Shadow Tree (11 page)

Chapter 17: Great Tremors

Leif slowly climbed up the ladder that rose up the interior wall of the tree. His mind was deeply troubled. Most of all, he wanted to see Alfonso. He wanted to hug him tight and promise that nothing bad would ever happen to him again. But after reading the prophecies, he didn't know if he could promise anything at all. He vowed over and over to himself that his only goal was to make sure Alfonso lived. That was it.

After several minutes of climbing, Leif ran out of breath. It wasn't just the physical exertion or even his mild fear of heights – it was a general sense of doom. Sweat dripped from his chin and slowly soaked his hair. Finally, he reached a trap door, which he pushed open. Warm sunlight shone directly on Leif. It was near sunset and the sky was awash in soft, golden light.
How long had he been inside this tree? Hours, days, a week?
Leif basked in the light. After the unremitting gloominess of the Sea of Clouds and the dark of Straszydlo Forest, the warmth of the sun felt wonderful. Leif pulled himself up onto a small observation perched at the very top of the tree, which offered spectacular views of the surrounding landscape.

Unbroken forest stretched for miles and miles. In the far distance, he thought he glimpsed the Sea of Clouds, and in the other direction, Leif saw foothills rising to the jagged High Peaks of the Ural Mountains. A slight buzzing noise interrupted his thoughts and Leif turned in the direction of the distant Sea of Clouds. He saw something he must have missed initially. Now he eyed it closely and, hard as he tried, Leif found it difficult to grasp what exactly he was staring at. It was a curious circular object that hovered just above the trees, less than a mile away. The vessel, if you could call it that, had a huge oval balloon with a small wooden cabin on top. The cabin had two masts, each jutting off the roof at forty-five degree angles, and holding sails that hung down like floppy elephant ears. At the back of the balloon was a spinning propeller. The underside of the balloon had two large fins that appeared to function as rudders. To call it awkward-looking would be an understatement, but one thing was pretty clear – Leif was staring at a flying ship.

Leif stared at the ship for several minutes, trying to decide what to make of it. The skin of the balloon was a dark gray, and it did have an ominous air to it, but the aircraft did not appear to have any guns or weapons. The design was unique, something that likely was conceived as a test model, and which was never mass produced.

After some debate, Leif decided that he should signal the ship in the hopes that whoever was flying it might help him – at the very least – get out of this forest. He knew he was taking a risk, but given the situation, it seemed like a risk worth taking. He began to wave his arms frantically and shout as loudly as he could. A minute or so later, a dark cloud appeared on the horizon. The cloud came from the north. It appeared to be a storm, a bad one, and it was moving quickly. Still, for it to cover the northern horizon so rapidly was unusual. Leif turned to go back down. The cloud made him uneasy, and he felt a sudden rush to return to the library.

Before he could climb down, however, he heard a deafeningly-loud WHOOOSH. All at once, every tree around him began to whip ferociously back and forth. The observation deck vibrated and began to come apart. Far below, Leif could hear the land groaning as the ground became gelatinous and waves rippled across the earth. The clumsy airship was caught by the wind and it hurdled topsy-turvy towards Leif. For a moment, Leif thought the airship might actually collide with the observation deck, but several hundred yards before reaching him, the airship went down into the treetops, where it finally was snagged by a thick tangle of tree branches.

Leif dropped to his stomach and held onto the observation deck with all his might. Branches of all sizes tore off trees and whirled around; one of them slammed into Leif's forehead, and then everything went black.

Leif never knew how long it was that he lay unconscious. When he finally came to, however, he felt something sharp pressing against his throat. He blinked his eyes in a daze, and when his vision finally returned, he saw that someone was towering over him and holding the point of a sword to his neck.

“Were you the one shouting and waving your arms?” the person asked in a low, almost conversational voice. “What the devil were you up to?”

Leif concentrated and tried to focus his blurry eyesight, enough at least to make out this person's features. She was tall with dark hair that shone almost as if wet. Her face was angular, with a sharp nose and chin, but was still quite pretty. Her eyes were a pale blue and she stared at Leif with a fierce gaze.

“Who are you?” Leif asked.

“In case you hadn't noticed, I am the one with the sword,” said the woman. “So I'll be the one asking the questions.” She withdrew her sword, enough so that Leif could breathe more easily, and took a small step backwards. However, something about the way she moved gave Leif the impression she wasn't well. Her motions were jerky, as if perhaps she had suffered multiple sprains.

“Sorry,” said Leif. “It's just that... I'm stranded in these woods. In fact, I signaled you because I was hoping that you could give me a ride.”

The woman snorted. “My ship is in a pretty bad way,” she said. “I'm not sure it can fly and, even if it could, why should I help you?”

“Because I have to find my son,” said Leif, and despite himself, his voice trembled with emotion. “I could really use some help.”

The woman took another step back and let out a long, weary sigh. “What is your son's name?” asked the woman finally.

“Alfonso,” replied Leif.

The woman arched her eyebrow, as if she were surprised, and yet doubtful. “Alfonso,” she repeated slowly.

Leif nodded.

“I thought you looked familiar,” said the woman finally.

“Huh?” said Leif.

“Never mind,” replied the woman, and as she said this, she returned her sword to its scabbard and offered Leif a hand in order to help him to his feet.

“Who are you?” demanded Leif.

“It doesn't matter what my name is,” she replied crisply.

“I am...” began Leif.

“I know who you are,” said the woman.

Leif felt something wet on his hand and saw that he had blood on his palm. At first he assumed the blood was his, but then he realized it had come from the woman's hand.

“Are you all right?” asked Leif. “Are you injured?”

“I am fine,” replied the woman dryly. “I was in a bit of a fight and I have a few wounds that aren't fully healed yet. But I'm fine. And if you don't mind, let's get going before the tremors start again.”

“The tremors,” said Leif, almost to himself. The word hammered away at his brain –
tremors
– and suddenly there could be no doubt; that's what he'd just felt. Leif recalled the words of the prophecy:
If the Tree is planted, you will know, for the earth will shake with great tremors.

“I have to go,” said Leif nervously. The woman did not bother to respond because she was already on the move – scampering from tree branch to tree branch – moving with great agility despite her wounds, heading back toward her flying ship.

Chapter 18: Naomi

Resuza's younger sister, Naomi, was an unusually small girl for her age. She was almost ten years old, but she could easily be mistaken for a six-year old. Her bones were thin and delicate, her face long and slender, and when she moved in quick, darting movements, she resembled a greyhound. She was a thin girl, even in the best of times, but there was a wiry strength to her that was quite similar to her older sister. She projected a tense, keyed up manner, which was very much in evidence as she sat on her bed staring at the closed wooden door to her room.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Someone was hammering on the other side of the door. Ordinarily, no one ever knocked – instead, they simply entered at will – after all, Naomi was a slave, and slaves were not allowed to have any privacy. Not that there was much for her to enjoy in the privacy of her room. The enclosure resembled a jail cell. The walls and floor were made of solid oak; there were no windows; and the door was a massive slab of timber reinforced with iron crossbars and bolts. The door was unlocked, Naomi could leave at will, but there was nowhere to go. Escape was an absurd notion because Dargora was surrounded by nothing but hundreds of miles of desolate, windswept fields of snow and ice. Of course, it could have been worse. Naomi could have been one of the common slaves who worked in the caves, boiling blubber and feeding coal into ovens. Fortunately, however, Naomi was a skilled slave who was given certain luxuries – like bread, heat and private sleeping quarters.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

For a moment the door began to give under the force of the pounding, but it cracked open just slightly, because Naomi had effectively locked herself in her room. She had taken a small cast-iron frying pan – which she had stolen from the kitchen – and wedged it carefully between the door and a divot in the stone floor. It worked like a charm and the door remained fixed in place. Naomi took some satisfaction in this. She was very good at fixing things and this handiness – this ability to repair a stove or true a wheel – is what had earned her a spot in the ranks of the skilled slaves. Naomi's satisfaction, however, was short lived because her plan was very short-sighted. She had locked herself in her room to keep
him
out, which had worked, but what now?

BAM! BAM! BAM!

He
was Ure, a monstrous hulk of man. He was a
Goon-ya-radt
, a slave whose job it was to enforce the rules and, in so doing, to bully and terrify the others. Ure was excellent at his job. He could instill terror with a simple look. Ure's face was horribly damaged by frostbite – he had no nose and the skin around his eyes was purple and lumpy. Naomi knew that it was Ure who was on the other side of the door, pounding furiously; apparently, somehow he had learned that she had stolen the fish and, of course, the frying pan.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Naomi had only stolen the fish out of desperation. In the last few days she had been more hungry than she had ever been in her life. There had never been very much in the way of food in Dargora – even for the skilled slaves like Naomi – but now even that meager food was gone. Everyone now hoped to survive by ingesting the black ash from the Shadow Tree. So far, on pure instinct, Naomi had resisted taking any of the ash. The slaves who used the ash frightened her. Their eyes turned white, their hair and fingernails fell out, and they stopped speaking. Naomi was determined to avoid using the stuff for as long as she could.

Suddenly the door exploded open, the cast-iron pan skittered across the stone floor, and Ure stuck his grotesque head through the doorway. “Where did you get that pan?” barked Ure. “And it stinks of fish in here. You little thief! Why I ought to beat you for...”

“You'll do no such thing,” interrupted another voice, which was, cool, calm, and yet utterly firm. The man who spoke these words entered the room. He was a tall fellow, with a wide brim hat, a strong face, a lantern jaw, and two entirely white eyes. The man turned toward Ure and said with scorn, “You have displeased me very much.”

Ure bowed his head submissively, almost the way a stray dog might. “It will not happen again,” said Ure, voice trembling. “I shall kiss the girl's feet if it pleases you – Lord Kiril.”

Kiril backed Ure into a corner and grabbed him roughly around the neck with his hands. Ure could have tried to swipe his hand away, he could have screamed; but he didn't. Somehow, deep down, he understood that there was no escaping Kiril. And so Ure stood perfectly still as Kiril, ever so slowly, clasped his left hand around his throat. His grip was firm, so firm that Ure could just barely breathe, but what Ure felt more than anything else was the sharp points of Kiril's long fingernails scraping his skin.

“Your fingernails,” wheezed Ure.

“Yes,” said Kiril. “You must forgive me. You see, my health is unusually good as of late, and so my fingernails, which would usually be rather brittle, are as resilient and sharp as razor blades. I have found that they can cut most anything. Why just this morning I was cutting steak with them. Wonderful isn't it? I no longer dine with a knife.”

“Please,” gasped Ure.

“Now listen up, you hideous wretch,” said Kiril, “If you ever touch this girl, or so much as look at her again, I shall see to it that you are skinned alive and fed to the Fog Wolves. Do you understand?”

Ure nodded and then scampered out of the room like a frightened dog. As soon as he was gone, Naomi walked over to Kiril and knelt at his feet.

“Thank you,” she said. “Although I was ready to dispatch him.” She slyly withdrew a dagger she had hidden up her sleeve.

“I expected as much,” said Kiril proudly.

“You were gone for a long time,” said Naomi. “Why?”

“I did not intend that,” said Kiril. Kiril looked down at her small, slender face and felt a surge of compassion. It was almost the same feeling that he had the very first time that he met her. He had come to know Naomi through her sister, Resuza. It was a peculiar arrangement. Kiril had met Resuza by chance. He was staying at a Dragoonya outpost, just outside of Barshyin-Binder, when he discovered Resuza – then, a filthy, wild-eyed slave girl. He caught her hiding some stolen potatoes in a secret stockpile of food that she kept in the hollowed-out root of a tree. The stockpile was filled with all manner of things – radishes, flour, sugar, knives, boots, a map, and a pocket watch. Resuza was terrified when Kiril discovered her. And rightly so. She was, no doubt, convinced that Kiril would beat her, or at least yell at her, but instead Kiril simply clucked his tongue and said, “I could use a clever girl like you.” From that moment on, Resuza worked directly for Kiril, mainly spying for him – eavesdropping on conversations – reporting which Dragoonya officers were lazy, greedy, or disloyal. “I'll do whatever you ask of me,” Resuza had told him, “So long as you try to find my sister and help her.”

“Where is she?” Kiril had inquired.

“She is a slave,” explained Resuza, “And I believe she is in Dargora.”

“What is her name?”

“Naomi,” explained Resuza. “And she looks just like me.”

“I will do what I can,” said Kiril.

And he had honored his promise. Kiril found Naomi working in one of the underground slave barracks in Dargora. She was frail and malnourished, but alive, thanks in large part to a toothless old woman who had cared for and watched over her with the fierce devotion of a grandmother. The old woman was half-mad – she called Naomi her “pet” – and she screamed hysterically when Kiril took Naomi away. Kiril fed Naomi bread with butter and bowl after bowl of hot milk with cardamom. She never gained much weight, but she quickly gained strength. Kiril found her curious and intelligent, and taught her the basics of self-defense. She was a natural, and so he taught her more. In time, he began to think of her as his apprentice. People were loyal to Kiril because they knew he was fair and just, as long as they served his interests. And Naomi did exactly that. She was his eyes and ears in the slave milieu of Dargora. More than a few times she had provided him with intelligence that proved extremely useful.

“I am glad you are in good health,” said Kiril. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” replied Naomi curtly. “But you were gone for a long time”

Kiril stared at her. Clearly, the girl had not been treated well. But the
fact that she still stood before him was a testament to her strength and keen
survival skills.

“I see that you have not taken the ash,” said Kiril.

“No.”

“Good,” he replied. “You mustn't. I will give you all the food you need. All will be well. No harm will come to you. I promise.” Kiril smiled as he said this, though all the while, he couldn't help recalling his vision, the one in which an arm – with the bloody crescent-shaped wound – reached out and tried to shove Naomi into an abyss.

“The thing is,” continued Kiril, “Right now, I need your help.”

“I'll do it,” said Naomi. “What is it?”

“I am looking for your sister, Resuza, I need to find her,” said Kiril.

“Why?” asked Naomi with a frown.

“She betrayed me,” said Kiril. “But I am willing to forgive her so long as she gives me something that I want. The problem is she could be anywhere.”

“What is it that you want?” asked Naomi.

“It is something that she has taken,” said Kiril. “I believe she has a Pen, a very powerful Pen, and I must have it.”

“Why?” asked Naomi.

“Because,” said Kiril. “It could cause troubles for me – for
us
.”

“I don't want to see her,” said Naomi angrily, “You're not going to bring her here are you? I hate her. I don't want to see her – not now – not ever. Please don't bring her up here. Leave her down in the barracks forever. That's where she belongs.”

“Down in the barracks,” said Kiril with a start. He seemed shaken. “What are you talking about?” “You didn't know?”

“Know what?” demanded Kiril.

“I thought you must know – you know everything,” said Naomi nervously. “Resuza is here in Dargora, working as slave, in one of the caves where they boil the blubber.”

“Are you sure?” asked Kiril.

”Yes, positive,” said Naomi. “I saw her a few months ago, on one of the parade days, when all the slaves were marched out.”

“Did she see you?” asked Kiril.

“No, she didn't.”

“I don't believe it,” said Kiril, almost to himself. “What a stroke of luck.”

Naomi smiled for the first time. It lifted her spirits to make Kiril happy, even if briefly.

“You must help me, my dear,” said Kiril finally.

Naomi nodded.

“And you can start,” said Kiril, “By writing a note.”