Call of the Herald by Brian Rathbone

storm damage. The majestic grove
that had drawn them was no more. Not even one of the greatoaks
remained standing. They were strewn about the plateau as if felled
by a mighty hand. Some were almost whole but had been torn from the
soil and apparently flung about. Others had been twisted then
sheared off, leaving fingers of wood sticking out from stumps like
splinters of bone protruding from grisly wounds. It was the
lightning-struck trees, though, that disturbed Catrin most. The
bark was blasted off in many places, and the exposed wood was so
warped, it resembled partially melted candle wax.
    Catrin surveyed the damage, walking ahead of
the dispirited group toward the place that had once been the center
of the grove. Her heart was hurt at the sight of the ruination, but
some morbid sense drew her on, forcing her to commit the images to
memory. Since passage was hard to find among the fallen leviathans,
their progress was slow, but no one spoke a word of protest. Catrin
ran her hands along the fallen trunks as she passed them, bidding
them a silent farewell.
    It took her a moment to recognize the center
of the grove when she reached it. Tears filled her eyes, and her
body trembled as she gazed upon the black stone. None of it had
escaped damage. That which was not crushed under the fallen giants
had been blasted by lightning and pounded by massive hail. All that
remained was a mass of rubble and gray powder that crunched under
their boots. Grapefruit-sized hailstones still littered the area,
serving as poignant reminders of nature's power. Catrin turned
wordlessly back to her friends, who remained downcast and silent;
they had tears in their eyes, and she could see the fear in
them.
    "It was so beautiful," Osbourne said in a low
whisper.
    His words stung Catrin like a physical blow,
and she moved away from the place quickly, trying to escape the
oppressive weight settling on her shoulders. She wanted to believe
the destruction of the grove was not her fault, but she found no
comfort . . . only tremendous shame and grief. Her father had
finally trusted her enough to share the knowledge of how to find
his special place, and she had destroyed it. Her depression
deepened when she realized it had not really been her father's
place at all. Someone planted the greatoaks, by her guess, many
generations ago. She had entered a sacred place and, by some
unconscious action, had brought about its desecration. She felt as
if she had betrayed her ancestors, and she could almost sense their
accusing stares on her, denouncing her. Tears clouded her vision as
she stumbled through the maze of debris.
    When she reached what remained of the
campsite, she began to gather what she could find of her gear.
Chase reached her side but remained silent for a time.
    "You can't blame yourself for the weather,
Cat. This wasn't your fault. This was just like the storm we had
three weeks ago. That funnel cloud did a lot of damage too, and you
had nothing to do with it either," he said.
    Catrin wanted to agree with him. She was no
goddess or sorceress with influence on the weather. To believe she
was would be silly. But she still needed a reasonable explanation
for the strange occurrences that seemed to center on her. She
supposed her dance above the stone could have been a hallucination,
but such rationalizations did not ring of truth. When she
considered the appearance of the comet, the odds against it all
being coincidental were staggering. Perhaps, she thought, she had
just been in the wrong places at the wrong times, but things were
too similar for those events to have been purely accidental.
    Once she and the others finished packing what
they had left, Catrin shouldered her pack and looked at her
companions. They looked away, and she understood their fear because
she, too, was terrified. They probably believed she was somehow
responsible for the devastation of the grove, and she feared they
could be right.
    "What happened last night, Cat?" Osbourne
asked.