Clash of the Sky Galleons (25 page)

‘It reminds me of the collections in the Palace of Shadows,’ said Maris, pausing to marvel at a razorflit caught in the act of swallowing a giant woodmoth. ‘Yet nothing in my father’s palace was half as exquisite …’

‘Or as deadly’ added Quint. ‘We’ll be safe when we get up to the branches.’

He took Maris’s arm and guided her away from a large column of resin, just as a glistening drop - as big as a fist - fell from the end, like wax dripping from a candle. It disappeared into the shadows below with a sticky sounding
plopff!

Now that the sun had dropped low in the sky, down below them, the forest floor was in darkness. Only by climbing higher, up towards the light that still brightened the sky, could they prolong the day.

‘I’m so thirsty, Quint,’ Maris rasped as she followed him up the rough bark ‘steps’ of the trunk.

‘I know,’ said Quint softly. ‘But just hold out a little longer if you can.’

Maris looked up at the first of the arched branches high above, spanning the air like the vaulted ceiling of a mighty palace hall, and shook her head miserably. ‘I’ll try’ she whispered.

Although the ironwood had seemed easier to climb at first than the gnarled and slippery blackwood, the pine tree was far, far larger. This made the distance from its base to the first of its huge branches a daunting climb and, since the slab-like bark was becoming more and more fragile the higher they went, increasingly dangerous.

In fact, all the trees of the great Deepwoods forest were different from one another. With the passing years, the bloodoak - a flesh-eater - grew broader rather than taller, its mandibled jaws stretching to take in ever-larger prey. The lullabee, knobbly and irregular, with branches sprouting every which way, grew in a robust yet haphazard manner; while the branches of the blackwood would divide and sub-divide, becoming more and more dense with every season. Then there was the redoak, a graceful tree with diamond-shaped leaves that would turn bright crimson at the end of every frost. Growing continuously, the redoak’s branches sprouted from the central trunk, one after the other, almost like a spiral staircase.

And then, of course, there was the ironwood pine itself. In contrast to most of the other trees, it had distinct growth spurts. For several years the trunk would grow tall and straight. Then, triggered by an upsurge of sap, branches would appear in a ring around the circumference of the trunk. Once these had become established, with massive, dark-green pinecones nestling between the dark-green needles,
the trunk would grow again. As it did so, extra branches would grow, so that the lower rings could have anything up to a hundred branches radiating out from the trunk. This number diminished the taller the tree became, until at the top, there was a ring of merely three or four small branches.

‘I reckon that’s a good fifty years we’ve just climbed,’ Quint announced as they finally reached the first ring of branches, each one the size of a blackwood tree.

‘You mean,
strides?’
said Maris.

Quint shook his head. ‘Years,’ he said, ‘judging by the height of the trunk. You know, the ironwood grows a new branch every twenty years or so. There must be a hundred branches in this first ring alone - not counting all the branches in the rings above. I’m telling you, Maris, this tree must be ancient…’

Maris looked up at the rings of branches above her head.

‘Older than my grandfather,’ she mused. ‘My greatgrandfather, my great-
great
-grandfather …’

‘Maris, this tree is so big, it’s probably older than the great floating city of Sanctaphrax itself.’

Maris’s eyes widened. ‘Older … than …’ Her voice faded away to nothing as she sat down on the huge branch and, for a moment, forgot just how thirsty she was.

‘Come on,’ said Quint. ‘We need to go on a bit further.’

Dragging herself wearily to her feet, Maris followed close behind Quint as he continued up the tree. They
passed circles of branches, followed by long stretches of trunk, followed by more circles of branches, as they forged their way further and further up the tree. It was so immense that it was home to countless creatures that never left it - insects, grubs, birds and beasts, for whom the great ironwood pine was their entire world.

There were colonies of wood-wasps living in huge papery lantern-like constructions that swayed beneath the branches; there were, flightless urchin-birds with spiky dark-green feathers and needle-thin orange beaks that hid themselves away among the brushes of pine-needles, and scaly creatures with long twisting tentacles that probed the air from crevices in the bark. And eyes … Lots and lots of eyes. Wide discs of green, narrow yellow slits and blood-red dots - all glinting in the half-light as she hurried past.

They had climbed just beyond the top of the forest canopy when Quint turned to her at last. ‘We’ll camp here for the night,’ he told her, unclipping his parawings.

With a sigh of relief, Maris unclipped her own and watched as Quint secured the parawing tent to one of
the myriad smaller branches that sprouted from the massive one on which they stood. Then, without saying a word, he pulled his knife from his belt, reached up and cut through the stalks of half a dozen of the small, pale-green pinecones that hung in clusters from the branch overhead. He handed them to Maris.

‘Break them open,’ he instructed her. ‘Then peel the individual kernels.
They’re
what we’re after.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘But whatever you do, don’t eat them!’

While Maris got to work, Quint set off along the main branch. After a few minutes, the branch forked, and forked again, each new branch bristling with great brushes of fragrant pine-needles. Quint clambered out over one of these springy mattress-like brushes, until he reached the very tip. He could go no further. All round him was the forest canopy, golden and gleaming in the evening sunlight.

Quint sniffed the air and his nostrils filled with a delicious, tangy smell - a cross between limeleaves and woodhoney A broad smile spread across his face.

‘Better than I could have hoped for,’ he murmured as he reached out and parted the pine-needles at his feet to reveal a clutch of yellow, ball-shaped mushrooms clinging to the underside.

Taking care not to slip, Quint lowered himself so that he was seated astride the branch. He slipped his hands inside his greatcoat, unbuckled his tooled breast-plate and pulled it free. Then, having wedged it upside down between his knees, he reached out and took one of the balls of fungus in both hands. With
one short, sharp jerk, he twisted it to the left. There was a soft
crack
and a lingering
squellp -
and the fungus came free. He laid it down gently inside the hollow of the breast-plate, before returning his attention to the rest of the cluster.

Squellp! Squellp! Squellp!

A little while later Quint returned and placed a heavily laden breast-plate in front of Maris.

‘What are
they?’
she asked, not sure whether to be delighted or horrified.

Quint smiled as he unfastened the small metal cup from the side of his belt. Then he selected the largest of the mushrooms and, holding it over the cup, gently squeezed. As he did so a clear liquid streamed down into the cup and the air filled with a juicy perfume. When the cup was filled almost to the brim, Quint handed it to Maris.

Try that,’ he said.

Maris raised the cup tentatively to her lips. Then, wincing slightly, she took the smallest of sips. Her face lit up with an expression of absolute joy. Throwing back her head, Maris drained the cup in one go.

That is
delicious!
What is it?’ she asked, as she stuck her hand out for a second cupful.

Quint selected a second fungus, and squeezed it dry. ‘It has many names. Kobold’s tears. The gift of Riverrise. Cloudtree juice …’ he said, as he forced the last drips out of the spongy fungus and passed the cup back to Maris. ‘But what we sky pirates call it is sky nectar.’

She drained it quickly, and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘Sky nectar,’ she said. ‘I’ve never tasted anything better!’

‘It’s pure rainwater trapped in the fibres of the fungus,’ Quint explained. ‘The spores give it that sweet taste. Of course, the fungus also grows lower down, but it’s dangerous to try it there.
Anything
could get mixed up with the rain. No, it’s only up here, above the canopy where the rain first lands, that it’s safe to drink.’

He looked down at the pile of ironwood pine-kernels she’d peeled. ‘Excellent work,’ he said.

Maris beamed.

Quint leaned forward, picked up one of the golden, heart-shaped kernels, inspected it - then popped it in his mouth.
‘Mmm!’
he sighed. ‘Like tilder sausages flavoured with orange-grass and nibblick …’

‘What?’ Maris exclaimed. ‘But you told me not to eat them…’

‘Did I?’ said Quint innocently. He took a handful of the pine-kernels, and ate them, one after the other. A smile spread across his face. ‘Absolutely delicious.’

‘You … You …’ Maris cried out.

Quint laughed. ‘You’d better tuck in, before I eat the lot,’ he said.

‘Oh, Quint, that
is
good,’ said Maris, a moment later. ‘Meaty. Spicy. Succulent…’

She reached forward for another one. And then another, and another, before washing them all down with some more freshly squeezed sky nectar.

Maybe it was because she had been so hungry and thirsty. Maybe it was the relief of escaping from the terrors of the forest below with its pusfrogs and slither-worms and wig-wigs, and who knew what else besides. Or maybe it was just sitting there in that huge ancient tree that had survived and prospered for countless centuries, and whose branches not only protected them, but also provided this generous feast … Maris would never know. What she
did
know was that the simple meal she shared that evening with her friend, Quint, high up above the dark forest, was the most delicious she had ever tasted in her entire life.

‘Perfect,’ she whispered.

Far away, the sun - now a great wobbling crimson ball - sank down behind the distant trees. As it did so, the low streaks of cloud down near the horizon turned to bright yellows and oranges, pinks and purples, while the sky behind them was stained a deep red that spread out like spilled winesap on a tablecloth.

A soft wind blew, rustling the leaves at the tops of the forest canopy as it passed across the majestic sweep of the endless Deepwoods, and filling the warm air with a mixture of aromatic scents - oakmint, lyptus-balm,
blue-thyme, and the herby fragrance of the ironwood pine itself. A flock of snowbirds circled in the sky, before swooping down towards the tall lufwoods, where they would roost for the night. A giant caterbird flapped its way across the darkening sky …

Slowly but surely, the darkness of the night moved across the firmament, like a great black blanket. Stars came out, bright and twinkling in the moonless sky. The cries of the night creatures grew louder as fromps and quarms, febrals, goremorps, manticrakes and so, so many others joined the rousing chorus - a great symphony of sound that swirled round the forest and rose up into the sky.