The strange bearded man who’d stepped in front of Birch as he’d tried to flee the Marking Ceremony was now sitting on the rocks above him. He had a well-worn satchel slung over his chest and a small black book in his lap.

“Climb back up here.” The man gestured to a spot next to him. “I’d like to take another look at your hand.”

“Why should I listen to you? And why are you so interested in me? I don’t even know who you are?”

“Forgive me.” The old man picked up the book and stood up. “I am Buckthorn. From the village of Ravenhurst. I am one of the interpreters. I served as a Green Man long before you were born. I am pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Birch.” He started to clamber back onto the boulders. “Why have you sought me out?”

“Your mark is unusual.” Buckthorn stroked his beard. “In fact, that is a huge understatement. In all my years of interpreting marks, I have never seen one even remotely similar to it.”

Birch narrowed his eyes. “So do you think the Green Man from Roost made a mistake?” His heart started to beat a little faster and he sat down next to the man. “Might I not be Markless after all?”

“I didn’t say that. Gorse may well be correct. I am more experienced than he is, but the library in Roost is larger than the one I have to work with, and he no doubt makes more journeys every year to speak with other interpreters than I can manage these days. He may well have access to information that I have not yet seen.”

Birch looked at the burns on the back of his hand.

“I can’t see even the hint of a symbol in this mess.”

“That’s hardly surprising, is it? You are not an interpreter.” Buckthorn pointed to Birch’s hand. “May I?”

Birch nodded and Buckthorn gently guided his hand onto a flat section of rock.

“To the untrained eye, this might look like a mass of burns and charred flesh, but I do not think all of these marks are random.” He pointed with his index finger to a spot close to Birch’s wrist. “Look here. This line forms a perfect curve. And here,”--he moved his finger to indicate a patch of pink skin–“this could be something as well.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I am not saying anything for certain. At least, not yet. I suspect that as your wounds heal, we might be able to see more. I do not wish to raise your hopes. It is highly likely that Gorse’s interpretation was correct, but I must admit, I am intrigued.” Buckthorn grinned. “It’s been a long time since I have seen a mark as interesting and as exciting as yours.”

“I’m glad my misfortune is giving you so much pleasure.” Birch stood up. “But if you don’t mind, I’ve got to be going. My master is expecting me back.”

A panel flashed into the air.

Lying +0.01

Birch tried not to focus on the carved words. Instead, he stole a glance at Buckthorn. Could the old man see it too?

No. His eyes weren’t trained on the right spot. And surely he would’ve mentioned something.

“What’s wrong?” Buckthorn said. “You suddenly seem distracted.”

The panel faded.

“I’m just really tired. It’s been a really long day.”

Lying +0.01

Birch stifled a grin. He was tired and it had been a long day, but the panel seemed to know just as well as he did that wasn’t the reason he’d suddenly looked different.

The old man nodded.

“I’m sure it has been a long day.” He stood up. “The Sacred Oak’s judgments are sometimes hard to accept, but accept them we must.” He put his hand on Birch’s shoulder. “Are you sure nothing else has happened to you? Nothing out of the ordinary?”

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For a moment, Birch considered telling Buckthorn the truth, but he decided against it. If he spoke of panels that only he could see, the old man would think he was mad. It was too soon. He didn’t even know if Buckthorn was who he said he was. He might not be trustworthy. And the last thing Birch needed right now was for Vetch to find out what was going on.

“No. Nothing has happened to me since the ceremony. Unless, of course, you count the death of my dreams.”

The panel returned.

Lying +0.01

This time, Birch was ready. He made sure he didn’t react to it at all, maintaining eye contact with Buckthorn until the panel faded away.

“If it is alright with you, I’d like to pay you another visit tomorrow.” He tapped his satchel. “I haven’t got what I need in here, but back at my lodgings, I have some bandages and some ointments. Your mark will heal more quickly if it's treated properly.”

“I was going to visit a healer,” Birch said.

“You certainly could do that, but your wounds aren’t serious. I could easily see to them, and I was hoping to make some sketches of your mark at the same time.” He raised his hand as if to quash any objections Birch was about to make. “I could even have a word with your master. I’m sure I could convince him to release you from your chores for a few hours.”

Birch wasn’t so sure. Old Rush could be as stubborn as a boar. But he was happy to let Buckthorn try and talk the stablemaster into it.

“Go on then,” Birch said.

“Excellent. I will speak to your master. If all goes well, I will call for you tomorrow. In the meantime, try to keep your wound as clean as you possibly can, and watch out for any changes.”

The man placed his book back in his satchel, buckled it, and began to make his way off the rock into the meadow.

“Stay here a while before you follow,” Buckthorn said. “It’s probably best if we aren’t seen heading back to the village together. I don’t want to have to explain why an interpreter from Ravenhurst is talking to one of Eldergrove’s Markless.”

Without waiting for Birch to respond, the man pushed his way through the tall grass and headed back to the path.

Birch breathed in. The old man was probably right. This was the way of things. Most of the people of Verdant would probably prefer to have as little to do with the Markless as possible. It was just something he was going to have to get used to.

He pictured Holly. He was going to be seeing a lot less of her now that he was Markless and she had been declared a healer. She’d deny that his mark had anything to do with it. She’d probably blame it on the amount of time she was going to have to devote to her apprenticeship, but they were more different now than they’d ever been. Before the ceremony, when he’d been poor and she’d been rich, at least there’d been a chance that the Sacred Oak would haul him out of his current circumstances. There’d been a chance that he’d walk away with a symbol that would allow him to establish himself as an important member of the village. He looked at his hand and shook his head.

He spotted Buckthorn at the far end of the meadow. The old man disappeared from view, and Birch hopped down from the boulder.

*****

The sun was much lower in the sky now, and the village itself would likely be even busier than it’d been earlier. Giving the paths closest to the village center a wide berth, Birch made his way to the stables and entered the building through the backdoor.

The lanterns hadn’t been lit. It was likely that all of the stablehands and even Old Rush himself were down in the village, but Birch still stopped and listened for a few moments just to be certain.

He was the only person here, and if he was lucky, it would just be him and the horses until morning.

Navigating by what little light was filtering into the stables, Birch found an empty stall near the building’s far end. He fetched some fresh straw and spread it out in one of the corners. Then he slipped off his boots and eased himself down onto the floor.

Cocooned by the dark and the thick familiar smell of hay and horses, Birch tried to forget that nearly all of the other villagers were out having fun. Even the other newly-made Markless were probably enjoying one last night of wild abandon before they began their lives of servitude.

He closed his eyes. Notes from the musician’s instruments mingled with the horse’s gentle snorts. They were playing a song he recognized. One he and Holly used to sing together when they were younger. Ordinarily, it would have brought a smile to his lips, but not today. Not now. He had nothing to celebrate.

He’d been let down by the Sacred Oak. What had he ever done to deserve such treatment? Hadn’t his life been difficult enough? First, he’d lost his parents, then his grandmother, and then this? Why hadn’t the stupid tree taken pity on him? He just needed something to go right for him. And to make things even worse, Vetch had been given the best prize of all. Vetch! He was probably the least deserving of anyone Birch knew, yet one day he would be the reeve, the most important man in Eldergrove. Did the Sacred Oak know nothing? Vetch was selfish, arrogant, thin-skinned, and vindictive. He’d be a terrible ruler. Anyone could see that.

Birch tried to relax, but even though his body was still, his mind refused to slow down.

Images of wooden panels cycled through his mind. He pictured the ones he’d seen with +0.01 on them that had appeared unbidden, and then he focused on the leaf panels attached to them that he’d somehow managed to trigger. The images in his head were vivid, but they were clearly just memories of the panels. They didn’t feel real. Not like the ones he’d seen earlier.

He concentrated on bringing the panels to life. Could he actually make them appear on his own? Could he summon the leaf panel relating to his throwing skill, and check his current score at will? He strained his mind. No. But there was definitely something there. Just beyond his reach. What he was trying was possible. He knew it. It just wasn’t something he was capable of doing at the moment.