The Pond That Wasn't There

Chapter Seven

"Where are we going?" asked Bailey, panting, trying to keep up with Rosemary. He didn't know how somebody could run so fast in such strange boots.  It seemed unnatural. Bailey wasn't wearing any shoes, and he was having difficulty.

            "To see the Heartmother," said Rosemary, her feet racing across the high grass, big red galoshes bright as flame. The field about the two children was wide and golden, and it danced in the dry summer wind. At times, Bailey wondered how far it went. As far as he could see, much like the ocean, its horizon dipped with fault or break in terrain. "If something's gone wrong, she will know." She said it with utmost certainty.

            "What if she doesn't?"

            Rosemary stopped running and looked back into Bailey's eyes. She wore all the seriousness in the world for one brief moment. "I don't know." She picked up her pace again, the sun beating down their backs, the great expanse consuming all noise. "If she doesn't know, it could only mean something or someone has tampered with things that need not be tampered with. Dangerous things, evil things."

            "The Cauttons," said Bailey in a whisper. "It's them isn't it."

            "Yes, the Cauttons," said Rosemary. "Foul beings, they are. If something's happened to the Heartmother, they'd have something to do with it, for sure. It's bad enough they broke through the wall. Things aren't supposed to break through walls. Walls are supposed stop things like that, you know. Gave mum a real shock when you told her you'd seen them."

            "They said they were farming for life," said Bailey, weakly, remembering. He hoped Welsey was alright. He hoped he was okay, wasn't hurt. "My life. How could something take my life?" Then he paused. "They're not people, are they, Rosemary." It wasn't a question.

            "No," said Rose. "They aren't people. They're wraiths, skarrthings, an old, elder kind of thing, from the beginnings of magic itself. They feed off human life, drink it like me or you drink water. None of their kind ever crossed paths with the Heartmother before, though. This is new, I tell you. This is scary. She's always been too powerful for them, too strong." She slowed down to a jog and dropped her voice. "I hope she's still there." Bailey believed her.

            Up ahead, across the field, Rosemary was leading Bailey to a great forest, green as emerald, and tall and old, swaying in the wind. She said every kind of tree lived in it, but he didn't believe her, not a first. There were too many trees to have them all in one place, surely.

            But Bailey was wrong.

            Beneath their canopy, corridors of pine and maple, spruce and fig, juniper and oak, and elm and ash walked the forest paths. Too many for Bailey to count. They rose tall and true, bright and proud, dancing easily in the summer wind. One moment, just a moment, he thought he saw one move, really move, saw it walk over the ground.

            Bailey did not fear these trees as he had at the Cautton's farm. These were good trees, nice beings, true and kind. The other trees had been black and vile, and cruel, their wicked old willow-bark scratching Bailey's skin.

            The light dimmed and specks of silver sunlight pervaded the leafy carpet, shifting as the wind bent the branches high above, creaking as they went in low, resounding voices. It made Bailey feel like a speck among dots, so small, so inconsequential. In some respects, he wasn't wrong.

            Deeper and deeper into the woods they went, Rosemary skipping easily through the leaves, stepping lightly over the twigs and rocks. Bailey struggled to avoid them, and on more than one occasion (twenty, if he counted right) stepped over a twig or a rock and either cut himself or hurt himself badly.