On his tenth day on the river, the man began to talk to the water. On the fourteenth day, the river answered back.
“I was hungry, so I ate a portion of the sky,” he said.
“And when you did so, the land wept.”
The man pushed against his pole, and the hollowed out boat—the one he had scraped himself—drifted to the shore. He stepped into the muck and waded into the flowering weeds along the river’s edge. He released the boat into the river and watched the river take it away.
“A wicked man,” he said, “knelt before me. He begged for mercy. He begged for justice. I told him he could not have both. He asked me to choose. So I laid my blade upon the stretch of his neck and sliced it neatly away.”
The river said nothing.
“His body was laid among the trees. By morning it was gone.”
“And the sky wept,” the river said.
“Yes. Yes, it did. Why did it weep?”
“It wept because it weeps. Why did the wicked man do wicked? Why did the merciless man lack mercy? Every true thing acts according to its nature.”
“Then,” said the man, “why, today, does the river speak, when such an action defies its nature?”
“Every true thing acts according to its nature,” repeated the river. “Except when it does not. Then, it does not.” And with that, the river fell silent.
The man tried again to speak to the river, but it communicated only in whorls and ripples and the occasional gurgle. A language he did not know. Weak with hunger, he ate another piece of the sky. He waited for the land to weep. It never did.
—From the journals of Tamino Ailare
When Carmina returned home, she found four surveyors, six carpenters, two architects, nine apprentices and sixteen servants crawling around the house and garden and walls like ants. The woman who was to be her mother-inlaw leaned over the desk in the arched alcove that once served as her father’s study and now was a dusty reminder of a dead man’s quiet learning. Carmina stopped, her white shift fluttering around her now-sweating legs in a faint breeze. The woman who would be her mother-in-law leaned shoulder to shoulder with Carmia’s aunt. On the other side of the desk stood a very small, very nervous architect, hands and face smudged with graphite and ink. He bobbed his head and curled his shoulders as he unfurled page after page of plans and drawings. He simpered; he whined; he showed his teeth. The two women clicked their heels against the broad stone floor impatiently, pointing here, and here, and here. Carmina cleared her throat.
Both women stood with a hiss. They regarded Carmina while simultaneously raising their chins and arching their brows. They brought their hands together in front of their chests and stroked their fingers gently, like insects preparing for a meal. “You,” her future mother-in-law said. “You’re here.”
“Of course I am,” Carmina said. “I live here.”
The older women gave one another a knowing glance. The architect stared at the ground apparently looking for something to squish.
“For now,” the aunt said. The future mother-in-law smiled.
“Please explain,” Carmina said sweetly as she ground her teeth.
“Well, can’t expect to stay here once you are married. This house was bestowed upon your wretched father as part of his banishment. The law prohibits you to profit from its sale, but your husband—”
“Future husband,” Carmina corrected.
“So rude,” the aunt hissed.
Her future mother-in-law thinned her lips into a brittle smile. “Your husband will be permitted to sell the house, the grounds, and all its possessions as he sees fit.”
“As you see fit.”
“Same thing.”
Carmina placed her fists at the small of her back and dug in hard. Her hips hurt, her womb hurt, her breasts hurt. She wanted to lie down.
“But not the books. And my father’s papers. They will stay with me.”
“The books will be appraised by the bookseller next week. Anything of value will be sold. The rest you may keep.”
Carmina spoke quietly, and closed her eyes to keep from shouting. “The books belong to my mother, who still lives. The books will not be appraised without her permission.”
“Nonsense! How can an unconscious woman give permission,” her aunt exclaimed, raising her hands heavenward.
“Indeed,” said Carmina.
“In any case, they can’t all belong to your mother. Unless they are marked, ownership is assumed by the male and passed to his heir which in this case—”
“They are marked. Each one. My father did so himself.”
Carmina had watched him do it. Eighteen pots of sticky glue, nine brushes, and over a thousand identical, hand pressed plates, embossed with gold, declaring, “From the library of Petra Ailare,” all lovingly affixed inside the front covers. This he had done in the week before his death. As though he knew something was coming.
“I was never told of this,” the future mother-in-law hissed to the aunt.
The aunt stammered and whined. “I—I’m certainly—Well, I never—Honestly they couldn’t all—” Quickly she began removing books from the shelves and checking inside the covers. They were all marked with Petra’s name. Every single one.
After twenty-eight days of journey, the man fell to his knees at the center of the world. He raised his hands to the broken sky. “I cannot travel any further,” he cried. “My feet are torn, my hands are torn, my heart is torn.” He sunk his fingers into the mud and scooped it to his mouth. “If my fathers meant for my life to end, then I shall lie here, and here will be my grave, a shallow maw in the worthless muck at the center of the world!”
“A shallow grave for a shallow man,” said a voice behind him.
“A merciless end to one who had no time for mercy. Is this our plan for our son, my brothers?”
“All true things act according to their natures.”
“True, but only if the thing, itself, is true.”
“Who are you,” said the man, still cradling mud in his hands.
“Your father,” said fourteen voices. The man stood in a circle of fourteen trees. Each tree had a gash at the base, two friendly knots on either side and two large, red stones set, peering out. The stones blinked.
“My fathers,” the man said, straightening up. “My spear is unsurpassed in all this endless wood. My judgment is sound and unyielding, and I have kept my people fed and safe since I first became a man, which is to say, always.”
“And what have you to show for this?”
“Nothing,” the man said.
“Nothing,” repeated the trees, and they blinked their glittering eyes.
—From the journals of Tamino Ailare
When Carmina Ailare was a little child, her father took her into the forest to gather rocks. It was a welcome change from the merciless glare of the constant sun in town. She could remember the long, sweaty walk from the front door, along the bleached glare of the cobblestone street to the high wall that circled the city. The nearest exit point from their house was the smallest of the four ports, and was set low like a pleading, open mouth. It only had one guard, who was often too drunk to bother arriving at his post, and the door would remain locked for days at a time. Carmina remembered holding her father’s cool palm, and wondering at how dry it was while her own was hot and sticky with sweat and dust.
They ducked under the low stone arch, sidled past the guard who stank of vinegar and grime and old meat. The guard grunted what Carmina assumed must have been a hello. Her father responded with a sound like the creaking of wood. Between the forest and the wall was a thin circle of bare earth that the Governor, in his terror of the green world beyond, insisted on clearing to keep the trees at bay. Each day, laborers, constricted from the Penal Colony, grunted and heaved with tillers, scythes and plows, under the watchful eyes of their guards. They cleared the green to the root, and yet it resprouted under their feet. By evening the trees unfurled thin leaves towards the darkening sky, and we
re knee high by morning when the next group of laborers arrived.
Carmina and her father tripped across the stubbled ground and slipped into the shadow of the wood. It was cool and damp and dark. Carmina let go of her father’s cool palm and struggled over root and branch and fallen trunk. Her father seemed to sway the ease of windy limbs. With each foot fall, he seemed to take a green hue, then brown, then green again. Finally, they reached a small, clear stream, one of the many arms that reach for the broad middle of the forest—the flowing Opponax River. The stream was swift and clear, though narrow. When she waded in, it only reached her waist, though she had to hold onto her father’s hands to keep from slipping away. The stream’s bottom was spangled entirely with small, oval stones—just large enough to fit inside of her small fists. She submerged herself again and again, filling her sodden skirts with as many stones as the fabric would bear.
Afterwards, she sat with her father on the stream’s rocky edge, their feet still dangling in the water, as they examined the pile of stones between them. Checking each one for a purity of color, they made piles of blue stones, green stones and black stones. White stones and muddled stones were thrown back. As they did this, Tamino Ailare told his daughter a story:
“Once upon a time, my darling, there lived a man who fell in love with a tree.”
“What sort of tree,” Carmina asked.
“What sort of tree? Any sort! What does it matter what sort it was?”
Carmina thought on this. “Well, was it a good tree? A kind tree? Or was it a selfish and wicked tree?”
“A good tree,” Carmina’s father said quietly. “The very best of trees.”
“Good,” Carmina said. “Because I want to like this story.”
“Anyway, a man loved a tree very much. The tree grew at the center of the forest at the center of the world. It was not easy for the man to see his love. He had obligations. He was an honored citizen with a wife and a child. He had duties that he must do.”
“How could he love something that was not his wife and family.”
“Because he did.”
“So he was a wicked man.”
“Yes. But also a good man. Sometimes, a man can be both. Sometimes, they are the same.”
Carmina said nothing. She watched the way her father watched the wood. His hair shone black, then gold, then green in the dappled sun.
“One day, the man prepared himself to leave his beloved and found that he could not. He laid his hands in the tender groves along the bark, buried his face at the mossy roots. The tree quaked and sighed. It waved its limbs mournfully in the crushing wind, and as the man’s heart broke within his breast, the tree shuddered and split down its very middle, crashing down on either side of the man. At the center of the trunk lay a stone, dark red and glittering—like this.” He reached into the pile of stones and extracted one that was teardrop shaped—smooth and red and twice the size of Carmina’s thumb. He deposited it into her hand. “The one true stone.”
“Did he go home, then?” Carmina asked.
“I don’t know,” her father said.
“Did he die?”
“I don’t know,” he said again.
Carmina looked at the stone in her hand. It glittered. It blinked. “What should I do with this stone?”
“Keep it,” her father said standing up and hunting for his boots. “Don’t lose it.”
But she did lose it. That very day. As they left the wood, the stone slid through a hole in her pocket and landed on the overgrown trail. She never told her father.
To Our Noble and Gracious Emperor, Beloved of Generations, Protector of the Faith, Healer of Nations, Headmaster of Errant Tribes and Bearer of Knowledge, Reason and Truth: Greetings, Cousin.
It has been fourteen years since last we met, and fourteen years since last I wounded your Honor and dared to impede on the Blessed Sanctity of your most Holy Office. It is only by your Grace and Blessings that I still live to pen this letter, and that my wife and child still remain as a delight and comfort for this, your most Humble Servant. You sent me to, with all Diligence and Purpose, endeavor to study and document the pernicious Molaru—known locally as the men who live in trees—and thus provide needed Insight for your Grace in your Considerations for the future of the Molaru, the colony, and the State of Trade along the glorious Opponax.
Because of the Love that once we shared, oh Cousin, oh Sovereign, oh Patron to us all; because it is with only the fondest memories do I recall our days as young lads together, suffering the same punishments after the wrongs we did to that poor Governess—may she rest in peace—that I must confess my failures in this matter. The task you set, cousin, is impossible. The Molaru will not—nay, they cannot—be dominated. Strangely, they cannot be a threat to you either. For fourteen years, I have followed, transcribed, documented and interviewed. I have used every known method of espionage, coercion, argument and trickery. I believe I know more about the language, history, culture and movements of the Molaru than any other man in the Empire. And I know nothing. Nothing! For fifteen years I have labored as a lover labors, quivering over the arch of my Beloved’s eyebrow, moaning for one backward glance. They have given me little. And I, now, am a weakened, broken, and broken-hearted man.
The reason for my poor epistle to you, Dear Cousin, is this: any information I have learned, any detail that may—though this is doubtful—assist you in your quest to crush the Molaru, I will not give. For fourteen years I have sweated in this swamp, suffered under the weight of dull minds in this empty hull that calls itself a university, and for fourteen years I have loved the Molaru. If they knew your full intention for sending me, they have never let on. They will now, for I shall tell them. Whether or not they will let me live is an open question. Regardless, I would rather offer my throat to the blades of friends than to the hooded minions of a tyrant. I loved you once, Cousin, but your wickedness has forced me to despise you. I love the Molaru, and my treachery will likely cause them to despise me. So it goes.
My notes have been burned, my journal hidden in the depths of the forest, and my books have been removed from every library in the Empire by the stealthy hands of my remaining allies. All is destroyed or lost or hidden. All I have left now to lay claim to, is my life. So it is for any man. Even you, dear Cousin.
With all due Courtesy, Honor and Respect, I remain,
Your loyal servant,
Tamino Ailare
Carmina went into the garden. Two servants stood under the orange trees, gathering fruit into four large baskets.
“These are not ready to be picked,” Carmina scolded. “They aren’t ripe. Did she tell you to do this?” The servants simply looked at the ground, their large, mournful eyes heavy lidded and sullen. She looked to the edge of the garden. Her future husband stood facing the wall, throwing rocks over the top. Above the wall’s rim the trees hovered and pressed, their leaves clouded with mist.
“You won’t be allowed to speak to the servants once we are married,” he said without looking at her. He reached down and picked up another stone, throwing it neatly over. The trees shuddered.
“Why not,” Carmina asked.
“Mother says that as the daughter of a known heretic and fear-monger, you would likely upset the staff and spread your father’s doctrine of laziness and crass immorality.”
“She says that, does she?” She watched him reach down and pick up another stone, about the size and shape of a mango. He hefted it once, then twice, and glanced sidelong in her direction before hurling it over the lip of the wall. He threw it with such force, such focused intention, that she assumed he must have been thinking of throwing the stone at her head. It was a sentiment she shared. His head was, after all, rather large, and would be easy to hit.
On the other side of the wall, the trees gathered into a mass of green. Mist hung from the skin of the leaves and tumbled like drapes to the ground. Carmina coughed. She watched his hunched shoulders, his slack middle, the pasty skin just barely clinging to
his fleshy neck. He bit his lower lip—pink as raw meat—as he reached down and hefted two more stones. His front teeth sank deep into the lip, creasing it neatly at the top. Carmina wondered if he would draw blood. She looked back over the wall. The heavily greened branches seemed even closer now, as though they were creeping over. The limbs swayed insistently though no discernable wind blew. Her husband to be still didn’t look at her, but stared over the wall, preparing to throw his stone.
“I shouldn’t worry about it though. It’s not like you won’t be cared for. Mother’s got it all planned. We’ll sell this hovel—honestly, I don’t know how you can live here.”
“I like it here,” Carmina said. He didn’t notice.
“We will be able to purchase a sizable stake in the ruby mine, and will have funds left over to renovate my grandfather’s estate—”
“Excuse me,” Carmina interrupted. “That’s my rock.” In his left hand was a stone, teardrop-shaped and red. It flickered in the light. “My father told me not to lose it.”
“Your father is dead.” Her husband to be examined the stone. “And anyway, anything that’s yours is mine. That’s how it works. Besides, there’s nothing special about this. It’s just a stupid rock.” He threw it high into the air. Carmina watched it arc cleanly over the wall and disappear into the mass of leaves. The trees were over the wall now—leaves and sticks tumbled into the courtyard, piling along the edge. The green gathered and swelled like clouds—or a wave, and Carmina wondered briefly if they would be submerged.
“There,” he said. “You see? Problem solved. There’s nothing—” But he did not finish his sentence. There was a sound on the other side of the wall. A sound like the creaking of wood. A sound of wood bending, swelling, and snapping open, followed by the sharp note of sap in the air.
“The trees,” her husband to be said, and though he pulled at her arm, his voice seemed to be coming from very far away. “The trees,” he said again. But she couldn’t hear him. She was too busy listening to the music of limb and branch and wood.
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