xxxii. In which everything goes to shit #2
His fingers were smeared red. He gulped down air.
In the dirt before him, Ira stared at him in horror. He was a man again—barely. Gray-green with moss and lichens, scar and
hair speared with white flowers, antlers twined with leaves and rusty with blood. His face had twisted and lengthened into
something like a wolf’s and something like a stag’s and something like a raven’s. Blood stained the fur on his right cheek,
where Freya’s claws had raked across his face, and spotted his shirt where his shoulder was injured. Though his eyes were
human, they had the expression of a wary animal.
Arthur breathed deeply, in for four, hold for four, out for four. He stepped forward, but Ira said, “Don’t.”
“Ira—”
Ira scrambled backward. “Keep away from me.”
Freya mewled pitifully. Arthur scooped her up and held her close.
“It’s all right. I’m fine.”
He said nothing about the woodsmen unrecognizable as mossy mounds growing in the clearing. His stomach twisted.
Ira shook his head. “I could’ve killed you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I wanted to.”
His voice was hoarser than ever. Arthur’s heart sank.
“Not you. The forest. Which I must admit,” he added, hoping to lighten the mood, “rather hurts my feelings after all we’ve
been through together.”
Ira didn’t smile.
“It doesn’t matter. The forest, me—it’s all the same.” He scrubbed a paw-like hand over his face. “I have to go back.”
“Back?”
“To the vale.”
“Ira—” Arthur set the cat down and chanced another step toward him. This time, Ira didn’t back away. “We’ve been traveling
for two days. I know it’s been . . . less than ideal—” possibly the greatest understatement he’d ever made “—but I think—I
know we can do this. Everything will be all right.”
Ira yanked the acorn off. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled: Like his face, his figure had changed. He was barrel-chested
and hunched; his wolf’s paws extended into legs. His knee brace buckled and slid down his right leg, no longer fitting. He
swore.
“Nothing about this is all right, Arthur!” he snarled. “I can’t even wear my knee brace.”
He threw the acorn. It bounced off Arthur’s chest and vanished in the leaf litter. Arthur fell to his knees in a panic, searching
by touch until his fingers curled around its silver form.
Ira growled, deep and resonant, more animal than ever. “What good did it do? Look at me. It’s so much worse now. I only left
the vale because you made me—”
“I didn’t make—”
“—and now I’m this. The fucking acorn didn’t do anything.”
Arthur clutched the acorn, getting to his feet cautiously. He’d never seen Ira so angry. Ira was frightened, really, Arthur
knew that, but his heart hammered.
“It will. Once we plant it. It’ll make everything better.”
Ira lurched toward him, eyes glittering. “We’ll never make it. I’ll become a beast, all of me, and you’ll die because the
forest kills you, or maybe I’ll kill you myself!”
His snarl chased crows from a nearby tree. They burst from the canopy and flew away, cawing, translucent and black-veined.
Ira followed them with his gaze. Chest heaving, he slumped against a stump and ran a hand over his beastly face. Arthur stepped
closer, aching to touch him.
“Look at me,” Ira repeated morosely.
Arthur cupped his furred cheek in a hand. Ira had a snout now, and fangs. He was so much more beast than man, and with that
growth in his scar, and lichens clinging to the ruff of his neck. But his eyes were the same, one hazel, one milky. His breath
was sweet in Arthur’s face.
“You’re still my Ira,” Arthur whispered.
Ira squeezed his eyes shut. Touched Arthur’s hand, so carefully, keeping his claws from Arthur’s skin. “I just wanted to keep
you safe.”
“Then come with me,” Arthur pleaded. “We must be closer to the heart of the wood than the vale by now.”
Ira pulled away with a growl. “Don’t you understand? I’m the greatest danger to you now. If this happens again—”
“Maybe it won’t.”
“—if I lose control, if the forest takes me over that way—there’ll be nothing I can do.”
Arthur dragged his hands over his face.
“I’m so sick of you saying that.” Looking confused, Ira opened his mouth, but Arthur held up his hands. “I know—the forest doesn’t listen to you anymore. You can’t do all the things you used to do. I know. You think there’s nothing you can do? There’s nothing I can do!”
Ira opened his mouth, but Arthur barreled over him.
“I can’t support my family because I can’t do anything useful. When Charlotte got sick, I couldn’t do anything but keep the
children quiet and bring her bread and water and make up the medicines she knew about, when she felt up to giving me instructions. I couldn’t even make it through the forest on my own for more than
a day and a half!”
His cheeks had gone red and patchy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten really angry. Now that he’d turned it on,
he didn’t know how to turn it off.
“I can’t do anything, and my God, I know that—but at least I try. I don’t sit around doing nothing because I’m so convinced
I can’t do anything.”
“Oh no?” Ira said quietly. “Isn’t that what you told me you were doing back in Seacliff? Sitting around sighing about how
you couldn’t change your own life because you were too cowardly to do anything about it?”
Arthur whitened. “I—”
Ira staggered closer with another growl. “Isn’t that what you did in the vale? For all your talk about needing to get back
to your family—how hard did you try to leave before you looked in the basin? Before Calyx scared you off? How many times did
you tell yourself the brambles were too thick, the danger too much?”
The words punched Arthur in the gut—because they were true. A scratch on the cheek had been enough to keep him from seriously
confronting the brambles for days.
He clenched the acorn so tightly it dug into his palm. “I’m doing something now. Maybe I’ll muck it up like I always do, maybe I won’t make it, but I’m not turning back. Not this time. If you won’t come with me, I’ll go myself. I’ll make sure Lottie is safe. I’ll save you even if you won’t.”
“Do what you must. I won’t risk being the thing that kills you.”
Ira limped away, but his leg buckled, and he collapsed. Arthur stumbled after him, wanting, despite himself, to offer aid
or comfort. Snarling, Ira shivered into a raven whose feathers were stained green with moss. He hopped several times, flapping
awkwardly.
Between the new greenery and the shoulder wound, Arthur thought he wouldn’t be able to leave. But with an angry croak, the
raven darted upward.
“Ira!” Arthur cried, but the raven didn’t turn back. Ira could fly to the heart of the wood and save it this minute, if he’d
listen to reason. But he was too scared to think straight, too scared to listen to Arthur any longer.
The raven vanished over the trees. A wave of tears threatened, but Arthur swallowed them and hung the acorn around his neck.
Freya mewed at him. He hugged her to his chest, burying his face in her long fur.
He turned and walked into the trees, alone except for the cat.