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“Ah, no,” the young man said, scratching his head of curly red hair. “I’m his uncle. My name’s Barnard. Little Robin here was my sister Amelia’s boy. She was grand, Amelia was, and a magnificent mother besides, but she and her man Greggor perished in a fire that took their home. It was a terrible thing. A spark from the hearth lit the straw on the floor and the whole place went up. The roof was cavin’ in when Robin came runnin’ out. Ran right into my arms, he did.”

Both his parents dead? Petyr regarded the little boy he’d traveled with for so many miles. There was so much they’d never known.

“He was always quick on his feet,” Barnard added. “I’m the one who taught him to walk.” He seemed quite proud of this fact. “It’s me who cares for him now, as best I can. I was worried sick, sure, when he disappeared. Blamed myself through and through. I didn’t watch after him close enough. Let him roam about on his own too often. Should have kept him with me all the time, kept him by my side.” He sighed and kissed his nephew on the head. “But the truth of it is, I didn’t have the heart. He was so forlorn after his parents passed. He stopped talking altogether, though he’d never been much of a talker to start with. His only joy was roamin’ through the village, helpin’ all the ladies with their work. They’d give him little jobs to do, loved him deeply, every one of them. He’s the darling of the whole town. Loves to help out, Robin does.”

Two boys with mischievous faces ran up to them, their arms bulging with fruit and loaves of bread. The townsfolk were spreading out a small feast.

“Robin, come eat with us!” one of the boys cried, a peach rolling off of his pile. Robin waved at them, but shook his head. He wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.

“Get on with you,” Barnard cried, shooing the boys away. “Robin’s right tuckered out. He’ll come find you when he wants you.”

Though Petyr longed to join in the merriment, there was so much he still wanted to know. “How did he come to be in the forest?” he asked.

“Well isn’t that just the question?” Barnard replied. “These trees here,” he gestured to the forest, then realized the oaks were no longer there. “These trees that
were
here,” he corrected himself, “they wouldn’t let a mouse get through. Not one person from the village has ever ventured into that wood, though I do know of one who came out. So, when Robin up and vanished, we just couldn’t make it out. He must have gone in, there wasn’t any other place he could have gone, but we just couldn’t see how.

“He’d been having awful dreams, nightmares you might call them, ever since his parents passed. Personally, I think he was feelin’ the guilt of having kept on livin’ while his Mum and Pap … Well, there wasn’t no sense in that. I told him it was only right that a little one like him should live. But I don’t think he heard me. He’s awful clever, Robin is. Much cleverer than me, that’s sure. He thinks things through on his own and comes up with his own answers, and I think his answer was that it was all his fault, poor lad. I think those dreams were tellin’ him so.

“On the morning he disappeared he had another one of those dreams, and I saw him standin’ in the close looking off at the trees. I should’ve known. I should’ve put it together. Probably thought he was no good to anyone. Probably thought he had to be punished.” The young man shrugged his shoulders. “But what does all that matter now? He’s come home to us, safe and sound. He’s back!”

Petyr and Barnard began to make their way through the crowd.

“You call him Robin?” Petyr said, as Old Brice greeted him with a stately nod and a smile. You really did it, boy, the nod seemed to say.

“Robin, the songbird,” Barnard replied, tickling his nephew about the ribs. The little boy giggled. “Always has a tune on his lips, our Robin does. Didn’t he ever hum a song for you that whole time he was with you? Little Robin can’t go a day without takin’ up some melody. He loves the mournful ones best of all, because those were the ones Amelia favoured. She’d sing him to sleep, she would. Sing him into his dreams.”

Alina and Emelota began to pull on Petyr’s hands, urging him away. Petyr reached out and pinched Robin’s nose. Robin smiled at him.

“You’re home,” Petyr said.

“Home to stay,” his uncle agreed.

Robin wrapped his arms around his uncle’s neck and looked out at the sea, at the sky. The sunlight graced his cheeks, warming his body like a blanket, holding him.

He was home.

As Petyr joined the fray, taking up a cup of ale, he was swarmed by the crowd. Old Thurstan Turvey ordered him to take a seat at his side and tell him the tale of his journey.

“Yes!” The throng was unanimous. “Tell us how it went. Do tell!”

Petyr couldn’t think where to begin.

Only one other got equal attention, an older man from the town below whom many knew by name. He stood taller than most, though somewhat stooped with age, and his eyes held a certain sadness that came from a life of loss. He ambled among the villagers, greeting many, and he asked the same question to each friend he met.

As he spoke with Milo Carberry, Petyr turned to listen.

“Have you seen my daughter?” the man said.

“What’s her name?” Petyr asked.

The man looked at him for a moment, his eyes lingering on the little girl in his lap.

“Shallah,” he said. “Her name is Shallah.”

Shallah hung back in the trees, listening to the din of voices. It was just like being in Trallee where she’d always kept herself apart, listening from afar. It was comforting to know that though her home was gone, she could still find it in these voices, these people. Soon, she would join them, but not yet.

She’d one thing left to do.

The ground leading through the trees was patterned with footprints, the white powder no longer smooth, but alive with movement. She added her own prints to the rest, pausing in the shadow of the cedars.

She’d come to the end. The forest destroyed behind her, there was no going back.

Blind and weak and afraid, she’d found her way. She’d survived.

“I’m here,” she said to herself. “I made it.”

She placed a hand on the nearest tree, leaning her cheek against its tough bark. These trees, the last left standing, wouldn’t last long. Already their branches hung low, their needles fell. They’d been left here for a purpose.

They were left here for me, Shallah thought.

She stroked the grooves beneath her fingers. A tree just like this one had led her to lose her sight. These trees had enclosed her village, had kept them afraid and alone. She’d lived all her life among them. She’d climbed them, sheltered beneath them, hid behind them. She’d hated them and she’d loved them.

Soon, they would be no more.

Shallah remembered something her father told her once. The trees watch over us, he said. They keep us together, keep us safe. They keep out the light. They are our walls, and our doorways. But a door is meant to be opened. All you have to do is walk though.

He told her that, and a few days later he was gone.

She breathed deeply of the mossy scent of the wood.

“Goodbye,” she said softly, and walked through.

When Shallah emerged from the wood the wind began to blow. It picked at the blankets laden with food, and tossed more than one lady’s kerchief. It sent an empty basket tumbling over the cliff, the children chasing after to watch its descent. It snatched a bit of blue cloth right out of a leather pouch and carried it out to sea.

Shallah’s hair was pulled free of its hood, the gusts tugging fiercely at her curling locks and tattered skirts. Her cloak blew up in her face, blocking her momentarily from view.

She fell to her knees.

It is said her father was at her side in moments. It is said Petyr took her up in his arms and carried her down the path to the village below.

It is said she wept.

For in that instant, as Shallah raised her eyes to the sun for the second time in her life, she found she could see again.

The End