LITMIR.BIZ

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conversation with a tree is not like communicating with anyone or anything else. It’s not a dialogue, it’s more of a meeting of the minds. Even though I spoke out loud it was not necessary – words are not the medium of communication.

      I didn’t have to worry about convincing the apple tree that I was sorry, she knew as soon as I touched her and I knew I was forgiven – the sensation of it washed over me. She was happy I was not seriously hurt – she had never hit anyone so hard before. I learned that it was not uncommon for her to give a child a little smack, just to teach a lesson, but she had never had a poacher as old as me and let loose a good one. She told me (felt me?) that Fergal and I could each have a couple of apples with her blessing. The only part of the conversation that was almost in words, was when I thanked her and said goodbye. I could have sworn she said, ‘Good luck, little prince.’

      We sat under the apple tree’s shade and ate and drank water from Fergal’s canteen. Who’d have thought that an apple and some water could make such a superb meal? It was so satisfying I felt as though I could live on these two things alone. I have since found out that many people in The Land do just that.

      ‘You still look pretty wrecked, Conor. The castle’s only an hour or so away and we don’t want to be too early. Why don’t you have a snooze? I promise I won’t steal your shoes.’

      ‘I won’t argue with that,’ I said as I put my head on the soft grass. Before I dozed off I raised my hand behind me and touched the apple tree. I asked her if she minded me resting here a little bit. She told me she would look after me as I slept. Next thing I knew, I was dreaming again.

      I dreamt I was a child, maybe five years old. I was walking between my parents, holding their hands as we passed under huge yew trees. These yews were not menacing like the ones on the river. The trees moved out of our way and bowed to us as we passed. An arrow sailed through the air and hit my father in the shoulder. I was upset but my father told me not to be silly and pulled the arrow from his flesh, like he was dusting dandruff off his suit. Mom rubbed the wound and it healed.

      We sat together under a tree. Mom pointed and I looked up. I saw that the yew we were sitting under was now an apple tree. I turned to ask my mother if I could have an apple but she and my father were gone. Next, the apple tree raised itself up on huge roots, pushing itself free from the ground and kicked me! I rolled like a ball into the base of another tree and that one kicked me as well. Soon all of the trees had gathered around me having a kick-about, with me as the ball! The funny thing was I liked it. They weren’t hurting me, it was fun. After a while I got bored with the game and I laid down under a tree. The tree kept kicking me but I refused to move.

      I awoke with a tree root sticking in my back. I am sure it wasn’t there when I fell asleep. Fergal was snoring away to my left. I toyed with the idea of stealing his shoes as a joke, but I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t stab me first and get the joke second. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. That’s when I saw him approach.

      He was close enough that I could see that he was short, but not slight. He was built like a brick outhouse – not fat, just a solid body with a head sitting directly on the shoulders. I got the impression that if I ran at him with all of my might I would just bounce off. Maybe that’s where they got the word bouncer from – ’cause that’s exactly what he looked like. If you got rid of the leather toga he was wearing and put him in a tuxedo, you could imagine him standing in the doorway of any night club. He was walking directly towards us.

      I stood and said, ‘Hi.’

      He didn’t even notice me. In his hand he held a thick wooden stick with a gnarled top and seemed to be heading for Fergal. ‘Ah, excuse me,’ I said, trying to be polite, ‘can I help?’

      He walked straight at Fergal and raised his stick. I drew my sword and covered the ground between us. That got his attention at least.

      ‘If you are looking for your neck, I can assure you we don’t have it.’

      I looked him in the eye but he gave me nothing back. I couldn’t read the face at all. I kicked Fergal and said, ‘We’ve got company.’

      Fergal opened his eyes to see the Incredible Hulk Junior and myself standing over him with weapons drawn.

      He looked at Hulk, then at me. ‘For the love of the gods, Conor, haven’t you ever met anybody without drawing a sword?’

      ‘A friend of yours?’

      Fergal nodded and I lowered my weapon. ‘Conor, meet Araf – Araf, meet Conor.’

      ‘Sorry,’ I said, offering my hand, ‘I’ve had a rough couple of days.’

      ‘That’s what he said when he pulled a sword on me,’ Fergal said.

      ‘That’s not fair – this time I was defending you.’

      Araf shook my hand and almost broke it.

      ‘He was coming at you with a club.’

      ‘It’s a banta stick,’ Fergal said, ‘and Araf always wakes me with it.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because once, and only once,’ Fergal said defensively, glaring at Araf, ‘I attacked him with my Banshee blade when he woke me up. I was having a bad dream – and it was a long time ago. Ever since then he always wakes me with a stick.’

      ‘Sounds sensible,’ I said, thinking that I was lucky not to steal Fergal’s shoes while he slept.

      Araf nodded at me in agreement. It was the first true communication between us.

      ‘Come on,’ Fergal said, picking himself off the ground, ‘we’ve got a party to go to.’

      ‘Are you coming to the party, Araf?’ I asked.

      ‘Are you kidding?’ Fergal replied for him. ‘Araf here is a party beast!’

      As we walked to the party I got Araf’s life story – not from Araf, I might add, but from Fergal. I was starting to wonder if Araf could speak at all. Araf and Fergal had grown up together in a place called Castle Ur in the Heatherlands. It was obvious they weren’t blood relatives. One look at the two of them told you that they came from different gene pools – hell, different gene oceans. It turned out that both had been raised by the same nanny, who was now dead. When I asked Fergal about his parents he seemed to sidestep the question.

      And check this out – Araf is an Imp! I came very close to bursting out laughing and saying, ‘Isn’t he a bit big for an Imp?’ but I kept my mouth shut. The Land was going to throw quite a few surprises at me. If I wanted to look like a native, I would have to take stuff like this in my stride. I couldn’t help thinking what a funky couple of days I was having. How many people can say they’ve been in a sword fight with a Banshee and an Imp and then went off to a party with them?

      The landscape changed the closer we got to Castle Muhn. The fields of grain changed into towering vineyards. Ancient trellises of black hawthorn were draped with vines producing grapes in bunches so large I was amazed that they could stay on the vine. Bees the size of hummingbirds roared through the white and pink blossoms. Castle Muhn was not like the imposing fortress of Castle Duir. It was huge – it must have taken up over an acre, with low walls, and I noticed a conspicuous lack of sentries. Actually, with the vineyards around it, it looked more like a sprawling French chateau.

      We walked in silence for a while, which I was starting to realise was unusual for Fergal. Things had been so crazy, this was the first moment I had time to collect my thoughts. Jeez, I hoped Dad was alright. He looked bad when I left him but he was definitely alive. I felt guilty going to a party, but something in my mother’s voice back there made me think Dad would be OK. And then there was my dream. Was that a vision or just wish-fulfilment? Well, as much as I would like to be able to help him, there was nothing I could do about it. Still, that didn’t stop me from worrying.

      I decided to look at the big picture. Right. My father is a prince or maybe a king. My mother is an outlaw

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