It was Tree Day, and Antwelp had never been more excited—or afraid.
“Come along now,” his mother called to him, giving him a soft look over her shoulder. Antwelp drew his eyes away from the walls of the Grove and took off after her as fast as his stubby legs could take him. Even for the bramblekin, who were suremost the smallest peoples of the wood, Antwelp was something of a runty thing. A bramblebairn his age was usually at least four stones high, and some of his friends could even see over the top of a gripplebush. But he was barely half the size of his mother, unnaturally thin around his twigmiff, and even his pluckers were on the stumpy side, so short and close together that it almost looked as though he had only one on each hand rather than three. Only his acorn-shaped head was the normal size, though it was unhelpful—the weight of it on his own frail body made him foralways about to topple over if he went too fast. “Careful now dear, I said come along, not hurry up!” his mother tsked. “Yes mother,” Antwelp replied, placing his twiggy hand on the side of a hut for balance. He stayed a few paces behind her, keeping an eye out for Dewbler as he went. If anyone was as mixedy about Tree Day as he was, it was Dewbler, who’d had three older brothers all go branches apart. Antwelp was an only bramblebairn. They spotted Mr. Elberg as they walked, tending to a patient in his yard. He smiled at them as they approached. “Hello there!” he beamed, picking up a cloth from his workbench and wiping at his pluckers. His patient was an older bramblekin, and seemed a little betwiggled at his thornplucker’s unprofessionalism, but he stayed quiet all the same. “Hi Mr. Elberg!” Antwelp replied, and then, without missing a breath, he asked, “Mr. Elberg, has anyone ever not been branched?” “Antwelp, that’s enough!” his mother said, before looking over apologetically at Mr. Elberg. “He’s been asking everyone that, and the answer’s always the same, isn’t it?” “Oho!” Mr. Elberg bent his arboreal legs down so he could speak to Antwelp directly. “I didn’t realize you were being branched today! Why, it wasn’t so long ago you were just a bundle of bark!” His patient cleared his throat, and Mr. Elberg returned to him at once, immediately reaching for his prickly face—he was quite thorny. He continued to talk while he plucked though. “Well, I’ve watched the branchings for every Tree Day since my own, and I’ve seen some awfully unexpected things, but I’ve never seen the Tree go dark!” “Nor have I,” said the elderly bramblekin, who now seemed quelled. Antwelp still wasn’t convinced. It must have shown on his face. “Think you know better than the Tree, do you?” asked Mr. Elberg, winking one of his big yellow eyes, and Antwelp blushed. “No,” he grinned, looking down at the ground. “I’m just being budly.” “That you are,” his mother told him, and she grabbed him by the arm. “But we must be going, the only way to not be branched is not to be there at all! See you at the ceremony,” she nodded to their company, and they were on their way. “Bye Mr. Elberg!” Antwelp called as his mother pulled him along, and Mr. Elberg waved. “Well I hope that’s the last you’ll ask of it,” his mother said, and Antwelp nodded. Mother always used Mr. Elberg as an example of why the Great Tree was so important. She had grown up alongside him, and said that when they’d been bramblebairns themselves, he’d been an impressionable one, more interested in telling stories or drawing pictures, as his father had, even though he himself hadn’t been very good at either. Now though, he was as capable as any other thornplucker in the Grove. Mr. Elberg and his patient weren’t the only ones lagging behind. Everywhere that Antwelp turned it seemed as though everyone was quite busy, all doing their best to get in that last bit of work before the Branching, as the celebration afterward could sometimes last a whole day. The scapers were out in the middle of the roads, fixing them up as Antwelp clumsily danced around them. If he peered into the windows of the huts he could see the writers writing away, no doubt in preparation for the day’s events. The builders were building, the rooters rooting. He saw Dewber’s mother, a berrier, sorting her baskets, holding each berry up to her eyes with her slender pluckers to examine it carefully (she had poor sight, Antwelp knew.) He supposed that Dewber’s father would be the one taking his friend to the Tree, which made sense, as he only worked at night, fending off the nibblermites. Only the Groveguard looked unchanged in their daily behavior, and that was because they were always working as hard as they could. Antwelp could see them lining the walls, their woody bodies covered in tin and wheat, sprigswords at their sides. One of them gave him a blank stare as he passed, and he quickly turned his head away. The Groveguard were friendly, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself; they were an exclusive bunch, the last one having been branched in before Antwelp was even born. The last thing he wanted was for them to think that he expected anything. Despite his dawdling, they were among the first to arrive in the Great Tree’s Den. Antwelp had seen the Great Tree before, but had never been so close, and he thought that he’d never seen anything so dendrifical in his life. It was massive, towering over its neighbors, which all looked quite shrubberly by comparison, though of course, they also didn’t have large clearings in front of them filled with stools. Its trunk was twice as thick as well, and its branches, already longer, were twisted and coiled around one another almost the whole way up, making it almost impossible to follow one completely, even if they weren’t so well hidden behind the beautifully purplish sprimleaves. You could only see where the branches ended, and that was because they poked out of the foliage at odd angles, looking like little pluckers of their own, pointing every which way of the Grove. Antwelp picked a branch unreasonly and tried following it with his eyes, but the more he tilted his head up, the more wobbly he was. He finally stopped when his mother brought his attention to the others that had gathered. “There, you know her, don’t you?” she said, pointing at a bairn at the end of the clearing. “Yes mother,” he said, and he did recognize her. She would thumble sometimes with he and Dewber when they were much younger. “See? And you thought you would only know Dewber here. There’s plenty of bramblebairns sharing your Tree Day with you, and that means plenty you can talk with once you’re branched!” Antwelp nearly said if he was branched, but knew better. Factly, he was sure that he would be branched, but his real worry was that wherever he went, he wouldn’t be able to do it. Most times, his pluckers couldn’t even write neatly. What if he did have to swing a sprigsword? Would he even be able to lift it? More and more bramblekin continued to come with their bairns, until, eventually the clearing was filled. Without even needing to be told they all took their seats facing the Tree. Antwelp saw Dewber for a moment a few rows ahead of him; they waved at one another before he vanished behind a sea of russet, cuppy heads. “I can’t see,” Antwelp whispered to his mother, while the crowd around them rustled jovially. She patted him on the shoulder. “You don’t need to see, dear, only hear. You’ll know when your name is called.” “But-” “Shh!” The crowd was starting to quiet; something was happening. Antwelp looked around, trying to see just how many of them were there. The entire Grove had gathered, it seemed. Then he heard a voice. “Today we gather,” it said, and the voice was thick and soft, like hearing cotton, “to welcome a new generation into the Grove.” Antwelp shifted himself, trying to get a view. He had seen the Grove Elder before—he would often come around and greet the residents—but he wanted the full experience. Hesitantly, he picked himself up slightly from his stool, and when no one stopped him, he stood completely, now able to see through the slivers of space between the others’ heads. The Grove Elder was standing on a wooden box. He was brittle, his body blackened and crumbly, except for the orangey fuzz on his face. He wore a robe made from snellshine petals, the gold so bright that it made his yellow eyes look closer to corn kernels than the large glowing suns typical of their kind. He had been littled by age as well, though even then he was still bigger than Antwelp. When he spoke, though, it was with a passion that only an emissary of the Tree could have, his arms moving about in a lively manner. “It has been a prosperous season since our last gathering,” he went on. “The Tree not only prepared us, but also gave us strength. We not only endured the toxic rains with the help of our wonderful new trenchtillers, but for the first time in five seasons, we have restored life to the honeycrest fields!” The crowd applauded. Antwelp had to adjust himself again, and this time caught his mother’s eye, but she merely smiled at him. “As we prepare for the ceremony, we remind ourselves that the bramblekin are not a people of survival, but a people of growth. There are many creatures in the wood that view our ways, and the ways of the Tree, as simple, even naive, but what they fail to see is that we are above all else, patient. That we let the world come to us. The Great Tree brings it to us!” More applause, louder now, and Antwelp thought it might have been nevergone applause if the Elder hadn’t raised his hands to call for silence. “Season after season, our beautiful grove has been safe and bountiful, and as each Tree Day comes and goes, slowly, we become safer, and more bountiful. We adjust. It takes time, and many confusing and sometimes frightening things must happen, but not a living being in the wood was here for the time before the Branching, when bramblekin was slave to the whim! The other creatures of the wood now say that we are slave to the Tree, but the Tree is not our master, it is our guide! We have seen many a creature lay dominion over the wood, have seen the Skytoppers rule from above and the Wiglams from below, but over time, they have died out. Why? Because when they had everything, they couldn’t decide what to do with it.” Many of them looked down uncomfortably at this words. Even Antwelp, who barely understood them, felt their effect; he felt the spines on his back curl. The Grove Elder nodded and closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “Yes...we have outlasted them all, because we have unpluckered ourselves from such wickedness. To choose is to have power, and to have power is to submit others to one’s will. Choice is thus power over others. We bramblekin understand that choice is the most sacred, yet most dangerous thing of all, and must only occur when all choices are good, and whole, and true. “Today, we ask the Great Tree to shepherd our young into maturity, to make the difficult decisions that they are not yet equipped to make, that they might avoid consequences that they are not prepared to face. We ask that the Tree, in its infinite wisdom and impartiality, consider the welfare of the Grove above all else and allow us, its individual integrants, to serve as its nutrients, that we might all nourish one another, and ourselves be nourished in turn.” He looked up at the Great Tree as he said these things, his voice now one of reverence and gentle pleading both. Antwelp saw that his mother, like many others, had closed their eyes in prayer. Then the elder reached into his verdant garb and produced a thin sheet, his thinkingness returned to him. “Bramblebairns,” he said, “when I call your name, approach the Great Tree and crawl into its hollow. There, you will place your pluckers in the resin gob and allow the Tree know you, that it might then share you with us all.” Antwelp flexed his subpar pluckers at the thought. He turned again to his mother, who had opened her eyes and was still smiling at him warmly. “Esthel!” the Elder read. Antwelp watched as his friend that he’d seen earlier approached the front. The crowd was silent. She looked awfully oakley—so much so that Antwelp hoped she was faking it. He didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself from squirming. She exchanged a look with the Elder, then climbed into the hollow in the center of the trunk, disappearing into the darkness. They all waited-- Slowly, the Tree stirred. It began to flail and jolt, like it had swallowed something it shouldn’t have. Then came the light. It started at the roots, which began to gleam with the yellow light of an egg’s middle. Next came the trunk, which wrapped itself entirely in the glow, so that the hollow where Esthel had entered was the only place you could stare without harming your eyes. And finally, the single shimmering bead appeared, which climbed its way into the branches, jolting along, a raindrop trying to make its way back to the sky, leaping from one branch to another on top of it, and side-to-side, and so forth. Antwelp followed the light in silence with the rest of the bramblekin. It left a glittering trail on every branch that it snaked along, an almostlike echo for the eyes. The light was following a path, though where it was going, there was no way to know. Its pale, golden tail looked beautiful as it clashed with the purple leaves, causing some areas to be vibrant and lucid, others dark and empty, but all eyes were on the travelling orb, and where it would end its journey-- It came to a rest in a little corner, the last branch lit having been a thick coiled one that curled into itself. The Elder walked back and forth underneath, holding his plucker out to guard his gaze from the light while he tried certaining the result. Esthel climbed out of the hollow, then herself looked up at what had been decided. “A thinker!” the elder announced, and the crowd cheered, Antwelp included. Esthel smiled as the elder said something to her, then returned to her spot in the audience. The cheering stopped as the bulb of light vanished, and eventually, the twinkling residue of the affected branches went into the wind, so that the Tree returned to complete darkness, at which point the elder returned to his list. One by one Antwelp watched them go, bramblebairns like himself maturing before his very eyes, learning their place in the grove. He saw familiar faces become berriers and sapsippers, raincatchers and recordkeepers. Then came another name. “Dewbler!” Antwelp watched as his friend approach the Tree, then climbed into the hollow without a single bit of apparent budlihood. This time, Antwelp hoped that it wasn’t an act. The Tree stirred as it always did, with the glow starting at the roots and then working its way up as it had for the others. Antwelp followed the bead nervously, wondering what Dewber was thinking. The light was jolting here and there, leaping from branch to branch like a little sparkling critter trying to eat the most tender wood. Something strange was happening though. Somewhere in the middle of the tree, the light had split into two, forming two different paths, now moving apartly. One bead was going more and more to the left, the other rapidly stacking near the top. And then, the movement ceased, and there were two branches dangling the little pearls, and two entirely separate chunks of tree limb shining brightly against the remaining darkness. The crowd made noises of surprise and confusion, and Antwelp looked at his mother, who tilted her head to him with a strange expression before returning her attention to the Tree. When Dewber crawled out of the hollow, the Elder was still peering into the Tree. Finally, he turned to the crowd. “The Tree has decided!” he announced. “This one has a choice!” Dewber’s eyes matched his two branches. He looked wildly into the crowd for his father, but the group had started to lean into one another, some of them even leaving their seats to discuss what had happened. “That’s a lot of responsibility-” “-He’s a clever one though, I know him, he’ll do what’s best-” “-The Tree must see something great-” The Elder cleared his throat and held up his hands to signal for order. Dewber was now staring up at the Tree, looking almost confused. Antwelp kept trying to catch his eye, but couldn’t. “It has been many a Tree Day since one has been permitted to choose,” the Elder announced. "But on this day, young Dewber will have the opportunity to become either a berrier or thornplucker.” When no one said anything, he continued, now directing his speech towards Dewber. “Go along now,” he said, “back to your seat. You’ll have all day to decide! We know you’ll do right by the Grove.” Dewber said nothing, then slowly walked towards his seat, a path much larger than necessary clearing for him as he went. Antwelp thought he’d never seen his friend look so embuddened. Suddenly—and he knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help it—he found himself wishing that the Tree would select him to have one of those two crafts. Then maybe Dewber would feel better about needing to choose. He would have to wait though. It still wasn’t his turn. The ceremony resumed as usual, though many still seemed rather betwiggled at what had happened with Dewber. He saw that many near him were looking at the Tree even when it was dark, as if expecting something unexpected to happen. Nothing did. The next few bairns had completely brambly initiations. Indeed, the only somewhat unbrambly occurrence was of someone being selected to join the Groveguard, a rather small bairn not unlike Antwelp himself, who looked rather frail and unwelcome as he was immediately sent towards the section of the crowd where the Groveguard had gathered. “A wise choice by the Tree,” his mother said to him comfortingly. “Training with the guards will do wonders for that boy’s health.” Antwelp said nothing. Finally, he heard his own name called, sounding as though it were far away, maybe even from beyond the Grove. He looked to his mother at once, to check that it really was his time, and she gave him a pat on his slender knee, then pointed down the row, where others had already started to make a path for him. He teetered to his feet and emerged from the throng. The Tree seemed to double in size with every step. “In you go,” the Elder said quietly as he approached. Antwelp stared at the hollow. The black aperture seemed to gaze back at him, somehow welcoming and foreboding both. He couldn’t see inside, yet it seemed vast to him, as though upon entering he would tumble a great way down, thought he knew that wasn’t true. “Go on then,” the Elder said again, and Antwelp looked back. Already, he couldn’t find his mother; even the rest of the gathered bramblekin looked formless now, brown and green and squished, like a felled tree there in the Den. He reached his pluckers into the hollow and made to climb in, but found himself struggling to pull himself up. Eventually, he felt the Elder grip his feet and knew that was being helped in. He heard a few small laughs, which were quickly hushed, and felt his twigmiff burn with embarrassment. Then, his whole body was in the hollow, the light from outside barely filtering in. There was a small drop, and at once he feared that he wouldn’t be able to climb out, but he would have to worry about that after. The inside was cozier than he’d thought it would be, and quieter, even with the entrance not so high above him. He could barely see, and had to crawl on his pluckers and knees, but he found the resin gob quickly. It was attached to the inside of the trunk, a dying flame, or maybe a withering heart, gold but with no luster or shine. It simply hung from the wall, a ball of slime that would determine the rest of his life. He took a breath and placed his pluckers in the gob; it was dryer than he’d expected, thicker. The dull mass folded itself over and over, until it had completely imprisoned his woody digits, and despite knowing that it was fine, and normal, and that everyone else had had the same thing happen, Antwelp felt trapped. He pulled and pulled, but the resin would not give. And then he felt a warmth, and heard a low humming, and then more light had flitted in from the hole behind him. The resin retracted itself then, and when he removed his pluckers, he saw that not a drop of it had stayed on him. He started to climb out of the hollow, not knowing what to expect, not even knowing what to hope for anymore, for it felt strange to do either now; it was done, decided, livingtrue. He managed to pull himself up rather easily, which was a relief, and only when he’d crawled out into the Den did he realize that something was different for him than it had been for the others. Usually, it was quiet at first, and then there was cheering. But the noises that greeted him now were unfamiliar. There was strained whispering all through the crowd. Antwelp dropped to the ground and looked at once to the Elder, but the Elder did not return his gaze. He was staring upwards, his mouth open. Antwelp tried to do the same, but then felt pressure in his arms—he turned and saw that he'd been grabbed by a member of the Groveguard. He saw his mother burst to the front of the crowd, crying. “Mother!” he cried, confused. “Mother!” He reached his pluckers out to her, but the guards had swarmed him now. Between their bodies he could see the crowd, and saw unbrambleness, pushing and shoving and yelling, and now the guards had gone into the crowd, and had pinned his mother to the ground. “Mother!” he screamed again, but now he was being pulled away, further and further from the gathering, from the Den even, though where he was going he did not know; did not understand. And it was not until he was far enough away that he could hear and see only the group of Groveguards around him that he managed to glimpse the Den from afar. The entire Tree shined bright.
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About MeVekin87 is the author of the Albus Potter Series, a 7-book continuation of the J.K Rowling's Harry Potter books. The Things I Write While You're Asleep |
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