The Herald of Autumn (Echoes of the Untold Age Book 1) Page 2

  Then, I fell to my back in the leaves. Autumn’s birth shouldn’t be long now. I needed only to wait for the last golden ray of summer to succumb to the eventide.

  My alertness nagged at my mind. Typically I awoke with the first dawning day of autumn—not as the summer died into night. When the sun roused me for my season, I wandered the wood, innocent and forgetful, for days before I fully came into myself.

  Never was I aware as I was now. Not this close to summer.

  I knew the reason, of course. Old man Coyote had Named me, brought me into myself. I must learn why.

  I pondered him, his not-so-veiled threats, and his mysteries until the last brilliant shaft of sunlight shot past the treetops.

  From that secret place behind my heart where poems are born, a shudder rippled through the earth.

  All creation whispered my Name.

  “Tommy Maple.” The trees rustled. Already traced with gold this far north, they bowed their heads to me as I sat up.

  “Tommy Maple.” A stag stared at me from across the clearing. It snorted, mist spreading in the cool air. Thrice it pawed the earth at me, an ancient greeting, the mark of a creature Oathed to the Hunt.

  “Tommy Maple.” The birds in the sky, the moment they felt my gaze, veered as one toward the south.

  The world belonged to me once more: the gold and red, the mist in the air, the bite of frosted wind. I pushed to my feet, then began to walk, feeling the early fallen leaves dreaming beneath my feet.

  He meant for me to meet him in the town.

  A ludicrous proposal, of course. Who of the fairest folke would play his game with Old Man Coyote? It would be a trap. Still, if he meant me harm, he had me. He could have taken me at any moment.

  He had my Name.

  “I need yeh… Yeh just remember that I had yeh here. I had yeh, and I let yeh live.”

  Terror washed over me. I wish he’d taken an Oath, even a minor one, before he’d left. If I had been stronger perhaps I could have…

  I laughed at that thought.

  Oaths hardly bound the Old Man. He would look me square in the face, make any promise I wished, and then kill me without breaking his Oath.

  The slumbering leaves rustled deliciously under my feet as I came upon the road, flanked with miles of exploding red and gold. On the other side of the road, a squirrel caught my gaze and immediately scrambled toward an old, acorn-heavy oak.

  The rusty, faded-blue truck rumbled and rattled along, drawing nearer. It was perfect. I couldn’t have drawn him in a Telling.

  The white-haired man belonged to this land, as if he had wandered these hilly woods since his first step. His blue coveralls had worn thin in all the wrong places. An aged but gleaming shotgun hung on the rack in the back window of his truck.

  He pulled up next to where I stood, eyeing my nakedness critically.

  Then he drew deeply from a briarwood pipe. “Bet there’s a story here. I’d like to know it.”

  I smiled. “It’s a good one.”

  He let the quiet moment grow long. “You from away?”

  I nodded.

  He sighed.

  “Name’s Kenneth.” He opened the truck’s door.

  I extended a hand. “Timothy.” I would not be giving him my Name.

  “Think I got pair of my boy’s jeans. He’s wicked short, but I bet they’d fit.” He said “sho-at” instead of short.

  I nodded again.

  Kenneth stepped out. He rummaged behind his seat until pulling up a worn pair of jeans and throwing them to me. They squeezed, but I could wear them.

  When I started to thank him, he raised a gnarled hand.

  “No thankin’ me, boy. I’ll get your gawmy ass to town. You can pay me with the story of how ya got here.”

  I suppressed a grin.

  That made twice he’d asked.

  Still a bit dizzy from my Telling-spar with the Old Man, this was thankfully different. An eager human made for a simple Telling.

  It couldn’t get much simpler than this: I needed clothes, money, and food.

  If I crafted the right story, Kenneth would have all I needed. He would have it and give it happily since I chose how it ended.

  “Are you sure you want me to gaw your ear off?” I asked Kenneth as we lurched along the rutted bumpy road.

  He let his gaze wander from the road to me.

  “Ayuh. Wicked boring out here. I gotta tell the boys about the naked, red-head lad I found in the woods.”

  My smile broke wide open. That made three times.

  It was all I needed.

  “Well, sir, that’s a complicated one. I have one thousand beginnings.” I paused. “No. That’s not right.” I caught his blue eye in the mirror. “A thousand thousand, each stranger than the last.”

  3

  Time drifted by, like a rainy afternoon.

  I guided Kenneth through the wandering, shadowy path of my Telling, yet once done, he asked for more. I gave even as I took, leaving him with lost secrets that he could never tell and the wild imaginings of a much younger man. For a season, he would almost hear the whispers of the autumn wind. For a year and a day he would dream of the Hunt, the prey, and the wild chase.

  He would remain fey-touched until his last.

  I believed our trade fair.

  He left me with a thick jacket to cover my back, boots for my feet, and his son’s pants. Though he had no food to offer before the Telling, he found a forgotten chocolate bar that I downed quickly. He offered thirty-seven dollars.

  I only took thirty-three.

  I gave his shotgun no thought though. I sought a bow neither of ash nor rowan. He would have granted me both. He would have begged to. But I could always call my bow if I truly needed it. The many turnings of the years had taught me that unfamiliar weapons only created situations where I must call for my bow sooner.

  That was dangerous. Merely holding my bow was only a few steps away from calling the Wild Hunt.

  “Ya sure ya wanna go? I could put ya up for a spell.” His eyes shone; the man had seen and would never forget.

  I smiled at his unintentional wording.

  “You’ve gifted me enough, Kenneth.” My overtaxed voice cracked.

  If he had me for one night, he would have me for a dozen, always begging for another Telling. With no interest in food or sleep, he would wither away, drifting on my meandering tales.

  I must leave before he became fully entangled in my glamour despite a wistful pang in my heart.

  No. Home, love, that wasn’t part of who I was. I didn’t get family; I didn’t get friends.

  The Herald of Autumn would find no restful place to lay down roots. The leaves changed, the wind blew, and the Herald wandered on.

  Ever wandered.

  I reached out and clasped his hand as a goodbye. “Thank you for everything, Ken.”

  His grip was like old oak. Words flickered behind his eyes, but those words were lost.

  His handshake would have to convey enough.

  I glanced at him once more, then stepped out into the frost-touched evening. He waved through his window, saying something at last. I waved once before walking away.

  Mount Chase, a tiny town of only a few dozen families, cloistered around me.

  Near its heart rested the Inn of the Hollows. Kenneth had told me it served less as an inn these days, more as a bed and breakfast. I had never been here before, but true to his word, I could make out its flaking, hand-painted sign from the road.

  It was perfect.

  The inn sang with history. Old wood shingled its long, sloping roof. Its stone pavers slept in the earth, surrounded by a garden of mums and aster, with bellflowers throughout. This building had obviously sat through the wearing of years.

  I rang the old, brass bell at the door, chiming a song into the listless night.

  Yellow light shone from one of the upper windows.

  “A moment!” The woman’s voice sounded sleepy.

  I regretted rousing her
from her bed as I heard rustling inside.

  A light came on downstairs. Then she opened the door a touch, peering out at me, almost coy.

  Projecting the innocence of a harmless traveler, I said, “I was told you might have a room.”

  “Occasionally.” Now she smiled. “When someone is from away. You don’t have any people here?”

  I shook my head. No, I don’t have any people anywhere. It was only a thought, but its bleakness sung on my face, in my posture, from my stance.

  She gaped, almost affronted, as if she had heard the words.

  “Well, you do now. My name’s Molly. I collect vagabonds.” Her grin flashed, both beautiful and lovely.

  “Timothy.” I extended my hand. “Timothy Ash.” I sank just a whisper of my glamour into my touch and gave her a charming smile. When she took my hand, I knew she would catch the faintest whiff of frost-kissed pumpkin. She would hear crunching leaves and feel the caress of the harvest moon.

  Yes, I saw it in her eyes, the first whisper of wonder, as she bid me, “Step on in.”

  I did, glancing around. It was alive, warm. Now, what had obviously been a small inn two hundred years ago had been reshaped into Molly’s home.

  It was perfect inside as well. Like beautiful, living art, it reflected the world that was.

  My world.

  “Let me start a fire. Frost gets fearsome, even this early.”

  While she arranged logs atop the andirons in an old, large fireplace of flat river stone, I sat at one of the places at the bar. It had once served numerous patrons as they sat with their cups, reminiscing and lie-telling. Now the wood had worn smooth and shiny.

  I frowned at the cunning brackets holding it together. I touched one gingerly, anticipating sharp pain.

  None. It was iron, but not angry iron. Not cold.

  “...brings a young man like you out this late? Don’t you have any bags?”

  I attempted to seem rueful. “I came to, along the road. I had no bags when I awoke.”

  In an endearing gesture, her eyes widened, even as she made a small tsk. “You have to be careful out there, Timothy. It can be dangerous out this far.”

  I hid a small smile.

  Lurking somewhere close, Old Man Coyote had enough glam to make the entire town rave and rage if he wished. Rave, or simply abandon everything. They would walk into the red-leaved trees and never look back. When they reached the ocean they would never stop smiling while they drowned.

  Dangerous was an understatement.

  “I know, Molly. I’m glad you’re here. You’ve saved me a night in the wind.”

  She blinked up at me, a smudge of ash on her pretty face. I saw a glimpse of her enchanting smile before she turned back to the stuttering flame that refused to catch.

  “I can help you with that.”

  She babbled flustered politeness as I walked over but stood still as I stepped close.

  She smelled like cinnamon. Like cinnamon and myrrh. As I drew near, she trembled and flushed. “Everything is wet. It gets mist covered; I didn’t expect a guest tonight...”

  I bent over her hearth. This corky, wet elm would never light for her.

  “I’ll set the hearth, Molly. I have a touch for it.” I met her eyes and held them.

  Her smile warmed like the sunrise.

  “Well, if you’ll do that, I might have something else that can warm us as well.” She walked toward the kitchen.

  Each step, part of a dance I knew well. Awash in me, curiosity filled her mind. Inevitable as the tide, unseen forces attracted us. She allowed herself to relax, to drift on the filaments of glamour I’d cast about us.

  I Dreamed my fire. Dry, crunchy oak leaves, juniper that had been laid up before the cold, and pine heartwood steeped in sap. October wind breathing, biting.

  You owe me a bit yet, Old Elm, from before. One small boon, we’ll call square.

  My fire stuttered to begrudging life, then flickered with light and shadow. The shadows told the story of a battle long ago, where we had stood fast against the strange armies of the First People. All others had left us, but I stood with Elm. We stood, and we survived.

  Square, Tommy Maple. This is the last time you call me, else you evoke a boon and a debt.

  Agreed, old friend.

  Molly turned, setting a cup on the long bar, followed by a second. She poured amber fire from a stout glass bottle into them. She smiled as she walked back, handing me one.

  “You got that going quick. You don’t need a drafty, old inn if you can scratch up a fire that fast,” she teased.

  “I’m hoping the company here will be better than with the bears.”

  She laughed at me then, genuinely. Her eyes glistened in the light. “I’m not much company, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re perfect.” I could not stop watching the firelight dancing in her dark hair. “You are an unexpected gift on a long, empty road.”

  The moment meandered while our gazes wandered across each other. I could not say how long it was, for such moments roam outside of time. The lovely curve of her ear, the sweetness of her neck and hips entrapped me. She, eyes wide, reveled in the thrill of the Great Hunt, the darkened wood, and the mystery that lay at the heart of an autumn night.

  “You’re an unusual man, Timothy Ash.” Her voice fell to a whisper. She took a long draw from her cup.

  I sat, sniffing at the glass. “Bourbon?”

  She pushed her dark hair from her face.

  “Warms you up, loosens the tongue, and makes friends of strangers.” She raised her glass.

  I did the same.

  Then, with abandon, she practically fell backward into the overstuffed couch. “I love this place, you know.” She smiled, languid, at nothing in particular. “Other girls want the big city, or beaches, or mountains. This place, however”—she took another sip—“it’s real, Timothy. I can feel the days and months and years etched into these old rooms.”

  I rolled the bourbon on my tongue as she prattled musically about the inn and traditions. My ears perked at her next question.

  “So, tell me, what happened on the road? You said you came to. Were you jumped by someone?”

  Not a question I wanted to answer. I thought for a moment and then looked square into her green eyes.

  “That’s a long story.” I held her gaze over my glass. “I’d tell you what happened, Molly, but it’s boring tale.” I sighed. “I have a better trick for you if you like.”

  She leaned forward. “What’s that, Timothy?”

  “Any fool can wander in off the darkened road and tell you some sad tale of woe.” I shrugged. “You have to admit, there are better stories to be told.” The bourbon turned warm on my lips.

  She twirled a finger in her dark hair. “I suppose that’s possible, Timothy.” She started to laugh but stopped.

  My eyes, the color of aspen leaves under the hunting moon, filled with wonder, filled her with wonder.

  “What if instead of telling some dull, true story, I tell you a secret story made of every smile you have ever forgotten? A story that will change the way moonlight tastes?”

  She laughed and took another sip. Then, she saw my hunter’s gaze. “S—such a story sounds precious and rare. I don’t know that I deserve a story like that.”

  I took her hand. “You do, Molly. You deserve a story that will sing lullabies to your restless heart. You deserve a story that will make the child you were dance with glee; that will make the shadows whisper secrets. I can tell you a story about the girl you were, the woman you are, and all the infinite women you may yet become.”

  She stopped for a long moment then, her gaze wide. Her hand trembled, sloshing her drink around her glass, and her eyes grew wet. When she spoke, her voice quivered.

  “Alright, Timothy. I’ll play.”

  I grinned. “Only if you want it, Molly. My stories aren’t for women who hide from their own mystery. I see what your eyes never have. I know the secret turnings of your heart.”

/>   Her smile returned, brilliant and fearless. “That’s a brave statement. Tell me.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “It is.”

  That was three.

  4

  Listening, she soon nestled against me, sitting in the flickering light of the dying fire. Her eyes remained wide, and she gasped and giggled in all the right places. Her night orchid scent teased while her eyes glistened like the full moon on a lonesome road.

  I told her tale, of course, drawing forth truths that only she knew, that she kept wound around her heart. I saw where she had been hurt, been abandoned. I told her of all the places where her heart had wanted, had yearned to blossom, but fear and pain had restrained her.

  The story I told wasn’t factual, but it was absolutely true.

  As she listened, Molly grew drunk on bourbon, drunk on me.

  I told her the story of a wandering gypsy who lost her voice—but the story was about Molly, her childhood dreams. I told another of the woman who tamed the horses in the sky—her struggles with love and hope and loss.

  I made her smell colors and see sound.

  When she kissed me, dawn blossomed after winter’s long night.

  Her soft lips ached in yearning. Her sweet kiss sang of renewal. Waves of her washed over me, her mortal fire rekindled by the grace and glamour of one of the fey.

  I traced my hands along her face and then down her neck. Each place I touched, I kissed and whispered secrets that no mortal-kind knew. She sighed, arched over me, and then slipped onto my lap. Her silhouette darkened the flicker and dance of the fire.

  “Timothy.” Her voice shrank, small like a child’s. “This isn’t me. This isn’t what I—”

  “I know.” My smile stayed simple, my words true. “I know what you are, Molly. I know you guard yourself well. You are not one to be coyed by every man who wanders in.” My lips met hers again.

  She tasted apple cider and the crisp wind at night. She murmured against me as whispers of the Hunt coursed like lightning from my touch.

  My fingers found the buttons of her shirt, and I kissed ever lower. The scent of her intoxicated more than the bourbon.

  “Take me upstairs, Timothy.” Her voice dipped low and primal. “Take me upstairs and tell me more.”