Shadow Tree

by Jake Halpern

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  For a moment the door began to give under the force of the pounding, but it cracked open just slightly, because Naomi had effectively locked herself in her room. She had taken a small cast-iron frying pan – which she had stolen from the kitchen – and wedged it carefully between the door and a divot in the stone floor. It worked like a charm and the door remained fixed in place. Naomi took some satisfaction in this. She was very good at fixing things and this handiness – this ability to repair a stove or true a wheel – is what had earned her a spot in the ranks of the skilled slaves. Naomi’s satisfaction, however, was short lived because her plan was very short-sighted. She had locked herself in her room to keep him out, which had worked, but what now?

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  He was Ure, a monstrous hulk of man. He was a Goon-ya-radt, a slave whose job it was to enforce the rules and, in so doing, to bully and terrify the others. Ure was excellent at his job. He could instill terror with a simple look. Ure’s face was horribly damaged by frostbite – he had no nose and the skin around his eyes was purple and lumpy. Naomi knew that it was Ure who was on the other side of the door, pounding furiously; apparently, somehow he had learned that she had stolen the fish and, of course, the frying pan.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Naomi had only stolen the fish out of desperation. In the last few days she had been more hungry than she had ever been in her life. There had never been very much in the way of food in Dargora – even for the skilled slaves like Naomi – but now even that meager food was gone. Everyone now hoped to survive by ingesting the black ash from the Shadow Tree. So far, on pure instinct, Naomi had resisted taking any of the ash. The slaves who used the ash frightened her. Their eyes turned white, their hair and fingernails fell out, and they stopped speaking. Naomi was determined to avoid using the stuff for as long as she could.

  Suddenly the door exploded open, the cast-iron pan skittered across the stone floor, and Ure stuck his grotesque head through the doorway. “Where did you get that pan?” barked Ure. “And it stinks of fish in here. You little thief! Why I ought to beat you for...”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” interrupted another voice, which was, cool, calm, and yet utterly firm. The man who spoke these words entered the room. He was a tall fellow, with a wide brim hat, a strong face, a lantern jaw, and two entirely white eyes. The man turned toward Ure and said with scorn, “You have displeased me very much.”

  Ure bowed his head submissively, almost the way a stray dog might. “It will not happen again,” said Ure, voice trembling. “I shall kiss the girl’s feet if it pleases you – Lord Kiril.”

  Kiril backed Ure into a corner and grabbed him roughly around the neck with his hands. Ure could have tried to swipe his hand away, he could have screamed; but he didn’t. Somehow, deep down, he understood that there was no escaping Kiril. And so Ure stood perfectly still as Kiril, ever so slowly, clasped his left hand around his throat. His grip was firm, so firm that Ure could just barely breathe, but what Ure felt more than anything else was the sharp points of Kiril’s long fingernails scraping his skin.

  “Your fingernails,” wheezed Ure.

  “Yes,” said Kiril. “You must forgive me. You see, my health is unusually good as of late, and so my fingernails, which would usually be rather brittle, are as resilient and sharp as razor blades. I have found that they can cut most anything. Why just this morning I was cutting steak with them. Wonderful isn’t it? I no longer dine with a knife.”

  “Please,” gasped Ure.

  “Now listen up, you hideous wretch,” said Kiril, “If you ever touch this girl, or so much as look at her again, I shall see to it that you are skinned alive and fed to the Fog Wolves. Do you understand?”

  Ure nodded and then scampered out of the room like a frightened dog. As soon as he was gone, Naomi walked over to Kiril and knelt at his feet.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Although I was ready to dispatch him.” She slyly withdrew a dagger she had hidden up her sleeve.

  “I expected as much,” said Kiril proudly.

  “You were gone for a long time,” said Naomi. “Why?”

  “I did not intend that,” said Kiril. Kiril looked down at her small, slender face and felt a surge of compassion. It was almost the same feeling that he had the very first time that he met her. He had come to know Naomi through her sister, Resuza. It was a peculiar arrangement. Kiril had met Resuza by chance. He was staying at a Dragoonya outpost, just outside of Barshyin-Binder, when he discovered Resuza – then, a filthy, wild-eyed slave girl. He caught her hiding some stolen potatoes in a secret stockpile of food that she kept in the hollowed-out root of a tree. The stockpile was filled with all manner of things – radishes, flour, sugar, knives, boots, a map, and a pocket watch. Resuza was terrified when Kiril discovered her. And rightly so. She was, no doubt, convinced that Kiril would beat her, or at least yell at her, but instead Kiril simply clucked his tongue and said, “I could use a clever girl like you.” From that moment on, Resuza worked directly for Kiril, mainly spying for him – eavesdropping on conversations – reporting which Dragoonya officers were lazy, greedy, or disloyal. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me,” Resuza had told him, “So long as you try to find my sister and help her.”

  “Where is she?” Kiril had inquired.

  “She is a slave,” explained Resuza, “And I believe she is in Dargora.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Naomi,” explained Resuza. “And she looks just like me.”

  “I will do what I can,” said Kiril.

  And he had honored his promise. Kiril found Naomi working in one of the underground slave barracks in Dargora. She was frail and malnourished, but alive, thanks in large part to a toothless old woman who had cared for and watched over her with the fierce devotion of a grandmother. The old woman was half-mad – she called Naomi her “pet” – and she screamed hysterically when Kiril took Naomi away. Kiril fed Naomi bread with butter and bowl after bowl of hot milk with cardamom. She never gained much weight, but she quickly gained strength. Kiril found her curious and intelligent, and taught her the basics of self-defense. She was a natural, and so he taught her more. In time, he began to think of her as his apprentice. People were loyal to Kiril because they knew he was fair and just, as long as they served his interests. And Naomi did exactly that. She was his eyes and ears in the slave milieu of Dargora. More than a few times she had provided him with intelligence that proved extremely useful.

  “I am glad you are in good health,” said Kiril. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” replied Naomi curtly. “But you were gone for a long time”

  Kiril stared at her. Clearly, the girl had not been treated well. But the fact that she still stood before him was a testament to her strength and keen survival skills.

  “I see that you have not taken the ash,” said Kiril.

  “No.”

  “Good,” he replied. “You mustn’t. I will give you all the food you need. All will be well. No harm will come to you. I promise.” Kiril smiled as he said this, though all the while, he couldn’t help recalling his vision, the one in which an arm – with the bloody crescent-shaped wound – reached out and tried to shove Naomi into an abyss.

  “The thing is,” continued Kiril, “Right now, I need your help.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Naomi. “What is it?”

  “I am looking for your sister, Resuza, I need to find her,” said Kiril.

  “Why?” asked Naomi with a frown.

  “She betrayed me,” said Kiril. “But I am willing to forgive her so long as she gives me something that I want. The problem is she could be anywhere.”

  “What is it that you want?” asked Naomi.

  “It is something that she has taken,” said Kiril. “I believe she has a Pen, a very powerful Pen, and I must have it.”

  “Why?” asked Naomi.

  “Because,” said Kiril. “It could cause troubles for me – for us.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t want to see her,” said Naomi angrily, “You’re not going to bring her here are you? I hate her. I don’t want to see her – not now – not ever. Please don’t bring her up here. Leave her down in the barracks forever. That’s where she belongs.”

  “Down in the barracks,” said Kiril with a start. He seemed shaken. “What are you talking about?” “You didn’t know?”

  “Know what?” demanded Kiril.

  “I thought you must know – you know everything,” said Naomi nervously. “Resuza is here in Dargora, working as slave, in one of the caves where they boil the blubber.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Kiril.

  ”Yes, positive,” said Naomi. “I saw her a few months ago, on one of the parade days, when all the slaves were marched out.”

  “Did she see you?” asked Kiril.

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Kiril, almost to himself. “What a stroke of luck.”

  Naomi smiled for the first time. It lifted her spirits to make Kiril happy, even if briefly.

  “You must help me, my dear,” said Kiril finally.

  Naomi nodded.

  “And you can start,” said Kiril, “By writing a note.”

  Chapter 19: The Obelisk

  “You can’t talk to me like that,” the teenage boy replied. His words sounded tough, but his voice betrayed his fear. He stared at the powerfully-built man who was walking towards him with unmistakable menace. At that moment, it didn’t seem to matter that he commanded so many children.

  Alfonso Perplexon, the teenager who had morphed into this 20-something man, approached the boy in a manner he had seen played out in playgrounds all his life. Only this time, he wasn’t the victim or the bystander. He was the bully. He knew exactly how to act: keep moving, keep talking, keep threatening. Push once, shift your weight, curl your hands into fists.

  “I can talk to you however I want,” Alfonso sneered. As he moved towards the boy, he raised his hand high above his head, ready to strike. The boy flinched and most importantly, the children surrounding them moved back.

  He looked at the ground and saw Marta lying there. Her eyes were wide and surprised. She seemed as shocked as the children were. Alfonso approached her, picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and walked to the door of the Tower. He put her down to investigate the door further.

  It looked absolutely impregnable. The door itself was covered with rusted iron plates, and two spyholes were hammered shut from the inside. He threw his weight against the door. It didn’t move an inch.

  “You can’t open it,” said the teenager.

  Alfonso turned around. The teenager had come up behind him and was standing just a few feet away. Behind him were the children. Their expressions had changed from fear into something different. Interest, perhaps. Or perhaps even a little confidence. The element of surprise was now gone, and they realized that they were unharmed. Alfonso knew he had to do something quickly.

  His eyes traveled across the perimeter of the door, looking for anything that might indicate a way in. There was a keyhole, but it had been filled in or jammed. Something was covering it perhaps a piece of wood or metal, but there was no way of inserting a key into it. And it wasn’t as if others had not tried. The weak sun lit up the area around the keyhole and highlighted a profusion of faint scratches.

  “He’s going to leave us!” screamed the teenager. “Just like the other grown-up did!”

  Alfonso didn’t turn around. Instead, eyed the bottom of the door and had his first glimmer of hope. It was the only part of the door that was not covered with metal. About four inches of wood was exposed, starting where it touched the ground. This narrow band ran the width of the door. More importantly, a few areas in this band looked dark in contrast to the rest. Alfonso leaned down and poked inquiringly at the dark areas. They were soft. Alfonso was reminded of building tables and cabinets with Pappy back in World’s End. They built most of the greenhouse storage cabinets by themselves. Rotting wood was always a concern for them, and he had become very good at identifying where it had appeared.

  “Pick up your stones!” yelled the teenage boy.

  Alfonso could hear a rustling of movement behind him. He was running out of time.

  Alfonso crouched down and poked again at the bottom of the door. He nodded as if satisfied and stood up. Alfonso paused, took a deep breath, and then kicked the bottom of the door as hard as he could. The blow landed squarely on the darkened, rotted area. He crouched down again to examine the effect. He nodded, and kicked that part of the door over and over. His last kick was so forceful that he fell to the ground.

  But it worked. The door cracked open, right up the center, and then clattered to the ground. There was a collective gasp from the crowd of children behind him.

  “He’s found a way in,” said a little girl.

  “Is there food inside?” asked a little boy.

  As calmly as he could, Alfonso rose to his feet, spun around and said, “Follow me children, let’s see what’s inside.” And amazingly, they obeyed as calmly as school children on a field trip. Only the teenager remained. Alfonso eyed him coolly and then said, “Come if you want, but your days as king are done.”

  Chapter 20: The Last Threat

  The polar reaches of upper Asia are wide and long and empty of human life. Winds routinely reach hundreds of miles an hour, and in the darkest of the winter, to be outside for longer than a half-hour is to court a swift death. Everything is in short supply: food, vegetation, light, life.

  And yet in this desolation, Nartam had created the last refuge of the Dragoonya. Dargora. The city was surrounded by a vast petrified forest and in the center of this forest was a great ice field where the city itself was situated. Everything in the city was white – either because it was made of snow, ice, or bleached bones – and the result was that, from a distance, the city was almost impossible to see under the bright glare of the sun. It was only truly visible at dawn and at dusk, when the light was soft, allowing the human eye to discern the subtleties in many various shades of white.

  On most days, there was not much to see. The slaves all lived in barracks that were situated underground. The most dramatic feature of Dargora were several giant pillars. These pillars, which rose up from the earth and stretched into the clouds, often swayed and groaned in the wind as if they were still part of a living being. In addition, there were a few buildings scattered here and there, all made of ice. And then, of course, there was the Great Cave.

  The Great Cave was the original location of Dargora. Hollowed out by the grinding of glaciers, the cave was spacious, protected from the wind, and surprisingly comfortable. Nartam had outfitted the place with an abundance of fur rugs and copper urns lit with brightly burning fires. Nartam even had a throne here, as well as several long rows of tables and chairs. And nowadays the Cave also had another benefit as well: it offered a perfect view of the newly-planted Shadow Tree, which sat just a hundred or so feet from the mouth of the Cave.

  Nartam and Kiril were standing in the Great Cave, chatting quietly. Behind them, deeper within the cave, several dozen Dragoonya officers and noblemen were seated at tables. In years past, the Dragoonya leaders gathered here to feast – consuming great quantities of roasted pig, fried whale, grilled reindeer, and ice wine. Today, however, no food was being served. There were just bowls and bowls and bowls of black ash. The men seated at the table were not singing, or talking, or even whispering. They were all sitting motionless, simply staring off into the space. They almost looked like figures at a wax museum – life-like, but too still to be real. The men using the ash had all lost their hair and their fingernails but, other than this, they appeared quite healthy-looking. Occasionally, one of them would extend an arm, scoop up a pinch of black ash, and rub it into their eyes. This was the only sign that they were alive.

  “Have you tried it?” asked Kiril.

  “Yes of course,” said Nartam. He was dressed in furs that were fa
r too big for him. All of Nartam’s clothing was too big for him these days. They had been designed for a full-grown man – not a sixteen year old boy – and the shirt sleeves and pant sleeves hung down from his limbs. “But unlike these greedy fiends,” he said gesturing to his officers, “I have taken it gradually – a little more with each dose – and that is why I still have my hair, my nails, and my wits about me.”

  “That’s sensible,” said Kiril. “You are taking the proper dose, but these other fools have lost their senses and overdosed.”

  “It’s true that they have become poor conversationalists,” said Nartam, “But they are splendid fighters, and when ordered, they will fight with an inhuman ferocity, as if their lives and the lives of their loved ones hang on the outcome. I have been letting the men use it twice a day. Any more than that and they’d be worthless. One of them demanded more, and I had to put a sword to his throat in order to talk him down.”

  “I see,” said Kiril. “Don’t you worry that others will demand more as well? How do you keep them in line?”

  “I planted the Shadow Tree,” said Nartam with a smile. “And that makes me the Tree’s father, and theirs. It is incredible to see, but they will do anything for me. Plus, I have you as a failsafe, just in case anything untoward happens. Isn’t that so?”

  “Of course,” said Kiril.

  Kiril glanced back at the cave opening. It was small, and from the outside no one could guess at the cathedral-like space of the Great Cave that existed just beyond the opening. But it was not the opening that Kiril was looking at. Just beyond it, in a bare patch of carefully swept ground, stood the Shadow Tree. Its smooth, oily bark reflected the many torches and candelabras that lit up the Great Cave. To one side of the tree, a giant bonfire raged. A few Dragoonya climbed carefully up and down the tree using a metal ladder. They sawed off limbs and tossed them into the fire. Each time they did so, the fire crackled and whined, as if afraid. And on the ground next to the fire was a mound of black ash, growing higher and higher with each burned limb. The tree itself didn’t seem to mind. It was constantly in movement, its branches twisting like the restless legs of a centipede.