Page 68 of Strange Grace
“So would I, you idiot. Why should you get the satisfaction?”
The devil laughs his high, looping laugh and cries, “Oh, you will both die, for trying to die for each other! The forest is whispering so many things, and your battle tastes so good.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows in surprise. Rhun grabs his hand.
The sun is minutes from rising, but the devil blocks their path.
Rhun’s throat aches and his chest heaves; beside him Arthur bends, spitting blood onto the dead ground. The Bone Tree rules over this grove, and over the entire forest, like a king crowned with moonlight and robed in the bones of twenty-five dead boys.
Rhun closes his eyes.
Arthur says, “It’s the devil’s turn to die.”
Mairwen bares her teeth. “You aren’t helping, Arthur Couch!”
“Baeddan Sayer is already dead,” Arthur says. “I’m sorry, devil, but you are.”
“Dead, dead, dead and breathing,” the devil hisses.
“Stop remembering,” Arthur says, shuddering.
Rhun puts his hands on the altar, sweeping dry vines off its surface and flaking blood and ancient black rot. “The forest needs your heart,” moans the devil beside him.
“I can’t stop,” Rhun answers. “It’s pressing against me, but if I go inside the forest, it will end.”
“Listen to me instead of the forest. Listen to Baeddan with your little brother, and all the family.”
“I’ll try.”
“I’m not leaving your side.”
“I’m not leaving your side, now or ever, Rhun Sayer. Do you hear me?”
“I’ll hold you to it, Arthur.”
Arthur lifts his chin, glaring through a smear of blood staining his eyebrow and dripping into his left eye.
In front of the whole Sayer clan, Arthur puts his pale, strong hand on Rhun’s cheek, and Rhun breathes carefully, thinking of nothing but the touch, nothing but the sounds of conversation, someone laughing. It’s good, and he’s here, alive.
“Let’s go find Mair,” Arthur says.
•••
THE NIGHT IS COLD, ANDMair huddles against the sheep fence. Her face is sticky from tears, her eyes swollen, but she breathes calmly now. With her eyes closed, she can hear the forest whispering at her, calling her.
Mairwen Grace. Daughter of the forest.
All she smells is her own blood, and sweet manure and dry grass. There is rain on the wind too.
She reaches out, shivering, and grabs the grass. She pulls herself forward, crawling, toward the forest. It’s where she belongs. And unlike John Upjohn, it’s where shewantsto be. The heart of the forest, curled against the Bone Tree’s roots; they will be her cradle against the wind. There she can sleep, finally relax. She is so very weary.
“Mairwen!”
She stops.
It was not the voice of the forest.
“Mairwen!”
