by Jake Halpern
What he did see – the thing that finally motivated him to get moving – was a silhouette in the distance, far off to his right. It was like a shadow moving within a shadow. He would’ve missed it completely, except for a certain part of his exhausted mind that told him to look carefully at the Forest. That, and the sense that the silhouette was familiar. Perhaps it was the connection that all Great Sleepers felt for each other. Or perhaps it was nothing more complicated than the instinct that allows children to sense when their parents are near. It was his dad – and he wasn’t alone. There was a second figure just behind him, darting in and out of view. He wondered if this was Marta, but knew he didn’t want to stick around and find out. It was time to leave.
By the time the horizon had begun to lighten, Alfonso had fallen into a walking stupor. The landscape appeared unchanged and Alfonso forced himself to dismiss the possibility that, somehow, he had gone in a circle. Alfonso began to feel a creeping sense of doom. He thought back to the fights he had with his father. Of course it made sense that his dad wanted to stop him, but couldn’t he understand that there was more at stake? Why couldn’t his father see what would happen if this tree took hold? Obviously this wasn’t an easy choice, but the truth of the matter was that this wasn’t a choice at all. Alfonso really had no say in the matter. In fact, he felt as if he were being pulled forward by the Shadow Tree, at least this is how he felt at first; but with time, he came to understand that he wasn’t being pulled as much as he was being pushed. It was as if an invisible hand was exerting pressure on the small of his back. And he knew deep down it was the Founding Tree of Somnos – the tree he had planted, his tree – goading him forward, coaxing him to do the deed, pushing him to his own death.
Part of Alfonso felt bitter. There was no doubt about it. Why him? Why was he forced to shoulder this burden? Hadn’t he and his father already given enough? And yet, at the same time, Alfonso knew this was also the voice of the selfish coward who lives deep within each of us. This was the voice that had to be squelched. He forced himself to think of Hill, Lars, and all the other Dormians he had met. They were a part of him, and to ignore the threat of the Shadow Tree was to say that those lives weren’t worth saving. There were times when Alfonso hated everything Dormian and, all the while, part of him nurtured a dream that perhaps he’d go back to Somnos and live out his life there, alongside his tree, the one that now seemed intent on killing him. No matter how upset he became, he never blamed the Founding Tree, because at long last he had come to understand that he and the tree were one. The tree was not a foreign entity forcing him to do something he didn’t want to do; the tree was part of him and it was merely urging him to do what he knew was right. If his Dad did catch up to him, he’d explain all this in a way he wasn’t able to before. He would make him see.
The thought that really gave Alfonso pause, however, was Resuza. He had no idea where she was, though he suspected that she was in Dargora, in search of her sister. Of course, part of his motivation to destroy the Shadow Tree, was to help her – to save her – yet even if he succeeded he would never see her again. This thought depressed him. On one of the times that he had used his powers as an ageling, and had morphed from being a teenager to being an adult, he had stumbled across a peculiar memory – a series of images, really, that flickered across his mind like scenes from an old-fashioned picture show. He saw two little children and a woman in her mid-thirties, sitting at the end of a dock, at the edge of a lake in the mountains. The woman was smiling and splashing the children. It took Alfonso a moment to recognize her, but he came to understand that the woman was Resuza, and that the children were theirs. He had seen a glimpse of their life together. It existed in the future – or some permutation of the future that might occur if he lived. He had not encountered the memory again. It was lost, like a dog-eared snapshot in a huge bin of photos. The curious thing – the thing that really unnerved him – was that the nearer he drew to Dargora, the faster the memories of his life slipped away. It was becoming harder for him to morph, because the memories were vanishing, like bits of debris spiraling down the drain.
Alfonso took a deep breath and tried to quell the panic he suddenly felt. Dargora. Where was it? He was running out of time. He thought back to his conversations with Resuza about Dargora. Resuza had attempted to find the city, years ago, in the hopes of rescuing her sister. Resuza had recounted meeting a hermit woman who had spoken of a petrified forest and a city of bones that lay within. She had been wrong, of course. Dargora wasn’t inside the petrified forest, unless Alfonso had somehow missed it. But perhaps her information wasn’t all wrong. She had spoken of a city so well hidden that it was only visible for a brief moment during twilight. And Resuza had confirmed this – she had actually seen Dargora. He remembered her words: “For a minute or two it flickered into sight—a vast city made of rocks the color of dry, bleached bones.”
Alfonso looked up and noticed that the daylight was already beginning to fade. This far north, the day consisted only of a few hours. In fact, the sun had never appeared behind the thick veil of clouds, but he could tell from the way the clouds glowed near the horizon that the sun was already retreating. Night was coming and he felt weak. His head was throbbing and he felt hot all over. Alfonso suspected that he was running a fever. He was spent. He looked behind him. He couldn’t see anything. Maybe he had, at the very least, succeeded in losing his father. He needed rest desperately. He dropped to his knees and collapsed on a bank of snow. He had to close his eyes – just for a moment.
Sleep came swiftly.
He awoke a short while later and was alarmed to see the possessions from his backpack had been taken out and placed neatly in a row in front of him. Had someone been here? Impossible. There were no tracks in the snow. He must have done this in his sleep. There was some extra clothing, a knife, several antique Pens he had kept as souvenirs from Bilblox’s airship, an old passport picture of his dad, and the small engraved box he had found in the cavern underneath the Three Sphinxes in Egypt. A sudden charge went through Alfonso as he withdrew the rosewood box. He had forgotten about that – forgotten that there was one door he hadn’t entered. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a voice.
“Alfonso!” called the voice. “Please, for God’s sake, if you can hear me, show yourself. Please. I’m begging you.”
Words formed on Alfonso’s lips, but he could not utter them. He contemplated standing up, but he was too tired. Instead, he sat cross-legged in the snow, held the rosewood box in his hands and focused as before on the thousands of minute indentations engraved across the box. He slipped into hypnogogia and concentrated. Once again he saw that some of the indentations were octagons and some were nonagons and – when he blocked out the octagons – the nonagons clearly formed a doorway complete with a handle. Seconds later, Alfonso found himself back in the windowless room that was Imad’s antechamber. It was the same as he remembered it, down to the cool marble floors and smooth wood-paneled walls. The only difference was that instead of the original three doors, only one door remained. He walked to the door and examined it. It was made of rough wooden planks, like the other two, and it also featured a bronze doorknob engraved with the image of an ocean wave.
Alfonso took a step back and looked around the room. At first glance, it had seemed empty except for the door, but now he realized the same narrow desk was sitting partially hidden in a dark part of the room. He walked over to the desk and as before, a sheet of parchment paper lay on the top.
My dear Alfonso;
You have done well. Enter the last doorway, use its knowledge, and let us to be rid of this heavy burden forever. I most seriously asssure you that the Shadow Tree will not stop. It must feed, and like a malignant cancer it will eventually consume the world. I regret most sorrowfully the heavy responsibility that is yours.
Your loyal and etrernal servant,
Imad
Alfonso walked quickly to the door, took a deep breath and opened it. He faced an absolut
e darkness but deep within, he could hear a whistling, followed by the sound of water crashing. He stepped into the darkness and fell for what seemed at least a minute. During this time, he became aware of a mix of water, ice and snow droplets surrounding him. Gradually, this mixture began to form into the shape of a wave. It withdrew, formed, and then rushed towards him. At the last instant before hitting him, the multi-form wave abruptly disintegrated, withdrew, and started the process again. This happened over and over until one particular wave actually hit him, at which point Alfonso’s entire body snapped straight.
Alfonso became aware of leaving hypnogogia. He opened his eyes and gradually realized he was lying on the ground, face up, staring at the cloud-covered polar night sky. The rosewood box sat in an outstretched hand, and a light snow fell. Alfonso lay there motionless and gazed at the snowflakes landing on his parka. For a moment, he thought he had died. His body felt stiff and brittle and slowly he realized that he had morphed into a very old man, who was perhaps ninety-five or one hundred years old. Alfonso’s thoughts were muddled. His breathing was shallow and his heart had momentarily stopped beating. He suddenly understood that his ageling body had taken on the form of a man near death. Just then, Alfonso heard sobbing, and the choked cry of a man. “My child,” sobbed the man. “My only child.” Alfonso knew without looking that the cries were his father’s.
“My child... my dear boy...”
He thinks I’m dead, thought Alfonso.
The wind gusted wickedly, blowing a mound of powdery snow over Alfonso’s body. He was soon covered from head to toe, consumed by the snowy landscape that surrounded him.
Chapter 39: Father & Son
Nartam stood by the large window in his room, which had once been the captain’s quarters of the ship. He looked down on the world below in a daze. Strong winds were gusting from the south, howling across the Petrified Forest, pushing the clouds northward and swirling them about like wisps of milk in a freshly-stirred cup of tea. When he tired of looking out the window, Nartam paced back and forth across the creaking wooden floor of his room. There was no furniture – no bed, or sofa, or table, or chairs – just a large vacant space. This was because Nartam was restless. He could no longer lie down, or sit still, or even stand in one place for more than a few seconds before his limbs began to twitch – slightly at first and then violently. If he forced himself to stay still, his muscles would go into spasms. Twice he had lost control of his arm and punched his fist through a wall made of solid oak.
There was only one explanation for his restlessness, of course, and that was the black ash from the Shadow Tree. Nartam had taken too much of it lately. But this was understandable, he reasoned, because he had to test the outer limits of what the ash could do. Lately, he had been conducting little experiments. Just the day before, he had taken a dagger – so sharp that a man could use it to shave – and used the blade to slice off the index finger on his left hand. Truth be told, it didn’t hurt all that much because one curious side-effect of the black ash was that it seemed to deaden the nerves in the limbs. A man using the black ash could hold his hand in a roaring fire for ten seconds without flinching. In any case, Nartam had taken the severed finger, dipped it in the black ash, and then pressed it back onto the flesh of his bloody hand. The veins in his finger had wriggled about, like thin translucent worms; then the bones began to fuse; and finally, a fresh layer of skin grew in a matter of seconds. Within five minutes he had regained full use of the index.
Nartam was stronger than he had ever been in his entire life – this much was clear.
As he paced back and forth, Nartam's thoughts remained fixed on Alfonso. Most likely he would arrive on the new moon, as the Shadow Tree predicted. Nartam’s dreams had been filled with images of the full moon illuminating the night sky. This had to be what it meant. The boy was coming. Nartam was certain of it. The Founding Trees would send him – and his father, Leif, as well – pushing them northward like pawns. This thought made Nartam smile. In Dormia, Great Sleepers were always hailed as heroes – even saviors and martyrs – but the truth was they merely did the bidding of the Founding Trees. Once or twice, Nartam had wondered if the same was now true of the Shadow Tree – whether it secretly exerted more control over him than he cared to admit. In any case, most Great Sleepers gradually came to realize that they were really servants, one might even say, slaves. Leif had realized it during his long captivity in Jasber – and soon Alfonso would as well.
Nartam was summoned from his thoughts by a knocking at the door.
“Come in,” he beckoned.
The door swung open and Kiril entered. His second in command looked preoccupied. And why was he avoiding eye contact? Nartam stared at Kiril. He had survived for so long because of a well-cultivated paranoia, and this sense was telling him to beware.
Nartam shook his head. Impossible. Kiril was not like others. He was his son.
“Hello Kiril, my son,” said Nartam in a soft voice.
“Hello father,” replied Kiril. “You summoned me?”
“Yes,” said Nartam, “Come have a word.”
Kiril walked across the room, but stopped several feet short of Nartam, as if not wanting to draw too near.
“You do not have the Foreseeing Pen.” Nartam’s tone was flat and neutral. It was a statement, not a question.
Kiril nodded.
“What happened?” asked Nartam.
“We captured Hill and Resuza,” replied Kiril matter-of-factly. “They had the Pen. I saw it with my own eyes – and then it disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” replied Nartam. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“I don’t... I’m not exactly sure,” said Kiril. “But I will find it.”
“Where is Bilblox?” demanded Nartam.
“I have him,” said Kiril. “I will return him to you at once.”
Nartam nodded. “Good. He is important.”
He turned away from Kiril and looked out the window at the Shadow Tree below.
“So the Pen just...disappeared,” said Nartam softly. “That’s most unfortunate.” He turned slowly to look at Kiril. “Or convenient, depending on how you look at it.”
“Convenient?” asked Kiril, a trace of surprise in his voice.
“Come now my dear, dear child,” said Nartam softly, almost in a purr. “What do you take me for? We both know perfectly well what that Pen can do and how powerful it is. So if you tell me that you almost had it, and then it mysteriously disappeared, don’t place yourself above suspicion. Don’t forget, I am your father. I know you better than you know yourself. And I love you – even if you have deceived me. You know that, don’t you?”
“Are you suggesting I am hiding it from you?” asked Kiril. His face reddened.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” said Nartam. As he said this, he took out his hand and tenderly stroked Kiril’s face. “You wouldn’t be the first son to betray his father. I am no fool. And neither are you. In fact, what I always admired most about you, my son, is that you never allowed anyone or anything to become dear to you. That is what makes a man strong. And that is what kept you safe... until now.”
“The girl,” said Kiril slowly. “Naomi.”
“Yes,” said Nartam. Nartam drew closer and whispered into Kiril’s ear: “You were wise to hide her.”
Kiril said nothing. His feet were rooted to the ground as if made of stone.
“But you were very foolish to lie to me and think you could get away with it,” said Nartam.
Blood drained from Kiril’s face.
“What kind of monster do you take me for?” said Nartam with a sad shake of his head, as if he were reading Kiril’s thoughts. “Am I the sort who murders children? I beg you to recall that it was the Dormians who cast you – as a child – into the snow to die and it was I who saved you.”
“What do you want from me?” asked Kiril.
“Bring me Bilblox,” whispered Nartam. Suddenly all the tenderness was gone from his v
oice. “Now.”
Kiril nodded, spun around, and left the room. He ran back toward his quarters, cursing himself for his stupidity. He was not his usual self. He had let the Pen slip through his fingers, and now Nartam was manipulating him. He owed Nartam everything, but he never let anyone manipulate him. That was Kiril’s talent but somehow his talent was failing him.
When he made it back to his quarters, as expected, Kiril found the door broken down and the place ransacked. His possessions were all in disarray. Drawers were open and tables overturned. A great wooden wardrobe in the far corner of the room had been knocked over and all of Kiril’s clothing was strewn across the floor – robes, coats, pants, shirts, scattered about. He had instructed Naomi to stay and hide, but she was gone.
Staring at the clothing strewn across the floor, Kiril realized that he was quite cold. He found a pair of wool pants and a heavy winter kimono. Kiril hadn’t laid eyes on the kimono for ages. He had gotten it centuries ago, in the mid 1600s, while exploring the coast of Japan with a Portuguese merchant vessel. At the time, Kiril was looking for a Great Sleeper, whom he never found, but along the way he had befriended a Japanese woman – he could no longer remember her name, but he could still picture her face. The woman had given him the kimono. The kimono was too big, too long in both the torso and the sleeves, but it was warm and light. He remembered wearing it during a particularly deadly but victorious battle. Good. It would restore his confidence for what was to come.
