xxxvii. In which Arthur forges onward, despite the forest’s misgivings
xxxvii. In which Arthur forges onward, despite the forest’s misgivings
Arthur had hoped they’d come across the heart of the wood that very day, but the forest was behaving oddly—if there were a
normal way for an enchanted forest to behave. With the acorn as his compass, Arthur was certain the heart of the wood was
somewhere straight ahead. The forest wouldn’t let them go that way. It kept closing paths before them, opening others that
pushed them farther west or east or south. The trees shifted so much that it confused him. He focused on the acorn.
“We are trying to help you,” he said to the trees more than once, with increasing annoyance. The forest didn’t respond, except to
keep subtly shifting. The cat wound underfoot, mewling uneasily.
Wind clawed through the branches around them. Jonas shivered, drawing their coat tighter. Arthur squeezed their hand. He didn’t
feel half as hopeless as he had that morning. As long as he had the children, he could believe everything would be all right.
They’d work their way north again. The forest had to let them through eventually, as it had let him into the vale, as it had
regrown the bridge once it had understood what he was about.
Maurice didn’t like the wind. His ears twitched at every sound, but he didn’t run off.
He seemed to have taken a liking to Sasha.
The day’s journey had worn her out; she fell asleep on his broad back, her fingers tangled in his mane.
Whenever she seemed in danger of slipping off, the gelding twisted around to nudge her back into place with his nose, whickering.
Arthur smiled fondly, but his smile faded as he thought, again, of Ira. He hoped Ira was safe back in the vale, that Calyx
was comforting him if it could. He sighed.
Jonas spoke for the first time in hours. “What really happened, Uncle Arthur?”
Their thin face was creased with concern, although admittedly their expression had been such all day. While Sasha was intrigued
and delighted by the forest—even its dangers, like the stormwings—Jonas couldn’t wait until they were free of it.
“What do you mean, duck?” Arthur asked.
With a glance at their sleeping sister, Jonas lowered their voice. “You didn’t answer Sasha’s questions about the Lord of
the Wood. You always answer her questions. Even the bad ones.”
“There are no bad questions,” Arthur said automatically, because his father had always said the same.
“Maybe not,” Jonas said solemnly, “but Sasha has them sometimes.”
Arthur chuckled.
“What happened?” Jonas repeated. “Didn’t you really meet the Lord of the Wood?”
Arthur gazed straight ahead, considering how much to say. Before, he’d spun the children a tale of a fairy prince like the
one he’d always dreamed of. He’d told them about the greenery sprouting at Ira’s feet without mentioning it dying a moment
later; a sentient plant creature without mentioning it had tried to kill him; a magical pool that healed wounds without mentioning
he’d seen his father’s spirit or that his hand and neck still throbbed periodically.
He’d told them stories, in short, like those Charlotte had worried about him telling: ones that glossed over unpleasant realities in favor of a dream and a wish.
“I met him. He wasn’t what I expected.”
“What was he like?”
“He was dreadfully grim, at first. He was . . . a person, not the figure Granddad always made him out to be. And he didn’t
wear flowers and leaves like in the story, but I don’t suppose they’d be very warm at this time of year.” Arthur gave a small
smile without meaning to. “He was kind to me, mostly. He didn’t think I was odd. He . . .”
He thought of Ira drawing him, over and over. Ira so earnestly telling Arthur he wasn’t useless like he—like everyone—thought.
Ira worrying that nothing he did would make a difference, the same way Arthur worried.
Ira touching Arthur’s face. His claws tangled in Arthur’s hair. His lips on Arthur’s.
Arthur flushed, deciding not to share any of that. “He knew Granddad better than I thought.”
Jonas’s brow scrunched. “What do you mean?”
“They were good friends.” Arthur ran a hand over his face. “Granddad never told us that.”
Jonas’s lips twisted. They picked at their lower lip thoughtfully. Arthur bent to grab a leaf and handed that to them to shred
instead.
“You and Mama don’t always tell us the whole truth about things.”
Arthur looked at them in surprise, then chuckled ruefully. “I suppose that’s true. We do try, you know. Lottie doesn’t like
to hide things from you if she doesn’t have to, and neither do I.”
Jonas considered this. “Maybe Granddad thought he had to.”
Arthur cracked a smile he wasn’t feeling. “Why’s that, do you think?”
“You’re too much like Sasha,” Jonas said, to his utter shock. No one, least of all himself, would ever have said he was anything like Sasha. “Probably Granddad thought you’d walk into the wood for fun if you knew more about it.”
“I might have. If I’d known . . . Well, I might have. He did promise to take me one day, but I was never old enough before
he vanished.” Arthur glanced at Jonas. “You really think I’m like Sasha?”
Jonas gave one of their small rare smiles. “Less annoying, though.”
Sasha let out a snore so loud she might’ve been faking, but she never would’ve let her sibling call her annoying without jumping
up to accuse them of being annoying instead. Maurice’s ears twitched in her direction.
“She’s not annoying,” Arthur said, with nothing but fondness in his voice. “She’s . . . well, she’s Sasha.”
She mumbled in her sleep. His face relaxed into a smile, a real one.
When Sasha awoke from her nap, Arthur focused on pushing north. The heart of the wood was that way; he felt it. They had to
get through, no matter how hard the forest nudged them in another direction. Whenever a clump of trees appeared, he went through
rather than around as best he could, following Freya. Jonas clambered over trunks and through brambles, uncomplaining about
the scratches sustained. Arthur stopped periodically to dab ointment on their face and arms, and his. Astride Maurice, Sasha
barreled through every obstacle—sometimes getting so far ahead that Arthur panicked, afraid that if he lost sight of her she’d
vanish in the forest forever.
It quickly became clear, however, that Maurice barreling through was their best chance of getting past whatever obstacles
the forest placed in their path. Arthur let Sasha ride ahead but begged her not to go too fast.
“Stay in sight, duckling. We need to stick together.”
“Careful,” Jonas said. “When I said that, she made me ride the horse.”
Maurice snorted into their hair. They grimaced, wiping equine snot from their curls. Arthur gave them a handkerchief.
The temperature plummeted. Leaves crackled with frost.
Sasha shivered. “Why’s it so cold?”
“The eagles you saw, duck. They bring storms, but they come too early.”
“How do you know?”
“The Lord of the Wood told me.”
Sasha’s eyes shone with curiosity, but Arthur hurried onward, unwilling—as Jonas had pointed out—to answer any questions she
might ask about the Lord of the Wood. He hadn’t even told the children Ira’s name. It let him pretend he could distance himself
from the Lord of the Wood, though he’d worried about Ira almost constantly since they’d parted ways.
He couldn’t shake it. Despite the way things had soured, he couldn’t stop thinking of what had come before.
You have kind eyes like he did, he heard Ira saying, when they’d met. And later: I think you’re lovely.
Ira had transformed for him so many times, though it always meant changing back different. He’d been so afraid to leave the
vale, but he’d left anyway because Arthur had asked him to. That had to mean something, despite their falling-out. No one
Arthur had ever attempted to befriend had done half so much for him, nor made it so clear they liked him despite his oddities,
or perhaps because of them. For the first time, Arthur let himself hope that his parting from Ira didn’t have to mean the
end.
Maybe, after the heart of the wood was replanted, Arthur could find him. Maybe, no matter how angry they’d gotten, they could
fix things between them.