Chapter Two:Thatchberry

The king summoned me with three words.

Come at once.

I grabbed my sister, Cuddlepip’s hand and yanked her out of her snooze, her embroidery falling to the floor as she stumbled and tripped over her robe.

“What is all the fuss?” She picked herself off the floor of our cottage and glared. “I was dreaming of toast.” She looked around. “Or maybe it wasn’t a dream at all…”

I snapped my fingers. “Focus. No snacks. Rog—His Majesty has requested us.”

“Both of us?” She sounded dazed as her beard turned a blue hue meaning wonder. “I’m honored he….”

“Hush. I need your help in the castle garden after. This just seems convenient.”

“Oh.” Her face fell a fraction, her beard now pink as I cursed my blunt tongue. “Alright.”

I gathered my satchel from the hook near the door, caressing the worn leather and the initials bCt. Mine, my father’s, and his father before him.

"Ready!" Cuddlepip chirped behind me as I cleared my throat of emotion.

“Yes, let us go.” I winced as my voice broke before adding with the most gnomely manner, “Onward.”

Now we stood sweating and waiting to be received after the elf at the front door refused us with a simple, "We were not on the list," to which I almost screamed, "We do not need a dratted list!" But I held back because of the audience behind us. Only the bright red tips of my pointy ears gave my anger away.

“Bristlebeard Thatchberry Crookshank!” Crowed the herald near the king’s private receiving room.

He was swiftly followed by the familiar regale, “Crookshank? You fools. Bring him in at once.” I drew up all five feet of me. Actually, four feet ten if I was being honest. “Bristlebeard, where the devils are you?” I hustled inside with Cuddlepip in tow.

King Roger stood next to a large table littered with scrolls, discarded quills, and a plate of half-eaten crumpets. Roger turned his crystalline eyes to me and they softened. “There you are. Hello, Ms. Cuddlepip. Your beard and hat are looking good.” My sister squeezed my hand with glee.

“Thank you, sire,” she stammered, turning red. “It is my utmost honor to be in your–”

“What is it you need?” I asked bluntly as King Roger threw his head back and laughed. His hand caught his crown just before it slid off his head.

“Always the same gnome.” He said as if it was a joke. Of course I was, who else would I be? “I have a task for you.” I raised a bushy eyebrow.

He waved us closer. “Your middle name is Thatchberry, correct?”

“Does that deserve an answer?” I replied automatically and bit the inside of my cheek as an advisor standing just within earshot glared at me.

“Lovely. I need that.” The King replied, unperturbed. I reeled as if slapped.

“What for?” Thatchberry was rare and impossible to harvest. No one ever lived to say why. “Are you angry with me?” I combed my memory for any untimely jokes or other slights that may land me in this predicament.

He gave the others in the room a sideways glance and leaned in closer. He smelled of vanilla and parchment. “I am afraid I have caught a malady.” Cuddlepip, who had attached herself like a barnacle to my side, froze.

“Caught?” she whispered on the edge of hysteria. “It cannot be!” I yanked her closer to the center of the conspiratorial circle.

“Hush.” I commanded and she quieted. “Like my father?” He nodded slowly.

Crindle’s Curse. Named for the first king to die of the wasting disease, it slowly drained its victims of spirit and life. Closing my eyes, I imagined King Roger withering away as Bristlebeard II had. Thatchberry had been the only cure then, and no one had found any. I had looked.

“Do you know of a place?”

***

 Between the blood red roses and the blooming lavender wisteria the faded door sat hidden by dandelions and ivy that curled around the rusted handle. Smashing my oilskin hat to my head, I scurried over and began ripping at the stubborn vines. I jerked on the handle. “Let me in,” I growled and roiled with shock as the door popped open silently.

Beyond the door lay a path of round river stones leading toward the gentle murmur of water. The door closed behind me with a snap, cutting out all sounds of the castle.

Questions buzzed in my mind. Who hid the door? Who laid this path? 

King Roger had jotted down a hastily drawn map on the back of an old missive. A footnote he had found in his father’s diary. A forgotten grove just beyond the castle wall guarded by the fiercest creatures.

But the grove beyond the water was dead. Rows of thatchberry trees grew on either side of the path.

All except one.

“It cannot be.” I whispered aloud and only a faint rustling of a forest mouse answered. Its trunk was black as ink with blood red leaves and deep purple berries that bled white when you smashed them in your hand. They had been overharvested by greedy nobles for their curative properties until they had all but disappeared.

 I looked around for a creature that would surely rip my throat out. I imagined a fae with a long tongue and spikes for teeth, with beady black eyes and an appetite for gnome flesh.

I could not believe my luck as I got closer and no one appeared. It could not be this easy. I reached a tentative hand toward a low hanging branch. I just needed a dozen berries on a tree bursting with thousands. Just a few more inches…

“Stop.” At first, I thought I had heard the order by mistake. Then, “You are trespassing.” Something sharp and pointy pressed into my spine. “Turn around.” Her voice—I could tell that much—was akin to the rustling of leaves in autumn. I pivoted, bracing to find the long-tongued fae monster of my imagination and found a woman only a few inches taller than me with mossy green skin and otherworldly eyes that changed in the light. A thatchberry crown sat at her temple and wildflowers adorned her braid.

“A dryad?” I replied befuddled.

She scowled at me and pressed a very small but very sharp blade into my sternum. “What are you doing here?” She glanced beyond me down the path as if expecting something else.

I fingered the cut the blade made in my favorite tunic and sighed. “I need a dozen thatchberries for the King, please.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” I fired back. “I said please.”

“I do not give freely to thieves.” She spat back, her eyes going wild for a moment before taming the fire inside.

“I was not stealing anything!” I gestured to the castle visible through the dead trees. “These are on castle grounds!”

She pressed the blade in a fraction, and I stepped back as a dark spot appeared on my tunic. “I knew this place when the only towers were these trees. This is my tree.”

I wondered how long she had been out here, alone. Dryads are connected body and soul to the trees they inhabit. If the tree dies, so does the dryad. I could not help but glance around at the dead grove.

“I meant no offense.” I tried my best to smile. The dryad recoiled. Making me stop in my tracks. I patted my pockets and cursed that I had left my satchel with Cuddlepip. “The king is ill.” I implored. “He will die without the cure.”

The dryad gestured toward the grove and forlornly added. “They all died because of them. Shall I return the favor?” She dropped the knife to her side as she inspected me closely. “When you return with something I want, I will be willing to negotiate.”

“What do you want?”

“You will have to figure it out.” I sighed as if his life was over because it very well may have been.  “On your way.” She lifted the blade and absentmindedly picked at something in her teeth as I threw her a cold furious stare.

***

I returned in the dead of night. Extinguishing my lantern before the river was visible, I followed the path illuminated by a sliver of moonlight to the single living thatchberry tree this side of Elyndora. I had returned furious to the castle when the dryad had rejected me that first day and buried my nose in every book I could find on tree dryads in the king’s expansive library. Apparently, they were morning fae and slept deeply in the night.

I wore all black with a dark hood and a scarf to conceal my blond beard.

Just a few more feet. I jumped every time the forest breathed and tested each stone I stepped upon, praying to the gods the dryad had not set a booby trap.

“What are you doing?” A small lantern shone at the base of the tree. All I could see of her face were eyebrows raised above midnight black eyes. “Did you think I would be sleeping with a thief afoot?” She held up her other hand to show the knife from earlier and I drew back. “Try again.”

***

King Roger was fading fast. I cursed myself for not realizing a fae male would never be as hearty as a gnome. When I went to see him, he could not rise from his bed. I could not bear to tell him of the dryad and my failure, so I lied and said I was close.

Raiding the King’s coffers, I filled my satchel with enough jewels and coin for the dryad to be rich.  

Approaching, I found her already waiting for me. “What is your name?” I called. She acknowledged me warily and looked behind me to see if there were others.

It was morning and her eyes shined with the golden sunlight peeking through the boughs of her tree. “Why?”

“Why not?”

“Cleare.” She hesitated. “And you are Bristlebeard the third? I knew your father.” The admission shocked me.

“How?” She walked to the tree next to hers and caressed its brittle bark.

“He visited often when this was a thriving thatchberry grove. He would bring us all sugarplume pie and he’d sit right there.” She gestured to a large stone that jutted from the earth. “And share stories of you and your sister.”

That meant the grove had died within the last fifty years. I wondered how old she was, but figured it was rude to ask another immortal. “My father never told me about this place.” I said. “Even when he was dying.” I didn’t add that the berries of her tree would have saved him.

Cleare shook her head sadly. “He swore to never share the location.”

Then how had Roger’s father found it?

“Please. I only need a dozen.” I whipped my satchel forward as Cleare flinched. “No, not weapons. Gifts.”

At the word ‘gifts’ her wariness faded slightly to show a glimmer of interest. She moved toward him and he glanced down, amazed to see her feet leaving no imprint or mark.

She reached a delicate hand inside and sifted around before wrinkling her nose. “Agh.” She added, disgusted. “What do I need with gold and riches?”

“What more do I have to give?” I was desperate as I knew King Roger’s health was declining rapidly. He only had a few days.

“This is my home. I need no money or gold. Your father understood. Why do you not? Go. Come back when you have something more to offer.”

***

I could not believe her. I could not believe him. How could my father not tell me about the grove? It would’ve saved his life. I cursed him for his principles. Of course, he had let himself die because he promised a bunch of tree fairies he wouldn’t tell them about their damned grove.

I cringed at my own line of thinking. She was alone now and the others had died off anyways. Had she not been punished enough?

Or had my father told me and I did not remember? I gazed at the floor of my cottage and tried to recall the contours of his face or the sound of his voice, but he was a shadow.

“All alone out there.” I murmured to myself as Cuddlepip burst through our front door.

“Where have you been?” She was angrier than I had ever seen, her beard a dark purple. “And why are you lying to the king?”

How had my quest to save him turned into me being yelled at by tiny females? I fell onto the nearest stool and covered my face with my hands.

“I cannot do it.” I murmured.

“Do you mean you could not find it?”

“No. I found the thatchberry tree, but Cleare will not let me near it.”

“Cleare?” Cuddlepip’s tone had turned quizzical. “What is that?”

“Tis’ a who. A dryad. It is her tree. The last in a secret grove.” A warm hand rested on my shoulder. I fought the urge to reach up and hold it. “She has been out there for decades, I think, keeping it safe.” I did not add that our father knew.

“All by herself?” Cuddlepip’s tone had morphed. “How lonely.”

I sat up so fast, my head swam. As I waited for my eyesight to clear I looked at Cuddlepip. “That is it.” I pointed to her. “I need you.” She gave me a wary smile as she bounced with excitement.

“You need me?”

***

“Right over here.” I led Cuddlepip down the secret path to the river. She gasped when she saw the grove beyond and the single Thatchberry tree. “Cleare!” I called. “I brought someone to meet you.”

She materialized out of thin air at the edge of the river, blocking the entrance to her grove. “Who is this?”

“My sister, Cuddlepip.” At her name, the dryad gave a wry smile.

“Your father spoke of you often.” Figuring the dryad would share about our father, I had clued Cuddlepip in on the walk over. Instead of shock and hurt, Cuddlepip dropped my hand and forded across the narrow stream.

“Really? What did he say?” The dryad took a wary step back as Cuddlepip came right up to her, paying no attention to the knife she always seemed to carry. “Please, we never talk about father.” Cuddlepip didn’t look back at me, but I knew I was part of the we.

What I had not told her was that I could not anymore. Not that it was too painful but that they were no longer there, in my mind. I had tucked them into The Heartkeep until I was ready to mourn. King Roger’s illness made me realize that time was now. Once the king was well, I would travel to the capital and retrieve them.

The dryad softened, her shoulders falling as she tucked the knife into a holster in her ankle boot. “He said you were kind and funny and rarely stopped talking.”

My sister blushed. “Bristley would agree.” She hitched a thumb at me as I glowered at the ages-old family nickname. “I just have a lot to say.” Cleare bit her lip and glanced between me and my sister.

“I’d be open to hearing it.” She replied, her voice sounding hesitant as Cuddlepip grabbed her by the elbow and looked around until Cleare pointed to the raised stone and asked, “We could sit there?”

I watched in amazement as they abandoned me, unsupervised, in front of the thatchberry tree to huddle together beneath what I now realized was a sugarplume tree. Cleare materialized a bottle of amber wine and two cups. They cheered as I stared on, the tree behind them growing in tandem with the raising of their voices.

Cleare turned to me with a look in her eye and gestured to her tree. “Get what you need.”  The sagging bow I’d targeted each time tapped my shoulder. I turned and held out my hand before a hysterical laugh sounded and a wave of thatchberries rained down on me.