by Tara Omar
“By the tree?”
Saladin’s hand found the hilt of his blade.
“A type of grass, actually,” said Imaan, looking at the vines and trunk. “Germinates instantaneously, growing from seed to a plant of nine metres in about a second. You can’t see it from here, but the top will be shaped like a pike, so it can cut through anything in the path of its growth. Or anyone, for that matter.”
“I know Faerkbërde is treacherous and impassable, but can it be this cruel?” asked Saladin, his hand still firmly grasping the hilt of his blade. “Surely the man died some other way and the plant happened to grow up through his middle?”
“How many skeletons do you know happen to sit upward long enough for a plant to grow through them, when there are no other means of support near it? I’m telling you, this man was impaled by a bambord.”
Imaan moved through the bushes, touching different plants as she walked. “Bambords, strangler figs, poison ivies, stinkhorns, an abundance of dragon teeth ferns among others… I didn’t notice when we were sitting here, but we are passing through one of Faerkbërde’s last violent welcome parties.”
“Is the bambord climbable?”
“Yes, but we must—”
Saladin dove at its trunk, catching the vines a metre above the skeleton as he climbed.
“I have not come this far so urgently to entertain a botany lesson,” said Imaan, pinching her eyebrows.
“Nor I, a lecture,” yelled Saladin. He pulled himself upward through the bambord’s bushy branches.
“Do not alarm yourself too much, Saladin,” shouted Imaan to the treetops. “Judging by the bones and the size of the plants, this happened long ago. Faerkbërde may have calmed some since then, though it is best not to linger long enough to find out. We should continue on the trail for Raphael.”
Saladin reached the top of the bambord, no longer listening. He examined its pointed top and leaves with interest, as well as the hanging vines and surrounding plants. He pulled a spyglass from his belt and peered through the canopy.
“There is a whole row of bambords blooming from the southeast,” said Saladin, shouting downward. “Looks like the man tried to run away before Faerkbërde got him.” He followed the line of trees with his spyglass, past the Chumvi to where they now stood.
“Hang on,” breathed Saladin. He doubled back on the river as he looked, zooming in near its bank. Saladin shoved his glass back into its pouch and grabbed a vine, repelling quickly downward.
“Alright, then,” said Imaan, watching as Saladin made his way toward the ground. “As I was saying, the trail appears to be turning to the north-west, if we continue onward for another—”
But Saladin’s boots barely touched the ground before he bolted in the opposite direction, running toward the river.
C H A P T E R 7
Saladin reached the edge of the Chumvi River, his eyes fixed on an ancient, thorny willow tree as he leaned forward, recovering from the run. The soft buzzing of scratching sounds soon replaced the heavy huffs of his breathing, the sound of the willow’s thorn etching a meticulous pattern into a dying man’s back. Saladin had seen this image in his spyglass only minutes before; now, as he stood nearer, he still could not grasp it. An unconscious man dangled above the ground before him, his legs tightly bound in root. A spiny branch danced over the man with the flourishing motions of an artist, cutting into his skin with a thorn at the end of its wispy vine. Every so often, the willow would stop to clean the excess blood from its thorn, monitoring its writing like an expert calligrapher.
“Biy’avi,” breathed Imaan, appearing beside him. She examined the front of the man gently with her hands, noting the bubbling bruises covering his body, several broken ribs and a deep gash festering on the side of his neck. Imaan traced her hands over the man’s closed eyes, mumbling the prayer for the dead.
“Is the tree using a man for paper?” asked Saladin, removing his cloak.
“Vellum would be the more appropriate term,” said Imaan, bending closer. She looked at the elaborate symbols and nodded. “Though it is a beautifully-written grocery list, wouldn’t you say? One of the loveliest I’ve seen in fact—apart from the blood, of course.”
The willow’s leaves flushed a deeper green at the compliment, writing in earnest.
“Grocery list?” asked Saladin. “This tree is using a man to write a grocery list?”
“Of course. This tree is one of the screeving willows of Paradise. Don’t you recognise it from the Sacred Memories?”
Saladin stared at her blankly. Imaan huffed.
“For someone with such interest in studying the memories, I am surprised you do not know this.”
“Matters of men concern me more than those of trees,” said Saladin, folding his arms. “But as this is of recent interest, please, continue the lesson.”
Imaan pursed her lips.
“The screeving willows were charged with writing down the needs of all the plants within reach of its roots. Adam then used these lists to determine his planting strategy, making sure all were cared for properly. It’s in Qoholeth’s memory, paragraph six.”
“They wrote in blood, in Paradise?” asked Saladin.
“Of course not. Centuries of boredom and neglect can be very difficult, even for a tree. I imagine this one has just become overzealous in its want of a voice,” said Imaan, patting the tree root. “Shame, it’s suffered such a lot since the time of Adam, hasn’t it?”
“I must admit I am at a loss as to why you have such sympathy for the tree, Lady, and not for the bleeding, dying man,” said Saladin.
“And why should the willow show us deference? Human error caused Faerkbërde’s separation from its sister trees in Paradise, and for centuries afterward we neglected and destroyed what was left. The forest knows humans only as ignorant, hurtful and divisive, which is accurate by its account. It destroys us whenever possible as a means of survival. If it hadn’t, even what is left would’ve faded to grassland like the rest of Aeroth. Would you not also rid yourself of pestilence?”
Imaan walked slowly toward the river, following the ground.
“Perhaps,” she said, turning to Saladin, “if you had spent more time listening to the chirps of your nightingale instead of admiring her plumage, you would’ve been on better terms with Faerkbërde, and one of your subjects may not have had his back carved out.”
Saladin glared at her. As the willow stopped again to clean its quill, Saladin threw his cloak over the man’s back and straddled the tree roots from behind him. He bent forward and hugged the man tightly, putting his own back between the man and the tree. When the willow returned to write, its thorn cracked on the thick fabric of Saladin’s vest, unable to penetrate him. After several more attempts, the thorns retracted and the willow stopped moving. Cautiously, Saladin sat upward.
“Do you know what he is?” asked Saladin, removing the cloak.
“A human, obviously.”
“I can see that,” said Saladin. “But of what tribe? I’ve never known any of them to venture this far, and certainly not into Faerkbërde. Could he be of the mountain folk?”
“The rebels would know better than to collapse under a screeving willow, even if they are on the verge of unconsciousness,” said Imaan. She knelt to the ground near the river, following the markings in the grass.
“Do you think he is alone?” asked Saladin, tugging gently on the man. The roots held fast and would not release him.
“There are no other tracks around him,” said Imaan, “though it looks like he may have pulled himself from the river.”
“Is it a murder, then?”
“I don’t know,” said Imaan. “In any case, he is threads away from death now; he will not survive the trip to the City. I’m afraid it’s best to leave him to feed the trees. It will have been long since they had any blood or bone meal.”
&
nbsp; “You told me once Raphael can heal. We must take him with us,” said Saladin.
“He is already near lost and fading fast. Hacking him out of the roots will most certainly alert Faerkbërde. I do not think it wise to make yourself a martyr for a dead man,” said Imaan.
“You have a trail,” said Saladin.
“I do, several kilometres from here,” said Imaan, “a trail we’ve had enough difficulty following standing in one place, let alone running for survival. Are you willing to risk the lives of two heads of state for a man already dead?”
“It is unbecoming for the King to assume his health or office gives him added value. As a man, I cannot leave him. A life is a life, even a dying one.”
“Yet it is equally unbecoming to heap more injuries upon a victimised forest to save one of its oppressors. We tempt justice simply by being here, and Faerkbërde is not a weak victim. You have already seen of what it is capable. This is no time for dramatic displays of childish curiosity or heroism,” said Imaan.
Their eyes locked gazes for a long moment as though in a wrestling match. The air warmed between them as the silence again grew thick and filled with meaning. Saladin quickly looked away, fidgeting slightly as he fisted his hands. Imaan looked to the grass.
“I will not leave him,” said Saladin.
“But—”
“The King has decreed it.”
Imaan’s nostrils flared.
“Fine. If that is the desire of the King, then I will acquiesce. But if more blood is spilt this day, it is on your head.”
Saladin nodded, avoiding her gaze.
“Which blade did you bring?” asked Imaan.
“Machete.”
“Good. Give me a five second lead. Then follow with the man,” said Imaan. “And keep your hacking arm free; Faerkbërde will come after you first.”
Saladin hopped down from the tree root and put on his cloak, while Imaan mumbled under her breath, touching her and Saladin’s foreheads in blessing.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“After you.”
Imaan shot off like a gazelle through the undergrowth, tearing through the trees as Saladin walked around the tree, carefully feeling the roots as he looked for the best point of contact. He pressed twice on the root just below the man, offering a quick prayer. Then he raised his machete.
C H A P T E R 8
Saladin slashed through the swollen mass of roots of the screeving willow; the tree screamed as his blade cut deep into the wood. A wave of rumbling leaves rippled through the forest as each vine, tree, branch and leaf awoke to the distressing sound. Saladin’s eyes stung with dust as Faerkbërde rained angry shrapnel of dirt and pebbles; he threw the man over his shoulders and raced into the forest as bambords exploded through the ground, pursuing him with the accuracy of a bloodhound. He weaved deeper into the growing labyrinth with the man slung limply over his shoulder, unconscious, while hairy roots whirled and hissed around him, attacking like a thousand hungry snakes ready to strike. Saladin slashed his machete through the groping vines, leaping over a root as the blade ripped through the stems. The vines shrieked and squealed, still reaching for him as they fell to the ground. He yelled.
“Try and faerk me, you bristly beast, and I shall stab my knife through you. This is the King of Aeroth with whom you deal now. If you want me to fence you, I can and shall do so!”
Faerkbërde growled. A bouquet of tubular fungi burst open near his head, releasing a noxious smell of sweat and rot. Saladin reeled back, crinkling his nose.
“Aw really, Faerkbërde, stinkhorns? That’s dirty of you!”
Saladin ducked under the stinking fungi as the stranglers grabbed the man he carried by the foot, yanking him backward. The vines wove themselves around the man as they readied to kill him. Saladin flipped himself around, vaulting into the air as he drove his machete into the heart of the strangler fig, severing its roots. It squealed and shrivelled, dropping the man into the path of a bambord. Saladin grabbed him and swerved just in time, missing the spiky stem by a few millimetres. He spun around and sliced it cleanly to the ground. It fell behind him, exploding into a thousand splinters as another stalk blasted through its centre.
“Is this really all you’ve got for me, you lettuce leaf? From one salad to another, I think you are a bit wilted now!” said Saladin. “I warned you, if you shoot your stems I shall stem your shoots!”
He ripped off a piece of his sleeve with his teeth, dodging more fuming plants as he tied it tightly around the man’s hands, heaving him around his neck as Faerkbërde doubled the attack, sending heavy branches with ball-like ends into Saladin’s path. The balls burst open with razor-sharp leaves as Saladin pushed passed them. They looked like a leafy cross between a puffer fish and a porcupine.
“Dragon teeth ferns!” said Saladin. He missed a root that popped up to trip him, stumbling forward just as a serrated fern blasted into his chest. The knife-like leaves slashed through his vest and forced him backward just as another bambord exploded through the ground. It seared the left side of his leg from the ankle to the hip, sending a fiery sting of pain surging through his leg. Saladin crashed to the ground, rolling just in time to evade another bambord. He sheathed his machete and grabbed hold of some leaves as another bambord soared into the air, thrusting him high into the canopy. The muscles in his arms burned and rippled as he swung to another tree, carrying his injured leg as dead weight and the lifeless man on his back.
Further down the trail, Imaan retraced her steps, revisiting the leaves she had found before. She could hear the battle intensifying behind her, evidence that Faerkbërde was closing in on her companion. Imaan dropped to the ground.
“Biy’avi, Faerkbërde, though the powers of many a mighty wooden monolith serve you, your beard is not so long as it once was. You cannot hide the mer indefinitely!”
Her hand grazed over the plants, plucking and rubbing leaves as she searched for signs of water. As she grabbed a clover leaf, Imaan froze. She licked the palm of her hand for confirmation.
“Dew!” said Imaan. She pushed her hands to the ground, her heart rate tripling as she patted the soil between the grasses. Her hand splashed. She pushed the surrounding plants back, revealing a mud puddle no bigger than the size of her hand, in a place where there had been neither rain nor river. She shoved her arm downward. The mud squelched between her fingers as her arm pushed deep into the ground, finding at its bottom the knob of a root. Before she could react a strangler caught her hair and yanked her backward, roping her arms and neck into place. Saladin hung directly above her, hanging onto a branch with one arm as he hacked wildly with the other.
“Saladin, I have found the opening!” shouted Imaan. “There is a mud puddle not a metre from where I’m held!” The King swung to a nearby branch and slashed at the roots that bound her.
“A mud puddle?” asked Saladin, the weight of the man he carried choking his neck. “We came all this way for a mud puddle?”
“Don’t be a fool!” shouted Imaan. “Come down before we’re killed!”
“I cannot defend us from the ground!” shouted Saladin. “If you are wrong we will die almost instantly.” He hacked off the head of a nearby stinkhorn, glancing toward the puddle. The vines twisted themselves around Imaan’s abdomen, locking her more securely in place. Saladin hacked them away.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m sure! The ferns are ready to cover it; you must jump now!”
Saladin let out a loud cry and dropped off the branch, hacking through the shrieking strangler as he fell. His legs buckled as he and Imaan collapsed to the ground, having only seconds to spare before a bambord would find them. Imaan rolled, grabbing Saladin’s arm as she shoved her other arm deep into the mud, finding the knob of the root. She pulled, twisted and pushed the knob downward. “Please don’t be a false lead, please,” whispered Imaan.
She straightened her arm and the root shot backward as the spot exploded with bambords.
C H A P T E R 9
Further down the river, in a grassy clearing near the foot of Lion Mountain, the ground began to hiccup a soft cloud of dirt in the likeness of a molehill. The nearby saplings, having never come across a mole or any other animal in their lifetimes, leaned their limber stems toward the hiccupping hole in the hope of catching whatever it was that caused this curious occurrence. The bigger trees, however, were old enough to remember what a real mole looked like and therefore knew this was certainly not a mole digging through Aeroth but something far more odious and unpleasant. No sooner had they stretched down their ancient branches to pull back the younger ones, when the hill erupted with a fantastic display of rocks, dirt and bits of roots as the ground spewed three muddy bodies high into the air, which landed with a thump on the newly-dug dirt.
“Well that was quite a trek, wouldn’t you say?” asked Saladin, slapping the black mound on which he sat. A cloud of fine dust rose into the air around his hand, settling on his bloodied leg like pepper on rare-cooked fillets. Saladin grimaced as he loosened the knots near his neck, carefully letting the rag of a man slump to the ground. Imaan pressed her hands above and below the man’s wounds. She held her palm near the man’s mouth and frowned.
“He still breathes but barely, and his heart rate has slowed,” said Imaan. “We must get him to Raphael soon, else your martyr’s leg will be in vain.” She glanced at Saladin’s wounded leg, swallowing hard, “Or not at all. Come.”
Saladin lifted the man over a shoulder. His injured leg popped as he tried to stand, and he collapsed back into the dirt mound, dizzy with pain.
“I think you’ll have to carry him from here,” said Saladin, shifting his leg.
“Very well,” said Imaan. She bent toward the unconscious man, her face coming close to his. He smelled of salt and blood. She hesitated.
“Is everything alright? Can you manage?” asked Saladin, watching her.
