Heartwood (Tricksters Game) by Barbara Campbell

children—helped provide food for the village. And now—like the children—his pride had reduced him to setting snares in the fields and along the lakeshore.
    He was the best hunter in the tribe. No one knew the forest paths as well, none possessed his skill with the bow. He had been fifteen when he earned the hunter’s tattoo, younger even than his father, the only other man in living memory to bring down a stag with one arrow to the heart. He’d been so proud of besting his father that he had scarcely noticed the pain when Struath pierced his skin with the bone needle and created the antler tattoo that branched across his right wrist.
    But only a man who performed the necessary rites could hunt the forest and only a man who asked the gods for their blessing could hope for success. The rites he could manage, but he was damned if he would humble himself to the gods who had stolen everyone he had ever loved.
    He wasn’t sure if his kinfolk blamed him for missing the Midwinter rite or for his refusal to enter the forest now. Perhaps he only imagined the surliness of their replies when he greeted them and the doubt on their faces when he assured them that Tinnean was getting better every day.
    He told himself that the strangeness would pass, but it still hurt when his brother flinched at the sound of his voice or shied away when he tried to touch him. He could scarcely believe this was the same boy who used to tag along behind him like an eager puppy. Tinnean seemed to have forgotten all the things he had taught him: how to build a fire and clean a kill, to strip feathers into fletching and chip an arrowhead from flint. The lessons a father taught a son. The lessons that had fallen to him to teach after their father died from the wasting sickness and Tinnean barely walking.
    All those years, all those memories—lost. But Tinnean would remember. He would come back.
    Sprinkling a handful of snow over the snare, Darak rose. He still had three more snares to check. If they were full, he could stay home tomorrow. Spend some time with Tinnean. Remind him how to play fox and hare or cast-the-bones. He’d always liked games.
    Darak had just slung the hunting sack across his body when he saw the two figures racing across the fields. The flame-colored hair could only belong to Griane, which meant the figure running away from her had to be Tinnean.
    Fear changed to relief when he saw his brother’s face, alight with joy and excitement. Tinnean flung out his arms. Darak ran toward him, shouting.
    His brother froze. Darak’s footsteps slowed, stopped.
    “Tinnean?”
    The joy faded, replaced by uncertainty and then desperation.
    “Tinnean.”
    Tinnean backed away, shaking his head. Griane shouted something. Tinnean glanced over his shoulder, then back at him, eyes wild. Darak took one step toward him, hand outstretched.
    Tinnean screamed.
    Darak watched him lurch off in a new direction. Saw him look over his shoulder to see if they were still pursuing him. Watched him slip, fall, and stagger to his feet again. When he realized his hand was still reaching after his brother, he let it fall to his side.
    It was easy to stalk him. Tinnean floundered in the new-fallen snow, exhausting himself unnecessarily. Each time he cut toward the trees, Darak blocked his path. Each time he turned away from the forest, Darak let him run. The third time Tinnean fell, he simply lay there, but as Darak drew close, he rolled over and crawled through the snow on his hands and knees.
    Darak seized him by the back of his mantle and spun him around. Tinnean toppled into the snow. Again, he tried to crawl away. Again, Darak flung him back. This time, Tinnean staggered to his feet and stood before him, swaying.
    “Please, Darak.”
    The first time Tinnean had spoken his name.
    “Please, Darak. Home.”
    Relief suffused him. Then he realized that Tinnean meant the forest. A dark, unreasoning fury rose up in him. He shook his head and pointed at the