Chapter XIII
Hearing a heavenly declaration at that moment gave Wyllem such a start that he bumped his head on a low branch. He let out an exclamation of “Mog’s goblins!” and turned over in the dry brush, holding his head and groaning. Rolling about, he knocked Artur’s elbow out from under him, making him fall in turn, face-first into the bracken. The commotion attracted the attention of the thylak, and two of them turned their bloody mauls from the slain therium and slinked toward the hiding place. Wyllem and Artur broke from their enclave and ran in a panic, bodies held low, vaulting downed logs and dodging trees, devoured by thoughts of the entire pack falling upon them. Wyllem’s wiry frame delivered him out of tight spots much quicker and easier than Artur, and so he ran ahead until he knew for certain the thylak had ceased chasing him. Cautious to the end, though, he did not go back to check on Artur; he merely waited for him to catch up.
“What was that?” Wyllem asked when Artur did reappear.
“That was a thylak — nipping my heels — no thanks to you,” said Artur, much disgusted and out of breath.
“No, where did that wood sprite’s voice come from?”
“Not a wood-sprite, nor even so much as a nymph, unfortunately,” said the voice, again from above, helping out as Artur’s lungs heaved.
Wyllem broke to run again, but since no thylak pursued this time, Artur caught the back of his leather breastplate and pulled him rudely to the ground. Artur placed a foot on his chest, and strain as he might, Wyllem could not break free, but his legs did churn up quite a plume of fallen leaves. Artur, bent over with both arms propped upon his knee, could spit out only sporadic words.
“Wyllem. Stop. Only. Melic.” Wyllem continued his thrashing.
“The seer wins no honor within his own borders, and the judge comes from a strange land,” said the voice.
Artur picked Wyllem fully off of the ground. “Stop!” he commanded, and Wyllem hung limply until Artur could tell he had given up his struggle.
“Are you just going to stand there and let these demons devour us?” he asked.
“This is no demon,” said Artur, at last able to speak in sentences. “It is a Melic, a thorn in my side. I would insult no demon by confusing the two.”
“Thanks be to you for your kind words,” said Theodoric.
“A Melic tree-dweller?” asked Wyllem, back on his feet and again peering into the limbs high overhead, this time at least knowing what he sought. “How is it he is here, and not back with the therium?”
“Running the branches,” said the voice. “It comes quite easy going once you’ve had a lifetime of practice.”
“How do you stay up there? Do your arms change length to keep your balance? Do you really have claw feet? Can you really change your weight according to the limbs you stand upon?” The rumors of the Melics had them always present, yet never showing themselves. All the questions Wyllem had ever wondered about this elusive clan fought each other to find a place in his mouth first.
“Questions are only riddles, and their answers only japes,” said the voice.
“Having to listen to one of you is bad enough; now together you make my head hurt,” said Artur, scowling at Wyllem.
“Artur,” said Theodoric, “You have been given a great stroke of good fortune. You have survived your battles with the Aoten, and you have been shown a cure for what vexes you. As Drueed would say, find the reality in the shadows.”
Theodoric climbed down out of hiding and perched on a low branch as he had before. With him sat Pepin.
“What’s that on your feet?” asked Wyllem.
“I am Theodoric, and so are my feet, and so are the thick soles of my feet. This is Pepin, counselor to the clan and the king.”
“So you watched us again?” said Artur with disdain.
“Yes, we observed from the trees, but we knew already. Pepin dreams; he had a vision of the thylak and the therium, and the bushes had faces. He foresaw the deaths of your Rufoux kinsmen at the hands of the Aoten.”
“Really?” asked Artur with a dubious tone.
“Yes,” said Theodoric, and Pepin solemnly nodded.
“That’s a good story.”
“What is that fabric you’re wearing?” asked Wyllem.
Theodoric looked at him and continued. “It’s true. He dreamed once of a fishhook I had lost, and I found it according to his vision. I was just a boy at the time, and I still remember the joy of it.”
“That’s a wonderful talent,” said Artur sarcastically.
“I have dreamed of you,” said Pepin. “You looked like a bird.”
“That’s good news,” said Artur, still not at all impressed. “You speak big words for a man who lives in a nest.”
Pepin shrugged. “Good tidings will find sanctuary in the ears of the patient.”
“True,” said Theodoric, nodding wisely at Pepin. Artur felt his temper begin to boil again.
“Come down here!” he yelled at the Melics.
“In due time,” said Theodoric. “For now, we’d best remain in the nest, as you say. We will be safe on the ground after we learn to fly in the air.”
“Deviltooth!” swore Artur. “Come on, Wyllem, let’s get to the village before I set fire to this tree.”
“How do you make those tunes we hear at night?” asked Wyllem.
“All in good time, friend. Music requires breathing, and so does survival. Let us talk now about survival,” said Theodoric.
Artur pulled at Wyllem, but he was so engaged in seeing the mysterious Melic men, he didn’t notice. The delay gave Theodoric time to talk, and as best he could he made philosophical platitudes give way to plain language.
“Today you saw a vision, a great sight that no Rufoux has ever seen. Barely has ever a Melic seen thylak pull down a mighty therium, so rare it is, but today your eyes opened. Do not turn away from the truth behind the vision.”
“What do you mean?” said Artur, quite perturbed.
“Did one thylak pull down the therium, or even two, even six?”
“No, of course not,” said Artur.
“Did one, or two, or six Rufoux defeat an Aoten warrior?”
“You saw it; you even dreamed it, so you say. You should know.”
“Exactly,” said Theodoric. “How many thylak brought down the therium?”
“You talk like Wyllem, plaguing me with your damn questions. I need only one Wyllem.”
“Very well. A score and twelve thylak it required. Take a lesson from the thylak, Artur of the Rufoux, and count your clansmen. Number your men, or number your days.”
“What do you mean by that?” Artur bellowed.
“You will need more than the Rufoux,” Theodoric cleared his head of idiom and tried to return to simple instruction. “You will need Melics.”
“What?! That is the grandest of insults! I yawn harder than you can strike a blow! What can puny Melics possibly show Rufoux of battle?” Artur stalked around the tree trunk in his rage, and a hummingbird buzzed away for cover.
“Sometimes it’s best to battle from the safety of the branch,” Theodoric said to Pepin, who showed his approval with jaunty laughter. And again to Artur, “You will need Melics. You have not enough Rufoux. There are no Melic thylak, there are no Rufoux thylak, there are only thylak. You will need the Melic.”
Artur exploded into rage, and let go a tirade of verbal abuse against Theodoric and Pepin using words he hadn’t thought of for years, and added them all to their people. The two Melics simply stood upon their branch, reached overhead and smoothly pulled themselves out of sight. Artur’s diatribe continued for as long as he thought the two might be near enough to hear.
“They have gone,” said Wyllem.
“And all the better for them! The only good idea they had all day!” he roared, spewing spittle in all directions.
“Should we not be returning to the village?” asked Wyllem.
“Sure,” said Artur, and he trudged away in a foul mood.
“Today I saw thylak overcome a therium, and I talked with a Melic,” Wyllem commented.
“Forget about both of them.”
The men walked through the trees and standancrags back to their home, neither returning with what he had wanted or expected to find in the wooded land. Artur, despondent over the Rufoux’ last failure against the giants, having lost friends forever, found no solace in the forests anymore, and in fact had nearly lost his life, then came upon the most infuriating man he had ever known. Wyllem, hoping to extract some solution out of the hundreds of uncertainties that swirled around his clansmen, instead had a day of discovery such as he had never enjoyed before. Such an experience would have been like heaven itself in years past, but right now the teetering future of his people overshadowed everything else and left the pleasures of the day tasting of a sallow bitterness. The journey back to the village passed dismal and silent.
A great funeral pyre lit the gloaming sky as the Rufoux sent their fallen comrades on their eternal journey to the realm of Mog. The fire received handfuls of grain as well, final sacrifices to the god who had promised his rage would deliver them victory. The wounded had been gathered into one of the larger buildings, where the women tended them with what few medical skills they had. The Rufoux chieftain stood in the doorway and looked over the injured masses, greeting each one who could hear him.
Next to the wall lay Andreia.
He knelt beside her, and she stirred.
Artur placed his hand upon her forehead.
Andreia smiled slightly through hazy eyes. “Listen to the secret,” she whispered.
