Nee’lahn led the boy to the circle of spectators. Once there, she took her place and guided the boy ahead of her. “Go on, Rodricko. You know what to do.”
He glanced up to the nyphai’s face. His eyes were the same violet as Nee’lahn’s, and his hair the same color of warm honey. “Yes, Mama.” He let go of her hand and ventured out into the center of the circle.
The boy glanced at those gathered around him. He bit his lower lip, clearly shy of so many faces peering down at him. But he did not falter. He crossed to where stone ended and freshly turned loam began. Along with the repair of the courtyard, the blasted root of the old koa’kona tree had been dug up from the central yard, and clean soil had been hauled in to fill the space. Nothing had been sown here by the gardeners. It was as if they had innately known that only one thing could be planted in this particular place.
Another koa’kona.
Little Rodricko, named after the caretaker of Nee’lahn’s own tree, stepped from the stone to the soft loam with a large seed clutched in his tiny hand. It was the seed from which he had been born, and now he was returning it to the soil.
He dropped to his knees, put the seed aside, and began to dig a hole. Once it was as deep as his own elbow, he straightened and grabbed up his seed. He glanced over his shoulder to Nee’lahn, who smiled proudly at his efforts. She gave him a small nod.
The child dropped the seed into the hole and slowly pulled handfuls of soil over it. Elena heard him sniff and wipe at his eyes. After being joined for so long—boy and seed together—this was certainly a difficult act, a rite of passage for the boy.
Once done, he climbed back to his feet. He stared down at his handiwork.
Nee’lahn coaxed him gently. “Go on, Rodricko. Try.”
The boy turned to his mother, tears glimmering in his eyes.
“Go on, my love.”
He nodded and swung back, lifting a hand over the newly filled hole.
Elena held her breath, as did everyone else. Nee’lahn clutched both her hands to her neck, clearly praying. The original koa’kona had died here, its roots drowned in saltwater when the island sank. Er’ril had warned Nee’lahn that this was not fit ground to plant the first new koa’kona. But Nee’lahn had been sure the boy’s seed-dropping on this shore was a sign. “A male has never been born to my people,” the nyphai had explained. “The boy is special, so certainly his tree must be unique. Maybe it will thrive where another could not.”
The boy continued to stand with his hand over his planted seed. Slowly, a slight greenish glow seemed to flow over the boy, as if the sunlight overhead were filtering through unseen leaves.
Nee’lahn made a small sound—half sob, half sigh of joy.
From the soil between the boy’s toes, a small green shoot wriggled up and climbed into the sunshine. It was bright and healthy and pure.
“It’s rooting,” Er’ril said, turning to her, his eyes huge with amazement.
She reached an arm around his waist and hugged him.
A cheer arose from the others. The little boy turned in a slow circle, a wide smile on his little face. Nee’lahn rushed forward and scooped him in her arms, kissing his cheek.
Elena watched Nee’lahn with the boy and sank deeper into Er’ril’s arms. She stared at the little green shoot poking from the dark soil. It stood for so much: life from death, a new cycle beginning. Tears rose to her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Er’ril asked.
She could not answer. Her heart was too full. She glanced to the others, wounded but somehow surviving, celebrating. To her, to all of them, the green sprig represented one other thing.
Hope.
AND HERE I’LL end this section of Elena’s tale, on a moment of hope, balanced on the tender leaves of new growth. All that remains is one last chapter, one last battle, one last chance. From here, all that has been hidden will be revealed. Truths will burn, lies will heal, and hearts will be broken upon a single word.
So enjoy this one scintillating moment in time. Savor it like the crystalline drop of the finest wine on the tongue. But know this: nothing lasts forever.
Not wine, not hope, not love . . . not even a wit’ch.
James Clemens was born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1961. With his three brothers and three sisters, he was raised in the Midwest and rural Canada. He attended the University of Missouri and graduated with a doctorate in veterinary medicine in 1985. The lure of ocean, sun, and new horizons eventually drew him to the West Coast, where he established his veterinary practice in Sacramento, California. He is the author of Wit’ch Fire, Wit’ch Storm, and Wit’ch War. Under the name James Rollins, he is also the author of the national bestseller Subterranean.
Books By James Clemens
Wit’ch Fire
Wit’ch Storm
Wit’ch War
Wit’ch Gate
Wit’ch Star
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A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2001 by Jim Czajkowski
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York,.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Clemens, James.
Wit’ch gate / James Clemens.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PS3553.L3927 W55 2001
813’.54—dc2I 2001037999
eISBN: 978-0-345-44958-0
v3.0
James Clemens, Wit'ch Gate (v5)
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