Aster Wood and the Lost Maps of Almara (Book 1) (6 page)

I wondered if Kiron was right, and if I really was well enough to be hiking along this strange countryside. I would take it slow, I told myself, just in case.

I studied the map carefully as I walked. The paper showed a rough outline of the surrounding area. I kept a lookout for the landmarks, but mostly I trekked along absently, too distracted by everything I had just learned.

The stories Kiron told were bizarre. If he was telling me the truth, he must be hundreds of years old. And a man named Brendan Wood had once lived here, that was certain. Could I believe that this person was really my relative?
 

No
, I thought.
It’s not possible.

But then my eyes focused again on the unusual terrain that surrounded me.

It shouldn’t be possible that I’m here at all. Why is it not possible that the Brendan Wood from Aria and the Brendan Wood from Earth are the same man?

None of this mattered, of course, because whatever the truth was, I seemed pretty stuck here. Sure, I could decide that Kiron was nothing more than a crazed old man and go along on my way. But where would I go? Looking out over the rolling hills, I saw no other signs of life. Well, not human life. Birds flew overhead, squirrels and rabbits crossed my path more than once. But it didn’t look like there was anybody else around apart from Kiron who might be able to steer me towards the answers to my questions, much less home.
 

I decided to trust him. True, I had little choice, but the decision came easily because he seemed, mostly, to be a kind man. He was gruff and old and cranky, yes. But he had fed me and comforted me and given me a direction where there was previously none.
 

I stared at my feet as they crunched through thousands of tiny, fallen branches and leaves, not looking up as I crossed over into the shade of a grove of trees. The greenest of the leaves stuck to the sides of the leather, making my boots look like they were being eaten by the forest.
 

An hour passed. Then another. I began to get frustrated with my lack of progress. I had only seen one landmark so far, the petrified remains of a long dead tree sticking out from the hard earth. I trudged onward down the trail until I came to a small grove of apple trees. Fat, round fruits littered the ground all around where I stood. I gathered up an armful and found a place to sit, resting my back up against one of the thick trunks.

As the sweet, tart juice of the apple dribbled down my chin, I wondered what my mom was doing right that minute. She must have abandoned her summer trip by now, gone back to the farmhouse to Grandma to search for me. Guilt seeped into me as I thought about the job she had been called away for, the opportunity now lost. Had she called my dad? I didn’t know if she would, but I wondered what he would think, learning that his first son had vanished into thin air.
 

He wasn’t normal, my father. His reaction would never be able to be predicted.

“What was he like?” I had asked my mom years ago, hungry for details about this man I was tied to, but who seemed so ambivalent about me. Her fingers paused on the lamp switch on my bedside table at the question. She looked at me, hurt shadowing her face. I was instantly sorry I had brought it up.
 

But then she smiled, the outline on her lips conflicting with the pain in her eyes.
 

“He was a very nice man when we met,” she said. “He loved to sing. Everywhere he went he was singing or whistling or humming. I could never get him to shut up.” She laughed in earnest at the memory. Then her face gradually fell. “But some people aren’t built to handle the stresses of life. Some people…get lost.”

“Is that why he left?” I asked, flinching a little as I waited for her answer. She sighed and put her warm hand against my cheek.

“Your daddy got sick, hon,” she said. “We tried to help him but he just wouldn’t let us. By the time he left he couldn’t see logic at all anymore.”

I remembered this. Over time he had become a frightening man. Some mornings when I was very little, I’d look out the window and see him tromping through the street in nothing but his undershorts, ranting at the top of his voice. Once, my mom went out to try to talk to him, to get him to come inside out of the cold fall air. He had hit her with the back of his hand. She fell to the ground, her hands raised in front of her face in defense. But he just walked away, talking to the people only he could see.
 

“Maybe he could get better,” I said, my hopeful tone betraying my resolve to sound like a grown-up.

“Maybe,” she said, stroking my cheek with her fingertips. “But I don’t think so, hon. Some people just…can’t.”

Maybe. Maybe the disappearance of his only son would be enough to call him back from the edge of…of what? Insanity?
 

No, I thought, it was better to not expect a response at all. He was gone, my dad, and he was never coming back. Now I had to stay focused on staying alive and getting back to the people who
did
care about me. My mom. Grandma.
 

As I sat, a strange tingling sensation started to move across my skin. It felt itchy, and I shook both of my arms out, trying to release the unfamiliar tension. Soon the feeling began to penetrate deep into the muscles of my legs, and my heart beat hard and strong in my chest, willing me to my feet after only resting a few minutes. The feeling was unusual, something I didn’t often feel: energy. Bottled up inside my motionless body, it had suddenly come to the surface, demanding to be released. I tossed the rest of the apples into the basket and walked out of the grove to the hard dirt path.
 

Suddenly, a long, slim hare leapt right into my path, stopping directly in front of me. I froze five feet away from him, surprised out of my thoughts by his arrival. We each stood completely still, mid-stride on the path, and looked at each other. He didn’t seem scared of me, just curious, so I knelt down and put out my hand to see if he would let me touch him. His twitching nose tested the air around us.

His coat looked like a soft, puffy cloud, and my fingers ached to touch the silky fur. My eyes held his gaze, but he didn’t come forward to my outstretched hand. I had always had an affinity for animals, though I rarely saw any at home. Pets were a luxury for the rich. I murmured to him softly, “Come here, little guy.” But the sound of my voice startled him and sent him scampering into the bushes on the side of the trail.
 

“Awwww,” I complained. “Come on, little guy.”
 

I walked over to the bushes, but he was long gone. Remembering the rich stew from earlier today, it occurred to me that I was probably lucky to have seen him at all. It would appear that rabbits around these parts might frequently be in danger of a quick death followed by a long simmer in Kiron’s cook pot.
 

The sun was starting to sink behind the trees and the light in the sky was shimmering gold by the time I reached the acorns. The oak wasn’t with the other trees that were near the trail; it was way out in the middle of a field, standing alone amidst wild grasses and shrubs. I made my way down a gentle hill and started through the grass.
 

The tree was enormous. Or maybe it wasn’t. My experience with trees was, admittedly, nonexistent. I picked up an acorn and twirled it around in my fingers. I wondered why he wanted acorns, of all things. Native Americans had harvested acorns and ground them into flour. Were these for us to eat? I tentatively placed my teeth against the hard skin of the nut and tried to bite it, quickly spitting it out when the bitter taste touched my tongue. I hoped Kiron had some other plan in mind for my foraging.
 

A brigade of squirrels battled me for the tiny treasures, which were spread out all along the base of the tree. The fluff-tailed creatures came down the trunk in pairs, stuffing the hard seeds into their mouths and darting back up, disappearing into the dark folds of the trunk. I moved over the ground and collected as many as I could as the night began to descend. I filled and filled the basket until I could no longer discern the acorns from rocks on the ground in the gathering darkness. I hoped I would have enough as I started back towards the house.
 

I was downright proud of myself. This morning I had been sure that I wouldn’t be able to make it the whole day out in the wilderness on my own. But here I was, a heavy basket half full of the requested nuts, and I was barely even tired.

That was when I heard the first call.

Through the twilight came a single, lone cry. I stopped in my tracks and listened. At first I was entranced by the sound, and more excited than nervous. Was it a coyote? A wolf? The closest I ever got to nature was the reptile room at the science museum, an inadequate dose of our lost world. I imagined a sleek fox getting ready to hunt in the night. He would catch the scent of a squirrel, or a rabbit, maybe, and burst forth on its trail. The picture in my mind was almost beautiful as I imagined nature taking its course, the hare devoured, outwitted and outrun by his opponent.

But as I walked out of the field and up towards the apple grove, the first voice was joined by another. And another. Soon a chorus of howls seemed to fill the air on all sides. Too many of them were out there to fit in neatly with my serene nature story.
 

My skin began crawling with energy again, but this was of an entirely different sort. Without even giving thought to the internal injury I could sustain, I bolted.
 

Immediately, the howling increased. The yipping of what sounded like dozens of animals echoed through the night, and I pushed my legs to run faster, faster than they had ever moved in my life. I blew through the field and up the small incline to the apple grove. There I paused, looking back for just a moment to get a glimpse of my pursuers.
 

I should not have done this.

There, bounding through the grass at top speed and headed straight for me, was an enormous pack of…what were they? Wolves? Hyenas? I had never seen, in a lifetime of browsing nature books, an animal that resembled these. Two feet tall, four legs, and the snarling snout of a dog combined with the tusks of a wild pig. Their silvery, wired hair stuck up haphazardly from their bodies in stiff tufts. There had to be at least fifteen of the beasts, and with each stride they took they released more howls, calling more and more to the hunt.
 

I turned and ran as the first of the animals was making the hill below me. In seconds the leader was snapping at my feet. I pushed myself harder and broke away from him, the huge, awkward basket bouncing violently against my back. Around me the woods came alive with sound. Squirrels scampered up, snakes slithered down, and all the while the pack pursued me. I wasn’t yet tired, but as the threat increased I moved faster. And faster. Soon I left the pack behind, but I did not stop. My breathing was even, my heartbeat impossibly steady.
 

I focused intently on the trail, barely visible now with only the moon lighting the path. At first my feet slammed into the packed dirt, but as the minutes passed they seemed to barely touch the earth at all. Fifteen minutes passed like this as I flew across the countryside.

When I finally did stop near the giant petrified tree, the land around me was silent. I was ok. My heart beat hard, but strong, and my chest was unclenched and open. The cold night air felt refreshing against my hot cheeks.

My breath slowly quieted as I listened for sounds of pursuit. I heard nothing. Not even the howls of the hunt could reach my ears here. Where had they gone? Had they given up?
 

I leaned against the ancient, solid trunk and suddenly realized that it had taken me many hours to make the distance between it and the oak tree. How had I gotten back here so fast?

Then the truth hit me so hard it almost knocked me down.

I had outrun the pack.
 

I had outrun the pack?

It wasn’t possible. I hadn’t hit the ground at even a jog since I was five. The beasts must have fallen back, maybe distracted by a different source of dinner. But the proof was all around me. The wolf-pigs were nowhere to be seen, and I had already reached the ancient, towering tree, which should have taken at least two hours. I stood listening, still trying to make sense of the fact that I was alone.
 

“ASTER?” I heard the distant call of Kiron and turned towards the sound. Barely visible in the faint moonlight, a curl of smoke rose from the cottage. I moved away from the trees and towards the homestead at a quiet walk, surprised to still be alive, and with a mind full of questions.

The chickens had already been locked in their coop for the night. Through the two windows in the house a faint, warm light flickered. As I approached the door, I was unsure about whether to knock or just open it. But right as I made the top step it flew open in front of me. Kiron’s hand dashed out of the opening, grabbed onto the shoulder straps of the basket I was tied to, and pulled me inside.
 

“My boy!” he bellowed. “Where have you been? I thought I had lost you for sure.”

“You almost did,” I said.

“I told you to be back by sunset, did I not? There’s reason to stay inside after dark around these parts.”

“I met some of those reasons while I was out,” I said, dropping the awkward pack to the floor.

Inside the room it was stifling hot. The enormous dog was sprawled out next to the fire, clearly exhausted from following Kiron around with whatever he had been up to all afternoon.
 

“You did, did ya?” Kiron asked. “Still alive, I see.”

“Yeah,” I said, pulling out one of the heavy wood chairs at the table. “They chased me. A big pack of wolves or pigs or…I don’t know what they were, but they chased me back from the oak tree.”

“Ah, that would be faylons. They chased you, eh?” He crossed to the other side of the room and began stirring an enormous cauldron that was perched precariously over the fire. “All the way back from the tree? I thought you were sick…” He glanced up at me, smirking.