Story 7: Reclamation Team 5

Owen came in to the small bedroom, his face covered in ash and grime. Erin looked up from the book she was reading.

“Any luck?” she said.

He shook his head. “Almost all the paper burned. Only the items in metal boxes were saved.”

“I’m so sorry,” Erin said, her eyes burning with unspent tears. “If you hadn’t had to help me, you could have-“

“Now then,” Owen said sternly. “Let’s have none of that.” He sat on the end of the bed, which creaked alarmingly, and stroked her legs through the covers. “You’re always my top priority. Both of you. There’s nothing been done out there that can’t be undone with a little effort.”

“It won’t be by us though, will it?” she said, the tears now rolling down her cheeks. “We’re off the teams for at least a year while our child is growing.”

He smiled, and she marvelled how calm and assured he looked despite the destruction of all their efforts for most of the past year. “Perhaps a fresh set of eyes will find even more.”

“And maybe we’ll never recover some of the texts. How many of them were the only copy?”

Owen stood and moved to the head of the bed. “Have you had any more pains?”

“No,” Erin said, struggling to sit up. “I think it was… a warning, perhaps.”

“I see you found a book to read.”

The book was lying next to Erin, still open at the page she had been reading. Owen reached over and picked it up, examining the spine. It was a leather-bound book with a red cover and gold lettering.

“This is… this is the book that the farmer’s daughter was reading,” he said. “How did you find it?”

“It was under the pillow,” Erin replied. “I thought you put it there.” She bit her lip. “There’s… it’s odd, Owen. I don’t like it. When I read the book, it’s as though the voice in my head belongs to a man. I think the little girl was right.”

“That the author of this book was reading her a story? But that’s impossible.”

“Try it.”

“What am I listening for?” Owen said, turning the book over.

“If I tell you, it might affect what you hear. Try it,” she urged.

Erin watched as Owen flipped to the front of the book and began to read. Normally, she knew, he would have a quill in one hand, ink to one side, and the blank book into which the manuscript would be copied in front of him. Reclamation teams were trained in holding the words in their heads only as long as it took to write them down, managing to keep the words neat and tidy despite not looking at where they were being written. This way, whole books could be copied down in a sort of trance state. Breaking the words down into just characters for the hand to automatically copy, keeping lines straight and correctly forming letters; these skills took years to master properly and only the best were sent out on reclamations. 

It was rare for teams to sit and read a book merely for fun or interest, as so much of their lives were taken up with books anyway. Owen and her had developed quite the taste for badminton using a net that could be strung between the wagon and a tree just about anywhere. It was so completely different from books as to make life interesting.

But now she was able to watch Owen’s face slowly change as he settled in to reading the first page. His sooty fingers left marks on the covers of the book, but he seemed not to notice. The first two paragraphs were inconsequential, she knew, and the strange effect of having the reading voice in her head become that of a middle-aged man hadn’t begun until after that.

Several pages later, Owen seemed to snap out of whatever he had been doing. “That’s… what was that?”

“You heard a man, in his middle ages, yes? A low voice, perhaps a bit of a burr to it like you get when you smoke a lot?”

“Yes,” Owen said. “He pronounced his r’s with a roll.”

“The same voice.”

“I’ll ask Mead about this.”

Erin frowned, then swung her legs out from under the coverlet. She was still dressed in her trousers and shirt, not even having had time to take anything off before Owen had deposited her on the bed. “I’m coming too.”

“Oh no you’re not,” Owen said. “You’re staying right there.”

“Owen Hazzard, you listen to me,” Erin snapped. “I’m fine right now; mayhap I wasn’t before but I am now. And I don’t trust Mead. He was in on what they did to our wagon.”

“How so?”

“He was out there, smiling. Looked mighty satisfied with himself,” Erin said as she pulled socks and sturdy boots on. “Like he’d planned it all along.”

“Why would he do something like that? He’s been nothing but kind to us since we got here.”

“I don’t know.” She sighed. “Maybe the townsfolk got to him. Told him that he shouldn’t help us; he’s not from here originally, is he? He came here from outside.”

“And the books?”

“Who knows?”

Mead was in the kitchen baking bread when Erin and Owen walked in. He looked up almost immediately.

“Ah, you’re recovered,” he said with a smile. “Good to see!”

“Mead, we need to talk,” Owen said. Mead’s face fell as he continued to knead the dough.

“Ahh, t’was sad what happened to your wagon. And you nearly done as well, I hear.”

Erin could hold it in no longer. “Why did you do it, Mead? Why did you let them burn our things?”

The kneading slowed, Mead not making eye contact with them. “How d’you mean?”

“Erin says she saw you jus’ letting it happen,” Owen said. “Do you have any idea how long it took us to gather those papers?”

Mead’s kneading picked up speed again. “Well, p’raps you shouldn’t be gathering them at all,” he said. “People round her don’t take kindly to having their ancestors stolen.”

“How d’you mean?” Owen said.

“Can’t say I see it myself,” Mead said, “but they believe round here that the books carry the souls of the townsfolk who’ve passed away. More than that. That the books actually are the people.”

“Like the people become to books, Erin said in a whisper. “And they tell their stories whenever someone reads them. That’s why the farmer’s daughter could read the book. It was like some sort of… oral book.”

“And your copies are soulless,” Mead said, real iron entering his voice. “They’re an abomination. The people of this town have a good thing going, and you’re not going to ruin it.”

“But this is spectacular,” Owen said. “We must know the way it’s done! Think of the use for the world at large. Literacy on a vast scale; everyone able to write their own book on their deathbed, effectively. How many times have great works of literature been lost to the world because the person with the idea lacked the resources or the training to write it down?”

But Mead was shaking his head. “The secret will never leave here,” he said, “for the simple reason that it won’t work anywhere else. This town is special.” He put the dough on a baking tray and dusted his hands off. “And now it’s time for you to go. Admit defeat. Strike this town from your maps. Your ways are not the ways of this town, and your Church, with its soulless depository of empty books, will always be the lesser power.”

Erin clutched at Owen’s arm. “We should do as he says,” she muttered. Owen shook his arm free.

“I’m not going back without a sample,” he said, only a slight quiver in his voice betraying how afraid he was. “This is something never before seen.”

“You will not get one,” Mead said. “Leave. Before the townsfolk do something you might regret.”

“Owen!” Erin said urgently. “Let’s go!”

“What, will the whole town rise against us?”

“They already want you out. Have you not realised that yet?” Mead began to advance and Erin half-pulled Owen away and out into the common area. “As soon as they realised what you were doing, unrest began to spread. I tried to calm them, but they threatened me. So now I’m threatening you. Yes, they’re prepared to kill to hide their secret, and they will rise against you if you try to take their books.”

He passed the bar, Erin and Owen still retreating before him, and picked up a meat knife from the wooden top. “Now go,” he said, still advancing.

Owen turned and, ushering Erin ahead of him, moved towards the door. They burst out into the town square and stopped short.

Every town resident must have been there, over a hundred in all. Some held a variety of weapons, others holding books close to their chests.

“Too late,” Mead’s voice came from behind, and as Erin turned around she saw the tip of Mead’s knife appear out of Owen’s chest. Blood sprayed out, darkening the ground, and Owen clutched at the knife blade even as it cut his fingers. Erin screamed and backed away.

“I guess you’re getting your sample after all,” Mead said, his eyes dark. The townsfolk were completely silent, adding to the surreality of the moment.

Owen was on his knees, still clutching at the knife. He stopped, his expression slackening, and Erin fell to her knees next to him. His lips moved, and she moved closer, supporting him on her knees as his strength left him.

“Take care of… our child,” he said, and then his eyes went glassy. His body spasmed a final time and then was still.

Only the sound of Erin’s weeping, echoing off the buildings in the square, filled the silence. Then she became aware of a small sound, like a high-pitched and complicated birdsong, and she sat up. Through the blur of tears she saw a light gathering at Owen’s feet, and then beginning to move up his body. As the light passed his ankles she saw that his feet were gone, and she shrieked, scuttling away from him.

The light continued up his body, erasing him from existence, taking his clothes with him. The knife was absorbed into the light, which continued to grow in intensity, and then the light reached his head. It grew to a blinding intensity and, as Erin shielded her eyes, there was a silent explosion of light and wind. Then it was gone.

The townsfolk began to walk away, still silent. Mead went inside. Erin was left alone, blood staining her shirt, to pick up the small object left on the ground where a moment ago her husband had lay dying. It was a book.

The book was green, leather-bound, not too thick. She opened it and began to read.

“Tales for small children,” it said, “By Owen Hazzard”.

Erin clutched the book to her chest and wept.

Story 7: Reclamation Team 5

Four days went by, four long and difficult days. Erin found herself spending more time at the copying desk than she had at any of the other places they had visited, for more often than not she was able to employ someone local to help. As well as the many dozens of books in the town, each house was also home to a variety of pamphlets and scraps of paper. When asked about these, the townsfolk were noncommittal; travellers had left them and they had been saved in case they were useful. One house they had visited that very afternoon had belonged to a particularly old man. He had welcomed them in when Mead had explained why they were there. They discovered that the house contained a small metal box literally filled with small scraps of paper, none bigger than Erin’s hand, each covered in what appeared to be random scrawlings. To even get to the box, the man had dragged a piece of furniture away from a wall to reveal a hidden compartment, and the dust on the box had been years deep.

“Can I take these?” she had asked, but the man had bristled at the very idea and it was only after Mead had talked him down that he was willing to let her copy them. That afternoon had felt very defeating, as Erin had painstakingly copied out the apparently random scribbles into a larger tome. The old man had watched and, as soon as she finished copying one out, had snatched it back and carefully laid it in the box.

Erin thought back over this as she lay in her bed, relaxing in the warmth of Owen’s arms. They had pushed the twin beds together and, despite the gap in the middle, were able to at least be near to each other.

“Owen,” she began. “The old man, yesterday.”

“Crotchety git, wasn’t he?”

She elbowed him slightly. “Not that. He was strange, with those writings. Or scribbles. Whichever.”

“How so?”

Shifting slightly to be comfortable, Erin said “You weren’t around to see it all. I think you’d gone to the farmer’s house by then. It got… weird, I guess. He sat and watch me copy every one, then put it away in the box. Individually. And so carefully, like it was special. Holy.”

Owen stroked her belly. “Well, it is special. It is holy; we’re part of the Church too, remember?” Slight amusement came through in his voice.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean it was like… we take normal precautions with books. We take care of them. But this was extreme.” She rolled over and sat up, shaking his arm off. “These scribbles were meaningless, I’m almost sure. And he wasn’t saving them to read or look at; they came out of a box that hadn’t been touched or even looked at in years!”

“So he’s a little bit crazy about his paper.” Owen sighed and turned onto his back. “Odd you should mention it though. I guess, at the farmhouse, they were treating their books a little strangely. Or at least, the youngest child was.”

“Mmm?”

“None of the townsfolk can read, right?”

“Except Mead,” Erin said.

“Right. So the youngest daughter at the farmhouse, couldn’t be more than five, is a little blonde beauty with a blue dress, and she’s sat in front of the fire.”

“Go on.”

“Well,” Owen said, “I’m coming in from the outhouse, where I’d like to point out there was no paper. In fact, I’m amazed that this town of illiterates aren’t just using the books to clean themselves. But I digress.

“I come in, and the girl’s sat with a book across her knees. It’s close-written, quite thick, no pictures. She’s turning the pages in about the same amount of time it might take, say, an adult to read it out. I watch her for a few minutes.

“She looks up, sees me. I smiled and said ‘So what’re you doing?’ She says ‘Jeremiah’s reading me a story.’ I say ‘Is Jeremiah your friend?’ and she gives me this dirty look and shakes her head. ‘Are you looking at the pictures?’ I say, trying again, but she just looks at me like I’m stupid and says ‘Why would I do that? Pictures can’t tell me the story.’

“Well, at that moment her father came in and she carefully closed the book and put it back on the shelf. I took it down and opened it as soon as her back was turned. It was ‘A Treatise on Mountain Goats’ by one Jeremiah T. Willikins.”

“So the little girl can read?” Erin said, rolling over onto her side. She smiled, but when she saw the expression on Owen’s face she felt it slip.

“No,” he said, “she can’t. None of them can; her father was most insistent.”

“So they’re lying. They can read.”

“I don’t know.” He yawned. “There’s a lot to do tomorrow and the quicker it’s done, the quicker we can head back to civilisation. Away from people who can’t read and treat paper like it’s gold.”

“Not the paper, I think,” Erin murmured. “The writing.” She closed her eyes and was almost immediately asleep.

Mead put the earthenware coffeepot down on the table between the two breakfast plates. “Will there be anything else?” he said, dusting his hands off.

“Actually, yes,” Erin said, cutting Owen off before he could do much more than raise his head. “There’s a young girl out at the farmhouse. Can she read?”

Mead cocked his head curiously. “No,” he said, “I told you no-one could read. Only me.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t truly know,” Mead said. “There’s a superstition about it, I suppose.”

“Has anyone ever tried to learn?” Owen said.

“Not that I know.”

“What if-“

He was cut off by a shout from outside, and a crash. Erin struggled to her feet.

“The wagon!” she said, and started for the door. Owen, only a second behind her, was already taking his jacket off.

Outside, the scene was chaos. Five of the townsfolk had gathered around the wagon and a sixth was on top; it was the farmer, Erin noted, his rough homespun clothes askew as if he had dressed in a hurry. He had an enormous ginger beard and his arms were easily as thick around as her thighs.

“Stop!” she cried, coming to a halt a few feet away from the wagon. The townsfolk were tearing handfuls of books and papers out from under the canvas and throwing them to the winds, and as she looked around Erin realised that paper was strewn all over the yard. She saw the old man whose paper she had copied yesterday pulling out books left and right as if looking for something; a young girl, couldn’t be more than five, gleefully pulling pages out from a tome; a woman, floury apron kicking up clouds of dust as she stamped on several scrolls of maps from northern Dorth, and a pair of what appeared to be identical twin young men who were busy trying to undo the fastenings on the canvas.

“Please!” she screamed, and then Owen was among them, pulling an old man off balance, tearing the book away from the girl and shoving the woman aside. Then he jumped onto the driving platform and faced the farmer.

“Why are you doing this?” he shouted. “We came in peace; we were welcomed into your homes!”

“You profane the memories of those what have died,” the farmer replied. “The books, they…” he stopped, glowering, and put his hand behind his back. When he drew it out, he was holding a knife that was easily as long as his forearm. “We will take them back. The words. The people. The memories. All of it!” He stabbed down onto the canvas and tore a huge hole in it, causing papers to flutter every which way.

Erin cried out as he knees gave way; a deep pain came from within her and, as the papers flew all around like the first snows of winter, she knew that something was deeply wrong both in the town and inside her body. Owen, hearing her cry, turned and jumped down from the wagon. As she crumpled to the ground, he caught her under the arms.

Owen clutched Erin to his chest. “Are you ok?”

“The baby,” she murmured. “Something… it might be coming and- oh!” A lance of pain ripped through her from stomach to chest.

Sheer panic painted his face. “What do I do?”

“I don’t know!” Erin panted. “There’s…”

The sound of a flame igniting, that unmistakeable whoosh, caused them both to look in the direction of the wagon. The old man had brought out a torch from somewhere, a stick wrapped in oil-soaked cloth, and the twins had lit it with a fancy automatic flint-and-steel. The flames, even in the morning light, cast a hellish glow on everyone’s face. Owen clutched his wife tighter to him, powerless to watch as the old man passed the torch to the little girl. She curtsied, absurdly polite, and then moved towards the wagon. The farmer jumped down to stand next to her, then picked her up tenderly and placed her on his shoulders.

With a yell, she threw the torch directly onto the slit that he had cut. The papers in the wagon caught light almost immediately, the conflagration growing in mere seconds. The smell of burning paper filled the air and ash began to stream off of the wagon. Erin, tears streaming down her face, felt a part of herself burning up, shrivelling, turning to ash in concert with the wagon. She looked to the side to see the broad form of Mead. He was staring at the scene, but it wasn’t anger, fear or worry on his face.

It was satisfaction.

Story 7: Reclamation Team 5

Erin looked at Owen and smiled. The setting sun’s final rays pierced through the low-lying cloud and perfectly lit his golden-brown hair into a glowing halo. He looked over at her and mirrored her smile, the creases wrinkling unevenly at his scarred cheek. He turned back to concentrate on the road and Erin absently stroked the curve of her pregnant belly, buried as it was under three layers of fur against the night’s chill.

It was hard to imagine that they had been on the road for almost nine months already without break. Then again, she mused, it wasn’t as if the Church encouraged breaks in reclamation missions for anything much. Pregnancy was a mere mis-step in the grand plan, one that would lead to the child being fostered by one of the many monasteries just like Erin and her husband had.

“Nearly there,” Owen purred in his deep south accent. Erin felt a warm little quiver run through her; even after so long, his voice touched the part of her that loved him deeply. The cart rocked underneath them, drawing them forward into night and towards their journey’s final waypoint. Ahead, at the top of the mountain path, lay Westwatch; the town was nestled in the arms of a pair of mountains and represented the highest settlement in all of Ehrian. Such was its location that it was only accessible from the Dorthian side of the mountains and their route had wended its way south through pretty much the entire country of Dorth, then west through the mountains.

The two donkeys pulling the cart would barely have been able to muster more than a walking pace anyway, but the cart was now full of books and paperwork. This was an excursion that Reclamation Teams like theirs took every few years, to further one of the Church’s aims: to try and obtain a single copy of every written materials ever created. New versions of old texts needed to be sought out; new texts, written in the time since the last team swept the country, needed to be sourced and, where necessary, copied. It was a full-time job which required dedication, patience and the ability to spend a lot of time in a pair.

“Y’know, I was thinking,” Erin said, still gently stroking her belly.

“Mmm?”

“If it’s a boy-“

Owen flashed her a grin, his teeth white in the growing darkness. “Not this one again,” he said. “I thought we’d sorted it out.”

“Well, it’s not quite time yet. There’s still some time before… before we have to choose.”

“I thought it was Erika for a girl and Thomas for a boy.” The town eased closer, lights coming on as the sun’s light faded behind the horizon.

“I was kind of thinking Trip if it was a boy.”

They rode in silence for a short while. Then, when the town’s border was almost upon them, he sighed. “Trip? Isn’t it a little… new-age?”

“I was thinking it might be a nice way to remember that I carried him for the entire journey,” Erin said, feeling a little foolish. She shrugged. “I guess we can- oh!”

Owen pulled the cart up short at the edge of town and turned, take her face into his hands. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on each cheek and once on the nose, his beard tickling her. She flushed, the warmth of him chasing away the night’s chill.

“I think it’s a lovely idea,” he said, smiling. “But if it’s a girl, we still get my choice. Erika.”

“Deal.”

Erin looked around the quiet street while Owen went into the nearest inn. The buildings were short, generally one storey, made of local stone and wood by the looks of things and seemed to be almost exclusively houses. A few windows had their shutters or curtains open, and just from where she was sat Erin could see several books in windows and, even as she watched, an old lady in the nearest house walked over to a laden shelf and reached up to carefully pull a dusty tome down. She looked up and noticed Erin watching. Erin smiled and waved, but the old woman scowled back and reached over to close the shutters with a slam.

Owen came out. “There’s a room, but it only has twin beds,” he said. “Do you think that will be fine?”

Erin shook her head. “I don’t know. Can you manage to not be disturbed by me getting up and down to the toilet all night?”

Owen laughed and began to lead the donkeys around to a small blank space next to the inn. He unhitched them and started to lead them around the side. “Do you think you can manage to get down by yourself?” he said over his shoulder.

Erin tutted. “You mind yourself, Owen Hazzard, and let me mind myself.” With an unladylike grunt, she slid over to the steps and climbed down from the driver’s platform.

She moved around to the back of the wagon and began tightening the fastenings on the piece of waterproof oil canvas that secured their load. Owen came back around.

“Kid in the stables charged me another ten coppers to take care of Betsy and Beth,” he said, starting to check the fastenings on the other side. “Still, he reckoned they have best-quality hay here. They import it from down on the plains, can’t grow any here, so they only bring in the best.” He dropped the fastening, patted and offered his hand to Erin.

The wagon battened down, husband and wife went arm-in-arm into the inn’s warmth.

Erin used the last of the rough mountain bread to clear the gravy from her bowl. The barman came over with fresh mugs of mead.

“Stew good?” he said, cleaning his hands on his spotless apron.

Erin nodded. “Amazing. What exactly was in it?”

He grinned. “Grandmother’s recipe. Potatoes, carrots, turnroot, a pinch of local herbs and some of the allspice that the traders bring in from time to time. A few local greens to go with it.”

She smiled. “Do you have it written down anywhere?”

The barman grinned. “You’re on a reclamation? You’re with the Church, right?”

Owen nodded. “There was one that came through here, but it was over two decades ago.” He smiled ruefully. “Based on the journey we had up here, I can’t imagine why it’s been missed for so long.”

“Wait here,” the barman said, and disappeared back into the kitchen. In a minute or two he was back, piece of paper in hand. “I remember when the last team came through; I wasn’t lettered in those days. My daughter’s influence,” he said. “Written down now, though. Guess you’re wantin’ a copy?”

“Many thanks,” Owen said, taking the paper. It was signed ‘Cory Mead’. “This you?” he asked.

“Ain’t no-one else here that can write, when my daughter’s not in town!” Mead said. “Whole town’s pretty much illiterate, but the girl wanted me to be able to write to her while she travels, and read her notes.” He shrugged. “Besides, it helps; one or two of the townsfolk have had books for a while and they don’t know what they’ve got.”

Owen grimaced. “We have no way of knowing what the last team to come through will have taken a copy of.”

“I can probably help,” Mead said. “I’ve had chance to see most of the writings here in the town, big or little.” He leaned on the table, his enormous arms bare and bunched with muscles. “Tell you what.You’re staying here tonight, right?” Owen and Erin nodded. “Well, in the mornin’ I’ll take you round each of the houses where I know there’s writings. Introduce you to some of the townsfolk.” He shook his head. “They’re a suspicious lot but they trust me. I’ll get you in, make your job a little easier.”

Owen stood up and stuck a hand out. “You’d do that?”

Mead shook his hand. “‘Course I would.” He laughed. “I’ll do anythin’ I can do to help the only guests we’ve had to the town in over a month”

Erin shifted awkwardly in her seat. Despite the cushion, the wooden bench was less than comfortable. “Business bad?”

“We’re a long way off anywhere useful here, and like I say; the townsfolk are suspicious,” Mead said. He lowered his voice. “I came to this town nigh on twenty five years ago and, well… there’s not been any movement since then. No-one in, no-one out, apart from the occasional lost person, casual visitor or reclamation team. It’s not like there’s anywhere to pass through on the way to.”

“Well, I hope it won’t be an inconvenience if we stay a few nights,” Owen said. “Maybe as much as a week.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Mead said. “See you tomorrow mornin’!”

Erin pushed her empty bowl away. “Owen, I…”

Owen met her eye. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if it’s just emotions running wild now that the babe’s nearly here. Or whether it’s just intuition.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer to her husband. “I don’t trust this place suddenly.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Owen said, exuding confidence in every word. “We’ll get what we need and be done here in a few days, anyway. Chances are the townsfolk’ll let us take the copies of books they’ve got now, if they can’t read them.”

“That would be great,” Erin said, taking in the sight of her husband. His broad shoulders were well-defined under the shirt he wore, his roughly woven trousers hiding legs that she knew could carry him for miles if needed. They had faced dangerous situations before out on the road, and both had the scars to prove it, but the added vulnerability that had grown within her in the last months made the world seem a darker place. As the conversation of the townsfolk around her rose and fell like a gentle tide, she closed her eyes and snuggled closer to the man she loved.

Story 1: The Climb

Part 4: Canopy

26^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

Undaunted by the possibility of whatever made that nest, I pressed onwards and write this now from a point which is perhaps my limit, the highest I can hope to climb. It is now so cold that the water in my bottle, which I have thankfully been able to fill via rainfall, snowmelt and finding small pools nestled in the bark, is freezing solid. Little chunks of ice come to my mouth whenever I take a sip, and it cannot be long before it completely freezes.

The wonders have not ceased, though, and they warm the glow in my heart. Several new insect varieties have been observed over the last day, all of them relatively tame. I suppose, never having seen a human before, they have no preconceptions about danger from me.

One, its carapace as green as the leaves, had somehow managed to take its camouflage technique to a new level; during the day I observed a phosphoric light shining from its underbelly as it knelt its long, many-jointed legs to chew on a leaf. From both above and below it would blend in seamlessly, though from directly in front it was clear to see. Black chitin sandwiched between those layers of disguise, quite unlike anything at ground level.

Another discovery was a small rodent-like creature, but incredibly light; It pains me to say that I crushed the first one I tried to pick up, completely by accident. Its tiny body is apparently completely used to living at higher altitude and I observed one of them taking a running jump off a leaf, only to spread odd furry wings and land on a higher branch thanks to an updraft. These tiny creatures have front teeth designed for gnawing and long tails for balance, and their brown fur is a similar colour to the bark.

There is no fruit, of course, even up here; the Arbour is ever in bloom but that beauteous spring and summer never passes into autumn and winter. The flowers are enormous but they are merely larger versions of what we see below; a golden-sheened flower with five petals, like a trumpet, and several stamen waving inside. There is worth even here though; should we find a use for the flowers, and overcome our reluctance at performing sacrilegious acts, we would have a massive supply of them here.

This evening I sheltered near the trunk with several leaves pulled around me, still connected to the Arbour. They seemed most willing to move and stay without springing back. Even now, I feel, the Tree wraps its protective arms about me and lulls me to sleep. I shall say my prayers and write no more this evening.

27^th 

I have seen it! Oh, Tree, root, branch, it was… I have not the words. I cower in a small opening, waiting.

27^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

In a better position now, I can write more. I feared for a while that, when future explorers found my bones, they would never know what ended my journey. That hurried scrawl, I almost wish to tear it out of my journal. But that would be unscientific. I shall leave it there and build instead upon it.

The creature is enormous; a bird, but unlike anything down below. Imagine, if you can, a bird made entirely of wood. Long mahogany talons at the end of wicked wooden claw feet, themselves attached to legs ringed around like tree trunks. The body, covered in leaves rather than feathers, and the immense wings. Long branches, each covered in many hundreds of leaves of different sizes, and then its head. Its eyes were like polished parquet orbs, several different colours and grains of wood, each one moving against the other and the whole rotating in its socket. Its beak, long and cruel with a sharp hook, the only part of it not covered in a fine bark.

It swooped around the canopy, thankfully apparently not seeing me, for a bird with those features can only be predatory. Its beak is made for ripping into things and its claws for tearing meat. What, then, does it feed on? Is this to blame for the reports of dragons and similar rubbish we receive down below? Or does it feed on adventurers climbing the Arbour?

It circled once as I cowered, then around again before shooting up through the canopy. I must follow it, even though it may mean my death, for such a wonder must be recorded as much as possible. Dangerous, yes, but this could be the most important thing I do in my life. I do not wish to be found wanting.

But its wings, when it flapped, like the wind blowing through a tree’s branches. The rustling. Sleep will not come easy this evening.

28^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

This is… hard. Air is thin. Have reached canopy’s top; view is staggering. Blue skies, a mile in every direction of green. And, just a few hundred feet away, a man. I see him. Am I alone? Am I dreaming? So hard to get my breath. Left my gear two hundred or more feet below, needed to drop the weight. Had to climb leaf to leaf to get this far.

I go now to meet him, whoever he is.

1^st day of Apris, 1456 AA

Has it really been three days? The meeting is still so hazy in my mind. I am told I slept for over a day and a half. But I get ahead of myself.

Where to begin?

I am lying in a bed at Rootholme. The monks here have made me welcome and they say that the High Father will be returning tomorrow. I must have a report ready by then. But what to say?

I made my way from where I had broached the canopy’s top to where I saw the figure of a man. I can only hope that I was not hallucinating, for that would make what followed nothing less than the ravings of a madman. We shall see.

He was made of wood, is the easiest way to describe him; like the bird had been, his skin was bark, his fingers gnarled twigs; he had a sort of twisted crown of small branches sprouting from his forehead and his eyes were solid wood. He even had a beard made of leaves, the smallest around his mouth and the longest dangling down nearly to his stomach.

He had been watching me approach, waiting.

“You had travelled far,” he said as I staggered near to him. “Come, sit.”

I felt a stump of wood rise up beneath me that had certainly not been there before. It appears that this being could summon and shape the Arbour at will.

“I am Yal,” he went on. “I am a… guardian, I suppose. Your language is ill-suited to describing my role. I care for, protect, nourish, guide the Tree.”

“Brennan,” I gasped out, finally getting a little breath. “My name is Pieter Brennan.”

“Why have you come, Pieter Brennan?” His voice was gentle, deep.

“I seek knowledge.”

“Can it be true?” he said, his face creasing into a smile. The motion of his wooden skin moving like any person’s skin was most unsettling. “Has your race finally come out from under the shadow of Church teachings? Are you once again ready to walk with the ancients?”

My vision beginning to blur at the edges, I shook my head. “Father Pieter Brennan,” I managed. “I am from… the Church.”

The worst thing to a child is when they see disappointment on a parent’s face. It is worse than anger or frustration. I felt myself regressing back to that child at the look on Yal’s face, such was the sadness in him.

“Know this, Pieter Brennan,” he said. “You are not the first Church researcher sent up here, though you are the first for many a generation. It is as if you periodically forget that I am here, have always been here,” and then with a distant, hollow voice, “will always be here. Every time I expect more to follow; I suspect that, as in days of old when the communication lines were open between us, your leaders suppress the information and will suppress what you bring back. I can hope, but not too hard.”

“Things will be…” I wheezed, pinpoints of light dotting my vision, “different this time…”

Yal turned his back and looked out across the canopy. “Perhaps,” he said, “and yet-“

I heard no more as I fell, consciousness flickering off and on like a candle in the wind. I saw Yal turn, watch me fall with no more expression on his face than I might have watching a squirrel suddenly drop from a tree. I heard him call out “Dizmael! Catch him!” and then heard the immense rustling, like the wind blowing through the trees. Something arrested my descent and I passed into unconsciousness.

I awoke to find myself back on the Foothills, a short journey from Rootholme. I was not in my right mind; eyewitnesses say that I staggered in with none of my equipment and raving about some giant creature, but no-one had seen it and it was some time before anyone even recognised me.

I can feel a great tiredness upon me, but I will write up my report for the High Father and give it to him tomorrow.

How much of what I saw was an hallucination? The air was thin, difficult to breath; I could have taken leave of my senses, and certainly, reading it back, it seems like the writings of a madman. Creatures made of wood, a Guardian of the Arbour; it baffles my scientific senses. Just this once, though, I find that I am prepared to put faith before my scientist’s principles. Faith, after all, merely requires one to believe in something, whether one has proof or not. 

Story 1: The Climb

Part 3 (cont): Branch

14^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

The air is getting steadily colder the higher up I go. I am now over five miles up, far too far to be looking down too often. I did chance a look, kneeling down on a broad branch and crawling as close to a sharp edge as I dared. Five miles isn’t much; standing on a hill on a clear day I can see for much further. When that distance is beneath you, the effect is startling.

I have made very little in the way of discoveries in the last few days, but I am nearing the clouds. Tomorrow, or the day after, I will pass through them and see what few had seen clearly, and none up close.

Postscript: that I have made no discoveries is not entirely true. I am experiencing none of the breathing fatigue that mountain climbers have reported. They say that, at lower heights than I have climbed, the very substance of the air becomes hard to breath; those who brave the Giant’s Toe in Zar, the tallest peak in all Ehrian, are hardy individuals indeed, and many have died there. Strangely, I feel fine, though cold. It has long been identified that plants contribute to the air’s wholesome nature, and places with more plants in them are generally gifted with sweeter air. Is the Arbour somehow generating breathable air in a cloud around itself? I may be secure until its peak, in that case.

16^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

More climbing. My excitement is beginning to wane, for a day and a half ago I entered the cloud bank and have been unable to see a hand in front of my face since. Twice I nearly missed my footing, as the cloud has the unique property of destroying my depth perception. I am lucky that the climb, up until now, has been almost entirely like walking up steep steps, for otherwise I am certain that I would have had to abandon the attempt.

I can only hope that the cloud breaks soon.

17^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

How thick is this cloud? Last day before I turn back.

Postscript: Just realised that I have been on the road now for a month! If only I were writing this under more celebratory conditions, but one works with what one has.

18^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

Praise be! Not only have I broken the cloud barrier but the tree’s canopy looms above me! I am free to begin my observations as I approach the canopy.

To begin with, there is the odd matter of the light around the Arbour, one that I have never really stopped to ponder. The canopy stretches out for many miles in all directions from the trunk; why, then, is the entire area under the Arbour not a sunless wasteland? No plants should grow, no animals able to thrive and the Rootholme budget for candles should be phenomenal. I am in a position to provide some answers.

The leaves of the canopy are quite closely meshed, although massive; I should be able to climb through them as if I were a miniature human on a normal tree. Here is the oddest thing: the light seems to shine directly from the leaves themselves, as if they were sources of light. I wonder if the Arbour will allow me to retrieve a sample, though the leaves may not behave the same in a laboratory.

Perhaps the sunlight shines onto their tops, is stored in some sort of… reservoir, then shines out during the day. Why does this not happen at night? Curious.

19^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

A good day of climbing; I found what appears to be a vine, part of the Arbour itself, but forming a smoothly looping upwards path. I have no idea how far I will be able to travel on the Vine Road, as I have decided to name it, but I plan to take advantage of it. The upwards progress is slightly slower but, I feel, vastly outweighed by the much easier passage.

The canopy looms closer, though it will undoubtedly continue to dwarf my vision for at least another week. Surely some creatures must live in there, unwilling to come down to ground level, for it represents an enormous environment untouched by man. Even in my lifetime we have seen the invention of the ambersteel furnace and the harnessing of steam; vast tracts of land dug up in the search for precious amber and woodlands cut down to feed the steam furnaces, and for what? Humanity is short sighted. I am certain that future generations, maybe even the next that I have trained, will be able to surmount these problems and make a better world.

20^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

Illness. I think that some of the salted meat in my backpack was tainted when I passed through the cloud and I find that I am squatting near the edge of the Vine Road more often than moving, or that is how it feels. I can only hope that the wind is carrying what I am producing far away, or else I am giving some Rootholme researcher the worst day of his career!

22^nd day of Maia, 1456 AA

Yesterday I rested and recuperated my energy for another burst skywards, towards the glowing leaves and the secrets therein. Today, I climbed higher and was witness to a fascinating thing, an event which both scared and enthralled me.

I had passed by several small holes in the trunk, about large enough to admit my head with a little breathing space. I had almost put my head into one when I suddenly recalled my last encounter in a trunk-cave, and hastily back away. I settled instead for making observations of the exterior; small tooth marks, evidence that the bark had been somehow peeled away and the hardwood underneath bored into. Satisfied, I sketched one hole and moved on.

Many turns of the Vine Road later, without realising it I was almost directly above the holes, though several hundred feet higher up. I chanced to realise that I should probably toss the spoiled meat over the side, something that had slipped my mind until that point. I did so, and was amazed to hear a chittering sound growing below me. Peering over the edge of the Vine Road, I could see an immense black cloud of insects boiling out from the holes, circling the meat as it descended. Such was the fury and opacity of the cloud, and the way that they moved almost as one organism, that I doubt a single scrap of the meat made it into the cloud cover. The insects circled around a few times, then poured back into the holes in thin streams.

I only wish that I had been closer. Perhaps, on the way down, I will be able to make more observations.

23^rd day of Maia, 1456 AA

Food is beginning to run low, and the canopy seems only a little closer. I have hope that I will find food up there, though; creatures certainly live in and around the Arbour, so I am sure I can find something to sustain me.

25^th day of Maia 1456

Tomorrow I am sure that I will encounter the first leaves of the canopy, but far three greater concerns have become much higher priorities.

Firstly, food. My situation is not yet dire; I could turn back now and probably only have to starve myself for a day, as the downward spiral would be much quicker.

Secondly, the Vine Road. There is no way that this is a natural path. No, wait, let me reconsider that statement. The road itself is undoubtedly natural, produced by the Arbour like a raised cord wrapping in almost perfect spiralling circles. And that’s just it; the road is so regular, far more so than anything seen in nature. I am beginning to wonder at the wisdom of the ancients who decreed that none should climb the Arbour, when this road was set out specifically for that purpose and by the Arbour itself!

Finally, I write this from a slightly precarious position, though I do not wish to move. I am sat, at this moment, in an enormous nest. Some sort of creature, bird or animal, has gnawed a large cave many times my height into the trunk of the tree, cleverly concealing it from anything looking up by bending the lower lip of the trunk out slightly. Inside, it is warm; the cave doesn’t go back far, but has a lower area, then a step up to a higher area where I have climbed. The lower area, which I can now look down on, has an unmistakeable nest, a circle of leaves and branches taken from the Arbour. The leaves, I can see, lose their ability to project light once plucked; something there for future botanists to quarrel over, I am sure. The centre of the nest was padded with something that appeared to be a type of moss; on closer inspection it appears to be shredded leaves and wood pulp, probably chewed and regurgitated by whatever made this nest.

I can tell little about it; if it is a bird, it is monstrous in size, three or four times my height at least. If it is a burrowing creature, such as a squirrel, I fear that its teeth alone will be taller than I am, for it would dwarf one of the gigantic Koruan pack bison. Whether it is carnivorous or not may decide my fate.

Part of me quails to think that I may meet the beast that lives here. The other part, the scientific part, longs to meet, observe, dissect analytically this fantastic find.

Story 1: The Climb

Part 3: Branch

8^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

I write this from what I have dubbed the Foothills of the Arbour. There’s no official name for this, or any of the areas I will be visiting; I suppose we have always been conditioned by our teachings to view the Arbour as a whole being rather than as individual parts. Certainly, were this a mountain, the lowest slopes would be the foothills, and so I name it thus.

The roots of the Arbour curve up and down, sometimes snaking partly above and partly below the ground and, in at least one case, arching above the ground to create an immense bridge. As this latter feature was the most accessible climb, I decided to make my way from Rootholme towards this singular object, which I have named the Great Root Bridge. 

The journey from Rootholme itself was long. The Arbour, at this distance, plays tricks on the mind’s perspective. It looks as if it already looms over you, indeed could fall on you at any moment, but the distance to its base is still measured in miles. It simply is a far larger thing than a mortal mind can encompass and I find it amazing that we try.

The Great Root Bridge begins more than two miles from the base of the tree, rising slowly. The going is a little tougher as the bark of the tree has wide gulfs between some of the sections. Most are smaller than the length of a man’s stride and could be easily covered, but there were the occasional knots or ridges in the wood which needed to be jumped or climbed down. I almost courted disaster the first time I tried to jump with my full pack on my back; the ridge was ten feet deep and, though not fatal, would have hurt me had I fallen. I jumped, not at all ready for the pendulum effect that my pack had on me, and barely made it to the other side! Thank the Tree no-one was watching; nothing was injured save my pride, but the bruising there will fade only slowly.

I managed to make it to the trunk of the Tree itself, which is where I made camp. I will admit to a certain degree of trepidation; even standing on the roots of the Arbour such as I have been should be grounds for an investigation of my faith, my morals and my very worthiness for life. Though safe in the knowledge that the High Father himself sent me here, I still found it hard to put one foot in front of the other. Tomorrow I begin the most arduous part of this, the climb. I have already scouted out a possible route, one that begins with ease and gets steadily harder; I had the foresight to pack a small brass telescope into my gear, something to remember my days back at the Library with, and using it as the sunlight touched its last to the Arbour showed me that the first branch is a full day’s climb away using this route. I am fortunate that strange bulges in the Tree’s surface, what would undoubtedly be tiny ridges on any normal tree, provide me with at least the start of an upward route. I will need to be awake early in the morning and already on my way ere the sun rises.

9^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

Disastrous day. I had four separate attempts to begin the climb, but it was as if the Tree itself was denying me access. Perhaps… but no. That is superstitious nonsense.

I began by attempting the climb through the route I had identified yesterday evening. This route began well enough, curving around the Tree; the spacing between the chunks of bark was closer than I could have hoped and the line of ascent was fairly steady. I am under no illusions that I will have to physically climb, as if it were a ladder, later on in the ascent but at that moment everything seemed perfect.

The large, smooth knot in the wood that stopped my progress was apparently hidden from view down below. Part of the bark was kinked out and prevented me from seeing it, from planning my route around it. Its smoothness and complete lack of handholds meant that, for now, my ascent that way was halted. Without another viable route upwards from where I was stood, I made my way back down.

Little can be said of my second and third attempts; they met with equal despair. No, it was my fourth and final (for today, at least) effort which has me the most shaken up and has ensured that I go nowhere in the gathering dusk.

I was making good progress upwards, perhaps having climbed half a mile vertically in a casual slope. Rain had started to fall, making some of the going slippery and the bark treacherous in places. A small opening in the trunk of the tree yawned invitingly just a few hundred steps away, gently coming into view around the curve of the trunk. I stepped out, glad of the chance to shelter for a short while, soaked through as I was. Sure enough, the cave was warm and smelled strangely comforting. It took me back to the workshops at the Library where the bookshelves were made. Each was constructed with a little waste as possible, such was this gift of wood from the trees revered. The shelves were sanded and shaped before being added to the Library itself.

I had been in the cave for a few minutes before I realised there was something wrong. The cave seemed to go off deeply into the trunk, and only a little sawdust on the floor suggested anything untoward was occurring, but then I heard it. A scratching, scritching, clawing sound. Curious, and more than a little afraid, I pulled out one of my precious tapers and lit with the automatic flint and steel. Immediately, wondrously, a spark shot out and the cave lit up. Almost immediately I saw my own face and flame reflected a hundred, nay, a thousand times in the lenses of some enormous eyes! I was sharing the cave with what I now realise was some sort of giant wood-eating insect! Of course, looking back, it stands to reason that a giant tree may give rise to giant flora and fauna living on it. I shall have to take care as I progress, lest a woodlouse or similar eat me in one bite!

I ran out of the cave, waving the taper towards the creature, and tried to still my fluttering heart. A cold sweat broke out all over me and I fear that my churning stomach came close to giving up its contents. A glance upwards revealed that, as the light was already fading, the first branch was still a good five hours climb away, and I could not hope to complete the climb in the dark.

Tomorrow I will set back off on this route, but it is damnably irritating to be back where I started with nothing to show for it but a few years shaved off my life and one brief glance at a new species! Not even enough for a decent sketch, though I will do my best.

Perhaps I will be able to study one of these more closely in the future, though hopefully when it is truly dead!

10^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

A much better day today. It is windy, but I have made camp on the first branch. I am at least a mile up vertically and have certainly had enough success today to make up for yesterday’s abject failures.

I am sure that the small plant I have made my camp next to, happily growing directly out of the Arbour’s bark, is not one that has been categorised before. I took samples and sketches before moving on, but I fear I will not always have the time or the opportunity.

Perhaps this will be named after me. Purple Brennan, or the Purple Pieter.

Ah, of all sins, pride is the most insidious!

12^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

Two backbreaking days of climbing and I am more than three miles up the trunk of the tree. This approximate ‘mile a day’ rate is appearing to be a regular thing and I can, perhaps, count on it continuing. The Tree itself carries on forever upwards, piercing the clouds and on beyond that before it even thinks of widening. I wonder whether the air above will be capable of supporting my breathing.

This trip has already been a treasure trove of discoveries, and I am glad to put the travails of the first climbing day behind me. Three new species of flower, a fungus that grows only in the darkness between bark segments and, best of all, the chance to observe the nesting habits of the Arboreal Buzzard. It was fascinating to watch this bird, the only known one to make its nest in the branches of the One Tree. In our cuttings, the ones we encourage to grow in every settlement, no animals make their nests, not even birds or squirrels. Why should this one be different?

My patience was rewarded, and my questions answered, when the Buzzard left its eggs for a short while and flew away. I was beginning to worry that my presence there had scared it into leaving for good, abandoning the eggs; just as I was about to move out along the branch towards the nest, it returned clutching something terribly familiar in its hooked claws. At last, the incredible length of its beak was made clear as it had successfully fished out and killed one of the insects that had so scared me on my first climbing day. Revenge is sweet! The buzzard ate the creature slowly, putting aside some of the carapace and its contents, presumably for its young.

Tomorrow my climb can continue. Whether I will have the strength for a diary entry remains to be seen.

Story 1: The Climb

Part 2: Trunk

20^th day of Fendas, 1456 AA

Four days on the road have done wonders for me; alas, I fear that my diary-writing has taken the toll for my efforts. As a researcher and a scientist I must make sure that I keep better records from here on out.

The countryside between Downshire and Daron is truly beautiful; rolling hills with a bracing wind coming down off of them, and the occasional small copse of trees. It’s mostly pasture land, supplying animals for bigger towns like Dotton and Eastwatch, and the forts that sit on the foothills of the Eastern Mountains. I passed a few people on the road, mostly traders; one offered me what I thought was a fair exchange when he brought out a comfortable-looking robe, bright gold thread winking all over it. I’m ashamed to say I gave in to temptation and later paid for it, as it was infested with fleas! This episode just goes to show that any member of the Church’s active research team must temper their studies with time in the real world so that they do not lose their edge.

Confound these fleas!

21^st day of Fendas, 1456 AA

Came upon a wagon train by the side of the road today. There were only seven people in all, what looked like a family of traders; two parents, four children and what might have been a husband to one of the daughters judging by his protective nature. They were initially defensive, going so far as to try and stop me from my journey (which amused me no end!) but I was intrigued, so I stopped for a short while. It turned out that three of the women had come down with black fever, a little rare in these parts; a quick survey of their goods revealed that they had a few items of Koruan origin; at least one of the artefacts was from the nation’s far past, plundered from a tomb, and it apparently still carried the vestiges of that which had no doubt killed its owners.

I brewed for them a simple tincture of honeywort and bidder’s beard, both commonly found by roadsides, and bade them drink it. Their symptoms improved almost immediately; they stopped vomiting, their pupils returned to normal and even the brown rash across their arms lightened in colour noticeably.

How is it, I wondered as I blessed them and left, that the knowledge of yesteryear can be so quickly forgotten? Brown fever is so rare now that the wisdom of its cure has been forgotten, written out of history. Lucky for them, for us all, that the Church makes it its business to keep records of things like this so that future generations may yet prosper, Tree willing.

Fleas still problematic, but better today. I am sure I can obtain some sort of repellent in Daron.

22^nd day of Fendas, 1456 AA

Daron

Flea repellent. Ahhh, were there ever two more beautiful words in the dictionary?

Bang on time, I have reached the village of Daron. There’s not much to see here; the Village Elder, certainly living up to his title, was half my height even leaning on a cane. Introducing himself as Henry Foil, he then proceeded to walk me very slowly to a room at the inn. I queried what a man of his stature (no pun intended, I promise) was doing welcoming traffic to his village; surely the roads were far too quiet to warrant him doing that as a full-time occupation. He shrugged and tapped his nose slyly. “You’d be amazed what people say and do when they think ol’ Foil ain’t watchin’ or listenin’,” he said, the coughed up a glob of something foul and left me to sleep.

The innkeeper charged me three coppers for the candle I am writing by; business obviously is extremely slow. I shall ensure I leave it here for the next occupant, though I have no guarantees that the man won’t just trim the end with a knife and sell it on for another three coppers.

Flea repellent. Tree be praised!

25^th day of Fendas, 1456 AA

Tree be praised! A good omen! Today sees me in an inn room at Velec’s Hall, a full day ahead of my itinerary. The wagon train from the 21^st, whose lady folk were now completely recovered, passed me on the road heading to this tiny hamlet and offered me passage. They made incredibly good time, and it was a delight to sit around a campfire eating home-cooked food rather than lying on a cold bedroll with only trail rations. On top of that, they whipped the horses to within an inch of their lives and I was pleased that they did, for another day at the Tree might mean another exciting discovery.

My luck continues, as the wagoners, a family by the name of Tuck, are so grateful for my aid that they will take me on to Simel’s Hearth. By the time I get to River’s Song I could be two days ahead of schedule or more. Perhaps the ferry will take me to Rootholme early!

The wagon rocks and judders over the road too much for me to make much in the way of diary entries, as evidenced by the complete lack since Daron. This may be my last one for a few days.

1^st day of Maia, 1456 AA

I said the Litany of the Maia Beata this morning, as all Church members should. For my congregation I had a curious sheep and for my 

Good to their word, the family Tuck got me to Simel’s Hearth within only a day and a half and I was able to push on northwards towards River’s Song. I am yet two days shy of the ferry and, with luck, will be able to make my next diary entry from its cabins. To sleep in a comfortable bed once again will be a blessing; not a single night since I left has been truly comfortable, though there are certainly degrees of discomfort!

I have been neglecting my duties somewhat, though, and I think it only fitting that I make my first official observations of the Arbour.

The Arbour. An organism so enormous that it is visible from most of central Ehrian, the continent on which our countries rest. Even as far away as Fennica on a clear day have people reported that they can see the Arbour, though thick cloud masks much of it beyond a certain height. This close, though, it is becoming intermittently clearer; details such as lower branches and its general structure are becoming clear. There is a pronounced bulge at the base, just above where the root structure would end on any ordinary tree, and then the climb would begin in earnest. The trunk appears smooth, but I know from studying our cutting of the One Tree, that which all towns and villages should have, that the bark of the Arbour is almost pebbly, split into small sections that tesselate in and around each other.

I will be able to see more as the days continue and the distance grows less, I am sure.

3^rd day of Maia, 1456 AA

The ferry at last! The Golden Princess was not quite the enormous vessel I had imagined, but it certainly moves as fast as I had hoped. I am confident that we are going to arrive and maintain the two or three days I am currently ahead of my original plan.

A few notes on the Princess: about the size of three wagons laid end to end, she has three levels; two above water and one below. The highest, a cabin, is large enough for two members of the crew to inhabit at all times as it seems that two are required to ensure our safety. The main deck is all-but empty to allow for convenient loading and unloading of equipment and personnel. Several pipes snake up from belowdecks and empty out over the sides of the boat; from these, steam pours when we are underway.

Below decks lies the engine, a monster of brass. I initially thought to ask why brass was used instead of the relatively easy to obtain iron; one careful look around told me everything I needed to know. The engine room dripped with condensation and, of course, where water is involved there is always rust. Brass, immune to this infirmity, is a necessity.

Finally there are the cabins. Though I was hoping for luxury I was unprepared for quite how cramped the quarters would be. More a cylinder than a bed! I am to climb up a ladder and swing myself into the bedspace, with the ceiling no more than a foot from my nose. Enough room to turn, I discovered, but not to sit up.

We are steaming quite happily up the river and the captain, a short fellow from Zar by the name of McInnis, tells me that we will be at Rootholme within the week.

4^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

River-sickness. Is that a thing? Sea-sickness, yes, but not this. There is hardly any rolling motion but that produced by the vessel itself.

5^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

Still sick. Better today, managed to hold down some soup. The crew, both of them, are quite unsympathetic.

7^th day of Maia, 1456 AA

At last! Rootholme, the jewel in the crown of the Church and home to many of its finest minds. I am truly humbled to be in their presence.

When I think of the many thousands that make the journey here as a pilgrimage to beseech the Arbour for good lives, bountiful profits, strong children. I suppose I am here making my own pilgrimage, but I want only knowledge. We can save the world with knowledge, I am sure.

Tomorrow I set off, but this evening I am to be a guest of some of the most well-known researchers who dwell here. I have looked out my best clothing, though it is sadly travel-worn and I am weary. Perhaps my appetite will grow when I see what is being served.

To think that my next diary entry will be made at the foot of the tree, or even having begun the climb! Such excitement makes me feel young again. Perhaps the High Father really did know what he was doing when he chose me for this assignment.

Story 1: The Climb

Part 1: Root.

Taken from the collected diaries of Father Pieter Brennan, recovered from the ruins of the Library of Leaves, Octas 1507 AA.

14^th day of Fendas, 1456 AA

I had a visitor today. The High Father himself, would you believe, our blessed leader Father Loris. He wished to speak with me in private on a matter of great import. Well, of course I agreed. We adjourned to the cloister and, over a tray of tea and cake brought by one of the acolytes, he laid out his plan.

The Arbour; that which is fundamental to our religion, has always been at the base of everything we believe. Fourteen hundred years of symbiosis with the Tree, and in all that time no real steps forward in our research. Something, the High Father suggested, was keeping us back.

“High Father, whatever can you mean?” I said. He frowned, and here I shall relate the conversation that followed.

“Tell me, my child,” he said, his walnut-brown skin creasing around the eyes, “Have you ever thought of climbing the tree?”

“The… the Arbour? Climbing it?” I spluttered, a chill running through me. Such a thing is sacrilege, I thought, an affront to everything the church holds dear. My feelings must have been brutally plain on my face, for Father Loris’s features relaxed into a kindly smile.

“Of course you have never thought about it. There is a deep sense of blasphemy in you, in me, in all of us, that to even conceive of the idea feels wrong. Dirty. But there it is.” He took a sip of tea and winced. “Too sweet. You really drink it with that much sugar?” I nodded, struck dumb by the enormity of the idea the High Father presented. He placed the teacup back into its saucer and shook his head. “Oh, to be young again.”

“High Father,” I began, but he waved me into silence.

“The blasphemy, the idea that climbing the Arbour is somehow ‘bad’ is instilled in us at an early age. I learned it from my tutors, just as you did. Just as my tutors learned it from their elders, and so on back through the history of the church. I wonder,” he mused, stroking the wispy beard that clung to his chin, “I wonder who it was that first decided this. Perhaps it was even the Arbour itself.”

I opened my mouth to disagree, then closed it again. We were told, after all, that the early men had spoken with the Arbour and received replies.

“I am not going to have my tenure as High Father end without some sort of original research to show for it, my son,” the High Father went on. The High Father leaned forwards. “Why do we research things?”

“To supplement our learning, I guess. To confirm it or correct it.”

“Think on from there.”

I rested my chin on one hand, elbows on the table, unconsciously mirroring my guest. “If I climb the Arbour and am turned away, or suffer some mishap, then we have confirmed the ruling of the past.” My eyes widened in realisation. “And if I climb the Tree, discover new things… a new branch of research could be opened up.”

“Aye.” He sat back again into the plush red armchair and took another sip of his rapidly-cooling tea. “We could discover new life, new medicines, things to improve the life we have and ways to more easily end that life. Those things must be catalogued, categorised, controlled.”

“The person you send would have to be someone fairly special. I can think of three or four acolytes here, one that I trained personally, who might have the attention to detail and the stamina to perform such a feat,” I said, already reviewing the candidates in my head.

“Do you think I came here merely for your advice?” the High Father said, then he began to laugh. To hear a belly laugh, full-throated and roaring, from a man of his advanced age quite took my mind off its track. He calmed and wiped a tear from his eye.

“Pieter, you have trained some of the best and they will carry on in your absence admirably, I am sure. I am here to give you your next research assignment.” He gave a wicked grin. “Climb the Arbour.”

And so it was done, in three words. No pleas would he hear; he already had answers to most of my reasons for sending someone else, almost as if he had planned every word. I have no familial ties; no dependants, no pets; all of the skills a person would need were already at my disposal, with a little improvisation; even the matter of my own slowly advancing years, already 45 summers gone, were waved away with one beringed hand.

I was to climb the Arbour.

16^th day of Fendas, 1456 AA

A busy day yesterday precluded me from writing in this diary, but I shall make amends today and attempt to describe all that has gone on.

The exact nature of my research task has, of course, become a secret which is known only by a select few. The High Father, of course, myself, my assistant Dolan and Father Baker. The latter was unavoidable; when departing on a mission of any kind it is essential to let one’s immediate superior know where you are going, however much you dislike him.

That meeting, yesterday morning as the cock crowed, was made infinitely easier by the presence of the High Father in the room, but he left the talking to me. I have to say I surprised myself in how quickly the justification for this came to my own lips; High Father Loris had evidently done a better job on me that I had even realised.

Of course Father Baker had little choice but to give me access to the resources I needed and make way for me. I think, despite the arthritis that plagues his knees on frosty mornings, that he was jealous of the potential opportunities. The curl of his lip as I explained exactly what I would be climbing told me much about how closed his mind was to the idea, though. 

The rest of the day was taken in a flurry of activity, collecting trail rations, a bedroll, clothing, stout boots (my sandals, oft-repaired, are sadly not up to the task) and blankets. The High Father entrusted to me, before he left in his carriage, several small gold and silver ingots. Each one, about the size of my thumb, represents more money than I have ever seen in my life. I have one next to me know, a gold slug of metal that reflects the candlelight most pleasingly. I can see why some men spend their entire lives collecting the stuff, despite it only have worth in the eyes of those who trade in it. He also gave me, from his own pocket, an automatic flint and steel.

“You never know,” was all the High Father would say, and he’s right. I have no idea of what I’m really letting myself in for, and the enormity of the project is just starting to set in. Here is my itinerary for the next few weeks:

Six days travel on foot from Downshire, east to Daron, then another four east to Velec’s Hall.

North three days to Simel’s Hearth (how quaintly the villages and towns are named in our fair country!)

North seven days to River’s Song.

I must be at River’s Song within twenty days, for the High Father has ensured that a ferry will be there waiting for me to take me upriver to Rootholme. The ferries are contracted, though, and will not wait. It is my understanding that the ferries remain one of the few ties we have to the SIC, and it is easy to see why when our goals and resources lie so far apart. Nevertheless, their steam ferries are quite the easiest way to get around.

One day rest and recuperation at Rootholme, and ensuring that I have everything I need. The High Father regrets that he will not be there to see me off.

The rest of the itinerary is projected, but all research projects need a plan of some sort, no matter how audacious they be.

Five days allowed for climbing up the Tree. This may be an easy task; branches wider than most of our roads are evenly spaced up the trunk, and I can make camp on any of those. To get further than we can view with our eyes, vertically up, I will need to climb for around eight hours of all of those days. It will not be climbing in the true sense of the word, as parts of the trunk are bevelled, at least to our eyes, and allow for sloping paths. They are narrow and extremely steep, but one works with what one has.

Twenty days for research. This is, I feel, the most flexible part of the project. Depending on how high I reached during the previous days I will perhaps need to eat into this time for climbing. Eating is an appropriate word for another reason, as I will be carrying my rations on my back and can manage enough for a little over four weeks.

Four days to descend.

The High Father has kindly offered me a room and board at Rootholme for several weeks afterwards, no doubt so that he is the first to hear about any findings. It is the least I can do for an old man. Besides; I will no doubt be extremely tired by that point!

Tiredness is an apt subject to come round to, for I feel this has become somewhat of a ramble. It is gone nine bells and my candle is beginning to burn low. My boots, stiff and uncomfortable for now, are sat ready to be donned after morning meal and my pack, quite the heaviest I have carried for a good long time, leans by the door ready to be shouldered. I leave on the morrow.