16. The Redwood

Bathed in creamy orange afternoon sun and framed by the blue-gray band of the Mississippi, Micah vibrated with anxiety as he stepped barefooted into the fire pit in the heart of Lilydale. His dark green corduroys were cuffed above his ankles beneath an open flannel shacket. Intricate lines of his chest tattoo peeked out beneath the slouchy collar of his shirt underneath, his mulberry necklace glinting with the same gold glow as the loops of metal through his stretched earlobes.

Andrew reveled in watching Micah work, in the smudge of dirt across Micah's squared chin which was dusted with green stubble, in the lively flush in his cheeks. It made Micah look like he was returning to the earth to join the twelve saplings he'd planted in a ring around the perimeter of Lilydale.

In order to ensure that his trees would be an effective ward, Micah wanted all other barriers around Lilydale taken down. Over the last two weeks, the Folk had dismantled the crumbling cobblestone fence left there from ages past. Ingrid had allowed the Agassiz ice wall to melt away with the warming of the air indicating oncoming spring. Even though the ice wall had only turned to water that morning, its sudden absence made Lilydale look undressed and vulnerable over the limestone cliff that dropped down toward Pickerel Lake.

Standing in the center of the fire pit, Micah tamped down his birchwood staff until it remained erect in the soot and soil between his feet. He glanced to his right where Syabira knelt with a mound of dirt in her cupped hands with twelve neatly clipped buds vividly green against the darkness of the soil, each leaf erected like a flag and creating the impression of a microcosmic forest. Delicately, with his right hand curled around his staff, Micah plucked the serrated rowan leaf from Syabira's collection and held it near his lips.

"Luis," he whispered, marking the Ogham symbol for rowan in the soot beneath his feet. "Will you bring your protection to Lilydale?" His nightshade gaze flicked toward his one o'clock. Northwest, the rowan sapling was planted within a circle of red-capped mushrooms, and it reached for the leaf between Micah's fingers only to find his magic and the magic of the land urging it to grow, to thrive. Happy to oblige, the tree of protection reared toward the sky with a creaking, growling rumble. Fanned out on the amphitheater steps leading to the kiln throne, several of the Folk squeaked and gasped in alarm, pointing at the rapidly growing rowan tree. Others happily sipped honey mead or clapped in quiet admiration. When it settled, the rowan stood taller and fuller than most of its naturally growing counterparts, settling at about forty feet tall and framed by a puff of soft white clouds. Its branches were overflowing with the early arrival of rustling leaves where the surrounding trees were just beginning to bud. Around it, the forest grew quiet, curious, attention turning to this impressive display of natural power. Deer in their hidden beds lifted velvety heads to peer at the rowan tree through dark glassy eyes.

"Well?" Andrew stepped closer to the fire pit, reaching a nervous hand out to grasp Micah's wrist. "Do you feel all right?"

Micah smiled. Soft green highlights shimmered on his skin—his brow and cheekbones and clavicle—as he was trading magic back and forth with his staff. "Better than all right. That was thrilling." He set the rowan leaf in Andrew's outstretched hand, and Andrew placed it carefully inside the clay pot they would use to preserve each leaf from the tree ring. "Chamomile?"

"I'm ready!" Her voice drifted across the compound as she waved an enormous spear of aloe vera over her head.

"Go ahead and use the gel to mark a ring around the trunk. Tell me when it's whole!"

Barefooted, Chamomile danced lightly around the rowan, its heavy red berries brushing the crown of her loose silver hair as aloe dripped down her wrist. She whistled a high, pure note when she'd completed the line of syrupy green.

Micah smiled, glancing toward the tall stump where his sister watched him, her eyes a warm rosy pink as she sipped from a goblet of wine. Both her legs were bare beneath an oversized sweater that slouched off one shoulder. Crossed over her left leg, her right foot bobbed softly.

The second leaf he picked up had the smooth spikes of a bur oak. Giving the stem a twirl, he breathed on the oak leaf. Then with a slender charcoal stick, he made a mark on its pale underbelly.

"Dair—join with us by offering your strength." At Micah's two o'clock, the oak as much as the rowan was ready to grow in thunderous spurts, bark snapping as it slotted together so loudly that it echoed over the river plain. Soaring to its full, magicked height, it dwarfed the rowan tree and truly the other trees in the area, only coming to settle when it was at least a hundred feet tall. Its spreading branches brushed its neighbors but kindly respected the space they took up, weaving between but not butting up into them. Nearby, a barred owl blinked from the burrow in its own oak tree to assess just how soon it could move into the protection of this new, holy tree. Chamomile marked its enormous trunk and whistled when she was done, and so Micah moved on.

Three o'clock was an alder tree, fern, to promote spiritual health and creativity. Tiny brown cones hung among its leaves; one jiggled so much it snapped free and plunked on Chamomile's head as she marked its trunk with aloe. She yelped, but picked up the cone and slipped it into the pocket of her white velvet dress before whistling.

Ceirt, an apple tree, grew luscious First Kiss apples Syabira procured from the University of Minnesota. The apple tree would encourage rest and mental wellness, continuing the feelings Micah had over the last six weeks he'd spent recovering. Several of the Folk bounded over to pick off a few of the fruits, laughter like a sweet breeze in the afternoon air.

Next at five o'clock was coll, a hazel tree for enlightenment, not growing tall but full and almost fluffy with leaves. Chamomile's whistle came, and Micah moved on to the sixth, then seventh, then eighth and ninth and tenth trees. A white fir, a willow, an ash, an aspen, and a heather tree now hemmed in Lilydale, dense branches touching in at least one place and creating an uninterrupted loop with only two trees left to close the gap. Much like the enchanting effects of a ring of Folk, of mushrooms, of a marriage band, the twelve guardians would stand watch and turn away the eyes and the curiosity of wayward humans. Even those hiking off the path and brushing the boundaries of the trees would be turned around, disoriented by the impression that maybe they saw something between the trees, but unable to grasp the thought for long enough to glimpse the faerie compound.

Hands on his hips, Andrew balked at the newborn trees as his precious gravelly chuckle tumbled from his lips. Fionna in her wolf form was by his calves, her big gray-brown tail thumping against the limestone. She opened her jaws and lolled out her tongue as if to taste all the new sharp, sweet fragrances from the ten trees.

"Micah—" Andrew laughed again, swiping his hand through his windswept hair. He looked handsome in a maroon cardigan over a cream-colored turtleneck that was tucked into his black jeans he wore over tan chelsea boots. "When I met you, one tree was a feat—now a whole army!" Heedless of the soot, Andrew stepped into the fire pit to throw his arms around Micah's shoulders, squeezing him tightly until Micah couldn't help but laugh with him. Even though the ritual was yet to be complete, the tense anticipation in Lilydale had eased. In its place was a wooly sense of safety like that of a swaddled baby, the brittle winter air warming to

"I'm not done, babe." Micah gave Andrew's waist a squeeze and used it as an anchor as he stepped out of the fire pit with his staff and moved toward the eleventh mushroom ring. The turned soil within did not have a sapling. With barely more than a passing thought, Micah grew a twig from his sturdy birchwood staff. He gently snapped it off before he knelt and pushed it into the patch of dirt, building it up around the stick into a mound. Micah had hardly pulled his hands back before the white birch eagerly wriggled roots into the soil, the sensation making Micah's nose tickle so strongly that he gasped and sneezed. Promptly, as if in some sort of call and response, the birch twig cast off its diminutive size and erupted. Micah fell back and landed on his ass, laughing, cradling his birchwood staff against his chest. The creamy white trunk was as wide as his thigh in a matter of seconds.

It broke into three mighty channels as it went, becoming an enormous birch tree with the golden sunlight shafting through it and turning their heart-shaped leaves into precious emeralds.

Micah, humming happily, leaned forward to hug the trunk of the birchwood and pressed his cheek to the curling bark while he frowned at the twelfth spot. A wave of anxiety rolled over him, turning his stomach into a painful knot. He clung desperately to the birch as if it could save him from the demand of the final sapling.

"I can't grow a redwood here." Micah's voice warbled, a thin and childish plea to be rescued. "What about a—a maple? Or even a cedar." Andrew's fingers brushed along the nape of Micah's neck and shot fireworks beneath his skin. He swallowed. "I—I know Ingrid went through the trouble of going out to Washington to get the sapling, but…I just can't bear the constant reminder."

"Of what?" Andrew knew what Micah meant. He remembered his hours in the Redwoods vividly. The sharp, earthen smell. The mossy, deep orange bark wrapped around the eldritch giants made Andrew feel smaller than anything else ever had. Andrew knew Micah wasn't talking about the trees themselves. Andrew had been on his knees before the Redwood Queen and felt the terror her horrible presence inflicted. It would be a lie to pretend as if the sight of a redwood tree here in Minnesota wouldn't also make him think of that wicked Queen.

Micah blinked hard, shifting so his forehead pressed against the tree instead, taking a shuddering breath. "I came to Lilydale to escape that place. And now I want to erect an enormous monolith that will remind me of my mother every day I'm here?"

"The Redwoods are in your blood," Andrew reminded him.

Revulsion made Micah twitch violently as bile rose in his throat. Darkness swirled into his eyes. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Feeling like he couldn't avoid it, he scooted himself on his knees over to the little redwood sapling. It sort of looked like a pipe cleaner. Small enough to fit between his palms, pliable, innocent. Like Micah had been as a child among the savage Folk of the Redwoods. But those monsters had made a sport of his humiliation and fear. His stomach knotted again and saliva flooded his mouth.

"Micah." Andrew brushed his lips against the smooth divot behind Micah's ear, smelling the tang from his gold earring. "You're in Lilydale. You're safe. And you came up with this plan to keep this place safer."

"I can't do this." Micah reached around to grip Andrew's elbow until Andrew slid both arms around his waist. The warmth was welcome, the smell of almond and honey soothing as a cup of tea. "I should have dealt with all that trauma sooner." Tears stung his eyes, turning them into glistening amethysts. "Twenty-two years trying to escape it, and that's what it comes down to, huh? Can't even bear the smell of the magic I grew up around. Can't do what my people need from me because I'm stunted."

"Micah!" Andrew pressed his palm flat into Micah's chest as if in this way he could steady the wildly hammering heart within. "People try to avoid their painful pasts for good reason. It's never too late to deal with it, but being angry at yourself right now as you're trying to finish this ritual is just cruel." Andrew's left hand massaged Micah's stomach until there was at last a shift in his breathing, a steady slow down.

Micah was only getting his shit together for Andrew's sake. His body was so accustomed to running from the Redwoods that he vividly imagined leaping off the cliff even if it meant tumbling into the Mississippi. His body was desperate to continue the denial, to bury the Redwoods in that shallow grave in the corner of his mind. But his dumb ass had planted this sapling right outside of Lilydale thinking it would be some sort of full circle exercise. And maybe it would be, but he hadn't anticipated the sheer emotional havoc that would accompany it. Of course he hadn't. For as much work as Andrew had done reconciling with his past, Micah had sat on his ass and let him do it without sparing a single thought to his own ghosts.

So now, on this afternoon two weeks before his wedding, Micah allowed himself to focus on the deep and tender touch of Andrew's hand on his stomach. "Pickerel. Saint Paul. Minneapolis. That eagle's nest across the river." He lifted his left hand. "My engagement ring." Micah laid one hand on the soil and the other over Andrew's. "Soil. Your knuckles, and the tiny hairs there. My flannel, and your wool cardigan." He ran his fingers through Andrew's loose red hair. "Your silky hair."

Andrew realized what he was doing. He nuzzled into Micah's neck and grew quiet. "And what do you hear?"

Micah smiled faintly. "Your accent. A delightful combination of Minnesotan, Londoner, and Irish. You've literally made it up. You've decided how people will hear you and trained yourself to talk like that."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Andrew smirked against Micah's neck.

"Traffic on 35." Micah glanced at the highway crossing over the river toward the south. "And the wind in the trees, which are getting ready for spring and sounding like grumpy old men about it." Andrew chuckled. Micah didn't need to count the sound for his grounding exercise, but truthfully Andrew's joy was hard-earned and moved Micah deeply. "I smell you—almonds, honey, and lemon balm tea. I smell this little redwood, which didn't do anything wrong, did it? It's just starting out. Its future is yet to unfold."

"That's right." Andrew brushed the chilled skin of Micah's jaw with his lips before twisting around his square shoulders. He used cold fingers to turn up Micah's chin. "And what do I taste like?"

A thrill of warmth bloomed between them as their lips met and Andrew teased open Micah's mouth with his tongue. Micah could taste the baklava Julian had served them earlier, as well as bittersweet notes of tea. Andrew settled himself across Micah's lap, arms around his neck, lapping up the mulberry taste rolling off Lord Heartwood that had started it all.

He untangled their mouths and pulled back, a gleaming thread of moisture stretching between their slick lips. "Can you focus your power to grow the redwood while you kiss me? I want to see if I can feel it."

Micah gave him a crooked smile. "If you insist." Leaning them both forward, Micah buried the root of the birchwood staff between his knees and pressed his palms into the damp soil on either side of the redwood sapling. With a hum of delight, Andrew sank once more against Micah's mouth, while Micah tried very hard to think about what it would be like to have his own solitary redwood standing over Lilydale. His own mother watching coldly over him. Andrew felt the change in Micah's thoughts as a subtle clench of teeth, and in response, Andrew insistently drummed his fingers on Micah's shoulders and squirmed until Micah resumed a more languid kiss. It was a few more breaths before the redwood sapling even budged, and when it did, it barely grew more than an inch. Micah could feel how pitifully it changed, but Andrew clutched his face with both hands.

"Let it choose its pace. Nobody wants to be rushed."

"I need it for the—"

But Andrew stopped Micah's words with another kiss even though it provoked a moan of protest. Teasing him was making Andrew fight to keep a grin from stretching over his cheeks. Micah got the redwood to grow by about a foot before he fell onto his back with an enormous groan.

"I give up! I'm done." He scowled at the navy sky just beginning to be touched by the gold and magenta shades of a sunset. Ingrid's white legs stepped into his line of sight. "You do it, Red!"

"No."

He whined.

"You are too impatient."

Andrew waved a hand, sitting with knees up and the birchwood staff cradled in his arm. "That's what I'm saying!"

"Oh, yes, please. Gang up on me. That's exactly what I need." Micah glared at the three foot tall redwood, its trunk about the thickness of his wrist. The problem wasn't the tree. It was his fear of it looming over him. It was his fear that he wouldn't be able to look at it without his past tearing at his throat like one of his mother's red hounds. He found it painfully difficult to imagine a scenario where a redwood tree here could simply live in the present. Micah sighed. "I don't think I need it to be…you know, three hundred feet tall to use it in my ward."

"Obviously." Ingrid spoke with a snide lilt to her words, but her eyes danced as she crouched near his head and hugged her legs.

"But I'm not sure a three foot tree is gonna offer much protection." He sat up and patted the wobbly trunk. "Let's get you to twenty feet, all right? That's nothing." He gently took his staff from Andrew and tapped the conduit against the redwood, and, after a moment, he asked the roots from the neighboring birch tree to come over. Then the rowan tree, just as young as the redwood but happy in its new heights. Not understanding, Andrew yelped and scrambled toward Ingrid and Micah as the barren ground bucked and rumbled. He clung to Micah's arm as the neighboring roots pitched in to encourage the little redwood, so it wasn't even Micah directing the growth anymore, but rather the other members of his ward, speaking for him when the trust between him and this little sapling was so tenuous.

A contented smile curved on Micah's lips as he let the power of the trees surge over him, like static dancing between his hand and a wool coat on the driest days of winter, like the pleasure of his favorite zucchini dish coating his tongue in flavor. Andrew leaned his cheek against Micah's shoulder, Ingrid propping her elbow on his other shoulder.

"The most natural of Micah solutions," said Ingrid. "Teamwork."

Eyes burning, Micah put his arms around both of them, crossed his legs, and tracked the progress of the timid redwood. Twenty feet arrived, and was surpassed. Thirty feet arrived before the redwood slowly creaked to a halt. A halo of spiky branches fanned out far above them, gilded gold by the sunset which limned the three foot wide trunk and cast a stripe of aubergine shadow across its dark side.

Micah and Andrew jumped as Chamomile twirled forth from the trunk's shadow. The aloe spear in her arms splattered thick green juice over all three of them sitting on the ground as she hummed and marked the tree with a wide, goopy line.

Andrew gasped, harmonized by a croon of delight from Micah. Her aloe mark lit up like a sparkler. Rustling like a downpour in a jungle rose to a nearly deafening volume, as all around them the ring of trees came to life like they were going to grow legs and become shepherds. Though the twelve anointed trees stayed where they'd been planted, their leaves roiled and multiplied and formed a solid hedge as the trunks became fence posts between which a spring-green film shimmered. Andrew reached out to brush his fingertips over it. As he suspected, the film vibrated like Micah's heartbeat. Sturdy and joyful, youthful and spry.

Micah eyed the forcefield with a skeptical raise of his brow. "So, the aloe marks need to be renewed on every new moon, and this guy—" He climbed to his feet and patted the redwood tree, trying to push away the memories that its remarkable smell kicked up in his olfactory. "I'll have to check him everyday as he grows to make sure the ring remains unbroken. But now that you're big enough to work with the others, we need to start implementing phase two."