This was the stone that marked out the bend where the path branched and led off to the summer camp. Each year the clan were careful to burn the best of the hunt before the rock and a tiny ledge had been carved out on which the sacrificial bones would be placed.
A Leszy lived there and would look over the clan as they made their way past. If only your magic could have helped us against the woyaks. Iwa shuddered, since when had she dared to think such sacrilege against the Leszy. One of the other Leszy must have crept up and whispered such thoughts in my ear, she tapped her shoulder and made the ritual sign of forgiveness.
Now was not the time to turn against the woodland spirits. I’ll be sure to come back and leave you a proper offering in atonement, her fingers skirted the side of the rock and she hoped that the Leszy heard her prayer and would understand. And once we have driven the Poles from the forest we will come and light a great fire at your feet and sing the sacrificial hymns.
Yet, as she passed, she could not help a cold feeling. This should have been such a familiar place, a happy time on the road to the summer camp. But now she glanced to the shadows, cold and alien about her and had to run past before her thoughts of sacrilege returned.What use were the Leszy if they stood by and let Krol Gawel rule the camp? Did the spirits really care so little? We should be as one, she remembered the words of the wise ones. The Leszy are as much a part of the forest as we are, linked and bound by the roots and leaves for all eternity. So why have they forsaken us now?
The boulder lay just a little way away from the track, surrounded by a small copse of aspen trees. She should have carried on the path but she couldn’t help but veer off. With hardly a sound to mark her passing, she padded over, glad to see a familiar landmark. Anything to lift her spirits. She’d always liked this place, the ground green beneath her feet and the bracken reaching up over the stone, half hidden under a thick covering of moss. Yet there was a sadness too; there should have been a new sacrifice. Maybe the woyaks won’t let us keep the old ways,and we will forget about you and all the other clan gods. As she passed, she couldn’t help but reach out to the stone and maybe she should have found a small sacrifice to garnish the rock, but this was the part of the track that ran closest to the camp and she dare not linger.
Next time I pass I’ll slit the throat of a mouse in your honour. She could have joined the main path but decided to cut through the forest so that she wouldn’t have to go too close to the camp. She’d just walked over to the edge of the grove when she stopped dead in her tracks. There was the sound of someone screaming: it was her. Almost at once she put a hand to her mouth to stifle the noise as she ducked behind a tree.
It was some time before she gathered the courage to peer out and, even then, she could hardly believe her eyes. Before her was a clearing, but not a natural one. The forest had been burned away, the ashen stumps of trees sticking out from the charred earth. She made her way to the edge, her feet still as if hardly daring to move, the devastation spread before her.
Before, she’d always imagined that the woyaks would only cut away a few trees, little more than a tiny clearing such as men might scrape away to lay down winter tents. Only now did she realise the scale of Krol Gawel’s ambition.
How could anyone have done this? How could Matka Ziemia let this happen? Where were the gods? Surely the lords of leaf and root would have risen up against this sacrilege? By her feet, the breeze stirred rivulets of ash across the wasteland.
She began to run, the tears hot in her eyes. Truly the gods had deserted the clan. If only she could go back to the island and raise up Lord Bethrayal to kill Krol Gawel and all the woyaks. She ran. The air was so thick with the scent of ash and decay that she had to stifle her breath. Even when the clearing was out of sight she continued, helter-skelter down the path until a stitch began to form in her stomach and her legs buckled.
She had to get away. Perhaps she might go deep into the mountains to live as a hermit, or join the Wolf’s Jaw or one of the other clans who travelled deep into the forest and hardly came near the river. I’ll never come back, not after this. And if Matka Ziemia cannot be bothered to save her forest then it’s best that I forget this place altogether. At least she was near the river. The sound of the water travelled through the trees along with the hum of bees and the scent of roses.
It was all she could do to gather her thoughts. Somewhere out there her father was alive, she was sure of that. She’d need to keep her head clear if she was ever going to find him, but the sight of the devastation had unnerved her.
Suddenly she froze; another sound had entered the forest. There it was again, a footfall laid clumsily along the track. She darted into the bushes. Someone was singing, the noise so unexpected that she almost burst out laughing. After the shock of the clearing she’d never expected to hear anything so carefree in the forest ever again.
Carefully she made her way through the undergrowth, fox-silent,
