by S. E. Grove
“‘What do you want of us?’ the wise man managed to ask. ‘Give us Bumblebee and you can eat all the trees you want.’
“The Tree-Eater stared at him a moment longer, and then, with a voice like the crashing of the ocean, it said, ‘You tell me what I want, wise man. You made me.’
“The wise man felt a coldness pass over him. And he realized that, however unbelievable, the demon’s words were true. He had made the Tree-Eater: imagined him, described him, and given him life.
“The wise man stared back at the demon, feeling both awe and fear. For a moment, he wondered at the power he had to shape the world, and the prospect of shaping it further shone as brightly as the demon’s golden eyes. But then he thought of Bumblebee, and he realized how the shaping of the world had a cost. There were people who believed him and trusted him, and what he made of the world mattered to them.
“‘You want your own forest, Tree-Eater,’ the wise man said. ‘You will give Bumblebee back to us. You will travel to the ocean and make an island there, crouched against the ocean floor, and the Red Woods you have eaten will spring from your stony shoulders, keeping you company for the rest of your days. This is what you want, Tree-Eater.’
“The demon looked at him for a moment longer, and then, with a great sigh that blew from his jagged mouth like a hurricane, he reached forward and placed Bumblebee on the ground. He rose, lifting his head up into the cloudless sky, and headed west to the ocean.”
Sophia sat in silence next to Goldenrod, imagining the great demon stalking away into the distance. She could picture his dark silhouette against the starry sky. “Bumblebee was very brave,” she finally said.
“Bumblebee is a seeker of truth, and the wise man is the soul of invention,” Goldenrod said. “There are many lessons in the story, but I have always marveled at how both the seeker of truth and the soul of invention are powerful, each in their own right.”
“But how could the trees have been destroyed before the wise man had invented Tree-Eater? Did something else destroy them?”
Goldenrod smiled. “What do you think?”
Sophia pondered. “I think it could be that the wise man had already imagined something like Tree-Eater, before even speaking of it, and the monster he imagined came to find him.”
“That would be a grave lesson indeed.”
“Do demons like Tree-Eater really exist? Is that what people in the Encephalon Ages do?”
“The story is meant to show the power of the imagination, for both good and evil. I cannot say if creatures like Tree-Eater truly exist. But you heard what Wren said—every intention finds its expression.”
Sophia drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “I have imagined terrible things sometimes,” she said quietly. “I am glad I don’t have that power.”
“You may have more of it than you realize. When you learn further about Elodean ways, you will see how some of your intuitions already lean in this direction.”
Sophia had found no opportunity to tell Goldenrod what had happened after they had spoken of the two tokens Maxine had given her, and now, as the train rattled on in the dark night, she saw her chance. “Last night I looked at the antler and the tree for a long time, just as you said. I wrote down all my questions and my observations. And then I fell asleep holding the antler. I had dreams that were so real, they felt like memories. Were they really memories?”
Goldenrod’s eyes were bright. “What did you dream?”
“I dreamed of walking through a forest and reaching a house deep in the woods. A boy spoke in my ear, saying that we were home. Then in a different dream, the boy and I looked down into a valley with a cluster of trees. And then in the last dream, we ran from a forest fire. I was afraid of the fire, and the fear seemed to be a thing outside of myself that ran through the woods ahead of us.”
Goldenrod nodded. “Animals see fear as a living being—an entity—while we do not. Those were memories.”
Sophia smiled, elated. “So these maps are read while sleeping?”
“It is a way to begin—the sleeping mind is most open to these kinds of memories. What did the house look like?”
“The house in the woods?”
“Yes—the house the boy said was home.”
“It was set in a mound, so that part of the house was a hill. There were two windows and an arched door. And next to the house was an open space with a roof. There was a barrel collecting rainwater and a stack of firewood.”
Goldenrod smiled. “I believe you have met Bittersweet.”
“The moose is named Bittersweet?” Sophia asked, confused.
“No—the boy. Young man now. He lives in such a house, and though I have not been to that corner of the forest for more than two years, it sounds as though it has not changed much.”
“Then he is Elodean?”
“He is Elodean. And it is telling that this token Maxine gave you pertains to him.”
“Why?”
Goldenrod sighed. “He is the fourth Weatherer. Of those four Eerie healers, he is the only one who did not disappear in Boston. It was his family I went in search of early this year.”
—18-Hour 30—
GOLDENROD FELL SILENT, and Sophia knew that she was reflecting upon her failed attempt to save the Eerie in Boston. It visibly gnawed at her conscience, and no doubt she felt anxious, having finally returned to New Occident, to learn what she could about the fate of those missing friends. Sophia’s own conscience gnawed at her—she was well aware of how her own search was delaying Goldenrod’s own—as she prepared herself for sleep.
Sophia removed the remaining pieces of her raider costume so that she was wearing only her cotton shift. She undid her braids and put the leather ties inside her skirt pocket, then tucked her clothes into the compartment beside her bunk. Placing the wheel of tree trunk beside her pillow, she rested her fingers on its coarse surface. Gently, she tapped the pine face. It’s like a clock, she thought to herself as her eyes closed. A clock of the past that has stopped telling time. The long day that had begun before dawn caught up with her quickly, and she was asleep in minutes.
The dream was unlike any she had ever had. It was late winter. A heavy snow was falling. She was aware of the other trees around her; they were perfectly still as the snow fell, but their thoughts coursed through their cold limbs, into the soil and the damp air. And these were not the only thoughts she sensed: tranquil or urgent, lazy or quick, contented or hungry, the impulses of living things nearby filled her consciousness so that they transformed the stillness into a scene of humming activity.
This went on for hours. In some ways, nothing happened. The snow continued to fall. It accumulated on her branches, a comforting weight that covered her like a kind of blanket. The weak sunlight gave out slowly as the afternoon waned. Steadily, the temperature began to drop. There was no visible movement as far as she could tell. And yet, in other ways, the dream was full of busyness as the dense cluster of living things near her watched and felt and hungered and slept and woke.
The dream ended abruptly and shifted. Now it was midsummer. The landscape had altered entirely. Instead of standing surrounded by other trees, she stood at the edge of a field. She knew that the trees that had stood there before were gone, and she felt their absence without grief, but with a constant, unremitting awareness. Tall grass, heavy with flowers, grew now where those trees had grown, and a house made of those very trees stood not far away. Beyond it were more houses, and where they gathered in the greatest number rose a bell tower.
The air was thick with bees and other insects. She felt the same sense of busyness around her, hearing the bees and the flies and the trees and the grass and the nodding flowers among them, but now another activity overlaid this, like a trumpet sounding in an orchestra. Two girls ran toward her through the tall grass, one chasing the other, and their laughter rang through the warm summer
air. One of them reached her trunk, touched it, and then embraced her, still laughing, her soft arms warm and poignantly fragile. She felt a pang of tenderness for this breakable creature. “I won!” the girl cried.
In her sleep, Sophia pulled away from the wheel of tree trunk, drawing her fingers under the thin blanket. She sighed, and the dream ended.
13
Two Pigeon Posts
—1892, August 8: 18-Hour 00—
In some of these inns you can still find, discarded in a stable or an unused room, the leather trunks used to transport the mail along the major post roads. Now the riders forego the trunks—and the wagons required to carry them. They travel lighter, with saddle bags, and the steady stream of messengers ensures that these smaller deliveries will be sufficient. The post is delivered four times a day within the city of Boston and twice a day in its environs. Each of the inns I have described on the major post roads sees a messenger pass by three times each day: they leave Boston in the dark of night, late in the morning, and late in the afternoon.
—From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident
IN THE HUMID summer evening, by the bright light of three flame lamps, Shadrack was committing treason. He was creating two maps that looked nearly identical. Both showed the projected route for New Occident troops marching through Kentucky. One showed the troops following a path that led through a low valley. The other showed the troops following the same route, but instead of taking them through the valley, it led them to camp on the banks of a river. Apart from this, there was one other important difference between the two maps, a difference almost any eye would miss: the one with the valley bore a small insignia—three hills atop a slender ruler—while the other did not.
It was through such calculated inaccuracies and the deliberate “loss” of maps into enemy hands that Shadrack managed to foil Fen Carver, the leader of the Indian Territories’ troops, arranging for there to be as little bloodshed as possible. Some days he drew and copied as few as ten; most days he drafted more than twenty. Shadrack’s pen slipped, and he paused. He sat back in his chair and put the pen down. The exhaustion he felt had been building for weeks. Pressing his fingertips to his temples, he closed his eyes.
In the silence that followed, he heard a sound that he could not place. Then he realized what it was: the quiet flutter of snow.
Snow, he thought, with an unfolding sense of ease. If it’s heavy, I might work from home in the morning. Then something shifted, and he realized what his exhaustion had at first obscured. But it is early August!
Shadrack hastened through the silent house and opened the front door. The night sky seemed bright and faintly yellow, as it would be during a snowfall. Downy white flakes were falling all along the street, coating the roofs and the leafy branches. Snow, Shadrack thought, astonished. It really is snowing in August. And it isn’t even cold. The brick walkway to 34 East Ending Street was already hidden. Then he put his hand out, allowing the flakes to gather on his palm. He gasped. Not snow, he realized.
It was ash. Ash.
Shadrack’s first thought was a fire: a great fire, since only a conflagration of massive proportions would cause so much ash to fall on the city. And yet there was no smell of burning in the air. Looking up, perplexed, Shadrack watched the thick clouds overhead drift and part momentarily. The waxing moon shone through, and the falling ash paused. “Unbelievable,” he murmured. “It’s actually coming from the clouds.” He stared as the clouds gathered, obscuring the moon once more, and the ash resumed falling.
In the silence, there was a shuffling sound. Shadrack saw a messenger with a cap coming down the street, kicking the ash aside as if it were a mere inconvenience instead of an ominous wonder. The messenger saw Shadrack at the door and raised his cap, turning into the walkway of 34 East Ending Street. “Good evening,” he said.
“I’d say a strange evening,” Shadrack replied.
“It’s falling all over the city,” the boy said matter-of-factly, turning on the step to survey the street. “The Common is already under an inch of it.”
“Have you heard any speculation as to the cause?”
The messenger looked at Shadrack. “None at all,” he said, seemingly unworried. “Well, plenty of speculation, but none that makes an ounce of sense. I heard one man say it was a volcano.”
“But there are no volcanoes anywhere in this Age,” Shadrack protested.
The boy shrugged. “Like I said. None that make sense. Message for Shadrack Elli,” he added, holding up a piece of paper.
“A message,” Shadrack said, recalled to the moment. “I am Shadrack Elli.”
The boy handed the paper over and settled his cap back on his head. “I’ll wait for a reply.”
Shadrack opened the sheet of paper and read four lines of blue writing:
Safe with Calixta and Burr in New Orleans
Heading north to Salt Lick
Will be there between ninth and nineteenth
Love, Sophia
Shadrack stared at the letters on the page, the ashfall forgotten. “How did this arrive?” he demanded.
“By pigeon post, sir. Maxine’s Iron Pigeon Post of New Orleans. Message came through Greensboro.”
“Iron pigeon post? What does that mean?”
“Mark of Iron, sir. Guides them to any destination.”
“Iron pigeons.” Shadrack shook his head. “Incredible.” He scanned the message again. “She is traveling through the Territories,” he said to himself, aghast. Then he addressed the messenger. “Can I send a reply to Salt Lick?”
“There’s a depot there. So, yes—makes it easier. You can send a message to Salt Lick. It has lodgings and everything. Run by Prudence Seltz. It’s one of the nicer depots. Not as nice as Boston’s, of course.”
“Come in,” Shadrack said, opening his door. “I will write the note. How long will this take to reach Salt Lick?” he asked, hurrying along the corridor to his study.
“If the bird leaves within the hour, it can arrive in Salt Lick by midmorning,” the boy assured him. “It’s seven hundred and thirty-four miles.”
“Even in this weather?” Shadrack hurriedly took pen and paper from his desk.
“They’ve flown through worse.”
Shadrack wondered what was worse than an inexplicable storm of falling ash. “Is there a limit to how much I can write?”
“Just don’t write a novel, sir,” the boy replied with a smile.
Shadrack quickly wrote:
Relieved you are safe. Wait in Salt Lick depot for Miles. He will arrive in—
He looked up at the boy. “Can I send something to Pear Tree?”
“Charleston in Virginia would be the closest depot. I’d advise sending it direct. A little extra cost, but the pigeon will deliver straight to your recipient.”
“How long would it take to send a message there?”
“It will arrive around the same time, tomorrow morning, but it’s a little unpredictable if your recipient isn’t expecting the pigeon. Might be they figure it out right away or might be they don’t. Tomorrow night, if you’re lucky.”
“That’s still much faster than I could manage,” Shadrack observed. “Can I send a second message to Pear Tree?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
Making a rapid calculation of how long it would take Miles to reach Salt Lick from Pear Tree, he continued: three days. He paused.
In case Miles does not arrive, the following are friends nearby: Casper Bearing and Adler Fox in Salt Lick, Sarah Smoke Longfellow in Oakring, Muir Purling in Echo Falls, and Tuppence Silver in East Boyden Township.
He paused again and looked up, wondering how he could possibly warn Sophia about the dangers of the crimson fog. With a sharp, worried exhalation he finished his message.
If you see any red fog, take cover alone at whatever cost. The fog is le
thal!
All my love, Shadrack
On a separate sheet of paper, he wrote to Miles:
Sophia is heading to Salt Lick from New Orleans, due to arrive between 9th and 19th. Meet her there at the pigeon depot run by Prudence Seltz. I fear for her safety.
He read the notes over and then handed them to the boy. “How far does your network extend?”
“All over New Occident and the Territories,” he said proudly.
“I am astonished I did not know of it.”
“It’s for smugglers, sir,” the boy answered matter-of-factly. “You wouldn’t have.”
“In any case, I’m very grateful.”
“Very happy to be of service, sir.”
Shadrack thought to himself that for a smugglers’ correspondence system, it was surprisingly professional and courteous. Having paid for the outgoing messages, he saw the boy to the door. The sky had cleared, and the ground was covered with almost an inch of gray-white ash. More people were emerging from their houses now, and there were even two boys down the street playing, catching it in fistfuls and throwing it at each other.
Though the ash was a surprising and inexplicable distraction, Shadrack forced himself to return to his study. Pacing the worn carpet, he reflected yet again how effectively and cruelly Broadgirdle had bound him to Boston. His place now was in the Indian Territories, where Theo and Miles and Sophia were all converging west of Pennsylvania. They were in danger, and he was here, all but manacled to his desk. There was nothing he could do.
