Fladrif's Arc

Chapter 4 of 9

The rock split under Fladrif's feet. The old roots climbed too fast now, and he could not stop them. They reached for the young trees and drank, and the young trees swelled with water they were too new to hold. Bark groaned. Somewhere close, a trunk cracked like a struck bone. He had woken a helper, and the help was killing them. Bregalad crouched over a young oak. Its trunk had split down one side, sap running fast. He pressed both hands to the wound and held it shut. "Too much," he said. "Too much, too fast." His red eyes fixed on Fladrif. "You feed them. They break." Elmwood was already moving, slow and heavy, from one young tree to the next. He knelt at each and laid a hand on the soil. He had left a sick tree once and never come back, and Fladrif saw him refuse to leave a single one now. "We can't dam it," Elmwood said. "It won't stop. So we spread it. Send the water wide, not up." Kjell stood on the splitting stone, palm flat, reading the ground. "There," he said. He pointed north, then west. "Old cracks. Dry channels. The water wants somewhere. Give it those." He named the direction and stopped. Fladrif understood. He could not fight the rising roots. He could only steer them. He dropped to his knees and pushed both hands deep. He found the great pulse below, still surging, still climbing. He did not push against it. He matched its beat again, then leaned, the way a hand turns a heavy branch it cannot lift. "Bregalad. Elmwood. With me," he said. "Not up. Sideways." Elmwood gripped his shoulder. Bregalad left the split oak and took his other side. Three sets of roots reached down and joined. Fladrif felt their strength pour in beside his own. Together they leaned on the rising flood and turned it. The water swung. It stopped climbing straight into the young trunks and ran out along the dry channels Kjell had marked. The forest floor darkened as it drank slow instead of fast. The cracking stopped. The split oak under Bregalad's hands held. Fladrif drew back. His arms shook. Three young trees were dead, their trunks burst open, but the rest stood. The old roots still rose, still fed, but now they fed wide and gentle. He had not tamed the ancient forest. He had only taught it patience. Kjell crouched and touched one of the new channels. Water ran clear along it, further than the eye could follow. "It's going somewhere," he said. "Far." Fladrif pressed his hand to the wet ground and listened. The water ran on beneath the stone, toward the last dead ground of Ironholt. The old roots would reach it now, whether he was ready or not.