Walking the Tree (5 page)

  "I'm busy, Borag. I can't talk to you right now."

  "I want to watch you cook," the child said, leaning on the bench.

  The two built the soup. It smelled good and rich. Logan came down, sniffing. "This will cure a blind bird," he said, smiling. He kissed his sister. "Thank you, Lillah. You should get back to your testing."

  "I can always go next year," she said, but they both knew she wanted to go now, get away, begin.

  "A kiss for you, Borag? Our new cook?" Borag squealed and ran.

  "When will the soup be ready? They are arriving, and hungry," Logan said. "But wait… are you selected? Are you a teacher?"

  "They haven't told us yet. We are waiting for the young men's assessment. Do you think I will be?"

  "I think they laughed in your foolish face and told you to clean the seawalk for the rest of your life."

  Lillah hit him.

  "Of course you'll be chosen. How could they say no to you?"

  "I hope you're right. Has anyone collected plates?"

  "We have plenty stored from the last Leaffall. But fresh ones would be nice. You always find the largest leaves. Good, dark green ones."

  Chattering, excited laughter came to them as the villagers arrived. Lillah and Logan went outside to greet and seat them around the house on the veranda the villagers had all helped to build. There were five hundred people in Ombu, living in many houses. They brought bowls, pots, baskets of food. Someone brought tomatoes, small, red and juicy, and they ate them whole or threw them in the pot with fish and the greens that sprouted at the edge of the sand.

  The coconut bowls were passed and each person scooped their portion from the cooking pot. More pots came out, with ground vegetables, crushed berries, birds' eggs, and people ate their fill.

  Logan moved from one person to the next, thanking them, loving the attention.

  That evening, word of the teacher rankings went around. "You are all beautiful. Erica is the most beautiful, then Lillah. Agara is clever with memory and the water. Melia is good with movement. Thea is beautiful but too shy. She is strong and a good swimmer. We have chosen to believe that she did all she could to save the drowned children and that she did not let them die. We recommend all those as teachers. Others are not selected." One of the five girls not chosen began to cry but the others accepted the news. One of these, Ruta, a girl Lillah expected to be chosen, stood tall, congratulating the teachers, comforting the others.

  Agara's father spoke to Ruta. "Will you accept the position of trader?"

  Ruta nodded.

  Logan kissed Lillah. "You must go in and tell Magnolia and Dad."

  She walked inside and upstairs. "Dad?" she called through the door.

  "Come in," he said faintly. His voice sounded tired but not distraught. Lillah burst into the room. "I'm in! I'm in! They didn't even interview me they like me so much!"

  "Shh!" her father said, though kindly. "They're both asleep. I was just cleaning up. I'll come out now. Tell me everything."

  Lillah held her father's arm and told him all that had been said. Her father squeezed her tight. "I'm so proud of you. Not surprised, of course. But proud."

  With one more check of Magnolia and the baby, he walked outside with Lillah to join the others around the Tale-teller.

  "You must enjoy each moment of the Tree. Never be angry at it. It will not be with us forever." There was a murmur as this familiar tale began. Annan, their Tale-teller, had a smooth, enticing voice, lulling you to believe all he said. Lillah loved to listen to him, and tried to mimic his voice when she told stories.

  "In the very centre of the Tree there is a fire. A slow, slow fire, burning the Old Tree like the sand smoothes the rock. This fire started many hundreds of years ago, and it is why the Tree feels warm to the touch sometimes when you think it shouldn't. The Tree is being destroyed from the inside out. One morning all we'll hear is a creaking, a massive creaking, then a crashing so loud we won't be able to talk, to say goodbye, we'll just lie down and let the Trunk crush us." Red salt was passed around and sprinkled on root vegetables.

  Annan, the Tale-teller shivered. "No one knows how close the fire is, but we know it's burning. We can hear the crackle of it sometimes, can't we, if we press our ears up close to the Trunk." Lillah had done this many times as a child. Word would go out that you could hear the crackle and the children would run to listen.

  Dickson snorted. "I won't be lying down, I'll be running to the sea. If I swim past the shade cast by the Canopy, I won't be crushed."

  "You don't actually believe this story, do you?" his friend said. Dickson lost his cockiness. "No!" he said. "Of course not. I'm just saying what I would do if it did happen. I wouldn't lie down, that's all."

  "No one's going to lie down," the friend said.

  Dickson thumped his chest. "Not me. Imagine what it would be like to live without the Tree. There'd be sunlight for most of the day. And we'd be able to see across the land." They loved the Tree, adored it without question, but they also loved the sun, and the Tree so often took all the sun from them.

  "No one can see that far."

  Annan, annoyed at their chatter, said, "You try living without the Tree for a day, see how you go. No fire, no medicine, nothing. No shelter. No rain water storage. This Tree keeps us alive and you know it. Even hanging our sick dead from a Limb is, to me, dangerous. What if the illness leaches out into the Tree?" He pointed to the hanging Limb. On the Trunk, very high, Lillah could see symbols and words, the names of those who died in the great Spikes epidemic. "We lost so many to the Spikes epidemic and still the chance of it is with us."

  At the mention, Lillah instinctively felt her shoulder blades. No growth.

  The Tale-teller, Annan, said, "I charge you teachers with caring for your bodies and ensuring you catch child only when you choose to. In this way we preserve our place around the Tree."

  Erica said, "I can't understand why we're so scared of babies. We've hardly got any people."

  "We don't want lots of people. This is the perfect amount for our world to work, for us to stay alive." The Tale-teller shook his head. "You should know this by now."

  Thea said, "Imagine if there were too many of us. Everyone would fight for a place to live, and many would be closer to the Trunk than they'd like."

  Dickson stood like Annan, strong and confident. "Oh, Great Tree, grant me my every wish because I am your humble servant. I will do your bidding, oh Tree. Oh, Tree, tell me your wish." There were shocked chuckles around him. He leapt off the balcony and jumped up to grab a low-lying Limb. "Ah," he said, when he had climbed up and was settled on a branch. Then he lowered his pants and pissed against the Trunk.

  There was laughter and shocked gasps. Annan shook his head. "You are a man without worth."

  "Rude! You are so rude!" Lillah said. Dickson jumped down beside her with his pants still about his ankles.

  "And you wonder why men can't be teachers." She squeezed her eyes shut. "Dreadful thing. We don't want to see it. Put it away."

  "You'll be seeing a lot of this, soon, Lillah. Better get used to it." Dickson waved his penis at her and she spluttered into laughter.

  "I hope there will be none like you where I'm going. Though I'm not encouraged by the ones I hear about. You are all crazy. You should live inside the Tree, not under it." Lillah stood up. "I am going to check on my nephew," she said.

  Lillah found Magnolia sitting up in a chair near the window, breast feeding her baby, wincing.

"Does it hurt?"

  "A bit. It's getting better. I just have to be patient. The village would never forgive me if I didn't feed him this way. I want to be a good mother, not a bad one."

  "You're lucky it doesn't hurt too much, then." They sat together, watching the village eat, drink and dance.

  "This makes everyone very happy, doesn't it?" Lillah said.

  "This will be you one day," Magnolia told her. She stood up, still feeding. "I'm so tired."

  "I'll help you to bed."

  When the food was eaten and the debris cleared away, people began to walk around the house, talking as they went, crossing paths. They walked this way and that, whichever way they liked. The hum of voices rose to match the thrum of the ocean. Lillah walked with them, almost asleep on her feet. In this way they welcomed the baby, kept him safe in a circle.

 

Lillah tried to make the most of her time at home. She would miss her family so much and she wanted to be there to help. Two days before school would depart, Logan and Magnolia went out for a walk, although the wind was high and the monkeys on a screech. Magnolia said she would scream if she didn't get some sun. Lillah said, "Let me take the baby for a while. I won't see him forever. I want to get to know him."

  "He's a month old, Lillah. He doesn't really have anything to get to know."

  "That's what you think." Lillah spent the next hour carrying the baby around her childhood house, telling him everything.

  "Now, they don't know this but this hat was left behind by a school teacher and I never told anyone. Of course, I can't wear it because people would ask me where I got it from. I'm too embarrassed to say. I would have sent it with a messenger long ago, but I didn't so there you go. Now, this clear stone was found by my mother before she left.

  "This picture I painted after a glorious dream. Can you imagine living in the clouds like that?"

  Lillah closed her eyes and tried to memorise her home with her other senses. She knew how it looked: two rooms downstairs, two up. One bedroom she had shared with her brother until his marriage; now she slept there again, some nights, wanting to spend more time with her father before school left.

  Her father's bedroom, much smaller. His clothes were stacked in outboards, the cupboards built outside the walls of the house, wooden doors flat with the walls. The large bed almost filled the room. It was made of the same wood as the floor and Lillah imagined it had grown there, a complicated mesh of limbs twisting into the family bed. The baby slept in her arms and she didn't think she had ever seen anything so peaceful.

  Her old bedroom smelled damp. It was the room closest to the Tree, so it got no sunlight. It never really dried out. To the touch it was also damp. Not so her fingers would get wet, but if she was pressed hard against the wall, held there while being kissed, the damp would penetrate her shirt at the shoulder blades, her skirt at the buttocks. She used to keep her clothes folded under the bed.

  Her father's room caught more of the sun so it was brighter. The smell there was of him, an aged liquid long gone yellow. The smell was a combination of the leaves in the forest by the Tree, when they have lain on the forest floor and have almost turned to sludge, mixed with the perfume of the head-like flowers that grew in the next Order and could be dried and crushed for the scent. Her mother had loved this perfume more than she did the sea.

  Downstairs was the kitchen and storage room, kept cool with thick walls of wood, Bark, mud and sap. They kept their food here. Lillah's mother once had a complex system of rotation, where the new food was placed behind the old. To Lillah, this meant she never ate food absolutely fresh. It was always a day, a few days old. The fruit browned, the bread covered with mould. She swore that when she ran a house she would eat the freshest food first and throw old food onto the compost, for the roots of the Tree to enjoy. Still, she couldn't bring herself to completely ignore her mother's teaching.

  Then there was the gathering room, with its woven rug on the floor. The rug scratched you if you sat on it; its bark and leaf weave was so harsh it left marks on your buttocks and the backs of your thighs. You had to shift positions many times so the discomfort could be spread about.

  "Don't fidget," her mother had snapped at her when she was just three or so. Maybe four; at no age to be forced to sit still like that. Her mother was telling a story about school; the time she was a teacher. How she chose to stay in Ombu, what food she missed.

  And she liked full attention. Otherwise tears would come to her eyes and she'd say, "I'll go tell it to the Tree." Lillah had shrugged. That didn't sound like a bad thing. She often saw the grownups lined up whispering, whispering: secrets and confessions they could never speak aloud.

  The houses in Ombu were built to fit; no wasted space. Enough room above the head so they didn't feel like they were in a woodcave. They liked to feel the air above them.

  The kitchen was the best room in the house. Everybody made it a place to be happy in. Doors opening out to the sea, though Lillah's mother used to keep hers closed, to keep the salt air out of her food, she said. "You want to know the secret of my great success? No salt in my cooking. Salt kills other flavours. Without it the other flavours can grow and exaggerate themselves until you can

identify the taste individually."

  The kitchen smelled of bread and raw vegetables. It smelled of things growing. The bench felt smooth, worn to a satin from years of work. Lillah's father had sanded the wood when her mother caught child, picking up handfuls of sand and rubbing for hours of every day. People wondered aloud at his patience and dedication; in private they wondered at his obsession. Once the bench was finished, people brought him objects to work on: chairs, chopping boards, cradles. He sanded the cradle Logan and Lillah slept in,
rock
rock rock rock
. It was solid, stories carved into the feet and the sides. It took a long time to carve and sand, all those tiny crevices, but he did it, sitting patiently on the beach and humming in time to the waves.

  Lillah sat with the baby as he dozed. She closed her eyes, letting memory take her, letting it drift her and transport her.