The Lost Gate (8 page)

“Is there really a man in there?” asked Bokky, the oldest boy, who was only six.

“Yes,” said Father. “I believe there is. Because why else would a great oak like this bother to make the shape of a man in its bark? Trees have no reason to lie to us. Does a sycamore pretend to be a hickory? Does a walnut pretend to be a willow?”

“But how could he live?” asked Immo.

“Who says he's alive?” challenged Bokky.

“Well what's the point of having a dead man in there, then?”

“I've heard two stories about that,” said Father. “One is that this man is the one who invented fire and burned the first tree. The treemages couldn't stop others from learning the secret and burning wood, but the trees took their vengeance by holding the man inside the heart of the wood.”

“What's the other story?” demanded the children.

“That he was a hunted man, and a great king sought him to kill him because he had dared to love his daughter. He was slain against this great tree, and his blood soaked into the roots, and in pity the oak opened its heart to him and brought him back to life. The king's daughter came here every year in those days, in a great procession up the valley, and here she wept beside the tree, and inside the bark he heard her, until at last she grew old and died. It broke the heart of the man in the tree, and that's when he turned his back on the world. He still lives, but he sees and hears nothing, because his love is dead and gone, and he still lives on inside the tree that saved him.”

Eko brushed a tear from her eye, and Immo jeered at her, but Father held up a hand. “Never mock a tender heart,” he said.

Abashed, Immo rolled her eyes but said no more against Eko and her tear.

“Isn't the bark getting thinner over him now?” asked Bokky.

“It might be,” said Father. “But it might just seem that way because he's so far above us.”

“What if he comes out of the tree while we're here?” asked Bokky.

“Then we'll greet him,” said Eko, “and ask him which of the stories is true.”

“You wouldn't dare talk to him,” said Bokky.

“I think she might,” said Father, “because your sister is a brave one.”

“She wouldn't jump across the runnel in the north glen,” said Bokky.

“It doesn't take bravery to do every foolish dare that someone puts to you,” said Father. “Only stupidity.”

They all laughed at Bokky for that, because
he
had taken the dare and Father had to climb down and get him where he dangled from a branch over the runnel far below. Half the village men were in on that rescue, holding the rope that held Father, and then dragging them up together.

That night they slept without blankets, the night was so warm. The moon was high and in the middle of the night, Eko awoke and looked at the oak and for a moment did not realize what she was seeing. She thought it was a snake in the tree, and she glanced around quickly to make sure that none of the children was too near. Only when she was sure that the snake couldn't drop onto anybody did she look again and realize, through her sleepy eyes, that it was not a snake at all. It was an arm, an elbow and arm, and the palm of the hand was pressing against the bark, pushing inward as if the man were trying to pull himself out of the tree.

Which is what he was doing. Only the arm looked smaller than it should have, and as the shoulder emerged, as the body turned sideways, Eko could see that it was a slender boy, not a man's body at all. Taller than Bokky, but no thicker, no more manly.

I should wake someone else to see this thing, she thought.

But she couldn't bring herself to make a sound or even move to poke somebody. What if she frightened the man. What if he did this every night when no one was looking, and then scampered back inside the bark before dawn? If she made a noise he might stop coming out, and no one would believe her when she told what she had seen.

So she watched him in silence. His body rotated so his shoulder and arm were straight out. And when he got his right leg out, too, he rotated even more, so now he faced outward. Both legs came free, and then both arms, and … and he was dangling, painfully it seemed to Eko, by his neck, for no part of his head had come forth from the bark. And without the tree holding up any part of his lower body, the boy struggled and wriggled but had no leverage. He slapped and pushed against the bark, but he couldn't get his head free.

Eko worried that he might be suffocating. Or strangling. Or simply helpless, and what would he do if he could never get his head out of the oak? Hang there till he starved? Or until some bear decided to eat him? If there were bears in the land of the thornmages. She had never heard of a bear in the Forest Deep, but you never knew.

By the time she thought of bears she was already halfway to the tree. Still none of the family awoke, so she was alone when she stood under the boy in the tree and tried to reach up to help him. She couldn't, of course, so she went back and woke Father, pressing her finger against his lips to keep him from speaking.

She led Father to the tree, and then showed him what she wanted, without saying a word. He lifted her and sat her on his shoulders. Now she could reach the boy's feet and help hold up his weight.

Now he could reach up his hands and push against the bark much nearer to his head. Eko could hear Father beginning to pant with the exertion of bearing both her weight and half the boy's. “Come out come out,” she whispered. “The moon's about.” The rhyme was supposed to be about the sun, but Eko was adaptable.

The bark didn't tear, it merely opened, or not even that, it simply receded so that his face emerged as if from water. He was not a beautiful boy. His face was stretched. His nose scooped downward and out as if it were some sort of bird's perch. And when he got free, he was pushing so hard against the bark that he toppled all three of them down into the meadow.

Still no one woke.

Eko got up and went to the boy. He was naked, curled up in the grass. She touched his shin. He gasped and quickly withdrew his leg as if her touch had stung him.

She sat down before him, looking at him, marveling. None of the stories said that the Man in the Tree was just a boy.

“Is that a dingle or a dong?” whispered Father. “Is he a man yet or not?”

Eko shook her head. It's not as if she knew anything about how a boy became a man. She was having trouble enough making sense of the nasty things involved in becoming a woman.

At the sound of Father's voice, the boy slowly moved his hands to his ears and covered them. Then he tucked his body into a ball, ears tightly covered, eyes squinted shut.

“He wants to be alone,” Father whispered.

Eko nodded her understanding, but not her agreement. As if Father understood both messages, he crept back to the spot where he had been sleeping near Mother, while Eko continued to sit and watch.

Eko woke at the first light of dawn. The boy was gone. Instinctively she looked at the tree to see if it had been real or a dream.

Real. There was no manshape now. Nor was there even a scar in the tree where the boy had broken free.

The boy had not stayed to speak to her. Had not stayed for daylight. Somehow she had fallen asleep and he had crept away while her eyes were closed. It hurt deep inside her, to have been present at his—what, birth? emergence, anyway—only to have him sneak away while she slept. She never heard his voice. More to the point, he had never shown a sign of hearing her, or remembering that she had helped him get free of the oak.

I didn't do it for thanks, she told herself. So it doesn't matter that he never said thanks.

Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he speaks only tree language now.

Or maybe he was born inside the tree … somehow. Maybe he was never human. Maybe
he
is the
tree's
clant. Why shouldn't there be trees that had the talent of manmagery? Then the outself of the tree would ride inside the boy, struggling to understand the world around him.

Eko lay there, weeping quietly, until the others awoke and saw that the Man in the Tree was no longer there. They were all so frantic with questions and disappointment that Eko could barely get them to listen to her as she told what she and Father had done that night.

“But you let him go!” said Immo.

“If he was done with being the tree's prisoner,” said Father, “why should Eko have tried to make him
her
prisoner?”

All morning Father and Mother tried to restore the sense of frolic, but it was wasted effort. Everyone could see how Father grieved. The Man in the Tree really had been part of their family's life from his youngest memories. And now he was gone.

By noon everyone knew that it was time to go. It was no longer the meadow of the Man in the Tree. It was just an oak meadow now, and noplace special. Now other families could come here with no mysterious trapped man to frighten them. But
their
family, who had not feared the Man in the Tree,
they
would not be back to this place again in their lives.

As they walked home along the barely detectable track which was nevertheless engraved in memory, Eko thought she caught glimpses of movement in the woods to either side. Was the boy dogging them, keeping them in view? Was he hungry? Thirsty? What if he broke the rules of the thornmages?

Ridiculous. The thornmages surely knew where he had come from and would not begrudge him a sip or two from whatever stream they passed.

They emerged from the woods and began the long climb toward the pass. They had left too late in the day to make it all the way home, so they camped in a cold clearing high up the slope, where the ground slanted so much that Mother and Father tied the little children to sapling trunks so they wouldn't roll away in their sleep.

“Maybe this is how the man got caught in the tree,” Bokky joked. “He was a baby that his mother tied to the tree and then forgot.”

“I can't believe he's gone,” said Immo.

Gone, but not far, thought Eko, for she had caught another glimpse of a shadow moving just at the edge of her vision.

The next day, if he followed them through the pass and down to the village, Eko never saw. And yet she knew that he had done it somehow, naked as he was, cold as it was. That's why, when they got home, she took a ragged old outworn tunic of Father's that Mother was saving to cut up into rags or maybe make into something for the baby to wear—she hadn't decided yet—and, along with a bit of her own dinner, left them at the edge of their potato field, in the shade of a slender oak sapling—in case the boy had some particular affinity for oaks.

The next morning, food and raiment were both gone, and Eko could only guess where he had gone. Perhaps downriver. Perhaps back over Icekame. Or maybe he had flown away like a bird, or burrowed down into the earth to find the roots of yet another tree. Who could guess, with such a magical being?

4

S
HOPLIFTER

In all his previous ventures outside the compound, Danny had taken great pains to be seen by no one. His pleasures came from watching the drowthers and from knowing he was temporarily outside of a place he was constantly reminded that he did not belong.

Now, though, it wasn't enough to watch the drowthers. He had to pass for one of them. Inside Wal-Mart was every item he needed to pass for normal. But it would cost money, and Danny didn't have any. He had never even held money in his hands. From the internet and from books he knew about money; he had even learned the denominations and knew what they looked like. But knowledge didn't put money into his pocket.

Soon enough he'd need money even to eat and drink. But there was no chance anyone would hire him to do anything while he was wearing homemade clothes that, to tell the truth, didn't fit all that well and were tattered and grubby-looking. Nor was he qualified to do any kind of work, even if it were legal for people to hire a thirteen-year-old.

Clothes first. He ran into the first problem as he was coming into the store. An old man was greeting people at the north entrance. He took one look at Danny, pointed at his feet, and said, “Shoes.”

“I'm not wearing any,” said Danny.

“No shirt, no shoes, no service.”

“But I have a shirt on,” said Danny.

“No shirt
or
no shoes, no service.”

Danny stood there flummoxed, and nearly turned around to go back out. Then he saw a mother carrying a two-year-old who was wearing flip-flops on her feet.

“What about flip-flops?”

“Flip-flops count as shoes,” said the old man. “Except that you're not wearing flip-flops.”

“Because my little brother stole them. You saw him come in, didn't you? He was running and
carrying
my flip-flops. Do I have to wait out in the cold because my brother stole my flip-flops?”

“I didn't see anybody like that,” said the old man.

“Come on,” said Danny. “You aren't
that
old.”

The man bristled, but then Danny grinned. “Come on, let me find my brother, then I'll have my flip-flops, he'll have an Indian burn on his arm, and everybody's happy.”

“Except your brother,” said the man, a little bit amused now.

“Oh, he'll tell you, stealing my flip-flops and
almost
getting me kicked out of the store was worth it.”

“You're completely full of b.s.,” said the old man. “Just don't tell anybody you came in through this door.”

Danny knew what he needed to get, and without anything on his feet, he knew he had to get it fast and get out. But he couldn't help wandering around Wal-Mart for a while just looking at things. The whole place was a fantasy of Christmas. Everything had holly or Santa faces or elves on it; everything was red and green. Christmas lights, phony-looking plastic trees, pre-stuffed stockings. Christmas was apparently an even bigger deal to the drowthers than it looked like on TV or the internet.