The Tree of Ecrof

by Kobe Bryant

  “Pretia, tag him!” Zoe cried.

  She took a few steps toward Hector. She could almost touch him. But then Pretia stopped. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t. “Pretia,” Vera screamed, “catch him!” Pretia didn’t move.

  Then, just as Hector was about to cross to safety, Rovi dashed from behind and tagged him, sending him to the Dreamers’ jail. But in all the commotion, no one had been watching the jail on the Dreamers’ side where the captured Realists waited and Castor had snuck through, freeing his teammates.

  “Thanks a lot, Pretia,” Virgil called, tugging his blond curls into a tighter topknot.

  Pretia turned away to hide her anger. What would have happened if she’d touched Hector, if she’d run toward him? Maybe nothing? Maybe something terrible. She couldn’t risk it. For the millionth time, she cursed herself for lighting that silly ceremonial flame to Hurell. No grana would have been better than this gnawing fear that she’d hurt someone.

  “Okay, okay,” Cyril said. “Let’s regroup.” After a time-out, the game started again.

  Now Rovi was off on his own. He dashed across into the Realists’ side, sidestepping most of the defenders, but couldn’t get through to the flag and, without getting tagged, made it back to safety. Three more times he tried, each time getting closer and closer to the flag, and each time just barely making it back.

  “Come on, Rovi,” Vera called. “Get me out.”

  But Rovi clearly only had eyes for the flag.

  “I guess no one wants you on their team,” Castor called to Vera.

  “At least I almost got your flag,” Vera taunted in return.

  “Quiet,” Nassos called, “we’re trying to play here.”

  Pretia was losing focus. Without being able to tag anyone—or rather because she was restraining herself from tagging anyone or chasing anyone—she lost interest in the specifics of the game. She watched her teammates race past. She watched Rovi and Vera, whom Jason had freed, running back to their side. But mostly she stared at the fig trees overhead and the lush green grass below. She looked for shapes in the few clouds in the azure sky.

  The trees were casting intricate shadows on the grass. Pretia hopscotched between them, challenging herself to step only on the green.

  The game proceeded without her. Now Castor was on the Dreamers’ side, darting between defenders. But Adira tagged him and put him in jail. It wasn’t long before Nassos freed his captain. Once more, Vera attempted to get the Realists’ flag, but when Alexis and Tassos closed in on her, she ran back empty-handed.

  Suddenly Castor had the Dreamers’ flag. Somehow he’d snuck past all the defenders and snatched it. He was threading his way past Pretia’s teammates. He ran straight for Vera, who was dashing in the other direction from the Realists’ side to stop him. Castor was running with his elbows out. Pretia had no doubt that he was going to charge straight through Vera. He was aiming to run her down.

  “Tag him! Tag him!” the Dreamers were chanting. “Someone tag him.”

  Vera was running full tilt toward Castor. And Castor was barreling toward her.

  Pretia didn’t think. She just ran. Ran as fast as she could. Ran so fast she saw herself break away from herself. She watched herself sprint. Instantly, her shadow self was within arm’s reach of her cousin. She tagged him.

  And as she did, there was a horrible crack overhead. The kids looked up, almost in unison, to see one of the branches from a nearby fig tree breaking off and plummeting to earth. Castor froze in his tracks, startled to have been tagged by Pretia of all people. His hesitation cost him. The branch swirled down and hit Castor on the head, knocking him to the ground.

  Immediately, the Realists and even some of the Dreamers left their posts and rushed to Castor’s side. No one seemed to notice or care that Rovi had sneaked across to the Dreamers’ side with the Realists’ flag. No one cared that the Dreamers had won.

  A whistle blast sounded across the small field. Janos had appeared from the Trainers Towers and was now rushing to Castor. Pretia stared at her cousin in horror. She had done that. She had made that branch fall. It had to have been her. She’d tagged Castor. She’d used her grana. She was right—her grana had been poisoned by lighting that flame to Hurell.

  The kids made way for the Head Trainer. By the time Janos reached his son, Castor’s eyes were fluttering open. A nasty bruise was starting to appear on his forehead.

  “Everyone, stand back,” Janos bellowed. He squatted down next to his son, his green eyes clouded with concern.

  Castor was groaning and rubbing his forehead.

  Pretia stared up at the tree. How had she done it? How had she made that branch fall? What was her grana capable of? She didn’t want to know. She wanted to run and hide and keep away from her classmates.

  Janos tried to pick up Castor. But Castor rolled away. “I’m okay,” he said groggily.

  “Recruits,” Janos said, “let this be a lesson. No unsupervised games at Ecrof.”

  “But it was just a freak accident,” Nassos said.

  “Yeah,” Vera said. “It’s not like we made that tree branch fall.”

  Pretia glanced up at the tree. The branches were rotten. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe her shadow self had something to do with it. Yet again, when she used her grana, something dangerous had happened. Surely this wasn’t a coincidence.

  “But if you got injured when there were no teachers around, things could have been very dangerous,” Janos said. “Be more careful in the future.”

  Pretia didn’t wait for Janos to tell her to head back to her dorm. She grabbed her Grana Book and hurried to the common room. Rovi was already there. He had two Choco Waters and several snacks from one of the vending machines open in front of him.

  “That dash you made across the field was epic,” Rovi said when he saw Pretia, standing up to give her a high five. Pretia held out her hand without much enthusiasm. “You saved the day! If you hadn’t tagged Castor, he would have got their flag over to their side before I crossed with ours.”

  If only Rovi had known what she had done, he certainly wouldn’t be congratulating her. And if her uncle Janos found out, she’d be done for. Once he learned she had used her grana and it might have hurt Castor, her time at Ecrof would be over. There was no doubting it.

  “Come on, Pretia, lighten up,” Rovi said. “You helped us win. You should be proud.”

  Pretia stared at him blankly. It didn’t really feel like a victory.

  12

  ROVI

  THE MACHINE

  Issa and his crew would have said books were boring. Especially Grana Books. Why read about the world when you could be in it? And why look at a bunch of silly pictures to figure out what your future held instead of just living your life? Books didn’t play games. They didn’t help you steal. They didn’t give you that thrilling rush of escaping the Phoenician guards. All of this was true. So why did Rovi keep returning to his Grana Book? Why was he always pulling it out in secret, flipping through the pages? Why, in particular, even after several months at Ecrof, did he return to that very first page he’d opened to in his first Granology class—the picture that showed the two snowy mountains and the green hill? Because he did—late at night after Cyril and Virgil were asleep. Between classes. Whenever he could.

  Rovi couldn’t forget the look on Saana’s face when he had interpreted his picture as having something to do with his parents. No one had looked at him like that since his father died—as if what he had said was worthwhile. As if he had said something intelligent.

  At dinnertime, he walked into the cafeteria, his book clutched under his arm. He scanned the room for an empty seat. The room was packed. More than that, it was noisy with Dreamers shouting and cheering from table to table.

  It took a moment for Rovi to understand that the Dreamers were all revved up because someone had heard a r
umor that the first of the two Ecrof Field Days—Realist Field Day—was happening in a few days. This would be the first chance the houses would get to compete with each other directly. The Dreamers were busy making plans, figuring out teams and trying to guess the events the Realists would choose. Normally Rovi would have stuck around, trying to eavesdrop on the action and see if there was even a slim chance he’d be chosen. But he wanted to spend some time alone with his book.

  He ate speedily and took a few snacks from one of the vending machines. Then he left the Temple of Dreams and headed for the main campus. He couldn’t resist the urge to check on the Tree of Ecrof. It had been on his mind since he’d seen its odd-looking roots, black and sickly. He darted into the Panathletic Stadium. At night the marble steps that rose on all sides, except the one that opened to the sea and sky, glowed like the moon.

  From a distance, the tree looked fine. Its silver leaves glimmered in the moonlight. Rovi took a glance at the roots. Even at night he could tell they were still black. And was it his imagination, or was the base of the trunk now black as well? He was tempted to take a closer look. But he didn’t dare. He couldn’t risk being caught next to the tree—not after what Castor had insinuated about his father in Granology. He didn’t want anyone thinking he had bad intentions toward the majestic tree.

  People, thanks to Castor, were starting to learn that Pallas Myrios had left the school under a cloud of disgrace. Rovi wasn’t sure Castor knew the whole story about what had happened with his father, but he certainly knew enough to drop hints and start rumors.

  He hurried back out of the stadium and approached the Halls of Process. He passed under the arch where Prosi, the God of Process’s name, was carved and ducked into the cool interior of the building. Between the Granology and the Visualization classrooms was the small door Rovi had wanted to open since he’d returned to Cora. And now with everyone distracted by the upcoming Field Day, he had his chance. Behind the door was his father’s old laboratory—or it used to be.

  Clutching his Grana Book in one hand, Rovi tried the handle. It rattled but didn’t budge. He tried again. Then he took a deep breath and jammed his hip against the door with all his force. It didn’t move.

  Rovi glanced over his shoulder and then out the doorway toward the field outside. He didn’t see anyone. There were tricks you learned as a Star Stealer, tricks you probably shouldn’t show off at Ecrof. Quickly, he darted outside the Halls of Process and gathered two sticks perfect for picking locks. With his nails he scraped the tips of both into fine points. Then, working quickly, he wedged them into the lock on the door to his father’s old lab. He didn’t quite possess the talent Issa did for opening doors. But after fiddling for a few minutes, he heard the satisfying click. The lock opened. Rovi turned the doorknob. And with a mighty, rusty creak, the door opened to his father’s old lab.

  The room was narrow, just like he remembered. At the far end was a large window through which the glowing moon was shining, illuminating the room. Rovi righted himself, caught his breath. Tears sprang to his eyes. All of his father’s old inventions were there. The lab looked untouched since the day Pallas Myrios had been exiled from Ecrof.

  Rovi spun around, taking stock of his father’s many machines and inventions—the little whirring devices that were supposed to help you empty your mind to make it possible to visualize clearer; the muscle memory suits you wore when you trained that recorded your movements so if you did something perfectly all you had to do was put the suit back on in order to re-create it; and the Mensa Crowns.

  He tiptoed across the lab. Suddenly it was as if he’d traveled back in time. Rovi could instantly remember sitting in his hiding spot under the long table that ran the entire length of the lab, watching his father tinker. How many days, weeks, months had he spent wedged into the little cabinet, listening to his father while he worked? How many times had he heard his father let out a delighted gasp after testing one of his inventions? “Rovi,” he’d exclaim, “don’t let anyone tell you there isn’t a science to sport. One day, we will be able to create perfect performance through technology.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better to just practice and improve?” Rovi had asked.

  “Of course,” his father had replied, breaking off from his work. “But only the blessed few are graced with grana good enough for true perfection. Why not level the playing field? Why not give everyone the chance to be his or her best self? I’m sure that the old Gods of Granity would have wished it this way.”

  Rovi closed his eyes. He could almost see his father standing in front of him banging, fiddling, winding, and unwinding. He could summon his old impatience to be allowed to go play outside, to run on the field, or try to climb the tree. Rovi moved toward the window where the moonlight was strongest and took a seat. He opened his book to the page that he’d chosen to represent his time at Ecrof.

  He stared at the two mountains and the little hill beneath them. What if those mountains really were his parents? His mother had died right after they’d come to Ecrof. She had been expected to teach Granology, but her health hadn’t allowed it. Rovi’s memories of her had always been vague, but now they were fading into nothing.

  So, his parents were the big snowy mountains and he was the small hill. Why was he green? And what did the birds to the right of the mountains mean? Flight? Air? Could he choose their meaning? Could he decide?

  And more important—what about the dead flowers? Did they have something to do with his mother, who had died at Ecrof? Was she a key to what would happen next? Or was it something else? Was it something to do with what had happened to his father? Rovi closed his eyes and shook his head, driving away the thought of his father’s last days at Ecrof. He didn’t want to remember. He couldn’t let himself. He always stopped his memory before it unfolded.

  But now, in the lab, it came flooding back. In his last months at Ecrof, Rovi’s father had been trying to build a machine that mimicked perfect grana—that replicated the end goal of visualization—the ability to stand outside yourself.

  They had been standing in this very room when Pallas had shown Rovi his final invention. The warm sunlight was streaming through the window behind his father so it looked as if his father were glowing with magic energy. “This, Rovi,” Pallas had said, “is going to be the invention of a lifetime. The Self-Splitter. If it works, anyone will be able to achieve the nearly impossible. We will all be able to separate ourselves from ourselves. We will be able to leave our conscious bodies behind and perform unburdened by anxiety and the demands of the real world. We will all have exceptional—no, not just exceptional, but perfect—grana. And that means we will play without fear.”

  “Come on, Dad,” Rovi remembered saying. “No one can actually step outside themselves. I’ve heard you teach that a thousand times.”

  “Rovi, no one can do it by themselves. But with my machine, they can.” And at that, his father had lifted up a strange metal suit that looked like a cross between a skeleton and a suit of armor. “This, my son, will make the impossible possible.”

  That suit—was it here? Rovi bolted to his feet. He began to pick his way through the various old machines and contraptions.

  Rovi made one entire tour of the narrow room, and then another. But he didn’t find it. Perhaps it was for the best that it wasn’t here. He was about to return to the window to collect his book when he knocked over a large cardboard box that was hanging over the edge of a shelf. Thankfully, the box turned out to be empty. He put it back on the shelf, but it teetered and slipped off again. He looked around for a place to stash the box. There was a freestanding mirror blocking a corner of the room. He’d chuck the box behind that. But when he did, the box hit something that clattered and groaned. Rovi peeked behind the mirror. There was the Self-Splitter, hanging on the frame his father had made for it.

  The brass had rusted and some of the bolts looked corroded. But otherwise, the contraption looke
d the same as the day his father had unveiled it in the main field under the Tree of Ecrof. The memory rushed in before he could stop it.

  The entire school had been there. Rovi had sat with Janos and stared at his father with pride. “This is the wildest thing your father has attempted yet,” Janos had whispered. “But if he succeeds, he will be the most famous man in Epoca. Even more famous than yours truly,” he’d added with a wink, squeezing Rovi’s shoulder.

  Pallas Myrios had started a long introduction about how he was preparing to stand outside himself—perform the ultimate act of visualization. And how if he was successful, this would usher in a new era in sports history—an era without nerves and anxiety, an era of peak performance.

  Rovi’s father had stepped into the machine—legs, then arms—then clipped the skeletal helmet and visor over his head. He’d pressed the lever. There had been an odd whirring noise. Then a crackle. Then Pallas had started shaking. Suddenly a white cloud seemed to fly off his body. As it rose to the sky, it took the shape of Rovi’s dad.

  “By the gods,” Janos had gasped, “he’s done it!”

  But Rovi hadn’t been interested in the cloud. Instead, he’d been staring at the strange version of his father left behind in the Self-Splitter. He had been pale. No, pale was the wrong word—he’d been more like a shadow, featureless and gray. Rovi’s dad had left his shadow behind.

  Five minutes had passed. Then ten. Then half an hour. The kids grew restless. Finally, Janos dismissed them. Something was wrong. Something everyone tried hard to hide from Rovi. “Come on,” Janos had said, leading Rovi back to his own opulent rooms in the Trainers Towers.

  Rovi had followed in stunned silence. He’d looked over his shoulder once to see a few other Trainers carrying the shadow version of his father to the TheraCenter. At that point, he didn’t know that his father was never coming back, at least not in any way Rovi would recognize.