There were dreams. Endless, horrible dreams. Someday, if I live
so long, if I survive what is yet to come, I may record them, for
they were the story of a god that is a tree, and of the thing his
roots bind . . .
No. I think not. One life of struggle and horror is enough to
report. And this one goes on.
The Lady stirred first. She reached over, pinched me. The pain
wakened my nerves. She gasped, in a voice so soft I barely heard
it, “Get up. Help me. We have to move your White
Rose.”
Made no sense.
“The null.”
I was shivering. I thought it was reaction to whatever struck me
down.
“The thing below is of this world. The tree is
not.”
Wasn’t me shivering. It was the ground. Ever so gently and
rapidly. And now I became aware of a sound. Something far away,
deep down.
I began to get the idea.
Fear is one hell of a motivator. I got my feet under me. Above,
the Tinkle of Old Father Tree beat maddeningly. There was panic in
his wind-chimes song.
The Lady rose too. We staggered toward Darling, supporting one
another. Each groggy step spiced more life into my sluggish blood.
I looked into Darling’s eyes. She was aware, yet paralyzed.
Her face was frozen halfway between fear and disbelief. We hoisted
her up, each slipping an arm around her. The Lady began counting
steps. I remember no other labor so damnably great. I do not recall
another time when I ran so much on will alone.
The shaking of the earth waxed rapidly into the shudder of
passing horsemen, then to a landslide’s uproar, then to an
earthquake. The ground around Father Tree began to writhe and
buckle. A gout of flame and dust blasted upward. The tree tinkled a
shriek. Blue lightning rioted in his hair. We pressed even harder
in our flight down and across the creek.
Something behind us began to scream.
Images in mind. That which was rising was in agony. Father Tree
subjected it to the torments of Hell. But it came on, determined to
be free.
I no longer looked back. My terror was too great. I did not want
to see what an ancient Dominator looked like.
We made it. Gods. Somehow the Lady and I got Darling
sufficiently far away for Father Tree to regain his full
otherworldly power.
The shriek rose rapidly in pitch and fury; I fell down grasping
my ears. And then it went away.
After a time the Lady said, “Croaker, go see if you can
help the others. It’s safe. The tree won.”
That quickly? Out of that much fury?
Getting my feet under me seemed an all-night job.
A blue nimbus still shimmered among Father Tree’s
branches. You could feel his aggravation from two hundred yards.
Its weight grew as I moved nearer.
The ground around the tree’s feet hardly seemed disturbed,
considering the violence of moments ago. It looked freshly plowed
and harrowed, was all. Some of my friends were partially buried,
but no one appeared injured. Everyone was moving at least a little.
Faces looked wholly stunned. Except Tracker’s. That ugly
character had not resumed his fake human form.
He was up early, placidly helping the others, dusting their
clothing with hearty, friendly slaps. You would not have known that
a short time before he had been a deadly enemy. Weird.
Nobody needed any help. Except the walking trees and menhirs.
The trees had been overturned. The
menhirs . . . Many of them were down, too. And
unable to right themselves.
That gave me a chill.
I got me another shudder when I neared the old tree.
Reaching out of the ground, fumbling at the bark of a root, was
a human hand and forearm, long, leathery, greenish, with nails
grown to claws then broken and bleeding upon Father Tree. It did
not belong to anyone from the Hole.
It twitched feebly, now. Blue sparks continued to crackle
above.
Something about that hand stirred the old beast within me. I
wanted to run away shrieking. Or seize an axe and mutilate it. I
took neither course, for I got the distinct feeling that Father
Tree was watching me and glowering more than a little, and maybe
blaming me personal-like for wakening the thing to which the hand
belonged.
“I’m going,” I said. “Know how you feel.
Got my own old monster to keep down.” And I backed away,
bowing some each three or four steps.
“What the hell was that?”
I whirled. One-Eye was staring at me. He had a
Croaker-is-up-to-another-of-his-crazies look.
“Just chatting with the tree.” I looked around.
People seemed to be finding their sea legs. Some of the less
flustered were starting to right the walking trees. For the fallen
menhirs, though, there seemed no hope. Those had gone to whatever
reward a sentient stone may expect. Later they would be discovered
righted, standing among the other dead menhirs near the creek
ford.
I returned to Darling and the Lady. Darling was slow to come
around, too groggy to communicate yet. The Lady asked,
“Everyone all right?”
“Except the guy in the ground. And he came close to making
himself well.” I described the hand.
She nodded. “That’s a mistake not likely to be made
again soon.”
Silent and several others had gathered around, so we could say
little that would not sound suspect. I did murmur, “What
now?” In the background I heard the Lieutenant and Elmo
hollering about getting some torches out to shed a little
light.
She shrugged.
“What about the Taken?”
“You want to go after them?”
“Hell, no! But we can’t have them running around
loose in our backyard, either. No
telling . . . ”
“The menhirs will watch them. Won’t they?”
“That depends on how pissed the old tree is. Maybe
he’s ready to let us go to hell in a bucket after
this.”
“You might find out.”
“I’ll go,” Goblin queaked. He wanted an excuse
to put a lot of yards between him and the tree.
“Don’t take all night,” I said. “Why
don’t the rest of you help Elmo and the
Lieutenant?”
That got rid of some folks, but not Silent.
There was no way I was going to get Silent out of sight of
Darling. He had some reservations still.
I chaffed Darling’s wrists and did other silly things when
time was the only cure. After some minutes I mumbled,
“Seventy-eight days.”
And the Lady, “Before long it will be too late.”
I lifted an eyebrow.
“He can’t be beaten without her. It won’t be
long before the hardest ride won’t get her there in
time.”
I do not know what Silent made of that exchange. I do know that
the Lady looked up at him and smiled thinly, with that look she
gets when she knows your thoughts. “We need the tree.”
And: “We didn’t get to finish our picnic.”
“Huh?”
She went away for a few minutes. When she returned she had the
blanket, dirtier than ever, and the bucket. She snagged my hand and
headed for the dark. “You watch for the traps,” she
told me. What the hell was this game?
There were dreams. Endless, horrible dreams. Someday, if I live
so long, if I survive what is yet to come, I may record them, for
they were the story of a god that is a tree, and of the thing his
roots bind . . .
No. I think not. One life of struggle and horror is enough to
report. And this one goes on.
The Lady stirred first. She reached over, pinched me. The pain
wakened my nerves. She gasped, in a voice so soft I barely heard
it, “Get up. Help me. We have to move your White
Rose.”
Made no sense.
“The null.”
I was shivering. I thought it was reaction to whatever struck me
down.
“The thing below is of this world. The tree is
not.”
Wasn’t me shivering. It was the ground. Ever so gently and
rapidly. And now I became aware of a sound. Something far away,
deep down.
I began to get the idea.
Fear is one hell of a motivator. I got my feet under me. Above,
the Tinkle of Old Father Tree beat maddeningly. There was panic in
his wind-chimes song.
The Lady rose too. We staggered toward Darling, supporting one
another. Each groggy step spiced more life into my sluggish blood.
I looked into Darling’s eyes. She was aware, yet paralyzed.
Her face was frozen halfway between fear and disbelief. We hoisted
her up, each slipping an arm around her. The Lady began counting
steps. I remember no other labor so damnably great. I do not recall
another time when I ran so much on will alone.
The shaking of the earth waxed rapidly into the shudder of
passing horsemen, then to a landslide’s uproar, then to an
earthquake. The ground around Father Tree began to writhe and
buckle. A gout of flame and dust blasted upward. The tree tinkled a
shriek. Blue lightning rioted in his hair. We pressed even harder
in our flight down and across the creek.
Something behind us began to scream.
Images in mind. That which was rising was in agony. Father Tree
subjected it to the torments of Hell. But it came on, determined to
be free.
I no longer looked back. My terror was too great. I did not want
to see what an ancient Dominator looked like.
We made it. Gods. Somehow the Lady and I got Darling
sufficiently far away for Father Tree to regain his full
otherworldly power.
The shriek rose rapidly in pitch and fury; I fell down grasping
my ears. And then it went away.
After a time the Lady said, “Croaker, go see if you can
help the others. It’s safe. The tree won.”
That quickly? Out of that much fury?
Getting my feet under me seemed an all-night job.
A blue nimbus still shimmered among Father Tree’s
branches. You could feel his aggravation from two hundred yards.
Its weight grew as I moved nearer.
The ground around the tree’s feet hardly seemed disturbed,
considering the violence of moments ago. It looked freshly plowed
and harrowed, was all. Some of my friends were partially buried,
but no one appeared injured. Everyone was moving at least a little.
Faces looked wholly stunned. Except Tracker’s. That ugly
character had not resumed his fake human form.
He was up early, placidly helping the others, dusting their
clothing with hearty, friendly slaps. You would not have known that
a short time before he had been a deadly enemy. Weird.
Nobody needed any help. Except the walking trees and menhirs.
The trees had been overturned. The
menhirs . . . Many of them were down, too. And
unable to right themselves.
That gave me a chill.
I got me another shudder when I neared the old tree.
Reaching out of the ground, fumbling at the bark of a root, was
a human hand and forearm, long, leathery, greenish, with nails
grown to claws then broken and bleeding upon Father Tree. It did
not belong to anyone from the Hole.
It twitched feebly, now. Blue sparks continued to crackle
above.
Something about that hand stirred the old beast within me. I
wanted to run away shrieking. Or seize an axe and mutilate it. I
took neither course, for I got the distinct feeling that Father
Tree was watching me and glowering more than a little, and maybe
blaming me personal-like for wakening the thing to which the hand
belonged.
“I’m going,” I said. “Know how you feel.
Got my own old monster to keep down.” And I backed away,
bowing some each three or four steps.
“What the hell was that?”
I whirled. One-Eye was staring at me. He had a
Croaker-is-up-to-another-of-his-crazies look.
“Just chatting with the tree.” I looked around.
People seemed to be finding their sea legs. Some of the less
flustered were starting to right the walking trees. For the fallen
menhirs, though, there seemed no hope. Those had gone to whatever
reward a sentient stone may expect. Later they would be discovered
righted, standing among the other dead menhirs near the creek
ford.
I returned to Darling and the Lady. Darling was slow to come
around, too groggy to communicate yet. The Lady asked,
“Everyone all right?”
“Except the guy in the ground. And he came close to making
himself well.” I described the hand.
She nodded. “That’s a mistake not likely to be made
again soon.”
Silent and several others had gathered around, so we could say
little that would not sound suspect. I did murmur, “What
now?” In the background I heard the Lieutenant and Elmo
hollering about getting some torches out to shed a little
light.
She shrugged.
“What about the Taken?”
“You want to go after them?”
“Hell, no! But we can’t have them running around
loose in our backyard, either. No
telling . . . ”
“The menhirs will watch them. Won’t they?”
“That depends on how pissed the old tree is. Maybe
he’s ready to let us go to hell in a bucket after
this.”
“You might find out.”
“I’ll go,” Goblin queaked. He wanted an excuse
to put a lot of yards between him and the tree.
“Don’t take all night,” I said. “Why
don’t the rest of you help Elmo and the
Lieutenant?”
That got rid of some folks, but not Silent.
There was no way I was going to get Silent out of sight of
Darling. He had some reservations still.
I chaffed Darling’s wrists and did other silly things when
time was the only cure. After some minutes I mumbled,
“Seventy-eight days.”
And the Lady, “Before long it will be too late.”
I lifted an eyebrow.
“He can’t be beaten without her. It won’t be
long before the hardest ride won’t get her there in
time.”
I do not know what Silent made of that exchange. I do know that
the Lady looked up at him and smiled thinly, with that look she
gets when she knows your thoughts. “We need the tree.”
And: “We didn’t get to finish our picnic.”
“Huh?”
She went away for a few minutes. When she returned she had the
blanket, dirtier than ever, and the bucket. She snagged my hand and
headed for the dark. “You watch for the traps,” she
told me. What the hell was this game?