The Wood Wife Terri Windling (best novels to read to improve english txt) đ
- Author: Terri Windling
Book online «The Wood Wife Terri Windling (best novels to read to improve english txt) đ». Author Terri Windling
âTell me about this buck,â she said to TomĂĄs. His silence made her nervous. âHow long has it been coming around here?â
âThereâs been a white stag in these hills,â he said, âfor nearly fifty years, according to Cooper.â
âBut not the same one,â said Maggie. âThat would be impossible.â
TomĂĄsâs lips quirked in a smile. âBlack Maggie, youâre still talking about what is possible and impossible, even now?â
She shivered. âWhy did you call me that?â
âThatâs what the stones and the wind call you.â
âYouâve heard the stones and the wind speak my name? Are you one of them too? Like Crow and the others?â
He laughed; he seemed to find this hilarious. âNo,â he said finally, âIâm just a man. And Iâm partial to this old shape I wear.â
She refused to let herself feel embarrassed. It had been a reasonable question. She asked him another. âWhat about this stag, then? Heâs fifty years old, he sheds turquoise stones where he walks. Heâs surely of their world, not ours.â
âTheir world is our world,â TomĂĄs told her. âTheyâre born of this earth, and so are we.â
âThe stag,â she persisted, âis it a shape-shifter like Crow? Or maybe a mage?â she added, trying out the word.
He laughed again. She wasnât quite sure why TomĂĄs found her so amusing. âYouâre like Fox. You want some Big Wise Man to come along and give you all the answers. What makes you think that I know more than you? Or that my answers will be the same as yours? You tell me, what do you know about this stag, Black Maggie?â
She considered the question. âI know that thereâs a stag man in the hills. Anna called him the Nightmage, the âguardian of the eastââwhich I assume is here in the Rincons. You have a drawing of the creature. Juan has made a sculpture of him, and that sculpture feels ⊠true to me. There must be a painting of him as well, but no one knows where that is now⊠No wait, I think I do know where it is. In her journal, Anna called the stag man her muse. And she once sent a painting that she said was of her muse to a woman named Maisie Tippetts, in New York. It was the last painting she ever painted, and she told Maisie not to let it ever come back to the mountains again.â
TomĂĄs was staring at her, his eyes intent. âYou see, you do know more than I do. Even Cooper didnât know where that painting was. Cooper died still wondering.â
âIs it important?â
âYes,â TomĂĄs said simply. He did not offer to tell her why. He looked at Maggie sternly, or perhaps his fierce brown face made it seem that way. âIf you make a gift of that information again, make sure it is to someone you trust.â
She nodded. âLike I did this time,â she said.
He gave her that wonderful smile of his. He stood. Then he turned to her suddenly. âYouâve given me a gift of information. I should give you a gift as well, and so Iâll tell you that itâs not just the painting of the Nightmage that is missing. Itâs the mage himself, the guardian of this place. The stones, the fire, the waterâIâve heard them calling him. And no one answers.â
âHow long has he been missing?â Maggie asked.
âI donât know,â said TomĂĄs as he started up the trail. âItâs difficult to tell. Time works differently for themâand for us, when weâre around them.â
As she followed behind him, climbing up the steep path that led to the next rocky ridge, she said, âMay I ask you one more question?â He did not answer yes or no, so Maggie pressed on. âHave you told me this because it is dammas to give something back again?â
âDammas? What is that?â the older man said, pronouncing it correctly.
âBeauty, motion, that-which-moves.â
âAh. Thatâs what my Dineh relatives would call hohzo: walking in beauty. That is how a man should live his life. If he doesnât, he sickens and dies.â He reached down, offering his hand to pull her up over the lip of the ridge. âDammas,â he mused, pondering the word as they continued down the trail together.
At the foot of the next ridge, the path grew narrower and TomĂĄs took the lead once more. The trail was even steeper here, and they needed both hands and feet to climb. She moved warily over the rock, avoiding cactus spines, loose stones, the shadows where snakes or scorpions might hide. TomĂĄs soon outdistanced her, although even he was working at the climb. The sun was fierce. Maggie stopped once again and gulped down more spring water.
She was breathing hard by the time she reached the edge of the ridge above her. Here the land leveled out into a broad saddle that was filled with tall old saguaro and boulders twice her height. TomĂĄs was somewhere far ahead; Maggie couldnât see him on the trail. She continued on, feeling light-headed up here. The sky was close, and very blue. The rocks were golden, capturing the light, and she could almost hear them speaking to her, a low sound, a sigh, a murmuring. She began to understand what TomĂĄs meant; there were words in the rocks underfoot and the wind overheadâwhere had she heard them before? She had a half-memory of a dream sheâd dreamt last night, and then that memory was gone. But the words remained. They were poetry, filling her like the thin mountain air she gulped down, trying to catch her breath.
Overhead, a bird called raucously. It was huge and black, circling the cliffs. It
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