The young man listened eagerly to these tales. But when he asked those who told them if they knew the way to Fable, they would shrug or shake their heads, and confess that they weren’t really sure how to get there from here.
In the morning he passed through farmlands where people were hard at work sowing the bare fields and no one stopped to talk to him. By late afternoon he came to a marsh where a lone blackbird called from a cattail stalk. He camped there on a dry hummock, under a willow, with a chorus of frogs for company.
He started awake that night from a deep and dreamless sleep. A sound had roused him. He thought it might have been the howl of a wolf. He listened and heard only the wind moving through the tall grass. Even the frogs had gone silent.
For the next two days he made his slow, weaving way through the marshland. It wasn’t until night had nearly fallen on the second day that he found a good, solid road under his feet again. A road that soon brought him to a town. He lingered in the square, beside the dried-up fountain, and the few townsfolk who passed him on their way home for the evening stared at him without speaking or ignored him completely. As the sun was going down, a stern-looking older man approached and asked him who he was and what he was doing there. He said he was only passing through, but if anyone wished, he would be happy to tell a story in exchange for some supper or a place to sleep. The man frowned and strode away, but a short time later a few children gathered around him, some with their mothers and fathers in tow. He told some brief, funny tales to begin, and was asked for more, and as he started his own story the crowd grew in size. More people came out of their houses to see what was going on. Someone brought out lanterns and strung them in the trees, and when the story was done someone else called for a song, and soon there was music and dancing and good food to eat.
On the evening of the following day, he was camped on the shore of a lake. A fire of dry juniper branches cracked and snapped and sent embers shooting among the stars. Much later the blackened wood sank in on itself and glowed softly from within, as if it had fallen asleep and was dreaming fiery dreams.
But he could not sleep. He was waiting for something, although he didn’t know what. Then out of the night a grey shape came gliding. A heron, he thought. It touched the surface of the water with its long bill and then rose again and vanished into the dark.
It was just a bird, he told himself. It wasn’t a sign. He wanted everything to speak to him, to show him the way. But he was lost. He had to admit it.
Maybe he was trying too hard. Getting in his own way again. Or maybe he’d waited too long to return and his memories were no longer to be trusted. He watched the ripples spread out across the dark water. The bird had come and gone so quickly, like a fleeting thought, leaving only this brief trace of its passing. In a moment there would be no evidence at all that it had been there.
He recalled how they’d all been trapped inside a story, he and his friends. But if the golden thread had done its work, then that story must have come apart over the years, unravelling like a worn-out tapestry. Which meant there might be only a few traces of it left, scattered shreds he was stumbling across by chance. So why should he expect to find things as he remembered them? What he had come back to was a different story. It might still be called The Perilous Realm, but it was something entirely new. And what if this new story no longer had a place for him?
In the next town he came to three brightly painted caravans in the middle of the square, a happy, boisterous crowd gathered around them. One side of the middle caravan had been unfolded to make a stage, and on it a play was in performance. He stood and watched, as spellbound as the crowd. It was a very old play, with a knight, a lady, a magician and a devil.
Then he looked more closely at one of the players, at the familiar face under the wig and the thick greasepaint. The man wasn’t wearing his straggly little beard or cardboard armour, but it was the Scholar. He was sure of it.
When the play had finished, there was much applause and some shouts for more, and then two men came onstage and he knew them, too. It was Arn and his brother, Vardo. A girl he didn’t recognize followed them, carrying an armful of knives and swords. Arn sprang onto Vardo’s shoulders, then Vardo lifted his brother by his ankles until he was balanced on one foot on Vardo’s head. The girl tossed Arn the knives and swords one by one, and he juggled them—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Then he caught them all and tossed them back to the girl, one by one, and somersaulted to the stage. And the crowd applauded and cheered.
The brothers and the girl bowed and hurried offstage, to where an older woman stood in the wings, watching anxiously. He knew her, too: the woman from the camp who had wanted Rowen to stay. The girl slid her arm around the woman and kissed her on the cheek. Right away another act came onstage, a troupe of dancers and musicians, but he didn’t stay to watch. What he had seen made him glad, but he thought that if the family saw him, it would only remind them of a dark time they might rather forget. Still, he thought, I’m getting closer. I must be.
The days passed and he left that town far behind. Early one morning he was walking along another lonely road in the rain, listening to the soft patter of the drops on the leaves. He thought of Shade, who loved that sound and taught him to love it, too. You’ve been looking for something that used to be, he told himself. Time to look and see what’s really here. It might be something you never expected.
The rain drew off, and in the woods and fields around him the mist was lifting away. He walked on, but more slowly now, watching and listening with care. In the low places in the road, water had collected in pools, each as still and bright as a mirror. A raven croaked once, flew up from a hazel thicket and flapped away. Somewhere not far off a dog barked. There might be a town nearby, he thought, or a farm. It had been a long time since he’d spoken to anyone.
The sun found its way through the parting clouds and burnished the wet road so that it gleamed like a sheet of gold. He caught the scent of clover. A bee droned past. He walked a little farther, and then he stepped away from the road. He plunged into a leafy hollow alive with butterflies and pollen falling like snow, then climbed up the far side. When he came out of the trees, there it was: a cottage at the foot of a grassy hill, under a sky of fathomless blue. The stones of the front walk had been recently swept and the shutters looked freshly painted. A thread of smoke unwound from the leaning brick chimney. The door was slightly ajar, as if he was expected.
There are no more happy endings, he told his aching heart. But sometimes you find what you have lost.
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
FROM NICHOLAS PENDRAKE’S NOTEBOOKS
APPLEYARD
The citadel of the Errantry in Fable, at the foot of Appleyard Hill, and the highest point in the city. The Errantry’s school for knight-apprentices is found here.
THE BOURNE
A small, little-known land somewhere in the Perilous Realm, inhabited mostly by the descendants of travellers from the Untold who found their way to the Realm and stayed. Fable is the Bourne’s largest city.
THE ERRANTRY
The Bourne’s defensive force, made up of knights-errant, troopers, scouts, and knight-apprentices. The knights of the Errantry take an oath to right wrongs and defend the weak.
THE FATHOMLESS FIRE
Also known as innumith, or “storystuff.” A mysterious, intangible spirit or power out of which everything in the Perilous Realm is made. Loremasters can draw this secret fire out of the Weaving to shape and heal stories.
FETCHES
Spirits of those whose stories have been devoured by Malabron.
GAAL
Also known as fever iron. A rare ore with marvellous properties that some say is really concentrated innumith. Those who ingest this ore gain strength and fearlessness in battle, but in time their craving for the gaal becomes a madness.
THE GATHERING HOUSE
The main hall of the Errantry at Appleyard.
THE GREAT UNWEAVING
A da
rk time after the first war against Malabron, when the Perilous Realm was torn apart and much knowledge was lost.
LOREMASTER
To most people, a mere collector and teller of tales. Loremasters have kept their true vocation —to serve and protect the Realm through the power of the fathomless fire—hidden from all but a few.
MAGE
A wizard or sorcerer who attributes his powers to some vaguely defined “magic.” Few mages know of the fathomless fire or understand where it comes from, and as a consequence, they can misuse this power and do great harm to themselves and others.
MORDOG
A race of powerful, warlike beings who serve Malabron and have long been at war with the Fair Folk and other free peoples of the Perilous Realm.
NIGHTBANE
The collective name for the many races that have banded together in the name of Malabron to spread war and terror throughout the Realm.
THE PERILOUS REALM
The world (or worlds) of Story. As vast and never-ending as all the tales that have been told or might be told, the Realm is made up of countless storylands. A traveller cannot always get to one storyland from another by way of a direct road or path, and maps are never very reliable.
THE SHADOW REALM
A region of nightmare set apart from the Perilous Realm, where fetches wander without hope and bloodthirsty harrowers prowl in search of living things to devour. The Shadow Realm continually grows as more stories are swallowed up by the Night King.
THE SPEAKING CREATURES
Birds and beasts given the power of speech by the Stewards. They were scattered and many were lost during the Great Unweaving.
STORYSIGHT
A loremaster’s power to see into both the past and the future of Story. Even if a story is lost and forgotten, a gifted loremaster can find traces of it.
THE UNTOLD
A name for the world beyond the Perilous Realm. Many who live there call the Untold the “real world” and believe that the realm of Story is only imaginary.
THE WEAVING
Something like the world we visit in our dreams, the Weaving is a hidden “realm within” from which all things arise and to which they must return, to be woven again into new stories. The Weaving contains the past and the future, as well as everything that might have been or never was. Apprentice loremasters are initiated into the craft by venturing alone into the Weaving and finding their way back—a difficult and dangerous journey.
WEREFIRE
A name for innumith when it runs out of control and becomes a destructive force. Power-hungry mages in Skald unleashed a plague of werefire that nearly destroyed the city.
READ THE EXHILARATING
FIRST TWO BOOKS
IN THE PERILOUS
REALM TRILOGY:
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THIS TRILOGY BEGAN a long time ago with the first storyteller I ever met, my father, Tom Wharton Sr, who introduced me to the spell of a well-told tale.
Thank you to all those who gave encouragement, support, guidance and inspiration over the long haul of three books. To my agent, Lynn Bennett; to my editors: Lara Hinchberger, Amy Black, Chris Kloet, and Janice Weaver; to Nicola Makoway, Merle Jones, Gail and Laurie Greenwood, Susan Toy, and to the late Ralph Vicinanza. Thanks to Linda Quirk, Matt Schneider, Betsy Sargent, and Richard Harrison and family. Thanks to Tim Jessell, Ciruelo Cabral, Chris Hill, and Mary Wharton, the artists. A great big thank you to the students of Malmo School, who wanted to be in the book. Bows to Reverend Masters Mugo White and Koten Benson, and to my sangha, the Edmonton Buddhist Meditation Group. Many thanks to Bill Thompson for long walks and talks in the realms of Story. Thank you to my family for love and support. Lastly, I am grateful beyond words for Sharon and for our children, Mary, Conor and Ronan, who provided the first spark of the fathomless fire.
For more about the characters, creatures and places of the Perilous Realm, visit the author’s website at
www.thomaswharton.ca
THE TREE OF STORY
THOMAS WHARTON is an award-winning writer for adults and younger readers whose work has been translated into several languages. The Tree of Story is the third book in The Perilous Realm series, which began with The Shadow of Malabron and The Fathomless Fire. The author says of the Perilous Realm, “It is not just a world with stories in it. This world is Story. It is the place that all the tales in our world come from. Whatever you might find in a story, you will find here. Adventures, strange encounters, riddles. Heroes and monsters. Bravery, goodness, and terrible evil. And many other things that have yet no name in our world. And you are here now, and that means you are in a story, too.”
The author is a professor of English at the University of Alberta, and lives in Edmonton with his wife and three children.
The Tree of Story Page 38
