by Ember Lane
Lincoln rolled his eyes. The last place he’d expected to have to go in this new land was back to school.
“Fine,” he said.
18
Edward
“Last time we did this trip, it didn’t go well—for me,” Crags pointed out.
“For any of us,” Aezal said.
“And it could go south again,” Lincoln pointed out. “I’ve got no damn idea how to move that tree.”
“Ya movin’ a tree?” Edward shouted from the barrow. “Why ya movin’ a damn tree?”
Lincoln told him for the eighth time.
Aezal had drawn the short straw, though in truth, only he could probably push the barrow as far as he had. It had been a tearful goodbye. Robert, Gillian, and Edward’s son Jack had waved them off. Thanks to Glenwyth, Jack was far better now, though not well enough to accompany his dad on what would be his final journey. Edward was set on dying once he’d seen the elven village. Robert had only been held back for so long and had run after them, but after a tearful hug, and Crag’s promise that he would tell him all about gnomes and gnome-related tales as soon as they returned, only then had he turned back with a heavy heart. Then Robert’s day had gotten even worse when Gillian had said her goodbyes and walked toward the bridge. Lincoln hadn’t looked back. Hard choices were being made.
Glenwyth had stayed with Lincoln again, just resting in his arms. He’d listened to her tossing and turning, muttering dark thoughts. Lincoln was getting more and more worried about her, yet during the day she seemed fine. It was like she was afraid of the dark and getting more so as each night loomed, but Lincoln knew it wasn’t that at all. She was afraid of how much she now liked the dark, how she yearned for it every day. He was determined to speak to Forgarth about it, to seek the elder elf’s counsel.
“Eh?” said Edward.
Lincoln patiently explained to Edward why they were moving the tree, again.
“Still don’t get it,” Edward said, as they entered the tunnel to the valley.
“What don’t you get?”
“Why you have to move the tree, eh, eh?”
“Because a poisoned lake is—”
“I get that!” Edward shouted. “What I don’t get is why you have to move the whole damn tree.”
“Because it is the village’s tree. Its health is their health. Its life is their life.”
“Why not just take a cutting. If nothing, I’d take one incase ya kill it.”
Lincoln shrugged. “Wouldn’t be much of a quest, taking a tree cutting.”
“Mighty easier one than taking the tree.”
They emerged from the end of the tunnel, and onto the red ledge. Edward sat up in the barrow, craning his lanky neck to see.
“Like a river of emerald,” he muttered. “Where ya gotta move the tree from and to?”
“From around that corner to the middle of that forest there,” Lincoln told him, pointing.
“Be easier t’take a cuttin’,” the old man muttered, as Aezal bumped him down the steps.
By the time Lincoln got to the bottom of the steps, he was not only convinced it would be easier to take a cutting, and he was actively considering doing it as well, just in case it did all go wrong. Echo met them on the forest’s floor.
“The food hasn’t started overflowing into the warehouse yet, but it is available to use to feed the bots as it is within the settlement’s pool.”
“And we have all one hundred and twenty spare?”
“All tasks have been completed, yes.”
“Any thoughts?”
“On?” Echo asked.
“How to get the tree here.”
“None, Lincoln.”
“I got me an idea,” Edward spoke up.
“I know, cutting,” said Lincoln, through gritted teeth.
“No need to be like that, young man. I’m on my last day, eh? Could at least listen to an old man, eh?”
“What’s the idea?” Lincoln asked, trying to stop himself exhaling hard.
“Vines,” the old man stated. “That big, old, hidden castle opposite got some of the longest vines in the land just hanging down from it. Vines make fer a good rope. Ropes make fer a good bridge.”
“Yes?” said Lincoln, getting interested.
“Ya chop the vines and hang ‘em across the valley, eh? Castle to ridge, eh? Right over the clearing, eh?”
“And?” Lincoln asked, nearly sighing, his interest wilting.
“Ya float the tree down ta river. Then yank ta tree up to the cross vines, and pull it over the clearing, n’ dump it in ta hole, eh?”
Lincoln’s mind raced. Could it work? Could the addled mind of a dying, old man really come up with a workable solution? Certainly, it was a start. Lincoln looked down at Edward, as he sat in the barrow. “We could work on it,” he told the old man.
“Or ya could just take a cutting, eh?” Edward said, and he fell asleep at exactly the same time. He’d started snoring by the time they made the clearing. Elleren was waiting there, craning her neck, looking for Glenwyth, only for her shoulders to sag in disappointment when she saw she wasn’t there.
“What do you think?” Lincoln asked Echo.
“About?”
“About a vine bridge.” Lincoln imagined it—a horizontal ladder of two thick ropes of platted vine spanned from great iron hooks, crossing the valley.
“Best estimate, forty bots, twenty-five iron—”
“I don’t care about the cost: can it be done?” and then he had another thought. “Can it be done so that it can be used as a footbridge at a later date?”
“You haven’t got the wood—”
“Using the vines for now,” Lincoln interrupted again.
“Yes.”
“Wake the bots and lets get started.”
“How many do you want to use?”
“All of them?”
“It will take the morning at least.”
“Then get them working.”
“What are we going to do?” Elleren asked. “The whole village is ready to help.”
“We’re going to have to dig up the tree, move it to the lake, and then float it toward the bridge. All without any help from my little, coppery friends.”
“Piece of cake,” said Crags.
Lincoln grimaced. Had Crags just hexed the plan? But Crag’s upturned face calmed his nerves, and he put his hand on the little gnome’s shoulder and walked with him to the river. Looking up, he saw the deep green of the canopy. “We’re going to have to cut a hole in that too,” he said.
Elleren took the oars, and they got in the boat—Edward, barrow, and all. She rowed in silence all the way to the waterfall and then turned toward the elven village. “I noticed the huts are still empty,” Lincoln said.
“They will be until the tree is planted and blessed,” she replied.
“Let’s hope that isn’t too long.”
“How is Glenwyth?” Elleren finally asked.
“She has bad dreams,” Lincoln replied. “I was going to ask Forgarth about them.”
“Forgarth would be no help. He has lived a life without temptation. He would not understand. You’d need to speak with his brother. He understands the path she fears to tread.”
“Path?” Lincoln questioned.
Elleren turned. “That of the dark elf: the night elf. Glenwyth lusted for your blood: she has tasted the elixir of destruction. A path has been opened to her.”
“But she was just trying to protect you all from what she saw as a monster.”
“It was the pleasure that blinked through her mind when she saw your blood, not the actions that caused it,” Elleren replied, and drew the boat up to a jetty. “It is that feeling her mind now both yearns for and is revolted by.”
“Is there nothing I can do to help her?”
Elleren jumped out of the boat and offered Lincoln her hand. “You are already doing what you can. She can’t unfeel what has already been felt. Time can’t go backward, not even for a chaos g
nome.” She pulled Crags out too.
Lincoln lingered behind them all as they ventured into the blighted, elven village. He followed them toward Forgarth’s hut, and once inside was surprised to see Crags and the elder already deep in conversation. It seemed that rather than enemies, these two were now firm friends. He took a seat on Forgarth’s other side. Elleren sat next to him.
They all sat in a circle around the room’s fire, apart from Edward who was happy in his barrow. Plates filled with fruits were passed around, and lines of elven waiters served mugs of green elven ale, and Lincoln almost forgot about the task ahead.
“Elleren says you cannot help me with Glenwyth. She tells me you don’t understand the dark side.”
For a moment, Forgarth looked into the pit’s glowing embers. His root-like fingers tapped on his jutting chin in silent contemplation. “I understand it, but it is closed to me. I can see the emotions, but cannot understand why people seek them out. For me it is simple: why live in the dark, when the light is all around. So, I suppose, Elleren is right. I just don’t understand the addiction.” He smiled a craggy grin. “For an addiction it is, once tasted, it is hankered for. Glenwyth seeks out both the dark and despises the path that leads to it, but all things are dull to her now. Nothing compares to its taste.”
“All that from my blood?” Lincoln asked.
Forgarth grunted. “It is not the blood. It is the power. When you were lying there, her knife embedded in you, she had complete power over your life. There she dwelled, for mere moments, and there she savored it, tasted it, and felt its pull.”
“But all elves kill to protect their land, to eat,” Lincoln protested.
“They do, but they feel nothing from it. It gives them no pleasure nor affords them any power. When a boar dies or a pig squeals for the final time, we do not savor its death. It is done to survive. We feel as little as you would when you pluck a fruit.”
Lincoln rubbed his chin, and his own eyes were drawn to the fire’s glow. “So, a dark elf is just a little more human than you.”
Forgarth laughed. “It would have been an easier way to describe it, but you’re my guests, and it would have been plain rude.”
“Have you thought about taking a cutting? Eh?” Edward suddenly said. “Ooh, elves.” He grabbed a mug of ale.
“Is he your village elder?” Forgarth asked.
“No,” Aezal replied. “He is here to die.”
Lincoln shuddered at Aezal’s cold words, but Edward positively beamed.
“Death,” he grinned. “It’ll be the death of me, eh?” He sat up in the barrow. “But I came here for a reason. I wanted to know why the elves made the forest so damn horrible: so dank, so dark, so damn nasty.”
“Is it?” Forgarth shrugged. “Maybe because we're blighted ourselves. Maybe Lincoln has the answer.”
“The tree, eh?” He furrowed his aged brow. “Bit daft putting all your eggs in one basket. You need two trees, that’s what you need.” He slumped back into the barrow, spilling his mug of beer down him. “Take me to it. I want to lay my eyes on it.”
Forgarth straightened, seemingly infused by the old man’s urgency. “So,” he said, “what’s the plan?” When Lincoln told him, he paled. “The old man’s right,” he said, as he stood, his old body bent, a young elf rushing to his side. “We best take a cutting.”
The sorrowful tree seemed to wilt even more as they dug a pit around it. In the distance, down the valley, Lincoln could see the makings of the vine bridge. It now spanned the two faces either side, though he couldn’t see the center. His own work was progressing slowly because the elves were not suited to manual labor. Lincoln could have kissed Echo when he finally floated into the settlement with at least fifty bots.
“The vine bridge now spans the valley. I have left sufficient bots there to complete it soon. I have also cut the hole in the forest’s canopy above the river, and have prepared the necessary ropes to pull the tree up from the river. Now, what have we here?” he asked.
Lincoln took a step back. It felt like he’d just been demoted, and if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t that unhappy about it. Echo directed all the elves to stop digging and replaced them with the bots. The hole deepened quickly. More bots dribbled in, their tasks on the bridge or ropes completed. Soon, the hole turned into an excavation. Ladders were made and clad its sides, and ropes and pulleys soon pulled buckets of earth up.
Until the whole thing collapsed.
It started as a rumble, and then the tree started shivering, swaying from side to side, and then plunging down a few feet before bobbing back up again. Lincoln looked down in horror as the pit surrounding the tree bubbled, boiled, and burped, and then its bottom cracked and slid into a brown, roiling soup. The bots were swallowed and sucked into the aquifer. The water swirled around, and the tree nearly toppled, and then everything calmed. Muddy water settled to a clear sapphire color, speckled black as the tree shed mud from its root ball. Lincoln, horrified to have lost so many bots, turned to Echo, but Echo was nowhere to be seen. And he knew he must have been sucked down into the maelstrom. Slumping on the ground, Lincoln held his head in his hands, despair filling him to his brim. Finally, he swallowed a lungful of air, tried to rally his resolve, and looked up just as the ground before him started to change.
Then Echo just rose from the ground as if some vast hand was pushing him up, and around him, the bots sprouted one by one.
“It is as you thought,” Echo said. “The water in the aquifer is heavy with iron. It seems the ridge is a good place to build a mine.”
A grin, so wide it barely fit between his cheeks, spread on Lincoln’s face, and he launched himself at Echo and hugged his guide until his own stomach had settled back, and his unsteady legs stopped shaking.
“Yer forgot t’take the cutting,” Edward growled from his barrow.
A new problem now presented itself. The tree had sunk some ten feet down, and now they would need to raise it up before they could transport it down to the lake. Lincoln scratched his head, trying to imagine ways to do it.
“Now,” said Edward. “Ya need t’attach four ropes t’the trunk and keep ‘em taut, that’ll keep t’tree upright. Then ya need to thread a load of ropes under it, that’ll raise the thing when ya pull them tight. Then ya need to tip it, but hold it high enough not t’damage the roots an’ what’s left of the branches. Ya need great big catapult-shaped things that the trunk can sit on.”
Lincoln imagined it all, replacing the catapults for H-frames with cross timbers for handles. “Possible?” he said to Echo.
“All the bots are now available to you. I will get them working on it.”
“And while they’re doing that,” Edward said. “You need t’be getting the boats ready. Somethin’s gotta keep it upright in the river.”
Lincoln looked at the old man and wondered what he’d have done without him. He wished he’d had more time with him, wished he’d been able to use the man’s brain more.
“Death is death,” the old man said, appearing to read Lincoln’s mind. “He don’t care who knocks on his door. Oh, and you need to clear a way through the village.”
It took them most of the afternoon to do just that and also sort out the boats ready for the bots to move the tree. They had attached the vines and made the large H-frames to rest the trunk on. Lincoln watched nervously as the trunk was raised from the pit. He watched in awe at the way the bots all knew exactly what to do, when to pull, and when to ease off. Slowly, as if the tree was made of fragile crystal, they lowered it onto the frames, and then picked it up as though it weighed nothing, carrying it through the village. Scores of elves that had been lurking on the margins of the action cheered and threw their hats in air, following the tree as it made their way through the blighted village.
Once by the lake, the bots walked straight into the water, then dropped the lower part of the tree until it bobbed upright. The elves then surrounded it with their boats, wedging it upright and lashing the restrain
ing vines to them, and they began their painfully slow row toward the river, toward the rope bridge.
Lincoln took a boat with Forgarth, Edward, Crags, Aezal, and Elleren. Watching the tree float down the river was nothing short of miraculous. When they arrived under the rope bridge, they saw the bots had built a pontoon across the river to stop the tree floating away.
The vine bridge looked too feeble to take the weight, but equally, the tree looked a fraction of its original self now that the muddy root ball had been completely washed away by the river. The bots heaved, and the elves grabbed at any spare vines and pulled too. Lincoln stood in the boat and watched the tree rise, watched as the bots on the bridge took its weight on twenty-odd yokes, and then when the tree was clear of the forest’s canopy, just marched away with it.
Aezal wheeled Edward through the trees; the old man had gone limp, his head lolling to one side. Forgarth held one of his hands, Elleren the other. Unintelligible words dribbled from Edward’s mouth; drool dripped down his sleeve. A look from Elleren told Lincoln the old man’s time was close. Aezal’s forehead was drenched in sweat by the time they made it through to the clearing.
In the center, the bots were working furiously fast, digging out and clearing a hole. The elves looked up, their mouths agape as the tree hovered above them. Bit by bit, the bots on the bridge unwound their yokes, bit by bit the tree descended. As it hovered just above the hole, Edward suddenly jerked upright and lunged forward. He dove toward the tree, crashing down the sides of the vast pit, coming to a halt on his back, looking up at the descending tree.
Lincoln rushed forward, shaking off Elleren’s grasping hands and dove after the old man. He crashed into the tree’s roots, and then slid, feet first under the tree. Scrambling around, he reached for the old man, but Edward inched away from him.
“Stay back,” the old man spat, and his body jerked, his eyes widened, and a smile carved itself on his face. Edward’s body became limp as his life left him. Lincoln felt immense sorrow as his strength fled his own body, and he felt himself being dragged out from under the tree.
Sitting on the pit’s edge, Lincoln watched the elves carefully packing soil around the old man’s corpse, then the roots surrounding it, little by little until there was just a few feet to go. Lincoln reached into his sack and took out a few of the speed-ups he’d brought from Spillwhistle, sprinkling them over a few of the final, exposed roots and then letting the elves finish off burying it and tamping down the ground. The bots finally released the retaining vines, and they all held their breaths, hoping the tree wouldn’t topple.
