Читать книгу The Black Witch - Laurie Forest - Страница 9

PROLOGUE

The woods are beautiful.

They’re my friends, the trees, and I can feel them smiling down at me.

I skip along, kicking at dry pine needles, singing to myself, following close at the heels of my beloved uncle Edwin, who turns every so often, smiles and encourages me to follow.

I am three years old.

We have never walked so far into the woods, and the thrill of adventure lights up my insides. In fact, we hardly ever walk into the woods. And Uncle Edwin has brought only me. He’s left my brothers at home, far away.

I scramble to keep up with him, leaping over curved roots, dodging low-hanging branches.

We finally stop in a sunny clearing deep in the forest.

“Here, Elloren,” my uncle says. “I have something for you.” He bends down on one knee, pulls a stick from his cloak pocket and presses it into my tiny fist.

A present!

It’s a special stick—light and airy. I close my eyes, and an image of the tree the stick came from enters my mind—a big, branchy tree, soaked in sunlight and anchored in sand. I open my eyes and bounce the stick up and down in my hand. It’s as light as a feather.

My uncle fishes a candle out of his pants pocket, gets up and sets the candle on a nearby stump before returning to me. “Hold the stick like this, Elloren,” he says gently as he bends down and holds his hand around mine.

I look at him with slight worry.

Why is his hand trembling?

I grasp onto the stick harder, trying my best to do what he wants.

“That’s it, Elloren,” he says patiently. “Now I’m going to ask you to say some funny words. Can you do that?”

I nod emphatically. Of course I can. I’d do anything for my uncle Edwin.

He says the words. There are only a few of them, and I feel proud and happy again. Even though they’re in another language and sound strange to my ears, they’re easy to say. I will do a good job, and he will hug me and maybe even give me some of the molasses cookies I saw him tuck away into his vest before we left home.

I hold my arm out, straight and true, and aim my feather-stick at the candle, just like he told me. I can feel him right behind me, watching me closely, ready to see how well I listened.

I open my mouth and start to speak the nonsense words.

As the odd words roll off my tongue, something warm and rumbling pulls up into my legs, right up from the ground beneath my feet.

Something from the trees.

A powerful energy shoots through me and courses toward the stick. My hand jerks hard and there’s a blinding flash. An explosion. Fire shooting from the tip of the stick. The trees around us suddenly engulfed in flames. Fire everywhere. The sound of my own screaming. The trees screaming in my head. The terrifying roar of fire. The stick roughly pulled from my hands and quickly cast aside. My uncle grabbing me up, holding me tight to his chest and racing away from the fire as the forest falls apart around us.

* * *

Things change for me in the forest after that.

I can feel the trees pulling away, making me uneasy. And I begin to avoid the wild places.

Over time, the childhood memory becomes cloudy.

“It’s just a dream,” my uncle says, comforting me, when the burning scene returns in the dark of sleep. “About that time you wandered out into the forest. During that lightning storm. Think on pleasant things, and go back to sleep.”

And so I believe him, because he cares for me and has never given me a reason not to believe.

Even the forest seems to echo his words. Go back to sleep, the leaves rustle on the wind. And over time, the memory fades, like a stone falling to the bottom of a deep, dark well.

* * *

Into the realm of shadowy nightmares.

Fourteen years later...