17-4
Syffox woke to an itchy arm and another rainy morning. He scratched the fresh skin of his newly healed forearm. His nails left red streaks on the comically white limb. He absentmindedly looked out the window. It looked no brighter than predawn, but Syffox assumed it was midmorning. With the light hidden above the clouds and rain, and then further hidden above the canopy of trees, Syffox found the gloom did not help his sinking mood.
It had been raining for four days straight, and the cool dampness was getting to him. He thought he would have liked so much rain after the arid, blistering, desert. He chuckled drily. Perhaps he was turning into a desert nomad after so many months on the camel. Or perhaps he missed his Goddess.
He could always sense when she was about in the forest, but she had not yet returned since leaving for Hydar’s paradise. Perhaps she needed to talk to other gods as well, or perhaps… many things. His Goddess being absent without a word was not unusual for her. Still though, he would feel better if he had heard from her, or at least seen more of the sun and less of the rain. The forest needed the warm rays of Coronus as well as the rains from Hydar. He hoped Vantaiga remembered that.
A distant thunderclap rolled over the forest and through the room. As it echoed off into the distance, Syffox thought he heard moans of pleasure in the sound. A chill slid down his spine and settled into an uneasy ball in his stomach. He was thinking too much. He needed to go for a walk.
Syffox found Mackyntal in his bowyer workshop. He also found the source of his itchy arm. Mackyntal was putting on the finishing touches of his new quiver, embossing a thorn design along the patch of leather made from his forearm. On the wall behind Mackyntal hung ten similar quivers. Each had a unique design printed on them, and each was filled with a unique set of arrows.
The shop was a large, single room of three walls made from the merged trunks of trees woven together as they grew. The floor was made of branches that had been teased out to span the shop when they were young. The roof overhead kept out the rain with a dense mass of branches and leaves. As one of the oldest buildings of the village, the living walls and floor had grown very thick. Clay and plaster were spread across the floor to smooth over the uneven growth of fused branches.
Stepping inside the living structure, Syffox felt himself be engulfed by the life and vibrancy of the tree. It made him feel grandiose and eternal, but it disturbed his concentration. His mood was as gloomy as the wet forest, and he did not appreciate the tree imposing its nature on him. He stopped at a small, green-leafed, sprig that had grown up through the floor’s plaster. Syffox bent and plucked it.
Without looking up from his work, Mackyntal addressed the mage, “In all the years of living in Vantaiga’s old house, I never had to prune a single shoot from the floors or walls. Nor have I ever had to pick up baskets full of falling leaves in the morning.”
“You make it sound like you’d rather live in the desert.”
Mackyntal laughed. “Of course not. Your living tree houses are a truly fantastic creation. I just wonder sometimes if they’re not ‘too fantastic.’”
“They are my gift to you and the rest of the forest people. I didn’t grow up in them and find they can be too much at times.” He broke into a laugh. “And Vantaiga would rather bury herself in rock than live in the trees.”
“Our Goddess does like to seclude herself sometimes.” A pained looked briefly crossed Syffox’s face. Mackyntal abruptly stopped his etching. “But good afternoon, Master.”
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Syffox looked outside the shop. “I didn’t realise it was so late. It has been a while since I’ve been in the forest during the rain.”
Mackyntal slapped his neck to kill a small flying insect trying to bite him. He crushed the bug and flicked it to the ground. “These damn things come out when it’s wet, but it still beats getting cooked under the sun.”
“I guess it does. I see you’re finishing the new quiver. Can I try it?”
Mackyntal sat up and stretched his back. “Certainly, my lord.” He tossed the small press he was holding into the quiver.
Syffox raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
Mackyntal only smiled back and gestured to the quiver. Syffox turned up the hand of his skinned arm and the small tool materialised between his fingers. He gave the tool back to Mackyntal. “Works perfectly. Thank you, Mac.”
The old apprentice bowed to his master. “It’s always a pleasure, my lord.” He looked over the quivers lined on the wall. “It’s too bad you have no children to inherit these. It would be a shame to see them used as ordinary quivers.”
Syffox replied with a sly smile. “Well, I don’t plan on dying anytime soon. There may still be children yet.”
Mackyntal glanced at the sky. “Gods can’t have children. You are treading in dangerous territory, Master.”
Sadness crossed Syffox’s face. “Things change. All territory seems dangerous these days.” The two stood in an awkward silence for a moment before Syffox looked to the rain outside and the gloom of the woods. “At least the forest is being taken care of.”
“Yes, it appears Vantaiga’s visit to Hydar went well. We should start giving thanks and make more shrines to Hydar for all this rain.”
There was another awkward silence while Syffox struggled to keep a pained look from crossing his face. He forced a smile and looked back to Mackyntal. “It was good to spend time with you again, my oldest friend, but I think I need to take a walk.”
“Oh!” Mackyntal sat up in surprise. “May I join you?”
Another rolling thunderclap rumbled above the trees. Gasps of ecstasy rolled in the back of Syffox’s mind along with it. This time he couldn’t hide the pain on his face. “No, thank you. I need to leave the forest. There’s too much rain here.” His voice trailed off. “And not enough Goddess.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. But I think I need to follow new paths for a while. The world has changed since I last wandered about. I shall see what has become of it.”
An object caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. It was a tall, unpolished recurved bow. He picked it up and studied it for a moment. He drew his fingers along the different layers of sinew, wood, and horn, then tested the stiffness of its limbs. “You make fine bows for the villagers.”
Mackyntal beamed. “Thank you, Master.”
“But I think it’s time you made your own bow.”
Mackyntal’s face grew serious. “Thank you, Master.”
Syffox unwrapped his bow and presented it to Mackyntal to closely inspect. “Have a look at the layers.”
Mackyntal looked closely at the bow, drawing a finger along the smooth, polished edge gently as to not provoke it. There were four distinct layers of different coloured material. “I always knew you had an extra layer in your bow, between the antler and wood. What is it?”
Syffox withdrew his bow and wrapped it back up. “It is bone.”
Mackyntal’s eyes grew wide. “What bone, my lord?”
Syffox slung his wrapped bow around his shoulder and walked across the shop to retrieve an axe. He walked back to Mackyntal and swung the axe into the floor next to his leg. “We always take on an apprentice for a reason.” He gave the old priest a grim look. “We can’t do everything ourselves.”
Mackyntal nodded slowly. “Of course, my lord.” He looked at his ancient master fondly. “Do I have much more to learn, Master?”
Syffox returned his fond smile. “No. That is the last lesson.”
“Thank you, my lord. Can I at least walk with you to the edge of the forest?”
Another clap of enraptured thunder echoed into the pit of Syffox’s stomach. “I’m sorry, Mackyntal, another time. I have to go.” And with his final word, the air about Syffox swirled inward, and he disappeared with a low thud that blended into the rolling thunder.
Syffox’s sudden departure left Mackyntal in deep loneliness. He stared into the empty space left by Syffox’s absence with a yearning to say goodbye. A few last things he wanted to say came to him. They echoed around his head until they to faded into the empty space. He shifted his focus to the forest and sounds of rain outside. A rumbling thunderclap shook overhead and offered some comfort.
He pried the axe from the floor and placed it against his workbench. He then picked up his embossing tool and, with a sigh, tossed it into the quiver. After a moment, his shoulders dropped, and he sadly dumped it out.
Things change.
