Key to the Journey (The Chronicles of Hawthorn, Book 2) Read online

  “She didn’t tell me, it came to me like the way the falcon talks to me—with pictures,” replied Flynn.

  “Oh,” murmured Ash.

  “I’m sorry he hurt you,” said Flynn.

  Ash sat up looked at Flynn with fear in her eyes.

  Flynn put her hand on Ash’s tense wiry forearm. “You did what you had to do to save Kano. My mother would’ve done the same.”

  A whimper escaped from deep in Ash’s chest. “He would have…” she couldn’t finish.

  “You’re both safe now,” replied Flynn, and squeezed Ash’s arm gently.

  “Yes, safe,” Ash smiled and blinked back the tears perched in the corners of her eyes. “Safe, like Kano said.”

  “I have to leave today, but I hope I can come back one day,” said Flynn.

  “The Kowao never stay in one place. We move with the seasons and leave no trace of our passing—but I will find you, Flynn Hawthorn of Moa Bend.” Ash smiled and patted Flynn’s knee. “We don’t have much, but we can fill your waterskin and give you some dried meat for your journey.”

  “Thank you,” said Flynn. “Do you have a kumara? Today is the First Harvest festival back in my village and I thought I might roast one for my dinner and give thanks to the Earth Mother for my friends and family.”

  “There is no first harvest for a people with no village, but I’ll speak to Naoki. She manages the tribes’ food and I’m sure we collected kumara as we came down the coast.” Ash jumped to her feet and jogged toward a lean-to on the far side of the encampment.

  Flynn looked at the patchwork of skins stretched between the various sets of poles—possibly thirty such structures. She recognized sheep, witara, rabbit, hare, and one that sent a shiver through her freshly healed leg—boar. A few of the skins were a mystery to her and she wondered if they might be from the sea.

  Nothing in the camp was permanent. Everything was designed to fold or roll up and be slung over a shoulder. Even the pans were minimal, they did most of their cooking in earth pits or with makeshift spits like the one she had built to burn her dinner a few nights earlier.

  Last night, in the rainstorm, she hadn’t noticed the large size of the camp and how everything blended with the earth. The clothes and belongings of the Kowao were all browns, tans, and pale greens. The only splash of color came from the occasional red or bright blond head of hair. Flynn wondered if she would have noticed their camp if Ash hadn’t led her into it.

  Ash jogged back to the lean-to, kneeled down, and produced a lovely firm kumara. “A gift from Naoki,” she said.

  “Oh that’s a beautiful one. Please thank her for me.” Flynn took the sweet potato and carefully placed it in her satchel.

  “Have a good First Harvest, Flynn,” said Ash.

  “Thank you. What do the Kowao say as a greeting or to show respect?” asked Flynn.

  “May you always find fresh water,” Ash smiled.

  “Yes,” nodded Flynn. “I know exactly how important that can be—life or death,” she whispered.

  “Can you find your way to the Cliffs of Tapu?” asked Ash.

  “I think so, I’ll keep the sun over my left shoulder, right?” said Flynn, with a bit of hesitation.

  “You’ll be fine.” Ash stood and extended a hand to Flynn. She pulled her up and hugged her quickly. “I’ll wake Kano. She’ll be upset if you leave without a farewell.”

  Flynn checked on Oturu and wrapped the gauntlet around the strap of her satchel in preparation for travel.

  Kano sat up slowly and rubbed her eyes. Her red brown hair stuck up like the plumes on the falcon’s hood.

  “Flynn has to leave us today, my little riro. Do you want to say goodbye?” Ash hugged Kano and smoothed her wild hair.

  Kano peeked around her mother and grinned at Flynn. She jumped up and scurried close to her new friend.

  “I’m glad you and your mother are safe, now. Thank you for being my friend, Kano.” Flynn patted the wildlings hair. She had never had a sibling, but she thought a little sister might be all right.

  Kano rubbed her hand on Flynn’s obsidian black hair and smiled. “Flynn,” she said.

  Ash covered her mouth with her hand and her eyes shone bright with happy tears.

  “You and your mother can visit me in Moa Bend, anytime you want, all right?” said Flynn.

  Kano nodded and pointed to the falcon.

  “And you can visit Oturu, too.” Flynn smiled and scooped the bird up to place her on the cadge. She coiled up the leash, slipped it into her satchel, and stepped out into the early morning sun. Once she had her bearings, she waved and walked northward.

  Several of the Kowao stepped out and waved to her.

  She imagined how quickly news must travel within such a tightly knit group.

  As Flynn reached the edge of the encampment Xinju appeared, thumped her chest and bowed her head toward Flynn.

  “Thank you, friend,” said Flynn. “May you always find fresh water,” she added and thought she saw a smile flicker across the wild woman’s face.

  The storm left its traces everywhere; the foliage smelled of damp earth and new life. Tiny rivulets of water trickled down the rocks and bright yellow flowers had popped open overnight. The sunlight streamed through the thinning trees as she reached the western foothills of Ti Kouka, and a bright sparkling caught her eye.

  Flynn smiled when she saw raindrops suspended from a spider’s web shining like jewels. She stopped to admire nature’s beauty and saw a butterfly get trapped in the threads.

  The beautiful blue wings flapped in panic.

  The spider stirred and crept toward the vibration in the web.

  The butterfly stuck fast, hopelessly trapped.

  The spider pulled closer, and its golden abdomen twitched.

  Flynn could not stand it. She reached up and freed the butterfly. She carefully pulled the bits of web from its feet and wings and flattened her palm to let the beauty fly free.

  The butterfly tested its wings and floated into the air. Before it could get an arm’s length from Flynn’s hand, a brightly colored bellbird swooped down and crunched the insect in its beak.

  Flynn gasped. She looked at Oturu for moral support, but the falcon was perched on her shoulder in hooded bliss. For the first time in her life, Flynn felt in her soul that she finally understood the story of the web of destiny. As a child she had always wondered why you couldn’t escape destiny. Why couldn’t someone help you out of the web? Today she saw the truth—first hand. It had been the butterfly’s destiny to die today. Flynn could not change that. Her interference postponed the inevitable for a few moments, but in the end…

  She wondered if her destiny was to save her people or simply die trying? And how many would die with her? She pushed those thoughts away and turned to the hard working spider, “My apologies for taking your meal and ruining your fine work, web spinner.” Regret replaced the warm feeling of saving the butterfly.

  Flynn did not hurry to get to the Cliffs of Tapu. She decided to spend her day collecting items for her personal harvest celebration.

  She reached the Ruins of Manaina by midday and set about digging a small earth oven for her humble hangi; a kumara, a taro root, wild thyme, two small onions, and a few strips of dried meat to add flavor to the tubers.

  She used her fire starter to ignite a large bonfire and collected rocks to heat in the fire to form the bottom layer of her oven. While the rocks heated, Flynn set to work making camp.

  She found a nice dry area beneath one of the large toppled stone carvings for her satchel and cloak. Flynn collected some wood and fashioned a perch for Oturu. She put the glove and hood into her satchel with the leash, and smiled when she thought about how much more they trusted each other. Oturu felt like a friend—a companion.

  Her waterskin hung nearly full, but she knew she needed to locate a nearby water source. The stories of Manaina always spoke of a grand city before the burning ball of sky metal crashed down and destroyed everything, so there mus
t be a spring in the foothills. She sent Oturu an image of water bubbling from the earth while she walked toward the slopes. The falcon flew so high into the sky, Flynn could scarcely see more than a dot in the blue expanse.

  She watched the magnificent bird streak across the horizon with speed and finesse. A loud cry followed by an image of water put Flynn on the run. She jogged in the direction she had seen the bird traveling and crested a sweeping hillside. Her eyes scanned the lush valley and movement caught her eye.

  Oturu flew straight at Flynn and circled back toward the spring.

  She bounded after the bird and found a lovely oasis tucked into the trees. Intricate stone carvings surrounded a series of pools. The first pool stood at the knee of a young girl filling a calabash gourd and Flynn’s fingers found a refreshing coolness in its depths. It bubbled up from the center and she could see where the stone knees of the carved girl had been worn back by the gentle ripples of the pool.

  A carving of a woman reclining caught her eye. The finely detailed earthen hair looked as though it floated on the surface of the water. Flynn dipped her hand in and felt a warm tingling sensation. The thought of an actual bath made her smile.

  She ran back up the hill and used a pair of forked sticks to transfer her hot stones to the bottom of the shallow pit. Once the food had been laid to cook she covered everything with a thick layer of banana leaves and stones.

  Flynn slipped Hazel’s clean tunic from her satchel and walked back to the grotto filled with bird song. She smiled when she noticed a stand of bitter ginger near the pool. She snapped off a large pinecone-shaped head from its stalk, slipped out of her clothes, and into the warm pool. She kept the key, dangling from its chain, around her neck. Once she had found the courage to slip it on she never wanted to take it off.

  The hot, bubbling water pulled the aches from her back and feet. Her body relaxed and she slipped under the surface of the water, her hair floating around her like a bed of kelp. She popped up and grabbed the bitter ginger head, squeezing the slippery viscous juice from the flower. The smell filled the humid grotto and made her scalp tingle when she rubbed it vigorously through her filthy hair.

  Time evaporated as Flynn floated in the soothing spring.

  The sky shifted to a warm orange as the birds ceased their songs and she decided to dress and enjoy her feast. The dripping water from her hair drove her to distraction, so she quickly plaited it to keep it out of her way. She carefully washed her own tunic and walked back to her camp.

  Oturu flew on ahead.

  She placed her hand on Hazel’s tunic, now hers, and reached out with her mind to her friend.

  Nothing.

  She had already reached out to Hazel or Pounamu at least three times before with no success. She couldn’t feel anything except an invisible wall cutting her off from the rest of her world—no word coming to her and no way to astral travel.

  The smell of roasted kumara hit her as soon as she crested the hill. She ran the rest of the way back to her camp and laid her wet tunic over a rock before she set about uncovering her dinner.

  She sat next to Oturu’s perch, and shared bits of meat, kumara, and taro with the quaint bird.

  Oturu showed her gratitude with head bobs and little chortles.

  The great orange-pink sun floated into the mist and set on Flynn’s first First Harvest as a witch.

  Several days of exploring and gathering supplies had passed, and Flynn and Oturu were getting into a rhythm. Each morning they’d awaken with the sun and Oturu would fly the perimeter—twice, to make sure they were safe from roaming packs of wild boar. Flynn would busy herself with cooking a bit of food and by the time Oturu returned from her rounds there would be some cooked meat and a few fire cakes to share.

  After their meager meal, Oturu would take to the air to watch for danger while Flynn settled into her magickal practice. She learned to accept that she had no skill with simple spells or lengthy karakia; instead she would slip into a quiet space in her own mind and see what she desired.

  Her biggest obstacle was her lack of focus.

  She could see a rock floating in her mind’s eye and a corresponding rock would float in her physical world, but unexpectedly a thought of Hazel would pop in and break her concentration. She ended up with more than one rock smacking her in the face or landing on her toe.

  Oturu had insisted that Flynn work with feathers and leaves, and created a small pile of the safer objects when Flynn ignored her pleas.

  Today Flynn felt especially calm and the cool breeze from the sea helped quiet her mind. She leaned her back against the toppled stone carving and held her boline knife in her right hand. With her eyes softly closed she thought back to that day in the Herb Hut, when she had vanished. This time she focused on her love of her friends and family and thought about how much she wanted to save them all from the shadow.

  She knew that Magdelana wanted the Wand of Temarama and Flynn wanted to make it disappear. She thought about her boline and thought of putting it out of sight, beyond the reach of Magdelana—beyond sight.

  Flynn slowly opened her eyes and for a brief moment she saw her empty hand. As soon as her heart thudded and her mind raced with possibilities the boline reappeared. But for a moment—

  “I did it! Oturu, did you see—I mean, not see?” She called to the bird with her mind and Oturu dove from a great height toward Flynn, landing on the edge of the broken stone carving.

  “All right, I’m going to try to do this again and I want a witness. Watch this,” she showed Oturu the boline, “and when it disappears, tell me. Got it?”

  The falcon blinked her bright eyes and waited.

  Flynn settled into her breathing and repeated the visualization from earlier. When she reached the part where she placed the boline beyond Magdelana’s sight—

  Oturu screeched with pride and took to the air. She circled twice, dove toward Flynn, and circled once more before landing back on the rock.

  “It worked?” asked Flynn.

  The falcon sent the image of the boline in Flynn’s hand and then the boline vanishing.

  “It worked!” Flynn jumped up and looked around. “I have to try this with other things, maybe this stone carving, or a—”

  An image of Oturu popped into her head.

  “Are you sure? What if it’s not safe?”

  Oturu simply sent her the image again and waited.

  “All right, I’ll try.” It took her several deep breaths to calm her nerves, but eventually she closed off her fear and followed her breath. She thought of her love for Oturu and their growing bond. She wanted to protect the falcon and remove it from Magdelana’s sight. She slowly opened her eyes. Oturu was gone.

  A loud screech over her right shoulder confirmed that the falcon still perched on the large stone, but Flynn saw no visual trace. “Let’s try something more,” said Flynn, as the bird flickered back into view. She sent Oturu an image of flight.

  Several short chortles confirmed the bird’s willingness.

  Flynn fell into her calm breathing more quickly and placed the bird out of sight. She opened her eyes and saw nothing, but she felt the whoosh of air as Oturu’s powerful wings propelled her into the sky.

  The cries of the falcon grew more distant and Flynn felt a tugging sensation in her chest. She struggled to hang on to the image of putting the bird out of sight, but as the space between them increased the pain in her chest became unbearable. She released the image and felt a snapping jolt inside her like a bent tree branch whipping back.

  She collapsed and reached for her waterskin. Today she would not have the strength to forage for roots, berries, green shoots, or check the snares for small game. Flynn always had to be first on the scene, because of the majestic falcon’s hemophobia, so the snares would wait another day.

  The falcon came swooping back and landed near Flynn, blinking her yellow-lidded eyes and waiting for information. Their communication had improved tremendously and their system of sending pictures an
d sensations back and forth got more efficient each day.

  “I’m all right. I guess we pushed the limits of my power today—it hurt,” said Flynn.

  Oturu bobbed her head up and down.

  “Did it hurt you, too?” asked Flynn.

  Again, the falcon bobbed her head.

  “So, I’m connected to the object somehow…” she mumbled, more to herself than the bird. “I’m going to have to rest, all right? No foraging today.”

  Oturu flapped her wings once and moved to the makeshift perch near Flynn.

  As Flynn rested and sipped water she came up with a symbol for the falcon’s name, a full moon with a waxing crescent moon on one side and a waning crescent on the opposite. Flynn carved the symbol into Oturu’s hood and into her falconer’s glove with the tip of her belt knife. It wasn’t as fancy as the elaborate bonding symbols of the Vignan Falconers, but its rustic charm held a special meaning for her and her bird, and it marked the first time they had joined together—magickally. It surprised her to see how much she had learned watching Po with his endless whittling and carving.

  As they ate their evening meal, shoulder to wing, they watched the sun sink into the mist. Oturu dozed while Flynn sat and stared into the fire, breathing in the cool ocean breeze.

  Flynn reached out with her mind and searched for Hazel, Pounamu, or even Kahu. She saw only thin vaporous images that held no meaning, but as she tugged her cloak tight for warmth an image slammed into sharp three-dimensional detail.

  Flynn searched for clues—familiar belongings or a room she might recognize.

  High above her a great black-winged beast circled.

  Nothing in this place felt familiar.

  The room smelled of polished wood and lamp oil. The floor rocked beneath her feet.

  Dunedin circled again—and waited.

  She heard voices, possibly men, but speaking a language she did not understand. The sounds grew louder and her instinct to hide took over. She ducked behind a large wooden cask. The floor curved up to meet the wall and she tucked herself into the hollow.

  “Best thing fer ya is ta get a bit o’ rest, Cap’n.”