For as long as he could remember, Onath had been a guiding hand tapping gently upon his shoulder. They were five years apart in age. A fact which made the elder a knowledgeable friend—at least when it came to getting in and out of trouble. But now that Onath was reaching his fifteenth year, the younger druid began to worry. By summer next, his companion would be old enough to embark his wandering, and he would not yet be able to follow.
It was not that he feared being left behind; he simply hadn’t known a world without Onath in it. The boy had been there for all the great and small moments of his life, from his first steps to his Naming Day. The little druid wasn’t sure how the absence would feel.
“The crows are loud today!” Onath remarked. The younger druid was secretly grateful for the noise. He feared the quiet. “If we keep on this way, we might hit the craigs.”
“Are we so near the edge of the forest?”
“Aye, it’s true, look about.” Onath pointed at the trees. “The pines grow shorter and thinner ahead. We’ll soon be out of the heart.”
“Maybe we ought to turn back?”
“Not to worry. The faidh was here once before, when I was very young. I know the way!”
The morning prior, their faidh had made camp in an eastern grove. The two boys were sent out foraging—druids often cleared their caches before migration to lighten the loads and settling anew meant they would need be replenished. That day was cool and sunny. It would be Sólarch soon and the Fáoth was lush. One could not take three steps without wading into wildflowers, and the air was fresh, if not a bit heavy.
They kept on, and just as Onath had said, the trees grew thinner. The younger druid had never left the forest, and his unease thickened with every step. But Onath looked determined, if not altogether thrilled.
“I hear it,” said he, and the younger stiffened.
For many years now, Onath had heard the call. He said it started as whispers, a quiet hum turned to muttering, then words. Though none he could discern. They knew what called to him, and their elders had been quick to begin his training.
They would prepare him for the Naém.
“I think… no, I’m sure of it…” Onath pushed on, and the younger hesitantly followed.
“It’s too far. It’ll be midday before we get back. We’ll miss lunch.”
“There’s sweet root in the satchel.” Onath was ahead now, climbing over a fallen bough. He didn’t look back, his eyes fixed on the distance. “It’s louder now!”
The younger heard it, too.
Every fiber in his body recoiled as the whispers rose in his ears. “I want to go back,” he said, but the other boy was far beyond his reach.
“There!” Onath gestured him over. “You won’t believe it!”
Reluctantly, the younger came over the bough and up the ridge. There, at the edge of the forest, was a small clearing. It was marked at five points with mossy stones, and at the center, thick and gnarled, he saw it.
Its twisted, leafless branches had hardened with time, and lichen mounted its trunk. In places, its bark was pale, and other parts red—a tree of stone and wood, and within was a gaping crevice just large enough for a man.
Urna’ha.
A womb tree.
“I knew it was here,” said Onath in a whisper, as if he feared to offend it.
“We shouldn’t be here,” said the younger. “This is sacred land.”
“What is the harm? If it wants me here…”
“You ought to leave it be.”
Onath laughed. “You don’t understand, little one. I’m a Listener. It is my job to hear.”
“You’re only fourteen winters, and you have not been prepared!”
“Aye, that’s true,” Onath said and—much to the younger’s relief—came down the hill. “But I’ve taken to my lessons well. I bet I could commune now, if I tried.”
“You shouldn’t!”
