me some of that. Please.”
In a flash, Rhia plucked a sprig and offered it to her. “Here you are. It’s so fragrant, it reminds me of pine needles in the sun. What did you call it?”
“Rosemary.” My mother rolled it between her palms, filling the air with its striking scent. She brought the crushed leaves to her face and inhaled deeply.
Her face relaxed a bit. She lowered her hands. “The Greeks called it starlight of the land. Isn’t that lovely?”
Rhia nodded, her curls bouncing on her shoulders. “And it’s good for rheumatism, isn’t it?”
Elen gazed at her in surprise. “How in the world did you know that?”
“Cwen, my friend, used it to help her hands.” A shadow crossed Rhia’s face. “At least she used to be my friend.”
“She made a pact with the goblins,” I explained. “And almost killed us in the bargain. She was a tr— Rhia, what did you call her?”
“A treeling. Half tree, half person. The very last one of her kind.” Rhia listened for a moment to the whispering oak leaves above us. “She took care of me ever since I was a baby, after she found me abandoned in the forest.”
My mother winced in pain, though her eyes remained fixed on Rhia. “Do you . . . do you miss your real family, child?”
Rhia waved her hand lightly. “Oh, no. Not at all. The trees are my family. Especially Arbassa.”
Again the branches quivered, showering us with dew. And yet I couldn’t help but notice that, despite Rhia’s carefree words, her gray-blue eyes seemed sad. Sadder than I had ever seen them.
Bumbelwy, frowning with his eyebrows, mouth, and chins, bent down next to the stretcher and touched my mother’s forehead. “You are hot,” he said grimly. “Hotter than before. This is just the occasion for my riddle about my bells. It’s one of my funniest—especially since I don’t know any others. Shall I tell it?’
“No.” I pushed him roughly aside. “Your riddles and songs will only make her feel worse!”
He pouted, all of his chins wobbling above the clasp of his cloak. “Too true, too true, too true.” Then he drew himself up a little straighten “But someday, mark my words, I will make somebody laugh.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. It might even be you.”
“Right. And the day you do that, I’ll eat my boots.” I scowled at him. “Get away, now. You’re worse than a curse, a plague, and a typhoon combined.”
Elen moaned, shifting her weight on the stretcher. She started to say something to Rhia, her blue eyes wide with anxiety. Then, for some reason, she caught herself. Instead, she took another sniff of rosemary. Turning to me, she asked, “Fetch me some lemon balm, will you? It will help calm this headache. Do you know where any grows?”
“I’m not sure. Rhia might know.”
Rhia, her eyes still darkened, nodded.
“And some chamomile, child, if you can find it. It often sprouts near pine trees, alongside a little white mushroom with red hairs on the stem.”
“The trees will guide me to it.” Rhia glanced up at Arbassa’s mighty boughs. “But first we’ll bring you inside.”
She peeled off her snug shoes, made from some kind of bark, and stepped into a small hollow in the roots. Then she spoke a long, swishing phrase in the language of an oak. The roots closed over her feet, so that she stood like a young sapling at Arbassa’s side. As she opened her arms to embrace the huge trunk, a leafy branch lowered and laid itself across her back. All at once the branch lifted, the roots parted, and the trunk creased and cracked open, revealing a small, bark-edged doorway. Rhia entered, beckoning us to follow.
As I bent to pick up the front end of the stretcher, I looked at my mother. Perspiration flecked her cheeks and brow. Such torment in her face! Seeing her this way felt like a spear twisting in my chest. Yet . . . I couldn’t shake the feeling that not all of the pain she was feeling this day had been caused by me.
Bumbelwy, grumbling to
In a flash, Rhia plucked a sprig and offered it to her. “Here you are. It’s so fragrant, it reminds me of pine needles in the sun. What did you call it?”
“Rosemary.” My mother rolled it between her palms, filling the air with its striking scent. She brought the crushed leaves to her face and inhaled deeply.
Her face relaxed a bit. She lowered her hands. “The Greeks called it starlight of the land. Isn’t that lovely?”
Rhia nodded, her curls bouncing on her shoulders. “And it’s good for rheumatism, isn’t it?”
Elen gazed at her in surprise. “How in the world did you know that?”
“Cwen, my friend, used it to help her hands.” A shadow crossed Rhia’s face. “At least she used to be my friend.”
“She made a pact with the goblins,” I explained. “And almost killed us in the bargain. She was a tr— Rhia, what did you call her?”
“A treeling. Half tree, half person. The very last one of her kind.” Rhia listened for a moment to the whispering oak leaves above us. “She took care of me ever since I was a baby, after she found me abandoned in the forest.”
My mother winced in pain, though her eyes remained fixed on Rhia. “Do you . . . do you miss your real family, child?”
Rhia waved her hand lightly. “Oh, no. Not at all. The trees are my family. Especially Arbassa.”
Again the branches quivered, showering us with dew. And yet I couldn’t help but notice that, despite Rhia’s carefree words, her gray-blue eyes seemed sad. Sadder than I had ever seen them.
Bumbelwy, frowning with his eyebrows, mouth, and chins, bent down next to the stretcher and touched my mother’s forehead. “You are hot,” he said grimly. “Hotter than before. This is just the occasion for my riddle about my bells. It’s one of my funniest—especially since I don’t know any others. Shall I tell it?’
“No.” I pushed him roughly aside. “Your riddles and songs will only make her feel worse!”
He pouted, all of his chins wobbling above the clasp of his cloak. “Too true, too true, too true.” Then he drew himself up a little straighten “But someday, mark my words, I will make somebody laugh.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. It might even be you.”
“Right. And the day you do that, I’ll eat my boots.” I scowled at him. “Get away, now. You’re worse than a curse, a plague, and a typhoon combined.”
Elen moaned, shifting her weight on the stretcher. She started to say something to Rhia, her blue eyes wide with anxiety. Then, for some reason, she caught herself. Instead, she took another sniff of rosemary. Turning to me, she asked, “Fetch me some lemon balm, will you? It will help calm this headache. Do you know where any grows?”
“I’m not sure. Rhia might know.”
Rhia, her eyes still darkened, nodded.
“And some chamomile, child, if you can find it. It often sprouts near pine trees, alongside a little white mushroom with red hairs on the stem.”
“The trees will guide me to it.” Rhia glanced up at Arbassa’s mighty boughs. “But first we’ll bring you inside.”
She peeled off her snug shoes, made from some kind of bark, and stepped into a small hollow in the roots. Then she spoke a long, swishing phrase in the language of an oak. The roots closed over her feet, so that she stood like a young sapling at Arbassa’s side. As she opened her arms to embrace the huge trunk, a leafy branch lowered and laid itself across her back. All at once the branch lifted, the roots parted, and the trunk creased and cracked open, revealing a small, bark-edged doorway. Rhia entered, beckoning us to follow.
As I bent to pick up the front end of the stretcher, I looked at my mother. Perspiration flecked her cheeks and brow. Such torment in her face! Seeing her this way felt like a spear twisting in my chest. Yet . . . I couldn’t shake the feeling that not all of the pain she was feeling this day had been caused by me.
Bumbelwy, grumbling to
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