The Silent Witness
Am I bound? Why can't I move? No, it is no rope that binds me, but your magic. I remember now. You feared me, so you took my freedom. My freedom and my name you took, Winnowill. And my spirit was lost from my body, and I wandered in the stone, and forgot I had ever truly lived. I came like a tame hawk to do your bidding, to open the stone and close it again, and I did not wonder who walked through or why was I needed, for my thoughts were only of the stone that was my life.
Oh, beautiful stone! You were my first love, the only love I never betrayed.
I was born to shape you with my magic, to quicken you to life and forms you never dreamed in your crystal sleep. Rockshaper I am, rockshaper I remain though my very name be stolen from me.
Worse than this horrible stillness, Winnowill, is how dead the stone feels now under my hand. I cannot shape. My magic is locked from me. I can feel the stone, but I cannot change it.
Why didn't you let me stay where I belong, Winnowill? Why did you wake me from my sleep in the stone? Why did you bring me back to my body, but didn't bring my body back to me?
Darkness surrounds me, or blindness more likely, I realize as I recall the sightless eyes of Aurek my teacher.
Why can't I move? Why am I so cold? Cold to the marrow of my bones I am, cold as stone, but stone I master, my body has another master now.
Winnowill.
I hear your footsteps on the stone, the rustling of your night-black gown. I imagine you standing in the doorway opposite to me, on the other side of the pillar-filled hall, the hall I know so well for I shaped it myself, in another lifetime.
Shaper to shaper, I ask you – why?
I attempt a sending, but my thoughts refuse to leave my mind, yet somehow I feel you can indeed hear me. I vision you turning towards me with one of those smiles that used to make me hot and cold at the same time. What is this bond you wove, when you stole my name from me? Are none of my thoughts hidden from you anymore?
Hear me then! Was there not punishment enough already? What is this new torture you have planned for me?
I hear someone else walking in after you, with hesitant steps. A glider, unused to walking, doing you a courtesy. I hear a shocked gasp, then a voice I thought I'd never hear again, speaking a name that is mine no longer.
Her name is Namaree. Her hair is the color of spun copper, worn in elaborate braids knotted around her head and decorated with a flowering vine, her eyes are the green of emeralds, and I imagine she must be wearing a long, white silken robe, the hem and sleeves trailing after her on the floor.
And she asks you:
"Why? Why is he like this? I thought he was banished, because he threatened Lord Voll."
Your voice is syrup sweet as you answer:
"He asked for mercy, and was given it. Unlike you, he knew well the world outside is full of death and danger, and he wanted no part of it. This way, he could remain in Blue Mountain and do what he loves most, and serve his Lord without bringing the death and danger he carried within to us. In a way you could say he was banished. But not outside. Into the stone. He is Door now."
"If you're trying to make me change my mind, Lady Winnowill, waste no more words. I could not choose a life like his. Maybe his heart was made of stone to begin with – mine is made of green and growing things!"
"You hold on to your decision, then, Namaree? You will go out of your own free will, leave Blue Mountain?"
My vision of her changes, as I realize the significance of these words. She must be wearing something warm and practical, not the silken robe I last saw her in. Maybe she's carrying a backbag with her, but no weapon, unless one knife. My guts knot themselves in terror as a dark foreboding fills my heart. I am afraid for her.
And the danger I fear is not outside. It is right here. And there is nothing I can do.
Little treeshaper, watch your words with Winnowill. See what she has done to me!
But of course she can't hear me.
"Yes! I am the last of the treeshapers, the others call themselves plantshapers now. We do not belong here. We make flowers grow for maidens to wear in their hair, and berries for all to eat, and grasses to weave into cloth and to give seeds for the songbirds to feed on, and grapes to make wine and forget our sorrows, and a thousand other things. But we do not shape trees, because no tree will stay alive in Blue Mountain. There isn't enough sunlight, the soil is wrong somehow. I've tried, and a hundred trees at least have died in my hands. Do you know how it feels, to watch something you loved and cared for die a slow and painful death?"
"I know. Trust me, I know. No Glider has died in my hands, but I know. The humans die. They die and there is nothing I can do about it, no matter how much I care for them, how well I care for them."
Your voice trembles as if in actual regret. How well you mask the fact you have no heart. How well you act, Winnowill.
"How can you stand it? Oh High Ones, how can you keep bringing them in?"
"Because knowing them, studying them, is worth it. A hundred trees, you say. Surely you knew by the third one, the eight one at the very least, that they would all die?"
"I knew, but I kept hoping."
"Maybe that is what bothers you, hoping for things that you know cannot be. The humans are meant to die, so I accept it."
"Maybe. But trees are not meant to die. A tree can live for ever. And I am a treeshaper. I am meant to shape trees." She stamps her foot, foolish girl.
"And shape trees I will! If the trees cannot come to me, I will go to them! I will face any danger to reach the full measure of my magic."
"I'm not saying you cannot go. Lord Voll has given you leave. Blue Mountain is not a prison."
"I bet you'll tell me I can never come back, or something like that."
Oh, the bitterness in her voice. She knows you well, Winnowill, she should know better than invoke your wrath!
"I'm saying nothing of the like. I was hoping to make you see reason, I'm still hoping you'll change your mind and return to us someday, Namaree. But I also brought you here because I have one last task for you to do. You're our most powerful plantshaper, or treeshaper if you prefer, you're the only one who can do this. The Eight risked much to bring me these seeds."
There is a moment of silence, I imagine her studying the seeds. Then she gasps once again.
"Strangleweed! Winnowill, these are strangleweed seeds! It's a dangerous plant, very dangerous."
You laugh.
"I know. It almost killed Hoykar."
"Why would you want me to shape something like that?"
"My gentle Namaree! The hawks are dangerous too, they hunt and kill large animals. But we have tamed them, and I want you to tame this plant. There is good earth under the floor of this chamber. Beside the pillars, there are holes in the stone floor. You will plant the seeds in those holes, and make the weed wrap the pillars like the vines in your gardens. Then the weed will have to spread out in tendrils, about halfway to the ceiling, and the reaching tendrils will meet and form a web. Can you do this?"
"I can. But why do you want this?"
"If you can, make it so that the web is the only part of the weed that will retain its natural quality of grabbing every creature that touches it. It will be a trap, in case enemies ever enter Blue Mountain, to protect us all."
"I see. I can make it so. It is a fascinating thought, to use plants as weapons, and I realize I may have need of such skill if the world outside is as dangerous as you say."
"And speaking of the world outside, will the web remain as you have shaped it after you're gone, or will it begin to grow wild and out of shape?"
"It will remain as I have shaped it as long as it has water, and I can make it stop growing so it will not change or need new soil. Strangleweed can grow almost anywhere, from what I remember."
"I will see it has water. You may begin. The sooner you're done the sooner you're free."
Don't do it, little treeshaper! She's lying, can't you see! She'll capture you inside a tree or do something else just as cruel, and she'll fool everyone into thinking her gift is a mercy! Oh, I can just see it, she'll show them you seated on a throne in your gardens, and a mighty tree growing tall and strong where a hundred trees withered and died! Namaree has achieved her dream, she'll say, and for that I name her Treeshaper – and she'll steal your name and soon nobody will remember who you were, not even yourself!
Don't do it – but if you deny her wish, your fate will be worse. Do it then, and be humble, and talk sweet and maybe she'll just give you some pain for a warning. Maybe she'll even let you go and fly free. Maybe you're lucky. But oh High Ones, you're too innocent to act humble, my Namaree, all too honest for your own good, and full of pride and independence.
I am afraid for you.
Winnowill wouldn't have woken me if she didn't plan to deal you some cruelty. She roused me from my crystal dreams to watch you suffer. My magic roars like a caged animal in my blood, locked away. There is nothing I can do. I cannot move a finger, cannot shape the stone a finger's breadth.
I cannot speak nor send. Helpless, I listen and I pray for you, but I doubt the High Ones hear me. Even they were lost and helpless in this world, and Blue Mountain, a mockery of their glory, is all that remains of their children and their powers.
Namaree begins her shaping. The vines grow so fast they make a rustling, rushing noise as they bury their roots below the floor and climb up the pillars. Namaree's voice comes from the air right before me somewhere in the middle of the room:
"It is done, Winnowill. Have you any other tasks for me, or am I free as you promised?"
Oh, lovemate, no! Don't let her see you don't trust her!
"First, we will see if your work is satisfactory." Winnowill has climbed the stairs to a balcony she had me shape close the ceiling, so long ago. Her voice drifts down, gentle and feather-soft:
"Come here, Namaree."
Winnowill, what are you planning?
Time seems to flow slow and thick, and the Mountain holds its breath.
"What do you want of me now?" Such courage, such stupidity.
Namaree screams in pain. The scream goes on and on, horrible, and from the direction of the sound I can hear she is falling. Then her descent halts, but not by gliding – there is a muffled thud as she hits the web she herself shaped. Her cry is cut short, then she shouts words again, breathless, terrified.
"What have you done? You burned my magic! I can't glide, I can't shape! And the vines, oh High Ones, the vines have me! Help me! Let go of me!"
Of course the vines won't let go, and you won't help her. And there is nothing I can do. Instinctively, I reach out to shape the stone, to cut her free, but I cannot. Whatever you did to her you've done to me. And if you hadn't, Winnowill, you would die today, die by my hand. How well you have planned this!
I can feel your feet on the stone where you stand. It seems so easy – just close you inside a wall and let you suffocate, or stab you with spikes, or steal the floor from below your feet and let you fall. But even if I had my magic, you have woven your webs deep into my mind, you would still have time to give me a painful death.
And I don't want to die. Even this mockery of life is better than that. I loved Namaree, once, long ago, but I would not die for her. It is easy to think of brave deeds when I have not the power to do them. Had I the power, I might still withdraw my help in selfish fear.
Sweet stone, the only love I never betrayed.
She takes a long time dying. I imagine the vines strangling her, her struggling helplessly. Somehow I know the struggling makes it only worse.
Namaree!
You laugh. And your laughter is the only sound in the chamber – Namaree is silent, and the web no longer writhes. I imagine her lifeless body hanging limb from the trap she herself shaped.
**Release her then, Door, if that you wish.**
My magic rushes back to me, and even in my sorrow it is an exhilarating feeling. Even in my bitter hatred I am grateful. This means she still needs me. This means I can live for a while longer.
I could disobey, of course. But that would mean her body would be left to rot where it is. I do not want to share this room with a corpse. So I build a giant hand of stone from the floor, and it feels its way up, touches the web, igrones the plant wrapping it in its strangling embrace, and then I touch flesh. The hand holds her gently, tears her loose, the vines snapping and coiling back like a nest of angry snakes. The hand becomes the floor again, and Namaree lies on it, unmoving. She is dead.
"Good work, shaper."
Are you talking to me? No, it is her you compliment:
"The web is whole again."
**Now, shape away the platform and the stairs. They are not needed anymore.**
I obey, wondering how you knew to plan for this, and I realize it is not Namaree's fault that she is dead. Only your cruelty is to blame, Winnowill.
**One last task before I return you to your sleep, Door. Open the floor and bury her beneath it.**
I refuse.
**Do it, or you'll be the next one to die in that web. I can always get another rockshaper.**
As I obey, burying Namaree among the roots of the strangleweed, a single tear rolls from my unseeing eye down my still and stone-cold cheek.
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Notes: 'Namaree' is a Tolkien reference I couldn't resist making - the High-Elven word for 'farewell' is 'Namarie'.
As for the story, well, one of the scariest things I can imagine is helplessness, being unable to move, being blind... and the placement of male Door was simply too good a coincidence for me not to use it in the story I knew I was going to write as soon as I was reminded of the treeshaper's fate.
_