Finding the Tree Read online

  Finding the Tree

  NIKKI BROADWELL

  Finding The Tree

  Copyright©2023

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 979-8-9854132-0-5

  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, ideas, characters and events are products of the author’s imagination. This work is not to be copied in any manner without the author’s permission.

  Airmid Publishing

  Aptos, California

  Created with Vellum

  Dedicated to the magnificent redwood trees in the forest of Nisene Marks and to those who strive to preserve Earth’s bounty.

  Also by Nikki Broadwell

  Wolfmoon series:

  Moonstone-Book 1

  Willow-Book 2

  Raven-Book 3

  Faery-Book 4

  Loki’s Bargain: (formerly Gypsy series)

  The Tower-Book 1

  The Page of Pentacles-Book 2

  The Ten of Swords-Book 3

  Coyote series:

  Just Another Desert Sunset

  Coyote Sunrise

  Dreamcatcher

  Summer McCloud paranormal murder series:

  Murder in Plain Sight

  Saffron and Seaweed

  Black and White and Red all over

  Finlay’s Folly

  The Night of the Jaguar

  The Case of Missing Books

  Fehin and Airy series

  The Bridge

  Time Gap

  Salem Witch Series

  A Witch in Time Saves Nine

  The Moon in Her Eyes

  Single Books

  The Last Keeper of the Light

  Rosemary for Remembrance

  Burning Night

  Raven and Hummingbird series

  Siobhan’s Secret—book 1

  Dagda’s Daughter—book 2

  Kat’s Conundrum—book 3

  Raven’s Runes—book 4

  Dark Goddess Series

  Echoes--Book 1

  Forbidden—Book 2

  Epigraph

  The tree of life is growing where the spirit never dies, and the bright light of salvation shines in dark and empty skies.

  ~Bob Dylan~

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  “Ragnarok” comes from old Norse Ragnarök, “Fate of the Gods.” It is the cataclysmic destruction of the cosmos and everything in it – even the gods.

  The whispers rise on the wind, slipping through the forest to swirl in patterns. The conifers are loudest, the messages from the enormous cedars and firs a cacophony of indecipherable mutterings. The oaks follow with tones all their own. The willows come next, and then the stately birches, the ladies of the forest. The young girl pauses to listens, her ear attuned to something she can’t quite grasp. The meaning is there, but just out of reach. A flurry of black feathers catches her eye. The raven is back, pecking at the crumbs she’s tossed out for him. He turns one bright eye her way, as if to thank her. She laughs and skips away, turning to watch when the bird lifts on dark wings to soar over the forest.

  The oak was the druid tree, linked inseparably with the ancient spell-casters who could harness Earth’s energies. My grandfather had explained what they were capable of, but the druids had been gone so long that the records of their deeds were lost. He’d done his best to educate me, teaching me to read at an early age and identifying the trees and the birds and the insects and all the other creatures that lived in the forest. He told so many stories about life in general and other cultures and places that it made my head spin. Girls weren’t educated in my village, their roles set out for them as soon as they were born—have babies and keep the hearth and home well-stocked and clean and cook for the family.

  My grandfather built my one-room house before I was born, his handiwork evidenced by the triple goddess moon symbols carved into the shutters and how tightly they fit together to keep out the cold wind during winter. My mother lived here with him until she died giving birth to me.

  This time of year the breezes were welcome. Glass was at a premium, used for the elders' houses or in the building where the town conducted its meetings. Any glass to be found was valuable, and hoarded by those who had attained a special rank in the hierarchy of the village. Life in my village was circumscribed, our movements never reaching farther than a mile in any direction. There were evil things lying beyond the posts that marked out the boundaries.

  The branches of the conifers danced, the forest floor reflecting the shifting and changing shadows as the hot wind moved through the woods. It would be another scorching day. I longed for the cooler days when I could wander in the forest gathering mushrooms and nuts and tending my small vegetable garden. Nothing grew in this heat. My daily trips to the village were compulsory. I had chores and duties that only girls could accomplish. And I was late.

  As I hurried into the village my thoughts were on the books I’d read and the myriad questions they evoked regarding life outside the confines of this small enclave. The book on Norse myths was about the cosmos, not our tiny existence. My sense told me that the earth had been demolished and come back, maybe many times—but what did I know? I was merely a girl living in a timeline that didn’t have a name or a number.

  My birth coincided with my mother’s death, and as far as my father, the story I’d been told was that he was a traveler who had come through our village, impregnated my mother, and moved on. When I asked the elders, they shooed me away, shaking their heads in frustration. The villagers I questioned only looked at me askance, their expressions revealing their worry at being put on the spot. Either no one knew the answers or they didn’t want to reveal the truth. If it hadn’t been for my grandfather, I’d be as dumb as a post.

  Despite the rules forbidding it, I’d explored beyond the stone columns erected as boundaries, finding remnants of ancient buildings that had long since disintegrated, the bricks reused to make the small dwellings that now stood around the square. There were bits and pieces of metal too, rusted and full of holes, the red dust becoming part of the forest floor. Vehicles had once moved along the narrow trails, propelled by some substance that no longer existed. It was how people traveled between villages.

  I wanted to understand this long-ago culture and why it was no more. I knew from my grandfather that the people from the past had used up all the resources that Gaia had to offer, making the planet nearly uninhabitable. It had taken centuries before the air and the water were clean enough to sustain life again. Those of us living now were descended from the hardy souls who had survived. But what about other people and places? No one spoke of them, as if our unnamed village and the others the elders visited, were the only ones left.

  The elders sometimes disappeared for days, coming back laden down with supplies—nuts, fruit, flour, tools—pieces of metal to use for various things that were hidden from the general populace. Where had they been to
get such things? When I asked, they didn’t reply. It suggested that there were other people and communities out there who might be better off than we were. I wanted to meet them.

  Sometimes other men were allowed along on these treks beyond our boundaries, but never a woman. Just the thought of being stuck here indefinitely made my breath hitch in my chest. But when I brought it up to my friends their eyes went wide. “You cannot disobey the elders!”

  Was I the only one curious enough to run away? If it weren’t for my books I would have been long gone. They were no longer produced, at least not in our little village. To make paper, we needed materials that were no longer available. How did I know this? I’d heard the elders muttering amongst themselves when they didn’t know I was there. Trees were dying off and the factories that produced the paper were no longer in existence. I’d heard this while hiding behind a post. I had a way of making myself invisible, eavesdropping in order to glean at least some understanding of life.

  There had once been electronic books, a word I didn’t fully get, but because of the lack of energy sources and technology, were no more. I had a hard time imagining that long lost world my grandfather painted for me—vehicles that went fast and made noise, belching smoke from pipes that ran underneath the metal, books on small screens that ran on some strange energy we no longer had—enormous contraptions that trapped this same energy to light up the huge cities, vying with the stars for brightness--flying contraptions like enormous birds that carried people across the seas. Stores filled with clothing of all kinds and foodstuffs beyond my comprehension.

  I was thankful for the two paper and leather bound books that I kept hidden under my mattress. They were old but I treated them with care. One was Norse Mythology and the other was The Secret Life of Trees. They had belonged to my mother and I’d read and reread them a dozen times, careful not to rip the brittle pages. The only other mementoes I had left from my mother were an ivory comb and a pendant in the shape of a tree. My grandfather told me stories about her feats of bravery, how she’d run through the forest barefoot, carrying a bow, long hair flying, chasing after the game we needed to sustain life. But with all that bravery she’d still died right after I was born. My birth killed her.

  Tears filled my eyes as I thought about her and my grandfather whom I loved more than anyone. I was sixteen years old when he left the earth. He’d promised to tell me the truth about my mother and my father, how they met and who they were. “I wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand,” he’d wheezed on his deathbed, handing me a ring that had been passed down through the generations. It was an endless knot design made out of gold. My fingers closed around it as he breathed his last breath. There were secrets to be shared, but he never got the chance.

  At nineteen I was becoming desperate—it felt like the elders were hiding things from me. After a few times of being sent away without so much as a helpful word, I’d given up on learning about my heritage, instead concentrating on the history of the past—another taboo subject. Today was the day I intended to search the library in the main square. It was the only building still standing from a bygone era and the only place where I might find answers to my questions. But getting past the sentinels would take some doing. They guarded the place like it was filled with gold instead of rotting paper and moldy leather. I was increasingly surprised that more villagers didn’t care to read the books housed there. It was strictly forbidden. Was I the only one who searched for knowledge? Why weren’t we allowed inside? I’d decided that the elders wanted us to be like sheep—compliant and following the rules. They were afraid of losing control.

  Once I reached the square, I grabbed a seeded bun from my friend Emilia as I watched the women going about their business, baskets over their arms to buy or barter for the supplies they needed. Girls my age and younger were already churning butter from the goat’s milk and sweeping the leaves from the square while the boys laughed and chased each other. Sometimes I wished I’d been born a boy. I was still munching on my breakfast when I picked up a broom.

  “You’d best hurry!” Emilia hissed, watching an elder over her shoulder. “They’re on the warpath this morning.” She glanced at me worriedly before hurrying off to finish her chores.

  The village women all wore long skirts and the traditional caps that covered their hair. My skirt was the same homespun material and as long as theirs, but when the elders weren’t around I pulled it up from the middle and turned it into pants. It gave me more freedom of movement.

  As far as the hair and the hats, long hair was considered seductive and needed to be kept out of sight. I refused to wear the cap I’d been given, my waist-length hair bringing sidelong glances from those who chose to follow the rules. I was too old for my behavior, they hissed, grabbing my arms to force a cap on my head. I always managed to twist away from them, a vision of my mother running through the forest giving me courage.

  As I left the square one of the elders grabbed my shoulder. “You must obey the rules, Sylvie,” he hissed. “Despite your mother’s wild ways, it isn’t fair to the other girls. They wonder why you are not punished for your behavior.”

  I wondered that too. Before I could question him, he was striding purposefully back to his house. I pulled the cowl of my tunic over my head and kept sweeping until he’d disappeared inside.

  The market was busy this morning, and the energy of the village felt as it did before a festival, with chattering voices and laughter. But I didn’t remember any upcoming festivals. It wasn’t harvest time yet and the equinox had already passed by. The small houses that clung to the edge of the woods had smoke coming out of their chimneys and women hurried in and out. As I rushed to finish up my chores, I kept a wary eye out for any of the nine elders. I couldn’t risk them noticing where I was about to go. I had to find out more about the Norse story of Ragnarok, and discover what other books might be housed inside the formidable building that was always guarded.

  I wanted to believe there had once been a Norse settlement here and that gods and goddesses had walked among us. My Afi had taught me all kinds of things that belonged to the realm of forbidden topics, telling me to make sure to keep it all to myself. “Myths hold a kernel of truth, Sylvie. Never forget that.”

  In our village we worshiped the one God, and to think differently was a punishable violation. Because of this pervasive attitude, I didn’t bring up my obsession with the gods and goddesses of the Norse realm.

  “Sylvie!”

  I turned quickly, the broom dropping from my hands as I squinted against the strong sunlight. “Dobo! What are you doing here?” Dobo was a few years younger than I was, a boy I sometimes fished with. At this moment he was unwelcome since I did not want him to know what I was planning.

  “What are you up to? Can I come?”

  I let out a nervous laugh. “What’s with you today?”

  He shrugged, his expression turning sheepish. “I’m bored.”

  “Didn’t mummy have enough chores for her weensy baby boy?”

  Dobo punched me lightly on the arm. “Not funny. She’s making my life a holy hell.”

  I glanced around the square where the townspeople had gathered for their morning chat. Sweat pooled under my arms. We were in the hot time when one could die from the ball of fire that refused to give us a moment's peace. “Lower your voice. You could get us both in trouble.”

  Dobo frowned, his pale blue eyes narrowing as he tugged my braid. “Since when do you care? You’re about to break a rule, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I said way too quickly.

  “Likely story. Will you come to the river with me?”

  “Not now, but I’ll meet you there in an hour or two.”

  “The fish are running.”

  For a moment I was caught, a vision of the sleek and sinuous fish with their iridescent scales appearing in my mind. Their real meaning was the connection with source, fertility, and change. We ate them without remembering who and what they were. “I’ll se
e you there later.”

  “They come around more when you’re there, Sylvie—it’s like you’re magic or something.”

  “They know I appreciate them—I don’t like it when you kill them, Dobo.”

  “How else are we supposed to eat?”

  “Ask them. If they want to give themselves up, they will.”

  Dobo gave me a skeptical look before he rushed off, his gold-brown shoulder-length curls glittering in a sun that was way too bright. No cases for the men. “Don’t forget that tonight is the ritual!” he yelled out.

  The Ritual. The words caught in my mind like a fly in amber, making me sweat even more. I had not been called as yet, but I knew I soon would. It was done to sustain our village, I told myself, trying not to tremble. But when I pictured the elders in their creepy masks, the innocent girl on her back in the middle of the square, it made me feel sick. Yes, they sedated her with herbal tea and the older women prepared her for what was to come, but the entire scenario seemed barbaric.

  I rarely showed up to the rituals, but couldn’t stop the memory of the last one from appearing in my mind. The elder, who we couldn’t identify, hovered over her in a slow-motion dance, his robes hanging down to block out what we all knew was happening. My friend, Isabelle, her eyes glassy and unseeing, lay like a dead fish, the gossamer dress lifted to expose her pale legs as the elder deposited his seed. It was supposed to be a sacred act, the beginning of a new life, but to me it seemed vulgar and wrong, as though the act itself had been perverted. When I spoke to Isabel afterward, she told me that she was unable to move, that her body felt like it didn’t belong to her, and that the pain was terrible.