Home by Shayna Krishnasamy Page B

Its hind legs alone had protruded from the cage of roots, and it had kicked them furiously, its claws leaving gouges in the oak’s trunk. The oak itself had been monstrous to behold; sickeningly bloated, black as night and covered in stunted branches. As Petyr had watched, too stunned to react, its roots had tightened around the bear until its cries had subsided. Then, when he’d looked away, the oak had disappeared into the wood, leaving the corpse of its victim behind.
    In the days that followed, Petyr had learned to fear the oaks above any foe he’d ever faced. They could move at will, though he’d never seen one take a step. They would follow their prey for miles, falling still when gazed upon directly.
    They killed for sport.
    That night, Petyr had awoken to find himself trapped in the roots of one of their kind, and had only escaped with his life by chance. By some miracle the sleeve of his tunic had hidden his axe which lay across his belly, encased along with him. Though it had taken some time, he’d hacked himself free of the roots with his weapon, as the oak squealed in pain. Another root had sprouted out of the ground to catch his feet and in wrenching himself free he’d been sent sprawling, the wind knocked out of his lungs. He’d thought himself done for, but again he’d been spared. There had been a moment of excruciating silence as the root had twisted this way and that, trying to locate him. Unable to do so, it had retreated into the earth and in the blink of an eye the oak had vanished.
    Petyr had discovered the oaks’ one weakness.
    They were blind.
    Still, even with this bit of knowledge, he’d had little hope. He’d known he couldn’t fight off this enemy forever. There’d been no way back, no way out. A painful death had seemed to await him no matter where he turned.
    There was nothing he could do.
    Lying across the ground where the oak had left him, only one thought had lent him strength: when there’s nothing you can do, you can still fight.
    Throughout that night Petyr had transformed himself, drawing on skills he’d hardly known he possessed, disguising himself in the clothes of survival. Realizing the oaks were drawn to their prey by sound alone, he’d taught himself to be fluid and silent as a shadow. It had been easy enough, for he’d spent his childhood creeping about the village pilfering carrots from his neighbours’ tofts. By night’s end he could move through the forest at a run, sensing the next opening in the undergrowth without having to see it, slipping between the densely packed trees with ease. He might have been able to evade the oaks completely had his anger not drawn him back.
    As morning dawned he’d found himself stalking the oaks as they stalked their prey, utterly defiant of their might. By mid-afternoon he’d managed to get close enough to cut a coyote free just moments before it would have died. That night he’d again evaded capture by standing stock still right under an oak’s branches. He’d begun to thrive on the high of the escape, and had taken greater and greater risks at each encounter. He’d begun to fantasize about chopping an oak to pieces.
    Only one thing had worked against him. The oaks were not alone.
    They had a counterpart, a messenger to warn them of the danger they couldn’t see: the red-eyed owl. Its hooting call had spoiled Petyr’s attacks, alerting the oaks to his presence whenever he’d gotten near. Already he’d come to abhor the sound of its wings flapping through the air. His only advantage had been that it only seemed to respond when he had his weapon raised, as though the glinting metal of the axe blade was the oak’s one true foe. If he faced the oak defenceless, or with his axe tucked away, the owl remained quiet. Its slowness had worked against it as well, for he could outrun the bird. If he was quick as well as silent he could do some damage before it appeared.
    Until he’d come upon Shallah, Petyr had been lost in