Shadow Tree (10 page)

Chapter 15: Slaves

Resuza blinked her eyes into the glare of the polar sun. Around her were thousands of excited, apprehensive slaves and quite a few armed Dragonya guards. All at once, the guards began to cheer, soon joined by the hand-picked slaves who enforced the Dragoonya commands. Soon, the crowd of slaves began to do the same, although their cheers were more like wild screams. Resuza knew better than to ask why everyone was cheering. If she had learned anything from her time in Dargora she knew this: when everyone around you did something, it was best to join in, and do so with more vigor than anyone else. And so she screamed as loudly as she could – screamed until her throat burned, her nostrils flared, and her jaw ached.

Resuza spotted Bilblox well before he noticed her. She watched in disbelief as a sled emerged from the distance carrying none other than Kiril and – sitting in the backseat of his sled, staring passively out at the crowd – was Bilblox. She rubbed her eyes, as if perhaps her vision was failing her, but what she'd seen appeared to be true. She gasped and then nudged Hill, who was standing next to her. Hill made no response, which worried Resuza.

Captivity had been hard on him, but in the past weeks, Hill had aged years. His face was drawn and thin, his skin was a sickly yellowish color, and his eyes had a sad, faraway look to them.

As the sled carrying Kiril and Bilblox sped past, Resuza nudged Hill again, ever so gently, and suddenly his eyes came alive.

“Is that...' he began.

“Yes,” she said, “It's him.”

“But how?” asked Hill. “Is Alfonso with him?”

“I have no idea.” Resuza stared at Bilblox – the longshoreman looked drugged. “I really hope not.”

Hill made no reply. He watched as Kiril stepped out of the sled and left Bilblox sitting alone in the sled. Hill and Resuza watched as Kiril joined Nartam and another smaller man on stage. The smaller man handed Nartam a bronze canister and, moments later, Kiril handed Nartam a glass vial that sparkled in the sunlight. Nartam raised his hand high in the air and everyone who saw this simple gesture went silent; this silence rippled through the entire crowd until not a living soul uttered a solitary sound. “Oh no,” whispered Hill. No one paid him any mind because his words were drowned out by the sound of the wind.

Nartam turned to Kiril and the two of them chatted for some time. Eventually, Nartam dropped down to one knee and knelt by a hole that had been dug into the ice. Then he placed something into the hole – it was impossible to see what exactly – but presumably it was a special seed. Then Kiril handed something to Nartam. It appeared to be a vial of liquid. Nartam held the vial with both hands and lifted it into the sunlight. The crowd began to murmur. Nartam opened the vial and poured the liquid contents into the hole. Immediately, four enormous Dragoonya soldiers began to shovel dirt into the hole. They worked furiously, in what appeared to be a panicked state.

Seconds later, the ground shook, exactly as it would after a distant earthquake. A thin black tentacle emerged from the ice. It resembled the charred leg of a giant octopus as it wiggled and squirmed upward, reaching for the sky. The tentacle grew quickly in length and width, and it began to undulate in the arctic air. A second and then a third and fourth tentacle emerged from the ground.

Hill drew close to Resuza and whispered into her ear, “Look at the evergreens.” Resuza redirected her attention to a series of tall evergreen trees that lined the road that led up to the spot where the tree had been planed. The vibrant green coloring of the pine needles had disappeared and the needles were now a dull brown. “They're all dead,” whispered Hill. Just then there was a gust of wind, the trees shook, and suddenly millions of dead pine needles fell downward – fell en masse – raining down on the slaves so thickly that for several seconds it was impossible to see the sky.

When the pine needles had all fallen, and visibility returned, Resuza and Hill saw that the tentacles had grown taller and were now at least ten feet long. They whipped around as if searching for something. Suddenly several of the tentacles grabbed one of the Dragoonya soldiers and thrust him high into the air. The guard began to scream. The tentacles started to slowly squeeze the soldier, and at the same time, the tentacles continued to grow and sprout new fingers. The guard continued to struggle but soon the tentacles enveloped him completely until it was no longer possible to see him at all. The tentacles proceeded to elongate, divide, and multiply and eventually they wound together forming the trunk of the tree – with the guard still inside.

The tree grew swiftly and turned even more repulsive. Its smooth bark glistened as if it were sweating from its own exertion. Soon the entire tree was nearly a hundred feet tall, with millions of intertwined branches that ended in sharp point, as if each individual branch was a dagger.

“It's the Shadow Tree,” said Hill. “Everything will die – trees, grasses, animals, people – everything. Wherever its roots reach, death will follow.”

“How could he?” asked Resuza.

“Who?”

“Bilblox,” she replied, “He was in the sled.”

Hill shook his head wearily. “I don't know. Maybe his blindness became too much for him.”

“Get moving!” barked a voice in the distance. It was one of the Dragoonya soldiers. An order had obviously been given, and the soldiers began to corral the slaves back into the cave. All the slaves turned and began heading back toward the cave, except for one elderly woman who seemed to slip effortlessly between the small gaps in the crowd. With great dexterity, the old woman made her way against the flow of the crowd, toward Hill and Resuza. When the old woman was within earshot, she hissed and then grabbed Resuza's arm with a cold firm grip, pried open Resuza's fingers, and clasped her hand. “You look just like my pet,” purred the woman, “Are you kin?”

Resuza recoiled from the woman. Her hands were ice-cold, her breath smelled of rotten fish, and she had no teeth.

“They took her from me,” said the old woman.

“Took who?” asked Resuza, stepping backwards as she asked the question.

“My pet... she looked just like you,” said the woman, “Only smaller and more frightened.”

Suddenly, Resuza pulled the old woman close. “Are you talking about Naomi?” she demanded. “Have you seen her – have you?” The old woman appeared startled by Resuza's ferocity, but Resuza could not control herself; she had given up hope that Naomi might be alive.

“You're the sister, aren't you?” asked the old woman. “You're the one who left her to die.”

“That's not true,” protested Resuza.

“Oh yes, yes, yes it is,” muttered the old woman, “My pet told me – told me everything. She doesn't want to see you ever again. She told me that many times before they took her.”

“Took her where?”

But their conversation was interrupted by the great movement of the crowd. Someone shoved Resuza forward and, moments later, the old woman was drifting away in a gaggle of emaciated bodies.

“Where did they take her?” yelled Resuza.

The old woman's voice was not loud enough to carry over the crowd, but she heard Resuza's question, and instead of speaking she simply pointed skyward, gesturing up toward the giant bone-like pillars that stretched upwards from the slave quarters and then disappeared into the clouds.

Hill realized the old woman was no threat to Resuza, and took advantage of the situation to slip away. It would take a while for all the slaves to return to the massive cave that functioned as their work and living quarters. He had perhaps ten minutes before whistles would blow and force them back to work. In this time, Hill had something important to do or, more specifically, something to protect.

The Pen.

It was no longer safe in the barracks. The day before, one of the other slaves, a tall, thin man who slept next to him
had seen him hiding the Pen in his shoe. “What's that?” the man asked. Hill denied having anything and tried to shoo the man away, but he persisted. “Give it to me or I will tell the guards,” said the man. The man knew that, if he found anything valuable, he might be able to trade it for food. “I know you're hiding something,” persisted the man. “Give it to me.” Hill got out of bed and brushed passed him. The man hadn't followed, but Hill knew he wouldn't give up. This tall, thin man was starving. He was desperate. He would do whatever he had to do if it enhanced his chances of surviving.

Hill pushed his way through the crowd, squirming his way back into the slave quarters. He rubbed his hands against his shoulders as if to warm himself. Anyone observing him would see an old, weak man desperate to return to the warmth of the cave

Hill entered the cave with the first group of slaves. Most lingered in the entrance, discussing what they had seen and reveling in their small taste of leisure time. Hill hugged the wall and walked towards his bunk bed. After a glance to confirm that he was alone, Hill continued to the end of the hallway. He looked around one last time, and ducked under the table that was nestled into the alcove. He pushed his hands against the dirt wall and it gave way easily. This was the entrance to their tunnel – the one that they had hoped would help them escape. They had filled it with a pile of dirt, just so it would go unnoticed. Hill climbed into the tunnel and crawled as quickly as he could.

It took Hill just two or three minutes to reach the storage depot. The floor of the depot was still piled with supplies. He and Resuza clung to the hope that they would find some way to escape. If that time came, they would need these supplies. There were still two main tunnels leading into the storage depot – the one heading back to the barracks and the other leading south toward the spot where Resuza had encountered the ice canyon. There was also now a third tunnel leading directly up to the surface. It didn't actually go all the way up. It stopped just shy of breaking through the ground above. Hill had dug this tunnel. He had done it in case they needed to make a quick escape. He and Resuza had come to call this tunnel their “emergency exit.”

Hill climbed almost all the way to top of the emergency exit. There was still a thick slab of ice overhead, in-between him and the surface, and a murky beam of light filtered down through it. Just below this layer of ice, Hill groped around until he found a small nook in the ice. It was a perfectly-carved hiding spot for the Pen. Hill had the foresight to create this nook in the event that a day might come – like today – when he suddenly decided it was no longer safe to keep the Pen on him any longer. Hill withdrew the Pen and stared at
it the ambient light. Then a far-off echo of slaves' footsteps reminded him that he had little time. Hill set to work on the second part of his plan.

Hill used the Pen to burrow a very narrow hole, through the slab of ice overhead, to the surface above. He then withdrew a fork from his pocket and wedged it into the hole – just beneath the surface – so that the pointy tines of
the fork would just barely be visible to someone walking up above. The landscape above ground was so uniform, and so blindingly bright and white, that no one would ever notice the small divot in the ground that was the mouth of their emergency exit. A person, if he was looking carefully, might notice the fork, but this was a chance that Hill was willing to take. He wanted to keep all of his options open. This way, no matter what happened – whether they were above or below ground – they'd still be able to find the Pen.

When he had finished with his work, Hill packed snow and ice around the fork to anchor it in position, and began his crawl back to the slave quarters. As he crawled back, Hill felt his heart pounding and his mind swam with worries and plans. But most of all, he thought about Bilblox. He hoped his friend's appearance meant that Alfonso was nearby. But the image of Bilblox's pale, sick face terrified him, and he dared not speculate what it meant about Alfonso's fate.

Chapter 16: Hold Your Form

All around him, children were screaming – at least one hundred of them. It was deafeningly loud, but Alfonso struggled mightily to focus on his breathing; he sucked air in through his left nostril, held it, and exhaled through his right. He had to hold his form. He and Marta were now both young children – no more than seven years old – and whatever happened they could not allow themselves to morph again. That would be disastrous. Under normal circumstances, a mob of elementary-school-age children would hardly be cause for concern – let alone fear – but the current circumstances were anything but normal.

Presently, he and Marta were at the center of a mob. The children around them were howling like wild dogs. In truth, they looked more like animals than human beings. Their faces were caked with dirt and grime; their clothing, or what remained of it, was ripped and filthy; and they grunted more than they spoke. They stank of sweat and rotten food. They were massed in a great, writhing pack, where they were smashing into each other savagely. Something had happened to these children; they had either done something or witnessed something so terrible that they appeared to have lost their sanity.

Alfonso and Marta had morphed on the run – in the very last seconds before the mob converged upon them. They had cut it close – too close – and Alfonso was fairly certain that two of the children had witnessed them morph. The children were twin girls – no more than four years old – and both had long, matted, black hair. The girls now stood on either side of Alfonso, pressing up against him.

“Stop!” yelled a lone voice.

All at once, the children went quiet and became perfectly still. Alfonso felt a surge of relief.
Breathe
, he told himself,
just breathe. Hold your form.

At the edge of the pack, a solitary figure stood apart from the others. He was at least a head taller, and perhaps a few years older, than all of the other children. He had a broad forehead, a handsome Roman nose, and a strong chin, but there was something wrong with his eyes – they were slightly too close together. But it wasn't just that. A careful observer would notice that one of his eyes was blue and the other brown. The effect was subtle, but disturbing. The boy appeared to be in his early teens and, from the way that he carried himself, and from the way that the other children fell silent at his command, it was obvious that he was their leader.

“Where have the betrayers gone?” asked the teenage boy.

The children made no reply.

“They were just here,” said the teenager impatiently, “I saw them with my own eyes – where are they?”

The children began to murmur, and from the sound of it, they were conversing in several different languages.

Marta leaned close to Alfonso and whispered into his ear: “Betrayers?”

“He's talking about us,” replied Alfonso in a whisper. “We have to find a way out of here.”

Alfonso looked around frantically. In the distance, perhaps a hundred yards away, was the obelisk. And here lay their sole cause for hope – a large, locked wooden door – at the base of the stone monument. It was an entrance leading directly into the stone tower.
If they could only get inside... but how?
The door was locked but, if Alfonso could somehow just get there, he felt reasonably confident that he could enter hypnogogia, reach through the solid door, and unlock it from the inside.

“Are you my father?” asked a slight, trembling voice. Alfonso looked over and saw that it belonged to one of the twin girls. She was speaking directly to him and it was clear that she expected an answer. “My father had a beard just like yours,” said the girl. “Can you turn back into my father? Please?”

“Please take us away from here,” said the other twin. She was slightly smaller than her sister and appeared more fragile. Indeed she seemed close to tears. “Turn back into Daddy and take us away from this place. Take us away from that awful boy.”

Alfonso frowned. “I will try,” he told them. “Just keep quiet.”

“Enough!” shouted the teenage boy. The mob of children drew quiet instantly. “I will find the betrayers myself. I will hunt them down. Betrayers are not welcome here! It was betrayers who left us children here on our own – to die – but we won't let them forget what they did to us.”

One of the twin girls, the bigger of the two, clutched Alfonso's hand and whispered: “I won't let him hurt you Daddy – I won't.”

The other twin girl, the smaller of the two, began to cry.

“Everything will be okay,” whispered Alfonso. “Please don't cry – not now.”

But this only made the girl sob more loudly. The sound of her crying rang out across the silence and attracted the attention of the teenage boy. The boy eyed the girl sharply and then he seemed to notice Marta.
What had caught his attention?
Soon it became obvious: it was her clothing. When she and Alfonso had morphed, their bodies had changed, but their clothing had remained the exact same size; and so, despite the fact that they were now both young children, they were still wearing oversized adult clothing. Alonso had done his best to roll up the sleeves of his shirt and the legs of his pants, but Marta's clothing still hung off her body in a ridiculous fashion.

The teenage boy began walking toward them. As he approached, the children scrambled to clear a path for him. It had begun to rain and a fine mist filled the air. The boy smiled as he drew closer. His face was damp and his hair slick. His blue eye surveyed the scene – taking everything in – his other eye, the brown one, remained motionless, as if it were dead.

“Where did you get those clothes?” demanded the boy. He was addressing Marta; he apparently had not noticed Alfonso.

“I found them,” replied Marta. Her voice was small, but defiant. Alfonso hoped she had the good sense not to pick a fight with the boy. But this was Marta after all – she was not easily bullied.

“Where?”

“On the ground,” replied Marta.

“Liar!” screamed the boy.

The boy was close now – just a few feet away from Marta. Something bad was about to happen. Alfonso could feel it. Alfonso concentrated on his breathing –
in left nostril, hold, out right nostril...
But it was no use. He was distracted – both scared and angry all at once – and he could feel his body being tugged from the inside.

“Tell me the truth!” demanded the boy. “Tell me the truth and I won't punish you.”

“I don't remember,” said Marta. “Where did you get
your
clothing?”

The boy stepped forward and struck Marta hard across the face, causing her to topple backwards. There was an instant movement from the mob and, all at once, children were running for cover. The teenage boy snatched a rock up off the ground – a big hefty, hunk of stone – and raised it up over his head as if to clobber Marta.

“Don't do it!” pleaded one of the twins, the larger and bolder of the two. “She's a mommy – I saw her – she just changed into a kid's body!”

“Then she's a witch!” screamed the teenage boy. “Everyone pick up stones – we must stone the witch!” All of the children rushed to pick up stones. They looked more terrified than bloodthirsty. “On my command!” shouted the teenage boy.

“But maybe the witch knows where our parents are,” said one of the children, a redheaded girl, the smallest of the group, who was no more than four years old. “I don't want to throw stones at her.”

“You
must
do as I say,” said the teenage boy. “Now everybody throw your stones on three – one, two...”

Marta screamed.

But the blow never came. Instead there was another shout – a deep, loud, authoritative shout: “No – don't you dare!” Everyone looked to see who had barked this command. They all saw a tall, powerfully-built man in his twenties. His eyes were piercing and deadly serious. “Drop that rock right now
little boy
,” said the man. The teenage boy looked around nervously, as if to see what the other children were doing, and whether they might come to his aid. “They won't help you,” said the man. “This is between you and me.”