In addition to his map of The Mainland, Wendell had supplied Torv with a rucksack with food, what medicine he could spare, a traveling cloak, and a staff for walking. The old man put his hands on Torv’s shoulders, rough palms on the worn cloak. Icarus flew down and perched on the staff held firmly in the boy’s grip. He ruffled his feathers before folding them neatly behind him.

-My boy, Wendell said.

-My boy must be protected. Do you understand?

-I...well I must admit I owe you quite a lot, Wendell Treeseer said, observing the stinging welts on his unnaturally waxy, reddened palms.

Branford Mannold looked up to the break in the canopy and kicked at the ashes of what had once been a grove of fruiting pear trees. He sat on his haunches and picked up clumps of the ash, letting it run through his fingers. He closed his fist tightly, the strain showing in the pulsing vein of his forearm. He squeezed as if he intended to force the ash to become stone.

-What will you do now?

-I will rebuild. My new home will grow well in this...newly-enriched soil.

-You believe, Branford began, standing up and dusting off his hands on his rough riding pants. That he will still come here? Will come to you?

-The Island Guard High Council seems to believe that they can destroy a place from the map, that by burning down my home and killing me they can make a prophecy invalid. Even if I am gone by then, if this forest is underwater, or if it has become a desert...he will come. Things are not so easily disposed of, Wendell said, leaning down and brushing away a bit of ash to reveal a tiny, green clover. Don’t you see?

-Sir.

-Take care of my bird.

Torv did his best to follow Wendell’s final directive to him, but it was clear that Icarus was his own bird, belonging to no one, and certainly not beholden to Torv for his safety. The owl flew off periodically, only to return to his perch atop the walking staff. The owl seemed weightless when perched, and was no hindrance to Torv’s continued usage of the staff. In fact, had he not seen the bird’s presence with his own eyes, there would be no reason to think he wasn’t traveling alone.

They went along together in those early days through the dense forest that Icarus knew intimately, being well within his nightly hunting range from Wendell’s. They passed underneath hanging creepers and vines on which shining black beetles scurried at their interruptions, and over creeks tumbling over mossy boulders, and up and down mild inclines covered in carpets of the softest grass Torv had ever seen. When they sat to rest and drink, he laid back on it and could have taken a nap in the gentle sunlight dappling through the leaves had Icarus not nipped his nose in irritation.

Each night was the same in those early days. Torv would find a place to sleep beneath the upturned roots of a fallen tree, or a smaller mammal’s forgotten den, or in the worst of scenarios, the lower branches of a climbable tree. He pulled his traveling cloak over his eyes, listening to the soothing, rhythmic hum of the summer cicadas and allowed sleep to take him. Wendell would counsel him in his dreams, tell him to remain vigilant, to consult his map frequently, and to rely on Icarus as guide if he was to get lost.

For a brief time, Torv almost let himself forget that he was on the run, that he was pursued by those who wished him dead, and that his life was on the edge of a knife. In the meanwhile, Wendell paced his house endlessly, well-aware that the boy and the owl were nearing the edges of his protection. Not for much longer could he befuddle the dreams of the guards in pursuit, and not for much longer could he guide the boy’s feet and thoughts in tandem with Icarus. Soon, he would be alone again, on his own, without rest or relaxation. With every step, Torv brought himself closer to danger. Wendell Treeseer could not say out loud what he was doing, could not admit to himself he wished for nothing more than a normal life for the boy in which these troubles were far away.

-I wish, Branford said, a normal life could be carved out in the midst of this chaos. I wish you could see him, Wendell, the baby. He’s beautiful.

Wendell looked over his shoulder from his work at his friend, favoring him with a smile.

-Some help, Branford?

Together, they used the ivy Wendell grew in pots along the streambank to tie the saplings together along the stakes in the ground. His home was not the grand place Torv would see in later years. The ceiling was still plank boards, but the walls were growing...growing...all the while.

-This ivy, Wendell said. It’s beautiful isn’t it?

-Yes, it is. But I fear you aren’t listening to me. My son, Wendell. Surely…

-It grows along streams in the wild at elevation. Did you know that? Some call it the swing vine as it can be used as a child’s amusement quite easily. It’s exceedingly strong. Do you know why?

Branford Mannold sighed.

-Why, Wendell?

-It needs weighted pressure to grow properly. When I cultivate it, I must place heavy stones on top of the sprouts, or they will wither and die. These vines are frequently found holding up vast river stones, bigger than you or I. What you would think of as a crushing weight...it makes them strong, Branford. Very strong.