“But surely once we replant the tree—”
Ira shook his head. “I’ve never been able to. I’ve never been beyond the forest.”
Arthur’s skin prickled. Until a week ago, he’d never beenbeyond Seacliff, either, but he’d always known it was an option. One dependent upon money and transportation and any number of other things, but an option nonetheless.
He took Ira’s hand, stroking the furry back of it with his thumb. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”
“I hope so.”
Arthur kissed his hand. Despite himself, he chuckled ruefully.
“What?” Ira asked.
“I was thinking, it’s a good thing Calyx wasn’t here for all that.I can only imagine what it might’ve thought I was doing to you.”
xxxii. In which everything goes to shit
Though the morning was cold and gray, the rain had petered out. Arthur was loath to leave the cave, not least because he’d fallen asleep reading a romance novel aloud, at Ira’s request, and awoken in Ira’s arms and didn’t want to relinquish their comfort. But Ira kissed him, tugged on his knee brace, and was out of the cave before Arthur could object.
He couldn’t object anyway, since Ira reached for his hand and held it as they walked onward. Ira kept smiling, and every time he did so, Arthur felt a thrill. He had done that. All right—probably the acorn had done it in part: No new greenery had grown on Ira’s face or body overnight, nor did any sprout as they went.
Still, Arthur had had a hand in making Ira happy. It felt like quite the accomplishment.
The cat was considerably less pleased with the circumstances, having to pick her way through wet undergrowth, but the two men had all but forgotten her. Arthur’s neck and hand throbbed periodically, but since he couldn’t do much for the phantom pain, he squeezed Ira’s hand for comfort whenever it happened, without mentioning it. The wild hunt may have gotten them off track, but feeling as he did now, he was hopeful of reachingthe heart of the wood soon. He whistled tunelessly without realizing he was doing so. Ira smiled.
They had not gone more than a couple miles when Ira bent with a groan.
“Is it the tarnish?” Arthur asked.
Ira tried to straighten—then screamed, dropping to all fours. His eyes crumpled against the pain. Arthur fell to his knees beside him. If this was the tarnish spreading at the heart of the wood, it was far worse than it had been before.
“Ira?”
Ira clawed at the ground. His pack slipped from his shoulders.
“Clear-cutting,” he said through gritted teeth. “They’re clear-cutting. I can feel—”
He broke off with another scream. The ground trembled. The forest quaked with rage and fear, or maybe it was Ira’s rage and fear, or both.
Ira’s eyes flew open, his right eye the same milky color as his left. Their depths reflected a woodland hollow with trees cracking and falling as men worked at them with horrendous machines, no axes but brush cutters and feller bunchers.
He screamed again. In his scream was the roar of felled trees and the bellow of a stag and the anguish of a dying man. He fell to the ground, convulsing.
“What do I do?” Arthur cried. “Tell me what to do.”
But there was no one to tell him what to do, no one to rely on except himself. He clenched his fists on his thighs.
Hands shaking, he shoved sticks and stones away from Ira. He folded one of their furs under Ira’s head and turned him on his side. Ira groaned, tears streaming down his face. Despite the acorn, moss thickened, spreading down his neck and into his shirt. Lichens bloomed across his arms. Tiny toadstools burst between his claws and exploded with spores. Like the forest thought the pain would stop if Ira became part of it.
Arthur swore. He needed something to treat the convulsions, but he feared Ira would turn into a lump indistinguishable from the forest floor when he wasn’t looking. He scrambled upright, searching the undergrowth in panic like the right medicinal plant would helpfully present itself.
Ira lurched to his feet, breathing hard. Tentatively, Arthur reached for him.
“Ira?”
Ira looked past him, both eyes milky white. He sprinted into the trees, shivering into a stag as he went.
The stag bugled, shaking the treetops. Freya hissed.
