Page 77 of Into the Heartless Wood
stronger,
wilder.
I am glad.
It means my mother is not at the heartless tree.
It means she is here, waiting for us.
My mother
is the thing
that smells of blood.
She stands
stiff and straight at the end of the ash tree corridor
under a darkly writhing sky.
Lightning crackles beyond her,
gilding her with power.
A body lies lifeless at her feet, the husk of a boy younger than Owen.
His face is frozen in agony.
Hers is luminous.
Fury wells inside of me.
I stare at the boy’s face
and picture Owen there,
broken at her feet.
Our mother watches us approach.
Her eyes are narrowed to slits.
Her antlers branch out from either side of her head, tipped in fresh blood.
The
boy’s
blood.
It drips crimson onto the ground.
Beneath her feet the earth whispers and writhes.
Above and all around, the trees bow to her.
They are awake and angry,
