. The delicate white flowers blooming in the valley of his scar were at odds with his expression.
Arthur bit his lip, but he touched the back of Ira’s hand.
Carefully, barely, in case Calyx came racing down the tree to choke him for it.
Ira cleared his throat, but his voice was hoarse as usual when he spoke.
“Open up.”
The brambles quivered. Thorned canes peeled back, more slowly than they had when they’d let Arthur into the vale. Freya trotted
through them with a chirp. Arthur let out a breath but smiled encouragingly and followed. Ira kept close behind him.
They stood at the ravine’s edge, gazing at the water below. Across from them, frost from the stormwings’ passage edged the
autumnal flora.
Ira’s fists tightened. “Regrow the bridge.”
Nothing happened. Ira’s nostrils flared.
“It’s not going to listen to me,” he growled.
“Not with that attitude.”
“The forest has hardly listened to me in three decades.”
“We can’t give up after one try.”
Ira gritted his teeth. “Regrow the bridge.”
The forest was silent except for the small, secret rustlings of unseen creatures in the underbrush and canopy. Ira rubbed
his forehead. Before he could say anything more, Arthur unfastened the acorn from his neck and held it up.
“I know you want to protect him. And maybe this, too. But we’re going to the heart of the wood—we want to, if you’ll let us
cross. We’re trying to help you.”
Silence. Stillness.
Then, a low rumble. Arthur stumbled. Ira grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him from the ravine’s edge. Freya hissed, darting behind them.
With a crack, new limbs burst from the trees on either side. They thinned and lengthened, slinging across and braiding together.
Vines slithered over them, wove together into sides. With another rumble, logs rolled down the length of the vines, which
sheared them into planks.
When the forest stilled, a new swinging bridge hung across the ravine, green with moss and lichens and smelling of fresh wood.
Breath catching at the sudden construction, Arthur hung the acorn back around his neck.
Beside him, Ira had gone white, jaw clenched, fists tighter than ever. A few days ago, that expression would have scared Arthur.
Now he recognized it for what it was. Ira wasn’t angry; he was afraid.
Arthur touched one of his fists. “It’ll be all right.”
Ira shook his head. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes you can.”
“I haven’t left the vale in more than twenty years.”
Arthur gave a small smile. “You left just yesterday to save me.”
Ira’s fists unclenched slightly. “You keep bringing that up.”
“You keep forgetting.”
Arthur waited, but Ira stared rigidly out at the forest without speaking.
“Let’s breathe a moment, shall we?” Arthur said.
“What?”
“Breathe with me. Just for a minute. Four counts in, hold for four counts, four counts out, then hold again and start the
whole thing over.”
“Arthur—”
“Trust me.”
Ira’s mouth twisted, but he nodded. Arthur caught his gaze, despite his own discomfort with eye contact, because Charlotte had kept them breathing together that way when she’d taught him this. He took them through three cycles. By the end, Ira’s fists had uncurled and jaw unclenched.
He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”
A strand had come loose from his knot. Arthur tucked it back into place.
“Come on. I’ll be right beside you. Let’s go, Freya.”
The cat mrowred and trotted onto the bridge, pleased to leave their snowy prison behind.
Arthur started across, but Ira caught his hand, so tightly it hurt. Arthur’s injured palm throbbed, but he waited. For a long
moment, Ira stood like that, hands tight on Arthur’s, eyes squeezed shut. Then, nodding, he opened his eyes. When Arthur took
his first step onto the bridge, Ira followed, clinging to him.
Crossing was easier this time, except for Ira clutching Arthur’s hand. Freshly grown, the bridge was not half frozen from
stormwings, nor did it crack and creak underfoot—though it did bounce with each step, so much that Arthur had to stop in the
middle to fight back a wave of nausea. They reached the other side without event.
Ira slipped one paw off the bridge and onto the forest floor.
Where he stepped, greenery unfurled. Sprouts unwound, then, as if excited to see him, exploded into bitter vetch or heal-all
or wild garlic. Toadstools burst through the leaf litter, blue violet, brownish gold, blush pink.
“Oh,” Arthur breathed.
The plants wilted and blackened. The toadstools liquefied.
A muscle tightened in Ira’s neck.
“What happened?” Arthur asked in a hushed voice.
The muscle ticked, but all Ira said was, “Come on.”
They set off in silence. Ira’s jaw was so tight it hurt Arthur’s teeth to look at him. The muscle kept ticking, with greater frequency as the swinging bridge vanished behind them.
It should’ve been magical, traveling the forest with the Lord of the Wood. Near the vale, the trees were in their autumnal
finery, crimson and gold with silvery trunks. Unseen birds called. Intermittent sunlight filtered green-gold through the canopy;
the unseasonable frost vanished farther from the vale. Autumn greenery sprouted on the forest floor with every step Ira took.
But it wilted each time he stepped away, leaving a trail of limp, blackened stalks and leaves behind. Like the forest’s sickness
was following them. Arthur imagined it trailing his sister through the forest like this—catching up to her, leaving her frail
and cold and veined in black. Shuddering, he drew closer to Ira.
Their elbows bumped. Ira flinched.
“Walk on my other side.”
“What?”
“Walk on my other side,” Ira snapped. “I can’t see you on this side. You startled me.”
Arthur flushed. “Right, sorry.”
He’d been walking on Ira’s left without thinking, glancing at the white flowers blooming in Ira’s scar. Perhaps he was imagining
it, but moss furred the scar now, too, half hidden beneath the blossoms. Probably he was imagining it. He moved to Ira’s right without mentioning it.
Ira scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry. Being out here again is . . .”
“It’s all right.”
The sickness became more evident the deeper into the forest they went.
On Arthur’s initial journey, infected trees had been frequent, but so had trees that looked perfectly fine.
In the vale, there had been no infection; immediately beyond, only the plants wilting at Ira’s feet had signaled anything wrong.
But as they walked farther, an increasing number of trees oozed black or had leaves withered gray instead of red or gold or green.
Ira swallowed.
“I didn’t know,” he said, after an hour in which not a word had passed between them. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so bad.”
Arthur wanted to say something reassuring, but Ira bent, clutching his heart.
“Are you all right?” Arthur asked in alarm.
No mistaking it now. Moss thickened along his scar, spread to his ear. Arthur reached for him, panicking, but Ira straightened.
He breathed hard through his nose.
“S’all right,” he said. “The tarnish is spreading. The stump is dying. I don’t feel it when I’m in the vale.”
“Perhaps you should go back. I can go on alone, I’m sure I could—”
Ira shook his head before Arthur could decide how to end the sentence.
“We go together or not at all.” He grimaced, but his breathing evened out. “I’m all right. Come on.”
They walked onward, but their pace lagged. Arthur kept glancing at Ira, worried about his breathing and the moss creeping
across his face. Three days. They only had to make it three days. Surely the growth couldn’t take over too much of Ira’s body
in so short a time.
Ira shoved him suddenly aside.
“What—”
Something with a mouthful of sharp, mossy teeth glided from the trees like a flying squirrel. Arthur yelped, but Ira transformed
into a stag, catching the creature on his antlers. Snorting, he shook it off, and it landed on a trunk.
Freya darted up the tree after it.
“Don’t,” Arthur said in a panic.
Before the cat could get at it, the creature leaped at Arthur. Those sharp, mossy teeth flashed.
The creature plunged its teeth into his neck.
Arthur fell to his knees, gurgling. He scrabbled for the creature but was unable to get a grip on its body, which lengthened
into something slithering and winding, shaggy with lichens.
With a roar, the stag shivered into a wolf. He lunged at Arthur—Arthur moved his hands aside with a muffled squeak—the wolf’s
jaws closed around the creature’s body.
For a long moment, the three of them were locked together: the wolf holding fast to the creature, the creature holding fast
to Arthur’s neck, Arthur’s fingers at the creature’s mouth. The wolf growled. Arthur reached for him, a hand clenching in
Ira’s fur. He couldn’t breathe.
The creature’s hold slackened. Gasping, Arthur pried the creature off. The wolf shook it between his teeth and flung it away.
It crumbled into dust.
Arthur’s heartbeat pounded in his ears; his breathing was harsh. He pressed a hand to his mangled flesh, fingers slick with
blood. He retched into the soil. Nothing came up.
Freya crept down from the tree and wound around him, mewling anxiously.
Ira was a man again. He knelt at Arthur’s side, pulled his hand from his neck. His mouth twisted.
Arthur tried to ask how bad it was, couldn’t. He gurgled.
Ira swore. “Can you stand?”
Arthur nodded but stumbled. Ira steadied him.
“I know somewhere safe we can take care of this. Come on.”
Arthur took a step and crumpled. Cursing, Ira hefted Arthur over his shoulder and limped through the forest, flowers blooming
and dying behind him.