Spirit Walker by Michelle Paver Read Free Book Online

sound of a falling tree-
and it was falling his way.
His sleeping-sack was twisted around his legs, he couldn't get free. Wriggling like a caterpillar, he
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squirmed through the entrance hole. Struggled to his feet--hopped--fell--narrowly missed the fire--and threw himself sideways into the ferns just as the tree crashed onto the shelter.
    Sparks shot upward. Dark branches swayed and came to rest.
Torak lay among the ferns: heart pounding, sweat chilling his skin. He'd checked for storm-weakened trees, he knew he had. Besides, there was hardly any wind. That laughter. Malevolent, yet horribly childlike. It hadn't been only in his dreams.
Not daring to move, he waited till he was sure that nothing else was coming down. Then he went to inspect the ruins of the shelter.
A young ash had fallen across it, killing the three saplings and trapping his gear inside. With luck he could salvage the gear, which--by firelight at least-- appeared undamaged. But if he hadn't woken when he had, he would have been killed.
    And yet--if the Follower had wanted to kill him, why warn him by laughing? It was as if it was playing with him. Putting him in danger, to see what he would do. The fire was still burning. With a glowing brand in one hand and his knife in the other, he took a look at the ash tree.
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He found axe-marks. Small, crude blows. But effective.
This was odd, though. No tracks on the ground. No sign that someone had braced himself to hack at the tree.
Again he swept the ground with firelight. Nothing. Maybe he'd missed something, but he didn't think so. The one thing he knew about was tracking. With his finger he touched the oozing tree-blood. It was thickening. That meant the tree trunk had been cut some time before, then pushed over while he slept. He frowned. It's impossible to fell a tree in silence. Why hadn't he heard anything?
Then it came to him. He'd filled his waterskin at the river--which had drowned out other sounds.
As he stood there amid the dark and dying trees, he wished Wolf were with him. Nothing would get past Wolf. His ears were so keen that he could hear the clouds pass. His nose was so sharp that he could smell the breath of a fish.
    But Wolf isn't here,
Torak told himself savagely.
He's far away on the Mountain.
For the first time in six moons, he couldn't howl for his lost friend. He didn't like to think of who--or what--might answer his call.
It was past middle-night by the time he'd salvaged his gear and built another shelter, and he was numb
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with fatigue. He was also uneasily aware that he'd caused the deaths of three saplings. He could feel their souls hanging in the air around him: wistful, bewildered; unable to understand why they'd been robbed of their chance of becoming trees.
    It's your fault,
the older trees seemed to whisper.
You bring evil with you. . . .
This time, he didn't risk getting into his sleeping-sack. Instead he woke the fire, and sat in his new shelter with the reindeer hide around his shoulders and his axe on his knees. He didn't want sleep. He just wanted dawn to come. . . .
     
He awoke with a start. Again he had that feeling of being watched--but this time it was different. There was a smell in the air: hot, strong and familiar, a little like hedge mustard, although his sleep-fuddled mind couldn't place it.
    Then he saw the gleam of eyes on the other side of the fire. His hand tightened on his axe. "Who are you?" he said hoarsely.
The creature grunted.
"Who are you?" Torak repeated.
It moved into the light.
Torak tensed.
A boar. An enormous male, fully two paces from snout to tail, and heavier than three sturdy men. Its large, furry brown ears were pricked, and its small 67
clever eyes met Torak's warily.
Torak forced himself to stay calm. Boars don't usually attack unless they're wounded or defending their young; but an angry boar can move as fast as a deer, and is invincible.
     
"I mean you no harm," he told the boar, knowing it wouldn't understand but hoping his tone would