Tortus Bay

2.25: Treetop Confessional

"I'm not a wolf," Henry said, "I promise." He was looking up at Clair's face, hidden amidst a great mass of branches and leaves in the canopy overhead. It was tough to distinguish details, but he thought she was still scowling at him.

"If that's true," she said, "then tell me something to prove it. Tell me something that a wolf would never know."

He scratched the back of his neck. "The safe internal temperature for chicken is one hundred and sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit."

"One of these wolves could know that."

"Then I'm afraid they're as smart as me. What are you doing up there?"

She definitely scowled, now. "Staying away from tricksters."

"I've been looking for you for a long time."

"Have you? Okay, come on up then." Her face disappeared.

He considered the tree standing before him. "I don't know if I can. I haven't climbed a tree since I was a kid. Not to mention the bum shoulder."

Clair's face reappeared. "That's exactly what a wolf would say!"

"A wolf would tell you that it can't climb because it has a bad shoulder?"

"It would tell me whatever I needed to hear, to make me come down to the ground," she said, and was gone again.

Henry called to her several times, to no avail. Finally he sized himself up against the trunk. It was a gnarled old thing. Thick strips of bark peeled away like strips of cloth from a sweater. He set his feet against them. If he could climb a lighthouse in his condition, then he could certainly climb a tree.

It was a slow and painstaking process. He pushed himself up with his legs, using his good arm to keep balance. Five feet off the ground one of his holds fell away, the bark sloughing from the tree like blistered skin, and he swung like a rock climber—but wrapped his thighs around the trunk to stabilize himself, preventing a fall. Once he reached the branches it became easier. He had only to hoist himself from one seat to another, steadily rising into the sky. It smelled like cold, fresh air, and the coming of a placid night.

Clair watched him the entire way, the expression on her face gradually transforming from disbelief to skepticism to wonder. When finally he hauled himself onto the wide branch upon which she sat, she wrapped him in a tight hug. Her smell was overwhelming. It was like an expired egg-salad sandwich which had been dunked in a vat of hair grease and left in the sun for a week. He held his breath, and narrowly managed not to gag. "I can't believe it's really you," she said. "I can't believe you found me. I can't believe it was you who found me. How did you find me?"

She released him, and he drew the leather swatch from his pocket. It was inert, now, for having been joined with its pair. She marveled at the symbol burned onto its face. "How did you know?"

"Kara."

"Of course. That was supposed to be a secret."

"She didn't tell me who gave you the tattoo. Nobody knows."

Clair smiled at him. With her suspicions gone, a warmness emanated from the woman that sat at odds with the rough state of her body. Her clothes were torn and dirited. Shallow cuts and bruises ran up and down the length of her arms and legs. Her hair was a matted bunch, and she had clearly lost a great deal of weight. That was nowhere more apparent than in the tendons straining against her emaciated neck. "The secret doesn't matter anymore. Marjorie Gauthe gave me the tattoo."

"Gauthe," he said, "as in..."

"As in, the daughter of the mayor. We were friends growing up. That was how I learned about magic. No, even those who grew up in the village don't get told. Marjorie was just bad at keeping secrets. Back then, I was certain that it was the difference between what I was and what I wanted to be. Magic. The Gauthes and the Brihtes both knew about it. Used it. That had to be why they were the wealthy families."