Toby and the Secrets of the Tree

by Timothee de Fombelle

  The boss drew near. He had a handsome, disturbing face, and he stood tall. His firm lips didn’t concede the slightest smile and made you forget that this was a young man. He grabbed the guard’s gourd and looked at him questioningly.

  “It’s . . . water,” said the guard, standing up again.

  The boss chucked the liquid in his eyes. The man cried out in pain. It was strong alcohol. The boss kneed him in the stomach and he collapsed in a puddle that stank of alcohol and grub cheese.

  The other guards held their breath.

  The boss stepped lightly onto the footbridge.

  Elisha didn’t turn around when he entered the Egg.

  The young boss scanned the semi-darkness of the room.

  “I’m leaving,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

  He could now make out Elisha’s neck and one shoulder in the gloom. She didn’t answer.

  “I’m leaving, Elisha. If you like, you can come with me.”

  Elisha was thinking about the word leaving. Just the word was enough to make her want to throw herself into the young man’s arms. But she didn’t move.

  “I’m going far away, very low down,” he continued. “Toward the Low Branches and the Great Border.”

  Did the boss see the blood surging beneath Elisha’s skin? She had turned as pink as the Egg wall at sunset at the mention of the Low Branches.

  “All you have to do is say ‘yes’ once. And you can come with me.”

  Yes, she thought, Yes! Far away! Let’s go. That’s what I want. I want my Low Branches, my mother, my snowy mornings, my scorching hot pancakes, the water in my lake, my life!

  Elisha stopped herself from answering and closed her eyes. She knew what a “yes” meant for him.

  The young man’s arms were at his sides. Leather straps crossed behind his back, holding two sharp boomerangs in place, at waist level.

  There was still something childish about his hands. He looked about seventeen. He must have been a talented boy once, full of life. But year after year, he had directed all his intelligence toward his darker, dangerous side. He had chosen to play on the knife edge of madness.

  “No,” came Elisha’s answer at last. “No! Never!”

  So Leo Blue set off alone.

  Night came, and he left the Nest for the long journey toward the Low Branches.

  At the bottom of the Tree, before it comes into contact with the earth, the wood from the Trunk rises up to form high mountain ridges.

  Needle-like rocks, bottomless precipices . . . The surface of the bark is crumpled, like rippling curtain folds. Moss forests cling to the peaks, trapping snowflakes in winter. The valley passes are blocked by ivy creepers. It makes for a dangerous, nearly impassable terrain.

  Excavating the bark at the bottom of the canyons can turn up the remains of unlucky adventurers who risked their lives in these mountains. The wood digests them over time, leaving a compass, a pair of crampons, or a skull that’s a quarter of a millimeter across — all that is left of their heroic dreams.

  But in the middle of these inhospitable mountains is a small protected valley where a chalet would fit snugly, where you could spend Christmas under the bedcovers, listening to the fireplace snoring — a green valley that gathers rainwater in a small lake surrounded by soft bark.

  The only inhabitant of this region is a wood louse who comes every morning to graze on some of the greenery.

  There are plenty of havens like this in the Tree, which would be far better left to harmless wood lice.

  On this particular morning, a wood louse was leaning over to drink from the transparent lake when the surface of the water began to tremble.

  The wood louse heard shouting.

  What kind of animal lets out cries like that? The wood louse had never encountered anything like it.

  The predators were still a ways off by the sound of it, calling out across the hills. Some blew their horns; others clapped their hands and let out terrifying “Yaaah!” noises. The wood louse reared up on his hind legs.

  Just then, a figure appeared at the other end of the valley, striding toward the pond. From its silent movements and shortness of breath, the wood louse could tell this wasn’t a predator: this was the prey. Its panting was audible, but not the sound of its feet, which barely touched the bark.

  The bellowing of the horn resonated from across the valley. The animal on the run leaped to one side, but the sound rose up from another direction, and then another. . . . The shouting encircled the valley now. The poor prey slowed its pace, jumped into the pond, and stopped moving.

  It was wearing a pair of pants cut off at the knee. The rest of its body was covered in mud. A long peashooter, taller than itself, was strapped to its back. The wood louse couldn’t decide what family of insects it belonged to.

  The predators’ cries were even closer now. Without pausing to catch its breath, the fugitive waded farther into the pond. Its head disappeared underwater. There was a brief moment of calm.

  Suddenly, a dozen creatures of the same species as the prey rose up on all sides. The wood louse flattened himself against the bark and froze. The color of his shell made him look like a bump in the bark. But it was an unnecessary camouflage, since the hunters weren’t after him.

  “Where is he?”

  “No idea.”

  “He hasn’t left any tracks.”

  The predators were wearing hats made from the heads of bumblebees. The bedraggled state of their thick coats betrayed their long journey.

  “We can’t go any farther. We have to head back up before the snow comes.”

  A tall predator with a double-pointed harpoon stepped forward.

  “I’m staying. I’m not letting him get away. I know he’s here somewhere.”

  In his anger, the predator sent the harpoon crashing against the wood louse’s shell.

  The poor animal didn’t flinch. Another predator, which had crouched down to drink from the lake, said calmly, “You’ll do what you’re told, Tiger. And that’s the end of the matter.”

  It stood up, wiped its mouth, and pointed to a new group approaching them.

  “We’ve got nine, including two young ones. Joe Mitch will be satisfied.”

  The predators were pulling a sled mounted on runners made from feather shafts. A second sled followed. They were carrying crates with a hole on each side.

  “It’ll take us ten days to get to the Great Border. We can’t lose any time.”

  The predator with the harpoon, Tiger, went to retrieve its weapon from the wood louse’s shell.

  “We’ll be sorry,” the predator whispered. “He wasn’t like the others, that one. . . .”

  They all started walking. The sleds glided over the bark.

  The predators looked tired. One of them was limping. They kept their heads bowed to avoid looking at the great mountain ridges they still had to cross.

  The sad convoy was about to disappear on the other side of the valley. Already, they were far enough away for the rubbing sound of the feather runners to be barely audible.

  But from the last box, something could be seen coming out of the hole and gripping the wooden slats, trembling.

  It was a child’s hand.

  Several minutes went by. The wood louse stood up. The predators had gone.

  All he had felt was a burning sensation on his back, where the harpoon had jabbed him. Nothing’s more solidly built than a wood louse.

  He shuffled off, and the valley fell quiet again.

  A head finally rose out of the pond. The fugitive pulled his lips away from the peashooter, which had enabled him to breathe underwater. He scanned the landscape.

  Nobody.

  He stood up, his hair, face, and body dripping water.

  It was Toby Lolness.

  Toby. His body was stronger and more supple than ever, but there was a worried look in his eyes. Once again, Toby had taken on the life of the fugitive.

  He left the pond and rapidly slipped the pea
shooter away into the long quiver on his back.

  Toby had left the Grass people two months earlier. Moon Boy, his friend, had set out with him, along with an old guide named Jalam. Both had intended on accompanying Toby all the way to the foot of the Tree.

  In the beginning, Toby had refused to drag them into his adventure. But old Jalam had explained that this expedition would be his last, and that afterward he would retire to his ear of wheat to live out his old age. For this final voyage, he would be happy to accompany Toby.

  “What about you?” Toby had asked Moon Boy.

  “It’s my first voyage. I want to come with you, Little Tree.”

  Toby had allowed himself to be won over.

  Jalam didn’t approve of the young boy tagging along.

  “He’s a ten-year-old Strand of Linen. He’d be better off in his mother’s ear of wheat.”

  “I don’t have a mother,” Moon Boy had replied.

  Jalam felt embarrassed and hadn’t persisted. So all three of them had set out.

  Toby knew that his companions would also take the opportunity to search for the tracks of the friends who had gone missing most recently.

  Each year, dozens of Grass people disappeared because they ventured toward the Tree. Heedless of the danger, others tirelessly continued to set out. The Trunk provided them with material they couldn’t get in the Prairie: hard wood, wood that doesn’t burn in an instant like straw. But what attracted them most of all to the Tree was the mystery of the disappearances and the hope of finding their loved ones again.

  The three travelers had spent the first week walking in regions familiar to them. Toby had wanted to let old Jalam take the lead. But Jalam had refused.

  “I’ll bring up the rear. If I get left behind, I’ll be that much closer to taking my retirement. . . . So I can’t lose, either way.”

  What Jalam really wanted to do was to keep an eye on young Moon Boy. He still thought they shouldn’t have brought him along, and he let Moon Boy know this at every opportunity.

  Toby, on the other hand, impressed the old guide with his knowledge of the Prairie. His sense of direction was perfect, thanks to his study of the shadows cast by the stems. He could forecast wind and rain by listening to the music of the grass. He could always find something for dinner: he knew how to dive into marshy areas and reappear, his arms laden with damselfly eggs. Toby knew the sweet taste of grass juice and the spices of certain creepers. By pounding a cereal grain with water, he knew how to make small loaves to bake in the embers.

  Ever since they’d set off, Moon Boy had been silent.

  Jalam scolded him from time to time when he walked too fast.

  “Will you look at that Strand of Linen! It flies with the wind, but it has no idea whether it’s coming or going!”

  Moon Boy would slow his pace. Neither these reproaches nor Toby’s imminent departure was the cause of his dark mood. The Grass people only cry for the dead, never for those departing on a journey.

  “Leaving means living more,” Jalam would say, sounding nostalgic for those great expeditions.

  So? Why did Moon Boy have such a closed expression? Only Toby could guess the secret behind his silence.

  It was the fifth night. They were spending it in a leaf rolled into a tube, near a wild carrot arboretum. At the end of the meal every evening, Jalam took out a grass cylinder pinched at either end and, from this vial, poured three drops of purple liquid onto his tongue. Then he rolled up one end of his long clothing into a makeshift pillow and drifted off to sleep.

  The love song of a frog could be heard far off. Fireflies were crossing the night like lazy shooting stars.

  Toby and Moon Boy were trying to bring the fire back to life. They were turning the embers over.

  “I know what you saw,” said Toby.

  “I saw because I have eyes,” said Moon Boy in the riddle language of the Grass people.

  “Forget what you saw.”

  Moon Boy blew on the embers. A flame lit up their faces. Moon Boy was barely ten years old; Toby was older by five or six springs. Moon Boy passed his hand over the fire, as if he was spinning a top, calming the hay fire to make the flames last longer. A shadow fell over the two boys again.

  After a long silence, Moon Boy said, “You have to tell me what my sister Ilaya did.”

  “Forget about it,” said Toby. “It was nothing.”

  The day before their departure, Moon Boy had discovered Toby pinning Ilaya to the floor of his ear of wheat. She was resisting. Toby was holding her firmly by both wrists. Moon Boy rushed in. He was about to intervene when he stopped in his tracks.

  The young girl’s right hand was gripping the pointed end of an arrow.

  Recognizing her little brother, Ilaya had dropped the weapon and fled.

  “You have to tell me, Little Tree. You have to tell me what she wanted to do with that arrow.”

  Moon Boy was speaking bravely. His emotions rose to the surface with every word. “Something broken cuts deeper than something whole. Something broken can kill like a shard of ice,” he said. “I know there’s been something broken inside my sister for years now. If she’s dangerous, you have to tell me, Little Tree.”

  Moon Boy was convinced that Ilaya had tried to kill Toby. Just the idea of it pierced his heart. Ilaya and Toby were the two people he loved more than anyone else.

  But Moon Boy would have given anything to be mistaken. His eyes searched Toby’s.

  “Tell me the truth, Little Tree. Tell me that Ilaya wanted to kill you with that arrow.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “I have to know. I’m begging you.”

  Toby was silent. He stirred the fire, avoiding Moon Boy’s pain-filled gaze.

  But his companion wasn’t giving up. “Say it!”

  Far off, the frog in love stopped singing. Toby held his breath and let out, “Ilaya . . .”

  He stopped.

  “Say it!” whispered the young boy.

  Even the fire kept quiet to let him speak.

  “Ilaya wanted to die,” Toby explained. “Ilaya was trying to kill herself.”

  He looked down.

  There could be few words more dreadful. Few words that provoke such a strong desire to cry out. And yet Toby knew these words would bring great comfort to Moon Boy. His sister was no criminal; she was just sad.

  Desperately sad. Sad enough to die.

  Moon Boy lay down on his back and murmured, “Thank you, Little Tree.”

  Toby let out a long sigh. He lay back, next to his friend. They could hear the humming of the fire again. Toby looked up at the huge parasols of carrot flowers above them, adding more stars to the autumn sky.

  Toby had problems sleeping that night. Perhaps he already knew that one day, much later, Moon Boy would learn the cruel truth.

  But on this particular night, in order to console his friend, Toby had lied.

  The next day, they entered the Bramble Thicket of the Great West.

  Toby hadn’t been this close to the Tree since he’d left his former life.

  For a long time now, Jalam had refused to cross the Bramble Thicket at ground level. He had lost too many men on that route. The bramble bushes were infested with large predators, such as field mice and voles. Even if you’re an old and experienced guide, you’re better off not crossing paths with big game like a young shrew.

  The only sensible route was to take the high path. Jalam showed Toby the long spiky bramble stems that rose into the air, making figure eights, loops, and narrow suspension bridges. He looked at Moon Boy.

  “I find it hard to believe that a Strand of Linen could cross the Bramble Thicket of the Great West.”

  “I’m not a Strand of Linen. I’m called Moon Boy,” the youngest traveler reminded him sharply.

  Jalam didn’t push the point, and they went through the Bramble Thicket by the high path. It took them ten days.

  The coils of brambles formed impressive aerial walkways, but the journey was ofte
n less acrobatic than it looked. The thorns doubled as ladder rungs, and the velvety leaves prevented them from slipping.

  Jalam knew of a few refuges hidden inside hollow thorns. All three of them huddled into those tiny recesses suspended in thin air.

  The food didn’t vary much. A few abandoned spiders’ webs offered them the occasional crunchy dried midge. Sometimes there were even a few shriveled berries that had survived the end of summer. Not enough to make a summer pie, but it was something at least.

  They had made it without incident to what should have been their last night in the brambles before rejoining the Prairie.

  That evening at midnight, they were woken by a violent shaking.

  “Watch out!” shouted Jalam.

  Toby rolled on top of the old guide. Suddenly, they were hurled toward the roof of their shelter and crashing down together on top of Moon Boy. They felt like marbles inside a rattle.

  “I’m going to see what’s happening,” said Moon Boy, sticking his nose outside.

  “Noooo!” roared Jalam, an instant too late.

  The boy had already disappeared, thrown into the air by a whiplash effect.

  Toby and Jalam huddled in a corner of the thorn.

  “I told him,” whispered Jalam between clenched teeth.

  The tumult continued.

  “It’s a bird caught in the brush,” Jalam went on. “We might have to stay put for several days.”

  “What about Moon Boy?”

  The old guide didn’t answer right away.

  “Do you think he fell right down to ground level?” Toby asked.

  “If that’s the kind of fall he’s had, he’ll be a sorry sight. . . .” Jalam looked at Toby before continuing: “You won’t escape a field mouse or a snake for long when you’re only ten and the chances are you’ve got two broken legs.”

  Toby didn’t say anything. He knew that even at the age of ten, when you’re scraped and grazed and tested by life, you can escape the clutches of all kinds of things.

  Jalam and Toby stayed in their thorn for the rest of the night, the whole of the next day, and another night too. They tried talking to make the time pass more quickly and to forget about how hungry they were.