"You must learn from the trees, Mary. A lightning bolt, a cruel axe,
cleaves a trunk nearly to the root, and the oak writhes in agony. But
it does not die. It continues. And though the hard and knotted scars
of healing are not pleasant to look upon, they are stronger, many
times stronger, than the virgin wood. You must learn from the trees,"
she repeated. "It is among their boughs and earthward tracings that
the true gods are found."
"You're not a Christian, then?" This simple non-belief seemed to her
incomprehensible.
"Nay, Mary, I'm not. The gentle Jesus may comfort the meek, but he is
of little use when it comes to vengeance." The woman stopped, knowing
she had said more than she intended. But perhaps this much of the
truth was for the best. She would have to know soon enough, anyway.
"There are other powers, closer to hand, that give the strong a reason
to go on living."
The younger woman studied her in silence, and all the awe and fear of
her that she had felt since childhood returned. She remembered the
chant, the flaming branch.
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