The Diamond Tree
By Michael Matson
Copyright 2010 by Michael Matson and Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Copyright 2010 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The Diamond Tree
by Michael Matson
Part One
Once upon a time in a far-away kingdom whose name contained all the letters of the alphabet and was impossible to pronounce, and where it was the tradition that every royal prince and princess be named alphabetically, there lived a king named Zym who had four sons, Prince Ardros, Prince Bendle, Prince Charn and Prince Dall.
Four healthy, inquisitive sons are generally handful enough for anyone, even kings. And more than once during the princes’ younger years King Zym locked himself away in his armory and fervently wished that Ardros, Bendle, Charn and Dall would grow up a bit more quietly. And, if possible, overnight.
Growing up, however, will not be rushed. Each of the four princes passed from spoiled toddler-hood to promising manhood in the usual number of years. And each in his time on reaching that stage of uncertain maturity, eager to prove his knightly skills, ventured forth fortified from helm to heel, to seek adventure and to win honor.
Each in his own time was successful.
Prince Ardros slew a fearsome, two-headed dragon, which lived above the mists of the Gargoline Mountains. He galloped home bearing the enormous emerald, as big as a tiger’s head, that the dragon had held clutched for one thousand years in the claws of one of its many scaly arms.
Prince Brendle defeated an awesome giant who for centuries had terrorized travelers in the shadowy forests of Thrup. He trotted home with the giant’s golden armor, a suit so huge three oxen were needed to carry it.
Prince Charn outwitted and killed an evil wizard who had assumed the shape of a flaming serpent, which demanded tribute from the aged King Klydde and his elderly daughter, the Princess Kendle. He cantered home with a chest overflowing with jewels and gold coins, the gifts of a grateful royalty.
Naturally, Prince Dall, the youngest (and some said the most spoiled of the four) was as eager to prove himself as his older brothers had been. On his eighteenth birthday, he too rode forth dressed in glittering panoply in search of adventure.
Alas.
He was back in less than a fortnight as thoroughly angry as anyone had ever seen him. He stabled his stallion in a furious sulk and clanked in a terrible temper to the castle banquet room where his brothers lay sprawled loosely about drinking wine from silver goblets and bragging to one another about their adventures.
“You,” he shrieked, “have ruined everything! You have slain the only dragon, defeated the only giant, outwitted and killed the only evil wizard in the shape of a flaming serpent and rescued the only princess in distress anywhere in all the surrounding kingdoms. There is nothing left to do and it’s all your fault.”
With that he aimed a wild kick at the awesome giant’s golden armor and stormed out of the castle in a pout.
For a week, Prince Dall wandered about the adjacent countryside sleeping in haystacks and generally making a nuisance of himself with the peasants.
On the eighth day, however, as he was kicking an apple across a meadow, pretending it was his brother Ardros, he came upon a wrinkled old woman resting under an oak tree. Beside her was an enormous, many-patched bag overflowing with wool, which she was carding and winding onto a spindle as she rested.
Prince Dall stopped kicking his apple and glared at her, but the old woman continued to work without looking up. Prince Dall threw his apple into the air, drew his sword and sliced it into eight perfect pieces before it struck the ground. The old woman gave no sign that she even knew he was there.
Prince Dall advanced menacingly, thrust his sword into the ground inches from the old woman’s feet and growled. The old woman ignored him.
Not knowing what else to do, Prince Dall sat down. And, as he did, his frustration left him. He no longer felt angry, simply disappointed.
The old woman finished her task and put her tools away in the enormous, many-patched bag. At last she looked up.
“Why are you so upset?” she asked.
“Because,” said Prince Dall, gloomily, “there is nothing left to do.”
“I have not always found it so,” sighed the woman. “But perhaps it is true. Please explain.”
So Prince Dall explained how his brothers had slain the only dragon, defeated the only giant, outwitted and killed the only evil wizard in the shape of a flaming serpent and rescued the only princess in distress in all the surrounding kingdoms. And how, now that it was his turn to have adventures, there were no adventures to have.
“I see,” said the old woman. She closed her eyes, folded her hands on her lap and, for a very long time, she said nothing. She was so silent for so long Prince Dall thought she might have fallen asleep. He was just about to poke her to find out when she opened her eyes again and spoke. “It is true,” she said, “that all the dragons, the giants, the evil wizards in the shape of flaming serpents and the princesses in distress have been used up. If these are the sort of adventures you seek, you are out of luck.”
“I already knew that,” said Prince Dall petulantly.
“But,” said the old woman, “if you seek adventure of a different sort, there is the Diamond Tree.”
“An adventure is an adventure,” shrugged the prince. “Tell me, are there ogres or spells involved?”
“There may be,” said the old woman. “I can’t swear to it since all I know is the story, and that was told to me so long ago I can’t remember who told it or even if it is true. If you would like to hear it, I would be glad to repeat it and you can decide for yourself.”
“Fair enough,” agreed the prince.
The old woman scratched her chin thoughtfully and began. “If I remember correctly,” she said, “the story goes something like this. Across many mountains and several seas there is a land in which lives an evil monarch whose name is Y’ruf, Prince of Rage. This angry prince lives in a dark and somber castle which has no windows and is surrounded by a murky moat. He is attended day and night by dozens of knights in black armor and guarded night and day by a strange and horrible creature named Slither, which some say resembles a kraken and some say doesn’t at all.
“The Prince of Rage hates daylight. Therefore no sunshine is permitted to enter any of the castle rooms or courtyards except one. In that courtyard grows a tree, lovely and slim, with a straight, white trunk and deep, emerald green leaves. It is said that the tree mysteriously weeps, and its tears turn to perfect diamonds.
“The evil prince never enters the courtyard. Nor is anyone else permitted to enter except an old man who never strays far from the tree’s side. It is he who protects it from blight, feeds it and, although his real voice has been taken away from him and he can make nothing but meaningless sounds, even talks to the tree in a way it seems to understand.
“Each day, the old man gathers the diamonds as they form and places them in wicker baskets, which the black knights carry off into the castle. Whoever told me this tale said that every room of the ca
stle is filled with baskets of diamonds that glow with such a warm and unnatural light that everything is illuminated and heated, even in winter, without need of lamps or candles or fires.
“Countless princes from distant lands have tried to outwit the Prince of Rage and claim his diamonds. All have failed. In the end, the evil prince either feeds them to Slither or drops them down a hole in the castle floor into never-ending darkness. It depends on his mood at the moment.”
Prince Dall turned just the smallest bit pale and bit his lip. He was, after all, a rather young prince.
“And where,” he asked quickly to get his mind off Slither, “may one find this evil prince?”
“I only know this,” said the old woman, climbing slowly to her feet and with some effort, slinging her many-patched bag of wool across her back, “when you have crossed the many mountains and several seas, one day you will come to an island of fire. In the center of the island a red man hangs upside down. If you follow the direction his left hand points, you will find the Prince of Rage.”
“A red man upside down on an island of fire!” cried Prince Dall. “What sort of riddle is that?”
“Ah,” said the old woman. She raised one gnarled and bony finger. “I knew I was leaving something out. It happens when you get to be my age. Riddles. The Prince of Rage loves riddles.”
“Is that all?” asked Prince Dall.
“I think so,” said the old woman. “At least I hope so.” And she turned and trudged away.
Prince Dall sat watching her painfully slow progress across the meadow. It is an interesting story, he thought to himself. But how true is it?
On the other hand, he thought, what difference does it make? There is really nothing to do here. Just going to find out if the story is true or false is an adventure of sorts.
At that moment, Prince Dall’s eye was caught by something glittering in the grass beside him. He reached down and picked it up. In his hand he held a large diamond, strangely warm to the touch, whose perfectly cut facets sent flashes of brilliant light in all directions.
“Perhaps the story is true, after all,” he said aloud.
He turned to call after the old woman but she was nowhere to be seen. Where he had last marked her progress lay a large rounded rock that looked a great deal like an enormous, many-patched bag. Beyond that, the flat fields and empty meadows stretched way as far as the eye could see.
Part Two
When you are the youngest of four princes and eager for adventure, “many mountains and several seas,” sounds like something you might be able to knock off easily between crocus and cornhusk.
In fact, it is usually more complicated than that. In the first place, not knowing in which direction to begin invariably causes some delay. Secondly, there are always obstacles, imps and ill winds, for example, which tend to make the going a bit sticky and further slow things down.
The trip that at the onset Prince Dall supposed would take him no more than a few months rolled on and on. Past one year it went. Past two. Past three. Until as last one night near the end of his fourth year of wandering, Prince Dall stood against the battered rail of his seventh ship and beheld a dull red glow on the horizon that he hoped could be the island of fire.
The young prince who leaned against the railing near the end of his journey was somewhat changed from the one who had started his quest four years earlier. He was taller by an inch, broader and stronger, toughened by his years of travel. There was a firmness in the set of his jaw and in his stance and in the way he held his sword that had not been there before.
Which is not to say that Prince Dall had grown up. Not at all. He was still romantic enough to seek the Diamond Tree, willful enough to want to outshine his brothers and naïve enough to think he could outwit the Prince of Rage. Even so, Prince Dall at 22 was a bit of an improvement.
Now, as he watched the dull red glow on the horizon loom closer and closer, his hand slipped inside his shirt to touch the leather pouch that held the old woman’s diamond. For the thousandth time he wondered if it had really come from a diamond tree and what an island of fire could possibly be.
Gradually, as the night faded, the sea and the sky separated themselves. The dark coast of a rather small, average-looking island appeared in the distance. At one end of the island was a small, average-looking mountain from which rose a thin plume of smoke.
Aha! thought the prince. So that’s it! A mountain with a dragon in it. He ran his thumb along the blade of this sword to make sure it was sharper than dragon scales, then rowed ashore.
The island appeared to be deserted. Yet Prince Dall had taken no more than five steps along the beach before he was joined by a short, heavily bearded man dressed from cap to boot in tattered deerskin.
“Hi ho,” said the man. “Welcome to the Island of Fire, sire. Watch your boat for half a gold sovereign?”
“Thank you, no,” said Prince Dall.
“How about a map of the interior, then?” said the short, heavily bearded man. “A day tour to Dragon Mountain? An umbrella to keep the ash off your head? Or how about this, a colorful parchment that gives the history of the island in words and pictures, hand-illuminated by monks? Only two gold sovereigns.”
“You certainly have a lot of things to sell,” said Prince Dall.
The short, heavily bearded man nodded his head so eagerly his stomach shook. “That’s because I own the concession rights to this side of the island,” he said. “Picked ’em up a few years back. Of course, the dragon was a bit more active then and the crowds larger. Nevertheless, I can’t complain. We still get the occasional prince and boatload of pilgrims. Would you be interested in a hot sausage to go, cooked by the dragon himself?”
Prince Dall shook his head. “No,” he said, “but I would appreciate it if you would direct me to the center of the island.”
“Right,” said the short, heavily bearded man. He pulled a piece of folded foolscap from his jacket pocket and held it out to the prince. “Map of the interior. One gold sovereign.”
Prince Dall sighed but gave him a gold sovereign anyway. “Pleasure to be of service,” said the short, heavily bearded man. He tipped his hat, turned on his heel and walked off down the beach.
Sure enough, not far from where the prince had beached his boat, the map indicated a trail leading into the center of the island. Prince Dall found it without difficulty and started off. He had not traveled more than five minutes, however, when he was joined by a short, heavily bearded man dressed from cap to boot in tattered green broadcloth.
“Hi ho,” said the man. “Welcome to the interior of the Island of Fire, sire. Could I interest you in a genuine piece of hand-carved lava rock? A perfect example of native handicraft. Just two gold sovereigns.”
“You look familiar,” said Prince Dall. “Didn’t I meet you back at the …”
“No,” said the short, heavily bearded man. “I seldom ever get over to that part of the island. Too busy with concessions here in the interior, you see. Would you be interested in some dragon’s breath repellent? Or how about a nice souvenir dragon medallion? It’s a good likeness and guaranteed silver.”
“No, thank you,” said Prince Dall. “I’m really only interested in getting to the center of the island.”
“Right,” said the short, heavily bearded man. He pulled a piece of folded foolscap from his jacket pocket and held it out to the prince. “Map of the interior, one gold sovereign.”
“But I already have a map,” Prince Dall protested. He held his map up for the man to see.
“Oh, my!” said the short, heavily bearded man. He slapped the side of his head so hard Prince Dall winced. “That’s terrible. You’ve got last year’s copy. I’m afraid you’ll never find your way with that. You’ll need a new map. It’s only…”
“I know. One gold sovereign,” sighed the prince, reaching into his purse.
“Pleasure to be of service,” said the man. He tipped his hat, turned on his heel and walked off down the path.
Sure enough, Prince Dall’s new map showed a second trail branching off from the first no more than 100 paces back the way he had come. Retracing his steps, he found the turn without difficulty and in less than a minute came upon a large wooden sign with an arrow carved on it. Next to the arrow were the words “This Way to Dragon Mountain.”
On the back of the sign was a much older message, upside down that said, RED COACHMAN TAVERN, J. DEVON, PROP.
Next to that was the faded image of a red coachman with outstretched arms. In the direction the left arm pointed was a path.
“So much for red men who hang upside down,” the prince muttered.
In less time than it takes for a birthday candle to burn down, the path took Prince Dall to a rocky shore overlooking the mainland. Drawn up on the shore was a dory, painted in dark green and red. The prince started toward it and was immediately joined by a short, heavily bearded man dressed from cap to boot in tattered blue wool.
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