Chapter VII
Deep inside the forested land, Artur sat with his back against a stout standancrag. He had not been back to the village, and the night slowly turned to dawn. Heavy moisture fell from the leaves above, making damp every inch of him exposed to the drip-drip-drip. A bird, lodged somewhere in the trees, made merry with its morning song. Golden-pinkish hues transforming the eastern sky overhead did nothing to lift Artur’s mood.
Artur could not get out of his head images from the day before. The more he thought, the more he remembered, the more it seemed the Rufoux had floundered, the more his blood boiled. What was it Andreia had said? His people knew as much of the battle as he did. If they thought the same thing as him now, soon they would be in utter fury. If they did not take this rage out on the Aoten, then they might well take it out on him. So Andreia judged rightly: He must address the gathered clan this morning.
First he must seek out Wyllem, though. Together they had to offer some kind of strategy to their clansmen. Not only could he reinforce his leadership this way, but he owed it to his people. He would not lead them into suicide. But he found himself without ideas; perhaps Wyllem had thought of something through the night. Perhaps he had considered the … the … the bird overhead grew more and more insistent with its song.
“What the …” said Artur as he shaded his eyes and searched out the caterwauling.
The sound seemed to be coming from high above, off to the right slightly. Artur peered into the leafy cover, until some of the branches appeared to have a face. The whistling of the “bird” ceased. Blinking a couple of times, Artur looked closer and indeed, a face with no body peered back at him.
“Death makes a multitude of friends, but defeat alone leaves one lonely,” it said.
“Who are you?” bellowed Artur, not sure what the face meant by this saying. “How dare you encroach on Rufoux land?”
“You and I reside in the deep woods,” said the face. “Melics call it their territory.”
“Melic land does not exist, only Melic treetops,” replied Artur.
“Well said.”
“Come down here, and talk like a man, if that’s what you be,” growled Artur, his already-ill temper gathering into a storm.
“I think not. I think it better for me up here.”
“As you wish,” said Artur threateningly, and he grasped the tree with both hands and prepared to climb. But Rufoux boasted no skill at shimmying up the mighty trees, and for good reason, so without ladders and ropes he could ascend only a kronyn or so before having to give it up. The face smiled from above.
Artur looked about for something to throw, but he could find nothing suitable and decided he couldn’t hit a small target that high anyway. This brief detour into logic didn’t soothe his anger any, though, and he suddenly embraced the tree trunk and shook it with all his might. The impressive show made no effect, however, and the face looked down in pity.
“You might as well give up. You’re not getting along any better with the tree than you did the giants.”
Artur stopped at this. Now the face definitely spoke about the battle against the Aoten. “Are you mocking me?” he screamed.
“Not at all, not at all. I only say, you might as well give up against the tree. I know her well, and she is a solid tree.”
“How do you know of the giants? Are you one of them?”
“No. Aoten is in the eye of the beholder, and I was simply beholding.”
Artur stared back with a scowl.
“I watched the fight yesterday,” the face explained.
At this point the face shifted, and in its moving about a man’s body appeared from out of the camouflage of leaves. Now Artur knew how the man had remained hidden, for he wore clothing made of woven, leafy vines, the typical dress of the Melics. He sat down upon a branch, showing his bare feet to have thick layers of calluses.
“Who are you?” Artur repeated, this time with more true curiosity.
“I am Theodoric.”
“Oh. Well,” said Artur, and he backed away from the tree. He had heard of Theodoric, chief of the Melics, the tree-dwelling clan of Medialia. He even had heard the mysterious forest music, a chorus of indefinable sounds that the Melics somehow produced, according to legend. But he had never seen a Melic, and certainly none had ever addressed him.
Theodoric peered down at him from his high abode. Leaves no longer obscured his face, and Artur could see its ashen color and deep lines, and that it wore an expression of mild amusement. Theodoric’s nose was long and his features thin, and one ear appeared to be missing. Gray hair splayed in all directions from beneath his tight helmet, and a short, tubular stick hung from his belt. The man’s high-pitched voice had a throaty quality to it.
“Yesterday’s memories are tomorrow’s plans,” he said.
“What? Do you always speak in puzzles?” Artur replied.
“Almost. When you look at a problem, really look into it, puzzles often are all you’re left with.”
“Come down here,” Artur again suggested. He still had not calmed down quite completely.
“I think it’s better here even yet. I can see the sunrise, and the River Alluvia, and I can see you, and the furrows of your brow tell me the tree is a lovely place to sit at the moment. Anger gorges itself on wisdom until there’s none left.”
“Fine, then. I’m through with you,” and Artur turned away.
“The giants drew you into their snare yesterday, did they not?”
“We meant to do that,” Artur yelled over his shoulder.
“Yet they are not so clever,” Theodoric called out after him. “They hunt thylak the same way. The thylak never learn.”
“The thylak think with their stomachs.”
“And the Rufoux have a stomach for warfare.”
Artur stopped. Theodoric had no doubt leveled some insult at his people, but he couldn’t tell for sure. Then he realized what Theodoric had said: This Melic knew how the Aoten hunt.
“You have observed the Aoten?” he asked.
“Oh, I observe everything. Nothing else to do.”
“So you know Aoten habits?”
“Yes, somewhat. I know they burn the hair off their hands, I know they worship no god, and I know they let the thylak attack and then lead them to their hidden weapons. Thylak never learn.”
“What do you mean to say?”
“Now that you know, don’t let it happen again,” Theodoric shrugged.
“Oh, you can be sure of that,” Artur’s temper once more rose, and he shook his fist at Theodoric, because no Aoten stood about to shake it at. “But you Melics have no need for concern!”
“Perhaps.” The corners of Theodoric’s mouth turned downward and he waggled his head from side to side. “Perhaps not.”
“Perhaps nothing. The Rufoux have entered into this battle, and Rufoux will make an end of it,” Artur’s mind again turned to Andreia’s counsel. He would know the secret when he heard it, she had said; he wasn’t really listening right now.
Theodoric looked out over the horizon, which he could see well past the river. “I think we all have the same problem. If we’re not careful, we’ll all meet the same fate.”
“You’re safe enough. They’re not so tall that they can reach into the branches. And as you say, that tree is solid.” Artur rubbed his aching biceps.
“Yes, still, I have a bad feeling.”
“They want Rufoux crops, and Rufoux land. That has no bearing on tree-dwellers.”
“Crops today, trees tomorrow. They may set their sights higher, so to speak. Who’s to say? We clearly see one thing: They take what they want.”
Artur planted his fists on his hips. “Rufoux will have something to say about that.”
“Rufoux talk is like beating a rock with a hammer. In fact, it is beating a rock with a hammer.”
Artur’s anger reached high pressure again. “Enough insults! Come down from there!”
“No, I still like it here. I only sa
y, a rushing river will always be split by a strong mountain.”
“What do you mean, you insolent sparrow?” Artur fumed.
“A falling tree can crush the undergrowth, but will always stop at the ground,” explained Theodoric.
“Arrgh! If I could only get my hands on you! I’d take your gibberish and shove it back down your throat,” Artur strode about trying to think of things to do to Theodoric.
The Melic chief sighed. “The thylak never learn.”
“Stop saying that!”
Theodoric’s mood suddenly seemed to turn to gloom. He picked at his branch a bit absent-mindedly and shook his head. “Yes, your people have a Rufoux problem, and you Rufoux will take care of it. I can see that now. Make the best of it you can, Artur of the Rufoux.”
“Now you talk plainly. Now you talk sense,” said Artur arrogantly.
The Rufoux chieftain stood like a celebratory statue as the Melic leader sadly contemplated the scene. The weight of his people bore down upon him. “Yes, I see,” he said, and he lifted the stick from his belt and to his lips, and blew a few melancholy notes as he scanned the top of the forest. The sun fully hovered over the horizon now, light glinting off the kaleidoscopic leaves as they fluttered in the gentle breeze. Great birds balanced on the currents above him. A new day in Medialia would be no different from any other.
“Yes, I can see the sunrise,” said Theodoric thoughtfully, “and the River Alluvia, and I can see the Rufoux fields, and that the Aoten have returned.” His brow turned sullen as he watched Artur break for the Rufoux village.