Ch. 1: Roads that were made by no mortal being's hand



             Brooke   spun   slowly,   endlessly,   most   deliciously   head   over   heels,   like   doing   a   backflip   and   never   having   to   come   down   and   land. She   noticed   vaguely   that   the   emptiness   she   tumbled   through   seemed   to   change,   from   greeny-blue   to   night-blue,   then   to   a   wonderful   murky   brown   like   pond   water. A   deep   murmering   was   sounding   all   around   her,   rising   and   wavering   like   a   distant   downpour,   or   a   muffled   waterfall,   or   the   half-understood   chanting   of   a   hundred   mighty   voices   in   a   tongue   she   did   not   know. She   like   to   hear   it. There   was   a   shadow   lurking   somewhere   in   her   mind,   a   darkness   she   wanted   to   put   as   far   away   as   possible,   but   with   the   mysterious   singing   that   was   hardly   an   effort   Words   grew   in   the   chanting,   growing   ever   more   familiar,   until   she   could   make   them   out.



''Arheledenvendonwendo ''

''Hear   the   sing   of   song   unsending ''

''Whirling,   swirling,   drifting   nigh ''

''Unto   roadland   far   on   high ''

''Silver   woven   unsupporting ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Chasm   floating   airland   winding ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Follow,   follow,   drifting   maiden ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Odnewnodnevnedelehra. ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             With   an   abrupt   jolt   she   stopped. A   silver   web   of   curling   lines   lay   below   her,   one   thread   of   which   advanced   toward   her,   widening   as   it   did,   until   it   ended   abruptly   at   her   feet.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Hesitantly   Brooke   stepped   out   onto   the   swaying   road. Her   foot   felt   nothing,   but   she   did   not   fall. It   was   difficult   to   see   what   the   way   was   made   of. It   seemed   to   glimmer   and   waver   like   moonlight   upon   water,   an   unlevel   surface   of   incredible   age:   whatever   substance   or   spell   it   was   wrought   of,   it   had   clearly   endured   far   beyond   its’   time. It   had   the   texture   of   ancient   rock   half-dissolved   by   acid   raindrops,   and   the   glow   within   it   wavered   and   flickered,   hence   the   wavering   effect   she   had   first   perceived. It   was   edged   with   what   had   been   a   lattice   of   some   translucent   material,   but   much   of   it   had   crumbled   or   fallen,   and   queer   tattered   gaps   yawned   in   the   intricate   patterns.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Seeking,   seeking,   I   am   seeking,   always   seeking,   without   recking. Questing,   questing,   my   eyes   passing,   never   resting. Looking,   looking,   ever   looking,   I   cannot   see   what   is   before   me,   my   eyes   passing,   ever   seeking   something   that   lieth   beyond. Tree   and   beam   of   wood   and   home,   my   eyes   see   them   and   forget   them,   pinched   and   ancient   ever   peering,   see   and   know   them   and   pass   on   in   everquest   of   endless   rest   and   something   they   will   never   find,   for   it’s   not   here. It   is   not   and   is   no   longer   here. ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             She   listened   as   she   walked   along   the   strange   mysterious   road,   listened   dreamily   to   the   ancient   muttering   of   that   weird   voice,   now   all   around   her,   now   just   ahead,   around   some   curve   or   crook   of   road. The   luminous   something   that   enfolded   the   road   was   pale   now   like   deep   soft   fog   just   before   the   sunrise,   pink   and   grey   and   pearl-white. In   the   brackets   of   the   patterns   of   the   lattice   jewels   began   to   gleam,   but   whenever   she   reached   for   one   it   would   blink   out   like   a   soap-bubble   and   leave   only   a   dark   hole. They   were   iridescent   as   bubbles,   too,   these   transient   gems,   until   it   seemed   like   a   gallery   of   colored   eyes   blinked   and   winked   at   her   in   every   hue   from   all   around.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             ''Where,   we   wonder,   where   in   thunder   lieth   that   which   we   do   seek? Once   we   knew   it,   once   we   had   it,   gazed   upon   it   and   could   see   it,   eyes   unpassing,   passless   resting   in   compass   of   what   was   there. But   we   have   lost   it,   long   since   lost   it,   before   the   fathers   of   our   fathers   ever   woke   in   twiless   night. ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   road   was   no   longer   running   out   on   emptiness. The   rosy   softness   all   around   was   shadowed   now   by   mighty   shapes   concealed   beneath   but   faintly,   like   a   woman’s   limbs   under   a   skirt   of   gauze. Slowly   the   shapes   filed   by   on   either   side,   sad   and   shiftless   as   the   mountains;   but   whether   Brooke   was   the   one   moving,   or   whether   the   highway   moved   with   her,   she   could   not   tell   and   did   not   know. Far   among   the   cloudy   rocks   the   hidden   voice   went   on   lamenting.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             We   have   lost   it,   we   have   lost   it,   we   never   beheld   what   we   seek   but   still   remember,   heart   and   nature,   our   eyes   bear   us   onward   ever   questing,   all   things   ttesting,   weighing   them   to   maybe   see   if   by   some   chance   we   have   at   last   come   out   of   shadow   into   that   whose   memory   is   in   our   eyes. ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             And   the   sorrow   of   that   seeking   voice   and   the   pathos   it   awoke   in   her   made   Brooke   shed   tears   that   gleamed   like   crystals   as   they   drifted   in   the   air.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             She   too   wanders,   maiden   wonder,   hearkens   dripping   to   my   keening   as   she   passes   ever   passing. Has   she   seen   it,   has   she   found   it,   does   her   eye   now   rest   untested? No,   she   is   still   a   stream   of   Eve,   she   is   seeking   ever   seeking   as   am   I,   as   are   we   all,   we   mortal   race   of   weeping   nature,   we   must   seek   on   ever   seeking   that   our   seeking   may   not   rest   persure   in   what   was   not   meant   to   stop   our   eyes. ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   nameless   way   shifted   once   again,   and   Brooke   saw   that   it   was   actually   a   river,   or   laid   above   a   river,   or   sharepresent   with   a   river,   a   broad   brown   river   splashing   steadily   over   its’   hidden   stones. A   bridge   of   mist,   squared   and   unlovely   as   the   works   of   Man   are   wont   to   be,   crossed   the   river,   and   shadowy   buildings   of   white   with   smudges   of   red   beside   their   windows   rose   up   above   the   stream. The   road   was   the   only   solid   thing   in   all   that   mist,   wavering   white   light   flickering   through   its’   wan   worn   substance,   the   ghostly   river   chattering   and   bubbling   in   and   among   it   somehow. She   wanted   to   bend,   to   stoop   and   touch   that   strange   unreal   water   and   see   how   it   would   feel   splashed   upon   her   face,   but   she   was   drifting   on   along   the   road   and   would   not   stop.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             She   was,   quite   suddenly,   no   longer   walking   along   a   ghostly   river,   but   under   a   forest   of   giant   oaks   that   stood   so   close   on   either   hand   no   space   was   left. Branches   wove   a   knotted   net   above   her. Underfoot   the   road   was   wood   as   well,   interwoven   roots   so   ancient   they,   like   the   boles   of   the   trees,   had   fused   together   and   grown   into   a   single   piece. She   moved   her   legs   as   though   she   were   walking,   but   she   felt   no   impact,   she   made   no   sound. She   might   as   well   have   hovered   in   the   air.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   fused   trees   opened,   spreading   branches;   but   they   were   stone,   and   their   twigs   were   stone,   and   they   bore   no   leaf   save   the   green   moss   that   hung   on   them. And   stone   as   they   were   they   were   so   beautiful   she   felt   her   heart   ache:   what   must   they   have   been   when   still   alive,   if   dead   they   were   still   this   majestic,   this   graceful.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “What   made   them   stone?”   she   said   aloud.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Time   made   them   stone,   even   as   time   made   them   grow.” ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   voice   came,   deep   and   ancient   as   the   earth,   from   the   flowing   ragged   lines   in   the   bark   of   a   tree   smaller   than   the   others,   and   it   bore   living   leaves   as   well   as   moss,   growing   out   of   the   middle   of   the   road   not   far   ahead,   so   that   its’   great   twisted   roots   coiled   like   a   heap   of   ropes   upon   the   emerging   stone. And   that   tree   was   moving.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             In   her   dreamlike   state   this   did   not   cause   the   utter   panic   it   would   under   normal   circumstances,   only   a   suspended   sort   of   wariness. The   slumped   branches   shifted   and   folds   in   bole   and   bark   expanded,   as   of   a   man   slowly   pulling   himself   erect. In   one   spot   on   the   trunk   the   lines   merged   and   flowed   until   a   lined,   tired   face   was   formed. Eyes   of   yellow   light   opened   in   deep   hollows,   hooded,   pinched,   questing   eyes.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “No,   it   is   not   her   I’m   seeking,   not   her   pretty   face   I’m   hunting,   though   I   glance   from   face   to   forest,   always   hoping   for   reflecting   of   the   place   that   I   am   seeking.”   The   Tree   blinked   at   her   again,   the   pinched   wistfulness   in   the   sad   eyes   finally   moving   her   to   speak.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Who   are   you?”   she   exclaimed.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “It   is   a   strange   thing   of   him,   that   when   he   meets   a   being   in   a   land   he   does   not   know,   his   first   speech   is   to   inquire   the   whoness   of   the   other,”   the   Tree   answered. It   seemed   to   be   speaking   to   her,   but   the   way   the   eyes   focused,   and   the   distant,   constant   ache   of   looking   that   shone   in   them,   made   her   wonder   if   he   might   not   just   as   well   be   talking   to   himself. “When   it   is   himself   he   should   question   the   whoness   concerning,   and   where.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I’m   not   a   he.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Yes,   you   are—and   again,   aren’t.”   said   Tree. “Female   in   body   and   feminine   of   soul,   but   was   not   woman   taken   out   of   man?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Just   in   time   Brooke   remembered   Ronnie’s   comment   of   the   general   tense   of    man,   and   bit   off   her   first   remark.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “So,   I   should   just   go   around   saying,   Hi,   I’m a   human   and   my   name   is   Brooke?”   she   said   instead.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “To   be   able   to   ask   another   of   his   whoness,   his   esnoní,   you   must   be   certain   of   your   own. As   to   what,   however,   that   is   more   natural,   particularly   if   the   being   is   alien. Have   you   who?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Brooke   hesitated,   eyeing   the   face   in   the   tree. They   were   moving   now,   and   had   been   for   some   time. Slowly   the   trees   of   stone   gave   way   to   trees   that   still   put   out   small   withered   leaves,   yet   looked   so   old   and   dead   they   seemed   also   to   be   of   stone. Then   the   leaves   became   greener   and   more   dense,   and   the   road   opened,   another   road   going   off   to   the   left,   a   broad   circular   stone   glade   making   the   waymeet. The   glade   was   roofed   by   boughs   and   boles   so   mossy   they   were   as   green   as   their   leaves. The   forest   of   leaning   crouched   trees   was   a   dim   ancient   green,   and   mist   lay   like   haze   in   the   sunless   air   beneath   the   old   limbs. Some   of   the   moss   was   so   ancient   it   was   peeling   off   like   bark. The   pavement,   if   it   had   been   one   and   not   merely   laid   out   upon   the   bone   of   the   rock   beneath,   was   worn   and   pitted,   a   greyish   pink;   and   no   moss   grew   on   it. No   vine   or   root   or   growth   reached   farther   than   the   edge   of   that   aged   surface,   but   the   borders   were   jaggedly   with   crawling   fingers   of   dead   roots. They   came   to   a   pause   as   Brooke   faced   the   Tree.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   know   who   I   am.”   she   said   to   it. “I   am   Brooke.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “But   are   you   certain   of   who?”   it   pressed. “So   many   there   are   whose   names   are   not   their   who…and   they   pass   on   through   their   time   and   even   with   their   weight   of   years   they   unknow   who   they   are.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   know.”   she   stated.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   tree’s   bole   seemed   in   places   as   supple   as   leather,   and   these   places   contracted   and   stretched,   so   that   the   face   nodded   in   its’   frame. “You   are   your   name.”   the   Tree   said. “You   know   Who. But   Who   am   I….ah,   that   is   something   that   even   now   I   do   not   know,   at   least   in   full;   and   how   can   I   tell   you   who   I   am,   if   it   is   buried   in   me?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “But   what   are   you?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   ancient   eyes   fastened   onto   hers. “Human.”   he   responded. “Could   you   not   see   it   in   my   eyes? By   the   seeking   in   our   eyes   are   all   humans   known,   no   matter   of   the   shape   or   form   that   their   bodies   be   laid   underneath. We   look,   and   see,   behold   a   beautiful;   but   we   stare,   and   then   absorb,   and   then   our   eyes   shift,   looking   beyond,   for   what   they   cannot   find   nor   remember.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             They   were   moving   again   now,   up   the   left-hand   way,   she   gliding   forward   unwalking   as   if   she   was   a   ghost,   the   tree   beside   her   in   a   motion   smooth   as   flowing   water. The   road   flowed   beneath:   a   stone   road,   wrought   into   the   granite,   deep   rounded   furrows   etched   and   worn   into   the   bumpy   surface   as   by   a   thousand   years   of   water. And   it   was   blue   as   water,   deep   and   banded   with   color. Overhead   the   ancient   trees   passed,   and   seemed   to   grow   more   ancient   with   every   foot   they   travelled.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “But   why?”   she   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Why,   and   why,   and   why…ah   maiden,   if   we   could   solve   that,   or   even   had   the   hope   of   solving   that,   would   we   have   forged   such   a   word,   a   word   of   question   unanswered,   a   word   of   potential   and   no   actual? Why   were   Men   made? Why   were   Men   cursed? What   did   ye   do,   ye   Men,   in   the   ages   ere   the   Sun? Aye,   what   indeed. You   know,   Brooke. You   know   what   we   did.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Brooke   was   pensive   and   said   nothing. Around   them   the   trees   were   now   so   ancient   they   had   all   become   stone,   and   still   the   dark   green   shade   and   misty   shadow   robed   the   forest,   as   if   here   there   was   no   sun.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Then   where   are   we?”   she   said,   after   some   while   had   passed   beneath   them   in   silence.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Where?”   the   Tree   chuckled. “Riverton,   I   think   they   call   it. Yes,   Riverton   it   is. The   village   that   watches   the   northeast,   as   Colebrook   watches   the   northwest,   one   side   and   another   of   the   Gates   of   the   North.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Riverton?”   Brooke   exclaimed,   looking   around   at   the   forest   of   stone. The   trees   had   broken   boughs   now,   stone   though   they   were,   as   though   the   change   had   been   so   long   ago   not   even   they   could   remain   whole. “But…I never   saw   this   here.”   she   finished   lamely.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “No,   that   you   haven’t. And   yet   you   walked   on   the   Pombothowd,   did   you   not?”   the   Tree   replied. “Riverton,   yes…and   also   no.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Then   where   are   we?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   looked,   suddenly,   very   old,   and   weary   beyond   years. “There   are   roads   whose   building   was   unmingled   by   the   touch   of   mortal,   walking   these   hills   where   none   can   now   perceive   them. Man   used   to   see   them,   sometimes;   and   wander   onto   them;   see   them   like   a   flicker   in   the   sky   or   a   mirage   in   the   land. But   the   old   sight   is   gone,   and   the   roads   walk   untended,   let   alone   mended,   between   here   and   here,   so   that   those   upon   them   are   both   here   and—not   here.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “But   I   don’t   understand.”   said   Brooke,   coming   to   a   confused   stop. “How   can   we   be   here   and   not   here?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   flowed   on   up   the   eroded   stone   road. Brooke   saw   for   the   first   time   that   he   was   moving   on   his   roots,   which   slithered   smoothly   underneath   him   like   a   nest   of   tentacles,   bearing   him   forward   in   an   unbroken   smooth   glide. She   ran   to   catch   up. At   least,   she   moved   arms   and   legs   as   if   she   was,   and   her   motion   increased   correspondingly,   but   she   still   felt   no   jar   of   foot   on   surface,   even   when   she   looked   down   at   her   feet   and   saw   them   meeting   the   ground.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “There   are   many   heres,   Riverbrooke.”   answered   the   Tree. “They   stack   like   layers   upon   the   same   space   and   yet   are   not   co-interclusive…sentíessa,   share-exist,   is   more   accuracte,   but   difficult   to   render   in   our   blunt   short   tongue:   the   sharing   of   spatiation,   to   occupy   a   place   without   excluding   other   occupiers…but   each   here   is   solid   when   you   stand   in   it,   and   the   heres   stacked   upon   it   are   as   ghosts,   or   as   nothing.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Dimensions?”   Brooke   guessed,   beginning   to   get   a   faint   idea   of   what   he   was   trying   to   say. “Are   you   talking   about   parallel   realities? Other   worlds?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “There   is   only   one   reality,   girl.”   the   Tree   answered. A   crystal   bead   budded   on   a   branch   that   looked   like   it   was   made   of   glass,   and   dropped. The   tinkling   sound   it   shattering   on   stone   startled   Brooke. She   looked   around   and   saw   the   forest   of   stone   was   now   a   forest   of   webbed   crystal,   trunk   and   twig   as   clear   as   glass. A   crystal   dew   flashed   from   every   branch,   yet   whenever   a   drop   became   too   heavy   and   fell   it   shattered   like   a   bubble   of   glass.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “It   wouldn’t   be   multiple   if   it   was   only   one.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “There   can   be   many   units   in   one   thing.”   answered   the   Tree. “Reality   is   one;   but   it   has   many   planes,   and   each   dimension   of   the   Seven   has   many   kinds   of   divisions.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “So,   not   like   the   comics   where   duplicate   worlds   have   different   times   and   events?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   am   not   sure   of   these   ‘comics’;   I   have   seen   the   pictured   stories   that   they   print   in   newspapers   and   pamphlets,   and   if   you   mean   them,   well,   there   are   no   other   realities. There   are   only   other   worlds,   and   other   places,   and   in   these   places   other   heres.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “How   come   we   can’t   see   them?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “We   could,   once.”   he   said. “Once,   we   all   could   have. But   we   lost   it   long   ago. For   a   time   it   lingered   in   us   in   flickers   and   gleams,   but   it   is   gone,   only   a   faint   shadow   and   memory   of   it   left   in   Men;   and   if   any   do   chance   to   have   in   them   a   gleam   of   it,   as   often   as   not   it   is   witches   they   become,   and   then   when   they   do   step   hereon   they   only   make   it   worse. For   Man   was   meant   to   tread   upon   the   lowest   floor   alone,   and   those   who   walk   above   their   own   may   find   them   lost   forever.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “If   reality   is   one,   then   why   the   layers? I   don’t   quite   get   it.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree bent   his   upper   branches   so   as   not   to   shatter   a   stooping   hemlock,   its’   dead   and   needleless   twigs   a   fine   net   all   turned   to   clear   glass. “You   cannot   see   the   angels   in   their   own   thoughtly   flesh,   nor   can   you   trace   the   quantam   as   it   shortcuts   across   space. Yet   they   are   real. Think   of   nine   stacked   papers,   one   upon   another. Now   imagine   these   papers   all   occupying   the   same   space,   each   like   mist   to   the   others. When   you   stand   on   one   sheet,   you   are   here. Now   if   you   shifted   your   space,   yourself   unmoving   but   becoming   solid   in   a   higher   layer,   you   would   be   in   another   here.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   road   was   climbing   now,   growing   steeper   and   more   smooth   yet   still   pocked   with   erosion. “These   roads   walk   among   the   heres   and   join   one   here   to   another,   or   at   least   so   they   intended. They   always   wanted   to   know,   they   did. From   here   to   here they   knit   the   roads   together,   weaving   their   beds   into   the   bedrocks,   until   they   reached   the   last here   of   all.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             He   glided   on   in   such   sudden   silence   Brooke   found   herself   compelled   to   ask,   “And   then   what   did   they   find?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “They   found   that   they   stood   upon   the   rooftops   of   Time,   and   that   they   could   walk   into   the   Present   at   any   place   along   it   they   wished,   and   peer   down   into   the   past   as   do   the   angels. But   when   they   tried   to   walk   into   the   future,   Time   saw   them,   and   he   was   angry,   and   he   sealed   them   into   their   own   roads,   trapped   until   the   day   when   all   heres   are   consumed   in   the   ending   of   time.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “But   who   were   they?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “You   do   not   know?”   Tree   said   in   some   surprise. “You   do   not   know   who   wove   the   roads,   or   who   was   it   who   could   not   come   under   the   darkness   of   the   trees? And   yet   you   are   a   son   of   Arheled.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I’m   a   girl.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   Tree   sighed. “Many   of   Arheled’s   sons   have   been. He   does   not   beget   by   copulation,   nor   does   he   sire   the   flesh. His   sons   are   of   his   heart-breath,   whether   man   or   maid   or   venda.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Sorry.”   she   said. “Where   I   come   from   a   ‘son’   is   usually   male.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Except   for   a   per-son.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Well,   that’s—that’s—different. Person   means   an   individual   entity. Son   means   male.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “And   yet   the   Son   of   God   can   hardly   be   called   ‘male’.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “He’s   male   now.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   Tree   came   to   a   stop. “He   has   a   male   Body,   yes. But   that   Body   is   not   His   Substance,   but   united   to   Him,   so   that   the   nature   is   part   of   His   Person. But   He   was   not   sired   as   humans   are. He   was—is—eternally   begotten   of   the   Father. Male   is   of   the   flesh. Yet   both   masculine   and   feminine   come   out   of   God. Despite   this   we   still   speak   of   the   Son   of   the   Father.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “You’re   making   my   head   spin.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Then   perhaps   your   head   was   not   fastened   on   overfirm.”   he   retorted. “The   problem   is   now   which   way   to   go.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             They   stood   at   another   meeting   of   roads. The   stone   road   forked   at   a   Y,   broadening   into   a   glade   floored   with   stone   and   walled   with   stone   trees. The   delicate   crystal   dew   was   left   below,   in   some   other   here   perhaps,   and   the   fossil   twigs   were   bare   and   furry   with   litchened   moss. Clouds   processed   with   ponderous   majesty   before   them,   as   if   the   stone   road   abruptly   ended   at   a   cliff;   yet   both   roads   ran   on   level,   like   bridges,   the   clouds   pouring   around   them.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Where   are   we   going,   anyway?”   asked   Brooke.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “You   have   to   be   returned.”   the   Tree   answered. “But   you   cannot   merely   walk   out   and   wake   up   in   your   body. There   are   no   doors   out—that   I   know   of,   that   can   be   lawfully   used;   the   witches   come,   but   their   door   is   tainted   with   poison   of   magic,   and   you   cannot   pass   such   and   live. In   any   case   I   know   not   where   it   stands. And   every   passing   in   black   magic   poisons   the   roads   and   makes   them   worse,   like   using   a   door   that   is   nearing   collapse.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Brooke   felt   a   cold   wind   wash   through   her. “Then   I   can’t   get   out.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Not   on   your   own.”   Tree   agreed. “Nor   on   mine. So,   we   have   a   problem. The   only   ones   who   can   solve   it—are   entombed. But   there   is   one   whom   we   can   ask. We   must   speak   to   the   Green   Man.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Whatever   the   heck   a   green   man   has   to   do   with   anything.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   turned   from   one   fork   of   the   road   to   another. “He   is   not   easy   to   find,”   he   said. “And   the   roads   are   so   old…so   grown   with   age   and   time   and   magic-roded   that   whether   they   still   lead   where   they   did   is   a   question. Thrice   has   the   Road   returned   since   I   last   walked   them   all.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Abruptly   he   turned,   moving   down   the   left-hand   way. “We   are   nearing   the   border   of   the   roads,”   he   said,   “and   if   I   am   not   mistaken,   the   right   would   reach   the   edge. This may   also,   if   the   old   ways   are   damaged.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Brooke   didn’t   like   the   sound   of   that,   but   she   followed   Tree   on   into   the   endless   clouds. She   felt   somehow   as   if   they   were   crossing   between   two   chasms,   an   endless   drop   to   either   hand,   but   the   clouds   made   it   impossible   to   see.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             But   when   they   had   walked   for   a   little   over   half   a   mile,   suddenly   the   last   clouds   sailed   by   and   great   rifts   and   pine   gorges   opened   out   on   either   hand   and   below,   sharp   sheer   hills   rising   to   toppling   crests   only   to   drop   just   as   abruptly   beyond. The   road   spanned   these   abysses   on   fantastic arches   of   ancient   white   stone,   the   masonry   so   delicate   and   fine   it   seemed   fused;   as   perhaps   it   was. A   rail   of   dwarf   trees   espaliered   elaborately   into   a   graceful   grid-cloverleaf   pattern   fenced   in   both   sides,   a   net   of   dense   twigs   like   a   balustrade   on   top   growing   so   close   and   fine   as   to   seem   solid. It   was   only   when   she   looked   closely   that   Brooke   realised   they   were   litchen,   and   there   was   no   bark   on   the   bare   bleached   wood   of   the   dead   trees. The   ground   rose   clifflike   to   meet   them,   and   then   they   were   passing   down   a   dark   cutting   in   a   high   knife   of   pine   ridge,   crowded   with   pines   and   hemlocks.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   don’t   remember   the   area   around   Riverton   being   like   this.”   she   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “That   is   because   we   are   several   layers   removed   from   the   here   in   which   you   belong.”   Tree   answered. “When   you   walked   upon   the   Pombothowd,   you   were   in   the   here   overlaying   immediately   your   rightful   here. But   we   are   higher   now.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Are   there   a   lot   of   heres?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   shrugged. “I   have   overhead   strange   discussions   about   multilayered   universes,   but   it   is   not   so   with   the   heres. Some   of   them   have   mystical   purposes,   as   the   Lands   of   the   Seasons   or   the   Storehouses   of   the   Snow   where   the   clouds   are   solid,   or   the   Prison   of   Mother   Nature;   but   others   seem,   like   this,   empty   and   purposeless. But   they   are   never   empty,   and   they   are   most   decidedly   not   safe. Look   on   me.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “How   did    you   become   a   Tree,   anyway?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   leaned   over   the   rooted   railing   and   gazed   pensively   at   the   gorge   below. The   cutting   lay   like   a   black   notch   behind   them. “I   strayed   onto   the   wrong   places,   and   as   I   walked   the   roads   I   found   that   instead   of   growing   older   I   began   to   grow   sleepier. I   no   longer   needed   to   eat. I   took   to   standing   for   days,   even   weeks,   in   a   stupor. My   feet   grew   out   roots,   and   twigs   came   from   my   shoulders,   and   I   found   I   was   a   Tree;   but   a   Tree   that   could   walk. Then   Arheled   came   to   me,   and   led   me   back   to   the   roads,   to   walk   them   until   my   curse   is   fulfilled.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “So   you’re   trapped   here.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Many   are.”   the   Tree   said   as   they   pressed   on,   gazing   down   into   the   gulf. Swift   falling   slopes   of   pine   shot   away   at   the   wildest   angles,   the   thin   curving   bridge   of   the   impossible   road   like   a   taunt   thread. Brooke   wondered   where   the   border   between   heres   had   been. “But   you   are   not.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I’m   here,   ain’t   I?   and   I   don’t   know   the   way   out.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   gave   her   a   slow,   dry   look. “Not   all   of   you   is   here. I   can   see   shapes   through   you. Your   feet   do   not   smite   the   ground. Nor   can   you   smell.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “What   do   you   mean?!”   Brooke   began   indignantly,   before   it   dawned   on   her   like   a   thunderclap   that   she   hadn’t   smelled   anything   since   she   came. “Am   I   a…ghost?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “You   live,”   replied   Tree. “Ghosts   are   dead. You   are   more   a   phantom,   or   a   wraith,   properly   speaking. The   witches   talk   of   projecting   themselves   astrally,   but   I   hate   them   and   suspect   whatever   they   say. That   is   why   you    must   return.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   road,   till   now   straight   or   gently   curving,   now   began   to   loop   and   snake   dizzingly   among   the   towering   hills;   here   hugging   a   steep   slope,   then   shooting   off   to   curve   around   a   crag   of   stone,   and   then   winding   about   among   the   tops   of   small   hills,   mist-shrouded   canyons   sundering   them. Left   behind   was   the   railing   of   dead   trees. The   road   now   was   fenced   by   a   trellis   of   some   strange   white   metal,   with   a   soft   luster.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “These   are   the   roads   which   the   Sign   of   Street   Hill   signified,   aren’t   they? I   thought   some   of   those   lines   followed   actual   streets.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Some   do,”   replied   the   Tree. “The   ones   that   run   just   above   your   proper   here,   follow   roads   that   exist   in   it,   or   land   features   such   as   rivers. For   the   roadmakers   felt   the   presence   of   these   Roads,   and   made   their   own   curve   to   follow   them   when   they   happened   to   cross;   and   the   rivers   ate   down   these   valleys   through   the   soft   rock   of   old,   before   the   Ice   finished   flattening   their   courses,   and   were   here   when   the   Roadbuilders   laid   down   these   Roads. Then   there   are   roads   in   the   middle   heres,   which   follow   for   anchoring   purposes   land   features   in   your   here;   and   the   farther   roads,   along   the   highest   heres,   follow   none   of   your   maps   at   all.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Are   any   of   them—the   Road?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   Tree   actually   made   a   gesture   of   reverence. “No.”   he   answered. “The   Road   is   of   all   heres   and   none. For   it   weaves   together   the   surface   of   the   World,   and   it   walks   through   the   very   foundation   and   fabric   of   reality   itself. To   find   it   we   would   need   to   transcend   the   heres   altogether.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   road   stopped.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Brooke   thought   at   first   it   was   only   a   sudden   turn   at   a   cliff’s   edge,   or   the   crest   of   a   downslope,   maybe. The   broken   shard   of   upland   they   were   crossing,   full   of   red   and   grey   litchens   and   strange   mountain   plants,   simply   ended   ahead   of   them,   etched   pale   against   the   wild   mountains. Then   she   was   standing   at   a   brink,   where   the   road   should   have   continued   on,   but   instead   simply   ceased. The   weathered   cliff   showed   that   this   break   was   far   from   recent.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “No.”   the   Tree   murmered. “No! It   cannot   be! This   is   the   only   way   down!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Where’s   it   gone?”   Brooke   said,   hearing   her   voice   funny   and   small   in   the   great   mountain-silence.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   peered   over   the   edge,   testing   air   and   brink   with   his   roots   and   twigs. “It   has   fallen.”   He   sounded   dazed. “It’s   fallen   between   one   here   and   another. I   never   thought   the   decay   so   bad   in   these   parts. We   must   go   back.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Where   were   we   going?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   focused   on   her   again. His   eyes   suddenly   looked   exhausted,   haunted. “The   Green   Man   answers   to   his   carvings.”   he   replied. “The   Five   Churches   hold   some. But   the   way   to   Winsted   is   cut   off   from   us.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “If   the   Roads   are   this   decrepit,   how   will   we   know   if   we   won’t   run   into   another   one?”   She   saw   a   pale   streak   amid   the   pines   on   a   farther   slope,   and   a   slender   thread   springing   over   a   chasm. “There’s   another! Right   over   there! Couldn’t   we   just,   I   don’t   know,   go   cross-country?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “That   road   is   in   another   here.”   he   said   tiredly. “We   could   climb   down   forever   and   never   reach   the   farther   side. No. Only   on   the   road   is   there   a   way   through. Once   you   step   off   them,   you   could   wander   among   heres   until   time   itself   ended   and   not   find   them   again. There   is   no   help   for   it. We   must   go   back.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie   Wendy   felt   the   calm   of   the   lovely   summer   slowly   pull   him   away   from   care   and   turmoil,   as   June   passed   into   July. The   cup-like,   secret   flowers   of   the   laurels   were   turning   brown. It   was   warm,   sometimes   muggy,   with   delicious   cool   nights. Ronnie   hunted   cans   and   did   odd   jobs   now   and   then,   and   sometimes   for   the   heck   of   it   baked   a   pie   in   a   dutch   oven   on   a   campfire. Brooke   was   in   the   hospital   now. They   had   found   her   case   extremely   puzzling:   her   comatose   condition   seemed   to   have   no   medical   causes   at   all,   but   brain   activity   was   nil,   she   barely   breathed,   her   heartbeat   was   erratic,   and   she   showed   no   response   to   stimuli.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             All   of   them   made   sure   to   stop   in   at   least   once   every   other   day. Forest   and   Bell   would   bike   up   from   the   lake,   or   Lara   would   visit   on   the   way   home   from   work,   or   Travel   would   come   by   with   Ronnie. Brooke’s   parents   were   often   there,   looking   not   so   much   grieved   as   bewildered.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             One   time   Ronnie   came   alone. He   gathered   a   couple   budding   daylilies   from   the   roadside   and   took   them   to   Brooke’s   room,   where   Mrs. Pond   had   put   a   vase. Brooke   seemed   unchanged. It   wasn’t   till   he   put   the   flowers   in   the   vase   that   Ronnie   saw   the   man   sitting   beside   her. Youngish,   with   a   “wife-beater”   tanktop   and   protruding   puffy   lips,   he   had   the   half-absent   look   of   one   who   frequently   indulges.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Sorry,   didn’t   see   you.”   said   Ronnie. “Hello,   Brooke. How   are   you   doing?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “She   can’t   hear   you,   dude.”   the   man   said. There   was   something   faintly   sinister   in   the   way   he   said   this.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie   gave   him   a   sharp   glance. “She   might,   though.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Bringing   flowers,   how   sweet. Think   maybe   she’ll   go   out   with   you   when   she   wakes   up? Might   as   well   date   a   corpse,   bro.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Why   are    you   here,   then?”   Ronnie   retorted. “Might   as   well   sit   by   a   corpse.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   young   man   shrugged. “I   have   every   right   to   be   here.”   he   said. “I’m   her   brother,   Ben. And   who   are   you?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie   bent   on   him   the   full   power   of   his   burning   eyes. “One   who   has   far   more   respect   for   her   than   you, ''   brother. ''   I   am   the   Hill   of   the   Road.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   young   man   tried   to   meet   Ronnie’s   eyes   with   his   own   dull,   washed-out   ones,   but   they   blinked   and   fell   beneath   that   piercing   stare. “Well,   I   gotta   go,   anyway.”   he   said,   getting   up. For   a   moment   there   was   an   evil   look   in   his   eyes,   as   though   he   contemplated   an   assault   across   the   bed,   but   he   thought   better   of   it   and   shambled   out.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Forest   came   in   as   he   left,   and   stopped   in   his   tracks,   staring   after   Ben. “Who   is   that?”   he   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Her   brother,   seemingly.”   said   Ronnie,   frowning.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Oh,   he’s   her   brother,   all   right,”   Forest   answered,   “but..”   ''He’s   an   enemy. Something   feels   wrong   in   him. ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie   turned   to   Brooke. He   placed   his   hand   on   her   head. “Where   is   she   now,   Forest,   can   you   see?”   he   said   quietly.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “She’s   on   a   road.”   said   Forest   blankly. “Just   sort   of   gliding…There’s   a   cliff   ahead   of   her. She’s   talking   to   a   tree.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “A   cliff.”   said   Ronnie. “Look   harder. Does   the   road   have   any   landmarks?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “It…stops.”   Forest   marveled. “As   if   it   broke. They   see   it   now. They   look   lost.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “The   map!”   Ronnie   exclaimed. “Of   course! The   map   from   Street   Hill. It’s   not   a   map   of   our   area. It’s   a   map   of   these   roads,   which   must   overlay   ours   on   some   odd   dimensional   level. She   needs   that   map!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “But…”   How   are   you   going   to   get   it   to   her,   Forest   wanted   to   say.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Where   is   she? What   direction?”   Ronnie   asked. His   voice   was   terse,   flat,   his   brows   knotted   as   he   concentrated   on   the   problem.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tentatively   Forest   raised   his   hand   and   pointed   out   the   window. The   hospital,   an   old   building   of   yellow   brick   like   the   college,   stood   on   a   shelf   just   under   the   steep   rocky   height   of   Cobble   Hill;   they   were   in   the   rectangular   new   wing   beside   it. Ronnie   strode   to   the   window   and   peered,   now   at   the   hospital,   now   at   the   Cobble   above   to   the   left,   now   at   the   sun.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “How   far?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “About…two,   maybe   three   miles.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Robertsville. Which   way   is   she   headed?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Forest’s   arm   slowly   swung   around   to   the   right,   pointing   north-east.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Riverton.”   muttered   Ronnie. He   bent   down   to   Brooke’s   ear. “''Riverbrooke,   Streamgirl,   if   you   can   hear   me,   listen. We   will   meet   you   in   Riverton''.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “But   that’s   kind   of   far.”   objected   Forest   as   they   headed   down   the   hospital   hallways.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   drove   for   once.”   said   Ronnie. “Throw   your   bike   in   my   truck. I   gotta   drive   home   for   that   sketch,   and   then   to   Riverton. I   hope   she   doesn’t   move   too   quickly.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Brooke   walked   at   a   trot   beside   the   Tree,   who   had   picked   up   his   speed. She   felt   no   weariness,   nothing   to   tell   her   she   had   walked   several   miles;   but   if   Tree   was   right   and   she   was   in   some   sort   of   out-of-body   condition,   then   she   wouldn’t   need   to   worry   about   sore   legs.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “How   long   have   I   been   here?”   she   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   peered   about,   squinting. There   was,   as   usual,   no   sun,   only   the   odd   overcast   brightness. He   seemed   not   to   have   heard   her. “The   Sun   and   Moon   do   not   travel   among   the   heres,   but   light   flows   from   here   to   here   freely,   as   long   as   it   is   fluid. But   the   old   light   is   dried   up   long   ago   in   the   lowest   of   heres,   and   the   Daslenga   no   longer   rages   through   the   heres   as   he   was   wont. And   so   we   walk   in   twilight,   or   twibright,   and   each   year   the   heres   grow   dimmer.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “What   happens   when   they   grow   completely   dark?”   Brooke   said   as   they   passed   out   of   the   crystal   forest.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Then   we   have   Night.”   Tree   answered   grimly.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             They   walked   through   the   stone   forest   in   silence,   each   busy   with   his   thoughts. Brooke   felt   the   boundary   between   heres   this   time;   it   felt   like   hitting   a   speed   bump. Tree   looked   around   with   perking   interest   as   the   trees   became   alive   once   more   and   they   entered   the   waymeet. Suddenly   she   stumbled   and   almost   fell.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “What   is   it?’   said   Tree.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   thought—I   felt   watched.”   she   told   him. “As   if   someone   was   talking   in   my   ear   or   something.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   see   and   feel   no   one.”   said   Tree,   testing   the   air.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “How   long   have   I   been   in   here?”   she   repeated.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   wrinkled   his   forehead. “Time   is   not   easy   to   judge   in   the   higher   layers,”   he   said   slowly,   “for   its’   focus   is   upon   the   lowest   here   and   that   is   where   the   weaving   lies. But   without   sun   or   stars   the   only   judge   of   duration   is   one’s   own   sense   of   passing,   and   that   is   a   most   disreliant   clock. I   lost   my   watch   centuries   ago. But   I   doubt   we   have   walked   in   company   longer   than   twelve   hours.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “And   who   knows   how   many   days   I   was   drifting   between   heres.”   Brooke   muttered.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             They   passed   into   the   forest   of   stone,   and   the   tunnel   of   wood,   and   then   with   a bump   Brooke   saw   the   ghostly   Riverton   appear   around   her,   the   shadow-water   flowing   through   the   solid   stone. Behind   her,   when   she   turned,   was   the   outline   of   a   phantom   bridge   over   the   Farmington   River,   a   good   twenty   feet   above   the   water.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Two   figures   were   standing   on   the   bridge. She   could   hear   an   echo   of   their   voices,   familiar   voices…

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Look   harder,   Forest.”   the   taller   one   was   saying. “Are   you   sure   you   don’t   see   it?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Forest? ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   smaller   figure   turned,   and   Brooke   felt   a   wild   stab   of   emotion. His   eyes   were   solid,   dark   and   hard   as   stone   in   that   phantom   village;   they   were   eyes   that   dwelt   on   many   levels   at   once. And   they   could   see   her.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Ronnie!”   Forest’s   voice   came   like   a   sharper   echo. “She’s   there! She’s   standing   on   the   river!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie?! ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Ronnie!”   she   screamed,   racing   forwards.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Stop!”   Tree’s   voice   barked   like   thunder. “The   road   does   not   reach   to   the   bridge. It   leaves   this   here   before   it   gets   that   far. Advance,   and   you   may   lose   them.”   He   glided   up   beside   her,   bark   brows   puckered,   curious. “Who   are   they? How   can   they   see   you?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Brooke,   a   full   twenty   feet   short   of   the   bridge,   stared   up   at   Ronnie. He   was   glancing   around,   here,   there;   he   didn’t   see   her. Forest   pointed.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Brooke!”   Ronnie’s   voice   was   dim   as   if   he   shouted   into   water. “I   cannot   see   you,   but   maybe   I   can   hear   you. Look   at   what   I   hold. Can   you   see   it?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “No,   I   can’t!”   she   screamed.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             He   heard   her. His   eyes   grew fierce   and   focused,   as   she   had   seen   them   when   he   was   pursuing   mysteries   on   a   map. A   sudden   flicker   of   scarlet   flamed   in   their   depths. And   then   sounds   broke   in   upon   her,   the   wild   chatter of   flowing   water,   the   sound   of   birds,   a   car   driving   by. Ronnie,   and   Forest,   and   the   river   in   front   of   her,   and   the   bridge,   were   suddenly   solid   and   real.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “You   revealed   the   road.”   she   exclaimed.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Brooke! I   am   so   glad   to   see   you. You   have   us   worried   sick. You’ve   been   comatose   in   that   hospital   for   over   a   week. Can   you   come   out?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “No,”   the   voice   of   Tree   answered,   “If   she   walks   forward   she   will   only   go   up;   the   ways   down   are   shut. You   are   reaching   up,   son   of   the   Road,   but   your   hold   is   too   feeble   for   ought   to   pass   but   sound   and   light.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie   scrambled   down   the   side   of   the   bridge   and   plowed   into   the   water. The   river   was   not   very   deep,   but   he   was   nearly   up   to   his   chest   by   the   time   he   reached   Brooke. Holding   the   paper   free   of   the   water,   he   held   it   out   to   Brooke. “Do   you   see   that?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   don’t   have   anything   to   write   with.”   she   said   wretchedly.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   snapped   one   bough   with   a   report   like   thunder. His   trunk   bulged   and   flexed   until   a   huge   slab   of   bark   popped   off. With   a   shock   of   horror   Brooke   saw   beads   of   blood   forming   on   the   broken   branch   and   bare   patch   instead   of   sap.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Take   my   branch.”   he   instructed. “Trace   the   map   in   blood   on   that   bark.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Shaking,   Brooke   did   so. The   blood   was   thick   and   stained   like   red   ink. Carefully   upon   the   concave   white   inner   surface   of   the   bark   she   traced   each   curve,   each   line,   until   Ronnie   was   satisfied.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I’m   sorry,   Ronnie.”   she   said   tearfully. “I   wish   I   could   come   back. I’ll   get   out   as   fast   as   I   can. Tell   my   parents   not   to   worry. Tree   will   look   after   me.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “And   who   is   Tree?”   Ronnie   said,   looking   up.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “One   who   can   protect   her.”   the   deep   earthen   voice   of   Tree   answered.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie   stared   sharply   at   him. “You’re   human.”   he   said   wonderingly. “I   see   your   human   face,   flickering   inside   the   bark. Who   are   you?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “One   who   is   trapped.”   the   Tree   answered. “One   whose   being   is   here   wholly,   not   half   as   hers   is.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie   nodded. His   eyes,   still   flickering   red,   held   Brooke’s. “We   will   pray   for   your   safe   journey.”   he   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Suddenly   Ronnie   and   the   world   outside   snapped   back   to   ghosts. Ronnie   stood   in   the   water,   looking   blankly   into   nothing. Then   he   turned   and   floundered   his   way   out.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Bye,   Ronnie.”   whispered   Brooke.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             When   Ronnie   and   Forest   had   walked   off   the   bridge   and   were   swallowed   in   the   ghostly   village,   Tree   touched   her   shoulder. She   turned   and   saw   he   was   holding   the   map   for   her   to   see. “There   are   many   breaks.”   he   said.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “It   looks   like   three   entirely   separate   regions.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Tree   tapped   one   area,   the   one   marked   “R”   for   Riverton. “The   way   into   Winsted   is   safe.”   he   said. “There   are   no   breaks   along   this…Root   Eight…oh,   that   must   be   a   highway   now,   eh? It   climbs,   the   road   does,   back   and   forth,   higher,   lower…the   broken   road   was   faster   and   straighter,   aye   well. Still,   we   can   at   least   reach   the   Five   Churches,   that   is   something.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “It   was   sunny   out   there.”   said   Brooke   tightly. “I   saw   the   trees   waving. It   looked   warm. It’s   summer   out   there.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Indeed   we   must   return   you   soon.”   the   Tree   muttered.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   knew   him.”   Ronnie   insisted. “I   mean, not   recognized,   but   I   knew   him. Something   about   him   was   familiar. Something   from   one   of   our   pasts.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Did   he   look   like   one   of   us,   you   mean?”   Travel   asked. Ronnie   had   called   everyone   on   the   phone   and   asked   them   to   meet   at   the   park,   urgently. They   had   all   come. Bell   and   Lara   looked   troubled. Forest   said   all   of   a   sudden,   “He   looked   like   Travel.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie   bent   his   powerful   eyes   on   her. Travel   felt   prickly   under   that   concentrated   gaze. “Do   you   have   any   family   pictures?”   he   said   abruptly.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “My   grandma   would. She   knows   almost   everything.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Can   you   arrange   for   me   to   visit?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “She’s   always   home.”   said   Travel. “I   could   call   and   see   if   she   wants   company   over.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Ronmond   Wendtho.”   said   Grandmother   Lane   in   her   old   voice. She   inclined   her   head   and   gave   a   hard   dry   wooden   smile,   but   her   eyes   were   warm. Ronnie   saw   in   her   a   strange   stillness,   as   of   something   waiting,   quietly,   but   which   if   it   moved   might   well   unhinge   the   earth. He   looked   again   and   saw   a   tall   dried   old   woman,   a   light   black   dress   falling   about   her,   with   strange   tranquil   and   yet   terribly   shrewd   eyes,   waiting   for   him   to   come   in. Her   grey-white   hair   was   tied   behind   her   head.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “You   are   one   of   the   Three   Elders.”   he   said   wonderingly. “Arheled   spoke   of   you. He   said   he   might   have   to   call   upon   you,   for   the   first   time   since   the   first   calling.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Grandmother   Lane   seemed   to   have   become   as   still   as   if   she   really   was   made   of   wood. “So   I   do   have   a   part   to   play.”   she   murmered. “That   is   a   comfort,   even   if   I   am   never   asked   to   play   it. Come   in,   Ronnie   Wendy. Welcome   to   the   house   of   Lane.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “How   much   have   you   told   her?”   Ronnie   said   to   Travel as   he   came   in.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Pretty   much   everything   we   know.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Good;   I   won’t   have   to   explain   things.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Grandmother   Lane   took   the   cookies   out   of   the   oven   and   a   marvellous   smell   filled   the   old   house. “Travel   tells   me   you   like   cookies.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Ah,   well,”   laughed   Ronnie,   “who   doesn’t?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             The   old   woman   smiled   as   she   pried   them   from   the   wax   paper   and   set   them   on   a   plate. She   gave   them   two   smaller   plates,   with   green   designs   of   cottages   and   pine   forests   in   amazing   detail   on   the   white. “Then   take   as   many   as   you   like.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie,   taking   her   literally,   filled   his   plate. Travel   took   about   three. “You’re   going   to   eat   all   that?”   she   marvelled.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “He’s   a   man,   isn’t   he?”   Grandmother   Lane   said   tartly. “Men   can   eat   their   weight   in   cookies   and   still   come   back   for   more.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “And   I   thought   four   was   pigging   out.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Ah   girls   are   such   picky   eaters.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Well,   they   make   you   fat.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   see   no   fat   on   him.”   the   old   woman   smiled. “Any   more   than   there   was   on   Grandfather   Lane. Would   you   like   milk,   or   do   you   have   allergies   like   Travel   does?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   do   not! I   can   drink   a   whole   glass   without   dropping   dead!”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Indeed,   and   get   a   yeast   infection   halfway   through   the   second.”   Grandmother   retorted. “I   could   drink   milk   three   times   a   day   when   I   was   your   age. I   still   can. Why   suddenly   everyone   and   their   uncle   is   coming   down   with   milk   allergies   is   beyond   my   understanding.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   can   take   a   little   milk   myself,   but   too   much   does   do   things   to   my   throat.”   Ronnie   agreed. “I’ll   take   fruit   juice,   if   you   have   any.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “I   keep   some   soda   in   stock   for   Travel   and   Rufus.”   and   Grandmother   Lane   got   down   two   porcelain   mugs   with   the   same   kind   of   detailed   blue   and   green   etchings,   filled   them   with   grape   soda   and   set   them   before   them.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             When   Travel   had   finished   her   cookies   and   Ronnie   was   half   done   with   his,   Grandmother   Lane   fixed   her   eyes   on   them. “So. Travel   tells   me   you   spoke   with   Brooke.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie   described   how   he   had   found   her. Grandmother   Lane   nodded,   unsurprised. “Although   it   is   strange   that   the   Streamgirl   would   be   walking   the   Roads   and   not   a   Lane,   but   then   Wayfinder   knows   what   he   is   about.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “You   think   her   coma   is    Arheled’s   doing?!”   exclaimed   Ronnie.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “If   all   I   have   been   hearing   about   Wayfinder   is   true,   then   yes,   this   does   sound   like   him. Without   her   body,   she   cannot   be   killed   in   those   strange   wayplaces. Perhaps   there   is   something   she   has   to   do   there,   something   he   either   cannot   or   will   not   do   himself.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “You   don’t   seem   very   surprised   by   all   this.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Neither   do   you,”   Grandmother   Lane   said   dryly,   “and   you   have   been   mixed   up   in   this   far   less   years   than   I. I   have   hunted   Wayfinder   since   I   was   a   girl. And   these   pathways   through   other   places   are   not   entirely   undiscovered.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Lanes   found   them?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Wayham   himself   was   the   first   to   mention   them.”   she   said. ''   “Here   ye   Place   did   walk,   and   I   could   y it   See,   but   it   was   Hide   from   my   eyes   how   far   it   goeth. It   was   over   the   wood   and   yet   before   my   feet,   but   I   dare   not   step   thereon.” ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Any   others?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “There   is   a   rhyme   that   Tobias   Lane,   my   great-great-grandfather,   left   in   his   papers.”   she   answered. “Let   me   see. How   did   it   go?

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">“''Roads   that   were   made   in   the   land   of   the   shade ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Shadow   everglooming   on   the   mooning   of   the   glade ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Never   do   you   dare   to   follow   them   through   here ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">For   if   you   do   you   may   it   rue ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">And   ever   wear   the   wooden   shoe, ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Until   your   pear   grows   out   a   haw, ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">And   fruit   is   eaten   in   the   raw, ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Odnewnodnevnedelehra.” ''

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             A   dreadful   light   leaped   up   in   Ronnie’s   eyes. “That   is   the   word that   opens   the   Gates   of   the   Morning.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “So   Travel   tells   me,”   murmered   Grandmother   Lane. “I   always   felt   it   meant   more   than   it   said,   but   my   husband   like   my   father   thought   it   nonsense. Now,   you   came   to   look   at   family   photos?”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Forest   said   the   Tree’s   face   resembled   Travel’s.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Grandmother   Lane   went   off   to   her   desk   and   returned   in   a   moment   with   an   old   leather   album. “I   have   daguerreotypes,   and   portraits   going   back   as   far   as   Wayham’s   son,”   she   said,   “but   of   Wayham   himself   there   is   only   one   sketch. In   profile,   drawn   by   a   shipmaster’s   daughter   accompanying   her   father   on   one   of   the   early   New   World   expeditions. No   settlers   took   root   in   these   parts   until   the   1620s,   except   for   Wayham   Lane. She   was   out   sketching   in   the   woods   while   her   father   traded   with   the   Indians,   and   Wayham   came   out   of   the   trees,   looking   like   a   tree   himself   with   his   deerskin   clothes   and   wild   hair. She   sketched   him   as   he   stood,   staring   at   her,   and   then   she   asked   his   name. He   said,   ‘Wayham   Lane’   and   slipped   back   into   the   trees   like   a   shy   rabbit.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Did   she   ever   see   him   again?”   Travel   wondered.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Grandmother   Lane   gave   a   thin   smile. “When   they   arrived   back   in   the   Netherlands   she   was   with   child,   and   her   father   attempted   to   hang   one   of   the   crewmen   who   had   been   friendly   with   her;   but   she   said   the   man   was   innocent,   and   the   father   was   named   Wayham   Lane. She   stuck   to   the   story. Her   son   took   ship   when   he   grew   old   enough   and   went   into   the   forests   to   seek   his   father. The   Indians   told   him   of   a   strange   white   man   living   in   the   mountains   by   the   haunted   hill,   and   he   came   after   long   searching   to   the   cabin   of   Wayham;   but   it   was   deserted,   and   looked   unused   for   years. Wayham’s   book   stood   on   the   mantel. The   last   entry   in   it   was   dated   1613. No   one   ever   saw   Wayham   later   than   that.”

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             Ronnie   looked   down   at   the   ancient,   faded   paper   in   its’   protective   laminating,   the   thin   brown   ink   of   the   sketch,   and   the   powerful   rugged   face   it   showed. Line   by   line,   he   studied   it.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             “Interesting.”   he   muttered.

<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px;"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">             She   showed   him   portraits   of   other   Lanes   all   down   the   years. In   one   degree   or   another   they   all   resembled   Wayham. It   was   quite   fascinating.

Back to Arheled