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  “We’ll be leaving just as soon as he’s had something to eat and you’ve said your goodbyes,” Shallah said. She paused. Words seemed so inadequate now. “I’m very sorry, Betta.”

  For a moment there was no sound in the house, even the children out in the close had gone silent.

  Betta said, “He’s already eaten.” Then she began to cry in earnest, wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron.

  Shallah handed Liam into Betta Carberry’s waiting arms, then felt her way over to the door. She waited out in the yard, listening to the soft sound of Betta’s humming as she rocked the child in her lap, weeping into his hair.

  As Shallah waited, young Toly Carberry ran up and tugged at her hand.

  “They say you’re going to die out there,” he said. He’d been rolling around on the ground with his brother and there were fir needles in his hair.

  “Is that what they say?” Shallah said mildly.

  “Yes,” Toly said. “They say it’s quite a shame you won’t be coming back.”

  As she contemplated this news, new doubts attempted to wedge their way into her thoughts. She stood firm and closed her mind to them. Let the village think what it would. Let everyone she knew look forward to her failure. She would never succeed at anything if she let the opinions of others bring her down.

  “Perhaps I will stay away,” Shallah replied. “Perhaps this quest will take me to far off lands, and I’ll never see this place again. But I don’t intend to die anytime soon, Toly Carberry. I certainly won’t let any harm come to that boy.”

  “Well, if you die before he does, be sure he has enough to eat,” said Toly.

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” Shallah said and Toly thanked her.

  The Carberry children said goodbye to Liam one by one. Betta’s oldest girl, Catin, wept softly on her mother’s shoulder as Shallah took Liam’s hand. Shallah was glad she couldn’t see their tears, nor meet Betta Carberry’s eyes. She didn’t want to set off with a broken heart.

  No crowds gathered to see Shallah off on her journey that day. No neighbours caught her in their arms and wished her well. The village was utterly silent as she and Liam passed through, hand in hand. It was an eerie, purposeful silence – as though quiet itself was trying to be quiet.

  So, it’s come to this, she thought to herself. They’re hiding from me.

  She’d never seen Trallee so still. Even in the dead of night, when the town was at its quietest, there was the sound of animals moving about, of old men’s snores and young couples’ passion. On a busy harvest day like this one, there should have been a great deal of running back and forth from the fields. Walram Hale nearly always forgot his work gloves and had to slip home to fetch them. Hacon Klink, lazy oaf that he was, forever volunteered to bring water to the oxen, and took his pretty time getting it. Sabeline would be sending Alys home to get fresh bandages to treat some small wound, and Edid Olney would be walking the baby in the lanes.

  Shallah couldn’t bring herself to feel indignant, not when she’d spent the last five years avoiding the villagers herself. But she was saddened. She would have favored a noisy farewell to this silent seamless departure. It was as though her leaving had no meaning at all.

  Beyond the fallow fields, the final boundary of the village, Shallah said her last goodbye. Raulf was sitting in the branches of a poplar tree by the side of the path and swung to the ground at their approach.

  “I thought I might let you pass without saying a word,” he said, “but I couldn’t do it.”

  Shallah nearly didn’t recognize Raulf’s voice, drained as it was of its usual lighthearted tone. “I’m glad you didn’t,” she replied kindly.

  “My Mam gives you a loaf of bread and some dried beans.” He held the food out to her and she took it, saddened to find that he’d not only lost his cheer, but also his usual energy. Instead of turning circles around her, he stood still as a stone, as though weighed down. Little Liam regarded him thoughtfully, alone in remarking the droop of his shoulders and his refusal to look Shallah in the eye.

  “I will miss you, Raulf,” Shallah said. “You’ve been a good friend to me. In truth, you’ve been my only friend.”

  “Ach, no,” he said, shaking his head.

  She leaned forward and gently raised his chin. “It’s true,” she said.

  “I’ve railed against them all for what they’ve said about you. There’s not a scrap of truth in it. I know you’ll make it through. You’ll prove them wrong.”

  His words, the first encouraging words she’d heard in days, filled her heart with gladness. She smiled, even as her eyes filled with tears. “I hope you’re right,” she said.

  “Goodbye, Miss,” Raulf said, hugging her quickly around the middle. Then he turned and walked stiffly back towards the village, rubbing at his eyes.

  Shallah and Liam started down the path, leaving Trallee behind them, on a fair day in late summer. No one saw them go, though Syward Olney claimed he caught a last glimpse of them as he worked his strip of land. He would have called out a farewell, he explained, but before he had the chance they’d walked on and were hidden from view amidst the trees.

  Chapter Five

  “Well,” Shallah said as they took the first bend in the path and the trees closed in behind them. “Well.”

  She could think of nothing else to say.

  Somehow, in all her days of worry, it had never occurred to her that once the journey began she would be faced with caring for a four-year-old boy. Now, holding Liam’s tiny hand in hers, she felt the seeds of panic beginning to take root.

  What did she know about taking care of a small child? She cared for Ilara Guerin some days, usually when Sabeline was called to birth a child or to tend to a sick villager. But watching over a child for a few hours in the village was a far cry from caring for one for days on end, the vast wood stretching out on all sides, full of hidden dangers. Her blindness weighed upon her. What if he were to fall and break a bone, or be attacked by some animal, or become lost? The risks seemed endless.

  Shallah tried to imagine the child at her side. She’d been told of his dark skin, his golden eyes, but now she wished she’d pressed Betta to tell her more. Did he smile often or seldom? Was his face plain or sweet? Did he have an attentive gaze, or did he stare at his hands, or his feet?

  Will he like me? she wondered.

  He was a small boy, his head coming only just to her hip. She could carry him easily, which would be a relief if ever they came into danger. He had the round limbs and body of a child just out of babyhood, and just as she thought of Raulf as a whirl of motion, she’d already come to associate little Liam with the plump softness of his chubby cheeks and hands. It made her feel protective of him.

  You’re all he has now, she told herself.

  For some reason, her father’s face came to mind.

  “We hardly know each other, do we?” Shallah said, swinging Liam’s hand companionably. The little boy looked up at her. He had to look up a long way. “Well, that won’t do,” Shallah said. “That won’t do at all.”

  She began to speak. To her surprise she found the words coming easily. She talked about Trallee, and the villagers, and the quiet lives they led. She talked about Jupp and Dobbin and the month-long row they’d once had over the most coveted spot in the byre. She found herself opening up to the boy as she never had to anyone, telling him about her favourite stool, and the tedium of spinning wool, and her secret desire to close herself up in her home and never see another soul.

  For the most part she couldn’t tell if Liam was listening. His silence was a barrier between them, one she desperately hoped to break, for it would be such a long cold journey if they had to go it alone. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking. Did he understand what had happened to him? Was he afraid? Did he know the way home?

  Early on, Shallah had warned Liam not to leave her side, and as she spoke she noticed that he stuck to her like molasses. He never let go of her hand, and when she was f
orced to let go of his fingers to adjust her satchel, she found that he kept his arm extended, waiting for her to take up his hand again. He showed no fear of the dark, which was a blessing, and he never complained that he was tired or hungry or bored. In fact, he never complained at all. He was nothing like Ilara Guerin who, though sweet, was often stubborn and prone to crying fits at the slightest provocation. By comparison, Liam was painfully serene, almost stoic. He seemed to have no mischief in him at all.

  Shallah couldn’t make him out. Was he being so agreeable to please her, or did he wish to be invisible, to be forgotten? She worried he was holding something inside, some terrible hurt he feared to speak of. She asked him tentatively about his family, his village, though she knew she’d not receive an answer. Betta had made every effort to break through to him and hadn’t been able to draw one word from his lips, though she’d spoken of a sudden sadness in his eyes when she’d mentioned his mother.

  When they stopped for rest, Shallah took the child in her lap and held him close, as though the warmth of her body might warm his heart.

  What happened to you? she longed to ask. Who stole your voice?

  “I’ll take care of you,” she whispered.

  She was starting to believe she could.

  As the day wore on, and her worries began little by little to subside, Shallah took notice of her surroundings. It was a good day to begin a journey. The air was warm and full of the musty smell of the conifers. She could picture the fog wafting moodily among the branches of the canopy, filtering the light and filling the air with moisture. The mossy trunks would be thicker here than in the village, and the path they trod would rise and fall among them, twisting its way through their territory.

  After so many days of grim anticipation, she found the ease with which they traveled somewhat amusing. The hours passed uneventfully. The path was even and smooth, without so much as a puddle to vex them. Were it not for their absolute isolation, the two might have been out for a pleasant stroll through the trees. She hadn’t yet broken a sweat.

  In her mind Shallah could picture the path before them. She knew already where they would stop for their midday meal, and how the trail would bend when they took it up again, before straightening out and slopping downwards. If she pressed herself, she could see the forest all around in her mind’s eye, could envision all the paths and how they intersected. This wood, her wood, was like a grid of roads and paths, the walkways illuminated in white, the woodland in black. She could walk those white trails forever without getting lost.

  She remembered being asked once by Gemma Blighton how she knew the wood so well. The two had been friends briefly, during that short summer after Gemma had declared herself sick of her sisters and before she’d caught the eye of Leland Goss and dissolved into his arms. Fifteen years old and willful, Gemma had convinced Shallah to sneak out in the night and help her find the hideout her brothers had built without permission in the woods. She’d been surprised at how readily Shallah had agreed, and absolutely stunned at the ease with which she’d moved through the trees.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall?” Gemma had asked as she’d struggled to keep up with her friend.

  “Not half as much as you,” Shallah had replied. “You’re afraid because it’s dark and you can’t see your way. It’s always dark for me.”

  “But everyone’s afraid of the forest,” Gemma had said. “It’s said to be frightfully dangerous.”

  Shallah had been in a phase of extreme boastfulness then, always looking for the chance to show her courage, to prove that she knew better. “You don’t believe all that nonsense, do you?” she’d replied. “I know I don’t.” Not precisely the truth, but not exactly a lie either.

  Shallah would never completely give up her fear of the forest, for childhood lessons, once learned, are not easily unlearned. But at fifteen, she’d already begun to question the truth of those tales she’d heard so many times, and to wonder …Where were these dangers that laid in wait amongst the trees? Why had she never encountered them? What would it mean if they didn’t exist at all? What would it mean for her father?

  She’d only just begun her nighttime wanderings the summer she’d been friends with Gemma. It had begun as a test of bravery. She’d dared herself one night to step into the wood and walk twenty paces without extending her arms before her. She’d done it, though she’d scared herself out of her wits and badly banged her temple when she’d walked into a spruce tree. She’d never forgotten the position of that tree again.

  The game had soon extended to the forest all around her toft, then to all around the village and beyond. Some nights she’d count her steps up to a hundred, purposely turning herself about, then try to find her way back home in half the steps. Some nights she’d examine the landscape, trying to remember where the largest trunks grew, and where the streams ran, until she could tell which side of the village she was on by touching the bark of the nearest tree, or listening for the gurgle of water. She’d often get lost and have to scramble about, waiting to come upon some landmark with which to orient herself, but she soon learned that there was no harm in this confusion so long as she remained calm. Eventually she began to look for paths to get lost on, for she’d come to know the wood about Trallee so well that it bored her.

  Of course, Shallah didn’t know the entire forest by heart. The forest was vast, it went on for miles, much farther than she could walk in one night. Still, it would be days yet until she and Liam would enter lesser-known territory. For the time being, they might still be in the village, she knew her way so well.

  For the time being they were safe.

  Liam had never seen such trees. There were trees so wide it took five breaths to walk past them. There were trees so tall he couldn’t see their branches. When he looked high up he could see fog swirling around their trunks like ghosts, and he felt nervous. With the canopy above and the ground below it was like being in a very big cage. He didn’t want to be in a cage with ghosts.

  In the village the trees weren’t quite this big. Ma Betta had been teaching him all their names, but he hadn’t gotten the chance to learn them all. Mirabel was always interrupting. Toly said Mirabel was jealous, but Liam didn’t mind. It was easy to forgive Mirabel because she was so pretty. He’d never known a little girl so pretty.

  He’d been in the forest of the big trees once before, but he’d missed seeing them because he’d been upset. And before that … he didn’t want to think about before that. Before that made him cry. If you cried it was best to do it at night when nobody would know. He’d cried in the night at Ma Betta’s and nobody had known because Catin talked in her sleep and masked the sound. Liam liked Catin because she talked in her sleep.

  It was nice to be under the big trees, nicer than being inside. At Ma Betta’s he’d often been kept inside. Sometimes when he’d been in the close and other villagers had come, Ma Betta had told him to go inside. He didn’t like being inside because the hearth was inside, and also because of the roof. The roof might fall down. Ma Betta didn’t understand about the roof falling down, and she thought inside was better than outside. But now Liam knew he would be outside all the time because he was on a journey.

  Ma Betta had explained the journey to him even though he already knew. He often knew things before other people knew. Other people knew only what had come before, but he also knew what would come after. Not everything, but some things. He’d known he would be taking a journey through the forest, and that a girl would be taking him, not Ma Betta. This had upset him for a little while, but not enough to cry. He missed Ma Betta but he was getting used to missing.

  Shallah had the long curly hair. She was almost as pretty as Mirabel. She wore a red kirtle, while Mirabel’s had been blue. Shallah was very different from Ma Betta. She talked to him in a different way. Ma Betta had always talked to him in questions. Do you know how to make pottage? Do you know what we put in the pot? Shallah told him what she was thinking, and she didn’t seem to mind that he did
n’t answer. Liam had decided not to talk anymore because if he talked he knew he would have to talk about before. It seemed safer not to talk at all. Shallah understood this.

  Liam liked Shallah, but he knew there was something not right about her. When they found all the white flowers he found out what it was.

  The flowers covered the ground on both sides of the path. They were tiny and white and they dazzled his eyes. He wanted to pick a bunch of them and give them to Shallah to make her smile. He could tell Shallah didn’t often smile.

  But when he returned to Shallah with the blossoms he could tell something was wrong. Shallah didn’t smile. She didn’t look at the flowers in his hands. She had her hand held out for him, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at a place somewhere just beside him.

  She couldn’t see him.

  Liam’s body went suddenly cold.

  Confused, Shallah crouched to the ground, her kirtle pooling around her. “What’s the matter, Liam?” she asked him, beckoning him to her. “What is it?”

  He looked at the flowers in his cupped palms. They made him sad.

  “Come to me,” Shallah said.

  He stepped forward slowly. He thought about letting the blossoms fall to the ground, but before he had the chance Shallah found his folded hands.

  “What have you got there?” she asked. She blinked at him, and he felt such terrible sorrow for her broken eyes, for all the flowers they would never see.

  Liam let Shallah bring his hands to her face. She put her nose close to the flowers and inhaled deeply. She smiled. “Beautiful,” she said, and he felt a little better.

  After all, he had made her smile.

  Chapter Six

  When evening came upon them, Shallah found a suitable place to camp in a clearing among the ferns. She laid a blanket over the needles packed into the red earth, and used her cloak as a pillow for them both. The night air was warm, full of the vestiges of a hot summer, and there was no need for a fire.