The Song of Andiene by Blaisdell Elisa

Author:Blaisdell, Elisa [Blaisdell, Elisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2013-05-06T21:00:00+00:00

And it was treachery to think such things of his wife, gentle and good and loving. But for all his thoughts, he still heard their voices. “I die tomorrow and my daughter with me.”

So he paced up and down, and argued with himself, and at last, as he knew he must, he walked out to where the spiral of lindel trees began. He looked up at the branches, the wide-fingered golden leaves. As the trees curved outward from the cottage, they were less tall. As though they were younger? No! All plants were stunted as they neared the forest’s edge.

The ground was soft with rain and easy to dig. He loosened it with a fallen branch and scooped the earth out with his hands. When he thought of the ancient prohibition, “You will not delve in the earth,” his only reply was: “If this is blasphemy, so be it.”

As Ilbran dug deeper and wider and found nothing, joy grew within him. Some people dream true, from their childhood, but he was not one of those. Why should he be such a fool to suppose that his nightmares were real? Full of shame and joyful weariness, he dug carefully around a root and did not break it. A raven alighted, where he had dug and gone on. He whistled to it. They were wise enough to be tamed, and he had seen few in the forest.

He whistled again and tossed it a crumb from his pocket. It turned to give him a knowing look from its yellow eye, then bent its head and pecked at the damp earth. Something white glimmered at the side of the hole, where the earth had fallen.

The raven pecked again, and the soil fell away from hollow nose and ridged teeth. It pecked again and drew a worm out through the clogged eye socket.

The wet moldy stench of the earth choked Ilbran. He looked up at the tall golden tree. How could I have been so blind? Golden is the color of death. The forest was watchfully still. He could hear the roaring of blood inside his head.

The vultures, with their dirty yellow feathers, circle over the rocks that shape the city of the dead. The golderlings … He shuddered, as he remembered the soft caress of their fur, as they snuggled close to him on that cold night.

The golden trees coiled around the clearing, branches of one tree interlocking with those of the next one. Golden is the color of those who feed on death. He looked at the trees and knew they had grown tall on the flesh of men and children. He clawed the dirt back into the hole and stamped it down. Let the dead lie where they have lain.

There were many hours yet till his wife and daughter would return. Nothing to do, nothing to do but think and try to understand this world turned upside down. If she were one of the forest folk, why had she not killed him

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