by Tara Omar
David nodded. They ducked through the dilapidated cottage to a roughly-hewn wooden bridge. Raphael continued forward, muttering to himself.
“Skip the sixth board,” said Raphael, barely looking back.
A hard knock echoed through the forest as the trap door under David’s feet gave way. Raphael dropped to his stomach with his wrist outstretched, entangling David in a web of purple rope not a split second too soon. David hung barely a few centimetres above the spraying jets of salt water. Raphael slowly got to his feet, still holding onto David with the ropes from his wrist.
“Skip. The. Sixth. Board,” said Raphael. He dropped David onto the wooden planks of the bridge, flicking his arm angrily as he released the ropes. David cleared his throat and fumbled to his feet, following Raphael to the misty clearing at the end of the bridge. Raphael turned to him.
“As you are only half human now you should be able to make the journey without trouble from Faerkbërde. If you feel unsafe, return immediately. Pool inside Lion’s Mouth. Plant at the bottom. Follow the trail.”
David nodded. Raphael pulled a parcel wrapped in a handkerchief from his coat pocket and handed it to David.
“I packed you some litchis and a spinach pie, in case you get hungry. The trail begins just beyond that branch of orchids. It’s rarely used so it might be a bit of a climb, but you won’t run into anyone. If you have any problems, look confident.”
“Confident?”
“Yes, confident.”
“Alright, thank you,” said David, raising his eyebrows. He waded through the swirling mist of the eula grove, past the glowing hibiscus flowers toward the branch of tumbling blue orchids.
“And David,” called Raphael after him. David turned.
“You need to focus now, David. If you continue as you are, you will meet the end of your time here. I trust you will take that to heart.”
David nodded, disappearing into the mist on the trail toward Lion Mountain.
David worked his way down the abandoned trail, clambering through the tangled mess of dead branches and biting foliage. Scraggly vines that looked like fishing nets choked the bushes surrounding him, while split trees stood silent like the ruins of a great city. After an hour, David hoped he was still going the right way. The path had completely disappeared, except for a spotty row of uneven stones that seemed to lead in a general direction, becoming rougher as it neared the mountain. David stopped, panting.
“This trail is awful, if you can even call it a trail,” said David, looking at the mangled mess of grey and green. He pushed himself through the tiny space between a mossy boulder and a tree branch, unhooking his shirt as it caught in the snares of a nearby bush. He sat down on a rock, opening the handkerchief Raphael had given him.
“Well at least he packed me some food,” said David. He quickly finished the squished pastry and litchis, then checked his pocket to see if any had fallen out; he was still hungry.
“Wait a minute,” said David, squinting as he stood. The hair on his neck prickled as he heard the sound of water. He moved carefully toward it, pulling back the leaves of a nearby bush. “I know this place,” breathed David. “I pulled myself from the river here.”
He walked to the water’s edge, bending down as he looked around, his eyes bright with memory. “That’s where the seal sat, and this—”
David looked up at the ancient willow tree, his back burning as though it was being etched with a knife. He stepped backward. “This must be the—”
The willow’s thorns bristled with anticipation, its vines reaching toward him like a stalking hunter. Adrenaline shot through David’s body; he fell back and started to run.
C H A P T E R 2 0
David darted toward the trail, his back barely ahead of the willow’s groping vines. He swerved left as the willow stabbed and lunged, swiping the air as it narrowly missed him. The willow growled, lifting a root directly in front of David. David missed the root and tripped; the tree snagged him by the leg, binding his ankle. He tried to grab onto a bush as the willow dragged him back, but the bush stung his hands, forcing him to let go.
Think, David, think. Stay confident, thought David, twisting around.
The willow lifted him off the ground, binding him around his waist with a root while thorns prickled from under the vines, fluttering slightly as they neared David’s skin. David dug his hands into his pockets.
“Huzzah!” shouted David, pulling out a pen and aiming it like a sword.
The screeving willow paused, pulling back slightly. David tightened his grip on the pen, holding as still as a statue. After a moment, the willow relaxed her thorns and grabbed the pen from David, holding it near to her trunk as she furiously clicked its button up and down. She giggled.
“You write with it,” said David.
The willow clicked the pen and aimed it at David, scribbling a long, curvy line on his upper lip, which felt like it might be a handlebar moustache. The tree giggled again, then dipped her branch in the river and wiped it off the ink. An electric current arced between her vine and David’s skin, zapping the tip of her branch. She growled.
“Did I mention you have a lovely trunk?” said David, nodding toward her roots. “I love the way these… uh… trunky parts twist ever so nicely around, like a twirling skirt. It’s very attractive for a tree.”
The tree paused again, flushing a deeper green as she pulled David closer. She offered him her vine, bending it in front of him like a hand waiting to be kissed. David took the hint and grabbed the vine, bowing slightly as he touched it to his lips. As he straightened, the willow wrapped the vine around his wrist like a handcuff and yanked his arm nearer. Then she began writing feverishly in short, cramped flourishes all the way up to the inside of his elbow. David chuckled.
“Stop,” said David, pulling back. “That tickles.”
The vine released his hand.
“What are you writing, anyway?”
The willow looked around, noticing a pad of paper that had fallen from David’s pocket. She picked it up and wrote on the back page; then she held it in front of David so he could read.
Yew new Adam, yes?
“Yew, as in me?” asked David.
The tree scribbled on another page and held it out again.
Yes, yew, wrote the tree.
“Uh, no. I’m David.”
Daweed?
“Yes,” said David.
The willow tapped her trunk as if thinking, then scribbled again.
Daweeds have no place in Garden. No, no, no. Only Adams and Eves. Must see Adam. Must speak to him about my list.
She pointed to the markings on his arm, which looked like an illuminated manuscript. David could make out several numbers and chemicals symbols, as well as a few phrases. He read aloud.
“Let’s see… N, P… I think that’s a K…, and an S and an Mg… preferably administered as three poop pastries (chicken or cow), half a cup of worm casings and a side of seaweed. Seaweed?” asked David, looking up.
The willow spread his legs apart, poking and prodding him. David frowned.
“Okay, this is not awkward, not awkward at all,” said David, twitching as a vine poked his butt. The willow scribbled another question.
Dew yew have any poop pastries?
“Poop pastries? Um, no, can’t say that I do.”
Oh. Because plants are very hungry. Fighting too, too much. Must speak about list.
David felt a tug on his shoe; as he looked he could see a root from a nearby bush had pushed itself up through the dirt and was nibbling on his shoelace.
“I can see that,” said David, gently kicking the root.
But Adam mean now, wrote the willow. She pointed to a deep gouge at the base of her root where Saladin had hit her with his machete. David frowned.
“Oh, that looks painful.”
I
good tree, wrote the willow. I help Adam know what to feed the plants. He not supposed to hurt me. No, no, no. Must remind him of last time. Last time he hurting garden. Hurting garden.
“What?” asked David.
She ripped a piece of paper from his notepad and tore it in half, her vines trembling as though crying. David could see a sticky sap leaking from her trunk.
“Hey now, don’t cry. It’ll be okay,” said David. He pulled Raphael’s handkerchief from his pocket. “Here.”
The willow blew a part of her trunk, filling the handkerchief with a ball of gooey resin. She handed it back to him, sniffling. David nodded.
“There you go, don’t cry. Everything will be alright, Miss…”
Bellecris
“Belle-chris. Is that your name?”
No, no, no. Bell uh CREE. Like birds say, Bell uh Bell uh, or cree cree cree. But they not here no more.
“They’re not here?” asked David. Bella wiped her trunk with her vine, sniffling as she wrote.
No Adam, no animals. Elders in Garden say no more animals. Very lonely.
She started sobbing.
“Please don’t cry, Miss Cree. I don’t know what to tell you about Adam, but I do know of a lovely little bird that lives not too far from here. Maybe he can come visit you sometime? Would you like that?” asked David, smiling.
Bellecris nodded, wiping her trunk again.
“Okay, I’ll tell Raphael to send him some time.”
Rapeseed? No, no, no. No place in Garden, wrote Bella frantically. No Rapeseeds, no Daweeds. Only Adams and Eves.
She straightened up, releasing David from her roots as her trunk and branches went rigid. The pen and notepad slipped from her branches, and David dropped to the ground.
“Um, Cree? Bellecris?” asked David. He tapped on her swollen root, but the willow stood silent, her limp vines swaying in the breeze.
“Alright then,” said David, shrugging. He bent down to pick up the pad and pen. A loud thump knocked off Bellecris’ trunk and fell rustling into the bushes.
David spun around.
A fluffy, green parakeet with bluish-purple wings was lying at his feet, sprawled on the grass.
“Hey, little guy, what happened to you?” asked David, kneeling beside the bird. Its eyes were clouded with pain and it was breathing heavily, its chest heaving with every exhale. It stared at him, pleading.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” said David, staring back at the injured bird. “I don’t know how to handle injured birds; if I move you, I may cause you more pain, even kill you, and I’m already on the errand of an ill animal.”
The parakeet closed its lacy eyelids. David bit his lip.
“I have a friend that may be able to help you, but it will not be a comfortable journey. Is that okay with you?”
The bird opened and closed its eyes as David carefully cradled it in the bottom of his shirt. Its soft, feathery body felt like jelly in between David’s hands. David cupped the bird near his chest as he ran back to the rocky trail, clambering in the direction of the eula grove.
“Hang on, little guy, help is coming soon.”
David sprinted through the grassy clearing and over the wooden bridge, leaping over the sixth board to the cottage. He kicked over the boulder and hurried down the hidden staircase into Raphael’s house.
“Raphael,” called David, panting as he entered the map room. No one answered.
David hurried down the spiral staircase into the library, scanning the sapphire walls. A light was coming from one of the doors near the back of the room; David walked nearer.
“Raphael?”
The mer was leaning over a potter’s wheel in his cavern-like art room, his eyes fixed on the wobbling soap bubble spinning between his hands. Patsy watched him lazily from behind a glass porthole. Raphael pinched the centre of the bubble and pulled it upward into an elegant vase.
“Uh, Raphael?” asked David.
Raphael lurched forward, knocking the vase off balance. It spun wildly around.
“Sorry,” said David, wincing. Raphael clicked off the wheel.
“I did not expect you back so soon.”
“I found this little guy; I couldn’t leave him,” said David. He laid the parakeet on the centre counter. The bird lay deathly still. Raphael frowned.
“And now instead of medicinal seaweed I sit with a dead bird.”
“He’s not dead. He can’t be,” said David.
Raphael put his finger on the bird’s neck.
“Is that a reference to poultry excrement emblazoned on your arm?” asked Raphael.
“Oh, yes, I guess it is,” said David. “Bellecris wrote it.”
“Bellecris?”
“The screeving willow. While on the trail I came across the spot where I pulled myself from the river. I sort of had a chat with Bellecris, and then stumbled upon this little guy.”
Raphael rubbed his eyebrows.
“David, did you hear nothing of what I told you? Feelings are not to be followed. Two people nearly died saving you, yet you brazenly walk right back to the place where you almost died, nearly throwing away their sacrifice. It was a simple task. You were to get me the plant, not play detective or Adam incarnate.”
“Can you heal him?” asked David.
“The bird is dead, David. I’m a healer, not a miracle worker.”
The bird turned his head ever so slightly on the marble counter and lifted his eyelid. David lit up with excitement.
“So can you do something?” asked David.
“I… I’m not sure; this is a serious injury,” said Raphael, staring.
“Try, please,” said David.
“Very well. If I must attend to another ill creature without the proper resources, I shall require he stay in the aviary. Mozart can use the company.”
Raphael pulled an assortment of glass bottles from the lacquered cabinet on the wall before turning to the sink. He filled a bowl with water. David smiled.
“Hang on, little guy, everything is going to be alright now, I can feel it,” said David. The parakeet’s breathing was extremely shallow; his bright blue wings were tucked back, trembling.
“I can go back for the plant if you would like,” said David, looking to Raphael.
“No, it’s fine. It’s too late now. Patsy will have to manage without.”
Raphael dipped his wrist in the bowl of water until his markings began to glow, then he twisted his wrist until the purple filament floated from the centre of the mark. He bit the tip with his teeth, severing it into thin threads which he wove together. David watched as Raphael sewed the threads through the bird’s neck.
“Is something the matter?” asked Raphael, looking up.
“No. If you don’t mind I’d like to watch, make sure little Kiwi is okay.”
“Kiwi?”
“Yes, Kiwi,” said David, nodding.
“As you wish,” said Raphael. He severed the threads near Kiwi’s feathers.
“I think Mozart’s singing may be a bit much for Kiwi. He looks quite shaken. Can you maybe do something for that as well?”
“Is there anything else our dear Kiwi requires? Tea? Biscuits? A back and wing massage, perhaps?” asked Raphael.
He administered some draughts into Kiwi’s beak with a syringe. Kiwi shook his head, sneezing several times. David glared at him.
“Oh very well,” said Raphael, rolling his eyes. He dipped his hand in the bowl again and twisted his wrist, crafting a tiny pair of earmuffs. He placed them on Kiwi’s head.
“How’s that?”
“Perfect,” said David.
Raphael scooped up the bird and unhooked a latch on the ceiling, opening a door into the aviary. He knelt on the table and set Kiwi in the low hollow of a tree near the ground. David couldn’t say for sure,
but he could’ve sworn Kiwi smiled at him as he wiggled into place. Raphael closed the door.
“While I was talking to Bellecris, I sort of promised Mozart might visit her sometime. She said she was lonely.”
“Are you outsourcing my bird now as well, after disobeying my order and bringing me another mouth to feed? You have an unusual form of gratitude.”
“Sorry, I didn’t think it would be a problem,” said David, shuffling.
“I shall put the offer past Mozart, and if it agrees with him, we will accommodate,” said Raphael. “And if you doubted your humanness, you definitely evidence it in your high-handed fondness for the demands of dominion.”
David stared at him.
“You are as stubborn and bossy as the rest of your kind,” said Raphael.
“Oh,” said David.
“In any event it is my turn to be authoritative. Get yourself to the kitchen where dinner is waiting. Afterward I suggest you take a long sleep. We start practical training tomorrow,” said Raphael, looking him up and down. “We must leave the books for a while and get you up to form.”
“But if I sweat, won’t the salt water turn me into a mer?” asked David.
“Nice try, but no. Only the salt of the sea.”
David nodded and disappeared into the darkened library, toward the kitchen. Raphael stared at the empty doorway.
“We must watch this one, Patsy,” said Raphael, leaning toward the glass. “For good or for ill, I have a feeling Silence is beginning to speak.”
C H A P T E R 2 1
The fish in Raphael’s moat gathered near the glass, watching curiously as Imaan walked determinedly toward the door, smoothing the wrinkles near her breastplate as she knocked. She waited, but no one answered. Imaan leaned her ear closer, wincing at the cold metal as she concentrated. She could make out a hard, continuous cracking sound like the snap of a beating whip, and a shrill scream. It was coming from David. Imaan burst through the door like lightning, her thoughts spinning as she searched for him. The whipping sound intensified as she darted through the sapphire library toward an open door. She heard David scream again. Imaan flew inside.
