Chapter 7
Heroes
Maeva lay low for two weeks, doing chores, helping with dinner, cleaning her room. Nobody believed her about the boy. She hadn’t bothered to listen to the rest of the deferral that night, preferring to lie in bed listening to Adele until she fell asleep.
But the dream came again.
In it she was wearing something flowy. The forest was alive with fireflies and crickets. A rabbit darted through the brush as she skipped down the weathered trail, looking for something. Her slippers caught on roots and she almost tripped but managed to keep herself upright. Crashing sounds hit her temples and she recoiled. She longed to see it—maybe if she saw it again she’d be able to find it, but another part of her pulled back, forcefully making her turn and run in the other direction. She tripped over her own foot and landed on her face—waking with shock. She lay on her stomach, her mouth biting the pillow. She shoved herself up, a camisole and boy briefs making up her nighttime wardrobe. The clock read 5:00 am She tried to roll over and settle into sleep but the pounding in her heart refused to subside. Sighing, she launched herself off the bed and threw on a pair of long flare jeans, and traded the camisole for a purple tank top that read “Monsters Live Under My Bed.”
She brushed out the curls and glanced at her dresser. Two jewelry chests sat on either end, both pressed against the mirror on the back. There was a doily covering a few scratch marks she made a few years ago. She set her hairbrush on it. In the middle was a smaller jewelry box, covered with gold embroidered red fabric. She undid the catch and pushed the box open revealing the golden pocket watch. She dragged her fingers along it idly, feeling the smooth center. She didn’t remember much about the day she got it. That was the day she fell off the monkey bars and bashed her head. There were hours of nothingness between the time she passed out and the time she woke up, everything in between a blur. When she woke, she was clutching the pocket watch. Nobody knew how she got it, but it was something she couldn’t part with. It felt attached to her in a weird way.
Her mother tried to have it appraised a few years ago when they’d gotten into one of their infamous fights. She’d taken it out of Maeva’s room and claimed she was going to pawn it unless Maeva both apologized and did double chores for a month. Maeva couldn’t let the pocket watch go and so she did whatever her mom wanted, feeling sick inside for being so easily blackmailed.
She shut the box and redid the latch. Her house felt like a prison, her room in the basement, which was the last left after Scott claimed the upstairs, made her feel alien to her family. She knew she didn’t belong with them and yet, her mother had photo albums of being pregnant, of holding Maeva as a baby in the hospital. There was no way she was adopted.
She pulled on a pair of ankle socks. She’d only seen the boy for a few seconds, but those blue eyes permeated her mind. Every day for the past two weeks he crept into her thoughts and made her question her own sanity. Plenty of tourists came to Kenora in the summertime, but most of them stayed off the unmarked trails. She couldn’t put together how a freak storm rolled in, the boy appeared, she caused a fire, and was rescued by helicopter. No matter what kind of probation her father was trying to impose, it was Thursday. He was at work and everyone else was likely asleep. Grace used to set her alarm for 6:00 am when Maeva was allowed to use the canoe, but without the threat of Maeva leaving the house, she had no reason to lurk in the kitchen, waiting for her moment to sting.
Maeva grabbed her backpack and tiptoed up the stairs, pushing open the creaky basement door and listening for noise in the kitchen. Hearing nothing, she turned the corner and tiptoed past the granite counters and put on her converse sneakers. She slipped out the back door and trailed down the stone path to the pier. Orange, yellow, and purplish leaves crunched underfoot as she crossed the dock, throwing her backpack into the canoe and stepping in. She zipped her lifejacket and took the paddle, defiantly pushing away from the dock.
The water was rough, wind ripping across the surface. Maeva shoved the paddle in and worked against the current, wind slapping her face and making tears form. She frowned, disliking the sandstorm quality of the wind, forcing the canoe through the choppy water. She headed south, skirting Treaty Island. She spied the same piece of land jutting out from the island; the shrub with deep green leaves had changed to light green and yellow. She pulled up; determination rifling through her as she tied the heavy rope around a tree, making sure it wouldn’t drift away before she returned.
What her parents said about the boy was wrong. She wasn’t seeing things and she wasn’t wrong. The topic of group therapy graced the table for the umpteenth time since she hit sixteen but she wasn’t about to entertain the idea of talking about her problems with others. She couldn’t explain the dreams or the ever-present urge to go canoeing, hiking, anything that kept her outdoors for a few hours. They didn’t know how deep her estranged feelings went so this was all precaution on their part. She didn’t need someone to tell her what was wrong with her; she just needed to find someone who understood. She rounded the corner and her stomach lurched. Fire had spread through the trees, turning them into black ashy shadows. She stepped into the salt and pepper ash at her feet and ran her hand along the charcoal like bark, remorse sweeping through her. She took a breath calming the pending anxiety attack but a tear freed itself, sliding down her cheek. She hung her head.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, speaking to the forest itself. She loved everything about the forest in the summertime, from the first white blooms to the last crunchy orange leaf. She thought of the forest as a living, breathing entity. One that stood silent, sheltering them from harsh winters. She pulled her hand off the bark rubbing her fingers together smearing black marks down her fingers. She wiped them on her jeans then cursed herself for doing it. The heavy streaks of black stood out on her light denim jeans, something her mom would notice about her appearance instantly. She tried to rub it off but only succeeded in smudging it into her jeans even further.
The sound of a hiccup followed by trickling laughter hit the dead air and Maeva straightened; a chill snaking down her spine. She was there to see if the boy would show up again, and also to see if there were any signs he was there in the first place. Footsteps in the opposite direction—maybe he dropped something. She wasn’t sure what she was going to find, but seeing the crispy trees made her feel hollowed out. The laughter continued, sounding like it was coming from off the trail. She squinted trying to see through the decaying and fallen trees, but there was nobody there. She doubled back, a distinct nickering in the air as she hit the part of the forest alive with the colors of autumn.
“Hello?” she called, feeling a little silly because nobody answered. She pulled her lips to the side in a quirky frown and looked up at the sky. It was almost midmorning. She didn’t think about her chances of getting caught, but it was obviously going to happen no matter how long she was out there. Something light dusted her cheek and she scrubbed her face worried it was a fly or a spider. When she cleared her face, she found a downy reddish brown feather at her feet. She glanced up, turning in a slow circle. Her heart leapt into her chest when she saw the owl perched on a branch, gazing at her sternly. She laughed.
“You scared me,” she said, pointing the feather at the owl.
Its deep brown eyes held a challenge in them. It hooted, something Maeva understood as a snort and launched itself into the air, spreading its reddish, bronze, brown wings out and sailing across the sky in a perfect arch. It disappeared over the tree line. Maeva closed her mouth which she realized was open and felt something gnawing at her. For a second she’d forgotten all about the boy with the blue eyes, the black mark on her jeans, and the lecture she was going to receive when she got home. For a few brief moments everything had been perfect.
She shook her head, the heavy feelings setting in. She twirled the feather between her thumb and index finger as she trudged back towards her canoe.
O O O
Pux landed unevenly in the brush, his feathered shoulder scraping along a branch before he transformed into his feorn form, a jagged red line along his furry skin. He sat stunned, blinking in rapid succession at what he’d seen in a dead part of the forest.
Kaliel.
He couldn’t mistake her mannerisms. The look of wonder in her eyes, the way she touched the tree, even the way she rubbed the spot on her jeans, it was so like the girl he once knew in Evennses.
He pulled on his breeches and tunic, settling the fabric around his form. His insides shook with grief as he moved to a crouch and inspected the green leaves of the concealing shrubs. He furrowed his brow as the tears came on hot and strong. He sat back in the brush, covering his eyes with his arms, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She left him and she was lost. She was so lost she couldn’t even find herself. He never thought he’d see her again and there she was: a human girl, normal, benign.
Pux trembled. How could she be alive? His mind whirred with incoherent possibilities. Nothing about it made sense. He stood, not caring if someone caught him and waded through the ferns until he stepped on a weathered path. He took it south, smelling fresh water. The land sloped towards shore and Pux lifted the whistle to his lips, blowing softly on the end. In nine hundred years she was the last person he expected to encounter in what he considered his forest. She wasn’t supposed to be alive. She ran after Krishani, she forfeited her life in the storm. He shuddered trying not to let the past cloud his vision. Too much had happened since that day.
The surface of the lake shimmered as the boat appeared, the carved wooden woman with pearls for eyes standing guard at the bow. Pux rubbed his breeches nervously, glancing behind him to make sure he was alone. Humans no longer knew they existed. It was too dangerous. If they could prove fae, feorns, elvens, and everything else in the Lands of Immortals and the Lands of Beasts were real, it would cause mass riots on Earth. He walked a thin line, but it was because he couldn’t stay in Evennses forever, not with all the heady memories and nightmares of the girl he lost.
Water cascaded off the boat, clear, but grayish. He stepped down to the last rocks along the shore, squeezed his fist, then rethought it and braced himself on the figure of the woman, stepping into the boat. It slid into the water, mists covering him, the boat rocking back and forth as Pux whispered the incantation in the native Avristar tongue. When the mists cleared it was sunset, complete with the pink Pux added years ago. The water was a tangy deep blue, the smooth rounded head and Mohawk fin of a merfolk retreating as the boat advanced towards the shore. Pux jumped out a few feet shy of the white sand, knowing it was shallow. The bottom of his breeches got soaked as his wolf-like feet splashed through the turquoise water and reached the break in the trees. They creaked, presenting the thin crack between their trunks and Pux slid through, almost tripping on the other side. He regained himself and quickened through the winding thin path, an ominous feeling creeping up his throat as he passed giant wide trunks.
He treaded through a land of shadows and roots, his fur covered fingers trailing along the thick walls of the tallest red cedars he’d ever seen. He passed a familiar path leading towards the border of Amersil, where the Great Oak stood. He never wanted to see the tree again. Something shook him out of his bones, a rabbit darting across the path. Between the breaks in the trees, a fawn drank at the familiar creek he and Kaliel used to meet at when picking flowers.
Everything was different now.
He didn’t feel safe in this forest the way he used to. The threat of the Valtanyana weighed on all of them. They proved if they couldn’t own it, they could destroy it. He pulled at the hem of his tunic, nervous tension running up his spine. If they knew she was alive … he didn’t know what they’d do to her.
The Flames were the one thing they didn’t own, not all of them at least. Pux didn’t know what the lands would become if they found the Flames—if they found her. Mass chaos came to mind, along with a lot more merciless killing. Nausea kept him anchored to the ground as he broke into the meadow, shuffling through the knee-high grass, his strength faltering with each step. He made it to the porch at the House of Kin before his body gave out and he slammed on the steps, pivoting, landing on his thigh, and wincing at the shooting pain. He sat there, hands palms up on his knees, fingers trembling. The sky was a labyrinth of stars, and he idly traced the wolf, then the patterns of lines across his hands. He closed them into fists and pushed them to his side.
The Valtanyana stole everything he loved. Morgana and her Horsemen breeched the shores of Avristar, demonic scaled horses with fire breathing snouts. Melianna returned to Evennses and sounded the horn, calling everyone—even the children, to battle. They fought for years, off and on, the island never quite safe from the beasts Morgana raised. Pux had seen her on the battlefield in Orlondir. He was adorned with armor made for him, a helmet and sword. He jabbed anything she brought, misshapen figures of men, demons with coal black eyes and grayish skin, white wisps known to tangle kinfolk in their grasp, squeezing the life out of them. In the midst of the chaos Morgana stood, pale grayish nightgown to her ankles, blood on her hands, and raven’s hair to her ankles. Pux had waited for the monstrosity to erupt from her but nothing happened. In the old stories, Darkesh was one of the most feared because he was a dragon. Morgana was nothing but a girl that looked like she drowned in the swamp.
Pux covered his face with his hands. Istar ended the battle with his allegiance, storming into the field, his royal cloak flapping in the wind. He shoved her necromantic creatures out of the way and kneeled at her feet. Pux watched him kiss her bloodied hand. She petted him, and cooed, but the words were incomprehensible to Pux. All he heard was a high pitched ringing in his ears as Morgana’s creatures spontaneously combusted, leaving grayish, black and beige dust in the air. She giggled and Pux thought he might throw up.