Birch opened his eyes. Rays of early morning sun were beginning to find the gaps in the trees, and the forest smelt earthy, as the layer of dew that had formed during the cool night began to warm. His clothes were damp and his back ached.
He glanced over at Buckthorn. The blanket Birch had thrown over him rhythmically rose and fell with the movement of his chest, and now and then he’d let out a snore. His brow was sheened with sweat, and his face was pale, but he was still alive.
Birch placed a hand on the old man’s forehead. It was hot. Too hot. He drew back the blanket. Wet patches stained the interpreter’s robes around his armpits, and his wound looked even worse than he’d imagined it would. The broken bone had ripped its way through his skin and stood proud like a rocky, sun-bleached island surrounded by red choppy seas.
The flesh around the wound was puckered and festering, and it gave off the sweet cloying smell of meat on the turn.
Birch covered his mouth and carefully replaced the blanket.
If Buckthorn was going to survive, he was going to need to be treated by a healer, and soon.
Birch sat down with his back against the trunk of a nearby tree and tried to work through his options. He’d seen other villagers wearing splints after breaking bones, but surely their injuries weren’t as severe as the one Buckthorn had sustained. And if they were, they would’ve been treated by healers with a level of expertise he simply didn’t possess.
He’d have to leave Buckthorn where he was, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t bring the fire to him. Birch surveyed the forest floor around the old man. A lot of the vegetation and dry leaves would have to be cleared so that they didn’t catch light, but there was no reason why he couldn’t shift the camp to this area. It would take time, of course, but he’d feel happier leaving the old man on his own if there was a fire nearby. Anything to keep the forest’s denizens away while he was gone.
Birch bent down next to Buckthorn.
“Can you hear me?” The interpreter didn’t react. “I’m going to move the fire closer, and then I’m going to go and fetch help.” Still nothing.
Perspiration covered Buckthorn’s pallid face, but his lips were dry.
“Do you need a drink?”
He fetched the waterskin from their former camp. He took a couple of sips and then he dribbled some water into Buckthorn’s mouth. He was half-expecting the old man to cough and splutter as the liquid dripped down his throat, but he swallowed normally. Was this a good sign? Birch had no idea, but at least he wasn’t going to die thirsty.
He used his feet to scrape away the mulch and rotting leaves, then he started to clear the nettles, bracken, and cow parsley plants that were growing between the trees. He used a long stick to chop down the vegetation and then trampled it flat.
Old Rush wouldn’t have said the task was completed properly, but it would be good enough for now. Choosing the flattest spot, Birch scratched away at the earth until he’d formed a circle of dark soil. Then he created a nest of dry leaves and small twigs. Next, he went back over to the camp and retrieved the firewood they’d stashed yesterday. Using two sticks, he tweezered a glowing ember from the remains of the fire and transferred it to the bed of kindling he’d just created. The leaves caught light and Birch carefully blew on them until the twigs were ablaze too. He added some more kindling, and then some larger pieces of wood, and soon the fire was giving off quite a bit of heat.
He collected their packs from where they’d left them last night, and he stowed them at the base of a nearby ash tree.
Buckthorn groaned.
Birch rushed over to him.
“Are you awake? Can you hear me?”
The old man nodded. He fixed Birch with a stare.
“Help me to sit up.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Your leg–”
“Please. I know it’s bad, but I’d feel better sitting.”
“Alright,” Birch said. “But I’m pretty sure this is going to cause you pain.”
“Just do it.”
Birch gingerly moved the blanket aside, gripped Buckthorn under both arms and heaved him over to the largest of the trees behind him. The old man’s body stiffened as if he was bracing himself against the pain, but he didn’t cry out.
Birch took the spare tunic from his bag and balled it up into a makeshift pillow. Then he positioned Buckthorn so that his back was resting against the tree’s trunk and his legs were stretched out in front of him. He placed the pillow between Buckthorn’s head and the trunk and draped the blanket over him.
“I saw it,” Buckthorn said. “I saw my leg. And I smelt it too.” He let out a breath. “I didn’t think it would end like this.”
“What are you talking about?” Birch said. “I’m going to go back to Eldergrove and return with a healer. They’ll know what to do.”
“Thank you. But I’ll save you the journey. I’m done. The rot has already set in.” He wiped his hand across his forehead. Beads of moisture glistened on his fingers. “I can feel it working its way through my body. It’s like my blood is being warmed on a hot stove.” He shook his head. “I am a dead man, Birch. And there’s nothing anyone can do to change that.”
Birch swallowed, his throat tightening.
“I could build a stretcher. It would be a bit bumpy but I’m sure I could pull you along the path back to the village. Once you’re there, surely one of the healers will be able to help you.”
Buckthorn smiled. “I appreciate the offer, but I doubt I’d make it that far. Besides, there are still things I need to do with what little energy I have left.”
“You’re an interpreter, not a healer,” Birch said. “How do you know that your wound can’t be treated?”
“I can feel it,” Buckthorn said. “My body is telling me that I am close to the end. But even if it wasn’t, I have experience in these matters.” He ran his tongue over his cracked lips. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind fetching me something to drink, and the books and my writing materials from my bag, I’d be very grateful.”
Birch paused for a moment. How could the old man go from being unresponsive one moment to giving orders the next?
“Does it hurt?”
“Of course it hurts,” Buckthorn said. “But the things I must do are more important than my comfort.” Birch could see the strain on the old man’s face. “Now, if you’d please just do what I ask of you.”
Birch found Buckthorn’s book and the box that contained his quills and ink. He set them down next to the old man, and then he picked up the waterskin and handed it over.
“Thank you.” Buckthorn’s voice was still strong, but the more Birch looked at the interpreter’s face, the more he noticed that his muscles were taut as if he was constantly bracing against the discomfort.
“How did it happen?” Birch said. “How did you do it?”
“Like an old fool, I stumbled over a tree root. I thought that would’ve been obvious.”
“No, I mean, what were you doing in the forest in the dark?”
“I got up to empty my bladder, and I heard a noise. I thought it was a blood boar. I headed back toward the fire but I heard the noise again. It sounded as if it was between me and the camp. I rushed deeper into the forest, and then I slammed my foot against the root. My foot got caught, my leg twisted and I fell awkwardly on top of it. I heard the bone snap like a twig, and then I must’ve blacked out.”
Birch peered into the trees. “Did you see the blood boar?”
“No, but there was definitely something there. It sounded just like it did when we heard it before.”
Birch added more wood to the fire. Surely it would be enough to keep the creature at bay.
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“You were lucky that it didn’t come back for you after you fell. You must’ve been there for hours before I found you.”
“I’m struggling to feel lucky at the moment. But I take your meaning. Perhaps the beast wasn’t hungry. Maybe it was just defending its territory.” Buckthorn reached over and picked up his writing materials. He let out a slight groan as the blanket moved across his legs. “Now, if that’s all the questions you have, I need to be left alone. Why don’t you work on your panels for a while? When I am done, there are things we must discuss.”
Birch found a spot close to the fire and sat down. He stared into the flames, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He opened the leaf panel for Throwing Small Projectiles. Once again, he was struck with a sense that there was more to discover. He was aware of other panels underpinning this one. They seemed to be supporting it in some way, but he couldn’t yet tell exactly how they were connected or what he needed to do to bring them into focus.
He pushed with his mind at the panel’s bottom edge. The Throwing Small Projectiles leaf wobbled a bit, revealing the top edge of a panel beneath it. He grabbed hold of it before it disappeared.
The new panel felt much heavier than the leaf panels and the reward panels he’d become used to, and moving it was like trying to pull a roped ram in a direction it didn’t want to travel. The effort made his head throb. He held on for as long as he could, then his mental grip started to break. The panel slipped out of his grasp and disappeared, but the leaf panel remained where it was. Birch closed this, and a reward panel took its place.
Panel Control +0.01
Birch was going to allow this panel to close too, when something occurred to him. He opened the linked leaf panel again. His Panel Control score was now 6.48. Perhaps he’d reached some sort of plateau? Maybe he’d have to raise it to 7 or even 10 or 20 before he’d be allowed to pass through the next threshold and fully access the panels that were eluding him.
Even if he was wrong, trying to increase his score to 7 would give him something to aim for. Something to occupy his mind.
He visualized himself latching hold of the hidden panel and hauling it into view. With the images still in his mind, he made the Throwing Small Projectiles leaf panel appear and tried his best to carry out the actions he’d just rehearsed. Although he felt like he was a little bit closer than before, the panel slipped out of reach before he could reveal it.
The reward panel appeared.
Panel Control +0.01
He repeated the process again and again. Each time, the sequence of mental maneuvers seemed to become slightly more instinctive, and the goal seemed more like something he’d be capable of achieving. With each attempt, his score continued to increase in increments of 0.01. When it reached 6.75, he stopped and glanced over at Buckthorn.
The old man’s skin looked clammy and his face was tense. He had a quill in his hand and he was writing on a piece of parchment that he’d spread over the writing box in his lap. Judging by the occasional grimaces that passed across his features, he wasn’t very comfortable in this position, but that didn’t seem to hinder the deliberate movements of his writing hand as he added more words to the lines of text he’d already put down.
“Can I get you anything?” Birch said.
Buckthorn lifted his hand, completed the sentence he was working on, carefully put down the quill, and then looked up.
“Pardon? I didn’t catch what you said.”
“I asked if you needed anything.”
The old man slowly shook his head.
“No. Thank you. I am a little hungry, but I’m loath to stop right now. If I pause for too long, I fear I’ll never start again. And if I eat, I’m likely to want to sleep after. There’s still so much more I need to get done before it’s too late.
“Isn’t there anything at all I can do to help you? I can still go for help.”
“No. You must stay here. When I’m finished with this,”--he gestured to his writing–“there are things I must tell you. I know it must be frustrating for you to feel helpless, but trust me, I’m not having the time of my life either. This definitely isn’t how I planned it.” He forced a smile. “Now, let me get back to work.”
Birch nodded, and Buckthorn immediately returned his gaze to the parchment in his lap.
*****
Buckthorn folded the three letters he’d written and then placed them into the box along with his quill and his stoppered bottle of ink. He put the box on the ground next to him and took a mug of tea from Birch.
“Where would you like your food?” Birch pointed to a stack of travel biscuits and a length of jerky.
“I am happy with the tea for now but don’t hold back on my account. Eat if you’re hungry.”
Birch reached for his mug and took a sip.
“You said you had things to talk to me about.”
“I do,” Buckthorn said. “It’s about what happens next. Much of what I’m going to say to you, I had wanted to put off for a while until I had a better grasp of it and a fuller understanding. But, I no longer have that option. My hand has been forced. I want you to know what is on my mind before it’s too late.”
Birch was about to respond, but Buckthorn raised his hand.
“If possible, please save your questions until I have finished. I’m sure you will have plenty.” Birch nodded, and Buckthorn continued. “Your mark is special. I have never seen one like it before, but I am almost entirely convinced that it is not the sign of the Markless. I am probably more certain of this fact than I have let on. Furthermore, I also believe that the Sacred Oak is fallible.”
He glanced at Birch. “How do you know this? I hear you ask. Well, let’s just say that in the past I have allowed outside influences to affect some of the interpretations I made during my career.”
Birch screwed up his face. What was he talking about?
“Money. I’m talking about money. I’m not proud to say it, but sometimes I was persuaded to revise an interpretation after it had been announced.”
Birch couldn’t stay silent any longer.
“Are you saying you took bribes to change the role someone was assigned?”
Buckthorn nodded. “I’m afraid, on occasion, that’s exactly what I did. Although, it wasn’t always possible. I couldn’t do it if the mark the person had received was too clear, or if it was too different from the mark of their desired profession.”
“Is that why you couldn’t do it for me?”
“Yes, partly. As you discovered for yourself, your mark doesn’t look like any of the other ones out there. If I were to say that Gorse had made a mistake and your mark was actually the symbol of a blacksmith or a cook, for example, nobody would’ve believed me. Also, I am not your interpreter. I can only make judgments about the marks of those born in Ravenhurst.”
“I see,” Birch said. “And how many of the people of Ravenhurst are plying a trade or working in a role that wasn’t given to them by the Sacred Oak?”
Buckthorn took a breath. “Only a handful.”
“What does that mean? Two or three? Five? Ten? Twenty?”
“The number isn’t important,” Buckthorn said. “I didn’t tell you this because I feel particularly bad about what I have done. I wasn’t trying to clear my guilty conscience before I breathed my last. I brought it up merely to explain to you why I had my doubts about the Sacred Oak.”
“And how does this information do that?”
Birch grinned. “Nobody noticed what I was doing. The parents who paid me were sworn to secrecy, yet never once did anybody else question the revisions I made.”
“Why would they? You are an interpreter.”
“That’s true, but think it through. Surely at least one of the youths I placed into a profession that hadn’t been chosen for them by the Sacred Oak would stand out. Surely it should have been obvious that the other apprentices were much more naturally gifted than they were. You’d have thought at least some of the imposters would’ve struggled. You’d have thought that most of the others would’ve progressed much more quickly, making the person whose mark I re-interpreted stand out like a magpie in a rookery.” Buckthorn took a breath. “But it didn’t happen. Not even once. And in some cases, the imposter turned out to be more effective than those who had the clearest marks.”
“Are you saying the Sacred Oak doesn’t know which paths we should follow?”
“I’m not sure I’d go that far, but I do know that the mark you bear shouldn’t limit what you can become. Other factors are important, too. A capacity for hard work, for instance, and self-confidence, and access to experienced tutors. Diligence and tenacity, too, and a genuine interest in the subject matter.”
“If this is what you believe, why haven’t you said anything?”
“Well, for a start, I would’ve had to admit what I was doing. After I confessed to taking bribes, nobody would believe another word coming out of my mouth. And besides, all of my observations were anecdotal. Until you came along, I had no way of collecting any data to support my theories. But by tracking how quickly you were able to grow your score in a new skill, I was hoping you would be able to provide me with a clearer understanding of how things worked.”
“Yet, it wouldn’t help to convince others,” Birch said. “The Markless are probably considered only slightly more trustworthy than those who take bribes. And we also don’t know exactly what my mark represents, so we don’t know what the Sacred Oak thinks I’m supposed to be good at. I might be able to see how quickly I can raise my score in a new skill, but I have no natural talent to compare it to.”
“That’s not true at all. I may have my doubts about the ability of the Sacred Oak to identify the best path for some of those who place their hand into its hollow, but, for some reason, it singled you out. It gave you a gift that I have never seen before. You do have a natural talent, it’s just that it seems to be in a skill that only you possess.”
“So you think my mark is the symbol for someone who can see panels?” Birch made a face. “It’s not much of a career or a calling is it? If someone asks you what you do, you can say you're an interpreter. And if someone asks my friend, Holly, she can say she is going to be a healer. And Rag and Spindle can say they’re guardsmen. What should I say? My job is to watch how many points I gain whenever I improve a skill. I’m not sure people are going to think much of that. Hardly allows me to contribute to society, does it?”
Buckthorn laughed. “When you put it like that it doesn’t, but I am sure there’s much more to your gift. You were given this talent for a reason. You must start to believe that.” The old man took a sip of his tea. “That’s another thing that might be just as important as natural talent. Belief. Before, when I reinterpreted people’s marks, only the parents knew the truth. The children still thought that they were fulfilling the Sacred Tree’s wishes. They believed that I was correcting a mistake and that they were finally following the path chosen for them. I often wonder how much this contributed to their success.”
“If you're saying that all skills can be learned with the right training and attitude, what about the ability to control panels? Why am I the only one who can do this? Why am I the only one who can even see them?”
“I don’t know.” Buckthorn shook his head. “Since you told me about them, I have been trying every day to make a panel appear, and every day I have failed.”
The old man took a breath. “I think I might be ready for that food now. And then, we must talk about what’s in the letters.”