The Skrayling Tree (13 page)

The wind grew steadily fresher and more invigorating. For a while it was almost playful. There was a sharpness to the air
which brought clearer details and keener scents. Beavers worked in the creeks. Prairie dogs were hunted by huge, cruising
eagles. We startled a kangaroo rat in a swathe of wild roses whose petals sailed through the twilight as he leaped to avoid
us. Families of badgers came squinting into the last of the sun. The occasional possum would play dead when we scared him
inspecting our camp at night. Most of the animals were not unusually nervous of us. They had no reason to be. Ayanawatta,
lacking a human listener, was perfectly happy to address an audience of thoughtful toads.

More than once we saw herds of bison grazing their way south, but they were not food for us. We had no time to preserve the
meat or cure the hide. Buffalo tastes delicious when one has eaten little else, but the tough, gamey meat is not to everyone’s
favor. Neither were we tempted by the coats of the splendid bulls who guarded their cows and calves. We shared a notion that
to kill a
buffalo only for its hide was offensive. My companions had been trained as children to kill swiftly and without cruelty and
practiced all the disciplines of a halal slaughterman. They could not imagine a civilized human being behaving in any other
manner. There are few willing vegans on the prairie.

I fell in love with the great, placid bison. I found myself drawn to them. I would leave my weapons behind and stroll among
them, touching them and talking to them. They were not in any way afraid of me, though sometimes they seemed a little irritated.
I learned not to put my hands on the young. There was a wonderful sense of security at the center of the herd. Increasingly
I understood the deep pleasures of herd life. Our strength was in the herd, in the alertness of the males, in the wisdom of
the cows. And we were eternal.

Eventually our ways parted. The huge mass of buffalo—a great, restless sea of black, brown and white—made its way towards
the blue horizon. From a hill, I watched it moving slowly across the prairie under the rising sun. Briefly I had an urge to
follow it. Then I ran to rejoin my companions.

The mountains, which had seemed so easily reached, were separated from us by scrub, woodland, rivers and swamps, but even
these were more easily negotiated than before. Where there was water and shelter, we saw stands of old trees, the remains
of a great forest. The ground became firmer as the air grew colder. For her age Bes the mammoth had extraordinary stamina.
White Crow said she had not long since walked for five days and nights, pausing only three times to drink.

While White Crow shared my enjoyment of solitude, of listening to the subtle music of the prairie, Ayanawatta remained as
talkative as ever. I must admit my own mind was rather narrowly focused.

The wind returned forcefully and erratically. This world had increasing inconsistencies. Klosterheim had become a dwarf. The
medicine shield was now small enough to fit on the palm of a hand. Size in this realm was alarmingly unstable. Was this the
work of Chaos? Was this changing but persistent wind actually sentient? Dread rose inside me and threatened to consume me.
It was some time before I could regain complete control of myself.

Ayanawatta drew his robe around him. “The weather grows chillier with the passing of the hours. This wind never ceases.” We
wrapped ourselves in the great folds of his wigwam hides and at night built a larger fire. The canoe now acted as a canopy
over the saddle, held there by four staves, and protected us against rain. At night two of us could sleep under it and give
the other the benefit of the fire.

I remained mystified by the size of the medicine shield and where it had been found. White Crow now wore it around his neck
on a beautiful beaded thong. He said nothing else about his father. Etiquette did not allow me to ask. I could only hope coming
events would illuminate me.

I was bound to discover more. This careful living of the details of a dreamed future or a granted vision was characteristic
of Ayanawatta’s people. I understood loyalty to a visionary destiny. I understood the grueling discipline of
his chosen way. Every step was a figure in a formal dance. A masque which must be performed perfectly. By dancing the exact
step, the achieved ambition was reached. It was not quite creativity. It was an act of reproduction or interpretation, a strengthening.
Following this discipline took the most extraordinary qualities of character. Virtues which I did not possess. Crude folk
renderings of this discipline had been discussed during my training in Marrakech, where we had also looked at the Egyptian
and Mayan Books of the Dead.

That strict path had no appeal for me. The musram teaches that time is a field and that space could be a property of time,
one of many dimensions. By subtle repetition we weave our common threads and give longevity to our particular story. I suppose
it was my training to find new patterns. In this sense we represented a balance of the opposite forces of Law and Chaos. Certainly
the animism and cosmology of White Crow and Ayanawatta were far more in harmony with the eternal realities than Klosterheim’s
grim disciplines. If their Law was modified by my Chaos, equally my Chaos was modified and strengthened by their Law.

Klosterheim, in rejecting Chaos completely, rejected any prospect of ever achieving his own particular dream of reconciliation
and harmony. In some ways I found the ex-priest a more interesting and complex figure than our defeated enemy Gaynor. Ulric’s
cousin had been that rare thing, an adept entirely without loyalty to anything but himself. Such creatures achieved their
power through means which by definition denied them the harmony of the Balance. Gaynor, or those avatars who played his role
throughout the multiverse, tended to come to a sticky end not because they were overwhelmed by the forces of virtue, but because
their own flawed characters ultimately betrayed them. Had he, as Klosterheim suggested, drawn all his scattered bodies back
into a single self?

I had been unprepared for this adventure. It was occasionally difficult to believe that it was happening at all. At any moment
I might take control of my own dream and return to normality.

I found myself missing the advice of my old mentor, Prince Lobkowitz. A tower of strength, a fixed point in my emotional ocean,
he understood more of the structure of the multiverse than anyone. He had helped me harness a little of the genetic talent
which enabled me to roam the moonbeam roads at will.

Some called the myriad worlds of the multiverse the Shadow Realm or the Dream Worlds. Some understood them to be real. Others
believed them an illusion, a symbol, a mere version of something too intense for our ordinary senses. Many believed them to
be a little of both. Some suggested we were the vermin of the multiverse, living in the cracks and crannies of divine reality
and mistaking a crumb of cheese for a banquet. Many cosmologies recognized only a small group of realms. Whatever the ultimate
truth, some of us were able to wander between such worlds more or less at will, as I did, while others endured extraordinary
training to be able to take a simple step between one version of their reality and another. The interconnection of human dreams
formed its own nexus of reality, its own realm, where travelers wandered or searched for some specific
goal. It was in this vast realm of realms, worlds of the soul’s dread and the heart’s desire, that the dreamthieves earned
their dangerous living.

Each slight variance of one realm from another is marked by a change in scale so great that one is undetectable to another.
For those of us who walk the moonbeam ways every step takes us through a further scale. Or perhaps we travel beyond scale,
as over a rippling pond? Many say this could mean that the matter of our beings is forever forming and re-forming. Instantly
re-created by an act of will? Dreaming dust? That said, the reality is almost impossible to describe in mere words. Some achieve
their travel through what they call sorcery, others through dreams or some form of creativity. Whatever it is called, it involves
a monstrous act of will.

One learns temperance with one’s travels. One also learns to live and invite experience. Each twist of a moonbeam branch on
the great, eternal tree takes one to fresh knowledge and self-revelation. It is a fascinating and endless life. However, for
the likes of myself, who will not steal others’ dreams as my mother did, it can become unsatisfying. What Ulric had given
me back was a moral focus and a sense of purpose. I had learned to tackle the problems of one small sphere rather than engage
in the great, eternal conflict between Chaos and Law.

I no longer felt a particular longing for the moonbeam roads. Sometimes I did yearn for the silver-and-scarlet light warping
and sliding in the air around my cottage, that particular music which came when certain spheres intersected and produced their
glorious
harmonies. But chiefly I hoped my old life, with my husband and my children, would soon be restored.

The days grew shorter and still colder, but they brought some sort of promise. We must soon enter Kakatanawa lands. There,
I knew, I would find Ulric. But how would I rescue him or bargain for his release?

The first sign that again we were being followed came during a flurry of sleet, when sheets of grey misery stretched across
the plains and hid even the foothills. The curtain parted for a few seconds and revealed a hillock covered in spiky prairie
grass and clover, glinting in the thin light. It was just behind us and to our right. Looking over my shoulder at it as we
rode along, I thought I saw a figure standing there, its grey robes rising in the wind, its grey face the very personification
of winter death.

Klosterheim!

The man was relentless.

Had he returned to his normal size? I had not seen him long enough to be able to tell. I continued to peer back over my shoulder
as Bes strode stoically on through the icy rain but did not see Klosterheim again.

No doubt he had his pygmies with him and his ally, the Two Tongues. I warned the others of what I had seen. We agreed it would
be wise to mount a guard again when we camped.

We rested Bes regularly. White Crow said normally she would have been put to pasture years before. Then he had talked about
this dream, this destined scenario, with her. She had wanted to go, he said. “She believes this journey is good for her and
prepares her for the afterlife.”

We were lucky. That evening the rain disappeared and left us with a watery sunset brightening a stand of heavy, old oaks.
Of the groves we had passed, these were the thickest and most ancient we had seen. The boles and branches were so dense they
offered excellent cover. The smell of the ancient glade was intoxicating!

“Good,” said Ayanawatta, striding around in what was virtually a cave of woven branches into which a single shaft of sunlight
fell upon a slender sapling at the center. “This is the place to make our medicine. It is a world within the world, with a
roof and four corners and the tree at the center. It will amplify our medicine and make it work as it has to do.”

Although he talked more around the subject, he added no further information. We built a small fire in our pot, as you might
in someone’s home. It felt somehow wrong to disturb the floor of this ancient grove. Many branches were thicker than most
trunks. They could be thousands of years old. Perhaps an earlier culture had left a few stands of uncleared woodland? Maybe
some natural disaster had destroyed all but a patch or two of these timeless trees?

Ayanawatta burned a little of our food as an offering to the grove for its security. There is a special consciousness which
trees have. They respond well to respect. I had the distinct sense that night that I slept in a holy retreat, in a temple.

Strangely for me I dreamed. The tree under which I slept became my multiverse in which I wandered. I dreamed of relatives.
I dreamed of the world where my name was Ilian of Garathorm. She was a powerful warrior, an avatar of the Eternal Champion,
a soul-cousin to my
father. Her world was nothing but ancient trees. To the northwest were the great redwoods, to the northeast the giant oaks
and birches. In the south were mangroves and more exotic trees. All were united in one vast world of tangled roots and branches.
The entire planet was an organic nest of growing flora, with massive, fleshy blossoms. Magnolias and rhododendrons, vast chrysanthemums
and roses bloomed to make a world in which Ilian coexisted with all manner of huge insects and birds. She rode the branches
of her world as I strode the moonbeams of mine.

In my dream Ilian was troubled. She saw the end of her world. The death of everything. The withering of her home tree and
therefore her own end. She called to her ancestors and the spirits of her world. She summoned them together to aid her in
her final fight. She spoke to creatures she knew as silverskins, and as she woke she recalled the story of Piel d’Argent,
of Le Courbousier Blanc, the silver man, the Prince of Faery, whom the Kakatanawa called White Crow.

Upon waking, my dream fled away from me. I held what I could of it, for there was now a nagging idea somewhere in the back
of my mind, something which linked White Crow to someone or something else, some faint memory, perhaps of childhood. I became
increasingly certain that we were related.

I looked at the sleeping face of the albino youth. He was completely at rest, yet I knew he could come alert in seconds. I
hardly liked to breathe for fear he would mistake any sound I made for an alarm. What had I been dreaming which concerned
him? What were these tiny patches of memory he had left me with? I moved a little
closer to the fire. My steaming breath was pale on the air. I drew my buffalo robe closer around me and was soon warm.

At last I slept again. In the morning I saw that it had snowed. The thickness of the oaks had protected us. We now inhabited
a many-chambered palace of icy greens and golds. We looked out over a prairie purified by the first snowfall of winter. Sitting
near our merry little fire and contemplating that immensity of snow, White Crow pulled rather cheerfully on his pipe and,
as soon as he knew we were awake, took up a small drum and began to sing a song.