The Tree of Story

by Thomas Wharton

  The woman went back to stirring the pot of stew and said nothing more. No one spoke until Vardo returned, hurrying up the path followed by an old man dressed in what appeared like a dingy suit of armour. As they approached, Will saw that the armour was made of cut sheets of cardboard painted a dull silver and held together with twine. The man had a wispy white goatee and his face was deeply lined, but it was a disguise: he was wearing stage paint and the beard was pasted on. He was actually quite a young man, Will realized.

  “This is our Scholar,” the woman said with sudden, feverish enthusiasm. “He’ll be able to tell you about your friends if anyone can.”

  “Forgive the attire,” the young man said with a gesture at his costume and an embarrassed smile. His cardboard armour was much creased, Will noticed, and frayed at the edges, as if it had been worn many times. “We’ve been rehearsing for tonight’s performance. I hope you’ll be able to attend. It will be our first ever staging of the famous tale The Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance.”

  “We’re trying to find the Fair Folk,” Rowen asked. “They’re sometimes called the Tain Shee. We think they came this way. We were told you know everyone in the camp.”

  “I am the record keeper, yes, as well as master of the revels,” the Scholar said. His polite, formal way of speaking was at odds with the shabby surroundings, and when he talked, his thin little stage beard twitched up and down. “I gather the histories and tales of everyone who joins us here, many of which we enact on our stage in the evenings. But no, I have never heard of anyone called the Tain Shee. As for the Fair Folk …”

  He gestured to the woman and her son.

  “No,” Rowen said. “These are not the folk we’re looking for.”

  “Well, then …”

  “Is this the Perilous Realm?” Will asked.

  The question seemed to baffle the Scholar, as if Will had asked him whether they were on the moon.

  “The Perilous Realm? Well, we performed a story about the Perilous Realm once, quite a while ago. About a boy who ran away to that mysterious land and the adventures he had there. But that was just one of the stories we tell here. You see the Fair is a place to trade for what one needs and seek shelter from the dangers of the road, but the truth is it’s the stories everyone really wants, and it is our task to provide them. That’s what they’ve lost, those who find their way here. Their stories. That’s the one thing that gives us common ground. What we’ve lost. Have you heard of The Tale of One-Armed Lodovic the Fiddler? Or Brave Meena and the Hen of Wisdom?”

  Both Will and Rowen shook their heads.

  “Of course you haven’t,” the Scholar said. “That’s to be expected. They’re almost forgotten, those stories. They came from places that have been left behind or lost, and all trace of them is likely to vanish forever if we don’t keep them alive.”

  “We’re trying to do the same thing,” Rowen said. “It’s why we need to find our friends.”

  The Scholar raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “They’re not here, not unless they have concealed their true identity, though that’s doubtful. We have many performers and stage folk here who play many roles, and the Witch allows our playing—in fact, I believe there are times when she watches our performances in secret. But sometimes folk come to the Fair, you see, to hide from their crimes or with some wicked intent. They give false names and spin a hard-luck tale to gain admittance, but their goal is theft or worse. And the Witch, well …”

  “She finds them out every time,” the woman said. “The Witch sends them packing in a hurry.”

  “Our friends aren’t wicked,” Rowen said. “They only hide who they are because of their enemies.”

  The Scholar glanced up at the hotel that rose beyond the far end of the camp. “Be that as it may, only the Witch would know for certain if they’re here or if they’ve ever passed this way,” he said.

  “Is that where she lives?” Will asked, noticing the Scholar’s glance. “In the hotel?”

  “Hotel?” the Scholar said with a frown. “We call it the castle. But yes, that’s where she lives.”

  “The Witch wasn’t always here,” the woman said. “Before she came, this place was as bad as anywhere else. She made the camp a safe place.”

  “It’s true,” the Scholar said. “We were always under threat from whatever ruffians and cutthroats happened to pass this way. One gang of armed men would show up regularly and make off with whatever they wanted. They killed a man who resisted them the first time and after that no one gave them any trouble. Then one night we saw lights in the castle for the first time and a figure at the windows. The Witch, though we didn’t know that at the time. We didn’t know who or what had set up residence in the castle. Not until the gang came around again a few nights later. They took a young woman, Holt the carpenter’s daughter, started dragging her out of the camp screaming. They had guns, you see. Have you heard of guns? Terrible weapons that shoot bits of metal into people and tear their flesh. Anyhow, there was nothing anyone could do. Then she appeared. The torches all dimmed, and we could barely see what it was, just a pale blur, like fog. We heard a voice, a woman’s voice, and it said, ‘These people are under my protection. Anyone who harms them will suffer.’ The gang leader must have thought this was one of our stage tricks, because he just laughed and kept dragging the girl away. Then the fog … well, it seemed to rush at him, and it passed over him and when it was gone …”

  He hesitated and the woman broke in.

  “He just stood there staring,” she said with a fierce, dark joy. “Couldn’t say a word, like my poor Vardo. Then he reached for his knife and he cut his own throat. Did himself in, just like that.”

  “He did,” the Scholar confirmed with a haunted look. “The rest of the gang took to their heels and they haven’t been back since. When they were gone, the Witch’s voice came out of the dark again. She told us that those who lived in peace with others and did no evil would be safe in the camp from now on, but that she would reappear and punish anyone who did harm. And she’s been up there in the castle ever since. We see a shape now and then in the windows at the very top, though she never ventures down here anymore—at least, not that I’m aware of.”

  “She don’t need to,” the woman said. “Everyone knows she’s there. When people show up here with the idea of causing trouble, they leave right quick.”

  Arn, who had been listening while he brushed down the horse, spoke up now. “Sometimes she drives out people who’ve been in the camp a long while,” he said sullenly.

  “Yes,” the Scholar agreed, “she’s done that to those who steal from others or drink or spread evil rumours.”

  “How does she drive them out if she doesn’t leave the castle?” Will asked.

  “She has a way,” Arn said uneasily.

  “Usually the person she doesn’t want here anymore will start behaving oddly,” the Scholar explained. “Nervous. Fearful. Sometimes he’ll come right out and confess to all of us what he’s done wrong. As if he knows somehow that she’s found out his secret. Then he’ll pack his things and slip away.”

  “Sometimes people just disappear,” the woman said, “and everybody says the Witch took them.”

  No one spoke after that, and Will couldn’t help glancing up again at the structure beyond the fence. A few cold drops of rain had begun to fall, some with a hiss as they fell on the cooking grate.

  More of the camp folk were emerging from their tents now and heading for the stage. Some were dressed in costumes like the Scholar. Will saw a man in brown robes, a girl dressed as a milkmaid, a soldier in tall black boots. Some of the people carried shabby umbrellas, while others held cloaks or straw baskets over their heads.

  “It promises to be a most memorable evening, despite the lack of cooperation from the weather,” the Scholar said brightly, as though hoping to lighten the dark turn the conversation had taken. “You are very welcome to attend. And who knows, if you stay, perhaps you would be
interested in joining our company of players.” He eyed Shade. “Your friend there would certainly add a touch of verisimilitude to an old story we’ll be performing at the next full moon.”

  “Thank you, but we aren’t staying,” Rowen said. “We’re going to see the Witch.”

  Will turned to her in shock but held back his protest. Now was not the time to argue, not in front of these people.

  The Scholar’s eyebrows rose. “See her?” he said, plucking nervously at his false beard. “No one sees her. The castle is forbidden to everyone, even those of us she protects. If the Witch wants to speak to you, you will know it.”

  “Well, we’re not waiting here to find out,” Rowen said, and she climbed to her feet. Reluctantly Will joined her. Shade came to his side.

  The woman gazed at Rowen with a desperate longing.

  “Don’t go yet, my dear,” she said. “You can stay the night with us and go in the morning. That’s a better time. Not at night. Not in the rain.”

  “We can’t wait that long,” Rowen said. “What’s the quickest way to the castle?”

  The Scholar rubbed his forehead and then pointed down the path to the stage. “I think this is a mistake,” he said, “but so be it. Go around to the far side of the stage to the fence at the back of the camp and you will find some loose boards there. You can climb through and then it’s just a short walk. I went that way once with a delegation from the camp to officially thank her for all she’s done for us. We didn’t get far beyond the fence before we knew we weren’t welcome. So we turned back and no one from the camp has gone to the castle since.”

  “How did you know she didn’t want you there?”

  “We knew.”

  “The stew is ready,” the woman said. “Stay and eat first. You can go later.”

  “Thank you for all you’ve done,” Rowen said to her. “I hope … I hope you find your daughter.”

  “My dear, don’t go—”

  “Mother,” Arn said sharply. “That’s enough now. Let them go if they want to. It’s none of our business.”

  The woman bit her trembling lip. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away.

  Rowen and Will thanked the Scholar and set off with Shade. People watched them as they passed, but no one spoke to them and Will had the strange feeling the entire camp already knew what they were doing here. He had been waiting until the three of them were out of hearing of anyone else, and now he took hold of Rowen’s arm and forced her to halt.

  “What are you thinking?” he said. “They told us nobody goes to see this Witch, and it sounds to me like that’s how she wants it. What if she does to us what she did to the leader of that gang?”

  “What choice do we have?” Rowen said in a desperate undertone, tugging her arm out of Will’s grasp. “I know that the Fair Folk were here, the real Fair Folk, and maybe this Witch knows what happened to them. They’re the only chance I’ve got of finding Grandfather.”

  “Maybe the witch knows what happened to them because she’s on his side,” Will said. “She could be one of his servants. Did you think of that? Maybe she’s the reason the Fair Folk aren’t here anymore.”

  “Will, whoever she is, you heard what the Scholar said. She looks after these people and only punishes those who harm others. That doesn’t sound like a servant of the Night King to me. Maybe she can’t help us, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to hurt us. I have to find out what she knows.”

  Will shook his head but said nothing more.

  They passed the stage, where several people were busily lighting lamps and setting up a large canvas backdrop painted to look like a sunny countryside dotted with windmills. The people on the stage glanced at them curiously as they passed but like everyone else said nothing to them.

  From the other side of the stage it was only a short walk to the fence. There was no difficulty finding the loose boards, which hung crookedly among the others. To Will it seemed strange that no one, not even the carpenter, Holt, had bothered to repair the fence, given all the trouble they’d had from outsiders. Then Will looked up at the hotel, looming darkly over this end of the camp, and he thought he understood why the fence had been left as it was. Closing up the loose boards would make it seem they were hoping to keep the Witch out. As much as these people had benefited from her presence, clearly they were still afraid of her and wished to avoid doing anything that might offend her.

  Will, Rowen and Shade slipped through the gap. On the far side they found themselves on a cracked and stained concrete platform with fading painted lines that Will took to be the remains of a parking lot. At the far end rose a retaining wall with a crumbling staircase. They crossed the lot and climbed the staircase with care. It led them up into the deserted street where the hotel stood, facing what looked to be a public park with aisles of gaunt, leafless trees. A row of electric lamps ran along the street, and several of them had come on in the failing light, the nearest one flickering and buzzing and the others casting a weak yellow glow. There was still electrical power, Will thought with a strange mingling of relief and unease, even though the city seemed to have been deserted.

  As they walked up the street, the park’s rusted gate creaked in the wind. The rain was falling in earnest now, a fine cold drizzle wetting them and raising a humid odour of wet dust and ashes.

  The hotel was of a type that Will had rarely seen with his own eyes. The exterior was made of thick stone blocks and had ornate mouldings and high turrets. But despite the elegant facade, the hotel was in poor repair. Windows up and down the frontage were broken or missing altogether. The walls were pockmarked with what looked like bullet holes and the front doors were gone, leaving the deep stone entryway resembling the entrance to a cave strewn with pebbles of glass. They halted here, both finding themselves suddenly unwilling to approach any closer.

  “You called this place a hotel,” Shade said. “I have never heard that word before, but this does not seem like a place we should go.”

  “In my world a hotel’s a place where travellers stay for the night. Like the Golden Goose in Fable.”

  “This looks nothing like the Golden Goose,” Rowen said.

  “I know. And it’s not like any hotel I’ve ever stayed in. This would have been a hotel only for rich people. But I don’t think it’s been used that way for a long time.”

  “Well, I’m going in there,” Rowen said. “You and Shade can wait out here if you want.”

  Will and the wolf exchanged a glance.

  “We’re not splitting up now,” Will said. “Let’s go.”

  Slowly and hesitantly they stepped through the doorway and into the lobby. As they did so, Rowen tapped on the glass of the waylight and Sputter, the wisp, awoke, casting a pale blue light a short distance into the gloom. They could hear his faint flutter through the lantern’s glass panes.

  The lobby had marble columns and a high ceiling and was carpeted in a rich maroon with an ornate floral pattern. But the columns were cracked and chipped, and the carpet stained and rucked up in many places. There was a fountain in the centre of the lobby, but it was dry and filled only with dust and debris. To the right of the front desk, with its brass lamps and shelf with cubbyholes for keys, rose a wide carpeted staircase, and on the far side of it, in an alcove, was a bank of three elevators, their doors open. On the other side of the lobby was an entryway into another room, where they could see dark leather chairs and side tables. A lounge, Will thought.

  Over everything hung a thick, pervading smell of dust and damp.

  “Hello?” Rowen called. Her voice echoed.

  Will walked over to the front desk. He looked behind it, found nothing but scraps of paper and a mound of ash, as if someone had built a fire there once.

  “Hello,” Rowen called again, louder this time. “We’ve come from the camp. We only want to ask you some questions and then we’ll go.”

  After a long silence Will wandered into the lounge and Rowen and Shade followed. A large stone fireplace stood on
one wall, and above it hung a large painting in a gilt frame. The painting showed a group of slender people in red coats, men and women, galloping sleek horses across an autumn countryside. The artists had painted the scene as if the people and horses had no weight, Will thought. As if they were gliding on air.

  Nearby, a large globe rested in a three-legged stand. Even from a distance Will recognized the familiar shapes of the land masses he knew. Rowen went over to it, placed her hand on the globe and turned it slowly.

  “It’s a map, isn’t it?” she asked Will. “I’ve never seen one like this. Why is it round?”

  “That’s the shape of the world,” Will said, surprised.

  Rowen looked at him quizzically, then went back to examining the globe. Perhaps she didn’t believe him or understand what he meant, but clearly she had chosen not to ask any more questions about it.

  “I don’t know the names of any of these places,” she said at last, shaking her head.

  Will was about to join her, and find the name of his town or at least point to its location, when Shade raised his head sharply and turned to the doorway.

  “Will Lightfoot!” the wolf called out in warning, and gave a menacing growl.

  Will and Rowen whirled to see a figure coming slowly toward them down the dark stairs.

  Will stood frozen with horror. He hadn’t known who or what they might encounter in this eerie, abandoned hotel, but the last thing he expected to see was a tall figure shrouded completely in a flowing white cloak.

  The Angel.

  The flowing white form moved across the long maroon carpet like a drifting bank of fog.

  “It can’t be,” Rowen whispered, backing away. “He was destroyed. Moth killed him.”

  The sight filled Will with such terror that he was rendered immobile, unable even to cry out.

  Shade snarled and bounded toward the Angel, but in the next moment he was brought up short, his paws scrabbling on the tiled floor, by a voice. A woman’s voice that seemed to echo through the entire lobby.

  “Children, why are you here? You should not be here.”