The Herald of Autumn (Echoes of the Untold Age Book 1) (8 page)

Coyote’s door opened into a restroom
stall. The light in the restroom glared the antiseptic, brilliant white that
humans seemed to prefer. I blinked, trying not to breathe in the strong
cleaning chemicals.

I couldn’t quite believe that this
wasn’t Coyote’s idea of a joke.

Opening the door of the stall, I
caught sight of myself in a gleaming mirror. I was a mess. My hair had tangled
and twisted from my battle with the hollow darkness, and mud streaked the side
of my face, making me look as if I wore the First People’s war paint.

Dirty and naked in a human washroom,
I felt positively a fool.

I went to the basin to splash my face
with cool water. The fixtures looked to be copper, but I tested with a touch
before I turned them on.

Caution paid twice. Cold iron slept
everywhere in the human world.

The water tingled, delicious against
my face, clean and cold. I washed up as best as I could, running it through my
tangled hair. I dried myself with one of those small wind dryers and held my
hair beneath it until the flow was fuzzy and warm.

Better. A touch, at any rate.

I prepared to stride out into
wherever I was, full on naked, without being harried by questions.

I took a deep breath and centered
myself, relaxing. I gathered my Name around myself, preparing. My mind drifted
down a storybook lane, watched over by ash, rowan, and maple, each a dizzying,
brilliant orange or yellow. I felt the cool wind, felt the crunch of leaves
beneath my step. Holding my gaze on the mirror, I let all except the autumn
fall away from me.

My eyes gleamed, aspen-gold.

Memories of the Old Man stepped to
the sleeping part of my mind, dreaming and forgotten. The scent of Molly, the
sounds of her sweet whimpers, drifted away as well.

No mere man, I would not be held by
guile or feminine beauty. I was no mere sprite of the maple tree.

When the autumn wind came, it neither
asked permission nor apologized for the cold in its wake. The autumn wind
needed no companionship.

No home.

I stepped from the restroom, wreathed
in orange-gold glamour. Coyote’s door had led to some trucker-stop alongside
the highway, a place where a man of the roads could find almost anything he
needed. A glance to the window told me that it was still raining and still
early.

Everything was bathed in that strange
yellow-white, flickering light that such places have.

“I—” The man behind the counter
became confused at my nakedness. “I didn’t see you come in.” Behind the young
man, a small radio sang about how Alabama was someone’s sweet home.

Breathe.

I hurled my will against him. I
forced him to drink the cider of ten-thousand windy nights. He heard the
howling of wolves on the hunt, felt the sweet kiss of dawn through yellowed
leaves.

He blinked like a sheep.

“Yes, you did.” My Telling washed
through my voice. I had no time for the seduction of story though; I needed to
move quickly.

He nodded slowly, his mouth a touch
agape. My glamour was neither subtle nor kind. I hated treating the mortal-born
with such roughness.

“I wandered in off the road. I nodded
at you and made my way to the restroom.”

“You looked a fright. Maybe you had
been mugged.” He continued nodding slowly.

“There are some things I need. I’m
going to take them.” I held his gaze. “What will you tell your task master?”

“Homeless wandered in.” He shrugged,
slow, weak. “Didn’t watch him like I should.”

I nodded. “Wandered in. Cleaned up in
the restroom and then stole some things.” I glanced above him at the silent
guardian. “Will that unblinking eye give lie to your tale?”

He blinked up at the recording
device. “Um. I can fix it. Make it not see. Broken.”

“That would be best.” I turned from
him as he stood there, stupefied.

Stations like this were built so that
men who traveled could find all manner of things they needed: plenty of food
and drink, as well as supplies for their engines of iron and smoke. Machines
held stories and songs.

I even found a rack with some
clothing.

The thick down jackets had been made
for hunting. I also selected a pair of their indigo canvas pants. It took me no
time at all to find what would fit my slender frame—after all, it was
my
story. I pulled on the pants and coat.

“Much better.” I smiled.

No boots, though.

I could have them if I sincerely
wished. I could Tell it so that the clerk was wearing my size or had found them
abandoned outside. But footwear was the least of my concerns.

If what Coyote said held water, I
would be heading into the hills.

As I turned back toward the door, my
gaze fell upon the most perfect item of all: a sling-shooter.

I picked it up, admiringly. It had a
hard grip, molded to the hand. The “Y” of the shooter spread wide, and the
rubber length held a wide cup in the center. Several of them were offered for
sale, along with small metal shot.

I eyed the shot. It was certainly
steel, and therefore would bite me if I tried it. Still, the sling was perfect.

“I’m going hunting.” I met the young
man’s gaze. “Is there anything else you have that I should take? Anything I
haven’t seen?”

“Autumn’s going hunting.” His voice
lilted, sing-song, little more than a whisper.

I scowled at him. This was always the
problem with mortals taken without their leave. Their minds were a strange kind
of slippery that wandered.

“Stay with me.” My voice turned
sharp. “I’ll be heading into the wood, north and east of here. Is there
anything I should know?”

“Darkness. Darkness sleeps in that
wood.” His eyes grew wider as his dreaming mind began to ramble secret things.
Certainly, he didn’t actually know of the hollow creature, not when he was
awake and aware.

“That’s what I’m seeking”—my gaze
found the placard on his chest—“Eddie. I’m going after it into the wood.”

Eddie trembled. “It’s like coldness
that walks.”

“Yes.” I opened the shooter.

“You’ll never kill it with th—that.”
His voice held the tiniest stammer.

“It’s not for you to say.” I grabbed
a clear rain-slick and held it under my arm. “What else should I take, Eddie?”

“Shadows are burned by fire.” He
reached for a small collection of silver flick-lights that were hanging by the
counter. “We have Zippos, and then there are these.” He held up something like
a small torch. “They use butane gas, and we have that too.”

Gas? I looked at the bottles, and
picked one up. It sloshed inside. Not a gas then, but water of some kind. Water
that burned.

He had several of the bottles, six or
seven.

“Are these bottles the only thing
that you have that burns like that?”

His gaze remained distant. “’Course
not. We have propane outside for the RV’s.” He shrugged. “Besides, this
is
a gas station. There’s always that.”

I knew that the humans burned
gasoline for their cars, but nothing about the loading of such gas. That was
probably right out. I didn’t even understand how the plastic yellow bottles
could hold gas, much less the best way to make it flame.

Unless…

“Eddie, let’s talk some more. Then
I’ll let you get along.”

His smile grew wide despite his distant eyes.

I left the gas station over an hour
later with a leather purse strapped across my shoulder, full of Eddie’s gifts.
I still wasn’t completely certain how it would all work together, but I had the
best chance I thought I was likely to get.

Now, to keep my eyes open.

The rain had slowed, and the bitter,
near-pitch sky hung quiet.

I meandered my way into the wood
behind the station, feeling my shoulders unclench as soon as my feet touched
the mossy earth. The new world empire that the mortals had built was certainly
wondrous, but it was all dead metal and broken songs. The realm of living,
growing things sang my name as I stepped among the deep shadows, and I was
home.

Well, as home as a wanderer such as I
could ever be.

I didn’t quite
feel
the aching
hollowness that I had felt when stalked by the hollow creature before, but I
definitely sensed something amiss in the wood. Shadows loomed just a touch
longer and darker. I watched each step that I took, carefully marking my way
back to the station.

It would never do to become lost.

I traveled for almost an hour before
the eastern sky started to brighten, the drear black of the night soon burned
away in the fiery dawning sunlight. The whole while I delighted in feeling the
subtle currents of the world again welcome the passing of autumn.

Yet even as I watched well my path,
even as I felt the earth turn beneath my feet, I listened. I canted my ear and
listened through the silence of leaf fall and the scurrying animals of the
wood. I listened for something within and around the silence, something only I
would hear.

There. Was that…?

I heard it, like a great brass bell,
ringing in the distance. I felt it, a secret song in my heart. I had known that
if I were patient for long enough, I would hear its voice, like a chorus of
beckoning friends.

The litany of the maple tree was the
closest thing to home I had.

Like hearing my own soul, whispering
softly in the shifting shadows, the voice spoke of mother, of father. It
murmured of secrets that I ever held, clenched tightly behind memories, behind
dreams.

With so many maples scattered across
the countryside, I was surprised I hadn’t found one before now. My relationship
with the tree was a sacred one, and I simply assumed that I would find one when
I needed it. The fact that I stumbled upon one now was quite usual.

Here I am.
My thought was completely wordless,
simply a feeling.
Finally. Finally home. I can rest if I wish.

That was dangerous in a way. Resting
’neath the bower of the maple might mean I wouldn’t awaken for long and long.
That, I suspected, was the snare that had caught Jillian and so many others.
Some place in the wild had sung them to sleep, and they drifted off into the
vast twilight at the edge of the world. As time went on, more and more of my
kind tired.

Then, they slept and never awoke.

I nodded respectfully as I approached
the tree. My breath caught in my throat, and I couldn’t help my wild, manic
grin as I strode into the small clearing. Maple stood there, boughs wide,
holding up the sky.

Just being near the tree felt as an
embrace.

A trickling stream ran ’neath the
tree, as I had known it must. There, I found round stones worn smooth by the
rush of ten-thousand spring floods and river courses. Carefully, I stepped into
the creek, feeling the sting of mountain-cold water. With the tree singing in
my mind, I dipped my fingers into the shimmering water, looking for stones that
knew how to fly.

No, not this one. It was dark and
looked to carry strange dreams.

This one neither. Not quite round, it
had teeth that would bite me as certainly as the creature I hunted.

I sorted for several moments before I
found a stone that once had flown. It had been thrown here, less than three
score autumns ago, by two boys who had wandered this far.

Then, another, which knew how to fly
so well that it had fallen from the deep emptiness of the night sky.

Then one, which had never flown but
had always believed that it would. Carefully, for more years than even I could
count, it had rolled and turned in the riverbed, shaping itself for the day it
would taste the wind.

Several more were smooth, and several
more were round, but those weren’t quite good enough. I needed stones that
yearned for the taste of wind, stones that would not mind the fires of battle.

In only a minute, I found the stones
that I needed, seven in the end. This was auspicious to me, and so I carefully
nestled them into my leather purse next to my other treasures.

Then, the tree.

Maple formed part of the ever-singing
melody, the vast chorus of existence, which drifted into the vastness of
eternity. As it was the part of creation I was closest to, I could not help but
feeling giggly and giddy as I walked closer to it, my hand caressing its old,
uneven trunk.

Good morning.

The greeting echoed back as I was, in
truth, greeting a part of my very self. I gazed up into the bower of the tree,
the wafting leaves casting dappled early morning light across my smiling, open
face.

Before I knew what I was looking for,
my eyes found the clumps of the seeds, hanging ’neath the yellow and green. It
was a little late for the seeds to still be on the trees, but I knew that
didn’t actually matter. I needed them. For all I knew, the tree had kept them
here for me, waiting until I would arrive.

“Thank you.” The words echoed in the
air around me, thanking myself as I said them. I reached, and the seeds came
loose in my hand, released without needing plucked.

Maple seeds are now called samaras—
but I remembered their Old World name, “Spinning Jennys.” Each was like a tiny
wing, and when it caught on the wind, it spun ’round and ’round, carried far
and away. I took two handfuls of them, filling my pockets.

Spinning Jennys made amazing tools in
the right hands.

“That’s enough, I think.” It did not
feel as if I were talking to myself, but of course I was, in a deeply personal
and intimate way. “I suppose that if I need more, I’ll just come back.”

The answer came not in words. It was
the rustling of wind in the leaves, the creaking of bough. It came in the kiss
of dappled shadow and the sweet smell of the wood.

I needed one more thing. I peered
through the leaves, seeking the perfect one.

There.

The brilliant yellow of my eyes, it
hung twice as high as I was tall. Its edges remained sharp, not the least bit
curled. No brown spots or wind-tears marred it.

“Just the one.” I smiled as other
leaves rustled across my face.

The tiniest touch of wind released
the leaf. It drifted down, seeming to relish the feel of the breeze as it
dropped into my hand.

I cupped it gingerly, as I would a
fledgling bird. I leaned over it, whispering my truth into the leaf.

“Tommy Maple.”
The world trembled as I spoke my
Name.

The leaf grew warm in my hand,
reached for me the tiniest bit, as it once might have reached for the sun. My
power came alive inside it. It might never be green again, but it would never
tear or blemish.

Carefully, I folded it and placed it
in my pocket.

I turned, my hand on the old tree
again.

The maple sang the song of my heart.
Behind that song was the ever present lullaby, a beckoning into the bower of
sleep. I stood there, with one hand against the rough bark, for several
moments. Unbidden tears trailed down my face.

May we meet on far shores, Tommy.

I cannot say how long I stood there,
awash in memory and want. I knew only that the world had awakened once more.

My world.

The first day of autumn had arrived.