Tree Singer by Jacci Turner (best novels for beginners TXT) 📕

What was the emptiness, a feeling so dark it made her shiver with fear?

The imbalance of seasons . . . the emptiness . . . It felt as though nature had been knocked off its feet and couldn’t fight back.

She clutched at the branch, fearing she might be sick. What was the tree trying to tell her? :I don’t understand, Uncle. Help me understand.:

She listened closely, keeping her mind clear. But Uncle seemed to have said what he had to say.

A new feeling bubbled to life. A feeling she couldn’t identify. She found herself thinking about a walk she had taken with her mother when she was a few years younger than Wollemi. They were far from their homestead in a barren part of the forest where the ancient pinion pines grew. Mayten had just settled on a rock when she heard a rattling noise. She’d been jerked off the rock and shoved behind her mother. She watched her mother use her walking stick to beat a snake over and over and over.

After the snake was dead, Mother told her to always check for snakes before sitting. One bite from a snake like that one would kill a full-grown adult.

Mother’s voice shook as she explained. Even then, Mayten knew her mother had an overwhelming fear of snakes. She never went near a snake if it wandered close to the homestead, instead calling Da to carry the snake away.

Mayten remembered being terrified at first—of her mother. Mother had turned into a stranger acting to protect her child, not a woman who hated and feared snakes.

Something had strengthened her mother, made her brave enough to protect her child.

The violent death made Mayten feel scared—and protected.

The memories shifted, replaced by other images—of home. Taiwania singing, the twins laughing, Oleaster working, Wollemi holding up a kitten for her to see, her parent’s faces, eyes filled with love. The visions were so real she reached out her hand, wanting to pet the kitten—

She snatched back her hand, cradling it to her chest as though bit. Wollemi didn’t have a kitten. Their family had never had a kitten. Why was she seeing Wollemi with a kitten?

And the twins—their bellies looked even more swollen than when she’d left.

Was it possible her mother was sending pictures through the trees?

The thought created a jumble of questions—were these images of what was happening now? How long did it take a message to travel through the trees? Why was Mother sending the images? Was Mother sending them?

As though someone had dumped cold water on her head, the questions fled Mayten’s mind, leaving her clear-headed for the first time in days.

Of course, Mother had sent the images. Somehow she knew Mayten would need her family. She wanted Mayten to know her family loved her, that they were thinking of her.

Warmth flooded through her, filling the emptiness, driving out the pain. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. Mayten brushed the tears away, remembering her family, each wonderful face.

Peace settled over her, bringing with it a sense of calm. Joy lit the darkness she’d lived with since Hunter’s accident . . . and before.

She sat up straight, feeling the oak’s rough support against her back. She had to send a message back. To let Mother know about Hunter so she could send word to his parents in the Ocean Clan.

But how?

Mayten let the sadness and pain return as she focused on an image of their little group saying thanks-giving over Hunter’s still form. After a few moments spent concentrating on that image, she brought up an image of the three of them safely sitting on a log, then changed the image to one of Anatolian resting below her. Reluctantly, she focused on an image of Adven and his scowl. The clan needed to know he was alive, but she didn’t have to like sending it.

Exhausted, Mayten let the images slip from her mind. Her knees trembled, along with her hands and arms.

Would her sending work? Would Mother receive the images?

Guilt flashed through her as she realized she’d forgotten the most important message of all. Quickly, she cleared her mind, ignoring her exhaustion, and focused on the images received from the oak—the face of the man shown to her and the imbalance and emptiness.

That was the hardest of all. How did one picture emptiness? She finally settled on an image of dying trees.

Was this why she’d never heard of anyone communicating in this manner? Because it was so hard to put an image to feelings?

Would her mother be able to understand her message? Would she know what Mayten was trying to say?

On instinct, she focused on the memory of her mother saving her from the snake. The awe she felt at that memory, safe, loved, protected. That memory had helped her understand. Would it also convey to Mother how sorry Mayten was? Would her mother recognize it as her way of saying, “I’m sorry?”

Holding the memory in her mind, focused on the sending, Mayten felt a fierce, protective instinct fill her with strength and clarity.

She didn’t know when, she didn’t know how, but she would find out what or who was hurting her trees and she would stop it. That was a promise: to the trees, to herself, and to her mother.

Chapter Eighteen

Mayten scrambled from the tree and hurried back to the others, Anatolian at her heels.

Cather straightened, putting one hand on the rock, and stared at her, cheeks red. “Did you learn anything?”

Tray jumped to his feet and helped Cather stand as they both looked expectantly at her.

“Listen,” Mayten said. “I don’t really understand what I saw. There is something terrible happening to the trees. I can’t make any sense out of it yet, but we need to get going right now.”

“Okay, then.” Tray pulled on his pack, then helped Cather with hers. Mayten swung her pack from the ground and slid it on, shrugging her shoulders to settle the load as they headed down the trail.

Cather slowed her