Shadow Tree

by Jake Halpern

  The Pen represented escape, but it also was a clear reminder that Alfonso and Bilblox would be on the hunt for them. And one way or the other – via the Pen or with the help of Alfonso and Bilblox – they’d escape. They clung to that hope.

  As for the Pen itself, they knew very little about it. Hill had played with it just a few times. Once, shortly after they were captured, Hill had unscrewed the top of the Pen and lit the inside of the barrel with a flame – much the way one might light a gas burner with a match. On that occasion, he then pressed the emerald button on top of the Pen, which caused a stream of fire to shoot out of the Pen’s tip. The Pen was, clearly, a potent weapon – if one knew how to wield it properly. The problem was that, despite a great deal of effort, Hill still didn’t know how to use it to his advantage, and there was really no place where he could experiment with it. In fact, Hill worried constantly about being discovered with it and he was obsessed with hiding the Pen properly. Using scraps of discarded leather, Hill had fashioned a sheath to enclose the Pen and he kept it stuffed into the side of his left shoe.

  Every evening, after dining on a hunk of moldy bread and thin soup, Hill and Resuza usually had an hour to themselves. Unfortunately, this was the most dangerous time of day because the Dragoonya had informers everywhere who were only too happy to report on any suspicious conversations or activities. Any accusation at all from another slave – whether it was true or not – would usually mean that the accused would be cast out into the snow. In any case, during this time of night, Resuza and Hill lay silently in their bunks. Only after the lights went out did they murmur to each other about their plans.

  Tonight, as the other slaves slept like the dead, Hill and Resuza planned to have another such conversation.

  “Hill,” whispered Resuza again through the darkness. “Are you okay?”

  Spurred into movement by Resuza’s whisper, Hill sat up in bed and took the Pen out of its hiding place within the blanket. It was silver with a sparkling emerald embedded on top. He stared at the following diagram carved across the barrel:

  Hill had managed to figure out or at least guess the meaning of the five symbols. The symbols represented the five classical elements: the top triangle represented fire and the bottom one was water; the triangle on the left was earth and the one on the right was air; the fifth symbol, the one in the center comprised of three dots, represented ether.

  “What’s it doing?” whispered Resuza through the darkness, “Is it happening again?”

  They spoke in Dormian, which none of the other slaves understood – a precaution just in case someone overheard their whispers.

  “Yes,” said Hill. He then had another fit of coughing before he finally caught his breath. Hil was huddled beneath his blanket to conceal his movements. “It’s happening again.”

  For the last several evenings, at exactly midnight, the emerald on top of the Pen began to glow. The glow lasted for five minutes or so. Tonight, Hill and Resuza had vowed to tinker with the Pen and decipher what – if anything – the glowing meant.

  “Are you going to press it?” whispered Resuza.

  “Quiet,” said Hill.

  Hill held his breath and then pushed the emerald button. CLICK. Nothing happened. He waited a moment, then pressed it again. Still nothing. Hill sighed disappointedly. Finally, he pressed it once more – this time holding the button for several seconds. Then something very strange happened. The tip of the Pen emitted an intense green light and projected a small three-dimensional image, which came in and out of focus, like a brightly lit sign on a foggy night. It was the image of a hand with several numbers etched on and in-between the fingers. There was also a series of circles at the point where the thumb joined to the hand. He couldn’t make sense of it. It looked like this.

  Hill stared at the mesmerizing, glowing three-dimensional image. His mind was racing with questions. Why had the Pen started glowing in the last few days? What did this strange diagram mean? What was the Pen trying to tell him? He played with the Pen for a while longer, but nothing else happened. Eventually, the three-dimensional image disappeared.

  “That’s puzzling,” said Hill. “I’ll need to think about this.”

  “I’m tired of thinking – I want to try what we discussed,” said Resuza. “I want to go ahead with our plan.”

  “What Now?” asked Hill.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you really think that’s wise?” asked Hill.

  “I don’t know,” said Resuza. “But I can’t just sit around here waiting to die.”

  Hill sighed.

  “Please give me the Pen,” said Resuza.

  “Okay,” said Hill finally, handing the Pen to Resuza. “But for goodness sake, please be careful.”

  Resuza crept out of bed with the Pen in hand. Resuza had rehearsed her movements and was fairly certain she could get to her destination without a noise. Whether she would go unnoticed was another matter. She tiptoed down a pitch-black hallway that was lined with slave bunk beds. At the very end of the hallway, on the left side, was an alcove that held a simple wooden table. In better times, several pitchers of water sat on the table; but even this small gesture of humanity had been discontinued as of late and now the slaves only received water at dinner. Those slaves who had been there the longest would often look longingly at the alcove, as if the days when water was once there had been the high point of their lives. Now, the table was bare and covered with a thick layer of dust. The alcove was only about four feet high, but it was surprisingly deep, so much so that Resuza was actually able to crawl under the table and hide herself completely from view.

  So far, she and Hill had only practiced using the Pen with two of the elements: fire and air. Before coming to Dargora, Hill had used then Pen to shoot a stream of fire. On another occasion, in Dargora, Hill had blown into the empty chamber and was then able to control a gust of wind inside the slave quarters. This had occurred early in the morning when everyone was still groggy from sleep, but even then it had caused a great stir. People still spoke of the day when a gust of wind had become trapped inside their icy prison. Hill had been able to guide the wind in specific directions – as if it were a gigantic fan of sorts – but he was unable to dial up or down the strength of the wind. He suspected this was possible, but they hadn’t yet figured out how to do it.

  Resuza huddled under the table and listened quietly for a full minute. She heard nothing aside from the usual noises of slumber in the slave quarters – snores, mutters, coughs, and – inevitably – the unnerving whimpers of people trapped in nightmares. Resuza pushed herself to the back of the alcove and felt the wall. As she suspected, it was made of dirt. The slave quarters were a mix of ice caves and earthen cellars. In some places the walls were made of ice and in other places they were made of rock and dirt. Here the walls were dirt, which was a bit of good luck. She took a pinch of the dirt and inserted into the lower chamber of the Pen. She snapped the Pen back together, pointed it at the wall in front of her, and pressed the emerald at the top of the Pen. After a slight click, the Pen shot out a thin stream of dirt, although it seemed to be lighter than the kind she had initially inserted into the Pen. A cloud of dirt soon engulfed her. Resuza clicked the emerald top again, and the stream of dirt disappeared. It took several minutes until the tiny particles settled on the ground and she could survey the Pen’s effect.

  The effect was disappointingly small. A shallow divot had been carved out of the wall, as if someone very strong had punched it. But that was it. Resuza thought back to the wind that Hill had been able to control, and looking back, even that wind seemed unimpressive. She wondered whether they had overestimated the Pen’s powers. Resuza tried it again, pointing the tip of the Pen closer to the wall. The result was the same; however, this second time, she noticed something she hadn’t before. When she pressed the emerald button, the metal area around the emerald became warm. Perhaps it meant something.

  She tried a third time. While the Pen shot out its thin stream of
dirt, she rubbed the area around the emerald. At first nothing happened, but then by chance she happened to rub in a clockwise direction around the emerald. The stream of dirt immediately died down to nothing. The Pen appeared to stop working. Resuza then rubbed in a counter clockwise direction, and the stream of dirt resumed and gathered force. For a moment, she panicked, fearing that she must be making a terrible racket, but she was both relieved and astounded to realize that the miniature tornado that she had created had been completely silent. She kept circling her thumb counter clockwise around the emerald until the cloud of dirt grew so thick that she began to choke. She clicked the emerald to stop, and then waited for the result. Finally, the dirt settled enough for her to see.

  What she saw was incredible.

  Instead of a small indentation in the wall, the Pen had carved a hole into the wall that was roughly two feet in diameter. She peered into the hole but could not find the end. Her pulse racing, she clicked the emerald again, turned up the Pen’s potency, and widened the opening to the hole so that she could slip though it. She was getting the hang of how to use it. Resuza crawled into the opening, half-expecting to be met with resistance in the first few feet; but she kept crawling and, after about 20 feet, the tunnel stopped at a spot where the ground turned to ice. She stopped and gingerly pressed her hand to the newly carved ceiling above her. It was ice as well, which meant that the Pen had blown through the incredibly thick walls of the slave quarters, and had only stopped when it met a substance that was not dirt. And this meant that above her was ice and snow and – above that – freedom from her prison.

  Chapter 8: Back to Reality

  “I feel awful,” muttered Alfonso.

  “Shh,” replied Marta. “You must whisper.”

  “Where are we?” asked Alfonso softly.

  “Nowhere good I’m afraid,” replied Marta with a weak smile. “I believe we’re in the southern foothills of the Urals. Middle of nowhere really.”

  Alfonso sat up slowly. His entire body ached – his muscles, his bones, his joints, everything. He felt as if he’d been in a brawl with an angry mob.

  “Do you feel like this every time you morph?” asked Alfonso. “Because if so, I don’t know how I’m going to do it.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Marta, “It gets easier, but I won’t lie to you, it never feels great.”

  “Okay,” said Alfonso with a sigh. “Any good news?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Marta. “I think we’re being followed. It’s probably been a few days.”

  “Who?”

  “Not sure exactly,” said Marta. “But there’s more than one.”

  “Wonderful,” said Alfonso and he managed a wry smile. He was nonetheless in a better mood. His vision had returned fully, and this gave him confidence. He glanced around, surveying his surroundings. They were well hidden in a thicket of shrubs and tall grasses; and they were situated halfway up a steep rise, which offered a sweeping view across a rocky plain below. In the distance, Alfonso could see a narrow vertical line that looked like it might be a tower. Judging by the scale of this tower – how tall it stood in relation to everything else – Alfonso knew that it had to be quite large. Something about the whole scene seemed familiar.

  “Strange, I feel like I’ve been here before,” said Alfonso. “But that’s impossible, right?”

  “Maybe you saw it in a dream,” suggested Marta. “You know, when you were in your coma.”

  “Yeah, could be,” replied Alfonso.

  “That’s kind of what happened to Roya.”

  “Who?”

  “Roya,” explained Marta, “She was this other seer from Jasber – a girl seer like me.” Marta went on to explain how Roya had taken too much green ash and gone into a coma – after which, she did nothing and said nothing until, one day, she created a curious painting of a woman sleep-walking along the ledge of a building. “She begged to be taken to this place,” explained Marta. “She was convinced this place was a doorway – you know, her way out of the coma.”

  “You think I needed to come to this exact spot to wake up?” asked Alfonso with a chortle. “Come on, really?”

  “Didn’t you say, ‘I feel like I’ve been here before?’” asked Marta.

  Alfonso looked off into the distance and stared again at the tower – or whatever it was. The sight of it gave him an uneasy feeling. He felt increasingly certain that he had dreamt of the place, but he couldn’t recall any of the details of the dream.

  “So what’s the plan?” asked Alfonso.

  Marta reached into her shirt and took a Pendant embedded with a number of emeralds. It was what the Abbot had given her.

  “What’s that?” asked Alfonso.

  “Our way home,” replied Marta.

  “Home?”

  “Back to Jasber,” said Marta. “I got it from the Abbot. We just need to burn it and they’ll come looking for us – the sweepers – they’ll find us.”

  “No way,” said Alfonso. “Forget it.” That was the last thing that he wanted to do right now. “These are the same people who locked away my dad in the middle of a labyrinth for years – the same people who kept you locked up in a monastery where you had to sit in a chair all day and stare at a tree. Have you forgotten all that? You want to go back there? Are you crazy?”

  “My mom and dad and brothers are there,” said Marta. “Besides, I’m done being seer. I plan to quit.”

  “And you think they’ll let you?” asked Alfonso. “Marta, be honest with yourself.”

  “I’m the seer,” she said stubbornly. “They need me. We’ll make a deal or something.”

  “Look,” said Alfonso. “If that’s what you want to do, I’m not going to stop you, but I’m not coming with you.”

  Marta studied her Pendant carefully. She appeared lost in thought, as if trying to make up her mind.

  “You’re not going to make it without me,” she said finally.

  “Look, I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, I really do,” said Alfonso. “But I think I can survive without the help of a nine-year-old pipsqueak.”

  “Stand up!” said Marta. It wasn’t a request – it was an order.

  “What?”

  “You heard me – stand up!”

  “Fine,” said Alfonso. With great effort, he rose to his feet. He felt weak and unsteady. “I’m standing,” declared Alfonso. “Okay?”

  “Walk forward ten paces,” ordered Marta.

  “Yes boss,” said Alfonso. He took one step forward and then another. His legs ached and his balance was off, but he managed. He took three or four more steps and then, rather abruptly, he felt exhausted. He could go no farther. He dropped to one knee and, as he did, a spasm of pain shot up his leg. He grabbed his thigh and felt that his muscles had dissipated and his skin was soft and saggy. “My legs... I’m an...” He stopped mid-sentence – his voice sounded like the croak of a frog.

  “A very old man,” finished Marta. She couldn’t suppress a hint of satisfaction in her voice. “Ninety five, maybe ninety-eight. You’re a regular grandpa – probably even a great grandpa.”

  “What do I do?” croaked Alfonso and, as he spoke, he became aware of the fact that he no longer had any teeth in his mouth. “Tell me.”

  “That all depends,” said Marta. “How old do you want to be?”

  “My real age,” croaked Alfonso.

  “No,” said Marta. “I’ve already shown you how to do that. Why don’t you try for thirty-six?”

  “Thirty-six?”

  “Yes,” said Marta with a smile. “It’s a lucky number.”

  “Fine, thirty-six then, but how?”

  “The trick is to picture people around you at that age, like your wife,” said Marta. “Can you do that?”

  “My wife,” croaked Alfonso. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your kids, too,” added Marta. “You need to picture the whole scene – your wife, kids, dog, house – but start with your wife.” She smiled. “It should be
someone with a pretty name, like Hannah or Victoria.”

  “How can I?” asked Alfonso with exasperation. “How can I picture someone I’ve never met?”

  “Of course you’ve met her,” said Marta with a smile. “You are a grandpa, you met her ages ago – you’re an old man now – just look at yourself. You’ve lived a long life. And all your memories are locked away in your head. It’s all there. You’ve just got to act your age.”

  “How do I...” began Alfonso. He was gasping for breath. All of this talking had exhausted him. “How do I do that?”

  “Breathe – that’s the key to everything,” said Marta softly. “Just breathe.”

  “Breathe?”

  “Yes,” said Marta. “Concentrate on your breath. It places you in the moment – at least that’s what the Abbot says. So you breathe in through the left nostril, hold it for four seconds, and breathe out through the right nostril. Then breathe in through your right nostril, hold it again – this time for eight seconds – and out through your left nostril. Repeat. Can you do that?”

  Alfonso nodded. He concentrated intensely on his breathing. At first nothing happened. He just felt foolish. In fact, he nearly gave up, but he persisted for a few more minutes. Soon images started flickering through his brain – a boathouse on a misty river, a little blond girl in pigtails, a plate full of sushi at a fancy hotel, an old woman walking a poodle, children dressed as knights at a school play, and the images just kept coming. It was almost as if someone was pasting photographs into a giant album – at an astounding speed – and Alfonso suspected that the pictures were moments from his life. He came to understand that his brain was being filled with a lifetime of memories. After some time, the sound of Marta’s voice brought him back to his senses.