Shadow Tree

by Jake Halpern

  “Alfonso,” she said. “Can you hear me? Wiggle your feet if you can hear me.”

  Alfonso mustered his concentration, willed his body to do as he told it, and succeeded in wiggling both of his feet at once.

  “Good,” she said. “You look much better and I want to see if you can morph. You’re an ageling now. You’re like me. And you’ve got learn how to morph. It’s not easy. It took me a while to figure it out, but I will try to help you, okay?”

  Alfonso wiggled his feet again.

  “Okay, good,” said Marta. “Let’s start with morphing back into your true age because that’s the easiest one to do. It’s hard to explain, but it’s kind of like your body actually wants to be it’s true age, but when you are tired, or scared, or sick, you often end up becoming a baby or a really old person. So the trick is to picture the last memory of yourself right before you became an ageling. Can you do that?”

  Again, baby Alfonso moved his toes and his feet to indicate yes.

  “Okay, good,” said Marta cheerfully. “Now your memory needs a cue for this to work properly. For me, smell usually works best – onions and garlic, actually. The Abbot had onions on his breath when he gave me the green ash. Anyway, for you – you were in that burning building just before you became an ageling, right? And there must have been an awful lot of smoke.” Marta then scooped Alfonso up and moved him close to the remains of the campfire that she had built. A few of the coals were still smoking. “Use the smell of the smoke,” said Marta. “Really breathe it in and focus on the smell.”

  “Come on,” urged Marta, this time in a whisper. “Smell the smoke. You’re in the burning building again, picture yourself running through it, you just tripped and scraped your hands -- go back to that moment! You’re not a baby, you’re a...”

  Suddenly Alfonso’s body began to change – the baby fat shrunk from his legs and arms, his torso stretched like taffy, his legs grew long and muscular, his hair turned darker and thicker, and his face grew long and narrow. Marta gaped as she watched Alfonso’s jawbone triple in size in the span of five seconds. It was incredible – and more than a little spooky. She herself had morphed countless times, but she’d never witnessed anyone else do it. Alfonso lay gasping and shivering on the ground, covered only by a thin blanket. Marta took Alfonso’s jacket from the pack and threw it on him.

  “Don’t move,” Marta whispered into his ear, “You must lie perfectly still or your body will morph back.”

  She leaned close to him and stared into his eyes to keep him centered. Alfonso looked confused and panicked. Marta felt the same way, and struggled to keep her emotions in check. Please let this work, please let this work, please let this work, she repeated over and over.

  Chapter 6: Vision Returns

  At first, Bilblox was only aware of a deep ache in his back, as if someone had pounded on it many times. But that feeling quickly gave way to something much nicer, the feeling of sun on his face. He wondered whether he was dead, especially because when he opened his eyes, he could see the sparkling blue sky. If this was heaven, he was already enjoying it – after all, he could finally see again.

  But if he was in heaven, why was he now staring at Kiril’s face? Bilblox’s head felt muddled and cobwebbed.

  “Welcome back,” Kiril said. At first his voice sounded distant but then it became stronger.

  Bilblox said nothing. Gradually, he made out where he was: on a makeshift sled of lashed together pine branches and none other than Kiril was pulling him. They were in a snowy ravine surrounded by spindly pine trees, and the early morning sky shone a bluish-purple. Of course, all these details affected Bilblox in an intense way, because it was the first time he could see anything for over a year; and that meant, he realized, that Kiril had forced him to take the ash. A split-second later, he realized it meant he was strong again.

  His initial impulse was to leap off the sled and attack Kiril but he knew he needed to get a better sense of his capabilities. Plus, Kiril was watching carefully. “Feeling a little better now?” Kiril inquired.

  Bilblox peered at Kiril through half-opened sensitive eyes. His mind struggled to keep up with the enormous amount of information conveyed by being able to see. Despite his situation, Bilblox felt like leaping up from the sled and running around like a joy-filled child. It was one of the happiest moments of his life. He could see.

  Although he tried to contain his happiness given how he had received his sight, it was all too obvious.

  Kiril smiled at Bilblox. “I can’t quite imagine how you feel, since I’ve never been blind,” he said. “However, I can greatly sympathize, given how sick and old I had been feeling before taking the Jasber ash.”

  This also was quite obvious. Kiril’s stature and appearance were that of a man in the prime of his life. He had the look of a panther coiled into the body of a man. Everything about him – the way he leaned over with his hand on Bilblox’s shoulder, his easy stance in the snowdrift, and the way he effortlessly kept the sled moving – everything pointed to a man at the peak of his physical and mental skills. Even the scar that once marred his face – twisting along his jaw like a snake – had miraculously disappeared.

  Kiril stopped pulling the sled and Bilblox slowly rose to his feet. The two adversaries stood facing each other in the ravine. The wind had died down and the forest was quiet. Bilblox took stock of his situation. Overall, he felt good. The ache in his hands and shoulders from rowing across the Sea of Clouds had disappeared, and there was no trace of the unbearable headaches. The skin on his face felt taut and smooth, and deep inside he sensed the presence of strength he thought he had lost decades ago. He realized that in his whole life, he had never felt better.

  “Why did you give me the ash?” Bilblox rasped. His voice sounded hoarse and raw, as if worn out by screaming.

  “You should be thanking me for saving your life,” Kiril replied. “I found you unconscious at the beach, and your pulse was erratic. You had at most a half hour before you froze to death.”

  “Why?” Bilblox repeated, his elation giving way to anger. “Why did you save me?” He tensed his entire body, ready to leap at Kiril at a moment’s notice.

  “We can spend the next hour destroying each other,” said Kiril in a conversational tone. “But I think you’ll find we’re evenly matched, given that we’ve both just taken the Ash. Still, I won’t stop you from trying to escape. Go ahead. You’ll suffer and then starve to death in a few days.”

  Bilblox stared at Kiril. There was a reason his enemy had saved him, first in the waters near Jasber and then as he lay dying on the beach. But why?

  “I won’t betray anyone,” said Bilblox. “You must’ve already figured that out.”

  Kiril nodded with his head to one side – calm, relaxed, unruffled by his wild surroundings -- like an 18th century nobleman on a gentlemanly expedition.

  Bilblox kept staring at Kiril. Finally, he broke the stare and looked into the forest. The image was so beautiful that tears filled his eyes and ran down his face.

  “You should’ve let me die,” Bilblox said. “I’ve never hated being able to see as much as I do at this moment.”

  “There’s plenty of time to die,” Kiril softly replied. “But let’s get through this forest, and then we’ll talk about what happens next.”

  Kiril picked up his carrying bag, dropped the reins of the makeshift sled and began walking up the path. Bilblox watched him. His brain ached from a swirl of confusion, shame and excitement. Obviously Kiril had plans for him, but after all, why did this have to be a one-way street? Bilblox was not passive, nor was he any longer blind. He was a Magrewski longshoreman at the peak of his strength, and he could have plans too. Perhaps that was the best option: go along and see where Kiril was taking them. And then strike at the right time. What was it that people always said about revenge – ah, yes, it was a dish best served cold.

  Bilblox permitted himself a smile, his first in many days. He walked quickly to catch up to Kiril.
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br />   Although he walked quickly, almost a trot, it took Bilblox several minutes to reach Kiril. The Dragoonya leader walked effortlessly through the snow-filled forest, as if walking on a paved sidewalk. Kiril heard Bilblox pushing through the snowdrifts behind him, and he slowed down.

  “Now you’re being reasonable,” said Kiril. “I won’t deny we’re enemies, but in these circumstances it just makes sense to work together, doesn’t it?”

  Bilblox said nothing, although Kiril took this as agreement.

  “What happened to your scar?” asked Bilblox. “It’s gone.”

  “Thanks to the green ash,” replied Kiril. “I rubbed a little ash into the scar and it healed. You too will be healed my friend. Good things will happen if you only trust me.” Kiril stopped suddenly and turned in his tracks and once again, they were face to face. He smiled – startling Bilblox – and stuck out his hand.

  “We’ll stick together,” suggested Kiril, as he extended his hand. “At least until we make it through this forest.”

  Bilblox nodded slowly and extended his hand as well.

  Several hours later, as afternoon swiftly turned to evening, Kiril and Bilblox sat around a lively fire. It dispelled the gloom surrounding them and its warmth loosened their tongues. Kiril spoke about his journey along the Fault Roads, as the prisoner of Colonel Treeknot and Josephus. Bilblox was wary, but it all seemed perfectly ordinary. Never once did Kiril ask about Alfonso or what happened in Jasber. But then, the conversation did turn and Bilblox found himself trapped, not knowing whether to speak or remain silent, whether to run or just bury his head in shame.

  Kiril had been speaking about old times – his role leading the Dragoonya sneak attack on Somnos. And then he brought up Alfonso’s name for the first time.

  “It was quite a weapon your friend had,” Kiril remarked. “That sphere turned the battle around.”

  Bilblox nodded, suddenly aware he was on dangerous ground.

  “I’ve often wondered where he found it. You certainly can’t find that type of thing in World’s End, Minnesota. No – that was something he found closer to Somnos, right?”

  Kiril looked at Bilblox and it was clear he was fishing for information. Bilblox grunted, but made no reply.

  “We Dragoonya will have to keep a sharp eye out for him,” said Kiril in a soft voice. “A Great Sleeper with that type of weapon is rare heaped upon rare.” Kiril looked at Bilblox. “Of course you know that, and don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to tell me where he is. But in fairness, you should realize it’s rather important for me to find Alfonso’s weapon. We’ll hunt him down.”

  “You’re fools then,” said Bilblox angrily, “He doesn’t-”

  Bilblox stopped. His cheeks turned red. He had walked right into Kiril’s trap.

  “He doesn’t...what?” asked Kiril. He stared deep into Bilblox’s eyes.

  “Ah, I see,” said Kiril. “He doesn’t have the sphere any more. Well, that’s interesting indeed. I wonder who does?”

  Bilblox bit his lower lip. Kiril was a snake, a master of seeing through people. He wished he were back in the boat, waiting to die, instead of sitting here next to the warm fire and feeling this man bore into his deepest thoughts.

  “Who has it?” Kiril wondered. “He wouldn’t give it to just anyone. Hill, of course, but that’s not Hill’s style.” He stopped abruptly, stood up and looked into the inky darkness just beyond the fire.

  When he turned back, Kiril was smiling. “Of course,” he said. “Of course he gave it to the girl – that’s precisely the sort of sentimental, ill-advised thing he would do.” He glanced at Bilblox and knew the first battle was over and he had won.

  “That’s very interesting information you’ve given me,” Kiril said. “Now I wonder where she is?”

  Chapter 7: Staying Alive

  For many months, Resuza had woken and gone to sleep in the same way: in the darkness, surrounded by the dank odors of her unwashed neighbors, to the sound of a bass drum being pounded. The sound never failed to startle her, especially because it was more of a physical kick than a noise. The Dragoonya would choose a slave at random for the task, and everyone knew that if the drumming wasn’t fast or powerful enough, the slave would have to face the Goon-ya-radt – the guards who were once prisoners themselves. One might think that these guards would be friendlier or more sympathetic, because they understood what it meant to suffer as prisoners, but in fact the opposite was true; they tended to be crueler than the Dragoonya. This was, in part, because the Drangoonya picked the angriest, meanest, and most twisted prisoners to lead the Goon-ya-radt. The group’s leader was a man named Ure, whose face was horribly disfigured by a severe case of frostbite, which had withered his nose and turned his skin into what resembled a rotting piece of fruit. If and when a slave failed to beat the drum properly, it was Ure who handled the matter. He liked to force slaves into the snow, until they either froze to death or returned to the barracks looking like Ure. Once, when a little girl was chosen to beat the drum – and failed – Ure punished her simply by making her kiss his face. In Resuza’s opinion, this might have been the worst punishment at all.

  The drums were played twice each day – once early each morning, to wake everyone, and again at midnight to signal the start of the five hours or so in which they were allowed to sleep. Tonight, thankfully, the drumming continued for a full minute. The slave was strong, aided in his task by the fear of death. When the drumming finally slowed down and stopped, Resuza could still feel her pulse racing. She folded her arms in between her legs and tried to steady the trembling in her limbs.

  There was a violent cough from below her.

  “Hill?” she whispered. “Are you okay?”

  No answer.

  “HILL?!” she whispered louder.

  A low, weak groan floated up to her. “I’m okay,” he mumbled softly. “I’m just a bit short of breath.”

  Hill coughed again. Resuza was terribly worried about him. He had been coughing more or less constantly for weeks now and she was worried that he had the sickness known as consumption, which had claimed the lives of so many slaves.

  “I’m fine,” wheezed Hill.

  Resuza was lying on a tiny upper bunk in the Dargora slave quarters, right above Hill Persplexy – Alfonso’s uncle and only a year ago, a member of Somnos high society as its newly-appointed Foreign Minister. All of that, especially the mansion where they lived, now seemed like a cruel dream. Sometimes it seemed like a miracle that they were even alive at all. After they were captured by the slave traders, the journey to Dargora took a month. The days blended together as their caravan trundled across the steppes and into “the land of frozen earth” – what the slave traders called the permafrost tundra. The slaves’ cages were exposed to the wind, snow and rain. Several of the older and weaker ones died along the way, and Resuza often woke up yelling from nightmares. Strangely, the nightmares all focused on one simple fact – namely, that she couldn’t remember the names of those who had died.

  Resuza recalled very little of her arrival in Dargora. She was too exhausted and famished to think properly. One of her only memories of the city’s landscape was of a series of giant pillars that rose up from the ground and disappeared into the clouds above. The pillars were gigantic – so wide across that if you chiseled a tunnel through the base of one of them, a large elephant could easily walk through the tunnel. At first, Resuza thought the pillars were made of rocks – like giant chimneys made of stone and mortar – but when she took a closer look she saw the pillars were actually made of bones and skulls. “Those are slaves’ bones,” one old slave woman told her, who was helping unload the slaves. “One day, they’ll add yours to the collection.” The woman said this as if it were an undisputable fact, as if there weren’t even the faintest hope of escape, and her certainty was both terrifying and profoundly depressing.

  As soon as they were unloaded from the cages, the slaves were brought to a vast series of underground cellars, carved from th
e frozen dirt and rock. These cellars, which were connected by a maze of tunnels, were known as the slave quarters and it was expected that all the slaves would live out the rest of their lives there. The slaves spent their time hauling coal and boiling whale blubber in giant copper vats and turning it into oil which the Dragoonya used to burn in their heaters and their lamps. Resuza tended to the vats of blubber, which was disgusting, but not too taxing physically. Hill had a much more punishing job. He worked with the ovens. His job was to unload carts filled with coal and shovel this fuel into a series of giant ovens. Each oven was situated at the base of one of the giant pillars. The pillars, as it happens, were hollowed out – and this allowed the heat from the coal-fires to rise up through them the way that smoke and heat rises up through a chimney. No one knew where the heat went, since no one was allowed out of the slave quarters to look. And new slaves were always brought in during the night.

  Upon her arrival, Resuza was hopeful that she might find her long-lost younger sister, Naomi. She looked everywhere for Naomi, hoping against hope that she might have survived such a long captivity in Dargora; but she saw no one that even bore a resemblance to her younger sister. Dargora was a terrible place for children, and there were very few in the slave quarters. At a certain point several months in, Resuza realized that she had stopped looking. She had given up. Now, even to think of her sister put Resuza in a dark mood. Naomi had been captured many years ago and she would have arrived here as a child. The chances that she survived were very slim. Resuza had slowly accepted the fact that her sister was almost certainly dead. The only hope that remained was that, somehow, she and Hill could escape.

  Despite their very bleak prospects, Resuza and Hill did occasionally discuss how they might make it out of Dargora. It wasn’t just wishful thinking. They had one possession that gave them hope; it was the Foreseeing Pen, the five-inch metal cylinder they had found hidden inside Alfonso’s sphere. Alfonso had pried the sphere from a statue within Straszydlo Forest, and the sphere had quickly become Alfonso’s weapon of choice. In fact, it proved crucial in winning the battle of Somnos. Alfonso had given the sphere to Resuza right before entering Jasber, so she could protect herself and Hill. It seemed like years had passed since that moment, but in reality it had only been a few months.