The Book of Brin is believed to have been a collection of myths, stories, and poems explaining the origin of the world. No copies of the work are known to survive. We are aware of its existence only through ancient texts that name it as source material. The loss of the Brin masterwork is incalculable as it laid the foundations of modern thought, religious beliefs, and many of our most sacred traditions. The loss is an unfathomable tragedy.
Still, a few snippets have come down to us, surviving the generations through oral tradition. “Little Wren and the Big Forest” is one of these. This simple and charming fable, which is so popular around campfires and as a bedtime story, has endured into modern times. Clearly a morality tale, “Little Wren,” is also an excellent insight into the superstitious nature of our ancestors in the dark days before the coming of Novron.
— Princess Farilane, Migration of Peoples
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The sheep stared at her.
The wooly puffballs spent most of their days eating grass—eyes down, focused on their task. When the animals paused to look up, they did so while chewing. The sheep staring at Wren wasn’t doing that. Motionless as a mountain, it just stood there, watching.
Wren wasn’t about to be intimidated by one of her own sheep, so she stared back. Being eight years old and small for her age, she stood only a bit taller, which made it easy to lock eyes with the wether. At least Wren thought that’s what it was—didn’t look like a ewe. The animal had a dangling tuft of fur on its chin that appeared like some sort of a beard.
Definitely a wether, Wren concluded from her less-than-incontrovertible belief that the gods would never curse a female anything with such unsightly chin hair. Not much to base a conclusion on, especially when Wren wasn’t familiar with each sheep in her family’s extensive flock.
Wren could reckon all the way up to twelve, and she was proud of that ability. The herd was bigger than that. Her family owned exactly two twelves, but it wasn’t the size of the flock that prevented her from knowing each animal on an individual basis. The reason was she didn’t want to; her older brother had warned Wren about getting too friendly with their animals.
“They’re food,” he’d said more than once. Lee always repeated himself. Maybe he thought Wren was too young to remember what he’d said only the day before, or the one before that. He’d said it so many times that Wren had tried to keep count. Lee mentioned it more than twelve times, even more than three twelves—which, incidentally, was the same number of stars in the night sky. “When they get old, Pa’s gonna slit their throats, drain their blood into the bucket near the woodpile, and chop ’em up with his big cleaver. Then Ma will roast ’em. We’ll all sit down and eat, see? You don’t want to be chewing on a Gertrude or an Emily, do you? So don’t go naming ’em, Wren. And don’t talk to ’em. They aren’t pets . . . they’re food. Got it? When you look at ’em, you should see bits of meat. Like those in a nice hot stew.”
Wren didn’t want to see chunks of stew meat, so she did her best not to look at all, which was a problem given she was there to watch the sheep. That was all she had to do. Wren wasn’t responsible for chasing off wolves or anything. That was Lee’s job. He was fifteen—a man, and her brother had the spear to prove it. Wren held only a stick and was nothing more than an extra pair of eyes to ensure the mounds of wool didn’t wander off the hillside and get into trouble. The sheep possessed all the brains of a sprig of clover. If Wren wasn’t vigilant, they’d drift away after greener grass and end up miles away by the time darkness fell.
Maybe it’s sick, she thought, breaking the staring contest. Maybe that’s why it’s not eating.
Curious, she took a step toward the animal.
The sheep darted away.
This wasn’t all that unusual, but it was something that puzzled Wren. She and her brother had spent every day with the flock, so they ought to know she wasn’t gonna hurt them.
Why run away?
Then she recalled Lee’s words about slit throats and draining blood into buckets. Maybe the sheep could smell their friends on her breath. That could be why they were so skittish, why they ran. Most of the time, they only went partway to the bottom of the hill, but the sheep with the little beard ran off toward the forest.
“By the Grand Mother of All!” Lee shouted, slapping his thigh as the sheep disappeared inside the eaves of the wood. “You spooked him.”
“I just—”
“Get the rest of them down and into the pen.” Lee threw the words at her in a rush, but he didn’t move either foot. He stood there, leaning on the haft of his spear with both hands.
“Why? What are you going to do?”
Lee was having his own staring match, but this one with the wall of trees—their scary neighbor. Pa was the only one who ever went into the forest, and he went just far enough to gather wood and only did so in winter after the leaves fell. That’s when the forest slept. Safer then.
Her brother turned and looked down the slope at their home. Smoke was rising from the pit outside their thatch roundhouse, the only one for miles, the only one so close to the forest. There used to be more. Lee had told Wren about the other houses at least twelve times and always while pointing to the bare spots where they had supposedly been.
Ma was hauling a pot of water to the fire, setting up for their midday meal, but Lee wasn’t looking at her. Wren knew he was thinking of Pa, of what he’d say, and do, if they came back a sheep short. In the end, Lee must have determined a beating from Pa was worse than the potential dangers of the forest because he cursed under his breath and chased after the sheep.
Wren watched him go, saw Lee get smaller and smaller until he vanished in the dark leaves and shadows of the wood. The forest swallowed him whole. She waited a moment, watching to see if he’d reappear. He didn’t. A cloud moved in front of the sun and gave Wren a chill.
She started shooing the flock down the hill. If left to graze, Wren couldn’t hope to keep them all together without help. By themselves, sheep wandered—often into trouble. But she would be able to get them to the pen, as they always moved as a group. She caught hold of the leader, the one with the bell tied around its neck. Silently, she dubbed him Bell, and cursed herself for doing so.
Don’t go naming ’em, Wren.
Wherever the bellwether went, the rest followed. The flock of sheep bleated their way down the slope and neatly trotted into the pen of split logs where the wind had decided to blow the smoke from Ma’s fire. Wren hoped she wasn’t cooking lamb or anything, especially not until Wren got the gate closed.
Once the latch was thrown, she counted. She did so three times, and after each tally, she got the same answer: two twelves—exactly two twelves. Not a single sheep was missing.
Wren gave only a moment’s glance at the forest before running to the house.
Pa was coming out with his leigh mor pinned over his shoulder, sandals on, and stone-tipped spear in hand. He was wearing his angry look, and Wren stopped short.
“What happened?” Pa asked. “I saw Lee go into the trees. Lose a sheep?”
“We thought we lost one,” Wren said.
Pa bent down to retie one sandal. They had straps that wrapped all the way up his calves. The left one was always coming undone because the cord was too short. “What do you mean thought?”
“We saw a sheep bolt into the forest, but . . .” Wren hesitated. He’ll think I’m lying and punish me. She saw his big hands then looked past him at the house, wondering about the switch. He hadn’t used it on her in months, but she could still remember the sting. Pa had cut the switch from a birch. Wren used to like birch trees, but not since the last time.
“But what? Out with it girl!” His voice was angry, but not a shout—not yet—just a nasty growl.
Too late now. Hiding what I know will only get him madder, Wren thought. Then she said, “I just counted. None are missing.”
“Counted wrong,” he grumbled, as he jerked the leather strap of his sandals hard, tightening the knot.
Any relief she might have experienced when he didn’t get angry was squelched by the instant dismissal. Wren stood up straight and declared in a clear voice, “Counted thrice, Pa.”
The old man fixed her with a withering glare. “Counted wrong three times, then.”
Pa stood up and took two strides in the direction of the wood when Ma caught hold of his arm.
“What if she counted correctly?” Ma asked.
Wren smiled. At least someone believed in her. But Ma’s tone wasn’t the same as when she usually defended Wren. None of the warm pleading was there. Instead, Ma spoke with a troubled intensity.
Pa glanced at his wife, then at the pen where the flock bounced against each other, bleating because they didn’t like the smoke. “All the more reason to hurry.”
“I can’t lose another,” Ma told him, shaking her head. The pleading was in her words that time.
Pa nodded, lifted his spear, and then trotted through the high grass, sending grasshoppers and bumblebees into the air. Both Wren and her mother watched him go.
“Ma, is Lee gonna be all right?” Wren asked.
Ma didn’t answer. She watched Pa until he, too, disappeared into the black shadows of the forest. When they could no longer see him, she turned back to the fire and the pot of water hanging above it.
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As far as Wren knew, Ma and Pa had had eight kids, but now there was only herself and Lee. Wren remembered her brother Dale, or thought she could. He was older than Lee and used to carry her on his shoulders and take her to watch the carrion birds—crows mostly. The noisy creatures made a racket, warning others away from their quarry of death.
Dale had died when Wren was too young to remember much. No one ever mentioned how he had died. No one talked about Dale at all. For that matter, nothing was ever said about her other brothers or sisters either. Wren had never met them, and to her they were all just names—like heroes in ancient stories. Wren liked to think they had gone on a grand adventure to a wonderful world on the other side of the forest where there was plenty to eat, and it was always summer. Upon hearing her theory, Pa had accused her of being naive, whatever that was, and Ma had called her innocent. Lee said she was dumb. He’d said that way more then twelve times. Maybe it wasn’t because she couldn’t remember things—maybe Lee was the forgetful one.
I can’t lose another.
Ma’s words had made Wren wonder if perhaps her brothers and sisters hadn’t just walked through the forest but each had been eaten by it. Maybe that’s why no one but her ever talked about them. Maybe they wouldn’t talk about Lee now that he was gone.
They’re food. When they get old, they go into the forest and it eats them. So don’t go remembering their names. Don’t talk about ’em. They aren’t brothers and sisters—they’re food. Got it?
A whole day had passed since Pa went into the forest. Ma had made the two of them porridge for supper, and they ate in silence. Ma had never made porridge for supper before. Ever since Pa left, Ma’s eyes had been on the woods. When neither Pa nor Lee had returned by midday, Ma filled a sack with bread and beans.
“If I don’t come back in two days, you have to go to Dahl Rhen where the clan chieftain lives. You know where that is, right?”
Wren nodded, but Ma told her anyway. “You leave right after sunrise on the third day. You go there and tell them what happened. Someone will take care of you. It’s what a clan does. We’re all family. Understand?”
“What do you mean someone will—”
“Just do as I say.” Ma’s face was tight. There were deep folds across her forehead that had gotten deeper each year. The lines looked like canyons that afternoon.
“And you’ll come get me after you find Pa and Lee?”
Ma wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffled like she had a cold. “Just . . . oh, Wren . . . just do as I say. Just do it, okay? You hear me?” She was yelling, sorta like she was angry but not really. Then Ma grabbed Wren hard and hugged her tight, tighter than ever before, so tight Wren couldn’t breathe. Ma was shaking like she was cold, but Wren knew she wasn’t. When Ma let go, she didn’t look at her. She kept her face turned away.
When you look at ’em, you should see bits of meat.
“Do as I tell you, Wren.”
That was the last thing her mother said before she, too, was swallowed by the forest.
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Two days went by. Neither Ma, nor Pa, nor Lee came back.
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On the third morning, Wren sat in the dirt between the house and the sheep’s pen, looking at the forest. A golden sun had risen into a fine blue sky. Sparrows flew overhead. Honeybees flitted from one purple clover to the next, and crickets were still playing the same tune from the night before. The forest loomed at the edge of her sight. Wren shivered and stepped back.
Just do as I say!
Wren looked down the trail that led to the road, the way to Dahl Rhen.
I can’t lose another.
She turned back and stared at the forest.
No one knew how big the Crescent Forest was. It curled around all the villages of Dahl Rhen like the sliver of a new moon. “It’s a knife we cut our food with, but it’s always at our throats,” Pa always said. Wren never understood what that meant before, but that morning she thought she did. The whole clan used the forest to survive. It provided wood and game, and yet even so the Crescent wasn’t a friend. Farmers tamed the fields, but not the forest—the forest was wild.
Wren got a grass basket and filled it with important things: the sharp stone Lee had given her because he had found a better one; the sheep’s bladder that she’d filled with water at the creek; the last three biscuits from the clay jar in the house; Pa’s sheep shears. The shears were two joined blades made from real copper. She had to get a stool to climb to the top shelf to take them off the peg. Pa didn’t like anyone touching them, and he’d switch her good when he found out. She didn’t care. A good beating would be welcomed if Pa were there to do it. She’d cut him a new switch herself, prune it up good and hand it over with a smile if it meant she could have them all back.
Wren held up the dual copper blades. They were heavy and hissed dangerously when she squeezed the handle and the sharp edges came together. Like a pair of knives, the ends were pointed and sharp. They could do real damage if she jabbed with them, and she hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. Still, she felt better having the shears along.
She folded her breckon mor lengthwise—summer style, so that the green, black, and blue plaid rode on one shoulder and the skirt was up to her knees. Then she hoisted the basket on her back, looping the leather straps over her arms. Wren started to follow the trail toward the rising sun like her mother had instructed. She took seven strides beyond their yard and stopped.
In front of her on the trail was a sheep, just standing and staring. She looked at the pen. The gate was closed, and she didn’t understand how one had gotten out.
How—
A chill ran through her as she spotted the little tuft of hair on its chin.
It’s back.
“What did you do to my family?”
The sheep just continued its stare.
What are you? she wondered. Looking at those eyes that didn’t blink, didn’t look away. This wasn’t a ewe nor a wether. This is the forest come to visit.
“What do you want?” she asked.
The sheep’s sight shifted toward the trees and then without so much as a baa it began walking that way. It took a few steps, paused, and looked back at her. As it did, she saw it grin.
I might be naive, innocent, and dumb, but I know that sheep don’t smile.
Going to Dahl Rhen was the sensible thing to do, and it was what her mother had wanted. After all, she was only eight. What could she do? She didn’t have a tall stone spear like Pa and Lee. All she had were sheep clippers. They were made of metal, but they were small and so was she. Wren didn’t have anything else except a sharp stone and a tiny bit of food. But right in front of her was a smiling sheep that had lured her brother to . . . to . . . Wren didn’t know where, but she wanted to find out.
Her family wasn’t going to come back. Wren knew this as certainly as she knew her front two baby teeth were long gone. She also knew that bad things happened for no reason, and good things rarely occurred at all. Good things needed an excuse, an effort, a payment. Balls rolled downhill but only went up if pushed. Wren was certain that if she went to Dhal Rhen she would live, but she’d never see Ma, Pa, or Lee again. They would disappear like all the others. Apparently that was the nature of the forest. Things went in and never came out. Even if people from Dahl Rhen came to look. No one would ever find her family because the forest was too big, and no one knew where they went. No one but that creepy, grinning sheep. Wren was the only one who had a chance of finding them. She had an invitation from the forest.
Naive. Innocent. Dumb.
Maybe, Wren thought as she followed the sheep, but I’m not a coward.
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Wren left behind the sunny summer’s day the moment she entered the forest. Inside, the world was dark, cool, and still. The whisper of the breeze and drone of the bees faded, replaced with a groaning chorus of creaking tree limbs. No grass grew there. The floor was a spongy mat of deep-green moss.
Ahead, the sheep scampered and Wren chased.
Fallen trees, shattered branches, shafts of sunlight, splashes of colors, they all begged for her attention. Wren spotted pathways that ran off in all directions, made by who knew what. Patches of flowers she’d never seen before grew in low wet gullies. Wren wanted to stop, to look, to listen, but the sheep kept a rapid pace. When it hopped over a small creek, Wren was forced to splash through, getting her legs wet to the knees. Then she had to bound over a deadfall. Wren was terrified that she had lost the sheep as she struggled over the logs and rotted branches. Without the wooly beast, she’d no hope of finding her family. Thinking about that made her realize something else. She was completely and utterly lost. During the merry chase the sheep had led her so quickly that Wren hadn’t had time to look for landmarks or note her bearing. Wren was doomed, the bearded sheep her only lifeline.
Heart pounding with fear, Wren scratched her way through the remaining portion of the deadfall, and discovered she needn’t have worried. The sheep had waited for her on a slope of last year’s leaves. Together they climbed and then slid, curving left and right. They skirted trees thicker than her home was round. They had roots like old hands clutching rocks and dipped giant fingertips into streams.
Before long, Wren had lost the sun. The golden god’s warm face was blocked by a canopy of leaves that grew so dense that the world beneath was dark and ominous. Soon she found mushrooms and great conk plates growing on trees. Darker and darker the wood became as the sheep led her in and down, circling into a great basin. Walls of natural rock dressed in yellow lichen rose around a small pool. The tiny pond was black with dirty, stagnant water. A fractured log protruded from its center. Upon that branch, a great crow perched. Its round glassy eyes blinked twice, then the bird cawed loudly but didn’t fly away.
The sheep pranced to the darkest section of the cliff and entered a crevice. Wren paused at the pool’s edge, looking into the hole where the sheep had disappeared. It didn’t look like a pleasant place. Roots and ivy vines dangled down from overhead like a spidery curtain, a drape hiding the interior.
Witch’s hair, Wren thought.
The way onward was anything but inviting, but she didn’t have a choice. As dark, wet, and narrow as the cave appeared, she had to follow the sheep.
It’s not a sheep. She knew that just as certainly as she knew entering the cave was a trap of some kind. Despite what Lee had said, she wasn’t dumb.
This is where things will get bad. This is where everyone went and never came back. The real question is, are they alive in there? Will I be able to see them again?
The hole in the rock looked a bit like a sideways mouth. This is where I get eaten.
Caw! Caw!
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Wren looked back, and the crow flashed its wings and cawed once more.
Holding onto the straps of her basket, Wren bit her lip and ducked her head under the vines and roots, creeping into the cave.
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Wren was too young to remember much about most of her older brothers and sisters, but she had been old enough to recall the day Autumn was buried. Autumn was her mother’s sister who had lived with Wren and her family after her aunt’s husband had died. Autumn had more gray hair and less teeth than Ma, and the older woman used to cry more than she laughed. Still, Wren had liked her. Her aunt had patiently taught Wren to spin wool even after Ma had thrown up her hands in frustration. Autumn wasn’t as hurried as Ma, and she would sit quietly and smile or frown depending on how well Wren was doing.
They buried Autumn on the hill in the shade of a hawthorn tree. This happened after she’d gotten sick during the long winter. Pa and Lee dug the hole. Wren helped Ma wrap Autumn in a big cloth with her arms tucked up on her chest. Then they put her in the hole and Pa covered her in dirt. Wren remembered how the baskets of dark soil, leaves, roots, rocks, and worms had fallen on Autumn’s face, slowly covering it up.
What if Autumn had only been sleeping? No worse way to die, she thought. Being buried, being swallowed up, trapped beneath the ground.
Wren had had nightmares after that.
There’s no way Aunt Autumn could have clawed her way out. Not with her arms wrapped up on her chest like that.
The dark ceiling of the cave glistened with a damp sheen, and Wren looked back at the diminishing light of the opening and felt her stomach quiver. Moving in, going deeper, the sounds of rustling leaves faded. Birdsong, and the noise of crickets, became muffled until, along with the light, they abandoned her. The cave became silent as a grave. No worse way to die.
Wren began running the tips of her fingers on the walls, feeling her way forward. Dirt, damp and cold, met her touch. Long, dangling roots—more witch’s hair—tickled her arms and made her shiver. She imagined worms, grubs, ants, and hairy-legged spiders. Wren couldn’t see them, but her fingers whispered of their gruesome presence. Snatching her hands back, she viciously swept her arms and neck, scrubbing off what she imagined to be hundreds of tiny unseen legs. With a grimace, she sucked in a shaking breath then forced her hands out once more. In that awful dark, Wren couldn’t see the sheep but had no trouble guessing where it went. The tunnel lacked any side passages and was too narrow for it to double back and escape past her.
Eventually the damp soil she brushed with her fingers turned dry. At the same time, she reached the end of the dangly roots and gave a muttered thank-you to whichever god or spirit was responsible for the reprieve. Before long, her hands trailed over hard stone, rough at first then smoother. The rock was cold, mostly dry, but wet in some places. Wren didn’t like the wetness. She tried to convince herself it was only water.
A light appeared ahead. The color of green pond scum, and dim like a weak candle, the glow was too steady to be fire, and it illuminated a large round room. Not a natural cavern, this place had been hewn out of the rock. The circular room had straight walls with decorative molding at the bottom and top. Inching closer and looking up, Wren saw the ceiling was vaulted and carved to look like the open petals of a flower. In the center of that ceiling, where there ought to be the daisy’s yellow heart or Susan’s black eye, a large green crystal glowed. Wren had never seen a rock that gave off light before. It wasn’t bright, but in that horrible dark it might as well have been the sun god, Eton.
Beneath the green crystal was a cleared space, and leaning against the far wall were an assortment of tools: three buckets, two shovels, a pick, and a mattock. These weren’t made of stone like the ones Pa and Lee used. These were created from a shiny gray metal made dull with the stain of dirt. The dirt was mounded right beside them. There was another tool, a strange one like a woven screen. The dirt looked to have sifted through it.
Are there people down here? Who has been digging with those tools? Not even a grinning sheep could manage that with its cloven hooves.
Even more amazing than the tools was the presence of a round wooden door on the far side of the room, which was partially open. From behind it, more green light shone. She took another step closer and discovered a workbench with a stool in one of the darkened corners. The tabletop was covered with all sorts of tiny wooden spatulas, chisels, and hammers. Muddy, child-sized handprints with stubby fingers covered everything as if a youngster had been playing in red mud and had forgotten to wash.
Another step closer and Wren came upon a ladder next to something big and draped by a large cloth. Taller than she was, taller even than Pa, it stood between a muddy barrel and the workbench. The coarse cloth was a mess of fingerprints and larger stains, and it covered what was underneath so completely that Wren had no idea what it might be. She walked to where the draped thing stood and planned to lift the bottom of the cloth and take a quick peek. As she bent over and started reaching out, the door at the far side opened wide.
“You’re slow.” A little man entered the room. He was bald but had a mustache and beard so long that the tip trailed on the ground. “The others were much quicker. Nearly lost you a few times.”
Wren jumped back a step, pulling her hands to her chest as if she’d been caught stealing. Of all the terrors she’d imagined to find, a little man in a red cap was not on the list. With wrinkles around his eyes, he looked to be older than Pa, but he was only as tall as Wren. He wore a long loose shirt pulled tight around his waist by a thick belt. In addition to the red cap he wore tall boots and a blue vest with four silver buttons.
No, not a man, Wren realized. He’s a Dherg! She didn’t even know there were any of his kind around those parts. Her father had told a story about meeting one once, but that was when he was away in the south. When he had been gone for many months.
The Dherg walked past her to the workbench. He shuffled through the clutter and gleefully grabbed a small wooden bowl stained with dark tears running down the outside. He held it up triumphantly. “I’m not going to be stupid this time. Oh no, this time we’re going to do it right.” He pulled a long needle from a box and held both items out to her. “Just fill the bowl for now. No more than that, understand?”
Wren looked at the bowl and pin, then back at the Dherg. “Who are you?”
He scowled and shook his head, making his beard wag across the floor. “You don’t need to know that. Just prick your finger. Squeeze me out a cup. Hurry up, I’ve waited a long time for this.”
“You want my blood?”
He rolled his eyes. “Have something else in your finger, do you? Of course, I want your blood. But not too much. Like I said just a cup. Don’t do anymore or . . .” He glanced at the door. “Well, never you mind. Now go on. Get to it.”
“No!” Wren stumbled backward, knocking over one of the shovels, which clanged to the floor.
The Dherg scowled so that his facial hair bristled. He shook a finger at her. “Don’t you be chirping back at me, Little Cricket! I’ve waited far too long for this. You have no idea what I’ve gone through. Running out of patience is what I am. Oh, yes. It’s nearly all gone, trust me about that, Missy.” He held up a pair of his fingers next to his face, measuring out a pinch. “Not even this much left—not even that much. And I’m tired of listening to you crickets whining all the time. The knife looks dirty. I’ll die if I slit my wrist,” the Dherg spoke in a whining tone. “It hurts too much. I’m dizzy and lightheaded. Boo-hoo-hoo.” He glared at her. “I’m not interested in your problems. I have my own. Just give me the blood!”
Terrified, Wren turned to run. She took a step but couldn’t see the way out. The tunnel she’d traveled through was gone. The only thing behind her was a wall.
I’m trapped. Swallowed. I knew it! I knew this would happen!
She spun and expected the Dherg coming at her. Instead, he was climbing a stepladder.
“Where’s the tunnel?” she asked.
“Gone.” The Dherg reached up and began to pull the cloth away. “And it won’t be back until I get my bowl full.”
The cloth fell to the floor and Wren could finally see what was beneath. At first she thought it was a huge red man with massive shoulders and muscles so pronounced they cast their own shadows, but . . .
“Just need to make the head,” the Dherg said.
Wren realized the giant was a clay statue. Ma had made many pots from clay dug from the bank of the river where the blue wildflowers grew. Before using the mud Ma mixed it with water and left it to dry. Does this Dherg use blood instead?
The Dherg climbed back down and once more held out the cup and needle.
“Stay away from me!” Wren scuttled backward. “Let me out of here!”
The Dherg sighed, letting his shoulders slump. He shook his head and growled. “Why does it always have to go this way. Why can’t you just give me what I need? I won’t even take all of it this time. Don’t need to.” He hooked a thumb at the statue. “Just need enough for the head.”
Wren focused on his beard. “It was you. You were the one-too-many sheep. What did you do to Lee?”
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t want him.” The Dherg shrugged. “Well I did, but he was too smart to follow me when he was young, and he’s too old now. Doesn’t take long to grow cynical, to lose that magical innocence, that powerful mix of wonder and naivety.”
“You killed him?”
“Didn’t need him.”
“And my parents?”
“Didn’t need them either.” He held out the bowl. “Maybe you want to consider making yourself useful.”
Wren began to cry.
“If you’re going to do that, at least do it into a cup. I don’t have any immediate need for tears, but you never know when they’ll come in handy.”
Wren wanted to get away, needed to get away, but with the entrance closed the only way available to her was past the statue and through the open door. She bolted.
Inside was another room. Smaller, it lacked any ornament or decoration, but it had its own little gem mounted in the ceiling and giving off a green light. Without a tunnel, or other doors, it only took a second for Wren to realize the room was a dead end. The space was filled with bones and smelled of death.
With wide eyes, Wren realized these weren’t chicken or sheep bones; they were bigger. Rotted cloth that might have once been a shirt draped a ribcage the size of a child. Beside it was a skull whose face was turned, empty sockets staring.
Dale?
Wren had thought she was brave to follow the sheep. She had believed she wasn’t a coward, but looking at that little skull she knew otherwise. Her legs went so weak she wavered and nearly collapsed.
Shoulda gone to the dahl, but I’m stupid . . . dumb, just like Lee said. Maybe that’s not Dale. Maybe that’s Lee right there, looking at me.
Gonna slit their throats, drain their blood into the bucket near the woodpile, and chop ’em up with his big cleaver. But it’s not Pa doing the chopping, and it’s me, not the sheep, that’s going to do the bleeding this time.
Before she could turn around, the door shut and she heard the clank of a bar being lowered into place.
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Grumbling about how he hated the sound of crying, the Dherg left her alone in the bone room. She couldn’t hear him and thought he might have left. The door was still barred, but even if it wasn’t, where could she go? That Dherg could turn himself into a sheep, and somehow he managed to open stone walls. Wren couldn’t do that.
I’m trapped. I knew I would be. She thought bitterly, Yay for me.
Nightmares worked the same way. The moment you thought of something terrible, that’s exactly what would happen. This was certainly a nightmare. Pa, Ma, and Lee—the unwanted—were dead, and she was alone, trapped, locked up, and buried alive.
Wren cried, curled up in a ball on the floor. She didn’t know for how long, but after a while she heard him again, the sound of his feet shuffling around the workshop and the occasional clang of something metallic. Wren also heard something else moving; this thing was much closer. The noise came from the bone pile—the pitter-patter of tiny feet.
She spotted the rat among the bones and shivered. A long black fat body with specks of white in its fur was bigger than most squirrels. She grimaced when she realized he got that way by feasting on so many remains.
And a new meal has just arrived, she thought bitterly.
“Tetlin’s pimpled arse!” the Dherg cursed. This was followed by a loud ringing sound in the workshop that sent the rat scurrying out of sight.
Wren wished she could run and hide too. Instead she sat down and hugged her knees.
The door opened and the Dherg came in. He held the wooden bowl in one hand and made a fist with his other. He clenched the hand so tightly that the knuckles went pale. “I’m running out of patience!” he yelled at her. “I’m losing more and more every day now.” He opened his hand and three long strands of gray hair fell to the floor. Then he held out the cup. “Fill it! Do it now!”
Wren shook her head.
The Dherg glared at her and puffed breaths out of his mouth, making his mustache flutter. “I need blood!”
“I don’t care! You can’t have mine!” Wren screamed and began to rock. She was terrified and about to start crying again. “I won’t give you anything! I won’t! You killed my family! You killed Ma and Pa and Lee.”
“No. I didn’t,” the Dherg said, managing to sound insulted. “I told you I only wanted you.”
“Then where are they? What happened to them?”
“Lost in the wood.”
Wren narrowed her eyes. “They didn’t just get lost. You did something—something magic.”
The Dherg shrugged. “Doesn’t take a whole lot to get you people lost. But I can tell you this, Cricket, they’ll stay lost until I get what I want. And there’s not a lot of berries out there this time of year, so you’d better get to it.”
They’re alive? Wren stopped rocking. If they lived there was a chance she could go home. A chance everything would be okay. She could wake up from this nightmare. “If I do what you want, will you let me go? Will you let them go?”
The Dherg smiled. “Of course.”
“And will you show me how to get home?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Wren took a breath, swallowed hard, and took the bowl from him. Inside was the long needle. “Just a cup, yes?”
He nodded. “Only a cup.”
Wren picked up the needle.
The moment she did, the Dherg shook his hands, waving her off. “Wait! Wait, for Drome’s sake. Wait until I leave. Call me when you’re done.”
“Why?”
“Never mind that.” He fled the room. “Just do as I say.”
“I’ll do it but on one condition. Tell me your name.”
The Dherg was already closing the door. “Don’t know why you care, but it’s a simple enough request. I’m Gronbach,” he said as he left.
Wren held the little bowl on her lap. The inside was black with the residue of previous donors. An uneven cake marked the rim, and she could feel the bumps of tears that had spilled down the outside and dried. The pin in the middle quivered with the shaking of her hands. Made from a silver metal, it was longer than any of her fingers and thicker at one end. The sharp piece of metal had a bend in the center as if it had been folded then straightened out again. Like the bowl, it was covered with dark bloodstains.
Wren picked up the pin with her right hand then looked at her left apologetically.
Which finger? she asked herself. Doesn’t really matter, does it?
She lay the back of her hand on the stone of the floor, spreading all five out like tiny sacrifices.
One quick stab. That’s what I have to do.
Her breckon mor felt hot. She was sweating and the pin was slippery in her hand. She clenched her teeth and hovered the pin’s point over the tip of her longest finger. She jabbed.
“Ahh!” she cried out, and had to fight the urge to suck on her finger the way she would if she’d pricked it on a thorn bush. A bead of blood appeared and she let it drip into the cup. Another two dripped and then they stopped. Wren squeezed her finger and two more fell. She struggled to force out more, but the hole had closed.
“Grandmother of All!” she cursed.
Squeeze me out a cup.
Wren stared at the pitiful stain she’d made in the bottom of the bowl and wanted to cry. Instead, she pricked her forefinger this time and rushed to squeeze out as much as she could. Six drops fell into the cup before that finger also went dry.
“Gah!”
“Are you done?” Gronbach called through the door.
“Ahh . . . yes.”
The Dherg rushed back in, took one look at the cup and frowned. “Not enough.”
“It doesn’t come out very easily.” She held up her fingers to show him.
Gronbach turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t want to see it! For Drome’s sake, what’s wrong with you?” Retreating back to the door once more he told her. “I’m running out of time. Fill that cup, or we’ll have to do it the hard way, and you’ll never leave, and your family will die in the forest.”
The Dherg slammed the door shut on his way out.
Wren looked down at her throbbing fingers and sobbed.
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Wren realized the pin wasn’t going to get the job done. To get the kind of blood he wanted she’d have to cut off the end of a finger—or worse. Her basket was sitting against the wall where she’d left it. Wren fished around for the shears. They were cold to the touch and shimmered in the green glow. She squeezed the handle and listened to the hiss as the razor-sharp blades scrapped together. She had seen Pa strip a sheep bare in a handful of minutes with them. They would easily take off the tip of a finger.
How much?
Would the pad be enough, or would she need to snip off the whole tip?
I don’t want to have to do this twice, she thought. Losing one finger was going to be terrible, having to snip off three or four would be beyond horrible, and she wasn’t at all sure she could manage such a thing.
The basket moved, catching her attention. It rocked to the side, and Wren spotted a long naked tail sticking out of the opening.
Smells my biscuits, she thought.
Wren grabbed up the basket to save her food and felt the rat fall inside as she lifted. Looking in, Wren saw that the bloated animal didn’t care for being trapped anymore than she did. It thrashed and hissed, trying to climb up the side. Wren yelped and slashed at it with the shears. She’d only meant to knock it away, but she’d caught it with the sharp tips. The rat fell to the floor, motionless. Then she saw the blood.
As fast as she could, she picked up the rat and held it over the cup. Blood drizzled, spilled, splashed, and sprayed. The rat had to be dead as it didn’t wiggle to get free. She felt a twinge of guilt for having killed it. She’d never killed anything before except the occasional biting bug. She felt like a ghoul as she begged: Please be enough. Please be enough.
“You aren’t doing anything stupid, are you?” Gronbach called out.
“No!” she shouted back. I actually think I’m doing something quite clever.
She heard the Dherg coming toward the door.
Wren had just enough time to throw the dead rat into the bone pile and hide the shears behind her back before the door opened.
Gronbach cringed the moment he entered. Blood was all over the ground. More was splattered across her arm and on the front of her breckon mor. She might have had some on her face too, but she couldn’t tell. Her hands were soaked with it, and the cup was dripping.
“Eww! What did you do?” The Dherg stopped and fused his lips together in revulsion. He held a hand to his mouth, then looked in the wooden bowl. A bushy brow rose and he motioned for her to hold it up. With great delicacy he reached out and took it from her. She watched him nod. “This will do . . . for now.”
“For now?” Wren’s relief switched sharply to anger. “You said you’d let me go if I did what you asked. You said you’d show me the way—”
“When I get what I need . . . this might not be enough.”
“You’re a liar and a cheat! You said a cup and that’s what I gave.”
“Get some rest. You’re probably feeling very . . . drained. I’ll bring the cup back in the morning so you can fill it again. Just in case.”
Gronbach walked out, carefully clutching the bowl.
“Lair!” Wren shouted as he closed the door. She didn’t hear the bar and wanted to rush out and stab him in the back with the shears, but she knew he wouldn’t die as easily as a rat. Wiping her hands on her skirt, Wren looked around the room wondering if there was another rodent to be found. There wasn’t.
Covered in a cold sweat, and with both of her fingers throbbing, she did feel drained. Her stomach was empty, but she didn’t have any appetite. She knew she could never fill that cup with her own blood, and now she knew Gronbach wouldn’t let her go even if she could.
In her hand, she felt the shears. They were metal, sharp, and strong. If she could get close enough and catch Gronbach unaware, she’d stab him. Maybe in the neck or an eye.
I can’t do that.
Even killing the rat had been an accident, and she knew there was a difference between wishing someone dead, and shoving a pair of sharp wooling shears into them. Even if she did manage to kill him, what then? She would still be trapped.
I have to do something. Think. Think.
The only thing that came to her was that no matter what happened, she would need strength. She forced herself to eat one of the biscuits and drink a few mouthfuls of water. She was surprised it stayed down, and it did help. Doing something normal, something familiar, helped to calm her. Exhausted, she curled up on the floor and waited. At some point, worn out and drained, she fell asleep.
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Wren woke up when she heard Gronbach’s voice:
Clay of Elan, natural and good,
And blood of innocent children,
By the hair of my beard, be as you should!
Hear me oh Golem and awaken!
Wren didn’t know what a golem was, and didn’t think she wanted to, but figured it had something to do with the big statue. Gronbach must have finished the head.
The Dherg began laughing after that. A high, scary sort of cackle. Exactly the sort of sound an evil sheep might make, or a Dherg who’d just done something sinister.
It will happen now.
Wren didn’t know exactly what it was but didn’t think it would be good. Especially not for her. She grabbed the shears and held them tight. The little pair of blades that had lived most of their lives on a peg beyond her reach had become her best friend and only defense.
It didn’t take long.
The door opened and Gronbach came into the bone room, looking for her. He was grinning; his teeth looked green with the gem’s light. His eyes were bright, wider than before, and both brows rode high. He hadn’t come for more blood—not strictly speaking, at least. And he didn’t waste time with explanations, or apologies for his deceit. Gronbach charged and grabbed her by the throat with both hands. His stubby fingers wrapped around her neck. For someone so small, he was incredibly strong. His hands gripped her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. Wren went flat on her back as Gronbach bore down on her, his beard falling in her face.
He intended to kill her, that much was clear. The Dherg’s revulsion to the sight of blood made him select a course that seemed more vicious and personal than a stabbing or bashing. Wren brought the shears up and aimed for Gronbach’s neck. She had the handle squeezed, the blade pinched closed to make them more like a dagger. She imagined the blades cutting into his throat, but they never got that far. Her forearm collided with his wide shoulders. She tried again but with the same result.
His hands had closed off more than her breath. Blood was no longer flowing through her neck and pressure was building in her head, making her thoughts fuzzy. She stabbed again, this time aiming for his side, but not being able to see, she had the angle wrong and the point missed. The dull side of the blades clapped harmlessly across his back. The shear twisted and the handle sprang open. Wren lost her grip, and her weapon fell. The sound of it hitting the stone was muffled behind the blood pounding in her ears.
“Exile me will they? Cast me out? I’ll be king over my people now and your kind will be my slaves!” Gronbach growled at her as he leaned in, using all his weight to hold her steady.
Wren reached up with her hands trying to pull his fingers away, but they were too strong and too tight to get under. With her right hand, she found the shears again. She was out of time. Her eyesight was going. The green glow faded as her vision darkened. A few more seconds and she’d pass out. A few seconds after that, she’d be dead. In a panic, she stabbed at his throat again. A feeble attempt and once more his shoulder stopped her. Then she remembered she’d forgotten to squeeze the handle to make the blades into a dagger point. She squeezed the handle and the two blades hissed across each other.
Then she heard a scream. Gronbach’s hands let go of her throat and his weight came off her body.
Air! Air flooded back into her chest. She coughed, sucked in more air, and coughed again.
The light returned. Her eyesight cleared, and Wren sat up with her left hand on her bruised neck, her right still holding the shears.
Gronbach had pushed away from her. He’d retreated to the far side of the room with his hands over his face, screaming.
I cut him! I must have stabbed him in the neck.
Only he wasn’t holding his neck. By the position of his hands over his face, she thought she’d cut off his nose, but there wasn’t any blood.
Wren looked down at the shears. Not a drop on the blades or on the . . .
On the floor between them lay a pile of long hair. Gronbach’s beard had been sheared off. With tears in wild eyes, he fell to his knees and reached out for the pile of hair. “No . . . no . . . no . . .”
Wren scuttled backward across the floor, holding the shears before her with both hands.
“My beard . . . you . . .” Gronbach narrowed his eyes. “I still have my golem! Golem! Golem!”
Wren felt the floor shake as into the room ducked a giant lumbering figure. What Wren remembered as a statue was now a monster of moving rock. As if a stone cliff had come to life. The golem was a series of boulders in the shape of a man with stones for legs and rocks for hands. The head was a solid block with holes for eyes and a crack for a mouth.
“Kill her!” Gronbach shouted.
The stone monstrosity hesitated, looking down at the Dherg.
“Kill her I command you!”
The golem turned toward Wren. Taking a thundering step at her, which rained dirt and dust down on all of them, he reached out. Wren cringed, expecting to be crushed by its hands of rock, but she was brushed aside as the golem grabbed her basket. Tipping it over, the monster dumped the contents out on the floor. The remaining two biscuits fell out along with her sharp stone. The golem got down on all fours and crawled to it.
Gronbach stared, stunned. “Get up! Get up you stupid thing! Kill her! Kill her!”
The golem turned to face the Dherg, who in a rage rushed at the monster.
Wren didn’t know what Gronbach had intended to do. Shove it maybe? Or perhaps he just wanted to get closer and yell louder in its face. Either way, by rushing the way he did, Gronbach scared the golem the same way the rat had scared Wren. The rock monster didn’t have a pair of shears, but it did have the mind of a rodent. Despite differences in size, a bee will sting a bear and a rat will bite a person when threatened. And it was the same way with a seven-foot-tall stone golem with a head made from the blood of a rat. The monster’s crack of a mouth opened wide and then snapped down on Gronbach’s head.
There was a lot more blood then, but luckily for Gronbach, he never saw it.
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With shears still in hand, Wren crept out of the bone room and into the workshop. The moment she did, she noticed the tunnel was back, or maybe it had never really been gone. She made a dash for it and found herself once more in a dark world of musty damp soil and witch’s hair roots. Then she saw it—sunlight! Wren burst out of the crack in the cliff and nearly fell into the stagnant pool with the rotting log.
Caw! The crow was still there and made a half hop to face her.
Caw! It sounded again.
She blinked at it. “You tried to warn me, didn’t you?”
Caw! The bird threw out its wings, pushed off the log, and flew through the trees.
Wren quickly moved away from the crack, eager to put distance between herself and the golem. Maybe it was too big to escape without Gronbach’s magic, but maybe not. She didn’t want to wait and find out. She walked around the pool then stopped.
Which way?
Caw! The crow was seated on a branch not too far away. Caw! Caw!
Wren stared at the crow. Completely black, it didn’t look like the sort of bird one ought to trust. But then, the sheep had been adorable with its cute little beard, and that didn’t work out so well. Wren peered very hard at its chin for any signs of a beard. Not the slightest tuft or gathering of feathers was visible. This wasn’t the Dherg come back in another form. The bird was something else, and whatever it was, it wasn’t normal. By this point, Wren was getting a pretty good feel for such things.
Pa would have called her naive. Ma, being kind, might have said she was too innocent to know better. And Lee most certainly would have called her an idiot. But despite everything, Wren thought that maybe not all magic was bad, and if one game of Follow the Leader got her into the forest, perhaps another would get her out.
Maybe I am naive and an idiot, but I also don’t have a choice. It’s a big forest.
Trusting to the magic of innocence, she followed the bird and was the first of her family to find their way home.