Who Had Strength Enough To Pull Down The Moon

By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

Prologue: A Fear As Deep As Roots

He shouldn't have waited so long.

Staring at himself in the mirror despondently, he sighed. His eyes glinted green, an unusual moss green, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

It was roiling in his center, shivering through his bones painfully. It made his teeth chatter loudly, and he worried for a moment that one of his housemates might hear them clattering in the still of the night.

Well, he thought, no use waiting any longer.

It was oddly chilly for the time of year, he noticed as he wobbled unsteadily down the steps and onto the sand, but that thought was soon overwhelmed by the urge to wriggle his toes into the gritty soil beneath his feet, snake them down deep and stretch them out in all directions. He would drink deep of what the earth had to offer, grow tall and spread leaves into the night air…

Shaking himself, he lurched sideways, around to the corner of the house. He had meant to do this further away - at the park, perhaps, where the results would go unnoticed - but he'd waited until the last minute like a complete fool. He could barely make it far enough away from the bedrooms to reduce the risk of waking his friends.

He reached out as he sank to his knees, curling his fingers into the sand as deeply as he could, twisting and working until his hands were buried up to the wrist. Letting his eyes slip half-shut, he reached into his center, gathered up the fluttering strands of power, and pushed.

It was like a sledgehammer blow, echoing in his heart as it pounded down his arms, slamming into the earth from his fingertips silently, unstoppably. His bangs fluttered in front of his eyes, then stilled. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the sea behind him.

Then it burst from the sand not inches from his nose, thickening and aging and lurching high into the sky, branches rippling outward over his head. He could feel the roots, writhing downward and outward, roiling under his knees.

It groaned as it grew, deep and resonating, cracking alarmingly on occasion. Bark thickened and grew coarse, flaking off into his hair as vivid leaves burst forth with a sound like a thousand birds taking flight. The deep moan grew higher in pitch until, with a final, soft whine, everything stopped.

He sighed, clambering around to lean back against the tree he'd grown, his joints feeling too loose. He felt empty, hollowed out, as he always did after this. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly, but it certainly wasn't the most fun he'd ever had.

Letting his head fall back against the trunk, he stared up at the leaves and pursed his lips.

It was an oak.

A bur oak, actually. He knew, because there had been one in his backyard growing up. His great-grandfather, who had been an oak-y sort of man, had grown it decades ago. It had been the young shaman's favorite place to hide when things got tense within the walls of his childhood home.

Still, he was not pleased to see the tree he'd grown. It had always used to be hawthorn trees. He'd gotten very used to them being hawthorns. They were his trees, after all. He felt comfortable with them, anyway, which he certainly didn't with the oak. Not his own oaks, at least, because they weren't supposed to be oaks. It was jarring to see them springing up in front of him.

Trees (really, anything that was manifested out of natural energy) were specific to the individual, because besides the energy one absorbed from the world around them, one also put one's own energy into creating them. The work you did was always personalized by your aura, like a spiritual signature, and besides marking out what was yours to other shamans, it also played a role in shaping what you created.

He knew where he stood with hawthorns, because they reflected his deepest insides, his center. He had no idea what this new change represented, but he was sure he didn't like it. He was agitated all the time now, jittery and jumping at the smallest sounds. It was no wonder he'd been unconsciously drawing on the earth's energy so much lately - his body was trying to prepare him for something, something big.

Whatever it was, he hoped it didn't involve him. There was enough garden-variety weirdness surrounding the otherwise-average existences of the four musicians, and the last thing he needed was something really out-there invading their lives. He'd worked hard to keep his other life a secret from his friends, and he wasn't keen on being outed now.

Struggling to his feet, he gave his new tree a gentle pat. "Welcome to the world," he whispered, as he always did. It never hurt to be kind, after all, no matter how disconcerting the oak tree was. You never knew when you'd need a tree on your side.

He'd only just managed to wobble inside and over to the fridge (milk would help, he thought, milk always helped) when a soft, sleep-rough voice made him jump.

"Whatcha doin' up, Peter?"

Swallowing hard, Peter turned to meet Mike's curious gaze. The guitarist was leaning against the staircase, arms crossed, eyelids drooping ever-so-slightly. He didn't look too terribly threatening, even with the spooky way the shadows crept across his tired face, but Peter couldn't help the sudden surge of fear he felt.

Did he see?

Does he know?

What do I do if he does?

"U-um…m-m-milk," he stuttered out, holding up the nearly-empty bottle.

Mike blinked at him blearily. "Milk?"

"Uh…had trouble sleeping," Peter elaborated. "I thought some warm milk would help."

For a moment, Mike was still and silent, and Peter wondered if he'd fallen back asleep where he stood. Then the Texan sighed and shuffled over to his best friend, clasping his shoulder lightly. "Pete," he murmured, "you'd tell me if somethin' was bothering you, right? Only you've been actin' a bit…odd, even for you. So if somethin's goin' on-"

"No, Mike," he said quietly, feeling somehow pleased and guilty at the same time. "Nothing's going on - I'm just really awake tonight, I guess. What…what are you doing up?"

"Thought I heard something outside," came the reply, freezing Peter's breath in his lungs. "Peeked out, but I didn't see anything'."

No, Peter thought, he wouldn't have, would he? Not unless he'd gone outside and stuck his head around the corner. Peter let out a quiet, relieved breath. "Oh. I didn't hear anything. It was probably just me - I wanted to get some air, and I wasn't being very quiet on the stairs. I'm sorry."

He hated lying, hated how it tasted in the back of his throat, and he especially hated lying to Mike. His vertically-gifted friend had really been more like a brother for almost as long as they'd known each other - he looked out for the rest of them, guided them, comforted them, protected them. Mike was Peter's best friend, and it rankled that he had to keep such an important secret from the man.

He did have to, though, because it wasn't just Peter's secret to keep and to give away at will.

So when Mike sighed again and muttered a quiet, "Okay, Shotgun," Peter simply swallowed his guilt with his milk, replaced the bottle with a shaking hand, and bid Mike goodnight.

Even burrowed deep in his blankets, though, ears full of the sounds of Davy shifting and snuffling faintly in his sleep, Peter could feel Mike staring at him through the door.

Tired and drained as he was, it took him a long time to fall asleep.

A/N - I've been thinking about this one for a while, and I've finally gotten it started! Wahoo! What a way to celebrate Nez's concert tickets going on sale, huh?
FYI, this isn't going to be Torksmith. There might be a slight suggestion of Torklenz in later chapters, but nothing really notable, or important, even. It's not really the point of the story, after all.
Off to a mysterious start, huh? Hope y'all are as psyched for the next chapter as I am - it'll contain death omens, more oak trees, and suspicious behavior on the parts of the entire cast! Also, there may be something even more dangerous than a death omen poking its nose in…
Review, please - I need it like burning.