Walking the Tree (19 page)

  Lillah had no desire to stay with these people, but a small part of her felt the guilt of her mother's sin of desertion. She walked, digging her heels into the sand and feeling the sharpness of the grains bite in, considering all she would be giving up to salve her conscience.

 

Lillah saw the lump on the ground and could not begin to understand what it was. She hadn't seen a damaged human before.

  She thought of placenta, first. A great mound of it, a whale mother huge and spent in the water, her placenta washed up, for surely only water could support a mother of that size.

  Then it shivered.

  Lillah stepped closer, though fear made her move slowly.

  It was blood. To see blood is to see injury, death, childbirth with its own inherent risks. Lillah knew it was a fluid better kept in the body.

  "Hello?" she said, woefully inadequate, but she could think of nothing else.

  Just a small whimpering breath; a release. It brought to mind the salty fish, the way its last breath had been so gentle yet so definite.

  The mound shifted as it breathed and Lillah saw it was her cousin with the missing toe.

  "Who did this?" she whispered. It was clearly not one person. This violence came from many.

  She ran to the Tree, touched her forehead to the Bark in apology, and tore a piece away. She caught the running sap in the torn Bark and carried it, two-handed, back to the boy. She dribbled some in

his mouth. But he wouldn't swallow.

  "Borag? Spider webs," she called. The girl ran to help. Zygo watched, tossing a stone up and down.

  "What happened to him? Did he make a joke and no one laughed?"

  "Zygo, help with the spiderwebs."

  He was dead, though. The blood no longer pulsed from his many wounds.

  Lillah ran to the Order, distraught, calling for punishment, but they talked her down. "He was flawed and he thought he could behave as if he wasn't," said one man.

  "You seem to be flawed yourself," Lillah said. She touched his belly. The skin there was raised, pink, furry. He usually kept it covered; she lifted his shirt to show it.

  "This is my family sign," he said, hunching away from her. "It isn't a flaw."

  Her aunt told Lillah, "In the next Order, Thallo, they would punish such a man.Your mother, Lillah. This is her fault. She brought a curse on the family. She didn't fit. She did the wrong thing."

  "I cannot believe this violence is not to be punished. If it had been a woman beaten like that? A teacher, or a mother, what then?"

  "Then, if she wasn't flawed, there would be great punishment. That is a very great sin." Lillah felt the Tree growing down on her, closing her in. People around her, too close. She pushed away gently, knowing the fuss would cause attention and she didn't want attention. She walked away, not knowing where to go.

  When she returned, someone said to her, "Don't be a moss-muncher about this. Don't tell stories that aren't true."

  Lillah saw her students crying and worried. The other teachers gathered around them, comforting, but she knew she had to lift herself. Pandana, her favourite teacher, had done this many times.

  It had made her mind up, though: there was no way she would consider staying in an Order such as this one. She felt no loyalty, no love. How could they allow a violent death, welcome it?

  The Tale-teller spoke about the death. The way he told it was twisted to justify the actions, which made Lillah realise all tales could be told to suit the teller.

  The teller, so tall Lillah reached only his elbow, stood on his toes to tell the Tree. Stretching up to a small carved hole, his arms stretched even higher, grasping a knot hole, a protruding bump, caressing these things as he whispered.

  Lillah stood close to him, desperate to hear his words. How would he tell such a thing? She knew how the Annan, Tale-teller in Ombu would tell it. He would tell the truth. He would find the culprit and tell the truth.

 

The teller here said, "Your own teacher told us something to strike fear. Hear all the facts before you judge. Your own teacher, who went to that boy's bed. She said he showed her a sharp knife. Said he would cut the toes from the men, women and children in the Order so he would no longer be different."

  "Is that true, Thea? He really said that to you? He said nothing like it to me," Lillah said.

  Thea nodded, her eyes wide.

  "She's lying," Melia said.

  "She always lies," Rham said.

  Thea turned and ran.

  "She does always lie, Lillah. She is your friend, but she is a liar," Gingko, Agara's replacement, said.

  "What would you know, Gingko? You don't know her well. You didn't grow up with her."

  "It doesn't take long to get to know someone like that."

 

They gathered up the boy's body and carried it to the Tree, where one of the stronger men climbed the Tree and threw down a vine tied to a branch. They dragged him up, tied him securely. They steadied him so he wouldn't swing; rhythmic movement like that could bring his ghost to life and they didn't want a vengeful ghost about.

  Below they gathered hard wood twigs, saved in a cave. The smoke would purify the body and the air around it.

  As the school prepared for departure (the children waiting up the beach, tired of this place, sickened by it) the aunt and the uncles surrounded Lillah.

  They pressed softened leaves into her hand.

  "Walk with one in your shoe, and your future home will be clear."

  "The leaves feel very soft."

  "We soak them in seaweed oil. It makes them last longer. You must wear it till it disintegrates, and you will know when it's time to stop. We must be the ones to choose, to control the Orders of the Tree. This is how the human race will survive. Women think first. Men act first, when it comes to teachers."

  They said nothing of the dead boy. When Lillah tried to talk of him, they hushed her. "Gone now, gone away," in sweet, comforting tones, touching their ears.

  Lillah held the leaves in her hand, choosing not to put them in her shoe. She did not believe anything these people said.

 

In her mapping, Lillah told the Tree:
My mother from
here and fine, fine cooks, though people die and no one
cares they think if they are flawed then death is a reward.

  
Here, the Tree grows coconuts. The leaves are soft, al
most pink and lie thick around the base. The Bark sheds
here like loose flakes of skin.

 

 

 

"I was so scared," Lillah told Phyto when he met them. He held her, listened to the story. "Seeing the violence done to this boy, and the way they didn't care. The way they looked at me when I cared."

  "Where does fear come from? It isn't a thing you feel unless you are in danger. And the first time you feel it, it would be milder, I think."

  "It started for me fearing Magnolia's dying in childbirth."

  They walked twenty-five days.

  Lillah felt for the first time that she had a purpose beyond school, beyond saving Morace, beyond sex. She knew why her mother had left Rhado: the people there were cruel and destructive. She wanted to walk quickly now, find her mother, sit down to talk about Rhado. How little it had changed, perhaps. And to thank Olea for not passing on that mood, that style. For protecting Lillah from the cruelty of mind.

They walked on.

Walked on.

  The rain hurt their scalps with its intensity, and shards of lightning flashed through the Tree. The children complained and cried and the teachers were no better. Phyto stayed positive, helped them settle each night, watched the food to make sure they had enough and that it was cooked well before the children were hungry.

  A messenger came up behind them. He was slower than usual in the rain, and they offered him food and a warm drink. He shook his head. He knew that he was not allowed to stop along the way to share meals with schools. He fed himself or he did not eat at all. Phyto talked to him about travelling, and the loneliness of it. "At least you can speak to all you meet," Phyto said.

  "No, I can't. I don't talk to those I meet as I travel. In the communities they talk to me only about my messages. Nothing else."

  "I wish I could go into Thallo with the school in a few days. I am tired of the deep loneliness I feel, waiting for them each time."

  The messenger nodded. "I understand."

 

The light was dulled by the rain and it seemed as if the world was blurred, dark.

  With her tired eyes, Lillah at first thought she was seeing a rock in the shape of a person. "Look at that," she said, pointing.

  "There's another one there," Morace said, and they saw more, human-shaped rocks posed on the sand. Zygo jumped up and down. "More! I see more!"

  When one of the rocks shifted, they screamed.

  "They're alive! They came to life!" screamed Rham. Melia walked towards the rocks, calling back, "Let me see what they are. Wait here."

  She neared one of the rocks and it rose and opened its arms to her. She hesitated, then allowed herself to be embraced.

  She ran back to the group panting. "It's okay, they're people. They're painted with clay."

  The rocks began to move towards them and the children screamed and hid behind the teachers. "Let's meet these people," Lillah said.

  The teachers struggled forward, the children hanging around their legs.

  The people walked stiffly, carefully. Their skin was smooth and pale with the clay and they looked young, not yet teacher age. As they stepped closer, though, Lillah could see wrinkles in the clay, and she wondered at their magic, that they made themselves look so young by plastering their faces.

  "Welcome to Thallo." A broad man, his clay darker than the others, held out his hand.

  Lillah took the arm extended and stepped into the embrace.

  The other men were naked and smooth. They had thick clay cases over their penises and they walked carefully in order not to crack them. They hung back, away from the women, as if frightened of being noticed.

  "We're very happy you are here," said one.

  Welcomefire was held; the plate exchanged for a pot of paint colours. Then food was given, and drink. The school felt welcomed and wanted. They were led to the seawalk, where the whole village walked.

  "I hope it's strong enough to hold us," Melia muttered.

  There was an older woman with clay paint on her face, so Lillah and Melia did not recognise her at first. She took their hands and squeezed, saying, "Ah, my girls. My girls. You are grown and teachers yourselves now. You are beautiful, even without clay face."

  Lillah said, "Your voice is familiar," and the woman laughed. She knelt on the seawalk and bent down to scoop salt water in her cupped palms. She washed her face clean of clay and looked up at them. It was Pandana, their favourite teacher. They had never forgotten her. She was a tall and beautiful woman who spoke in a loud, strong voice and whose laugh could be heard around corners.

  "Pandana!" they said together, and fell upon her with such force they almost pushed her into the water. Lillah felt a splinter probing her knee but she ignored it.

  "This is where you stopped?" Lillah said.

  Pandana said, "I liked these people." She showed them her home and pointed out her three children.

  "You have a beautiful necklace, Lillah. Who carved it? Perhaps you shouldn't wear it while you are here. They think here that having the sap touch your skin is dangerous. That it will take all your strength, and the strength of anyone close by. Perhaps you should keep it in your carryall."

  Lillah, not wanting to cause trouble, took off the necklace her father had entrusted to her and stowed it.

  Pandana walked with a limp. Lillah wondered how she'd been injured but didn't ask: there was too much else to talk about.

  "You know, there is word of your Uncle Legum here. They talk of a man at sea who went out alive and never came back. These people here say he has made friends with the sea monster. You should not confess he is related to you." She touched her ear.

  "I'm glad you are here to tell us all of these rules, Pandana," Lillah said.

  "I can see why you would have chosen here. The men are beautiful. It will be hard to choose one," Melia said. She stood high on her toes, stretching her legs out.

  "They are very good to look at. Good workers, too. Hard workers. All in this Order are. You should observe the women. Our skills here are remarkable."

  She took them to meet a woman who was dyeing cloth.

  The mother had three buckets of dye, changing the colour of pale cloth.

  "Where do the colours come from?" Melia asked.

  "The red is from Bark, but only the Bark where the sap has oozed and softened in the damp.

  "The green comes from the leaves, but only those which grow black-green higher up the Tree.

  "The brown comes from twigs, but only those gone dark with age."

  "Those are beautiful colours."

  "They're for the feast tomorrow night. We like to dress up. There'll be wonderful music, too. Oh, my Tree Lord, I love the music."

  There was no music in Ombu, apart from the sound of rain drops, the flow of water down the Tree, the rhythmic pounding of roots for paste.

  Lillah watched two identical children playing apart from the others. It took her a while to realise there were two; each time she looked up she thought it was one child, until she saw them together.

  Twins. A multiple birth. Their mother sat to the side, working clay into intricate boxes. She mixed ground, dried seaweed into the clay and Lillah thought, That's so clever! It will bind the clay and keep it stronger.