The Tree of Story

by Thomas Wharton

  Rowen and Sputter had done this, too, he was certain. They’d made a breach in the prison that was the Shadow Realm. The sight would have cheered him if he’d had any hope left. But now it was only more evidence that Malabron had defeated them. They had made this one little haven of green life within his dead grey nightmare, but it was not enough.

  He thought of carrying Rowen out of the Silence. If he could find Master Pendrake, they might make it back to Fable, all three of them together. But it might be too late to catch up with the harrowers, and without their protection the knife wind would be on him in a moment. And he was so tired. The cold, hopeless weariness of their journey across the Shadow Realm was falling over him again.

  One question still nagged at him. Why hadn’t Dama killed them both when she’d had the chance? He’d seen fear in her eyes, and he’d thought then that it was fear of the hollow itself, as if she was trespassing where she’d never been permitted to go.

  Now it became clear to him that Dama was afraid of Rowen. Terrified. She’d attacked and then fled. Not from Will’s sword but from Rowen, from the power she’d revealed in herself by transforming the hollow.

  He looked down at Rowen and cold fear shot through him. She was struggling against the poison from Dama’s talons, he was sure of that. But what if it had not been meant to kill her? Only to weaken her. To break down her will, her resistance, so that when she woke—if she woke—it would be as one of them. It’s what Rowen herself had feared, what she’d spoken of when they were hiding in the old school bus.

  He thought of the young man he’d met in the Weaving. Was it really himself? The Will he would be someday, years from now? And if it was, then that is how he would end up: running and hiding from Rowen.

  The Shadow Realm would have them both in the end.

  The patch of blue sky remained for hours, then darkened to a deep indigo. Stars appeared. Somewhere far above him, Will thought, night was passing, but within the hollow the dim grey light did not change.

  He spoke to Rowen again. He told her that he could see the stars, and that they were more beautiful than he remembered. But she did not stir. She slept on, her face a white mask. Will walked around the tree and crouched by the little stream that ran trickling through the grass. Where did it run to? He followed it from the small flower-fringed pool where it began and across the floor of the hollow, until it vanished back into the grass. Several times he climbed to the edge of the hollow and listened, but he heard nothing. The woven wall of green looked thicker than he had imagined. He pushed against it but could barely make it move.

  When the hunger pangs in his stomach became too much to ignore, he finished what food was left in his pack.

  He dozed once, for how long he had no idea, and shot awake with a cry to find Rowen beside him, still breathing faintly. There was a pale light in the little patch of sky far above and the stars were winking out.

  On the second day, Will climbed the tree. Its lowest branches almost touched the earth and so it was easy for him to get his first foothold and then scramble up, branch after branch, as high as he dared go, still close enough that he could reach Rowen quickly if anything came for her while he was up here.

  At last, as he clung to the highest branch he felt was safe to reach, he was just above the rim of the hollow. To his wonder he saw that encircling green wall, which he had thought was only a thin hedge, stretched away in all directions as far as he could see, to a greyish haze. The Shadow Realm was still out there as Rowen had said, but it was farther away than he’d feared, or at least it seemed to be.

  Will climbed back down hastily and knelt at Rowen’s side to make sure she was still breathing.

  “I’m here,” he said again. “I climbed the tree. There’s green for miles, Rowen.”

  He placed his hand on her forehead and felt the heat of fever. She shivered and gave a faint cry.

  “Rowen?” She went still again, but as he watched he saw beads of sweat stand out on her brow.

  With his sword he hacked a strip off his cloak and wet it in the pool. With this he bathed Rowen’s forehead, her face and her arms, hoping to cool the fever that was burning her from inside.

  It seemed to help, or so he hoped. She had stopped shivering, at least. Most of that day she lay unmoving as if dead, but once in a while she would stir in her sleep as if caught in a terrible dream.

  “It’s not real,” he told her. “You can wake up.”

  It occurred to him that if he concealed her, it might give them more time should anything come for her. He walked around the rim of the hollow, cutting away a few of the thicker, sturdier stalks from the hedge. When he thought that he had enough, he brought them back to the tree and arranged them around Rowen, working them carefully into the earth and twining them loosely together to make a kind of bower.

  When he stepped back, he saw that this wouldn’t help at all. The bower didn’t look like a stand of thicker grass as he’d hoped, but only like what it was: an attempt to hide something. He let it remain, though. He didn’t know why.

  That night he heard them.

  The nightmare creatures were still out there. He made out distant thrashing and crackling, as if huge machines from his own world were at work tearing through the thick wall of green. The sounds would stop for a while, then they would begin again. They didn’t seem to be getting any louder or closer, but he stood over Rowen’s bower through most of the night, listening, his body exhausted and aching for sleep.

  When morning came, the distant sounds didn’t die away. They continued through the day and into the evening. Now there were other sounds, as well. A low hum hovering just at the edge of silence. It was not the wind, he was sure of that, but he couldn’t say what it was.

  He awoke suddenly to find himself beside Rowen in the green shadows within the bower. He had tried so hard to stay awake, but he had fallen asleep again. Maybe not for long, but he cursed himself under his breath.

  Rowen was breathing softly and looked much the same as she had the day before. Once he was sure she was no worse than she had been, he climbed out of the bower.

  He froze.

  Morrigan stood on the far side of the tree. The shrowde cloak shone coldly in the gloom. Will backed away, heart pounding, remembering what Dama had told them. And then Morrigan was gliding toward him, and he drew his sword.

  “Will,” she said. “Is Rowen with you?”

  He didn’t answer. She halted and looked at his sword.

  “I am not one of them,” she said. “Not yet.”

  Will heard the truth of it in her voice. It was a warm, living voice, the first he had heard in a long time. But his heart was still hammering and he wouldn’t lower the sword. Morrigan glanced at the bower.

  “Is Rowen in there?”

  Will nodded. “What happened to you?”

  “I led the hunters on a chase, then let them come to me. The shrowde took some of them, and the others fled. Then I was lost for a time, until I caught the scent of growing things and followed it. I knew right away that Rowen must have woven all this. It cost me much struggle to get through, but I was sure I would find you here.”

  Will at last lowered his sword. Morrigan walked with him to the bower and looked in at Rowen, and Will quickly told her everything that had happened since they’d parted. Morrigan knelt and put her hand to Rowen’s forehead.

  “Can you do anything for her?” Will asked.

  The Shee woman shook her head.

  “You were right. There is a poison in her beyond my power to draw out. Whether she will recover or not I cannot say. But if she does …”

  She did not finish.

  “Did you see Master Pendrake?” Will asked. “The harrowers promised to let him go.”

  “I did not see the Loremaster,” Morrigan said. “I do not know whether the nightmare creatures kept their word. But they are tearing down this refuge and devouring it as they go. They will be here soon.”

  She had found some small golden-yellow berries
growing within the encircling hedge as she made her way through it. She’d tried them and found they were safe to eat, and she shared them now with Will. He bit into one and his mouth filled with a sharp, sweet taste that made him think of sunlight.

  “Is there anything we can do?” he asked. “I don’t want to just sit here waiting for them to come.”

  “They have surrounded us,” Morrigan said. “I barely escaped them myself. The moment we set foot outside this hollow they would be upon us. No, Will. All we can do is stay with Rowen, as long as she lives and breathes. When they come, you and I will make them pay dearly before this is finished.”

  They sat together that night, keeping watch over Rowen and waiting as the sounds from outside the hollow grew louder.

  The third day came, and still Rowen did not wake. While Morrigan and the shrowde patrolled the rim of the hollow, Will stayed in the bower. He touched Rowen’s forehead from time to time and was relieved to find her fever was lessening, but still she gave no sign of stirring.

  He climbed from the bower to tell Morrigan about Rowen’s fever breaking, but she was not in sight and he supposed she must be searching for more of the berries. Will went to the pool and crouched at its edge to drink. One of the large yellow-white flowers was near his lowered face, and he caught a flicker of movement from it.

  He bent closer to look and jumped back with a cry as a greenish-brown, glossy-backed thing crawled out of the flower’s cupped petals. It had many legs and a segmented back like a centipede, and it made a high-pitched chittering sound.

  The creature dropped to the ground and went skittering on its many legs toward the bower. Will drew his sword and skewered it. The thing writhed for a second or two and then went still. Will drew out his sword, stared at the thing a moment and then crushed it under the heel of his boot.

  He turned back to the flowers. There were more of the creatures crawling out of the blossoms now, and the flowers themselves were darkening, turning a sickly greyish-brown. Will stabbed another one that had crawled toward the bower and then another. More appeared, and he hacked at those, but others were getting past him …

  Then Morrigan was there with the shrowde cloak spread, and when she passed it over the creatures, they shrivelled into themselves and went still.

  “The nightmare is returning,” she said. “Nothing is safe anymore. We must be watchful of everything, even the ground under our feet.”

  Will wiped his stained blade on the grass. The flowers by the pool were all dead now, their petals brittle and ashen.

  They waited and watched as the hours went by. The sounds from outside the hollow had gone silent some time ago, Will realized with a start. He couldn’t see anything along the hedge, but he knew for certain that something or someone was out there, watching.

  “Stay here,” Morrigan hissed. The shrowde billowed up around her, and its white form rushed across the hollow and into the hedge. Will waited breathlessly in the bower, and soon he heard a shriek that was abruptly broken off. All was silent again.

  Morrigan reappeared at his side. “They are near,” she said. “There are many.”

  He climbed to his feet with his sword drawn and stood beside her. Part of the shrowde fluttered like a sheet caught by the wind and hung behind him and over the bower.

  The woven green wall began to shiver and rustle all around them. With a noise of splintering and tearing it began to buckle and then to topple in many places. Gaps appeared, holes through which plumes of dust began to roll down the slope.

  Then they came. Slowly, cautiously, as if they were still afraid to tread here, the harrowers came.

  “This is a place for the living,” Morrigan cried. “If you set foot here you will be destroyed.”

  Laughter, some high-pitched and some a low rumbling, rippled through the throng. And still they came, some lumbering, others crawling and slithering. Will gripped his sword and willed himself to stand his ground, not to cry out and run. He saw Dirge among them, shaking her bedraggled locks out of her eyes to better see the prey before her. Behind her came Gibbet, his eel’s mouth wide open, teeth bared. He saw other things he had no name for, their hungry eyes all fixed on him. He did not see Dama, and wondered if she hadn’t dared return to the Silence.

  Most of the harrowers had descended the slope by now and were coming across the hollow, moving more swiftly having encountered no resistance or threat.

  “Little mice,” Dirge called. “Little mice, your tale is done. It’s them, Gibbet. Do you smell them? The little mice that got away didn’t get away. There they are. They can’t run any farther. Nowhere to go.”

  Gibbet raised his eyeless head and sniffed, then bellowed and shouldered his way past Dirge.

  “Go on,” Dirge said, pawing at the other harrower’s shoulder. “Take them, tear them. We will be right behind you.”

  Gibbet came at a lurching run toward the tree. Will felt more than saw the shrowde cloak billow out on either side as Morrigan readied herself for the harrower’s assault.

  And then there was another sound, a great crashing that seemed to come from every direction at once. And with it the ground under Will’s feet began to shudder. The harrowers froze and looked around wildly, snarling and gibbering. Whatever it was, it was clear they had heard this sound before and they were afraid.

  Dirge came to a sudden halt, turning his head this way and that, his nostrils flaring, and then he roared and came on again, straight for Will.

  He never reached him.

  There was a burst of darkness, as if the pillar of dust had been torn open and night had come flooding in, and then Will saw that the darkness was a thing, a moving shape, vast and black, with jaws that opened and snapped shut, trapping the harrower between sharp fangs before he could take another step. A great dark head rose, shook Gibbet ferociously and then threw the harrower’s limp, mangled body across the hollow.

  It was Shade. Will knew it for certain, even though this monstrous thing with burning red eyes, the breath roaring from him like broiling air from a forge, looked nothing like the wolf he knew.

  This was the Devourer.

  Will cried Shade’s name but his voice was lost amid the beast’s thunderous growls and the shrieking and howling of the harrowers. Some were already fleeing out of the hollow, but many had turned to meet this threat. They were lunging and slashing at him now and he was turning, snapping at some and swatting others away with his great paws. Those harrowers that could leap or had wings had attached themselves to his heaving sides and were sinking their fangs into him and tearing at him with their claws.

  Will watched in helpless horror as the savage battle raged before him. Even Morrigan seemed awestruck and unable to move. And then Will noticed that as Shade fought, as he clawed and bit and tore at his enemies, he was moving farther from the tree and from Will. He was doing it purposefully, Will understood with a surge of hope, trying to lead the harrowers away from their prey.

  He was about to speak, to tell Morrigan that Shade was giving them a chance to get Rowen away from here, when a leathery arm slid around his neck and held him fast.

  “Call off the beast, boy,” a cold voice hissed in his ear. Dama’s voice.

  He struggled and felt a sharpness, like the tip of a knife, press against his throat. He knew without having to see it that it was the winged woman’s talon. One of those that had poisoned Rowen.

  There was a blur of white and Morrigan was in front of him, the shrowde rippling into agitated ribbons all around her.

  “Let him go,” Morrigan said in a low, threatening voice.

  “Stay away, witch of the Shee,” Dama snarled, “or the boy dies.”

  And then the talon was gone from his neck and Dama’s arm had loosened its grip. Will didn’t know the reason, but he took this chance to escape and struggled out of her grasp. He whirled to face her in case she attacked again, but she was not looking at him. She was staring in wide-eyed horror at the bower.

  Rowen stood there.

 
; She had awoken at last.

  24

  SHE DIDN’T SEEM TO know him at first, and then recognition came into her eyes.

  “Will,” she said.

  “Rowen?” Of all the wonders and terrors he had seen in the last few days, Rowen standing before him again was the most wonderful and yet somehow also the most terrifying. Something had changed in her. Something he didn’t understand.

  Her face was still frighteningly pale and glistened with sweat, but her eyes were wide open and clear. She looked at Morrigan, and then her gaze shifted to Dama.

  “You will no longer harm them,” she said.

  “You broke your word,” the harrower growled as she backed away. “You promised to call off the Devourer and submit to the One.”

  “I’m not the wolf’s master,” Rowen said. “I never was. I made that bargain so you would let Grandfather go free.”

  “We killed the old man!” Dama shrieked. “We tore him to pieces!”

  “No, you didn’t,” Rowen said calmly. “I see him. He’s on his way home. He escaped you. The power I put into the staff helped him.”

  “You’ve still lost,” Dama said. “If you see that far, you know your city is about to fall. He will return only to shadows and death.”

  Her wings rose and it seemed she would escape before anyone could reach her, but she did not ascend. Instead she stared down at her feet.

  “What is this?” she gasped. “What are you doing to me?”

  Will saw to his amazement that she was sinking slowly into the earth, or that the earth was somehow pulling her down. The grass was at her ankles now and rising. She reached down, her legs shaking, and desperately tore at the green blades, but still she sank.

  Dama began to scream. She thrashed and threw out her arms, but the grass was above her knees now and all she could do was beat her wings helplessly.

  Rowen stepped closer to the harrower. Dama grasped at her with a snarl but she stayed just out of reach.