Page 19 of Into the Heartless Wood
“All living things deserve a name.”
“Even monstrous ones?”
I find I don’t quite fear her, in the light of day, the same as I did in the dark wood. There is the memory, still, of blood dripping from her silver-white fingers, the snap of bone, the litter of bodies. But she saved Awela from her sister. She savedme.And that means something. It has to.
“Even monstrous ones.”
“What would you call me, Owen Merrick?”
I think of her face last night, flooded in starlight in the moment before her bower sealed us in. The image confuses me, unsettles me, more than anything else. “I would call you Seren.”
“Seren.” The word is harsh on her lips, full of jagged edges. “What does it mean?”
“Wen?” says Awela sleepily, yawning and rubbing her eyes as she finally, finally wakes.
One moment more I stare at the tree siren. One moment more she stares back. “It means ‘star.’”
She touches my forehead with one silver finger, and something cool rushes through me. Then she melts into the forest with the sound of wind in the trees, and the next moment Awela and I are alone.
I could almost believe it all a strange dream, except for the wilted violet lying bright on the forest floor. Awela squirms out of my arms as I crouch to pick up the flower and tuck it into my pocket. I don’t want to forget her, and I have the strong feeling that without a tangible reminder, I will.
We’re at the place in the wall where the hole should be, but there’s no trace of it. It’s as if the wood pulled out the stones to lure Awela through, and then put them back again. I think of roots writhing under the ground and I shudder.
I pull Awela up onto my back and tell her to hold tight to my neck as I climb over the wall and lower her safely to the ground. I scramble down myself just as Father steps from the house.
“Papa!” shrieks Awela, barreling toward him.
His hair is disheveled, his shirt and trousers rumpled. His hands are rough and raw, as if he spent the whole night beating them against rough stone. He cries out at the sight of Awela, scooping her up in his arms, weeping into her neck.
I join them and Father pulls me close. His whole body shakes. “I thought I’d lost you,” he gasps. “I thought I’d lost both of you, just as I lost Eira. And the wood would not let me in. It wouldn’t let mein.”
“We’re here, Father,” I say. “We’re safe.”
I don’t even register his words about the wood until I glance behind me. The wall is streaked with dark stains, and I look back to my father’s raw hands.
It wouldn’t let me in.
Awela wriggles from Father’s arms and dashes into the house, hollering for bread and milk and strawberries. Father and I follow her inside.
Father tells me what happened over breakfast, though Awela is the only one who really eats anything. I sip tea and try to gather the pieces of myself, try to think around the cold silvery feeling in my head.
Father doesn’t even sip his tea, just holds it, his large hands engulfing his mug. “You weren’t here when I got home from Brennan’s Farm. Either of you. I knew the wood had taken you—I could feel it. So I put wax in my ears and lit a torch. I tried to climb the wall, again and again. But the trees hissed and pushed me off. I tried to go around, but somehow the wall was always there—I couldn’t find the end of it. I took a sledgehammer to the stone but it wouldn’t break. And I knew, Iknewyou were trapped on that side of the wall, as I was trapped on this side. I heard the sirens singing. I thought they were devouring you. God help me, Owen. I thought you were gone.” He bows his head into his hands, and an awful sob wrenches out of him.
“Papa!” Awela tugs on his arm, concerned. Her face is smeared with honey; bread crumbs cling to her chin.
He pulls her onto his lap, holds her so tight she shrieks and squirms free. She finds her blocks under the table and begins merrily stacking them on top of each other and knocking them down, again and again.
The clatter of them grates at my mind.
“What happened, Owen?” Father’s eyes catch mine across the table. Already he seems more solid than he did an hour ago, more himself. But the barely scabbed cuts on his hands make me shudder.
The strange coolness in my head has grown into a pain that seems to slice straight between my eyes. My fingers find my temples. I want to scream but I don’t know why.
“Owen?” He stretches out his hand to touch my shoulder.
“Awela got lost in the wood,” I whisper. “I followed her. A tree siren protected us in a bower of branches. She brought us home.” I frown. This doesn’t seem right.
And yet.