Shadowmagic. John Lenahan

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СКАЧАТЬ said, ‘and we are approaching Ioho–we should not be talking in the Yewlands.’

      ‘Why not?’ I asked.

      ‘Because it disturbs the trees and you do not want to disturb a yew tree.’

      Under normal circumstances, I would have thought about calling a shrink and booking her into a rubber room, but I had just had a little chat with a tree myself. ‘What could a yew tree do? Drop some leaves on us?’

      She gave me a look that made me feel like a toddler who had just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. It was going to take a while to get used to this mother and son stuff.

      ‘Yew trees are old. The oldest trees in Tir na Nog. We of The Land think we are immortal, but to the yew we are but a spark. To answer your question, if you wake a yew, it will judge your worth. If it finds you lacking–you will die.’

      ‘What will it do, step on me?’ I said, and got that same icy stare as before.

      ‘It will offer you its berries, which are poisonous,’ she said, in a tone that warned me that her patience was thinning, ‘and you will be powerless to resist.’

      ‘I find that hard to believe.’

      ‘Please, Conor,’ she said, ‘do not put it to the test today.’

      I didn’t have to ask if we were in the Yewlands, I knew it when we got there. Heck, I knew it before ‘we got there. We rounded a bend in the river and ahead I saw two huge boulders on opposite sides of the bank. On top of them were the most awesome trees I had seen yet. They weren’t as big as the oaks, but these were definitely the elders–the great-great-grandfathers of all of the trees and probably everything else in creation. The roots of the yews engulfed the rocks like arthritic hands clutching a ball. It seemed as if these two trees had just slithered up onto their perches to observe our approach. It made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Past the guard trees we entered a thick forest that stretched as far as the eye could see. A dense canopy turned the world into a dark green twilight, and there was no light at the end of this tunnel.

      The first corpse was just inside the forest. Within ten minutes I must have seen fifteen of them. On both sides of the bank, human remains in various states of decay adorned the base of one tree or another. Some of them were clean, bone-white–others were still in their clothes. Many of them had quivers with arrows on their back. All of them were looking up, open-mouthed, as if to say, ‘No!’ or maybe, ‘Thy will be done.’

      Mom’s warning about not speaking in the Yewlands proved to be unnecessary. I wasn’t going to say a word. Never have I felt so humbled and insignificant as I did in the presence of those sleeping giants. I didn’t want them to know I was there, and I definitely didn’t want them to judge me. If they bid me to eat their berries, or throw myself off a cliff for that matter, I would do as they commanded, just to make them happy. Like a dog to a master–or a man to a god.

      We spent most of that day silent, in an emerald dusk. It was slow going: each paddle was done with care so as to not make any splashing sounds. The frequency of the corpses diminished, but still from time to time a skyward-facing skull, encased in moss, would be just visible. As we came around a bend my mother’s breath quickened. Ahead was a moss-covered altar surrounded by a semicircle of what must be the oldest of these primordial trees. The bases of the trees were littered with women’s corpses. Each tree was surrounded with five or six sets of bones, some bleached white, some in white robes, a couple still with long, flowing hair, and all were in the same position. They were embracing a tree trunk, as if for dear life–which I suppose they were. I noticed that my mother didn’t look.

      When, in the distance, I saw a clear white light at the end of the forest, I let out a tiny yelp of joy that I instantly regretted. My parents shot me a disapproving look. Luckily the trees took no notice.

      The fresh air and sunshine made me feel like I had been rescued from a premature grave. I waited until the Yewlands were out of sight before I dared to speak.

      ‘Well, that was fun,’ I said, trying to sound cooler than I felt. ‘Who were all those dead people?’

      ‘Archers mostly,’ Dad replied.

      ‘Why archers?’

      ‘The best bows are made from yew; if you want to be a master archer, you have to ask a yew tree for wood.’

      ‘And those were the guys that didn’t make the grade?’

      He nodded.

      ‘Have you ever been judged by a yew?’

      ‘Not me, I was never much of an archer. Good thing too–one-handed archers are traditionally not very good.’

      ‘I have,’ my mother said, in a faraway voice that sent a shiver down my spine. ‘I have been judged by a yew. Next to giving up my son, it was the hardest thing I have ever done.’

      I thought that maybe she wasn’t going to say anything more–her face told me it was a memory that was painful to remember. I waited–she took a deep breath and went on. ‘The place you saw with the altar is called the Sorceress’ Glade. Like archers with their bows, a true sorceress must translate a spell onto a yew branch.’

      ‘What, like a magic wand?’

      ‘If you like.’

      ‘And you were judged?’

      In reply she reached into her pouch and produced a plain-looking stick, carved with linear symbols.

      ‘What does it do?’

      ‘It gives me power over the thorns,’ she said.

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘You will understand when we reach the Fililands.’

      We were floating by fragrant fields of heather, inhabited by sheep, rabbits and deer. I even saw a black bear fishing on a bank. It was like a 3-D Disney film. I almost expected the bear to wave.

      ‘How did you become a sorceress?’

      ‘Her father,’ Dad said, ‘wanted to make a superwoman.’

      ‘My father wanted his daughter to be educated,’ Mom corrected. ‘He hired twelve tutors to teach me in the arts, philosophies, combat and magic. I loved all my tutors, almost as much as I loved my father for providing them for me. Of all my studies, it was at magic that I excelled. Against my father’s wishes, I made the pilgrimage to the Sorceress’ Glade with my tutor, my mentor, my friend.’ Mom fell silent and sadness invaded her face.

      ‘It was Nieve,’ Dad said.

      ‘Nieve? My Aunt Nieve? The one who tried to pierce my sternum with a javelin?’

      ‘I am sure she took no joy from that task,’ Mom said. ‘Nieve has a very strong sense of duty.’

      ‘Could you give her a call and maybe we could sit down and talk about this?’

      ‘Nieve and I have not spoken to one another for a long time,’ she said.

      ‘Because of me?’

      ‘No, before that, СКАЧАТЬ