by Ellen Datlow
On a portable stand before him lay a device that the venerable academician had just recently perfected, a miniature model with working parts that emulated the movement of the heavens. The bearded wise man in tall pointed hat and starry robe lectured Pious on the Almighty’s design of the universe. The curious creation had a long arm holding a gear train attached to a large box with a handle on the side. At the end of the arm were positioned glass balls, connected with wire, representative of the Sun and Earth and other planets. Pious watched as the handle was turned and the solar system came to life, the heavenly bodies whirling on their axes while at the same time defining elliptical orbits.
“You see, your highness,” said the philosopher, pointing to the blue ball, largest of the orbs, “the Earth sits directly at the center of the universe, the Almighty’s most important creation which is home to his most perfect creation, mankind. All else, the Sun, the Moon, the planets and stars, revolve around us, paying homage to our existence as we pay homage to God.”
“Fascinating,” said the king as he stared intently at the device that merely corroborated for him his place of eminence in the far flung scheme of things.
“Would you like to operate the device?” asked the philosopher.
“I shall,” said the king. He stood up and smoothed out his robes. Then he advanced and placed his hand on the handle of the box. He gently made the world and the heavens spin and a sense of power filled him, easing the winter ache of his joints and banishing, for a moment, the thought that he had no heir. This feeling of new energy spread out from his head to his arm, and he began spinning the handle faster and faster, his smile widening as he put the universe through its paces.
“Please, your highness,” said the philosopher, but at that instant something came loose and the entire contraption flew apart, the glass balls careening off through the air to smash against the stone floor of the garden.
The king stood, looking perplexed, holding the handle, which had broken away from the box, up before his own eyes. “What is this?” he shouted. “You assassinate my senses with this ill-conceived toy of chaos.” He turned in anger and beat the philosopher on the head with the handle of the device, knocking his pointed hat onto the floor.
The philosopher would have lost more than his hat that afternoon had the king’s anger not been interrupted. Just as Pious was about to order a beheading, the captain of the guard strode into the garden, carrying something wrapped in a piece of cloth.
“Excuse me, your highness,” he said, “but I come with urgent news.”
“For your sake, it had better be good,” said the king, still working to catch his breath. He slumped back into his chair.
“The company that I led into the forest last week has just now returned. The remaining forest people have been captured and are in the stockade under guard. There are sixty of them, mostly women and children and elders.”
Pious straightened up in his seat. “You have done very well,” he told the soldier. “What of the witch?”
“We came upon her in the forest, standing in a clearing amidst a grove of willows with her arms crossed as if waiting for us to find her. I quietly called for my best archer and instructed him in whispers to use an arrow with a poison tip. He drew his bow and just before he released the shaft, I saw her look directly at where we were hiding beneath the long tendrils of a willow thirty feet from her. She smiled just before the arrow pierced her heart. Without uttering a sound, she fell forward, dead on the spot.”
“Do you have her body? I want it burned,” said Pious. “There is no body, your highness.”
“Explain,” said the king, beginning to lose his patience. “Once the bowman hit his mark, we advanced from the trees to seize her, but before we could lay hands on her, her very flesh, every part of her, became a swirling storm of dandelion seed. I swear to you, before my very eyes, she spiraled like a dust devil three times and then the delicate fuzz that she had become was carried up and dispersed by the wind.”
Pious nodded, thought for a second and then said, “Very well. What is that you carry?”
The soldier unwrapped the bundle and held up a book for the king to see. “We found this in her cave,” he said.
The king cleared his eyes with the backs of his hands. “How can this be? he asked. “That is the copy of the Good Book I keep in my bedchamber. What kind of trickery is this?”
“Perhaps she stole it, your highness.”
Pious tried to think back to the last time he had picked the book up and studied it. Finally he remembered it was the night of Kairn’s execution. “I keep it near the open window. My God, those horrid birds of my dream.” The king looked quickly over each shoulder at the thought of it. “A bag of gold to the bowman who felled her,” he added.
The captain nodded. “What of the prisoners, your highness?” he asked.
“Execute the ones who refuse to convert to the faith, and the others I want taught a hymn that they will perform on the day of the tournament this spring. We’ll show our visitors how to turn heathens into believers.”
“Very good, your highness,” said the captain and then handed the book to the king. He turned and left the garden.
By this time, the philosopher had crept away to hide and Pious was left alone in the pleasure garden. “Silence!” he yelled in order to quell the birdsong, which now sounded to him like the whispers of conspirators. He rested back in his throne, exhausted from the day’s activities. Paging through the Good Book, he came to his favorite passage—one that spoke elegantly of vengeance. He tried to read, but the idea of the witch’s death so relaxed him that he became drowsy. He closed his eyes and slept with the book open on his lap while that day’s butterflies perished and the universe lay in shards scattered across the floor.
The tournament was held on the huge field that separated the palace from the edge of the forest. Spring had come, as it always did, and that expanse was green with new-grown grass. The days were warm and the sky was clear. Had it not been for the tumult of the event, these would have been perfect days to lie down beneath the sun and daydream up into the bottomless blue. As it was, the air was filled with the cheers of the crowd and the groans of agony from those who fell before the sword of the Red Knight.
Pious sat in his throne on a dais beneath a canvas awning, flanked on the right and left by the visiting dignitaries of the southern kingdoms. He could not recall a time when he had been more pleased or excited, for everything was proceeding exactly as he had imagined it. His visitors were obviously impressed with the beauty of his palace and the authority he exhibited over his subjects. He gave orders a dozen an hour in an imperious tone that might have made a rock hop to with a “Very good, your highness.”
Not the least of his pleasures was the spectacle of seeing the Red Knight thrash the foreign contenders on the field of battle. That vicious broadsword dislocated shoulders, cracked shins, and hacked appendages even through the protective metal of opponents’ armor. When one poor fellow, the pride of Belthaena, clad in pure white metal, had his heart skewered and crashed to the ground dead, the king leaned forward and, with a sympathetic smile, promised the ambassador of that kingdom that he would send a flock of goats to the deceased’s family. So far it had been the only fatality of the four day long event, and it did little to quell the festivities.
On the final day, when the last opponent was finished off and lay writhing on the ground with a broken leg, Pious sat up straight in his chair and applauded roundly. As the loser was carried from the field, the king called out, “Are there any other knights present who would like to test our champion?” Since he knew very well that every represented kingdom had been defeated, he made a motion to one of his councilors to have the converted begin singing. The choir of forest people, chained at the ankles and to each other shuffled forward and loosed the first notes of the hymn that had been beaten into their memories over the preceding weeks.
No sooner did the music start, though, than the voice of the cro
wd overpowered its sound, for now there was a new contender on the tournament field. He stood, tall and gangly, not in armor, but wrapped in a black, hooded cloak. Instead of a broadsword or mace or lance, he held only a long stick fashioned from the branch of a tree. When the Red Knight saw the surprised face of the king, he turned to view this new opponent. At this moment, the crowd, the choir and the dignitaries went perfectly quiet.
“What kind of mockery is this?” yelled Pious to the figure on the field.
“No mockery, your highness. I challenge the Red Knight,” said the stranger in a voice that sounded like a limb splintering free from an oak.
The king was agitated at this circumstance that had been no part of his thoughts when he had imagined the tournament. “Very well,” he called, and to his knight, said, “Cut him in half.”
As the Red Knight advanced, the stranger undid the clasp at the neck of his cloak and dropped it to the ground. The crowd’s response was a uniform cry torn between a gasp and a shriek of terror, for standing before them now was a man made entirely of wood. Like a tree come to life, his branch-like limbs, though fleshed in bark, somehow bent pliantly. His legs had the spring of saplings, and the fingers with which he gripped his paltry weapon were five-part pointed roots, trailing thin root hairs from the tips of the digits. The gray bark of his body held bumps and knots like a log, and in certain places small twigs grew from him, covered at their ends with green leaves. There was more foliage simulating hair upon his pointed head and a fine stubble of grass across his chin. Directly in the center of his chest, beneath where one’s heart might hide, there grew from a protruding twig a large blue fruit.
The impassive expression that seemed crudely chiseled into the face of the wooden man did not change until the Red Knight stepped forward and with a brutal swing lopped off the tree root hand clutching the stick. Then that dark hole of a mouth stretched into a toothless smile, forming wrinkles of joy beneath the eyes. The Red Knight stepped back to savor the pain of his opponent, but the stranger exhibited no signs of distress. He held the arm stump up for all to see and, in a blur, a new hand grew to replace the one on the ground.
The Red Knight was obviously stunned, for he made no move as the tree man came close to him and placed that new hand up in front of his enemy’s head. When the king’s champion finally meant to react, it was too late. For as all the crowd witnessed, the five sharp tips of the root appendage grew outward as swiftly as snakes striking and found their way into the eye slits of the knight’s helmet. Ghastly screams echoed from within the armor as blood seeped out of the metal joints and onto the grass. The knight’s form twitched and the metal arms clanked rapidly against the metal sides of the suit. The broadsword fell point first and stuck into the soft spring earth. When the stranger retracted his hand, the fingers growing back into themselves, now wet with blood, the Red Knight tipped over backward and landed with a loud crash on the ground.
Pious immediately called for his archers. Three of them stepped forward and fired at the new champion. Each of the arrows hit its mark, thunking into the wooden body. The tree man, nonchalantly swept them off him with his arm. Then he advanced toward the dais, and the crowd, the soldiers, the visiting dignitaries fled. The king was left alone. He sat, paralyzed, staring at the advancing creature. So wrapped in a rictus of fear was Pious that all he could manage was to close his eyes. He waited for the feel of a sharp root to pierce his chest and puncture his heart. Those moments seemed an eternity to him, but eventually he realized nothing had happened. When he could no longer stand it, he opened his eyes to an amazing scene. The tree man was kneeling before him.
“My liege,” said the stranger in that breaking voice. Then he stood to his full height, and said, “I believe as winner of the tournament, I am due a feast.”
“Quite right,” said Pious, trembling with relief that he would not die. “You are an exceptional warrior. What is your name?”
“Vertuminus,” said the tree man.
A table had been hastily brought into the pleasure garden and laid with the finest place settings in the palace. The feast was prepared for only Pious and the wooden knight. The visiting ambassadors and dignitaries were asked if they would like to attend, but they all suddenly had pressing business back in their home kingdoms and had to leave immediately after the tournament.
The king dined on roasted goose, whereas Vertuminus had requested only fresh water and a large bucket of soil to temporarily root his tired feet in. Soldiers were in attendance, lining the four walls of the garden, and were under orders to have their swords sharp and to keep them drawn in case the stranger’s amicable mood changed. Pious feared the tree man, but was also curious as to the source of his animation and bizarre powers.
“And so my friend, you were born in the forest, I take it?” asked the king. He tried to stare into the eyes of the guest, which blinked and dilated in size though they were merely gouges in the bark that was his face.
“I was drawn up from the earth by the witch,” he said.
“The witch,” said Pious, pausing with a leg of the goose in his hand.
“Yes, she made me with one of her spells, but she has abandoned me. I do not know where she has gone. I have been lonely and needed other people to be with. I have been watching the palace from a distance, and I wanted to join you here.”
“We are very glad you did,” said the king.
“The witch told me that you lived by the book. She showed me the book and taught me to read it so that I would know better how to wage war on you.”
“And do you wish me harm?” asked Pious.
“No, for when I read the book it started to take hold of me and drew me to its thinking away from the forest. I joined the tournament so that I could win a place at the palace.”
“And you have,” said Pious. “I will make you my first knight.”
Here Vertuminus recited the king’s favorite passage from the good book. “Does it not make sense?” he asked.
Pious slowly chewed and shook his head. “Amazing,” he said, and for the first time spoke genuinely.
“You are close to the Almighty?” asked Vertuminus.
“Very close,” said the king.
There was a long silence, in which Pious simply sat and stared as his guest drank deeply from a huge cup.
“And if you don’t mind my asking,” said the king, pointing “what is that large blue growth on your chest?”
“That is my heart,” said Vertuminus. “It contains the word.”
“What word?” asked Pious.
“Do you know in the book, when the Almighty creates the world?”
“Yes.”
“Well, how does he accomplish this?” asked the tree man.
“How?” asked the king.
“He speaks these things into creation. He says, ‘Let there be light,’ and there is. For everything he creates, he uses a different word. This fruit contains the green word. It is what gives me life.”
“Is there a word in everything?” asked Pious.
“Yes,” said Vertuminus, whose index finger grew out and speared a pea off the king’s platter. As the digit retracted, and he brought the morsel to his mouth, he said, “There is a word in each animal, a word in each person, a word in each rock, and these words of the Almighty make them what they are.”
Suddenly losing his appetite, the king pushed his meal away. He asked, “But if that fruit of yours contains the green word, why is it blue?”
“Only its skin is blue, the way the sky is blue and wraps around the earth.”
“May I touch it?” asked Pious.
“Certainly,” said Vertuminus, “but please be careful.”
“You have my word,” said Pious, as he stood and slowly reached a trembling hand across the table. His fingers encompassed the blue fruit and gently squeezed it.
The wooden face formed an expression of pain. “That is enough,” said the tree man.
“Not quite,” said the king, and with a simple yan
k, pulled the fruit free from its stem.
Instantly, the face of Vertuminus went blank, his branch arms dropped to his sides, lifeless, and his head nodded.
Pious sat back in his throne, unable to believe that defeating the weird creature could have been so easy. He held the fruit up before his eyes, turning it with his fingers, and pondered the idea of the word of God trapped beneath a thin blue skin.
The ruler sat in silent contemplation, and in his mind formulated a metaphor in which the acquisition of all he desired could be as easy as his plucking this blue prize. It was a complex thought for Pious, one in which the blue globe of the world from the philosopher’s contraption became confused with the fruit.
He nearly dropped the precious object when suddenly his lifeless guest gave a protracted groan. The king looked up in time to see another blue orb rapidly growing on the chest of the tree man. It quickly achieved fullness, like a balloon being inflated. He gave a gasp of surprise when his recently dead guest smiled and brought his branch arms up.
“Now it is my turn,” said Vertuminus, and his root fingers began to grow toward the king.
“Guards,” called Pious, but they were already there. Swords came down on either side, and hacked off the wooden limbs. As they fell to the floor, Pious wasted no time. He dove across the table and plucked the new blue growth. Again, Vertuminus fell back into his seat, lifeless.
“Quickly, men, hack him to pieces and burn every twig!” In each of his hands he held half of his harvest. He rose from his throne and left the pleasure garden, the sound of chopping following him out into the corridor. Here was a consolation for having lost his Red Knight, he thought—something that could perhaps prove far more powerful then a man encased in metal.
When Pious ordered that one of the forest people be brought to him, he had no idea that the young woman chosen was the daughter of Moren Kairn. She was a tall, willowy specimen of fifteen with long blonde hair that caught the light at certain angles and appeared to harbor the slightest hues of green. Life in the stockade, where the remaining rebels were still kept was very difficult. For those who did not willingly choose the executioner over conversion to the faith, food was used as an incentive to keep them on the path to righteousness. If they prayed they ate, but never enough to completely satisfy their hunger. And so this girl, like the others, was exceedingly thin.
