Chapter Thirty-Seven
The next morning, I sought out Shae. Upon spotting me, she dropped her basket of beans, screeched in delight, and pulled me into a secluded spot of the garden.
“So?” She practically bounced on the spot. “Was it amazing?”
“Incredible.” I laughed at her excitement.
“Girl! I knew it. Did you see the little embroidered flowers on your kitchen curtains? I did that. Well, Freya showed me how, but it was my idea.”
“I did! They’re adorable. Shae, thank you so much. It means so much to me that you all helped Owen decorate our cottage. I cried with happiness this morning as I explored every room. Owen almost tore the place apart trying to understand what was wrong.”
“Men,” she said with a laugh. “They don’t understand that sometimes we just need a good cry.”
“Absolutely. But how are you?”
“I’m okay.” Some of the twinkle left her eyes. “Really. I still might leave, but I don’t want you worrying about me, okay?”
“Well, that’s going to happen anyway.” I gave her a warm smile. “But please come to me before you make any big decisions. Deal?”
She gave me another hug. “Deal.”
That afternoon, Owen enthusiastically moved our few belongings from Freya’s cottage to our new home.
As I watched him carrying our bags up the porch stairs, I joked that perhaps our relationship was moving too fast and we should spend more time in separate rooms. He dropped the bags, gave me a flat-eyed stare, then chased me through the cottage as I shouted with laughter.
When he caught me around the waist, he threw me onto our bed, where we made slow, sweet love.
Which ended that conversation.
We found joy in our new routine—waking up beside one another each morning, eating breakfast on our porch, meeting up with the others in Freya’s cottage for dinner and dancing.
At night we fell into each other’s arms and made love while the warm night air slipped through our open windows, fluttering the curtains and cooling our skin.
I never wanted it to end.
Part of me was convinced that if I didn’t think about the outside world, then maybe I would never have to leave. Maybe Owen and I would always be like this. Maybe, if I only lived in the present, the past and future would no longer matter.
While the others had gotten new phones after theirs were lost in the river and were able to keep abreast of what was happening outside Neamh, I’d declined their offers to get me a new one.
Using Owen’s phone, I’d sent a quick email to Dr. Billings telling her that I had a family emergency and would be away for a few weeks.
I also emailed the humane society and apologized that I would be unable to walk the dogs for the foreseeable future.
I had no idea how Neamh had Wi-Fi, and I didn’t care.
I didn’t want to read the news, and I didn’t want to hear the pings of texts or emails.
I wanted to exist in the blissful ignorance of my garden and stay wrapped in this perfection of new love forever.
I pushed aside the invasive thoughts that this was only temporary, that Craos was still out there and that we were most likely on the eve of war. I pushed them away because I deserved some happiness, Goddamn it.
But things never stay the same.
A few days after moving into our cottage, I woke to a gentle tug against my mind. It was still dark outside, but birds had begun to chitter and chirp. Owen had me tucked tightly against his chest, and I snuggled deeper into his arms, trying desperately to ignore the tug.
No. I’m not ready.
It called me again, urging me to go into the garden, and eventually I could no longer ignore it. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, but Owen pulled me back.
“Where are you going?” he asked, nuzzling my neck and running a hand down my hip.
I smiled and turned my head for a kiss. “Into the garden. I can’t explain it, but it’s calling me.”
He studied me, then finally nodded. “I’ll be here when you return.”
“I know. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I quickly changed and padded barefoot down the front steps.
I rarely wore shoes anymore; bare feet had become my preference, both within our cottage and outside in the garden.
I loved feeling the different textures against my skin—the stone pathway, cold from the night air; the tickling of the grass, wet with dew; and the damp earth of the gardens, squishing between my toes.
The call pulled me toward the Yew, Neamh’s door to the outside world. I hadn’t been here since the day Freya led me to it and I had refused to enter. I hadn’t wanted to venture this close to the real world lest it somehow transport me from my newfound paradise against my will.
And I hadn’t wanted to face my power.
But now my feet carried me into the heart of the Yew whether I wanted them to or not.
Breathing in the scent of damp earth, I cautiously descended the stairs that spiralled downward.
With each step, the air shimmered and time seemed to slow.
The stairs led me into a vast domed chamber formed entirely from the Yew’s roots, curving and weaving into an immense, cathedral-like vault.
Despite being underground, the ethereal glow in the air helped me see in the gloam.
Welcome, daughter of two worlds.
I startled at the voice filled with quiet, ancient power.
“Hello?” I said. My voice seemed small here.
Hello.
“I’m guessing you’re the Yew.”
I am.
“And if I’m remembering Marion’s book correctly, you’re also the Rootstone Guardian.”
Indeed. Fintan, one of the three ancient Druids who created the seal, merged with me when his stone fell at my roots and we became its Guardian.
“Why have you brought me here?”
You have rested long enough. It is time to fight.
I had suspected as much, but I needed to set expectations.
“About that.” I winced. “My powers are dark. Not sure you want me on your side in the next battle. I’m also selfish when it comes to Owen. Can’t exactly be trusted to do the right thing for the world when it comes to protecting him.”
Protecting loved ones or people in need is never wrong.
“I’ve killed. I’d call that wrong.”
Do you think the fox evil for killing a rabbit so her kits can eat?
“No.”
Did you take pleasure in the killing?
I shuddered. “No.”
Then I don’t see a problem with you standing against Craos in the coming battle. Would you abandon your friends in their final hour of need? They trust you. It is time you trusted yourself.
Perhaps I needed to try using my magic again, but with a better teacher. Despite burying my head in the sand like an ostrich, I knew I needed to fight in the war that was coming. The Yew was right. I would not leave my friends to fight on their own.
“Okay, then. I’ve been communing with nature and becoming one with the garden. I might be ready to use my power again and learn how to veil-walk. The right way this time. Can you teach me?”
I cannot. Because you are not a Veil Walker.
“What?! But I accessed the Root Path on the Peninsula! And Owen and my friends walked here holding on to me after I died.”
You were not granted access by the Tree Spirits. You forced your way in. It was not you veil walking. It was Owen. You were all connected through him.
I cringed at the memory but then remembered Owen taking my hand just before the Tree Spirits on the Peninsula had stepped aside.
And he had found me in the Veil and brought me back to life, walking all the way to Scotland.
Shae and Jace had held my hands, but they must have been connected to Owen because he was holding me…
Well, shit. Was my power useful for anything?
“What am I then?”
Something more. You have the blood of both Craos and Aed running through your veins. Your ability to control people and enter their minds comes from the fire demon. Aed’s connection to Craos gives her the same power, although yours is obviously stronger. It is…unique.
I shuddered. “It’s horrible. No one should be able to control another person.”
The Yew hummed in agreement. However, in the right hands…
“Then what am I supposed to do? How can I fight? What is the point of my power if I can’t veil-walk?”
I cannot help you with your dark magic. That is beyond my ken.
And the Tree Spirits will never accept you as long as you have Craos’s dark magic.
But you are also descended from Aed, a Druid, and there is more to a Druid’s power than veil walking.
You are the key to winning this battle. I am sure of it.
Draw from nature. Learn to work with it. Try.
“Now?”
No. Next year after Craos has destroyed the world. Of course, now.
Did trees get exasperated? Because this one sure did. I could almost picture the Yew rolling its eyes, if it had any. “Touchy,” I muttered.
Impatient. You’ve been napping in my garden. Walking around barefoot. Tending flowers. If you haven’t learned anything by now, there’s no hope. Reach for your power. Not with rage but with understanding, grace, and humility.
“Fine. I’ll try.”
I closed my eyes, my arms loose by my sides with my palms turned upward in silent supplication. I stilled my mind and steadied my breathing.
This is not a yoga class. Stop waiting for something to happen and make it happen. Take control of your life. Live with agency.
I opened one eye. “You said to be humble.”
You can be humble but still do something. Start with listening.
“To what?”
Everything.
I closed my eyes again and focused on hearing everything around me. Wood creaked overhead as the Yew swayed gently in the wind. A tiny creature scurried and scratched along the ground, and water dripped from the cavern’s ceiling into a shallow pool.
Good. Go deeper.
Roots shifted slowly beneath me like old bones. A beetle chittered. My heart beat a steady rhythm.
Deeper.
There. A low hum emanated from the roots. From the Yew itself. It was ancient. Powerful. Magical. A life force.
Good. Keep listening. Now, what do you feel?
I focused on the thrum of the Yew’s power and then reached for it.
It drew back.
Remember, humility.
I reached again, this time offering myself up as a curious and humble visitor, reverent and respectful of where I stood, of the history and wisdom these roots held. I requested its teachings, ready and willing to learn.
Much better.
The power woke first in my fingertips and became a gentle warmth that spread up my arms and through my chest. Then it flowed faster, rushing into my legs, filling me with heat and life and strength.
It grew until I could hear the whispers of the Tree Spirits and feel the heartbeat of the garden as if it were my own.
What do you see?
I stretched outward, blending with the garden and all the wild things in it. A fox darted through the ferns, a raven circled high above. A deer stepped from the trees and bowed its head. I saw through its eyes.
My heart beat in time with the sap ebbing and flowing through the trunks of the trees. I felt the happiness of the flowers as they unfurled their petals in the morning sun.
I was no longer separate from the garden.
I was the garden. The Druid magic, full of peace and joy and harmony, pushed the darkness away.
It was still there, humming with quiet anger, but I could control it.
Ignore it, even. This time, I asked nothing of the Tree Spirits or the natural world around me. I simply existed as a part of it.
Excellent. Now let the power go. Gently. Not all at once.
I let the power ebb from my limbs and sink back into the roots. I gasped in breath after breath, falling to my knees as I returned to my body.
“That was incredible! It felt completely different from how it did on the Peninsula.” Maybe I could be useful in the fight against Craos.
I would think so. I am the oldest and wisest after all. The best teacher.
So much for humility.
Now, let me tell you a story. Stories are important. They connect people. Did you know that?
“Yes. They help us empathize with others.”
Very true. I have lived for eons. My story is long. But I will summarize since we are short on time.
“I’m ready.”
Long have I stood in quiet majesty, before names were carved into bark or paths worn into soil. I sprouted when this island was wild, its dense forests roamed by aurochs and wolves.
I saw the rise of stone circles and burial mounds, felt the earth thrum beneath me as Druids gathered in secret, chanting in languages now lost. I heard the iron whisper of Celtic blades and the roar of Roman legions carving roads through forest and moor.
Their torches flickered in my leaves, but they passed and still I stood.
I felt the ground shake with the marching of Norman feet, my bark brushed by the wind of flying arrows.
I watched as castles rose from stone, abbeys crumbled into ruin, and kings and queens were crowned and beheaded.
I tasted soot from the fires of plague pyres and later the smoke from cannons and factories.
I stood tall when the bombs fell, my leaves blown by firestorms, my roots rattling in fear.
The world flickered past, and yet I remember everything and everyone. Every child who played under my leafy boughs. Every lover who carved initials into my bark. My branches write your stories in the sky; my roots hold the memories of the dead.
I couldn’t begin to fathom the history the Yew had witnessed, the lives it had watched come and go. That amount of knowledge and memory was too much for a mortal mind to comprehend, and I was in awe that I stood in its presence.
But there is one story that I remember with particular fondness.
The story of a young woman, once afraid and uncertain, who found the courage to explore the world outside my living room.
Who put aside her fears and acted selflessly time and again to rescue a friend. Yes, Ms. Kira. I remember you, too.