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.

Ten Ehrian Tales

For NaNoWriMo this year I decided to do something almost guaranteed to end well. Not having finished the third draft of Poisonroot (first thing I need to do in the upcoming year!) I didn't feel that I could start Tangleroot, the sequel, with a clear conscience. Sue, my wife, suggested I write some short stories set in the same world, and Ten Ehrian Tales was born. Featuring characters both seen and unseen, some main characters and locations mixed in with some hither-to-for unexplored areas, I quickly found that I could easily stay on top of the wordcount while actually having fun.

I was able to keep my attention on my work because each story was bitesize, and it definitely allowed me to flesh out the world a great deal. John Aggs, another friend of mine, suggested that the stories should be jumping-on points for the world. I'm not sure that I managed this; at least one of the stories is fanfiction set within the world itself. I'm sure that some of them stand alone, though.

I'll serialise the stories over December. Enjoy!

Poisonroot: Second Draft complete!

Yup, that title pretty much says it all. I've finished the second draft of Poisonroot. It's undergone a few changes and a lot of the backplot is updated to make more sense. Some of the more stupid bits have come out and it's generally tighter.

I plan to try and get this published, so don't expect to see it here, I'm afraid!

To segue.

I recently discovered something that both annoyed me and made me feel slightly stupid.

The word ‘segue’ is not pronounced ‘seeg’. It is, instead, pronounced ‘segway’.

Now at this point, I really really hope that a few of you are thinking ‘the Segway; isn’t that just the wheeled alternative to walking around that debuted in the early noughties?’ Well, sadly, no. It turns out that segway is the correct pronunciation of the word segue, which means to move seamlessly from one topic to another.

The thing is, I was never vagway about how to pronounce segway. I always pronounced it the seeg way, never thought twice about it. It seems to be a rogway word and I intend to continway to pronounce it seeg. This does lead me to wonder, however, about the valway of other words ending in ue. Should all good stories end with an epilogway? Is it once again in vogway to have a fondway party, or a lemon meringway pie for your birthday? It looks like it would be easy to misconstrway the way we pronounce words like argway, issway and residway. Not to fatigway you with constantly having to subdway the urge to correct this language monologway, but I think this way of thinking may have valway, possibly even virtway.

This isn’t by any means a prologway to anything greater; it would be untrway of me to suggest otherwise. I only wanted to subdway the little tongway in my head, that retinway of words, which have been long overdway their say.

I think it’s almost out of my system. Suffice to say that whenever a colleagway mentions it at work, whenever you are feeling blway, whenever you listen to the Pogways (particularly at Christmas), you’ll hopefully think of this catalogway of intrigway and instead pursway a different vocalisation of the poor, confused ue letter group.

Maybe even while you ride on your Segway.