Shadow Tree

by Jake Halpern

  “Shall we leave?” she asked Bilblox. “World’s End is much safer, and you still need to save Alfonso.”

  As he awoke, Bilblox could still hear the sound of the tidal wave in his ears. Soon it turned to cheering, just as his headache returned with great ferocity. Bilblox cracked open one eye and then the other; he found himself slumped over in the backseat of a small sled that was being drawn by a team of three white stallions. The only other occupant of the sled was a man, standing up proudly, clutching a small leather pouch in his right hand and pumping his left fist in the air triumphantly.

  The man was Kiril.

  Kiril glanced over at Bilblox, noticed that he was awake, and yelled over the roar of the crowd, “Hello there Bilblox, good to see you up, you have been out cold for almost two days.” Then he added, “Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

  Bilblox took in his surroundings for the first time. He could still see quite well – so the power of the green ash was obviously quite long lasting – but his headache had returned and he knew that it would not go away unless he took the ash again. Bilblox looked around. The sled was making its way down a long snow-covered thoroughfare that was lined with tens of thousands of people who were all cheering raucously. Some of the people in the crowd were clearly Dragoonya soldiers, dressed in full battle gear, but the vast majority of them appeared to be wretched prisoners dressed in rags – filthy, half-starved, and wild-eyed. There were feeble old men, toothless old women, and even children, clamoring about on all fours, mouths hung wide open like mangy, famished dogs. Bilblox mustered his strength, sat up in his seat, and looked out at the people around him. They were not just cheering – they were screaming madly – and a few appeared to be foaming at the mouth.

  “Who are all these people?” asked Bilblox hoarsely.

  “Most of them are slaves,” replied Kiril.

  “Why are they cheering?”

  “Because,” replied Kiril, “This whole city has just been given new life.”

  Bilblox felt too weak to say anything or even contemplate a reply. Instead, he tried to get a sense for the “city” that was around him. There were no buildings to be seen. The only structures were a series of pillars that resembled massive bones; each was firmly anchored into the icy ground and disappeared into the cloud-filled sky.

  “What is this place?” asked Bilblox finally.

  “Dargora,” replied Kiril.

  “When did we get here?”

  “Early this morning,” replied Kiril. “We’ve been home for almost a full day and you’ve been out cold the entire time.”

  Kiril guided his sled for another mile or so, down a snow-covered road, lined with a series of tall, proud evergreen trees. On either side of the road, beneath the trees, were throngs of screaming slaves. Eventually, the sled arrived at a large, empty clearing, roughly the size of a small city park. The perimeter of this clearing was roped off and guarded by several hundred Dragoonya soldiers. In the center of the clearing was a large stage made of ice. On the stage stood a small muscular man who held a large bronze canister in his hands. Kiril eyed him appraisingly, then stepped down from his sled, and walked briskly over to the stage.

  “Hello Konrad,” said Kiril, as he greeted the man. “How are you my old friend?”

  “Amazed,” replied Konrad, his voice choked with emotion. “When your note arrived by the bird, I was.... well, stunned. You did it – you did the impossible.”

  Kiril nodded proudly, pleased by the praise from his oldest and most trusted lieutenant.

  “What about the girl?” asked Kiril. “Have you found her? Is she alive?”

  “Not to worry,” said Konrad. “I found her. She is fine and overjoyed to hear of your return.”

  “Good,” said Kiril softly.

  Just then a slender teenage boy, with sickly pale skin and two white eyes, strode onto the stage and embraced Kiril.

  “You have done very well my son,” said the boy.

  “Thank you Nartam,” replied Kiril, bowing his head before the person whom he had long considered both his king and his father. It was strange for Kiril to see Nartam this way – as a boy, really – but he tried to limit his reaction. No doubt it would all seem normal in time, thought Kiril. Nartam reached up and ran his finger across Kiril’s face. “Your scar is gone,” observed Nartam, “No doubt thanks to the green ash.”

  Kiril nodded. It was, of course, Nartam who had given him this scar as punishment for his failure to follow Leif Perplexon all the way to the gates of Jasber.

  “I hope you haven’t gotten greedy with that ash,” said Nartam.

  “Not at all,” said Kiril.

  “Hmm,” said Nartam. He seemed unconvinced. “Well, in any case, let us accomplish at last what we have waited ages to do. You have done this. You. Today they cheer for you – not for me.”

  Kiril studied Nartam closely. He seemed proud, but did the pride mask a deeper jealousy? Kiril couldn’t suppress his feelings of uneasiness.

  “It is said that whoever plants the Shadow Tree is bound to it forever,” said Nartam. “The planter and the tree are joined. Centuries ago, when Imad destroyed the Shadow Tree that Resže planted – Resže died with the tree. Resže wrote in his notes, We are one. So it will be once again.”

  Kiril understood what Nartam was telling him and what he now had to say.

  “I insist that you have the honor of planting the tree,” said Kiril.

  “Are you completely certain, my son?” asked Nartam. “It was you who made this possible?”

  Kiril looked his father in the eyes. He’s not really asking me, thought Kiril. He’s telling me.

  “Of course,” said Kiril. “The honor must be yours.”

  “My planting this tree will change everything,” said Nartam rather cryptically. “You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I think so,” said Kiril.

  “I will still be king,” said Nartam, “But I will also be the servant of this tree – just as the Great Sleepers of ages past were servants of the Founding Trees.”

  “Does that mean that I will also be a servant of the Tree?” asked Kiril.

  “No my son,” said Nartam. “You must not be. That is why I am telling you this. And, when we burn this tree, I forbid you from using any of its ash. You must be the one man who always sees everything clearly. Do you understand?”

  Kiril nodded.

  Meanwhile, back in the sled, Bilblox watched Kiril carefully. Bilblox was trying to grasp what was taking place – or what was about to take place. He saw the small, muscular man open the bronze canister and hand the teenage boy something about the size of a nut or perhaps... perhaps a seed. Then he saw Kiril offer his pouch of green ash to the teenage boy. It was at this moment that Bilblox realized that right here and now, on this stage of ice, the boy was about to plant the Shadow Tree.

  This was the moment.

  Bilblox lunged for the door of the sled, but his legs remained stubbornly in place. He looked down and, for the first time, noticed that his right ankle was manacled and chained to the sled. Bilblox thrashed about madly, trying to rid himself of the chain, but it was no use. And at last, as he finally grasped that he was trapped – and that he had failed, failed spectacularly – the haggard longshoreman looked up into the crowd, into the faces of countless screaming slaves and momentarily locked eyes with one slave in particular. She was a teenage girl with matted blonde hair and, as he saw her, his lips involuntarily formed a single word: Resuza.

  Chapter 15: Slaves

  Resuza blinked her eyes into the glare of the polar sun. Around her were thousands of excited, apprehensive slaves and quite a few armed Dragonya guards. All at once, the guards began to cheer, soon joined by the hand-picked slaves who enforced the Dragoonya commands. Soon, the crowd of slaves began to do the same, although their cheers were more like wild screams. Resuza knew better than to ask why everyone was cheering. If she had learned anything from her time in Dargora she knew this: when everyone around you did somethin
g, it was best to join in, and do so with more vigor than anyone else. And so she screamed as loudly as she could – screamed until her throat burned, her nostrils flared, and her jaw ached.

  Resuza spotted Bilblox well before he noticed her. She watched in disbelief as a sled emerged from the distance carrying none other than Kiril and – sitting in the backseat of his sled, staring passively out at the crowd – was Bilblox. She rubbed her eyes, as if perhaps her vision was failing her, but what she’d seen appeared to be true. She gasped and then nudged Hill, who was standing next to her. Hill made no response, which worried Resuza.

  Captivity had been hard on him, but in the past weeks, Hill had aged years. His face was drawn and thin, his skin was a sickly yellowish color, and his eyes had a sad, faraway look to them.

  As the sled carrying Kiril and Bilblox sped past, Resuza nudged Hill again, ever so gently, and suddenly his eyes came alive.

  “Is that...’ he began.

  “Yes,” she said, “It’s him.”

  “But how?” asked Hill. “Is Alfonso with him?”

  “I have no idea.” Resuza stared at Bilblox – the longshoreman looked drugged. “I really hope not.”

  Hill made no reply. He watched as Kiril stepped out of the sled and left Bilblox sitting alone in the sled. Hill and Resuza watched as Kiril joined Nartam and another smaller man on stage. The smaller man handed Nartam a bronze canister and, moments later, Kiril handed Nartam a glass vial that sparkled in the sunlight. Nartam raised his hand high in the air and everyone who saw this simple gesture went silent; this silence rippled through the entire crowd until not a living soul uttered a solitary sound. “Oh no,” whispered Hill. No one paid him any mind because his words were drowned out by the sound of the wind.

  Nartam turned to Kiril and the two of them chatted for some time. Eventually, Nartam dropped down to one knee and knelt by a hole that had been dug into the ice. Then he placed something into the hole – it was impossible to see what exactly – but presumably it was a special seed. Then Kiril handed something to Nartam. It appeared to be a vial of liquid. Nartam held the vial with both hands and lifted it into the sunlight. The crowd began to murmur. Nartam opened the vial and poured the liquid contents into the hole. Immediately, four enormous Dragoonya soldiers began to shovel dirt into the hole. They worked furiously, in what appeared to be a panicked state.

  Seconds later, the ground shook, exactly as it would after a distant earthquake. A thin black tentacle emerged from the ice. It resembled the charred leg of a giant octopus as it wiggled and squirmed upward, reaching for the sky. The tentacle grew quickly in length and width, and it began to undulate in the arctic air. A second and then a third and fourth tentacle emerged from the ground.

  Hill drew close to Resuza and whispered into her ear, “Look at the evergreens.” Resuza redirected her attention to a series of tall evergreen trees that lined the road that led up to the spot where the tree had been planed. The vibrant green coloring of the pine needles had disappeared and the needles were now a dull brown. “They’re all dead,” whispered Hill. Just then there was a gust of wind, the trees shook, and suddenly millions of dead pine needles fell downward – fell en masse – raining down on the slaves so thickly that for several seconds it was impossible to see the sky.

  When the pine needles had all fallen, and visibility returned, Resuza and Hill saw that the tentacles had grown taller and were now at least ten feet long. They whipped around as if searching for something. Suddenly several of the tentacles grabbed one of the Dragoonya soldiers and thrust him high into the air. The guard began to scream. The tentacles started to slowly squeeze the soldier, and at the same time, the tentacles continued to grow and sprout new fingers. The guard continued to struggle but soon the tentacles enveloped him completely until it was no longer possible to see him at all. The tentacles proceeded to elongate, divide, and multiply and eventually they wound together forming the trunk of the tree – with the guard still inside.

  The tree grew swiftly and turned even more repulsive. Its smooth bark glistened as if it were sweating from its own exertion. Soon the entire tree was nearly a hundred feet tall, with millions of intertwined branches that ended in sharp point, as if each individual branch was a dagger.

  “It’s the Shadow Tree,” said Hill. “Everything will die – trees, grasses, animals, people – everything. Wherever its roots reach, death will follow.”

  “How could he?” asked Resuza.

  “Who?”

  “Bilblox,” she replied, “He was in the sled.”

  Hill shook his head wearily. “I don’t know. Maybe his blindness became too much for him.”

  “Get moving!” barked a voice in the distance. It was one of the Dragoonya soldiers. An order had obviously been given, and the soldiers began to corral the slaves back into the cave. All the slaves turned and began heading back toward the cave, except for one elderly woman who seemed to slip effortlessly between the small gaps in the crowd. With great dexterity, the old woman made her way against the flow of the crowd, toward Hill and Resuza. When the old woman was within earshot, she hissed and then grabbed Resuza’s arm with a cold firm grip, pried open Resuza’s fingers, and clasped her hand. “You look just like my pet,” purred the woman, “Are you kin?”

  Resuza recoiled from the woman. Her hands were ice-cold, her breath smelled of rotten fish, and she had no teeth.

  “They took her from me,” said the old woman.

  “Took who?” asked Resuza, stepping backwards as she asked the question.

  “My pet... she looked just like you,” said the woman, “Only smaller and more frightened.”

  Suddenly, Resuza pulled the old woman close. “Are you talking about Naomi?” she demanded. “Have you seen her – have you?” The old woman appeared startled by Resuza’s ferocity, but Resuza could not control herself; she had given up hope that Naomi might be alive.

  “You’re the sister, aren’t you?” asked the old woman. “You’re the one who left her to die.”

  “That’s not true,” protested Resuza.

  “Oh yes, yes, yes it is,” muttered the old woman, “My pet told me – told me everything. She doesn’t want to see you ever again. She told me that many times before they took her.”

  “Took her where?”

  But their conversation was interrupted by the great movement of the crowd. Someone shoved Resuza forward and, moments later, the old woman was drifting away in a gaggle of emaciated bodies.

  “Where did they take her?” yelled Resuza.

  The old woman’s voice was not loud enough to carry over the crowd, but she heard Resuza’s question, and instead of speaking she simply pointed skyward, gesturing up toward the giant bone-like pillars that stretched upwards from the slave quarters and then disappeared into the clouds.

  Hill realized the old woman was no threat to Resuza, and took advantage of the situation to slip away. It would take a while for all the slaves to return to the massive cave that functioned as their work and living quarters. He had perhaps ten minutes before whistles would blow and force them back to work. In this time, Hill had something important to do or, more specifically, something to protect.

  The Pen.

  It was no longer safe in the barracks. The day before, one of the other slaves, a tall, thin man who slept next to him had seen him hiding the Pen in his shoe. “What’s that?” the man asked. Hill denied having anything and tried to shoo the man away, but he persisted. “Give it to me or I will tell the guards,” said the man. The man knew that, if he found anything valuable, he might be able to trade it for food. “I know you’re hiding something,” persisted the man. “Give it to me.” Hill got out of bed and brushed passed him. The man hadn’t followed, but Hill knew he wouldn’t give up. This tall, thin man was starving. He was desperate. He would do whatever he had to do if it enhanced his chances of surviving.

  Hill pushed his way through the crowd, squirming his way back into the slave quarters. He rubbed his hands against his sho
ulders as if to warm himself. Anyone observing him would see an old, weak man desperate to return to the warmth of the cave

  Hill entered the cave with the first group of slaves. Most lingered in the entrance, discussing what they had seen and reveling in their small taste of leisure time. Hill hugged the wall and walked towards his bunk bed. After a glance to confirm that he was alone, Hill continued to the end of the hallway. He looked around one last time, and ducked under the table that was nestled into the alcove. He pushed his hands against the dirt wall and it gave way easily. This was the entrance to their tunnel – the one that they had hoped would help them escape. They had filled it with a pile of dirt, just so it would go unnoticed. Hill climbed into the tunnel and crawled as quickly as he could.

  It took Hill just two or three minutes to reach the storage depot. The floor of the depot was still piled with supplies. He and Resuza clung to the hope that they would find some way to escape. If that time came, they would need these supplies. There were still two main tunnels leading into the storage depot – the one heading back to the barracks and the other leading south toward the spot where Resuza had encountered the ice canyon. There was also now a third tunnel leading directly up to the surface. It didn’t actually go all the way up. It stopped just shy of breaking through the ground above. Hill had dug this tunnel. He had done it in case they needed to make a quick escape. He and Resuza had come to call this tunnel their “emergency exit.”

  Hill climbed almost all the way to top of the emergency exit. There was still a thick slab of ice overhead, in-between him and the surface, and a murky beam of light filtered down through it. Just below this layer of ice, Hill groped around until he found a small nook in the ice. It was a perfectly-carved hiding spot for the Pen. Hill had the foresight to create this nook in the event that a day might come – like today – when he suddenly decided it was no longer safe to keep the Pen on him any longer. Hill withdrew the Pen and stared at it the ambient light. Then a far-off echo of slaves’ footsteps reminded him that he had little time. Hill set to work on the second part of his plan.