“I told you: I don’t have a choice,” said Prue. “I’ve got to go, science teacher or no. Stay if you want.” Then, to the antelope: “Will you take me?”
The antelope hemmed uncertainly and pawed at the ground. “If that is your wish, Prue,” he said. “Though you may be putting yourself in serious danger.”
“It is.”
“Very well,” the antelope said, and he crouched low so that she could climb astride his slim back. Curtis stood, fidgeting in his boots.
“Are you coming or not?” Prue asked.
He pointed an accusing finger at his friend. “You!” he said. “You are infuriating!” Having given his accusation, Curtis promptly capitulated and climbed onto the back of the antelope. Curling his arms around Prue’s belly, he braced himself as the animal broke into a trot and began heading north. The rat in the tree boughs overhead leapt nimbly from branch to branch, preceding the party as they went.
The closer Prue moved to the tree, the more certain she felt in her decision to make the journey. Like a kind of thirst that grows stronger once you’re holding the glass of water in your hand, when she’d crossed over the boundary between Wildwood and North Wood, the desire to be at the tree was nearly unendurable. The going had been tough; the coming storm blanketed the tall hills and peaks of the Cathedral Mountains, and they were forced to stop on several occasions to wait out the flurry of a particularly bad squall. The antelope was strong and sure-footed; he made careful but steady time over the little notches in the mountainside they were forced to cross.
They were given fresh water and food by a badger who lived in a cabin in the hills; a wandering swan, white as the snow on the ground, gave them clear directions once they’d come down into the valleys of the North Wood and were uncertain of their way. Both animals had seen the antelope’s robe and had made every effort to help them. The going was arduous; anytime they found themselves coming closer to any well-trod road, they instinctively moved away from it, preferring instead to remain in the safe concealment of the dense forest. Occasionally, the two kids would opt to walk alongside the antelope, giving him a break from carrying them.
They’d only just remounted the back of the antelope when they arrived at the great clearing in the woods. The tug of the tree at that point was so distracting and powerful in its strength that Prue could barely stay steady in her seat. Curtis had to hold her tight against his chest; she’d nearly fallen from the Mystic’s back twice. They broke through a line of trees where they could see brimming daylight and found themselves on the edge of the great meadow that surrounded the Council Tree.
The mysterious pull that Prue had been feeling since the day before suddenly dissipated, like a wisp of smoke. She had arrived at the source.
Curtis, who hadn’t set eyes on the great tree before, caught his breath in his throat when he saw it. The sun was setting, and a gray pallor was cast over the wide clearing; the gnarled and ancient tree loomed tall over the disappearing light in the meadow, its branches bereft of leaves. At the base of its trunk, a pallet had been constructed of moss and stone. Seeing this, the antelope issued a sorrowful moan. Prue and Curtis slid from his back and watched as the Mystic stumbled toward the tree. They numbly followed. Prue guessed at the reason for the simple construction; she mouthed a no as she hurried after the antelope.
The pallet was tucked into one of the tree’s large exposed roots like a baby cradled in the arm of a protective parent. The surface was made of a thick blanket of moss and was strewn with the simple hues of winter flora: the soft white globes of the snowberry bush, the bright-red-berried holly, and the pale green of the thistle. All this lovely detritus served to make a kind of bed. Arriving there, Prue looked to Timon and rasped a desperate, “Is it?”
Timon, his eyes choked with tears, nodded.
Just then, a flickering motion from the edge of the clearing caught their eyes. A procession was approaching: A group of robed figures carrying torches issued from the tree line. As they poured into the meadow, they gathered in a line and made their way toward the mossy bed. In the middle of the procession, several of the figures walked under the weight of a stiff stretcher, bearing what looked to be the shrouded body of a woman. Prue and Curtis were frozen in place as they watched the solemn parade. When the first of the figures arrived at the pallet, they moved outward, creating a semicircle around the structu
re. They walked in silence, their eyes downcast.
The stretcher was placed on the pallet’s bed of moss; the body was covered in a simple quilt, which one of the Mystics pulled back to reveal the face of Iphigenia.
The Elder Mystic’s eyes were peacefully closed. Her face, pale and still, was set in a look of quiet grace. She looked as if she’d just had a pleasant meal and was enjoying the afterglow. Tears immediately sprang to Prue’s eyes as she watched the ceremony proceed.
Once the body had been laid on the pallet and the torch-bearing Mystics had fanned out to surround it, a new group of mourners appeared from the edge of the clearing: the acolytes. They came from the surrounding woods bearing objects in their arms: blankets and robes, papers and plants. Prue guessed the objects to be the possessions of the Elder Mystic, carried from her home. They were each placed carefully around Iphigenia’s still body. Many of the bearers touched the hem of her shroud lovingly before stepping back to join the crowd.
“I can’t believe this,” whispered Curtis as they stood among the gathered Mystics and acolytes. “I just saw her. She was so … alive.”
Prue wiped tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. “I wish I’d had the chance to see her again,” she said. “I wish I’d had the chance just to talk with her.”
Curtis put his arm around Prue’s shoulder. They both let the tears fall freely.
One of the Mystics, an older man with long, braided hair and a white-flecked beard, stepped forward. He walked to the pallet and placed his hand softly on Iphigenia’s body before turning to the crowd and speaking.
“Tonight, we return the vessel of Iphigenia to the Wood, her spirit having already been absorbed by the fabric of the cosmos. And with her, we return the trappings of her earthly life to the ground.” His voice was calm, benevolent.
He then nodded to the surrounding Mystics, and they began to make a semicircle around Iphigenia’s body. A young boy, an acolyte, held the center of the arc as each one, in turn, sat down and arranged their legs into lotus position. They began to meditate. Prue instinctively held her hand to her lips, her eyes full of tears.
There then came a sound from the base of the pallet, a kind of earthy tearing noise, as the grass and bracken surrounding the bed began to undulate alive. Prue felt a kind of electricity surging through the ground at her feet; she could now hear the collective vegetation of the clearing begin its sorrowful keening.
AAAAAAAAAA.
It issued from every blade of grass, every branch and bramble. The mossy bed shook; the ground beneath began to tremble. Little tendrils of root shot up the side of the pallet and made a kind of webby cocoon before the earth below yawned open and the body of Iphigenia, Elder Mystic of North Wood, was consumed by the earth.
The world was silent.
The acolytes and Mystics awoke from their meditation. Prue remained as if paralyzed, staring at the virgin ground where the bed of moss had stood. Curtis grabbed her arm. “Whoa,” he said.
The boy who’d been the center of the meditators’ arc was standing farther off, just beyond the ring of light emanating from the torchbearers on the crowd’s fringe. Prue couldn’t help but notice that he seemed to be watching her.