The One Tree

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “But the third was the worst. I was in the woods behind the Farm, and there was this little girl who was about to get bitten by a timber-rattler. I went to try to save her. But I fell. The next thing I knew, I was halfway into Revelstone, and Mhoram was doing his damnedest to finish summoning me.

  “I refused. That girl was in the real world, and the snake was going to kill her. That was more important to me than anything else, no matter what happened to the Land.

  “When I told Mhoram about her”—his voice was a clench of loss—“he let me go.” The tension of his arms and shoulders seemed to echo, Mhoram.

  Yet he forced himself to continue. “I got back too late to stop the snake. But the girl was still there. I managed to suck out some of the venom, and then somehow I got her back to her parents. By that time, the fourth summoning had already started. And I accepted it. I went by choice. There wasn’t anything else I wanted except one last chance to fight Foul.”

  He was gazing up at Linden squarely now, letting her see his unresolved contradictions, his difficult and ambiguous answers. “Did I sell myself to Foul by refusing Mhoram? Or to the Creator by accepting that last summons? I don’t know. But I think that no human being can be made into a tool involuntarily. Manipulated into destruction, maybe. Misled or broken. But if I do what Foul wants, it’ll be because I failed somehow—misunderstood something, surrendered to my own inner Despiser, lost courage, fell in love with power or destruction, something.” He articulated each word like an affirmation. “Not because I’m anybody’s tool.”

  “Covenant.” She yearned toward him past the gentle ship-roll swaying of the hammock. She saw him now as the man she had first met, the figure of strength and purpose who had persuaded her against her will to accept his incomprehensible vision of Joan and possession, and then had drawn her like a lover in his wake when he had gone to meet the crisis of Joan’s redemption—as the upright image of power and grief who had broken open the hold of the Clave to rescue her, and later had raised a mere bonfire in The Grieve to the stature of a caamora for the long-dead Unhomed. She said his name as if to ascertain its taste in her mouth. Then she gave him her last secret, the last piece of information she had consciously withheld from him.

  “I haven’t told you everything that old man said to me. On Haven Farm. He told me to Be true. But that wasn’t all.” After the passage of so much time, she still knew the words as if they had been incused on her brain. “He said, ‘Ah, my daughter, do not fear. You will not fail, however he may assail you.’ ” Meeting Covenant’s gaze, she tried to give her eyes the clarity her voice lacked. “ ‘There is also love in the world.’ ”

  For a moment, he remained motionless, absorbing the revelation. Then he lifted his half-hand toward her. His flesh gleamed in the sunshine which angled into the cabin from the open port. The wry lift at the corners of his mouth counterpoised the dark heat of his orbs as he said, “Can you believe it? I used to be impotent. Back when I thought leprosy was the whole story.”

  In reply, she rolled over the edge of the hammock, dropped her feet to the stepladder. Then she took his hand, and he drew her down into the light.

  Later, they went out on deck together. They did not wear their own clothes, but rather donned short robes of gray, flocked wool which one of the Giants had sewn for them—left behind their old apparel as if they had sloughed off at least one layer of their former selves. The bulk of the robes was modest and comfortable; but still his awareness of her was plain in his gaze. Barefoot on the stone as if they had made their peace with the Giantship, they left her cabin, ascended to the afterdeck.

  Then for a time Linden felt that she was blushing like a girl. She strove to remain detached; but she could not stifle the blood which betrayed her face. Every Giant they met seemed to look at her and Covenant with knowledge, laughter, and open approval. Pitchwife grinned so hugely that his pleasure dominated the disformation of his features. Honninscrave’s eyes shone from under his fortified brows, and his beard bristled with appreciation. Sevinhand Anchormaster’s habitual melancholy lifted into a smile which was both rue-trammeled and genuine—the smile of a man who had lost his own love so long ago that envy no longer hindered his empathy. Even Galewrath’s stolid face crinkled at what she saw. And a rare softness entered the First’s demeanor, giving a glimpse of her Giantish capacity for glee.

  Finally their attentions became so explicit that Linden wanted to turn away. Embarrassment might have made her sound angry if she had spoken. But Covenant faced them all with his arms cocked mock-seriously on his hips and growled, “Does everybody on this bloody rock know what we do with our privacy?”

  At that, Pitchwife burst into laughter; and in a moment all the Giants within earshot were chortling. Covenant tried to scowl, but could not. His features kept twitching into involuntary humor. Linden found herself laughing as if she had never done such a thing before.

  Overhead the sails were taut and brave with wind, bellying firmly under the flawless sky. She felt the vitality of the stone and the crew like a tingling in the soles of her feet. Starfare’s Gem strode the bright sea as though it had been restored to wholeness. Or perhaps it was Linden herself who had been restored.

  She and Covenant spent the afternoon moving indolently about the dromond, talking with the Giants, resting in shared silence on the sun-warmed deck. She noted obliquely that Vain had not left his position at the railing: he stood like a piece of obsidian statuary, immaculate and beautiful, the blackness of his form contrasted or defined only by his tattered tunic and the dull iron bands on his right wrist and left ankle. He might have been created to be the exact opposite of Findail, who remained in the vessel’s prow with his creamy raiment ruffling in the wind as if the fabric were as fluid as he, capable of dissolving into any form or nature he desired. It seemed impossible that the Appointed and the Demondim-spawn had anything to do with each other. For a while, Linden and Covenant discussed that mystery; but they had no new insights to give each other.

  Brinn and Cail held themselves constantly available, but at a distance, as if they did not wish to intrude—or were uncomfortable in Linden’s proximity. Their thoughts lay hidden behind a magisterial impassivity; but she had learned that their expressionlessness was like a shadow cast by the extremity of their passions. She seemed to feel something unresolved in them. Covenant had demanded and won their forbearance. Apparently their trust or mistrust was not so readily swayed.

  Their impenetrable regard discomfited her. But she was soothed by Covenant’s nearness and accessibility. At intervals, she brushed his scarred forearm with her fingertips as if to verify him. Beyond that, she let herself relax.

  As they sprawled in a wide coil of hawser, Pitchwife came to join them. After some desultory conversation, she commented that she had not seen Seadreamer. She felt bound to the mute Giant by a particular kinship and was concerned about him.

  “Ah, Seadreamer,” Pitchwife sighed. “Honninscrave comprehends him better than I—and yet comprehends him not at all. We are now replenished and restored. While this wind holds, we are arrow-swift toward our aim. Thus cause for hope need not be widely sought or dearly purchased. Yet a darkness he cannot name gathers in him. He confronts the site of the One Tree as a spawning-ground of dread.” For a moment, Pitchwife’s voice rose. “Would that he could speak! The heart of a Giant is not formed to bear such tales in silence and solitude.” Then he grew quiet again. “He remains in his cabin. I conceive that he seeks to spare us the visions he cannot utter.”

  Or maybe, Linden mused, he simply can’t stand having people watch him suffer. He deserves at least that much dignity. Of all the people on Starfare’s Gem, she alone was able to experience something comparable to what he felt. Yet her percipience was not Earth-Sight, and she could not bridge the gap between them. For the present, she set the question of Seadreamer aside and let her mood drift back into the jocund ambience of the Giants.

  So the day passed; and in the evening Honninscrave shortened sail,
freeing as much of the crew as possible for a communal gathering. Soon after supper, nearly two score Giants came together around the foremast, leaving only Sevinhand at Shipsheartthew and three or four crewmembers in the shrouds. Linden and Covenant joined them as if drawn there by laughter and badinage and the promise of stories. The foredeck was dark except for an occasional lantern; but the dark was warm with camaraderie and anticipation, comfortable with the clear-eyed comfort of Giants. High above the slow dance of the masts, stars elucidated the heavens. When the singing began, Linden settled herself gladly against the foremast and let the oaken health of the crew carry her away.

  The song had a pulse like the unalterable dirge of the sea; but the melody rose above it in arcs of eagerness and laughter, relish for all joy or sorrow, abundance or travail. The words were not always glad, but the spirit behind them was glad and vital, combining melancholy and mirth until the two became articulations of the same soul-irrepressibly alive, committed to life.

  And when the song was done, Honninscrave stepped forward to address the gathering. In a general way, the story he told was the tale of Bhrathairealm; but he concentrated specifically on the Haruchai so that all the Giants would know how Hergrom had lived and died. This he did as an homage to the dead and a condolence for the living. Ceer’s valor he did not neglect; and his people remained silent around him in a stillness which Brinn and Call could not have failed to recognize as respect.

  Then other tales followed. With a finely mimicked lugubriousness, Heft Galewrath narrated the story of two stubbornly atrabilious and solitary Giants who thrashed each other into a love which they persistently mistook for mortal opposition. Pitchwife offered an old sea-rimed ballad to the memory of the Unhomed. And Covenant rose from Linden’s side to tell the gathering about Berek Halfhand, the ancient hero of the Land who had perceived the Earthpower in the awakening of the Fire-Lions of Mount Thunder, fashioned the Staff of Law to wield and support that puissance, and founded the Council of Lords to serve it. Covenant told the story quietly, as if he were speaking primarily to himself, trying to clarify his sense of purpose; but the tale was one which the Giants knew how to appreciate, and when he finished several of them bowed to him, acknowledging the tenebrous and exigent link between him and the Land’s age-long-dead rescuer.

  After a moment, Pitchwife said, “Would that I knew more of this rare Land. The lives of such as Berek make proud hearing.”

  “Yes,” murmured Covenant. Softly he quoted, “ ‘And the glory of the world becomes less than it was.’ ” But he did not explain himself or offer a second tale.

  A pause came over the Giants while they waited for a new story or song to commence. Then the dimness in front of Linden and Covenant swirled, and Findail appeared like a translation of the lamplight. His arrival sparked a few startled exclamations; but quiet was restored almost at once. His strangeness commanded the attention of the gathering.

  When the stillness was complete beyond the faint movements of the sheets and the wet stone-on-sea soughing of the dromond, he said in a low voice, “I will tell a tale, if I may.”

  With a stiff nod, the First granted him permission. She appeared uncertain of him, but not reluctant to hear whatever he might say. Perhaps he would give some insight into the nature or motives of his people. Linden tensed, focused all her senses on the Appointed. At her side, Covenant drew his back straight as if in preparation for a hostile act.

  But Findail did not begin his tale at once. Instead he lifted his eroded visage to the stars, spread his arms as if to bare his heart, and raised a song into the night.

  His singing was unlike anything Linden had heard before. It was melodic in an eldritch way which tugged at her emotions. And it was self-harmonized on several levels at once, as if he were more than one singer. Just as he occasionally became stone or wind or water, he now became song; and his music arose, not from the human form he had elected to wear, but from his essential being. It was so weird and wonderful that Linden was surprised to find she could understand the words.

  “Let those who sail the Sea bow down;

  Let those who walk bow low:

  For there is neither peace nor dream

  Where the Appointed go.

  “Let those who sail the Sea bow down;

  For they have never seen

  The Earth-wrack rise against the stars

  And ruin blowing keen.

  “Mortality has mortal eyes.

  Let those who walk bow low,

  For they are chaff before the blast

  Of what they do not know.

  “The price of sight is risk and dare

  Or loss of life and all,

  For there is neither peace nor dream

  When Earth begins to fall.

  “And therefore let the others bow

  Who neither see nor know;

  For they are spared from voyaging

  Where the Appointed go.”

  The song arose from him without effort, and when it was done it left conviction like an enhancement behind it. In spite of her instinctive distrust, her reasons for anger, Linden found herself thinking that perhaps the Elohim were indeed honest. They were beyond her judgment. How could she understand—much less evaluate—the ethos of a people who partook of everything around them, sharing the fundamental substance of the Earth?

  Yet she resisted. She had too many causes for doubt. One song was not answer enough. Holding herself detached, she waited for the Appointed’s tale.

  Quietly over the stilled suspirations of the Giants, he began. For his tale he resumed his human voice, accepted the stricture of a mortal throat with deliberate forbearance, as if he did not want his hearers to be swayed for the wrong reasons. Or, Linden thought, as if his story were poignant to him, and he needed to keep his distance from it.

  “The Elohim are unlike the other peoples of the Earth,” he said into the lantern-light and the dark. “We are of the Earth, and the Earth is of us, more quintessentially and absolutely than any other manifestation of life. We are its Würd. There is no other apposite or defining name for us. And therefore have we become a solitary people, withholding ourselves from the outer world, exercising care in the encroachments we permit the outer world to have upon us. How should we do otherwise? We have scant cause to desire intercourse with lives other than ours. And it is often true that those who seek us derive scant benefit from what they find.

  “Yet it was not always so among us. In a time which we do not deem distant, but which has been long forgotten among your most enduring memories, we did not so hold to ourselves. From the home and center of Elemesnedene, we sojourned all the wide Earth, seeking that which we have now learned to seek within ourselves. In the way of the Earth, we do not age. But in our own way, we were younger than we are. And in our youngness we roamed many places and many times, participating perhaps not always wisely in that which we encountered.

  “But of that I do not speak. Rather I speak of the Appointed. Of those who have gone before me, passing out of name and choice and time for the sake of the frangible Earth. The fruit of sight and knowledge, they have borne the burdens upon which much or all of the Earth has depended.

  “Yet in their work youth has played its part. In past ages upon occasion we accepted—I will not say smaller—but less vital hazards. Perceiving a need which touched our hearts, we met together and Appointed one to answer that need. I will name one such, that you may comprehend the manner of need of which I speak. In the nigh-unremembered past of the place which you deem the Land, the life was not the life of men and women, but of trees. One wide forest of sentience and passion filled all the region—one mind and heart alive in every leaf and bough of every tree among the many myriad throngs and glory of the woods. And that life the Elohim loved.

  “But a hate rose against the forest, seeking its destruction. And this was dire, for a tree may know love and feel pain and cry out, but has few means of defense. The knowledge was lacking. Therefore we met, and from among us Appointed
one to give her life to that forest. This she did by merging among the trees until they gained the knowledge they required.

  “Their knowledge they employed to bind her in stone, exercising her name and being to form an interdict against that hate. Thus was she lost to herself and to her people—but the interdict remained while the will of the forest remained to hold it.”

  “The Colossus,” Covenant breathed. “The Colossus of the Fall.”

  “Yes,” Findail said.

  “And when people started coming to the Land, started cutting down the trees as if they were just so much timber and difficulty, the forest used what it’d learned to create the Forestals in self-defense. Only it took too long, and there were too many people, and the Forestals weren’t enough, they couldn’t be everywhere at once, couldn’t stop the many blind or cruel or simply unscrupulous axes and fires. They were lucky to keep the mind of the forest awake as long as they did.”

  “Yes,” Findail said again.

  “Hellfire!” Covenant rasped, “Why didn’t you do something?”

  “Ring-wielder,” replied the Elohim, “we had become less young. And the burden of being Appointed is loathly to us, who are not made for death. Therefore we grew less willing to accept exigencies not our own. Now we roam less, not that we will know less—for what the Earth knows we will know wherever we are—but that we will be less taken by the love which leads to death.

  “But,” he went on without pause, “I have not yet told my tale. I desire to speak of Kastenessen, who alone of those who have been Appointed sought to refuse the burden.

  “In the youth of the Elohim, he was more youthful than others—a youth such as Chant is now, headstrong and abrupt, but of another temperament altogether. Among those who sojourned, he roved farther and more often. At the time of his election, he was not present in Elemesnedene.

  “Rather he inhabited a land to the east, where the Elohim are neither known nor guessed. And there he did that which no Elohim has ever done. He gave himself in love to a mortal woman. He walked among her folk as a man of their own kind. But in her private home he was an Elohim to ravish every conception of which flesh that dies is capable.