The Elderwood

The last time I saw my father he was being carried into town without his head. There was no mistaking him though, no other had so many bands about their arms, not even our Hôlff.

I remember thunder. The kind that shakes the heavens, but it was inside me. In my bones. Every one of them trembled. A cold breath breathed inside my soul. It was icy cold; like the cold that gets into fingers and toes and turns them blue; the kind you have to cut to stop.

Our village came out to meet Sädäkê, you would call them braves in your tongue. Worried women ran to their men. A moon too late, there was nothing to triumph in their return. There would be no Victus this day. The children clinging to their father’s legs were the only spoils to be had.

Mother and I watched as the Sädäkê laid father’s body before Mehuni. There was nothing she could do.

“What is this?” Mehuni said with great care.

Even at five summers, I remember knowing—he‘ll grow no tree.

We are the Elhüüntah, that is, people of the Wolfskin. The last tribe of those elder people; the few left who steward the elder ways. When we go to the earth we are like the fair people of old and grow trees from the seeds of our heart and mind. When these seeds are watered with the red water they grow into the Eldergreen, a tree as mighty as the redwood and clean as the pine. Our mountain forest is filled with such and it is called the Elderwood.

“Where is his head?” Mehuni’s horror-filled voice was barely more than a whisper.

Tuäka bowed his head, “I could not… I almost damned the haunt going back for his body.”

The two looked at one another.

“He will grow no tree,” she could barely say the words. It was a death sentence.

“I know,” Tuäka whispered.

“It is not a clean cut.”

Tuäka shook his head, the words were slow coming, “They tore it from his shoulders.”

Mother moaned. It was a little thing, but I heard it. I wanted to cry, my eyes became hot and stung, but I did not let them water.

“How did this happen?”

“The Old Ones were still there,” came the strong, stone voice of the Hôlff.

The Old Ones are Vêll. Those fell creatures descended from gods in the Age of Fire. They are the mist-makers, for they hate the sun. They breed children like we breed cattle. They draw from their unlived years. It’s how they live so long. They are as strong as a thousand men and move faster than the snake. We wait for them to cull a town or village of the little ones; it's the safest time to collect the whelpers, or breeders. Most times the women need little convincing to follow us out of the Mists.

“That doesn’t make sense, they already culled that village; there were no young ones left to take. Why were they still there?” she asked. Hôlff only shrugged.

Mehuni’s eyes found Mother then, “Oh my darling,” she said walking over to Mother. She stopped where Mother stood. Mother bowed her head and Mehuni honored her with the same. Our mother brought her head to my mother’s and when they touched a tear slipped from my mother’s eye. It was the only time I can recall seeing such a thing.

Mother looked up to Tuäka, then to the Hôlff, “His coat? Tell me of his coat, did you save it?”

Tuäka hung his head. Hôlff shook his head once.

Mother bowed her head, my little hand in her’s. I remember her trembling. I distinctly remember knowing then that I would never be a Sädäkê—a brave. I would work with the women. This meant I would never have a woman and I would never belong to one. I would never have children. My father’s line had come to its end and I would never be. It was as if death had come to swallow my father’s line whole.

Among my people, all boys become Sädäkê—a brave. It is our way.

Only a father can make a son into a brave. This happens when he gives him his Toodändae, or inheritance. This is a sacred rite when the father places his hand upon the brow of his son and passes down all his knowledge and all the knowledge of his forebears. When the rite is completed Father grants his son a mighty boon, his ünntka, his coat.

With these, a son takes his Wandering or his Mêshah. For a full moon, the son lives among the Elderwood where he waits, he listens. This is how he comes to learn to hear and distinguish the voices of all who have gone before us within that deep space. It is important for one of our own to know the difference between their voice and the voice of an elder. Not until this is done can the wealth of the toodändae be understood. Once they hear, once they understand that voice the knowledge of a thousand ages becomes their own.

It is a great gift.

It is the elder’s wisdom that teaches the young brave to wear his ünntka, to walk as a wolf. When he returns not as man, but beast he is named as Sädäkê and joins the haunt.

Not all Elhuuntäh learn to hear the voices of elders. Those that don’t become hunters and gathers, assisting women folk in making food and cleaning. They marry and have children, for they walked Mêshah but those without a father are not given toodändae or ünntka and are not given the opportunity to Mêshah—these never become men.

A cruel fate.

We buried my father that night in the Elderwood though he would never grow among them. Still, we watered his body with the red water. The whole tribe came, cut their hands and watered what was left of him. After that night mother never spoke another word; not to me, not to anyone. When winter came she died of a broken soul. Our tribe honored her with their blood. When mother passed, Tuäka looked after me though I spent my nights in the Elderwood, I didn’t want mother to be alone.

Down below the Elderwood, something was happening in the Mists. The Old Ones were moving. House rose against house. Their kind were burning ranch and stock. There were fields of blood. There was a rumor that one of the great lords had been slain, but no one knew for certain. The haunt was never home, every moon they returned with more of the Vêll’s breeders. Mehuni was overstretched. There were so many mutilated woman, more with open wounds, some carried old diseases. Elhunnta women who’d communed with the elders helped with the healing, but it was a time when there wasn’t enough of anything to go around. There was never enough to eat and I was already hungry.

I grew fast, as boys do, I always needed new clothes. I always ate too much. Ehdini took to calling me ohtî-lôfti—the little beggar. Lôfti was something some women called those the haunt saved in the lowlands. They had no tongues, they had no skills, and they always had need. I would not be ohtî-lôfti, I vowed it and the words made something hard on my inside. A strength. I left Tuäka’s house and went to live in the Elderwood. Perhaps it was the war or the needless need of the breeder women, but no one came to collect me.

I told myself I preferred it that way and back then I believed it.

I could not have been more than ten summers, mother had grown into a sapling, I had made my vow and was starving because of it. I would beg for nothing. At night I watered mother and father with mine own red water so that they would grow fast and strong and know they were not alone. Though I hoped for a miracle, father never grew. Often, at night when I laid my head down, I hoped hunger would take me; I hoped I would awaken in the earth with mother and the elders. I was never so lucky. When mother’s sapling grew I could almost hear her sing me to sleep. Sometimes I would see father in a dream.

Those were good nights.

One evening, as emptiness gnawed my insides raw, I fell hard and fast asleep to the voice of my mother in my mind. I was back in the little wood where Father taught me to hunt small game. It was like I was there. I could taste the moist air and smell the sodden earth, the pull of draw was as tight on my fingers as the first time. When father put his hand on my shoulder after the kill I felt it as if he were there. Then I awoke and wept.

That morning I caught my first squirrel—I have never had a finer meal.

Later Father came to me, often in old memories at night, but there were other dreams too.

“Tonight,” he said in one, “We will meet my father’s great grandsire.”

I remember naught else of the dream, but when I awoke I was not where I had lain, I was somewhere else entirely, deep in the Elderwood, among the giants. The mighty trees were ancient here, they reached all the way into the heavens. The sun was crawling over the horizon. Morning dew was still fresh upon the soil. For a moment, maybe a breath, I knew peace. It was sweet like spring waters, light like the sparrow’s feather. I stood before elders long gone wondering how deep wisdom strove. Lightly, I touched the ancient wood with the tip of my finger.

I was taken away. To another place; it was another time. My toes tread among stars and I swam the night sky. A great tree full of light, the coming of the dragons. The earth had not been broken yet. The world spun and an age passed and I was in the land of the mists.

“Son,” father called.

“Father,” I said. Over and over, but I could not find him.

My eyes opened, the sun was setting. I was far from home, but there was no fear. I walked where it felt right, for a moment or an hour, I could not tell you, only that I stopped before an elder. He was older than the rest. His bark called to me. I brushed his rough wood skin.

Off again.

The demise of the dragon and coming of the descended ones; titanic powers hurling mountains and draining seas. Two colossals fought with swords. One emptied the other of its bowels, those wriggling insides became the Vêll choking the world with their mists. Then I was there in their land. I could hear father’s voice, but I could not find him.

This time, when I woke I was with mother.

That night I was taken away again. I saw a golden dragon, mighty as he was beautiful. He had not fallen with the rest, but he made war with a titan the size of a mountain. A fortnight they wounded one another, his claws and teeth something savage behold. In the end, they slew one another with great wounds.

“Son,” my father’s voice.

I woke in a dark place that I did not know. The air was chilled and laden, like it was old. From somewhere I could feel heat. I waited on my eyes. It took a moment but then they served me. I was in the great jaws of the ancient beast. Its bones white warm in the dark. The size of it! It could of swallowed a horse whole. Instantly, I knew where I was and who this was. Some of the golden dragon’s teeth were as long as my leg. My eyes fell upon a tooth that would fit my hand. It seemed good to me then to touch it.

“Ouch!” I yelped. It was hot as burning coal.

For some reason, I touched it again, and it burnt again—it burnt until it did not. I did not let go. Then it came loose into my hand. I was in a dream, I had to be, for I heard father’s voice again. I was in the misty lands, but now I saw him. His unburied head was but bones lying beside a road near a village. There were eldergreen shoots growing from his eye sockets, roots growing out of his mouth.

Then I heard his voice no more. It was dark. I awoke to the sound of sniffing. I did not know if I was in a dream. I was in the woods. How had I gotten here? Another dream.

I heard the low growl. Panting breath. The soft pad of feet. The wolf had me dead to rights.

“Elder’s help me,” a whisper. A broken vow. My back was turned to it, I could feel its menace. I was much too small to fight a wolf. If there were more than one, I was truly without hope. My hand tightened out of fear, I felt the sharp bite of an edge. My hand began to bleed. The tooth. A warm trickle of blood fell to the earth. I don’t know if I felt it or sensed it, but I turned quick as I thought and caught the beast in its snarl.

I wear its coat now.

The elders showed me the way to father. Two moons it took. On the third I returned to my village. It was dawn and I was wearing my own ünntka. Fifty breeders followed me into the village with the little ones in tow, something that had never happened. They made enough noise to rouse everyone. My father’s head hung from the satchel about my neck, two others dangled behind. Mehuni came from out of her tent and stood before its entrance. Slowly my people gathered, forming at either side as I approached.

Then I was before her. There were no words. She didn’t know me. I dropped my coat then. All at once it seemed everyone took a breath. I stood before Mehuni naked, head bowed, my coat at my feet. I handed her my father’s head sprouting with roots.

“You have returned with Tahktan, your father’s head,” Mehuni couldn’t hide her surprise.

I took father’s head back and gave her the other two. Bewilderment and horror, each played on her face. She wanted to ask me ‘how.’ I smiled and walked around her.

She followed me in wonder and silence to the Elderwood. The village followed her and they all watched me bury my father’s head where his heart lay near his wife. It is where he grows even now. Sometimes I see him in my dreams.