The Rise of Winter, page 11
“Good, now go back to the chair,” he said.
I did as he asked, and the green glow from the stone faded until the familiar gold etching returned to normal. When I was sitting, Pteron fell from the branch, parachuted himself into the air, and circled the yard.
“Without turning around,” he instructed, “I want you to tell me what object is on the table behind you.”
He swooped past, clutching the black sheet from the table.
“Without turning around?” I asked, looking for some sort of mirror or reflection I could use to see behind me. “How can I do that?”
“Aminoculus,” he said, “the gift of the Sky Guardian of Wisdom.”
“Your ability is to see behind you?” I laughed. “That, um … doesn’t seem very useful.”
“Not only behind,” Pteron said, “all around. Aminoculus will allow you to see without seeing, to use your inner eye to visualize Terra’s energy so that even in the dark, the world is clear. As Lillian told you, this energy runs through everything—the soil, the animals, the trees, the rocks, even the air. It is a river of vitality, connecting us all. That river is made up of tiny particles too small to detect with our eyes. You humans have a name for them. What is it you call them?”
“Atoms?” I suggested.
“Yes, atoms,” Pteron replied with a nod. “I do not claim to be as smart as you humans so I take a simpler approach. I think of them as the particles of life—constantly in motion, constantly energized. Just as you might feel the wind on your skin or the change of temperature, you must teach yourself to feel this energy.”
“And when I can feel the energy I will have this power—Aminoculus?”
“No, that is only the beginning. Many animals can feel Terra’s energy. It is how the birds fly south and the whales navigate thousands of kilometres back to their breeding grounds. It is how a dog barks, minutes before an earthquake. Aminoculus is far greater than that. Aminoculus is the ability to see the energy, to visualize an object around you by the energy it gives off.”
“But how can I see it if I can’t look at it?” I asked. “Shouldn’t I be facing the table?”
Pteron shook his head. “Your eyes are crude instruments for seeing light. To see Terra’s energy, you must use something deeper. Something inactive locked inside us all. Relax, concentrate, close your eyes—see from within.”
I closed my eyes as Pteron had instructed, and concentrated. Only, I had no idea what I was supposed to be concentrating on. “I still don’t understand what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Begin by opening your senses—smell the air, hear the birds, taste the pollen, feel the wind. Return to Terra. Only then will Aminoculus come to you. Only then will you open your mind’s eye. Feel the energy first—then see it.”
I did what Pteron said. I tried to focus on everything around me.
“What do you feel?” Pteron asked.
“I feel the sun on my arms—warm and gentle.”
“Good. Keep going. Tell me about your other senses.”
“I smell the orange trees and the grass, and the garbage by the porch. I hear a swallow overhead, up there.” I pointed to where I’d heard the noise. “And another, returning its call, over there.”
“Good,” Pteron said. “Now, tell me what is sitting on the table behind you.”
I concentrated hard, gripping my hands on my knees and straining the muscles in my forehead, but nothing came. There was only blackness. I didn’t even know where the image was supposed to appear—on the backs of my eyelids? In my head?
“I don’t see anything,” I said. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous, it just takes time. You need to be patient and relax,” Pteron said. “Don’t force it; let it come to you. Let your body melt into your surroundings. Become one with the air and the earth.”
I sighed and tried again. This time, I didn’t tighten my hands on my knees or wrinkle my forehead. I relaxed and tried to let things come to me. I waited—five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes—but nothing came.
“This isn’t working,” I finally said, opening my eyes and standing up. “Who says I can even do this? Maybe all you other animals have some sort of inner eye, but as far as I know, there’s never been a human who can see something with their eyes closed.”
“Ah, but you are wrong. It takes time, but I assure you, it can and has been done—even by humans.”
“It has?” I said. “By who?”
Pteron’s small, thin mouth turned up in a smile. “There have been many people over the course of time. Most lived long ago, in places that no longer exist. Some were called shamans or witch doctors. But there is one in particular that you know well.” He regarded me with a sly look in his eye. “Lillian has perhaps the keenest mind’s eye of any animal.”
“Granny?” I exclaimed. I thought back to all the times I had wondered how Granny could find her way around the house when her eyes had been shut for years. The adeptness of her movements, the knowingness of her step—there was no shuffling around chairs or feeling for things in the cupboards. She just knew. And now, it made sense.
“But if Granny can use her mind’s eye, and she’s a human, that means she was—”
“The Terra Protectorum,” Pteron said.
My heart quickened. I’d just got used to the idea of her being the Land Guardian of Wisdom, and now this!
“But if she was the Terra Protectorum, why isn’t she still?”
Pteron closed his eyes and shook his head. “That answer must come from her,” he said, before reopening his eyes. “Now, let us try again. Sit back down, open your senses, and focus.”
I wanted to press Pteron into telling me more about Granny but at the same time I didn’t want to keep disappointing him. I liked the bat, so I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes.
Initially I continued to think about Granny. What had it been like for her when she was learning the skills? Had she been as lost? As confused by everything that was asked of her?
As my mind gradually settled, I felt my body melting into the chair. Again, I noticed the sun on my skin, the grass beneath my feet, and the wind rushing through the orange trees.
There was a sense of release from my thoughts.
Things began to change.
I can’t really explain how or where I saw it, but something came to me. Not an image—at least, not exactly—but a shadowy static that materialized into a vague outline. I saw the orchard and Pteron; I saw the ground and the chair where I sat. They weren’t solid like normal images, but misty—moving and flowing. I concentrated on the object behind me. The table was there, shifting in and out of focus, and on it was … was … something tall and slender.
I focused harder, trying to bring the image into view, but the more I concentrated, the further it faded. It was like staring at an object in the dark—easier to see when I wasn’t looking directly at it. Even after ten minutes of trying everything I could to relax my mind, I couldn’t figure out what the object was. I grew frustrated and opened my eyes. “I give up,” I groaned. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry, Pteron. Maybe Granny can use her mind’s eye, but I can’t.”
I got up and ran toward the house, briefly glimpsing the object on the table out of the corner of my eye. It was a marble statue that normally stood on Granny’s dresser—a bear standing upright on its hind legs.
Tall and slender, just as the mist had shown me.
Chapter 26
I LAY ON MY BED, FACE IN MY PILLOW. THE DOOR TO MY ROOM opened and closed, and footsteps approached. I looked up to see Granny, her face only a few shades darker than her white nightgown, walking with a hunched back toward the bed.
I shifted over, making room for her to sit, and put my face back in the pillow. The bed moved only slightly beneath her weight, and she sighed long and hard. We sat in silence for a while, the only sound in the room our breathing as Granny ran her fingers through my hair.
Finally, she broke the silence. “Don’t be disheartened,” she said, her voice frail.
“I can’t do it,” I groaned. “I can’t see what Pteron wants me to see. I can’t use my Aminoculus.”
Granny made a soft tut-tutting noise. “It took months before I could see even the grainiest of images with my Aminoculus. It is not an easy skill. Give it time.”
“Months?” I said, looking up at her. “Really? I thought I was starting to see something.”
“I don’t doubt it. From what I’ve heard, you won’t have any trouble learning your abilities. Pteron says your Imperia nearly knocked Arctos over.”
“Nearly?” I grinned. “It did knock him over!”
Granny chuckled. “As I said, the skills will come easily to you. It’s in your blood.”
There was a sudden awkwardness in the room, as if Granny had said something she didn’t mean to.
“Granny,” I said, swallowing, “what exactly did Father do? Cano called him a murderer—is it true?”
Granny’s lips tightened and she took her hand away from my hair, folding it in her lap. If she could see, I would have said she was staring at the wall. I worried the conversation was over, another dead-end talk, when she said, “I should have told you long ago—I just, well, I thought I was protecting you. Now I realize I was only protecting myself. Call it a mother’s pride, but it’s hard to talk about, even now.”
Her face looked sad, and her shoulders slumped further. This obviously wasn’t an easy conversation for her, and she was still recovering her strength, but I needed her to go on. I needed to know the truth.
“Your father wasn’t a bad person,” she said. “Rash, yes, quick-tempered, sometimes, but not a bad person. He was passionate about being a Guardian and loved Terra, but ultimately his passion and love consumed him.”
“What do you mean, ‘consumed him’?”
“Malum, the animals call it,” Granny said. “The great evil. A sickness that cannot be cured. We do not have the same word in our language, but I suppose it is similar to what we call grief. Or at least, the emotion that comes from grief. You see, your father was a powerful Guardian, quick to learn his Imperia, a firm believer in the power of Terra, a lover of all creatures. He wanted to be the Terra Protectorum so he could heal our ailing planet, and he probably would have, if not for a great tragedy.”
“My mother’s death?” I whispered.
Granny nodded.
“She died during childbirth. The pregnancy was … complicated. Your mother’s death was hard on everyone. But for your father, it broke him. Your mother was the kindest, gentlest soul that ever lived, and she tempered your father. She was his calming force, his voice of reason. When she died, so did he. I’m convinced that on that day, your father died right along with your mother, and all that was left … was Malum.”
“What happened after Mother died? What did Father do?”
Granny paled and wrapped her arms around herself. Selfishly, I urged her to continue. “Granny, please, I need to know.”
She sat up a little straighter and I put my hand on her shoulder. “When your mother died,” she said, “your father was consumed by one thought: getting her back. He begged Orcavion to use his power as the Terra Protectorum to resurrect her. He thought the amulet could bring her back, but Orcavion said it could not be done. Your father didn’t believe him. He grew irate. He felt cheated. He was angry with Terra, angry with Orcavion, angry with the world. He hired a fleet of whalers to hunt down Orcavion and take the amulet.”
“It’s true? He killed Orcavion—Cano’s father?”
Granny nodded.
“And then what? The Guardians killed Father?”
Granny shook her head. “It wasn’t their plan, but your father was too consumed by Malum at that point. He travelled to Mount Skire—the Guardians’ most sacred place—and swore to destroy it. He wanted to destroy Terra completely, but Arctos was waiting. He demanded your father return the amulet—that he abandon his Guardianship forever and never return to their midst. Though he would not forgive your father, he would at least offer him an out. But your father refused. He fought with Arctos, and Arctos defeated him.”
Everything in the room began to spin. I felt like I was going to throw up. My whole life, I had fallen asleep to images of a perfect family flitting through my head. I had pictured my parents as gentle and kind. I had imagined them tucking me into bed at night, holding me when I was sick, laughing at my jokes. Never had I imagined either of them even raising their voices. And now, my new reality: My father killed Orcavion. Arctos killing my father. It was one more reason to hate that stupid bear.
Granny put her hand on my knee. “I’m sorry, Winter. I imagine it is as difficult to hear as it is to tell.”
Chapter 27
AFTER DINNER THAT EVENING, I SAT WRITING IN MY JOURNAL, trying to make sense of everything. I had hoped that by putting it on paper it would make the truth easier, perhaps give it some clarity. But it didn’t. The truth was the truth—my father was a murderer.
No wonder Cano and Arctos hated me.
I looked down at the amulet hanging from my neck. It was like a thorn, stinging at my conscience. I took it off and threw it to the floor, where it landed with a heavy thud.
I was done being the Terra Protectorum. How could I continue when I knew the truth? What if Cano and Arctos were right? What if one day I was consumed by Malum and tried to destroy the earth? If being a Guardian was in my blood, then maybe so was being a murderer.
The door to my room creaked open, and I sat up like a shot, scanning the room.
“Hello?”
“Down here,” came a pained voice from beside the bed. I looked over the edge to find Vulpeera, standing on four wobbling legs.
“Vulpeera!” I cried, reaching down and scooping her up.
“Careful,” she winced, “my body is still healing.”
“Sorry.”
I put her down gently beside me on the bed.
“It’s alright. I’m much better than I should be, thanks to your grandmother.”
The gloominess returned. “But no thanks to me. If I hadn’t called out to you in the clearing, Lupora would never have caught you.”
Vulpeera shook her head. “It is not your fault. I should never have been caught. It is a sign of the Weakening.”
“The Weakening?”
“All of our powers are connected to Terra’s energy,” Vulpeera said. “As our Mother grows weaker, so do our gifts. We have all felt it. I have fought with Lupora many times before, but never has she come close to catching me, distractions or not.”
“But the world is weakening because of the humans. Arctos said it himself. So, either way, it’s my fault.”
Vulpeera opened her mouth as if to argue but closed it when it appeared she had no response. Instead we sat in silence until another question came to me.
“In the forest, you called Lupora your sister. Why?”
“Because she is,” Vulpeera replied.
“Your sister? How?”
“The same way as all sisters—our parents are the same.”
“But you’re a fox and she’s a wolf.”
Vulpeera smiled. “There are many types of families. In ours, two mothers: one a fox, the other a wolf. Love is love, no matter the animal. When our mothers met, Lupora and I were young pups, so it was the only family we ever knew.”
“Okay, but if you and Lupora are sisters, why does she hate you so much?”
Vulpeera sighed—a long, drawn-out sigh. “Lupora is angry,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I am a Guardian and she is not, among other things. You see, Lupora was born lame, or as she would say, jinxed by Terra. I never saw it that way. I tried not to draw attention to her paw, but there were things I could do as a cub that she could not. And when I was made a Guardian, Lupora saw this as a further spurn from Terra. She stopped thinking of our parents as being a unit. She started to see them as a fox and a wolf—different. She saw us as different. Why should a fox sit on a throne when a wolf could not? She grew angry. She swore to become more powerful than the Guardians. And in many ways, she has. Though her power comes from a place of anger.”
“It sounds like I’m not the only one with a dark family past.”
Vulpeera nuzzled her nose under my arm. “What happened to your mother and father was a terrible tragedy. It is wrong of Arctos and Cano to judge you based on your father’s actions.”
“But how could they not? My father killed Cano’s father.”
“Yes,” Vulpeera said, “that is true. But you are not your father.”
“But what if I grow up to be? What if one day I’m consumed by Malum? Who can say that won’t happen?”
“You can,” Vulpeera said. “Terra has given you the chance to prove that your bloodline is not full of hate and destruction. Your father did many good things before he was taken by Malum, but creatures tend to remember what happened last. And Lillian was one of the greatest Terra Protectora we have ever known. It is up to you to remind everyone of that. It is up to you to prove that your bloodline should remain.”
I considered this. “So if I succeed, in a way, it would help make up for what happened with my father?”
Vulpeera nodded. “Not just your father, but all humans. There is a shadow hanging over your species that you can help lift. Show the rest of the Guardians that the humans are not a plague—that they care about more than themselves. Show them that they care about Terra.”
I thought back to the miles of land stripped for the roadway. “Sort of a steep task to try and correct all the wrongs of an entire species, isn’t it?”
“A very steep task,” Vulpeera agreed. “But Terra has given you the power to do it. She made you the Terra Protectorum for a reason.”
