by Martin Vine
Standing in the shadow of a particularly sick-looking specimen, he reached out and touched the trunk. The dead bark flaked away, falling to the ground in a puff of dust. He saved a piece and crushed it to powder inside his fist. His eyes moved to the ground, and he kicked at the soil.
How long has it been since rain fell on Broken Meadow?
Deterioration. And much worse than he’d imagined.
Of course, he could not pretend to be wholly surprised. Long ago he’d received a warning about the river birches, though the specific memory always seemed to elude his grasp. Attached to it was a dark-haired beauty in exotic silks, a creature he could never forget. Even the slightest whiff of pine needles blown in from the highlands to the west summoned her memory. And then she would haunt his dreams – the girl with the elfin face and eyes of honey amber – staring deep into his soul, watching him, judging him.
“Hating him.”
A shudder rippled through his body. Lisalle exhaled the air he was holding in, and with it the half-formed memories of another time. In the shadow of the Skillion he followed the birch row north, skirting the still waters of Whiskey’s Waddle.
As he reached the point where the river narrowed, Lisalle found what he’d come for. There was no doubt in his mind this was it: the exact tree he’d climbed that fateful day thirteen years ago.
Barely a teenager then, he’d hidden high in the branches with his golden prize, desperately trying to rebalance the scales of fate.
Such a decision for one so young. After so many years, it was finally beginning to dawn on him how poorly he’d chosen.
Of course, he was only a child. How could he have known?
“Because she told you.”
If only he could remember the message. If only the thought of recovering it didn’t terrify him so.
Staring through the branches to the far side of the river, a vision replayed inside his head: the young cicada hunters who’d looked to him with such adoration at the dawn ceremony back at the Gulch.
All those maps with all those golden crosses signifying nothing.
He buried the thought before it could fester into something unpleasant and returned his attention to the tree.
It was far taller than he remembered, but in noticeably poorer health. Standing at the base of the trunk, he craned his neck back. Overhead, the glare of midday cloud cover was blinding. At least half the tree’s canopy was missing. The remaining leaves were faded ash-yellow, and covered in dark-brown spots. Lisalle’s vision was limited without his glasses, but he wasn’t completely blind. From one end of Birchbarrow Park to the other, all the riverside trees were not more than one or two seasons away from dying. He shuddered to think what that might mean for the Shire: what it might mean for the festival.
Many considered this line of river birches to be the most important row of trees in all Broken Meadow. Of course, they bore no fruit and would never be used for timber, but they still had a significant role to play. For these trees marked the final destination of all cicadas captured during the four-day hunt. Once the giant papier-mâché float had been ceremoniously cast out upon Whiskey’s Waddle, the boys would release their catch to the welcoming embrace of the river birch limbs.
Every child knew how important it was the cicadas reached the trees alive and in good health. After the crowds had scattered, and the hunters – duty done – were back in their homes, the male cicadas would erupt into that familiar summer song. Calling the females to mate, the breeding cycle would begin under the safety of the river birch canopy: pregnant females would lay their eggs in shallow slits cut into the branches. Six to eight weeks later, the tiny nymphs would hatch and fall to the ground, through which they’d burrow to feed on the root sap.
Depending on which type of cicada, the nymphs lived underground for anywhere up to thirteen years. Once large and strong enough, they’d claw their way to the surface and climb the trunks, shortly thereafter emerging from their shells as adult cicadas, ready to repeat the cycle.
All that was at stake now and Lisalle knew it.
With his right heel, he stamped the hard-packed ground and the force of it jolted his spine.
What chance any Golden Dukes will crawl out of this?
The anniversary of the rarest cicada in history was upon Broken Meadow, but what kind of world would they emerge into, if they emerged at all?
What hope for the Shire when the earth has turned to stone and the trees are so near death?
Too many questions. And what could one man do about it anyway? Lisalle ran his fingers through his thinning hair. For the first time since leaving the apartment, it occurred to him his headache had gone, disappeared entirely. He rubbed his temple, curious as to what might have so suddenly cured him.
Could it be the trees themselves?
A sneering voice in his head ridiculed the idea.
He ignored it.
Stretching on tiptoes, Lisalle reached for a weighty branch. Something didn’t feel right. Careful to move his body out of harm’s way, he pulled the limb gently down.
KerrAAACK!
The branch splintered near its base. A four-yard section crashed to the ground, missing the toes of his left foot by inches.
For a short while Lisalle could not move, and simply stared in shock at the fallen limb. This was no spindly sprig. The branch lying on the ground was so thick he’d barely managed to stretch his fist around it.
Crouching on his haunches, he carefully examined the break and noticed something unexpected: the branch was hollow.
A slave to his curiosity, Lisalle snapped off the end of a thinner branch to use as a poker. He plunged it into the hollow of the amputated limb, but stopped suddenly as an awful squelch echoed from inside. With a building sense of horror, he pulled it free.
Lisalle almost gagged at what he saw. Skewered on the sharp end of his stick was a fat, white, grub-like creature, its punctured body oozing slime. The last time he’d held an insect in his hand had been that day thirteen years ago. Since then, he’d developed an acute fear of everything that crept and crawled, his phobia growing progressively worse, year by year.
This was definitely no cicada nymph. The larvae of a moth perhaps? The sight of its pulped body rebooted his gag reflex. The horrible squelching sound continued to echo relentlessly inside his head.
Flinging the stick to the ground, Lisalle wiped his fingers on his waistcoat (it didn’t occur to him he’d never actually touched the grub). He could feel the dull, throbbing pain of his headache returning, and was suddenly overcome with an urge to flee back to his apartment.
The Councillor took one last look at the doomed tree. In his head, a vision appeared: the branches being eaten from within by hundreds of horrible, hungry, bloated grubs. Lisalle imagined what it might feel like for the tree and the thought of it set his hair on end.
He backed away too quickly, tripped on an exposed root and fell on his rump. Lisalle wiped his lips and slowly picked himself up. He brushed his leggings off and looked down at the wood that had snagged him. The massive root sat almost a full inch above ground level.
Disturbingly, it was not the only one. Following the birch row with his eyes he observed literally hundreds of roots fanning out toward the park like an army of mottled snakes.
Searching for water, he reasoned.
But he could not figure it out. Surely, this close to the river the trees would send their roots deep. As hard and forgiving as the surface was, the earth would still be moist and soft below the waterline.
Wouldn’t it?
Lisalle came to a conclusion worthy of his profession: it all warranted a proper investigation. He simply didn’t know enough about trees to theorise what might be killing them. Back home, where he’d have time to pore over his books without interruption, he might just find the answer.
Regaining control of his breathing, Lisalle turned toward the Skillion and set off at pace.
By the time he reached the first step leading back to his apart
ment, Lisalle’s mind was racing. He began to think about all the books he had, cataloguing them one by one inside his head and putting them in order of usefulness. The more he went over it, the less confident he became. It occurred to him his collection might be lacking in matters botanical.
Inside his head, a voice needled, “Of course, you’ll need to go to the library.”
A shiver ran down Lisalle’s spine.
Excerpt From The Secrets Of The Ancients
by Tulloch Greighspan
Immortals 3.3
The War in Heaven
At the height of the Delgardian ascendancy, the skies were different over Celestia Gar, and likewise the other realms of Sylt, for it was the wish of Aethelron that his folk could see far into the void from whence he had first travelled. And because Aethelron had opened their eyes, and because their world was still young and the air so clear, it was said that one needed only to tilt one’s neck to capture the most glorious view in Dellreigh.
In those days, even the highest of clouds were visible, silky white against the cobalt blue sky, and at dusk their underbellies did glow gold to pink against the horizon. In the heart of night, safely beyond the final hour of twilight, the sky would come slowly back to life. Sparkling pinpricks of light would grow and multiply, blending and overlapping to form great coloured brush strokes across the endless black.
When the gods went to war, the skies of Dellreigh were the first casualty.
Though only the elders of the Ardentii tribes – and a select few from the Druhirrim – knew the unpleasant truth, not one of the Syltian living in that time could remain ignorant of the approaching darkness. As the grey clouds rolled across their lands, smothering their beloved skies, so too did the climate turn against them.
And in all of Dellreigh, no land suffered greater than the continent of Celestia Gar, nor any part thereof so much as the prosperous coastal regions. From the northern fishing villages of icy Norsteigh all the way to the Trapspur Peninsula in the distant south, great storms lashed and battered the shores. The tides, so carefully recorded by the Imperial Navy and the wily Corsair tribes of Adensee, shifted unpredictably; great waves rose from the ocean deep and swept far inland, devastating the flat, low country of northern Geldonia. Countless ships were lost; entire towns were abandoned to the storm floods. For the first time in recorded history, snow fell over the Braythornian capital of Skeyne far to the southwest.
And across the length and breadth of the Empire, the terrified Syltian would ever shift their gaze heavenward and wonder how it could be that someone had taken their skies from them. And even among the most pious of souls, did some dare whisper, “Has Aethelron abandoned us?”
But even as the world of Dellreigh suffered the after-effects of the celestial battle, beyond the mortal plane a swift and decisive victory eluded the Other God. Blinded by her rage, Belzeel had greatly underestimated Aethelron’s true power. No longer was he the childish sibling playing at being a true God; no longer was he the petulant and spoiled infant she remembered. In a realm of his own making, with the angels by his side and enriched by the love of his subjects, the God of Small Things had grown strong. He had no intention of being removed from his people, nor bending his will to that of another. Not even to his elder sister.
Not any more.
And such did he say to Belzeel before casting her battle-scarred body out of Delhimmel forever.
Bartrem
Though he saw nothing of value upon it, Dobbin wasted no time reclaiming the map and securing it in a side pocket of his rucksack. Once he’d arranged the luggage – between middle and stern bench – to his satisfaction, it was time to get Grandpa Rand aboard.
After several clumsy attempts, the old-timer eventually rolled his gear over the lip of the bow and into the hull. Getting his body in proved even more trying. The skiff’s beached end was also the highest, but with a little help from Hopskotch (Dobbin promptly excused himself from the chore, mumbling something about ‘counterweight’), Grandpa Rand hauled his creaking body over the bow.
He almost slipped right off again when his eyes found the rune.
“Well, that’s something you don’t see every day,” he remarked, a split-second before his left leg slipped out from him. Quick to regain balance, Grandpa Rand wriggled his way feet-first into the hull, twisting his body in an attempt to keep his eyes glued to the curious bow mark.
Dobbin sat deathly still on the middle bench, clutching the starboard rail as Hopskotch guided his reluctant grandfather to the stern. “You know what that is?” he asked.
“Know what it is!” replied Grandpa Rand, adjusting his rump toward a more comfortable position on the hardwood board. “Don’t know what it means. Nobody knows what it means.”
“Then how do you know what it is?”
“Well, it’s old, that’s all. I mean, really old.” A smile split Grandpa Rand’s face, wrinkling his scar into a jagged canyon. “Older than me, even!”
Preparing to push off, Hopskotch picked up one of the paddles and leaned well over the rim of the boat’s hull. “Is it from Sanufell or something?” he asked.
Grandpa Rand sat up straight, steadying himself via a white-knuckle grip on the glide-boat rails. A serious expression chased the smile from his lips. “Maybe older still, so they say,” he whispered. “See, that there represents the lost element.”
Dobbin furrowed his brow.
“Like in that game you play,” Grandpa Rand continued, nodding to Dobbin. “Well that’s all rooted in the distant past, mostly from the age of the Delgards, but some stuff is older still.”
“Which stuff?” asked Dobbin.
“Well, you know the basic elements: water, fire, air and earth.”
Grandpa Rand counted each off his fingers. Dobbin rolled his eyes.
“But they say there’s another one that is sacred to Aethelron. They say the lost element fled Dellreigh after the Scouring, when the Empire took its last gasp.” The old Sylt swallowed. “But they also say that if the lost element should ever be restored, it will bring with it the power to change the world!”
“And that’s what that symbol is?” Dobbin asked. “On the bow of this skiff; that’s the one, the lost element?”
Grandpa Rand nodded.
“I mean, it just looks like a wheel with the spokes on the outside. Are you sure it’s from olden times?”
Grandpa Rand nodded again.
As persistent as he was cynical, Dobbin fired one last question. “Then what’s it doing on the bow of a glide-boat on Lake Whispermere?”
“A very good question,” replied Grandpa Rand.
Dobbin held his breath, expecting more. It took a very long half-minute to realise none would be forthcoming.
Hopskotch’s grandfather had lost interest, redirecting his attention to the boat itself. Ignoring the exasperated Dobbin, he ran a forefinger along the edge of the hull. Making a fist, the old Sylt gave the inside a solid tap with his knuckles. “Whose boat did you say this was?”
Anticipating the question, Dobbin had a back-up story prepared. “Umm, one of my father’s customers,” he explained with a straight face. “See, he owes us money but can’t afford to pay right away. Said we can use his boat as interest till he can pony up.”
Hopskotch nodded in agreement, but kept his mouth shut.
“So we’re not stealing it?” Grandpa Rand asked.
“NO!” both boys squeaked in unison.
Hopskotch and Dobbin shared a guilty look. An awkward silence settled upon the glide-boat crew. Hopskotch developed a sudden interest in his paddle, with which he began probing the pebbles beneath the shallows.
Grandpa Rand’s narrowed eyes travelled back and forth between the two boys, as if awaiting the confession. A full minute passed. Hopskotch’s attention remained fixed on the water. Dobbin pretended to look for something in his luggage.
“Well then,” Grandpa Rand declared. Steadying himself against the hull, he picked up the second paddle and passed it
forward to Dobbin. “Let’s get going.”
As the one who’d found the glide-boat, and as a continuation of the existing ‘command structure’, Dobbin wasted no time appointing himself captain.
Hopskotch was not in the least surprised. His best friend’s obsession with Basalt Thundergull was well known, and now the reality of being on a boat on open water had Dobbin channelling a character right out of one of his favourite paperbacks. Even his vocabulary had taken on a distinctly nautical shade.
“Grandpa Rand, you stay astern till the drop-off!” Dobbin barked, like the swashbuckling Corsair Captain himself. “Hopskotch, take the bow and watch you don’t lose that paddle o’er the gunwale.”
Hopskotch let slip a giggle. Born of a long line of dairy farmers, Dobbin had no more experience with boats than he did.
And it was beginning to show.
Using the paddles as push poles, the boys were making little progress getting the glide-boat off the beach. After much straining, their combined effort succeeded in tilting the hull slightly to port. But the bow still would not release itself from the pebbles.
Hopskotch had just surrendered to the idea of getting his feet wet all over again when he heard a voice hollering in the distance.
“Hold up, you lot. Hold uuup!”
Hopskotch felt a cold stab of panic. Cadets!
Seconds later, a young Sylt appeared, sliding rump-first down the embankment toward the south end of the beach. Hopskotch’s fear gave way to relief, quickly replaced by the most peculiar sensation of déjà vu.
“Bartrem?” he gasped. What the flippin’fishmitts?
To say Bartrem’s arrival came as a shock would have been a gross understatement. For the fellow had so wrapped himself within a shroud of mystery it was considered an honour to enjoy his company on any occasion. Rarely, if ever, would he bother turning up to birthday parties, school concerts, fetes and dances, or even afternoon flyball games. Worse yet, Bartrem’s reclusive nature extended to an event no other student would dream of missing: the annual cicada hunt.