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

  “How’d you get Hazel’s clothes?” Po genuinely wanted to know.

  “Boys!” huffed Flynn. “I’d think you’d be more interested in this.”

  “What’s ‘this’?” he asked.

  “This is a mighty hunting falcon from Vigna Narrows.” Flynn leaned her leather-clad arm toward Po and grinned smugly. “I’ve been getting her used to me all summer—I could go down to the mew they built her in the moa nursery and visit her whenever I wanted—since I had so much time to myself,” she added with a hint of resentment.

  Po seemed to ignore the tone and replied, “Can you make it hunt?”

  The majestic falcon shook its head back and forth, gave a short cry, and turned toward Flynn.

  “No time for hunting, I think that means it’s time to go,” joked Flynn.

  “So, you think that thing can find Hazel in the forest?” asked Po.

  “Of course, that’s why I brought some of Hazel’s clothes. So she can get the scent,” answered Flynn, excitedly.

  “I don’t think that’s how falcons work,” said Po.

  “How would you know? Are you suddenly a Vignan falconer?” sniped Flynn.

  “Girls,” mumbled Po.

  They walked out of the village in silence.

  Po worried he might say the wrong thing.

  Flynn worried she might never see Hazel again.

  Hazel’s leg still ached from the place where the belt dug into her skin during the night. The makeshift harness served its purpose and kept her from plunging to her death, but she had twisted dangerously during her short, fitful sleep and the circulation had been pinched-to-choking under the pressure of that leather strap.

  She climbed down the powdery birch bark with near silence. Her ears were eagerly trained to alert her to the slightest sound—the whisper of a mouse scurrying through the leaves on the ground could not have escaped her notice. Strangely all of the eerie howls and snarls of the night had vanished and only the rush of a gentle breeze reached her ears.

  Hazel rubbed her right leg vigorously to push through the stabbing pins-and-needles phase and into the ready-to-run phase. She fastened her belt around her waist, slipped on her sandals, and took one achingly small sip from her slim waterskin. Time to get moving.

  But, which way?

  She stared up through the dancing silver-green leaves, but the sun would not reveal its position. Dappled light filtered playfully though the canopy and without warning, Hazel’s father walked over to offer her a slice of bread.

  “My father isn’t here. I know my father isn’t here,” she sternly spoke aloud. “And he can’t walk without his cane,” she added sadly. Her response seemed to displease the forest and shadows once more encroached, sending a shiver through her heart.

  She reached into her satchel and retrieved half of her last strip of dried mango from an inner pouch. She took a deep breath and thought about the day when she had harvested this mango with her mother. She took another deep breath and nibbled at the meager remnant.

  She remembered how she had cut her thumb peeling one of the mangos, after her hands got slick with the sweet aromatic juice. A smile touched her lips as she pictured her mother making a huge fuss about the injury and insisting Hazel sit down until the bleeding stopped. Another deep breath. Another nibble.

  In this slow measured way, Hazel made a meal of memories and forgot about the aching pain in her empty stomach.

  She searched the trunks of the nearby trees, like her father had taught her before his accident, to see if she could find any trace of moss growing heavier on one side. She hoped that information would help her decipher the position of the sun, but in the magickal forest of eternal summer direct sunlight did not penetrate the leafy dome. Moss grew wherever it willed. The uncooperative forest dashed her last hope.

  She stood up to stretch her legs and saw her pet rabbit, Boing, from her fifth spring. She bent down impulsively to stroke the rabbit’s soft brown fur. For a moment she felt the silky pelt, but she shook her head to dislodge the vision and looked down to see a fistful of leaves and twigs between her fingers.

  No tears. Tears won’t solve this problem.

  Hazel stood and walked purposefully in a direction—one as good as the next. She picked a strangely curved tree, a hundred paces ahead, and walked straight toward it. When she reached that tree, she sighted along the right side of the trunk to another unique birch about a hundred paces farther along.

  She continued her trek, moving through the forest in little chunks, begging the Goddess to keep her going in a straight line to somewhere.

  The light in the wood grew fainter and Hazel worried that night might come more suddenly in an enchanted realm than in Moa Bend. She stopped to take a tiny sip of water and toyed with the idea of a bite of bread.

  Before she could come to a decision, she heard footsteps behind her. She spun around, her heart racing—her legs ready to run. “Father?”

  Her father smiled patiently and walked toward Hazel.

  This is a dream—a forest fantasy. She turned her head to pull her eyes away from the specter, but she couldn’t release the comfort of a familiar face.

  Her father continued to smile. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of dried mango dipped in sugar beet syrup. “Have a sweet, my bright star.”

  She hadn’t heard her father speak in full sentences since before his inadvertent poisoning in the Mountains of Tarakina. Hazel choked back a sob and ran into his arms.

  A bone-splintering crunch filled the air as she collided with a thick birch tree. Hazel crumpled to the ground.

  She awakened to a throbbing head and the silver blackness of the dense grove.

  Night.

  That single thought filled her body with fear. She still had no idea what type of creatures had made the terrifying sounds of last night, but she did not want to lie here in the moist decaying earth and find out.

  The dizziness counter-acted the panic and Hazel had a moment of clarity. Use your magick, fool!

  Hazel extended her hand toward the ground and spoke the word to float upward, “Tere.”

  A flash of blue light and a crack louder than thunder blasted her backward.

  Hazel did not float up into the air.

  She had only succeeded in learning that the enchanted wood could swallow her magic like the mist around her island swallowed people—and now she had alerted every lurking creature to her presence.

  A ragged breath escaped, before she choked back her lament. Haste became the instant priority. She glanced around for a thick trunk, threw her sandals into her bag, threaded the belt through her hands and around—climb, fast!

  Dread made her tired body strong. She reached the branches, climbed up several more limbs and fastened one leg to her perch—the left leg tonight.

  Sleep did not come. The rustling of something prowling in the underbrush kept her spine tingling and her blood racing.

  Hazel did not know how much longer she could hold out against the visions, the starvation, and those faceless beasts.

  Flynn, please find me.

  Her eyes burned, but she had no moisture left for tears.

  The sweltering heat of Dreamwood Forest could be felt before the tops of the trees came into sight. The damp sultriness oozed out like a layer of grease on the surface of water. Po slipped off his shirt, tied it around his waist, and scraped his hair up into a top knot secured with a strip of leather.

  Flynn stared at Po’s bare chest. She thought back to the scrawny boy who had crashed into Hazel with an armful of wands on the first day of Level One sessions and had to admit he had filled out over the summer.

  Po seemed to sense her eyes on him and self-consciously turned his scarred cheek away while he finished tying up his hair. “What about you, eh?”

  “I’m not taking my tunic off,” she blurted, indignantly.

  He doubled over with laughter and placed his hand on his knee to catch his breath. “Easy, Flynn. I meant your hair. Do you want
me to tie it up? You’ll roast in that forest with that extra layer of fur laying on your back.”

  “Oh, my hair—sure, thanks,” she mumbled.

  Po grabbed another strip of leather from his satchel and expertly twisted Flynn’s hair into a snug top knot.

  “It’s a little tight,” she murmured.

  “Sorry, my ma likes ‘em snug.” He made a quick adjustment and secured her hair. “How’s that?”

  “Great. You’ll have to teach me, I’m hopeless when it comes to this mess,” she pointed to her ebony mane.

  He chuckled and reached for his moa’s lead.

  “You’ll have to leave him here,” said Flynn. “The moa won’t go into the forest.”

  “What?” chuckled Po. “Tiny isn’t the sharpest chisel on the bench, eh? He’ll follow me into a volcano if I lead him.”

  “That’s horrible!” Flynn’s animal protection instincts kicked in. “Why on all of Aotearoa would you want to lead a moa into a volcano?” She locked one hand firmly on her hip and waited for his explanation.

  “I wouldn’t, would I? I mean there aren’t any volcanoes—just making a point.” Po shook his head in exasperation.

  Flynn shook her head for a minute and finally whispered, “I’ve heard stories of a huge magickally-fueled volcano that protects the south island. Do you think it’s true?”

  “Which part? The volcano or that Tiny would follow me into one?”

  Flynn shook her head and supported her left, falcon-bearing, arm with her right hand. “You’ll have to manage all that, I’ve got to carry the bird.”

  “Too bad she doesn’t have wings, eh?” teased Po. “Save you a lot of trouble if she could fly.” He laughed to himself and untied the bundle of kindling.

  “She’s not trained!” He had insulted Flynn’s intelligence and she did not like being part of Po’s joke. “I’m sure Pounamu will know what to do, you’ll see.”

  Po slung the satchel of food across his chest and hung a couple waterskins off each shoulder. He patted his moa on the neck and gave Tiny the signal to roam. “Look, I’m leaving the kindling, it’s too much. Besides it hotter than the sun in there,” he gestured to the forest. “Why would we need a fire?”

  “To cook?” replied Flynn, sarcastically.

  “Cook? In this heat? If we catch anything we’ll eat it raw,” teased Po.

  Flynn felt the falcon’s talons go limp on her arm. She watched as the bird teetered from side to side, and barely had time to clutch the creature to her body to keep it from crashing to the ground. “Are you all right?”

  The large bird squirmed and Flynn eased her back onto the leather glove. When her bare hand touched the warm feathered body, an image of tearing flesh and spurting blood sparked through Flynn’s mind, and her stomach swirled with nausea. She pushed the picture out of her head and quickly checked to make sure the bird’s red leather anklets were snug. Once she threaded the thin boar skin leash back through her palm, she felt the falcon’s talons dig into the hide glove. She hoped the bird wasn’t sick.

  They approached the edge of the wood and Flynn saw the now familiar flicker of faeries swarming from the dark green depths. She thought of warning Po, but decided he would be easier to handle once he went faery foolish.

  “My ma’s looking for the chisel I borrowed last week. I’ll see you later, Flynn.” He strode off toward Dreamwood Forest without a care in his mesmerized mind.

  Relying on her inexplicable ability to speak Meshwing, the common tongue of the Fae, Flynn addressed the red faery she had met on her previous travels. “Zip, my esteemed acquaintance, will you do me the honor of guiding me to the witch of the wood?”

  Zip buzzed and whirred around Flynn’s head and came to hover right next to the falcon. “What’s this nonsense, flesh bag?”

  “This is my falcon. I brought her to help find Hazel,” replied Flynn.

  Zip plummeted toward the ground, fluttered his wings at the last second, and zoomed up next to Flynn’s right ear. “So now you take winged creatures prisoner? There may be a home for you in Atahu Forest after all.”

  “She’s not my prisoner. We’re a team.” Flynn shook her head indignantly, “And what’s Atahu Forest?”

  “What do you think this place is called, foolish infant?” retorted Zip.

  “This is Dreamwood Forest and I’m a guest of the witch of the wood, Pounamu.”

  “Ha!” Zip flew to the treetops and swirled to the earth slowly, chuckling all the way down, like a demented samara seed from an ash tree. “This wood is filled with more than dreams, Earth daughter, and your precious witch is more than she seems, as well.”

  Flynn wouldn’t tolerate disparaging comments about Pounamu. Her patience with Zip and his antics wore thin. “Take me to Pounamu, at once, or I’ll remove the hood from this mighty hunter and she’ll pluck you from the sky!”

  The falcon’s grip on her arm slackened and for a split second Flynn felt a fear that did not belong to her. Is it coming from the bird? She pushed the strange sensation aside and glared at Zip.

  “I am yours to command, young Priestess” Zip whizzed ahead and called back to Flynn, “Hurry, snarling-one, your idiot sidekick is deep in the underbrush.”

  Why did he call me ‘young Priestess’? Flynn shook her head and hurried as fast as a slight girl hoisting a bird of prey on one arm could. The oppressive heat and unnatural darkness of the forest pressed in on her. She had never noticed how the wood absorbed light. It was not yet midday and a bright summer sun illumined the sky outside, but under the canopy of Dreamwood everything hung cloaked in dim mystery.

  They caught up to the grinning, stupefied Po and redirected him toward Pounamu’s cottage. When they burst through the dense thicket, the witch of the wood stood on her warped front step with an expectant gaze in her emerald green eyes.

  The small cottage maintained its autonomy from the forest with great effort. Vines and creeping tendrils encroached on all sides and the wattle and daub of the cabin held itself together more by will than logic. The thick wooden shutters were locked from the inside and their fresh coat of red ochre paint jumped out in stark contrast to the dilapidated walls.

  Pounamu waved her thanks to the faeries and opened her sturdy front door.

  Zip dove down and yanked a single hair from Flynn’s head before zooming away into the wood.

  “Ouch!” she rubbed her head with her free hand.

  “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s a collector and that,” she gestured to the hair pulling, “means he’s taken a liking to you. He will probably weave himself a little pillow from that strand, my darling.” Pounamu chuckled and waved them into the cottage.

  The smell of fresh-baked bread filled Flynn’s nostrils as soon as she entered the cabin, but she could not be deterred so easily. “Why were you waiting for us? Did you know we were coming? Do you know where Hazel is? Will the Fae—”

  “It would appear that we have much to discuss.” Pounamu scooted a chair toward Flynn, “Put that beautiful creature down here, and let me get you all some water.”

  Flynn settled the falcon on the makeshift perch and had turned to continue interrogating Pounamu when she felt an insistent tugging on her tunic. She turned to see that Po had come out of his faery trance and his eyes now darted toward the door.

  He stood uncomfortably close to Flynn and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Does she actually eat children? I mean, is it worse out there or in here? I’d like to know, I might run, eh?”

  Before Flynn could formulate even one answer, their hostess intervened.

  “Are you going to introduce me to your new friend?” asked Pounamu.

  “Oh, of course.” Flynn pointed toward the boy, “This is Po Rehua. His mother is Paitangi, Mistress of Carving.”

  He dropped to one knee and touched the thumb of his closed fist to his forehead, “An honor, Mistress—”

  “Call me Pounamu, my darling, and please rise. We do not stand on ceremony in this lonely cabin, nor do we eat g
ood little boys and girls,” she chuckled.

  Clearly shocked that the aged witch had heard his muffled question, Po stammered his reply, “Yes, Mis—Pounamu.” He arose and moved to stand with his back against the door.

  The witch of the wood turned her attention to Flynn. “Now, what is all this fuss about Hazel?”

  Po forgot his manners and blurted out the answer. “Hazel rode to Dreamwood Forest to ask for your help.”

  Pounamu took a slow deep breath and shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid she never arrived at my cottage, my darlings. If she is lost in Dreamwood Forest, Goddess protect her.”

  “But can’t you get the faeries to help us?” Without waiting for a reply, Flynn added, “And I brought the falcon to help us search for her, too.”

  “Even the finest Vignan falcons, in the hands of master falconers, will not enter the bounds of this forsaken wood.” Pounamu tilted her head and studied the bird perched on her kitchen chair. “I’m surprised this one didn’t claw your eyes out in an attempt to escape. Curious. Curious, indeed.”

  Flynn collapsed in a heap on the floor. “We have to do something, Pounamu. Hazel’s out there and she’s lost, and I’m the only one who wants to find her.” She dropped her head in her hands and her shoulders twitched with silent sobs.

  “Nonsense, my darling. We all want to find our precious Hazel, but it’s getting late and you know we cannot mount a search at night.” Pounamu stroked the top of Flynn’s head soothingly. “Po, fetch that silver platter and place it on the floor in front of the hearth.”

  Po followed instructions and returned to his post at the door.

  Pounamu knelt over the platter, stopped, and rose back to her feet. She went to the window and opened the shutter a small crack. “You may come in, Zip.”

  The red faery flashed into the room and went straight for the loaf of fresh bread, cooling on the table. He sat down beside it and broke off tiny pieces, which he popped into his mouth with great gusto.

  Flynn exchanged a confused glance with Po. “I thought faeries hated cooked food and human comforts?”