The False Tree

Mik did not wish to leave the confines of this once great and prosperous castle, now a cold and dead crypt. He assumed that this castle, and the lands it claimed dominion, were once prosperous due to its sheer size and grandeur. Mik did not know truly though; he was not from these lands, after all.

“That shouldn’t be there…” he muttered, his mind lost in the past, eyes unfocused. “They shouldn’t be here we… we shouldn’t be here.”

Mik was a natural survivalist, spritely with the eyes of a hawk. It was these skills that landed him a spot on an expedition team in the first place, so he believed. This team had been ten strong, including himself, and carefully selected by a leader of humanity. He had come to learn over their time together that each individual had deep experience in survivalism, past expeditions or a superhuman ability that would aid them on their venture. 

Of the ten in their team, half were listed as having superhuman powers. One man, Alibarn, was possessed of brilliant brown wings and acted as a scout during their journey. Another could conjure spectral spears from nothing. His name was particularly complicated and everyone who attempted so speak it were aggressively corrected, so he was just referred to as “Spear-guy”, a title he didn’t seem to hate. 

Those were the only two powers he saw, and he was sure the others he did not know of were just as spectacular, but Mik was quite sure they were all dead now. He would have never expected his own ability to run would prove the most valuable ability on the team, at least for his own survival.

In their briefing, they were told that they were to journey to the land that had seen the end of the world. Mik had surveyed that land once before, but they were to go now where no other team had ventured: towards The Tree.

The land that had seen the end of the world had earned many monickers: The Ruins, The Lands Below, The Sandlands. The leaders and higher-ups often referred to it as the Fifth, or some derivative of a relation to the number five, so that was its official name as far as Mik was concerned. 

Mik had ventured north in his past expedition, up past the sand-reddened clifflands and into the burnt plains of endless knee-high grass. According to one leader, the end of the world this land had seen had involved primordial fire sweeping over each and every reach of the lands, consuming all life and distorting space and time itself. Mik didn’t know anything of that, but he was certain the leader was right about the “consuming all life” part. In the week or so he had spent in the lands previously, they had not come across any form of life save for basic vegetation, only surviving on the rations they had brought with them.

 There was no wind, and precious little sound echoed through the entire realm. The sky was eternally grey and, while clouds were bountiful, rain was rare. This land, it’s sky, it's cycles…they were truly damaged, and it was the expeditionists’ job to find ways for human life to return to these lands and survive. There were ruins of scorched and abandoned settlements and cities that still stood the test of cataclysm which proved that life did once thrive here. Perhaps it could again.

Mik had only heard tales of “The Tree” from groups that went south. According to them, the Southlands also seems to have been an endless grassland with abundant fields, but not anymore. Not because of the end of the world, but because a desert’s sand had begun to blanket it. Whether this is the result of the cataclysm or something else entirely, it is unknown, yet no less is it strange.

There also seems to be the grace of wind in the Southlands, according to the groups that went down far enough. Specifically, where the sand is picked up from the earth and lightly spiralled around the ruined capital of the Southlands. The groups said they could see the capital castle perched atop a great hill, with the castle town built hugging into its sides and sprawling into the plains and valleys below. A grand sight to be sure, if not burdened with the knowledge that no life walks its streets.

They also reported that they saw, at great distance, from within the castle, a giant, rigid tree that climbed out and wrapped its branches over the great bulwarks and around the regal towers. Any trees the expeditionists had come across were all dead, blackened, splintered or broken. However, these groups said this specific tree was different, that it was alive, and that it gave them great unrest. The mental image of this great ominous tree, overgrowing a castle and surrounded by swirling sands against a grey sky, had become something of a folklore among the expeditionists, and Mik would now be among the first to visit it.

Now, Mik had been secreted within the castle’s cold stone passageways for a couple of days now, or so his watch told him. He had never seen a watch before becoming an expeditionist, but he believed his reading and tracking of the time it told was correct. More pressingly, he had left the ration supplies behind when he ran through the hollow streets of the capital. He feared the screaming of his stomach might give away his hiding spot, but feared just as awfully that those things might be stalking the castle, looking for him. Whether it was the madness of hunger, the desperation for food or the foolish hope that he would see rescue or escape, he left his hideaway, the memories of the last few days as his only companionship.

On the first day, they set foot on The Lands Below and began to walk. At first they crossed a strange black rock-bed  for most of the day. The terrain looked like an exposed tide-pool, but with no sea-life, no water or even hint of moisture. No, perhaps it would be more apt to compare it to solid ground if all dirt and vegetation was dug up until there was naught but rock foundation. They walked the ankle-breaking terrain for the day, getting to know each other’s personalities and irritations as they attempted to avoid injury. Eventually, they found safe passage up the sheer cliff face they had been walking towards. They set first camp up at the foot of a once-great fortress, prepared food and exchanged conversation.

A few went off to scout or sleep, but Mik got to know those who stayed around the fire. Alibarn, the winged one, was an experienced scout and kind leader, not to mention very strong. He wondered if he was one of those beast-men his family had told him about in his infancy, from the broken isle. Mik hadn’t the heart or incentive to ask.

The one who became known as “Spear-guy” was solemn and hardened. As a clear veteran soldier, he was the group’s insurance policy in case they made first contact with life, and that life did not wish them well. Mik had not heard of the land he had come from, but he believed it was a region of his own that he was unfamiliar with.

Ross was from a land that was much more technologically advanced that Mik’s own. He was the one who supplied the group with these watches for keeping track of time, and he carried the other useful resources they had been equipped with, such as rough maps and collected history of this lost civilisation. Where Alibarn was kind and Spear-guy was grouchy, Ross was fair, wizened from his clear many years.

Finally, of the five who stayed, there was Shara. She was quiet and didn’t add much to the conversation, but more so in an observant way than shy. Mik wagered she had the same job as he on this mission, the role of the observant ones. She seemed solid enough; Mik felt he could trust her.

The second day, the group crossed an expansive grassland for hours. The green of the grass was dull and dismal, like the weight of the grey sky was bearing its influence down on it. The grass was up to their waists for a great deal of the journey, taller than the grass in the Northlands. Mik wondered if the grass had grown due to the lack of any livestock to consume it.

Eventually, they cleared a hill and found a large cityscape that climbed the surrounding hills and snaked through its valleys. Lifeless, of course, but Mik was certain this town must have been a central trade hub bustling with commerce at one time. It reminded him of home. He only knew this was not the capital city because The Tree was not there. No, The Tree could be seen on the horizon now, mingled with the capital castle. The air seemed to shift around it in the distance, probably the wind and sand Mik thought. 

The group set second camp up on the southern-most hill of this old trade city, as far as any southern expedition team had gone before. Mik could feel what the past teams meant now; that sense of unease radiating from The Tree.

Mik had opted to go to sleep early that night in preparation for the day to come. Now, creeping through the castle’s corridors, he wished he had not. Perhaps then he may have had a comforting final memory from this land before he likely perished here. He remembered going to sleep to the sound of conversation and light laughter dampened by the walls and doors that separated him from them. At least his colleagues would have had a comfort memory fresh in their mind as they died. Mik was unsure if he was bitter or just regretful, but either was more comfortable to ponder that his memories of the third day.

Nonetheless, the memories came unbidden to his mind, Sharper than any other.

Hours had past since they had began walking again; they were now a stone’s throw from the castle town. The whirling of the sand ahead of them only seemed to churn the unease within all of them, but the sense of finality the looming, shadowed castle gave was enough to stir them on. They were on their final approach, the outer walls and overgrown farmland in sight, when Mik stopped.

“Ross, could you pass me a history handbook?” Mik remembered the event so clearly even the conversation was burnt into his mind.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking,” Shara spoke next.

“Maybe.” Ross handed Mik the handbook. Mik had been reading this handbook whenever he got the chance, that’s why he noticed, and understood, why the formations around them were an oddity.

“Is it really so important that the whole group has to stop for you,” Spear-guy snapped.

“It’s the statues, isn’t it,” Shara asked Mik.

Shara was right. Around them, and the city ahead, were many stone statues depicting a mother cradling an infant. All faced towards the capital castle.

“The ‘Mercy Mother’ statues were constructed in response to the famine that swept the starving nation. Offerings would be left in the hopes of an end to the destitution,” Mik read from the handbook.

“The starving nation…” Alibarn pondered, hung on those words.

“And? What’s your point Mik,” Spear-guy barked, impatiently.

“The starving nation is well into the Northlands,” Ross clarified. “What are they doing here?”

Spear-guy wasn’t phased. “So what? Maybe they built some here too, or moved ‘em, who cares!?”

“No,” Mik spoke. “This dirt looks all healthy even now, but that nation’s ground is still all cracked and dry. Trust me, I’ve seen it. This ‘famine’ definitely didn’t touch these lands. And they definitely didn’t carry these stone statues all that distance for decoration.”

“SO WHATS YOUR POINT!?”

Mik didn’t bother to reply, he just knew it with everything he was:

These things shouldn’t be here.

He had seen a few of these statues on his Northlands expedition, but not in these numbers or close together. He knew he wasn’t wrong.

He looked at the others to gauge their assessment, looking at Shara first, the one who he knew shared the same vision as himself. But Shara was looking up and around, focusing on something else. When he traced her interest, he felt a fool for not noticing.

The arid sandy winds had spiralled into a hushed sandstorm around them, seemingly adopting its normal howling volume once it had already been noticed. The party rushed to cover their faces with thin protective cloth as they each realised. The storm grew thicker and visibility reduced.

The rushing of panic, fear and adrenaline in the following moments left his memories hazy, but he remembered the most striking parts. He remembered the cracking of stone as the statues turned to face them. He remembered the ethereal red mist that exuded from the cracks in the stone that were not visible moments before, punctuated by yellow glimmers. He remembered the fight-or-flight that swept the party as the statues closed in on them, one by one emerging from the blinding sand. They moved as if the stone was fragmented shell, and the writhing, ghostly dark mass beneath them was muscle, shifting forward.

He remembered Spear-guy rushing one with a ghostly lance, only to disappear from sight, mere meters in front of Mik. The screaming of the wind still rang in his ears, and he remembered thinking that it carried the voices of every man, woman and child that perished inside these castle walls. Shadows danced all around them, cast on the wind-swept sand like reflections on water.

Mik only remembered running after that; charging through sand so thick he could only see a meter or two in front of him. He remembered colliding with a number of statues that appeared right before him as he ran. He remembered cutting himself as he brushed and bruised his way past them, despite their lack of sharp edges in their formation. The cracked, hellish visages of the mother and infant statues flashed in his mind still. They had troubled his sleep.

He did not hear the screams of the party he left behind him as he ran, nor did he try to. His consciousness only returned to him after he had hidden himself within the castle walls and collapsed. He had not intended to run into the castle town, but so he had in his panicked state.

And now, he crept through these foreign halls, desperate for food or rescue or reunion or something else he knew he would never find, deep down.

Reflecting on these memories as he walked granted him a moment of self-reflection he had not experienced in days. He felt almost at peace with his situation, which cleared his senses.

He noticed now that the rapid rhythm of a heartbeat that had beat eternally since he took refuge within the castle was not his own, now that his own had calmed somewhat. It pulsed in his ears, and through the castle itself, ceaseless. The castle felt almost alive to him now. A fearful heart further in pumped unease and unrest through the castle’s corridors and out through the city streets like an open artery spraying lifeblood into the world. Mik found himself wandering towards the centre of the castle, to find this heart, rather than trying to escape.

He was unsure if he was making his own decisions anymore, or if his terror-plagued body was making them for him.

Eventually, he felt the touch of wind again. A glow entered the shadowed castle through an open arching doorframe further down the corridor Mik tread. Mik continued, putting one foot in front of the other mindlessly, until he stood in the middle of the archway, witness to the central courtyard.

The clouded sunlight that covered the world illuminated the base of The Tree in front of him. Roots wrapped around pillars and sank below the corpse of a man, facing upwards on its knees. The body was huge, larger than any man Mik had ever seen by at least double. The trunk erupted through the corpse’s grey, drained torso, and grew high, higher, yet higher. Its bark was ash, but patterns of streaking crimson appeared and vanished with each pump of the omnipresent erratic heartbeat. The veins were pumping outward, away from the tree.

Mik turned his gaze up towards the branches.

More corpses. Upon each pointed, thorned branch, one or multiple dead bodies hung impaled through their torsos. Carrion of men, of women, of animals Mik and never seen.

Dead? Mik looked closer; the skewered bodies were not drained like the titan corpse the tree grew from, and most maintained colouration. They twitched occasionally with each pulse.

The black, sunken voids of the the rooted giant’s eyes observed him coldly, as if awaiting a reaction or revelation. All that Mik understood had been broken in the last few moments; he could not bring himself to think further. He felt he disappointed the corpse.

Mik took a couple more mindless steps into the courtyard, not knowing why.The pulse of the dreaded heartbeat radiating from The Tree shook every cell of his being, like another soul forcing itself into him. 

He finally noticed the statues, perched around the circular open roof of the courtyard like vultures. The Mercy Mother’s smiled down on him, cradling their infants in prayer of an end to their famine. Mik felt they would treat him well, but his mind screamed otherwise. But what did that matter; thought had eluded him. The branches shifted in the wind, whispering to him.

Mik closed his eyes.

I shouldn’t have come here.