Isle of Wysteria: Make Like a Tree and Leaf

by Aaron Yeager

  “The stone array has been injured,” Odger called out through the pipes. “We’re going to sink into the ocean!”

  The fog before the two ships parted, revealing a wind shear so severe that it could be seen with the naked eye. The stream of fog in which they were traveling intersected with another, creating a sharp bend of nearly 45 degrees. Evere shouted at the shear—as if challenging it—then barked out orders to his crew. “Hanner, can you hit the spar chain on their port lower sail?”

  Hanner called out “Aye.” He wiped the blood away from his eyes and hefted the cannon over his shoulder. The cannon rang out and his shot was true. The ball of iron imbedded itself into the mast of the enemy vessel, snapping the control chain.

  The pair of wounded ships entered the shear. The crew of the Dreadnaught grabbed on to whatever they could. Their legs kicked as they clung for life in the change of direction that threatened to cast them overboard. The Dreadnaught was propelled aloft, but the Dragon’s Claw kicked to one side, the port sails free to turn without the control chain to hold them. The free sails rotated into the wind, capsizing the entire ship. Men and cannons plunged into the sea below.

  Great tendrils of water rose up and embraced the stricken vessel, the wood sizzling and burning where the water touched it, and with a terrible boiling noise of ecstasy, the sea pulled the Dragon's Claw down into itself. Arms of water, boiling with elation, beat the hull and shattered it like a toy. Tendrils of water squeezed the men and were dyed red by the blood of their crushed bodies.

  “Odger, get us up to altitude 1200,” Evere ordered into the call-pipes, but the ship refused to climb.

  “We’re too heavy,” Evere surmised, “All hands cut the slings to the lower-bottom masts, with a will!”

  Athel and Spirea climbed down over the side of the ship and raced toward their assigned lower mizzenmast.

  “Back off, Forsythia,” Spirea called out as she increased her pace. “I don’t need you trying to show me up again.”

  “Who's trying to show you up? I’m assigned to this mast as well,” Athel called out as she descended the Jacob’s ladder as fast as she could.

  “Just back off. I can do this myself,” she said as she grabbed the ratlines and began climbing down.

  “Are you kidding? You don’t even know what a sling is.”

  “Sure I do, it’s the...the thing that keeps the...the big...spar...thing. Listen, Forsythia, you need to shut up.”

  The pair of Wysterians reached the spar and began cutting through the leather slings that connected it to the mast and allowed it to rotate. Below them the sea rose up, its tendril stretching desperately to grab onto the ship hovering just out of reach.

  The final sling cut, the spar and the lower section of the mast broke free and fell down into the boiling seas. Spirea and Athel saw the other masts fall as well, cut free by the rest of the crew, and the ship slowly began to rise. They breathed a sigh of relief, but were suddenly thrown around as the ship was tugged down around them. Athel kept her grip on the ratlines, but Spirea fell, catching herself on some of the broken slings. An impossibly thin tendril of water, barely thicker than a finger, had managed to wrap itself around the stump of the lower mast and was pulling the ship down.

  Athel secured her grip on the lines and began climbing down toward her dangling shipmate.

  “I don’t need your help. Just leave me alone,” Spirea called out as she struggled to right herself.

  “Yeah, I can tell you’ve got everything under control.”

  The tendril slackened and then rewrapped itself, growing thicker as it reeled in the crippled ship. Now free, the tip lashed out hungrily, wrapping itself around Spirea’s boot.

  Spirea screamed out in pain as her boot hissed and sizzled, scorching her skin underneath. As Athel lowered herself to grab her, Spirea’s lips moved and trembled against the pain.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Spirea whispered.

  “What was that?” Athel asked, unable to hear her over the howling seas.

  “I said I’m sorry!” Spirea screamed, “What, are your Forsythian ears going deaf?”

  Spirea’s grip failed. For a brief moment she hung in the air then began to fall toward the sea below. Athel hooked her foot into the jackstay and leapt down, snatching Spirea by the wrist and halting her descent.

  “What are you doing?” Spirea called out, tears streaming down her face. “I said I’m sorry, now let me go!”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” Athel yelled back, “That is exactly why I can’t let you fall!”

  The stump of the mast broke under the acidic grip of the tendril, and it released Spirea’s burned foot in an attempt to renew its grip on the stump, but it missed by mere inches and descended wailing in frustration into the thickening fog below as the freed ship began to rise once more. Athel breathed out a huge sigh of relief.

  Spirea’s head came up and met Athel’s gaze as she struggled to hold onto her. The despair in Spirea’s eyes gave way, and she appeared confused and unsure.

  “But, what am I supposed to do?” Spirea said desperately. “I don’t know how to live like you do.”

  “Well,” Athel struggled. “You can start by giving me your other hand, because you’re really heavy.”

  A moment of fear passed through Spirea’s eyes, then she reached up her other hand, and Athel strained to pull her to the remains of a studsel, where Spirea could grab on with one hand and pull herself up the last few inches.

  Exhausted, the pair clung to the broken ratlines for a few moments, the wind howling all around them as they gasped for breath.

  “How dare you call me heavy,” Spirea defended. “I weigh a lot less than 131.2 pounds.”

  “That’s not fair and you know it,” Athel retorted. “I’m a lot taller than you. You have to factor that in when you compare weight.”

  “Shut up, Forsythia,” Spirea smiled.

  “Shut up, Sotol,” Athel chuckled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Sacred Tree of Milia

  It had been a long time since Queen Hazel Forsythia had been summoned by the Royal Tree of Wysteria. The ceremonial robes she wore were white and flowing, far simpler than what she preferred, giving her body the appearance of a tree trunk made of pearl. As her bare feet touched the living wood beneath her feet, she could feel the excitement and anticipation of the entire island kingdom. It had been generations since the Tree of Milia had summoned so many Matriarchs at the same time. Rumors and conjecture occasionally sprung up, leading to small isolated pockets of panic, but Hazel effortlessly calmed their fears and smoothed their thoughts through the link that only women could share.

  Hazel paused and glanced behind her. Instinctively, the palace guards following her bowed deeply with the exception of one who kept his eyes raised.

  That one must be Privet, she thought to herself. He hides his thoughts quite well for a man. I can see why my daughter finds him so compelling. If her heart had not already claimed him, I might take him to husband myself. That thought reminded Hazel that her oldest husband would be celebrating his 29th birthday soon. She wearied at the prospect of choosing yet another husband; it was such a tedious and thankless task.

  The first husband must come from the Braihmin group of families, Hazel quoted to herself. She often found comfort in the mental repetition of law. Keeping her memory crisp had saved her on more than one occasion. Yet her second husband can be from either a Braihmin family or Kisatriya. Her third husband can be from Braihmin, Kisatriya or Vayshya. Her fourth husband can be from any class, including that of Suidra. Taking a fifth husband was very unusual outside the Forsythia family, so since there was no legal or traditional requirement, Hazel had created a requirement for herself long ago.

  The fifth husband must be cute.

  Since few men achieved adequate proficiency in their househusband training before the age of twenty, that left a mere decade for most before they would need to be replaced. The Queen had lived for nearly two centuries now
, and struggled to remember the names of even half of her husbands. Her first, however, she would never forget. Toyon Forsythia. He had been so dear to her that she had allowed him to take her surname. The image of his face and the tenderness of his embrace were always with her, giving her confidence and strength. Even now, she could feel the warm afterimage of his parting kiss on her lips. It was like that for most women on Wysteria. Men were like shadows that passed as quickly as the seasons. There was nothing more natural for a woman than to give her heart completely to her husband, but eventually the repetition of gaining and losing husbands dulled even that sacred sensibility.

  The setting sun had taken a crimson tone, which was a bad omen. Hazel could feel the trees of the great forests whispering to each other, stirring in indecision. That made the Queen uneasy, for the will of the forest was not easily ruffled. Dissension was anathema to their nature; they were beings of harmony. She turned back and took in the beauty of the Eternal Gate, an archway of living wood and vine leading into the heart of the trunk of The Great Tree. Falling autumn leaves crowned the branches, which glowed with the pure energy of life. The power of the forests was awe-inspiring, no matter how many times she felt it, and she gave thanks to Milia, the Great Mother, that she was able to behold it from day to day.

  One by one, the other Matriarchs arrived. Only the largest and greatest families were represented. Lady Mara Greenbrier with her long, elegant face and kind eyes; Lady Holly Cypress, head of the Wysterian Academies which oversaw the instruction of the young Treesingers; Lady Tupelo Buckthorn, whose aging body still showed the strength of Wysteria’s greatest warrior family; Lady Cadagi Lotebush, unparalleled cultivator of rare and sacred plants from all corners of the League; and, of course, Lady Aspen Bursage, with her hair like winter frost and eyes like ice.

  “The trial of the Sotol family should begin in a few more days. It has been difficult to find a defender to represent them in court,” Lady Buckthorn stated.

  “The trial is only a formality,” The Queen replied. “There can only be one sentence for bringing spice into our kingdom. Each procedure will be given only the thinnest adherence in the name of speed.” Hazel chose her next words carefully, knowing that Lady Bursage would be looking for the slightest indication of accusation from her. “A message must be sent to those who might follow in their footsteps.” The Queen felt Lady Bursage relax somewhat, and she was relieved to have dodged another potential offense.

  “Surely the men are not to be sentenced as well?” Lady Greenbrier asked. “It has been our tradition to distribute family assets among the accusers.”

  “That is true, but this case is different,” Queen Hazel explained. “A tree that has grown wild cannot simply be topped or stumped, for the roots that nourished its visible parts will remain, hidden dark and deep. Unless the roots are removed as well, wild sprouts and buds are sure to follow. Their men have witnessed their rites of secrecy, their methods and contacts, their oaths and councils. That knowledge must be eliminated along with all family records, so that none may seek out or stumble onto that knowledge and begin the flow of spice yet again. An outsider could never know enough of our ways to bring spice without the help of one of our own. The doors must be opened on both sides. We will make sure that never happens again.”

  Queen Hazel could feel the reluctance of many of the women present. The men of the Sotol family had been, after all, only following the orders of their matrons as they had been trained to do.

  “I know that this decision is difficult,” Hazel said gently, “but our loyalties to our families must be superseded by our loyalty to The Great Mother and her justice. Even the men are not above this requirement.” Hazel prayed for Milia to guide her words, for the wrong words could easily lead down dark paths. She closed her eyes for a moment and explored the limitless branches of possibilities, searching for the one that would leave the six of them unified.

  In her mind, the Queen could see the seeds of bitterness that would be planted in Lady Cypress’ heart if she were to be soft on the Sotols. Holly had lost a dear cousin to spice addiction, although it could never be known publicly. Those seeds would grow into briers, and within a decade there would be open feuding between their families. Simultaneously, the harshness that Cypress required would alienate the Buckthorns, a proud family who had been close allies to the Forsythians for generations. To lose them as allies would weaken their position in the ruling council, and the Queen knew that if she spurned the Buckthorns now, she would face them as rivals for the throne by the end of the century. Finally, she found what she was looking for, a thread of fate that would preserve the good will of both families. Although it would take a dozen years to replace the losses, Queen Forsythia knew that it would be a small price to pay in the long run. A Forsythian Queen could not afford to look only at the near future. She had to shape it generations ahead of time.

  Hazel walked up to Lady Buckthorn and took her by the hand tenderly. “Tupelo, I know that this hurts your pride the greatest, for you alone stepped forth to accuse her when no one else would countenance the possibility of their betrayal, and only your diligence led to uncovering their sins. I will allocate assets from my own family equal to that which you stood to gain.”

  Hazel felt Lady Buckthorn hesitate for a moment, then peace returned to her eyes and her heart, and she nodded in acceptance. The Queen smiled. Another road that could have led to disaster had been avoided. The Queen constantly walked along the edge of a knife, and in her heart she felt a deep weariness from the weight of her throne. She knew she would have to pass it along soon.

  Queen Hazel took her staff from an attendant and tapped it on the branch beneath them. “Milia calls us and we answer the call.” The other women tapped their staffs and repeated the incantation. They all formed a line silently ranking themselves from greatest to least, and entered The Eternal Gate.

  Inside was a realm of light, a pure mist that seemed to extend on forever, even though the Queen knew the room was actually quite small. The six Matriarchs formed a silent circle, their staffs leaning forward and touching in the center as they prayed.

  “My beloved daughters,” the voice of Milia reverberated clearly in their hearts and minds. It resounded of wisdom, a tender watchfulness, and, Hazel thought, a profound loneliness. “More than a thousand years ago, in my grief, I commanded your ancestors to make a pact that would end the long war that had destroyed the water tribe and nearly destroyed us as well. Our people would join their league, and in return the Stonemasters of Boeth would abandon their plans to take command of the seas. I have summoned you here because they have betrayed us. I now realize that the rubric they began long ago is still active today, and has grown beyond their control. My roots grow deep, out to the very edges of the continental shelf, where I can feel the seas eroding the island itself. If we do not act, the seas will wear away at all land until everything is reclaimed.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Reverence of Rebirth

  The Dreadnaught was in ruins as it limped its way through the skies. The tattered remnants of sail had been jury-rigged onto the remaining lengths of mast and spar by her crew into a design that included elements of a lateen and a makeshift bowsprit. Much of the starboard side ribs had been shattered, and those that remained had been stressed beyond their rebound points.

  The western kingdoms were spaced much farther apart than in other parts of the league, and they were still several days away from the nearest island. To make things worse, they had spent nearly a week in the doldrums, a windless condition that forces a crew to simply wait while drifting aimlessly, and the monotony had lowered their spirits.

  Athel sat uneasily in her cabin, light pouring in not only from the porthole, but from the large sections of bulkhead that had been torn away revealing the naked sky beyond. Deutzia sat happily in her pot on the floor, enjoying the heightened levels of sunlight. There was a knock at the door and Alder entered carrying a tray of food.

  “Pardon the intrus
ion, but the Captain says the winds are picking up again, and we should make port at Thesda by next week. Mina has some friends there who have offered to help us repair the ship.”

  Alder set the tray down and removed the lid, revealing a main course of chicken dumplings with a side of mashed potatoes.

  “Thank you,” Athel said, twirling a lock of red hair in her fingers. “I was in the mood for dumplings.”

  “I know,” Alder said politely, and began tidying up the room, being careful to stay clear of Deutzia. Athel was lost in thought, when suddenly she noticed that Alder had paused and was looking at her intently.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Miss Athel,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “you took a direct hit from a dread summoner and quite a skilled one as well, according to Mina. There is no shame in actions that were beyond your control.”

  “You’re as bad as Deutzia,” Athel complained quietly. “Is there anyone on board who is not privy to my thoughts?”

  Deutzia hummed in irritation, but Athel ignored her. Alder knelt down next to Athel in the traditional position then remembered her dislike for it and instead simply crossed his legs in an informal fashion. “Not only did you fight through his spell, but you fought bravely while under its full effects. I think that shows tremendous strength.”

  “But dread magic does not create fear, it can only enhance what is already inside you,” Athel explained. “It would not have had any power over me if those fears had not been there in the first place.”

  “Only a madman feels no fear,” Alder encouraged. “Never feeling fear is not courage. Courage is acting in spite of fear.”

  “I was so scared,” she reluctantly admitted. “I felt like running right back home, after everything I’ve done to get away from that awful place. The first time something goes wrong I nearly run back like a child. What if I can’t make it out here? What if I have to go back and take the throne because it’s the only thing I can do? What if my destiny is to live a life I hate?”