Armageddon's Children - Terry Brooks [83]
It was this lack of recognizable structure that drove Erisha to regard him as undependable. She believed in doing things in settled ways, in an organized and carefully regulated schedule. She did not like what she viewed as his undisciplined habits. But then she was not him and he was not her, something she seemed to have trouble understanding.
He spent these early-morning hours working on small projects of his own devising. Sometimes he worked at smoothing out and cleaning the earth in which she was rooted. Sometimes he fed her organic supplements of his own creation, both of food and antitoxins; that one would really drive Erisha wild if she knew about it. Sometimes he just sat with her. Sometimes, although not too often, he touched her to let her know he was there. He couldn’t say why he found this so pleasing, why he actually looked forward to rising early and in secret spending time with a creature that gave nothing back. It just did. His connection with her was visceral, and it felt wrong not to respond to it. He only had one year to do what he could for her, and then it would be someone else’s turn. He didn’t want to waste a minute.
It helped that he was particularly good at the nurturing and care of living things. He possessed a special gift for such work; he enjoyed making things grow and keeping them healthy. He could sense what was wrong with them and act on his instincts. His sister said it ran in the family. His mother possessed unusual healing skills, and Simralin was uncanny at deciphering the secrets of the wilderness and the behavior of the creatures that lived within it. Trained as a Tracker, she had opportunities to use her gift in her work as an Elven Hunter, just as he had his opportunities here.
Which he had better get busy and make use of, he thought. The other Chosen would be coming along soon. He could picture their faces as they ringed the tree, their hands joined. He could see the familiar mix of expressions—eager and bored, determined and distracted, bright and clouded—that mirrored the feelings of each. So predictable that he didn’t have to think twice on it. He kept hoping one of them would surprise him. Shouldn’t there be a measurable transformation in the character of each Chosen during the course of his or her service?
Shouldn’t that be an integral part of the experience.
He thought so, but he hadn’t seen any evidence of it as yet. Nor had he himself undergone much of a change. You couldn’t very well start throwing stones if you lived in a glass house, although that hadn’t stopped him before.
He walked around the Ellcrys for a time, studying the ground, looking for signs of invasive pests or damaging sicknesses in the smaller plants surrounding her. Such things manifested themselves in these indicators first; it was one of the reasons they were planted— to serve as a warning of possible threats to her.
Not that much of anything got that far, given the attention the Chosen gave to the tree and everything square inch of dirt and plant life surrounding her. Not that there was any real . . .
Something touched his shoulder lightly.
—Kirisin—
The voice came out of nowhere, sudden and compelling. Kirisin jumped a foot when he heard it. A slender branch was resting lightly on his shoulder. The branch did not grip or entwine, but held him bound as surely as with chains.
—My beloved—
Kirisin felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he shivered as if chilled through, although the morning was warm and windless.
The Ellcrys was speaking to him. The tree was communicating.
—Why am I forsaken—
Forsaken? He cringed at the rebuke, not understanding the reason for it.
What had he failed to do?
—Pay heed to me. I have not lied. A change is coming to the land. The change will