Page 4 of The Amber Owl (Heartwood #1)

4

Stasya

Twice the usual number of loaves. It meant the three of them were too busy to talk much. Because Tomas had been there when his mother came back from the meeting, ashen-faced, Stasya suspected Irina’s account of it had been missing the more confronting details. She’d told them what the Commander had said and that folk were angry. The three of them needed to stay in the bakery with the doors closed and bolted, she’d said. Which meant they were hot, sweaty and, now that a good part of the work was done, almost too tired to go on. But they had to, and not just until the end of the day. There’d be tomorrow and the next day and however long the outsiders needed feeding.

Another batch of loaves out of the oven, set to cool on the wire rack; a fresh batch into the heat. Stasya stretched, trying to ease her aching back. Tomas was sweeping again.

‘I’ll brew a pot of tea.’ Irina sounded the way she looked: weary to the bone but determined to get the job finished. ‘Sit down, the two of you. Take a break. You’ve done well.’

Stasya fetched out the cups. If she sat down, she thought she might never get up. Under the exhaustion that came from a long day’s work, there was a crawling uneasiness deep inside her. What was happening beyond the bakery doors? Could it actually be true that they meant to cut down trees, to hack their way into the forest? Maybe it was all talk. Maybe she’d walk out that door and the nightmare would be over. Maybe the intruders had already seen how ridiculous the idea was and called a halt. But her gut told her no. Irina’s face told her no. And she couldn’t ask, not with Tomas listening. Anyone could see he was scared half out of his wits.

They sat, drinking their tea. Stasya tried to distract herself by guessing which herbs were in the blend. But she could not forget the sounds that had come, all day, through the small, high windows of the bakery. Cart wheels again. Hoofbeats. A lot of shouting, the words unclear. Heavy things being dragged about. As the day passed there’d been a few knocks on the door. Once it had been Rasma, desperate for help with Jurgis in custody and Lukas off helping to set up a camp for the outsiders. With neither man available to deal with slaughtering the goats, and the demand for meat likely to be high, could Stasya please come and help her with the job? Dread had overcome Stasya; she had slumped down onto a bench with her floury hands over her face. Through the bolted door, Irina had spoken kindly to Rasma, telling her Stasya was indispensable at the bakery and would be for some days. Marina came later, asking if Tomas could be spared to keep an eye on her young children while she killed and plucked some hens. Again, Irina said no through the closed door. Stasya heard the iron in the baker’s voice, and the love and fear beneath it. This time she managed to keep a fragile control over herself, but she longed for the solitude of her cottage and Flip’s company. Would the long day never end?

—

She walked home in twilight, her churning thoughts at war with her tired and aching body. She’d slipped out the back way. Pretending she was a creature evading wolves, using what she’d learned over season after season in the forest, she’d managed to get past the guards patrolling the settlement and to avoid the eyes of some local men who were carrying lengths of timber down toward Vidas’s farm, knowing that if they saw her, they would likely ask her to help. Strong she might be, but after today’s work she felt incapable of carrying more than the loaf Irina had insisted she take home despite the need to fulfil the double order. ‘You can’t work if you don’t eat,’ the baker had said. ‘And you can come in a bit later tomorrow. You need sleep. I’ll ask Agnese to help for a few hours.’ Agnese was one of the village grandmothers. She was too old for the heavy work, but there were plenty of tasks she’d be able to handle.

Deep in Heartwood Forest the owls were waking. As she climbed the path toward home, Stasya wrapped her hand around her talisman, the tiny form warming against her palm. She wondered if Lukas was safely home; she wondered if his mother had managed the goat killing without help. Lukas had sisters. The eldest, Kristina, was only two years her brother’s junior and capable at household tasks, but Stasya could not imagine her wielding the knife or holding a creature still and calm while her mother performed the grim job. Kristina’s chief talent was fine embroidery. Her kerchiefs, shawls and skirts sold for good prices at the market in Vita’s Hope. Being shut in the bakery all day had spared Stasya from the terrible tide of fear those goats must have endured; the distress of the draught horses inadequately cared for after a gruelling journey; the sorrows and hurts of a thousand small lives beyond the walls. She had wondered, often, why her gift did not work the same way with her fellow humans. Their thoughts and feelings she had to read from their eyes, their expressions, their movements and gestures as anyone else might. Perhaps that was just as well. Who would want to see into the mind of that shouting man, the one they called the Commander? Surely he was full of remembered hurts and imagined horrors, his goodness buried so deep in dark things that even the most magical of stories could not call it out.

Home at last. The moon was rising; its light allowed Stasya to open the door, find flint and tinder, take the knife from her belt and start a fire on the small hearth. She lit a candle, whose wavering light showed two bright eyes watching her from the bed.

‘Have you been there all day, Flip?’ She showed Flip a mind-picture, the little dog rolled in blankets, only her nose showing, as the sun moved across the sky. Showed, I’m tired , and, I’m glad to see you . She filled her kettle from the water bucket and hung it over the fledgeling fire. Put on more wood as the flames grew stronger. Crouched down beside it and tried not to shed tears . A long, long day. All she wanted was to get warm and go to sleep, hoping for a night of no dreams.

Flip left the bed not with a leap, but with a flight. The small brown owl landed precisely on Stasya’s shoulder. No need for a mind-picture here; the message was perfectly plain. A ritual. Now is the time. Owl form meant the seeking of visions, the search for answers that went beyond the everyday. Too tired , Stasya showed her. Worn out. Sad. I’ll do it tomorrow. As she prepared for bed, she recognised the painful truth: after a day like this, she was afraid of what such a vision might show.

—

She woke with a start. Something bad. Something so terrible her heart clenched tight and her blood ran cold. ‘Flip? Flip, where are you?’ It was light outside; she had slept late.

The little dog emerged from deep under the blanket. Her eyes were wide open, her body tight with trouble. The sense Stasya got from her was, Wrong. All wrong.

It was cold in the cottage. Stasya threw on her shawl and went to open the shutters. The sounds were different this morning. No rolling of cart wheels. No neighing of troubled horses. But … something. The horror that had gripped her with her first waking breath grew deeper. A grinding metallic sound, not so very far away. Could they already … could it be …?

‘I have to see,’ she said aloud. ‘I have to go, I have to …’ She strug gled into outdoor clothing, clumsy with distress. She shoved her feet into her boots. Why was it so hard to breathe? Why did it sound like she was sobbing? ‘Let me be wrong,’ she whispered. ‘Please, please let me be wrong.’ But the feeling inside never lied, and now it was a scream of cutting and hurting and death, of things gone so terribly awry that there might be no fixing them, not in a thousand years. Without a doubt, the sound she heard was made by a great saw.

Careful , warned Flip, showing an image of men moving between the settlement and the forest’s edge, and someone with a staff in their hands stepping out to block Stasya’s way along the path.

I have to see. I have to know. A physical pain in her belly now, sharp and insistent, making it hard to walk out the door, hard even to set one foot before the other. She was in no doubt of which way to go. Straight for the Ancestor. Flip had changed to sparrow form and kept pace with her, fluttering from one clump of bushes to the next.

Not too close , the bird warned. Stay under cover. Don’t let them see you.

They crept along, keeping low. The sawing sound intensified. It was joined by creaking, groaning and a shout. ‘Watch out, it’s coming down!’

From the shadow of the trees, Stasya saw it, and she felt the mortal blow. The Ancestor fell. The sound of its landing was a doom, a curse, an ending to all good things. It took several smaller trees with it, and a scattering of debris flew in all directions. The men who had been wielding that great saw, four of them at each end, roped so they could work in tandem, now stood silent, shielding their heads from the shower of small branches, twigs and leaves. One of them was a tall young man with a crop of nut-brown curls.

Stasya’s legs would not support her. She collapsed to the ground with her hands over her eyes. She heard the crash over and over again, felt the little lives lost, squirrels, martens, owls, beetles, chicks still in the egg, smashed, crushed, broken. The pain was a great wave that broke and broke inside her.

Home. Flip was on her shoulder, tiny beak tapping gently against her ear. Home now, before they see you. There is nothing you can do. A pause, then a new thought. Later, when they are gone. The picture showed Stasya alone by the fallen giant, gathering something in a basket. And Flip herself, perched atop the trunk, watching. For a ritual.

‘I’m supposed to go to work.’ There was something wrong with Stasya’s voice; it hurt to get the words out. She showed Flip bakery and Irina .

Later. Home now. Get up. Walk. Suddenly Flip was a dog again; a bigger dog, tall enough for Stasya to lean on. Come with me. I will help you.

This was a loss too great for tears. A wound not to be endured. How could Heartwood go on without the Ancestor? How could she go on? It was as if some deep part of her had been ripped out and cast away, broken in pieces. Everyone in the village would feel this loss. Without the guardian tree, who would watch over their celebrations of new life, their farewells to loved ones departed? Nobody could remember a time when the Ancestor had not been there. Stasya staggered home, her mind in turmoil.

Inside the cottage, Flip was herself again, small enough to cuddle up close. They sank down on the floor by the hearth, sharing their warmth. The sounds from out there had faded, but men would still be busy doing what needed to be done. Stasya could not stop shivering; could not summon the will to add even a single piece of wood to the fire.

I should go down to the bakery. She did not think she could move. But Irina would be needing her. All I want is to be with her, the Ancestor. To grieve beside her. And …

Later. Flip showed, again, an image of Stasya by the fallen oak, basket over her arm, gathering something. In that scene the light was of late afternoon. We need not pass that place on the way to the bakery. Up, now.

If I meet that man, I will scream at him. I won’t be able to stop myself. The scream was inside her now, building and building, waiting for its moment.

Then make sure you don’t meet him. You know how to do that. A new image came: the two of them dodging behind a drystone wall, hiding behind a shed, creeping across open ground while guards patrolled not far away. Bakery. Now.

—

No need to tell Irina what had happened. Everyone in the settlement knew. Everyone had watched the men go up the hill with the great saw or heard the sound and rushed outside to see the gash on the hillside, the gap in the forest, the crushing blow this day had inflicted on Heartwood. Tomas muttered a greeting, then went on sweeping. Agnese was painting a goat’s milk glaze on a tray of rolls; she gave Stasya a dour nod.

Irina did not put Stasya straight to work. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t have breakfast,’ she said. ‘There’s tea brewed. Sit down, have a drink before you start. And some of that fruit loaf. Do it, Stasya. We have a whole day’s work ahead. You need something in your stomach.’

Stasya managed the tea; the cup’s warmth between her hands was welcome. She had no appetite for the bread. Nobody was saying much. Tomas was red-eyed. Irina looked worn out, even so early. Agnese kept her eyes on her work. Time passed; the rhythm of the working day, so well-practised that it flowed even on a morning such as this, did little to dull the pain. The scream waited in Stasya’s body, a trembling mass of grief and fury, biding its time. She worked as hard as she could, hoping to hold it back long enough. She whispered Grandmother’s verse to herself, the way she’d learned it, pausing at the end of each line, taking time to calm herself. The oak’s deep roots hold fast to the earth. I, too, will be strong. The graceful willow moves with the wind. I, too, will dance. The mighty ash towers to the heavens. I, too, will stretch high. The sun gleams on the still pool. I, too, will hold the light.

Flip was a sparrow, perched in the tree outside. Stasya would have welcomed her company in the bakery, but Irina had made it plain long ago that dogs were not permitted to enter – and as far as the folk of the settlement knew, that was all Flip was. Her thoughts came to Stasya once or twice as the day advanced, showing her the men returning from their work of destruction, with Lukas among them. In the bakery, they did not speak about what had happened, but it was a silent presence in the room, weighing them down.

Irina sent Stasya home early again, despite the late start, and she did not protest. At the cottage she gathered what she needed – basket, small sharp knife, soft woollen scarf – and waited while Flip flew ahead to perform the necessary check. It did not take long; the sparrow returned with the message, Nobody there. We can go.

She had witnessed the fall of the giant. She had seen the devastation. But that was nothing like walking close. She touched the Ancestor’s rough bark, moving along the trunk, setting her feet down with care lest she trample some small creature that had, against the odds, survived the violent destruction of its home. Stasya did not weep. This was beyond tears. Heartsick, she searched until the fading light made it impossible. Gathered small corpses and laid them in a sheltered place, on soft moss shielded by bushes. Whispered words of love and farewell over each dead creature, each little vanished life. There were cracked shells with their half-formed chicks within. Some eggs were smashed entirely, the contents spilled to lose themselves in the debris or be devoured by passing weasel or marten. The warm scarf would not be needed; there was no survivor to care for, to nurture back from the brink of death. Or … perhaps there was. As she considered what to take away in her basket, she felt a faint cry, a thread-thin plea for help. She followed its pull along the great fallen trunk, stepping over broken branches, ducking under those still holding to the oak.

It was a vole, moving weakly against the tangle of growth that had netted it close to the ground, right by the tree. It was bare inches from being crushed by that great fall. Wait, Stasya conveyed. Only wait. The vole quivered in its prison, terrified by her approach. Too distressed, too close to the end to know its call for help had been answered. Stasya imagined a small hollow in the roots of a tree like this – shelter from cold and rain, protection from enemies, a safe place. As she sent those good thoughts to its panicked mind, she disentangled the small one, cupping it in her hands. One close look told her this would not be a miracle recovery like that of the magpie. The damage was too great. To set the small one free would be to prolong its agony; to take it home would have the same result, for these were injuries no human hand could mend. The creature was too weak to scream, but the message that reached her from the tiny form was of pain beyond endurance. She felt it in her own body, sharp knives piercing everywhere, as if she were being pulled apart. And she heard the silent plea, Make it stop.

Stasya thought of rest, imagining a green place of flowing water and tall trees; she pictured the Mother seated there, surrounded by her creatures, smiling to greet the newcomer.

Farm work had given Stasya strong, sure hands. ‘Rest well, little friend,’ she whispered as she broke the tiny neck. She closed her eyes, feeling the pain ebb from her own body as life fled from the creature. She allowed herself tears. This never got easier, even though it was the right choice, the only choice. It was a burden to be carried; a weight that never quite left her. After a time of silence, she carried the small one into the forest. Safe shelter, even in death; would not any creature want that? There would be no safe shelter so close to the fallen tree. If that man, the Commander, had told the truth about his mad plan, this was only the start. It was the first step in what was meant to be a path through Heartwood Forest. They would not leave the great oak lying here; it could no longer be a refuge.

In the half-light, she could not venture as far as she would have wished. With the tiny corpse cradled in her hands, she halted by a younger oak, perhaps grown from a seed of the Ancestor. Grandmother had said, ‘The forest is forever. It is our work, our duty, to make sure that stays true.’ At the time, young Stasya had not quite understood what that meant. It was plain to her now. She whispered, ‘Stay strong. Keep growing. The bad times will pass. In time, you will give shelter to the small ones of the forest.’ She laid the vole down nearby, in a place where roots and rocks and natural hollows provided hiding places for the small. It was the best she could manage. Taking a life hurt her heart, even when done in love. She was human, like the Commander. Like those men from the settlement who had carried out his foul orders. I can’t make it right , she thought. How can I ever make it right?

Flip was by her side again, in dog form. Dark soon. Home now.

Soon. Back by the Ancestor, she added an oak leaf to the basket, an owl feather, a strange little stone with a hole in it, a scrap of broken eggshell. Yes, home now.

She wondered, approaching the cottage, if she had the strength to perform a ritual. But once inside, she closed the shutters and built up the fire so it would last long enough. She took off her jacket, draped the shawl around her shoulders, lit the oil lamp and made sure it was safely shielded. Eased the owl talisman out from its hiding place under her tunic and set it on the shelf beside the Mother, where it could overlook things. Flip was up on the bed. Stasya settled on the floor by the fire, cross-legged. She laid out feather, stone, leaf and eggshell on the hearth before her. She did not see Flip change, but felt the small weight of the owl as it settled on her shoulder.

Grandmother had taught her the way of conjuring visions by flame or by water. First, simply breathing, slow, slower. Then, spirits to be recognised, words to be spoken, not always the same, but with the same intent: to honour the natural world and to seek wisdom for the path ahead. Later, when her mind was clear enough, the question. What will come from this ill? Show me a path to rightness, to healing. How can I walk forward in courage and wisdom?

She gazed at the flickering flames, the glowing embers, the rising smoke. For a long time, nothing. Then … then a nightmare landscape of fallen trees, earth slipping from barren hillsides, choked waterways. Men moved there like ants, cutting, slashing, sawing at what little remnant of vegetation remained. The sky was ominous, with heavy cloud presaging a storm. No birds flew over this desolate place; no creatures could be seen there. Even as Stasya struggled to understand this, the image changed, and she saw Heartwood settlement, and beyond it that same treeless wasteland. In the village there was a great fire. Folk were screaming, and the Commander was shouting orders. Then an image of carts being loaded – could this mean the intruders would soon leave? – and a different man in charge, younger, wearing the dragon emblem on his clothing as the Commander did. Folk being herded onto the carts. Someone with a shawl over her head and shoulders, glancing back for a last look at the ruin of all she held dear. Blanched face. Shadowed eyes. That haunted woman was herself.

Stasya felt the sudden dig of claws on her shoulder and sucked in a sharp breath. The flames wavered, and the vision was gone. But wait – had there been something else, right at the end, just a moment, a glimpse? A face, not hers but that of an old woman, and hands reaching out toward her? Her grandmother, in the Afterlife? Or had she only imagined that?

A knock on the door. Stasya froze. It was dark out there. This could not be good. She sat motionless, scarcely breathing, willing the intruder to decide the cottage was empty and go away.

‘Stasya? It’s me, Lukas.’ He sounded unsteady, hesitant. Lukas did not come to visit her after dark. He was seldom in her house; they usually met at the grazing field or in the forest. No point in sparking gossip, however foolish that gossip might be. But today was different. After today, nothing would be the same. She got up and let him in.

Lukas did not sit down, even when she motioned to the bench seat. He stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other, his whole body restless. He had a livid bruise on his cheek. The look in his eyes chilled Stasya. She thought of him helping to wield that instrument of destruction and did not know what to say.

‘You need to go, Stasya. You need to pack up and leave Heartwood first thing in the morning.’ And when she did not reply, he said, ‘That man is pure evil. He’ll destroy us all. You’re not safe here.’

‘Leave? Where would I go?’

‘Anywhere is better than here.’ Lukas sank onto the bench, as if his legs could no longer support him. ‘Into the forest at first, then over to Sweetwater or Vita’s Hope.’

She had been to Vita’s Hope once or twice, helping Vidas take sheep to the market. It was a long way from the forest. A place too full of people and noise, though she’d liked it when a band played and folk in bright clothing danced in the square. She imagined herself going to a stranger’s door unannounced and trying to explain. Unthinkable. Besides … ‘I need to be here,’ she said, seeing how her friend was hugging his arms around his chest, as if something hurt. ‘I can’t just go. I need to …’ She couldn’t put it into words. Irina needed her help; so would many others, if the women really were supposed to obey the Commander’s orders and shoulder the men’s work as well as their own. Besides … ‘Is nobody going to stand up to them? Are we all going to do as he tells us, even when it’s so wrong? I can’t run away, Lukas. This is Heartwood. I’m part of it.’ She could not speak the words; could not accuse him. But the judgement must have been in her eyes.

‘They threatened my sisters,’ Lukas said, in a whisper that held sorrow, regret and shame all together. ‘I had no choice. They still have Father in custody.’

Silence between them. Stasya added wood to the fire, fetched water, put the pot on to boil. Irina had insisted she take the fruit loaf home; now she sliced some onto a platter, set it on the table, brewed tea. Lukas sat with his head in his hands.

‘I’ll be careful,’ she said when all was ready. ‘I’ll stay out of trouble. But I’m not running away. I can’t leave Heartwood now.’

‘I want you to be safe. You’re all by yourself up here, just you and Flip. They’re ruthless, Stasya. Whatever that man orders them to do, they do. Not one of them would dare speak against him. And if any of our folk question things, they get a beating.’

‘Drink. Eat. I bet you’ve had nothing at all today.’

‘I don’t deserve your kindness, Stasya. And I shouldn’t stay; folk will talk.’

‘Eat, Lukas.’ Who cared what people thought about Lukas visiting her on his own after dark? What did that matter when such evil had descended on Heartwood? ‘You need to stay strong. We all do.’ But for what? Her vision had suggested there was no remedy for what the Commander’s men had started. No way to stop it. No chance to save the forest. ‘There must be a way out of this.’

Lukas drank his tea. Managed one slice of bread. Got to his feet. ‘I have to go. Stasya, promise me you’ll have a bag packed. Promise me you’ll leave if things get worse. You could survive in the forest. Take some supplies, forage as you go.’

‘Lukas.’

He halted on his way to the door. ‘What?’

‘Did they beat you? Are you injured?’

He turned. His mouth twisted in a strange sort of smile. ‘I’m a farm boy. I can stand up to rough treatment. Don’t worry about me, Stasya. Look after yourself. Please take care.’

She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him, rested her head against his shoulder. When he made a small sound, she pulled back. ‘Oh, did I hurt you?’

His arms came around her, strong and gentle, drawing her close. ‘I have a bruise or two, nothing much. You could never hurt me.’ His hand came up to stroke her hair. ‘I must go. Think about what I’ve said. Please.’ His lips touched her brow.

‘Be careful on the way home,’ she said as he stepped out into the dark. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Lukas shook his head in reply. Stasya thought she caught the glint of tears in his eyes. ‘Sleep well, Stasya.’ And he was gone.