“Picture a tree. Think of my colleagues and myself as a tree.”
Alphonse adopted the man’s stance. “Um. All right.”
“It needs a strong trunk, that’s fundamental. The trunk is the center of the tree, but it’s not enough to make a tree grow. It’s just a trunk. The tree also needs a healthy canopy to harvest the light.”
“Uh, yes. That sounds right, sir.” Nerves pricked away at Alphonse’s chest. He hadn’t expected a botany lesson, either.
“Those parts are important. The tree certainly needs a robust trunk. It needs a canopy. When a child draws a tree, those are the parts they draw. The visible parts.”
Bewildered.
“Do you know the most important part of the tree, Alphonse?”
“I’d say . . . I suppose the branches, sir, to connect the trunk to the canopy.”
Di Les shot him an affable smile. “That’s not a bad guess. Not bad. Most people say the leaves. Most people, they get ahead of themselves and compare councilmembers to individual leaves. Etta, she said leaves. Some people say flowers.”
Flowers made as much sense as anything, as much sense as this conversation, which was to say not a whole lot.
“No, it’s not the branches, and it’s not the flowers. It’s the roots. The toes, sinking into the dirt. The part no one ever thinks about, but I want you to think about it. A byantun tree can burn right down to the ground, and a person might say it’s dead and gone. Then spring rolls around and so does the rain and those roots send up new growth. Same tree! And do you know why? Because of the roots, Alphonse. They remember the past. They wait for things to be just right, and they make their move. They regrow that tree.”
The councilor stood there, like a massive tree trunk himself in the middle of the gala, and after a few moments Alphonse said, “The past had a few nice things going for it.”
“Mm. That it did. That it did. And it stretches back a good long way. Do you know another interesting thing about roots?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, sir.”
“Roots dig. As deep as they need to. For anything they can find to make the tree stronger.”
“I see.”
“We are the tree.”
“Yes.”
“And each of us, Alphonse, has our role. Now, regarding the Council, what role do you see for yourself?”
His nerves surged. “Sir. I’d like to do something about factory wages.”
Di Les chuckled. “I’m afraid the labor committee’s full.”
“Sorry, that wasn’t clear. I meant if we look at revenue streams—”
“Tax law?” Di Les gave a heartier laugh, and the two down the bar paused and turned. Di Les quieted. “I applaud your career goals, young man. You have some real brass in your spine, but I do suggest walking before running.”
Flushing, Alphonse looked down. Some other issue, then. Probably too early to mention wilderness protections—di Les’s stance on archaic carbon was clear. “Well, I’ve also wondered about starting an exploratory group on public services.”
Di Les still wore a friendly smile. “I’m not sure you understand the tree, son.”
Obviously. Alphonse said quietly, “It seems you’re looking for a ‘yes man.’”
Di Les regarded him more carefully. “Let’s dispense with the metaphor. There’s a reason sitting on the Council is called ‘service.’ We’re a body, and we serve to improve lives. I need a nominee who understands the advantage of a cohesive block.”
“I do,” Alphonse said, hearing the eagerness in his voice. “Absolutely. Our strongest and best laws are built from common ground. Grandfather said a healthy debate—”
“Your grandfather nearly destroyed Sangal. I have an empty seat. Do you understand what I need or not?”
“. . . nearly destroyed Sangal.” Heat flooded Alphonse’s chest. His grandfather had been one of the best councilors this city had ever seen. “People depend on the Council—”
“People depend on energy. There’s oil in the Martire Arels, but the land’s off limits—your grandfather’s work—and that’s got to change. If you want to serve, Alphonse, you’ll open up those ranges.”
Undo Grandfather’s laws. The barista set his mother’s flute in front of him, and he fixed his eyes on it, willed his temper to settle, smooth out, go the way of those bubbles disappearing into the air.
“You’ll vote to prospect. To drill. You’ll work to get that archaic carbon out of the ground fast and hard. Do that, every time, and someday we’ll talk about exploratory groups and public services.”
“You want me to undo Grandfather’s work.”
“I want our citizens to have the fuel they need. Do you understand me?”
Alphonse held his tongue and threw a glance across the room. His mother’s eyes were granite hard. Take the seat. Her message couldn’t be plainer.
Time sliced through him, and he was a small boy again with laughter filling the family home. His grandfather’s bill had passed, and he swooped Alphonse into his arms and promised a camping trip.
Alphonse pulled a napkin from the stack on the bar and blotted his palms. “I do understand. You want me to dig up the Martire Arels and sell them off piece by piece.”
Di Les looked over to Alphonse’s mother, who appeared to be following the exchange as easily as if she’d been standing next to them. Her eyes pleaded with di Les over some point, but whatever that point was escaped Alphonse. She had no real respect for the man. She worked with him, or against him, as suited the needs of the industry. With a sharp start, Alphonse realized she might see him that way too.
Di Les turned back. “Your candidacy carries a few advantages.”
Advantages. His heart plummeted—she’d offered money. He threw a harder glance over. In all their discussions, he’d been clear he wanted to earn his place. It had always been a point of conflict, her ongoing insistence that holding a seat was worth sacrificing a little integrity, and his rejection of that position. Now, with the seat in reach she was selling him out wholesale. She might even consider it some sort of bizarre gift, although more likely she hadn’t thought past raw numbers. He slammed his fist down. “If you want to rape that land, and you’re willing to sell democracy in the deal, count me out.”
Alphonse strode off in a blind fury, hot. Before he knew it, he was at the window. In the distance, the Martire Arels lay velvet black on gray, jagged and hard. Completely indifferent to di Les, to him, to his mother. Alphonse’s rush of emotion sank. He couldn’t do a thing to protect that range as a private citizen. And he couldn’t weigh in on any other issue, for that matter.
His mother was with di Les now, panic and disbelief on her face. As their voices rose, other conversations in the room trailed off. Everything was unravelling. Then di Les stormed out, and Alphonse’s mother waved him to the door.
Once in the aut she pulled a bottle from the liquor supply. Her voice was venomous. “How can you be so stupid?”
Utter disbelief. “He wants to strip the protections. He wants to repeal Grandfather’s laws.”
She grabbed a glass tumbler. “You had one job.”
“One job? What are you saying? Look, every year the Council does more for the industry and less for the city. Grandfather understood—”
She clubbed him, the bottom of the glass hitting his jaw squarely. His cheek hit the window and he cried out, “What is your problem? I’m your son.”
“We need the seat, and I handed it to you on a platter.”
“You handed yourself on a platter.” He blanched at his words—that was her style, not his. “Pull over,” he ordered.
The driver slowed and rolled to the curb. Alphonse pushed the door open. “I’m walking home. Then I’m packing a bag. Don’t come after me.”
“Come after you? Fierno,” she swore. “I know you, Alphonse. I raised you. You
’re not going anywhere, and if you do, trust me, you’ll be back.”
Chapter Two
The aut rumbled away.
Alphonse turned to a darkened storefront and slammed his palm into the brick. It hurt. He slammed the other hand, grunting with each strike.
Above him a window squawked open. He paused.
“Do you need help, mister?” A young man hung across the sill. Second-level apartments sat atop all the stores in this part of Sangal, most of them with their lights out for the night.
Alphonse slumped back against the wall. “No. Sorry, I should’ve been quiet.”
“Those bricks ain’t much for helping. Do you want to talk about whatever it is?”
There was such honesty in the offer. “Not really, no.”
“Well, all right. Good night.” The man pulled back in and shut the window.
Things had gone so horribly wrong. He’d never even considered she might offer a bribe. He didn’t want the seat, not if it meant buying his way. Not if it meant voting for any piece of garbage legislation put in front of him. He pushed off the wall and began to walk.
Certainly not if it meant undoing Grandfather’s work. His grandfather would’ve understood why Alphonse had lost his temper. There was comfort in the idea that Stavo di Gust might have lashed out at the bribe, as Alphonse had.
Back at the family home, he slipped in through a side door, went up to his rooms, and turned on the light. The air purifier down the hallway clicked on at the same time. The pulse of that purifier, switching on and off through the years, filtering the stale city air with its faint odor of petroleum—that pulsing whisper of affluence had always felt like the house itself breathing. Some nights when Alphonse couldn’t sleep, when his chest was too tight, he’d lay awake wishing for a device like that to help him breathe.
Right now, his breathing was fine. Alphonse changed and grabbed his pack out of the closet. He took the training weights out and pulled supplies down from the shelves. Rod and reel, climbing gear.
He took his time, double-checked each piece. The water skin had a crack—he’d need a new one. His lines were tangled. After sorting and packing it all, he looked around the room, at the old school awards on top of his dresser, the dusty stuffed lion next to them. The fading note from his grandfather tucked into the mirror frame. See you tonight. Alphonse had found it the day they arrested him.
Tucking the note into his pocket, he whispered, “I won’t be back.”
* * *
Alphonse walked. The air was salty and breezy, and if he closed his eyes, it was almost enough to imagine he didn’t live in a city at all. When he reached the edge of Sangal, the suns were rising and businesses were opening for the day.
He stopped at an outfitter’s shop. “I need rations.”
“Where you headed?” The woman squinted up at him.
The Prophets. Maybe Arel really was out there, dispensing wisdom. Didn’t matter; climbing the Prophets had been in the back of his mind ever since Grandfather promised it years earlier. Of course, the outfitter would tell him to take a partner. He slung his pack to the floor. “Did you ever need time away? You know. Do something different, clear your head.”
The woman chuckled, “Doubt I’d’a gone into business like this otherwise.”
Alphonse returned her smile. “Yeah. It’s like that. I’m heading out for a while. Maybe a long while.”
“Most a person can carry lasts about three weeks, Mr. Najiwe.”
He suppressed a flash of annoyance. Everyone recognized him. It came with the family history. “How much weight is that?”
“Sir, it’s ’bout thirty pounds dry.”
Alphonse ran through the numbers. He’d trained up to fifty but not over any real distance. The pack was already twenty. He’d need water.
“You ever packed in deep before? It ain’t no party.”
He glanced around the little shop. The things on the shelves were familiar, most of them anyway. The others he could probably figure out. “Grandfather taught me.”
The shop owner’s face gentled. “Shame what they did to him. Let’s see what we can do. Get the weight down.”
She replaced Alphonse’s tent with a lighter one and made a few other suggestions. Water skin, rations. Information on foraging. Alphonse hauled the pack up with a groan.
“Yep. It sure adds up.” Doubt filled the woman’s eyes.
“I’ll be fine.”
“All right. Those canisters, each is six meals. The lid’s the bowl; just add water. You got ten. The tent, machete. All of it, all what you got there, it’s all standard.” She glanced up at Alphonse again and pursed her lips.
“What?”
“You’re wanting time alone, Mr. Najiwe, but it’s early. Wait a few weeks, there’ll be other folks out. Safer, in case you hit trouble.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Yes, son. Please do.”
* * *
The trail into the ranges began at one of the geothermal fields dotting Nasoir’s coast. This one was Autore’s Drummers. Someone or other had named the field, called it a “percussive tribute to the divine” with its geysers and fissures.
Alphonse had last been here after his twenty-second birthday, with a girl. Her eyes were amber, and he’d wanted to lose himself in the color, get trapped in those eyes. And her hands were delicate, soft, like music in their way. It might’ve been love; he thought it probably was. But in the end, in tears, she’d said it was too difficult to spend time with his mother. That lovely girl had stood here, by this red mud pot he wanted to share because its steady plops matched his pulse and might match hers too. She ended the relationship that night.
He put her out of mind. The sky was azure, breezes blew down the slopes, and Alphonse filled his lungs with the rush of sage and creosote.
After a few hours of hiking, he reached the campground where he and his grandfather used to stay. Shimmying the pack off, Alphonse picked up three smooth stones at the entry post and started down the loop to the first site they’d used. Dark ashes filled the fire pit, and Alphonse placed a stone in the middle. “I was five. We found spiceberries, and I ate too many.” He’d been so sick from the berries he remembered little else.
He went further down, to a nearly-horizontal copperwood tree that marked their second trip. He set a stone on its trunk. “I fell. You made me a splint.” That muffled crack of bone, like the snap of a wet wishbone, that sound had shocked him even more than the pain. And that night in the tent his dreams had been vivid, filled with prisms, with sounds, not-quite words, like someone calling from a great distance.
The third site they’d used, back in the shrub, here they’d stayed two weeks. He placed the stone on the flat patch of ground where their tent had stood. Late nights, drifting to sleep on his grandfather’s lap, the memories rushed back with aching clarity.
“You told me about service.” He recalled so clearly his grandfather saying that one man, and one argument, could shift the hearts of an entire body. He remembered his grandfather’s words. Call me Stavo. Speaking to Alphonse as though they were equals.
Why didn’t his mother speak like that? Even now. She was the old man’s daughter. She’d been kind when Alphonse was small, he was certain, but at some point she and the Council had wrapped into a contorted thing. It had been a slow drift to a different perspective, and Alphonse had been carried along too.
On that third camping trip, Alphonse’s dreams began to change. They were more sensate, tactile, almost like travels, and it had felt like the moment of comprehending a second language. Those fractured dream-prisms coalesced into a perfect spectrum of light. He’d stood, lucid, inside a great library.
The library held all of history, each piece recorded in a hundred different ways, like a letter or a film. Like the pulse of a planet, or geology or music, layers and harmonies fitting
together. History was vibration through time, Stavo had said, and the library held pure experience of the past.
That night in the library, Alphonse and Stavo had stood on Turaset at its founding.1 They had seen their planet as it had been, before the men and women arrived with their genetically-modified seed and embryo banks. They’d seen Turaset’s strange, intensely-colored sessile beasts anchored into the ground. Creatures that flew in a jumping, bounding way. Plants, vibrantly-pigmented ones, undulating across the landscape. Everything was so brightly colored, and those pigments protected Turaset’s creatures from what the colonists called fierno’s breath.
They had seen the metal ships land. They’d seen the code writers who engineered those pigments into the human genome. The authors of humanity’s survival.
Autore.
He and Stavo had watched as, over the centuries, Turaset was terraformed to become more like Earth.
Alphonse had awoken confused and afraid. His grandfather had pulled him close. “Don’t worry, Grandson. Everything through space and time is connected.”
His visions continued but were often forgotten, as though the library couldn’t hold him there and manifest as memories here. He would wake knowing only that his sleep had been disturbed again. Occasionally, knowledge slipped through and he’d ask his mother later and she’d be irritated and say her father had been delusional. Alphonse learned not to speak of the travels. Eventually, he convinced himself they hadn’t happened.
Now, aching for the past, he brushed his hands together, went back to his pack, and continued on. Other than the crunch of dirt under his boots and the babble of the trailside stream, the world was silent.
My world. He breathed it in.
Near mid-afternoon, he left the trail and forced his way through shrubs up to his training cliff. Resting chest-first on it, he spread his arms wide, dry heat against his dampness. So musty. So good. Surely he could become stone itself if he sank deeply enough into the smell. Releasing his breath, he took in more.
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