Chapter 5 — The World Tree Sonam, Looking Rough

The journey to the World Tree took considerably longer than Chimi expected.

Partly because the tree was much farther away than it appeared.

Partly because every few minutes someone from the Council stopped to explain another astonishing feature of Lhayul that only generated three new questions for every answer.

And partly because Chimi insisted on stopping to look at things.

"You have rivers made of light," she said, crouching beside one glowing stream.

"They are currents of living magic," explained Lopen Sangay, sounding pleased to finally be discussing something from his area of expertise. "Each river carries one of the Six Sacred Currents through the valley."

Chimi extended one cautious finger toward the water.

It wasn't water.

It flowed like water.

It shimmered like liquid moonlight.

But when her fingertip touched its surface, it felt warm, almost silky, before slipping away without leaving a single drop behind.

"...That's deeply unsettling."

"We generally consider it beautiful."

"It can be both."

Nobody argued with that.

They crossed the first bridge shortly afterward.

The bridge appeared to be woven from strands of pale silver light, hanging over the glowing river without pillars, ropes, or any visible means of support.

As Chimi stepped onto it, the bridge emitted a low humming sound.

She stopped.

"It just hummed."

"Yes," said Aum Tshering.

"Why?"

"It always does."

"It sounded judgmental."

The Council exchanged polite glances.

"The bridges welcome travelers."

"This one sounded like it was disappointed in me personally."

Lopen Sangay frowned thoughtfully.

"They can occasionally be... expressive."

"I knew it."

The second bridge hummed too.

Slightly louder.

The third gave what Chimi could only describe as an exasperated sigh.

"I don't think your bridges like strangers."

"They are very loyal to Lhayul," Aum Tshering admitted.

"I've been insulted by architecture."

"It happens rarely."

"I somehow don't feel better."

Beyond the third bridge, the path climbed gently toward the heart of the valley.

With every step, the World Tree grew larger.

And larger.

And somehow larger still.

Distance had done it a tremendous kindness.

Standing beneath it, Chimi realized that "tree" was almost an inadequate word.

Mountains were measured in height.

Rivers in length.

Trees like this deserved an entirely different unit.

Its trunk alone was broader than her entire village.

The bark shimmered with the soft silver sheen of moonlight on fresh snow, though great cracks now split its surface from root to branch. They stretched across the trunk like dry riverbeds after years without rain.

She laid one hand against the bark.

It felt warm.

But only barely.

Like the forehead of someone trying very hard not to admit they had a fever.

Its branches spread across half the valley, reaching into the lavender sky beneath the dancing moons.

Or rather...

They should have.

Large portions of the canopy stood bare.

Leaves that ought to have formed an endless emerald roof instead clung weakly to scattered branches.

Many had faded from vibrant green into dull grey.

Others curled inward as though exhausted.

Several enormous limbs reached upward without leaves at all.

They reminded Chimi uncomfortably of old hands raised in unanswered prayer.

Nobody spoke.

Even the birds seemed quieter here.

She looked down.

That was when something truly strange caught her attention.

The ground beneath the tree was immaculate.

Not naturally clean.

Deliberately clean.

Every fallen leaf had been swept away.

Every twig removed.

Every blade of grass trimmed.

The pale earth gleamed beneath the massive roots like polished stone.

Not even moss dared grow there.

Chimi frowned.

She had spent twenty-two years noticing things that other people overlooked.

Growing up in the mountains taught practical observation.

You noticed when a cow stopped eating before it became seriously ill.

You noticed when potato leaves changed color before blight spread.

You noticed which trees flowered later than usual because winter had lingered underground.

You noticed.

Or things died.

She walked slowly around one enormous root.

The Council followed at a respectful distance.

Nobody interrupted.

She crouched.

Pressed her fingers into the soil.

Then frowned harder.

Dry.

Not ordinary dry.

Not the sort of dry that came after several sunny afternoons.

Old dry.

Ancient dry.

The soil felt compacted, hard, and brittle beneath her fingertips.

She dug slightly deeper.

More dry earth.

No moisture.

No rich smell of healthy soil.

Nothing.

She sat back on her heels.

Then looked upward through the thinning branches.

"When did you last water her?"

Silence.

Not surprised silence.

Confused silence.

She remained crouching.

"When?"

Nobody answered.

The silence itself became an answer.

Behind her, a new voice spoke.

Deep.

Measured.

Carrying the unmistakable confidence of someone accustomed to never being questioned.

"Water her?"

Chimi turned.

A tall elderly man approached from the far side of the roots.

His robes were dark crimson embroidered with silver thread, and unlike the other elders, he carried no expression of warmth whatsoever.

He studied Chimi with the faint irritation reserved for flies, paperwork, and unexpected guests.

"The World Tree Sonam," he declared, "is sustained by the Convergence of the Six Sacred Currents, the Blessing of the First Elders, and the accumulated devotion of nine hundred generations."

He folded his hands behind his back.

"She does not require water."

A brief pause.

"She is not a chili plant."

Chimi blinked.

"With respect," she said, standing and brushing pale dust from her hands, "have you ever actually tried giving her some?"

The elder frowned.

"We have offered blessings."

"I didn't ask about blessings."

"We perform sacred ceremonies every new moon."

"I didn't ask about ceremonies."

"The First Elders themselves consecrated these roots."

"I asked about water."

Another silence.

She looked from one face to another.

Aum Tshering avoided her eyes.

Lopen Sangay suddenly became fascinated by a blank section of his scroll.

Several other elders coughed with suspicious enthusiasm.

"...An actual bucket," Chimi clarified.

"Filled with actual water."

"Which you then pour..."

She pointed toward the roots.

"...onto the actual ground."

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

Not even the stern elder in crimson robes answered.

Chimi slowly looked back at the earth beneath the tree.

Perfectly swept.

Perfectly polished.

Perfectly lifeless.

She sighed.

Back home, people blessed their crops every planting season.

Then they watered them.

They prayed for healthy cattle.

Then they fed the cattle.

They asked the mountains for protection.

Then they repaired broken roofs before winter arrived.

Faith and practical work had never been enemies.

They were partners.

One invited blessings.

The other gave those blessings somewhere useful to land.

She looked once more at the cracked bark.

The grey leaves.

The brittle soil.

The carefully swept ground that had likely not held moisture in generations.

Then, despite the glowing rivers, the impossible sky, the owl-headed scholar quietly taking notes nearby, and the ancient magic humming beneath the valley...

Something settled quietly into place inside her.

A feeling she recognized from helping her mother tend fields.

From nursing sick calves.

From watching old apple trees struggle through dry summers.

It was the quiet certainty that arrived when everyone around you was looking at something complicated...

...while completely missing something simple.

She looked back at the Council.

"You've spent centuries studying magic."

No one argued.

"You've written prophecies."

Lopen Sangay nodded.

"You've built bridges out of moonlight."