Chapter 26: The First Branch

Miko:

Climbing for hours, I was several hundred feet above the roots now, only looking down long enough to check my progress, else I be tempted to jump and get this over with. After another hour of climbing, there appeared to be some form of a cut in the trunk’s shape, sloping inward far enough for me to rest. When my hands started to hurt, I found a position to hold my weight up with just my heel in the joint between the bark by leaning forward as far as possible with my forehead resting into the crevice of two ridges. This gave my hands a short rest, returning the strength and flexibility in my grip. If you climbed for too long, your fingers started to ache, retaining the form they held while climbing. When I went to rest them, my fingers uncurled painfully, staying locked, pointing outwards, and unable to move. Eventually, after pressing my fingers and palms against the tree, their strength returned, allowing me to ball them into a fist. Each knuckle cracked with a loud click as their grit returned, prepared again for the climb. Every move added to my confidence, but as I let my neck peer into the sky, I lost every ounce of it. This tree reminded me constantly of how small and insignificant I was. After nearly a year in The Garden of Need, I found myself hating this tree more and more. It had not wronged me directly; I mean, it was a tree, but all it did was stand here and tower over all existence forebodingly.

Reaching a hand above me onto the ledge and stepping high, I drug myself with my hands until I was lying on my chest in a small crevice that dented into the tree’s perfectly cylindrical frame. The spot was free from the breeze, providing a pleasant warmth after the climb, so I pulled myself a little further in and placed my bag against the back section to offer me a more comfortable place to relax. I was tempted to continue climbing — to push myself harder for Maleki’s sake. For a brief second, I entertained that thought before something poked against my back through the bag. It wasn’t my discs; I kept those in a sheath to protect the blades and myself. Opening my bag, I fumbled around and readjusted my belongings until the object found my hand. It was a book. When opened, it was roughly the size of my hands and certainly didn’t appear unique; only crafted with a grey spine and black covers. The only writing on the front and back covers was a title, Arms & Armour, by an unmade author. A book I had read many times, though as of late, reading had not been a passion I could enjoy. Firstly, because I wasn’t able to move for so long, but even after my body regained movement capabilities, I found the act to be a distraction from what was necessary. Truthfully, these books from Grandpa’s collection had been engraved into my mind so much so that the contents appeared without having the book in my hands. That helped me for a time, soothing the loneliness I had felt here. Now, something else in the book clung to me. I flipped to the page I had in mind on the first try and began reading a passage that was now starting to make more sense to me. The book itself taught two guiding principles for blacksmiths and apprentices, and the rest of the book detailed the process and equipment needed to create the frames of weapons and armour. The passage I was enthralled with was about one of the principles. Unnaturally, I found myself reading aloud, hearing a voice I was unfamiliar with — realizing I had not spoken in so long, having no one to talk to. “Among blacksmiths, a moral stone must be laid before you ever seek to temper your first steel. You must make the hard choice of dedicating your life to one of the two forms of metal. You will bend and mold for hours, sweating in the heat of the forge, to craft a fine ligament that a soldier will bear. Will you make weapons whose steel is sharp, heavy, or jagged, serving the sole purpose of harming or killing those it seeks — for protection? Or, will you make armour whose steel is weighty, sized, and shined to perfection so that it can be bore upon a soldier to protect him and harm those he seeks? For a man to be successful in the art of the smithy and not be consumed by his forge’s flames, he must decide what kind of blacksmith he will be. An Armer, or an Amourer.” I wasn’t sure how it applied to me, but every time I read it, I thought about it for too long, forgetting to turn the page and continue the rest of the book. Maleki spent more time in the forge than I did, and there was never particularly an interest in inheriting Grandfather’s profession by either of us, so it always left me confused. What about this passage was so important to me?

Without intending to, I had drifted off, waking again in the morning to discover one of my arms not working. That would have worried me, but I prepared for that by training rigorously to strengthen both my legs and my arms in the event this occurred. Climbing would be different, but it would be no more difficult than before. Legs are more robust than arms, allowing more power to be distributed to the movement. However, this predicament did make climbing more interesting as I was forced to be more flexible and creative to move up the tree without hanging as often.

The leviathan tree and I became familiar with each other as I climbed higher and higher each day. For the first time in a long while, I slept every other night, a routine I had not kept up since I was comatose. Tired and aching were states that I found comfort in as the ground got further and further away. The first few days I climbed were the most interesting, as the patterns were fresh and cultivated thought as I tested the best ways to path and climb. That disappeared on the fourth and fifth days when the climbing began to be performed by me without preparation or thinking. My body acted as if the muscle fibers were shocked and grabbed with a life of their own. The sixth through ninth days were no different, so on the tenth day, I forced myself to become lucid by getting bold and jumping to skip ledges. That worked at first, keeping me occupied until one of my fingers slipped as I lept through the air, forcing myself to crush my feet into one of the bark joints to prevent myself from falling. My heart skipped a beat, and I never tried it again out of fear. That brazen action scared me into lucidity for the next few days of climbing until I rested on a small malformation where the bark cupped the side of the tree. I rested here, looking out into the distance and to the ground. The valley in front of me was an evenly sorted array of trees that spread out into the horizon as far as the eye could see. However, the ground was blurred, so far away now that there were very few details for me to focus on. Instead, everything below became patches and plots of colours with only basic shapes persevering. Laying on my back, I looked up, stunned at what stretched out above me. How had I not noticed it before? Two days of climbing and the bottommost branch of the tree would be within arm’s reach. The limb was colossal, almost insurmountably large. A family of loggers could carve away at one of these branches for three lifetimes without ever making a dent, supplying their kingdom with enough wood to build thousands of homes.

Throughout the climb, the cycle would change every night I slept, rotating between each limb to ensure that one didn’t receive special attention and look unnaturally larger than the other. Climbing was a more intense workout than I had prepared for. Two weeks of this and my forearms grew in size, and my grip tightened up around the bark’s rough, bumpy surface. If I wanted to, I could place an apple in one of my hands and squeeze it tightly, crushing it into tiny apple bits until only the core remained in my grip. That was what the constant climbing had done to my body, changing my posture and power even in the parts of the body we often ignored. Sure, a grown man could lift a heavy boulder if he dedicated many years to growing his shoulders, back, and biceps — muscle groups that were always defined in books or stories that people like my father would retell, taking time to declare their stock figure and manliness. Most of those men didn’t strengthen their whole bodies, only focusing on the ones that made them look the best or capable of lifting heavy things. Ripping this bark out of the tree would be child’s play for me, but they would have to put more of their body into it to achieve the same result.

I kept climbing, breaking only when necessary, and quickly returning. I’m so close. This should have been impossible; without the healing grace, it probably would be for most. Interesting that this tree will seal its own fate through the gifts it provides. Without them, I would be on the ground training for another year, only to attempt and still die. Yet here I was, now a single day’s travel to the equivalent of a peek. Not the highest point, but most likely the lowest point where I could get off the trunk, which would be enough for me to complete what I came here for. If I climb for a few more hours, I can rest for the night, scout a good path to the branch, and continue on.

Both my legs were good today, and from scouting the area, the lay of the land changes drastically as you get to the colossal branch. Instead of poking out of the tree like a straight cylinder, the bark around the branch that connects to the tree thickened and curved around the base of the connection point so that its weight was better held together. This meant that tomorrow, I would no longer be climbing a straight vertical line. The most challenging part of this whole fourteen-day climb would be ascending the lip to get on top of the branch. Incredibly difficult climbing, the kind you need all your limbs to even attempt. That won’t discourage me. Holding myself up with just one hand, I could hang for a minute; with both hands, I could hang for six minutes in total. That would destroy arms for a while, but it was possible. This gave me hope that I was prepared enough to handle this. This was more like the climbing Maleki did, but it would be the first time for either of us to ascend up a slope that angled towards us.

After sleeping through the night, I woke with both my arms ready and prepared to make the ascent. This was routine now, but I hopped with my single leg, finding a place a few feet above me and grabbing two decent holds to cover my weight. Shifting one hand up into another ridge, I found a new joint to point my toes into and then crossed up with my right. A slow and methodical process, but I had made it this far and wanted to see it until the end. It took me two hours to get close to the branch, resting every fifty feet until the blood rushed back into my arms. The colossal branch was so close, a hundred feet, until I could peer over it. The trunk was beginning to start its slope. At first, it was a light degree of change, like a small ramp. The last fifty feet was the biggest change in the bulk of bark that formed underneath the branch, causing me to angle my body at a forty-five-degree angle just to stay holding on. Jamming my foot into the ridges of bark was the only thing keeping me in place for long enough to grab the next hold.

My lame leg dangled over the edge of the abyss, dragging my weight down. My hands ached, and my triceps felt like jelly, but I forced myself to keep moving, grabbing another hold two feet above me. The reason I was up here in the first place flashed before my eyes as I felt my grip slipping. In a deep slumber, Maleki lay at the bottom of this blurry void. Still, even if I do this, he might not get better, but I must try. I forced my foot to the side, extending my body to distribute my weight evenly. My left hand found a ridge as my right gave out, almost slipping entirely had it not been for my conditioning training. Holding myself up with one arm, I struggled, reaching for a new ridge for my right hand to grab onto. My right arm was still weak, but even a few moments were enough for the muscle fibers to repair themselves a small amount. Kicking off the part of the trunk my heel was dug into, I grabbed a new hold with my right hand three feet above my head. There would be no more breaks after this small recovery. I couldn’t entirely relax as I was still perched at an angle, but the tree’s bark cut in a small amount, allowing me to grab into the lip of the crevice and hold my weight with my arm and shoulder. A quick rotation between each arm and I was ready to continue, though wary. Every few feet of progress was made by small bursts of energy in my good leg, as it jolted me high enough to safely grab onto a new ledge with one hand, as I was stretched between the farthest point of both my hands. After that maneuver, I found a safe spot in the middle for the arm below the higher one, brought my heel up to a different ridge, and used the lower arm again to move to a higher position. The angle had started to lessen, but now my foot had nowhere to grab onto since I didn’t have an extra one to leverage with. If I had use of all my limbs, I could make the same motion I was doing with my arms by making a small amount of progress with one leg, then switching to the other for another small move, and finalizing with a larger maneuver. Instead, the only thing I could do was disregard my legs entirely while climbing the next ten feet until the flat side of the limb was all that was left, and then I could crawl my way to victory.

Holding up all my weight with just my arms, my shoulders creaked. Thankfully, I had a small frame and was light in weight because this gave my triceps somewhat of an advantage, though it didn’t feel like it as the rest of my body dangled like a caterpillar’s cocoon. Second-guessing every move I made was dangerous, so I was quick and careful when choosing new holds and ridges. The handholds weren’t complex. Grabbing the ridges was just like gripping a bark-covered oddly shaped peg. The blood began leaving my arms as they held out high above me, slowly pulling me up with each ascending grab. This process was slow, but my hand had to quickly find a new ridge before gravity did its thing. The end of the arch was about to end as the bark flattened into a ninety-degree angle. Every part of my arms, shoulders, neck, and back screamed for mercy as I pushed through, inching progress. There was almost no energy left in me to continue. Even if I hung with only one arm, I would only be granted a few moments before the other hand would have to take over, and the rate of return would be too low, resulting in failure. Swinging my leg back and forth beneath me, I managed to get enough of a stretch in to touch below to a small bump of the tree’s bark, kicking off with enough effort to get my foot at around my chest level. My foot found a ridge, stepping through and breaking it, but providing enough exerted energy to shoot me up three or four feet to a dent in the shape of the cylindrical limb. Pulling myself up, I stood tall, like when I would hide behind an opened door, hoping to scare Maleki when he walked by. There was only enough room to be uncomfortably on my feet as I stood on a sturdier lip of bark. Deep breaths took my chest as my fingers curled at my side from the aching in my bones. The top of the branch was only twelve feet away.