face. "We
aren't married."
Robbie's heart rose. "I love
you," he said, reaching out.
Her distress burst like a bubble and she
fell forward, limp and gasping.
Robbie held her close. "Nothing's
changed."
Fristeen clung to him, unable to speak.
He stood there, rocking her gently. It was
brave to have said that, he thought. I love you— A vast unknown
had opened between them, and he'd crossed it with a single breath.
After a while, Fristeen's self-possession
returned. When she was ready, they turned their backs on the Great grove and
started through the high brush, climbing. She didn't say anything, but Robbie
had never felt so close to her. Maybe the revelations beneath the Safe Tree had changed them. They moved with a new fluency, holding the boughs back for each
other, one in the lead and then the other, as if testing a deeper trust.
The web loosened. The litter shimmied,
fooling their feet. Then the way leveled, and they stepped through jade-leaved
willows bursting with wool. They came upon a log that was rotting. Its thick
trunk lay intact on the soil, but its arms were gone and its bark was blanketed
with dogwood crosses. "It's not a tree," Robbie said. "But it
used to be." So that's what they called it.
They headed to the left, and as Used-to-Be
disappeared behind and below them, a ridge rose up. On the crest, a pair of
aspens were silhouetted against the sky. As they approached, Robbie could see
that the aspens were wrapped around each other. He glanced back. The view
spread out: a choppy descent, a line of hills lifting up, and a river of leaves
flowing between—trees beyond counting, every shade of green.
When they reached the top, there were a
couple of surprises. The two aspens had sprung from the same mass of roots.
"Like us," Fristeen said.
"The Two-Tree." Robbie put his
fingers in the crevice between the boles. And then he froze. A ghostly
landscape met their eyes—shot with bright colors, but ravaged and gloomy— No
crowns or green canopies. The trees were all black—spindly and pointed, as far
as you could see. Robbie remembered the islands they'd glimpsed from the Hiding
Hole's rim.
"Where are we?" Fristeen drew closer.
He gave her a mystified look. He scanned
the decline and pointed. The border of the dark domain was just below. Should
they go see?
A silent "dare you" passed
between them. They nodded to each other, linked hands, and started down.
The way descended through thick viburnum, a
puzzle of leaves that obscured the way forward at every step. A sudden
break—the black trees were closer—then they vanished again behind the shifting
green.
"Look," Fristeen cried out.
Ahead, the ground was splashed with color—emerald,
russet, maroon and rose. She ran and knelt down in it. Robbie followed, amazed
by the swells on either side. It was moss, but not like any he'd ever seen. It
spread out like a giant quilt, covering everything. When you put your foot
down, you sank way in.
Fristeen screeched. She was hopping and
sloshing from swell to swell. Robbie leaped after her. The moss bled, and the
blood smelled like Christmas. Your feet got soaked. You sank deeper and
deeper—up to your knees—but it wasn't hard to get out. More wild colors—amber
and mauve, burnt lake and chartreuse—and all so bright, magically bright. There
was a little wet place, and it turned into a string, a silver rill winding
between. And you followed it as the quilt divided, hopping from pillow to pillow,
shouting and slipping and crying out. It led right into the black trees.
All of a sudden, the ragged spikes were
around them.
"Robbie?" Fristeen eyed him
anxiously.
"I think it's okay," he
whispered. It seemed important not to speak loudly.
The trees were silent, without leaves that
clapped in the wind or hummed in the breeze. Some grew straight up, but most of
them leaned. The only sound was the ringing of the rills, silver and distant.
Whatever enchantment they might have felt among the aspen and birch, a
aren't married."
Robbie's heart rose. "I love
you," he said, reaching out.
Her distress burst like a bubble and she
fell forward, limp and gasping.
Robbie held her close. "Nothing's
changed."
Fristeen clung to him, unable to speak.
He stood there, rocking her gently. It was
brave to have said that, he thought. I love you— A vast unknown
had opened between them, and he'd crossed it with a single breath.
After a while, Fristeen's self-possession
returned. When she was ready, they turned their backs on the Great grove and
started through the high brush, climbing. She didn't say anything, but Robbie
had never felt so close to her. Maybe the revelations beneath the Safe Tree had changed them. They moved with a new fluency, holding the boughs back for each
other, one in the lead and then the other, as if testing a deeper trust.
The web loosened. The litter shimmied,
fooling their feet. Then the way leveled, and they stepped through jade-leaved
willows bursting with wool. They came upon a log that was rotting. Its thick
trunk lay intact on the soil, but its arms were gone and its bark was blanketed
with dogwood crosses. "It's not a tree," Robbie said. "But it
used to be." So that's what they called it.
They headed to the left, and as Used-to-Be
disappeared behind and below them, a ridge rose up. On the crest, a pair of
aspens were silhouetted against the sky. As they approached, Robbie could see
that the aspens were wrapped around each other. He glanced back. The view
spread out: a choppy descent, a line of hills lifting up, and a river of leaves
flowing between—trees beyond counting, every shade of green.
When they reached the top, there were a
couple of surprises. The two aspens had sprung from the same mass of roots.
"Like us," Fristeen said.
"The Two-Tree." Robbie put his
fingers in the crevice between the boles. And then he froze. A ghostly
landscape met their eyes—shot with bright colors, but ravaged and gloomy— No
crowns or green canopies. The trees were all black—spindly and pointed, as far
as you could see. Robbie remembered the islands they'd glimpsed from the Hiding
Hole's rim.
"Where are we?" Fristeen drew closer.
He gave her a mystified look. He scanned
the decline and pointed. The border of the dark domain was just below. Should
they go see?
A silent "dare you" passed
between them. They nodded to each other, linked hands, and started down.
The way descended through thick viburnum, a
puzzle of leaves that obscured the way forward at every step. A sudden
break—the black trees were closer—then they vanished again behind the shifting
green.
"Look," Fristeen cried out.
Ahead, the ground was splashed with color—emerald,
russet, maroon and rose. She ran and knelt down in it. Robbie followed, amazed
by the swells on either side. It was moss, but not like any he'd ever seen. It
spread out like a giant quilt, covering everything. When you put your foot
down, you sank way in.
Fristeen screeched. She was hopping and
sloshing from swell to swell. Robbie leaped after her. The moss bled, and the
blood smelled like Christmas. Your feet got soaked. You sank deeper and
deeper—up to your knees—but it wasn't hard to get out. More wild colors—amber
and mauve, burnt lake and chartreuse—and all so bright, magically bright. There
was a little wet place, and it turned into a string, a silver rill winding
between. And you followed it as the quilt divided, hopping from pillow to pillow,
shouting and slipping and crying out. It led right into the black trees.
All of a sudden, the ragged spikes were
around them.
"Robbie?" Fristeen eyed him
anxiously.
"I think it's okay," he
whispered. It seemed important not to speak loudly.
The trees were silent, without leaves that
clapped in the wind or hummed in the breeze. Some grew straight up, but most of
them leaned. The only sound was the ringing of the rills, silver and distant.
Whatever enchantment they might have felt among the aspen and birch, a
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