picked up the bird, avoiding the talons in case it suddenly came alive again. I held the warm, feathered body in my hand, wondering that any creature so fierce could also feel so soft. Stroking the injured wing, I could tell that, while skin and muscles had been shredded, no bones had been broken. I reached into the satchel that Branwen had given me, removed a pinch of the dried herbs, and added to this a few drops of water from the stream. Using the edge of my tunic, I cleaned the gashes made by the teeth of the rat. There were several deep ones, especially along the wing’s upper edge. Carefully I applied the herbs as a poultice.
The merlin stiffened and opened an eye. This time, however, it did not slash at me. Apparently too weak even to whistle, it could only watch me warily.
When I had finished, I held the small bird and pondered what to do next. Leave it here by the stream? No, the rats would surely return and finish their work. Take it with me? No, I had no need for a passenger, certainly not one so dangerous.
Spotting an oak with wide branches at the edge of the woods, an idea came to me. I put down the bird long enough to pull up some grasses and twist them together into a rough-hewn nest. Gathering both the nest and the bird under my arm, I climbed to a low branch that wore a rich coat of moss. I wedged the nest into place where the branch joined the trunk, then placed the helpless bird within.
I looked into the defiant, yellow-rimmed eyes for a moment. Then I climbed down and strode into the forest.
13: A B UNDLE OF L EAVES
As I walked among the spires and the intertwined branches of this ancient forest, an odd sensation crept up on me.
It had nothing to do with my second sight, although the light proved dim indeed in these dark groves where only occasional rays reached all the way to the forest floor. It had nothing to do with the resins filling the air, stronger than I had ever smelled, although they brought back the memory of the day I outlasted the storm in the arms of the great pine beneath Y Wyddfa. It had nothing to do with the sounds all around me—winds rushing through leaves, branches clacking and creaking, needles crunching underfoot.
The odd sensation stemmed from none of these things. Or perhaps it came from all these things combined. A sound. A smell. A dimly lit grove. Above all, a feeling. That something in this forest knew I was there. That something was watching me. That a strange whispering, much like what I had heard in the shell, was now happening all around me. I spotted a knobby stick, nearly as tall as myself, leaning against the trunk of an old cedar. A good staff might help me work my way through the dimly lit groves of this forest. I reached for it. Just as my hand was about to squeeze its middle, where a cluster of twigs protruded, I gasped and pulled back.
The stick moved! The twigs, joined by others above and below, began churning like little legs. The knobby shaft bent as it clambered down the cedar’s flaky bark, over the roots, and into a patch of ferns. In a few seconds, the stick creature had vanished. So too had my desire to find a staff.
Then I felt a familiar urge. Climb one of these trees! Not all the way to the top, perhaps, but high enough to gain a view of the upper canopies of branches. Choosing a lanky linden tree, whose heart-shaped leaves trembled like the surface of a running river, I started up. My feet and hands found plenty of holds, and I moved swiftly higher.
From the distance of five times my own height above the ground, the view changed dramatically. Much more light pierced the mesh of limbs, improving my vision. Through the quivering linden leaves I noticed a round, green clump of moss near my head—although given my experience with the stick I decided not to touch it. Then I glimpsed a pair of orange and blue butterflies floating among the branches. A spider, its web pearled with dew, swung freely from a nearby limb. Squirrels with large eyes
The merlin stiffened and opened an eye. This time, however, it did not slash at me. Apparently too weak even to whistle, it could only watch me warily.
When I had finished, I held the small bird and pondered what to do next. Leave it here by the stream? No, the rats would surely return and finish their work. Take it with me? No, I had no need for a passenger, certainly not one so dangerous.
Spotting an oak with wide branches at the edge of the woods, an idea came to me. I put down the bird long enough to pull up some grasses and twist them together into a rough-hewn nest. Gathering both the nest and the bird under my arm, I climbed to a low branch that wore a rich coat of moss. I wedged the nest into place where the branch joined the trunk, then placed the helpless bird within.
I looked into the defiant, yellow-rimmed eyes for a moment. Then I climbed down and strode into the forest.
13: A B UNDLE OF L EAVES
As I walked among the spires and the intertwined branches of this ancient forest, an odd sensation crept up on me.
It had nothing to do with my second sight, although the light proved dim indeed in these dark groves where only occasional rays reached all the way to the forest floor. It had nothing to do with the resins filling the air, stronger than I had ever smelled, although they brought back the memory of the day I outlasted the storm in the arms of the great pine beneath Y Wyddfa. It had nothing to do with the sounds all around me—winds rushing through leaves, branches clacking and creaking, needles crunching underfoot.
The odd sensation stemmed from none of these things. Or perhaps it came from all these things combined. A sound. A smell. A dimly lit grove. Above all, a feeling. That something in this forest knew I was there. That something was watching me. That a strange whispering, much like what I had heard in the shell, was now happening all around me. I spotted a knobby stick, nearly as tall as myself, leaning against the trunk of an old cedar. A good staff might help me work my way through the dimly lit groves of this forest. I reached for it. Just as my hand was about to squeeze its middle, where a cluster of twigs protruded, I gasped and pulled back.
The stick moved! The twigs, joined by others above and below, began churning like little legs. The knobby shaft bent as it clambered down the cedar’s flaky bark, over the roots, and into a patch of ferns. In a few seconds, the stick creature had vanished. So too had my desire to find a staff.
Then I felt a familiar urge. Climb one of these trees! Not all the way to the top, perhaps, but high enough to gain a view of the upper canopies of branches. Choosing a lanky linden tree, whose heart-shaped leaves trembled like the surface of a running river, I started up. My feet and hands found plenty of holds, and I moved swiftly higher.
From the distance of five times my own height above the ground, the view changed dramatically. Much more light pierced the mesh of limbs, improving my vision. Through the quivering linden leaves I noticed a round, green clump of moss near my head—although given my experience with the stick I decided not to touch it. Then I glimpsed a pair of orange and blue butterflies floating among the branches. A spider, its web pearled with dew, swung freely from a nearby limb. Squirrels with large eyes
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