The Other Tree (10 page)

“Luke,” said Father Andreas. “When we parted last, I wasn’t criticising you. I was making an observation.”

“You were giving an opinion, as I recall. One I disagreed with.”

A gentle breeze pushed against the plain cotton curtains, and motes of dust hung in streaks of morning light.

“It’s gotten worse, though, hasn’t it?” said Father Andreas.

Luke turned to face him.

“All you have is speculation,” said Luke. “The next time you see me, I’ll have proof.”

* * *

“If you’re going to plant trees, you should keep them further from the plumbing,” said Chris, looking critically at the vegetable garden. “Those are okay, because the root system doesn’t go down far—”

She paused as Luke strode across the garden towards her, and she patted Novice Wayne on the shoulder.

“I gotta go,” said Chris. “But those pumpkins are looking good.”

She jogged over to Luke, who continued walking down the hill.

“He seemed nice,” said Chris.

“He is,” said Luke. “He’s just wrong.”

Luke picked up his pace, and Chris let him draw ahead as she straggled down the path. She’d been hoping for a free hot breakfast, and those pumpkins really
had
looked good, but Luke clearly had no appetite. By the time she reached the bottom of what the locals called a hill, and what Chris called a mountain wearing a hill on its head, Luke was already sitting sullenly in the car.

Vardeci seemed to thrive on its historic charm, or what it considered to be its historic charm. This seemed to include their rental car, which appeared to have been built before the invention of either ergonomics or engineering. Rust shook from its surface as it rumbled and choked its way into town, bumping over the charmingly historic road.

“Look out!” cried Luke.

“I see her,” snapped Chris. “There’s some kind of time delay on the steering.”

The elderly woman hobbled for her life, her shawl flapping in the morning air.

“We should have gone for the dearer car,” said Luke.

“Why do you need seatbelts if the car can’t go over twenty Ks? In case you get charged by a rhinoceros?”

“I think we can walk from here,” said Luke urgently.

Chris shrugged and pulled over onto a patch of dried clover. About a hundred metres down the road, a small town centre rose from lightly wooded fields. A collection of stone cottages lined the rough, cobbled streets, their display windows filled with meats, pastries and, souvenirs. Decorative wrought-iron signs hung from the shopfronts, promoting wares and services.

Chris and Luke walked down the main street, inspecting the various signs creaking overhead.

“Ooh!” said Chris, disappearing into a small shop bearing a floridly painted sign. It depicted an eye inside a pentagram, above the words “Charms and Curios.”

The store was softly lit with stubs of dribbly candles, and low shelves overflowed with strange ornaments, amulets, and hanging talismans. Chris inspected a jar of glass Evil Eye beads staring ferociously out at them, and she hovered over a tray of scarab beetles carved from brilliant green steatite. A basket of glazed stone charms featured an assortment of stylised fish, hawks, and tigers.

“Protects against mystical plagues,” said the woman behind the counter as she whittled at a piece of pine.

Chris paused at a dented cardboard box tucked under a dusty shelf. Shifting it with her foot, she could see it was filled with assorted crucifixes, from plain wooden carvings to explicitly gory ceramics. Pewter pendants tangled with colourful, beaded crucifixes, while small iron crosses clinked at the bottom.

And you expect to find Eden without believing in God…

Luke’s words echoed back to Chris. The world was full of so many beliefs and superstitions, legends, myths, and stories. In many ways, science found its origins in stories. Stories drew together seemingly random events, gave them order, context, meaning. Life was about consequences, and stories explained them, rationalised them—
this
happened because of
this
. Stories answered the eternal question, “Why?”

Chris understood the power of words, their ability to create a manageable narrative from inarticulate pain. It was so much easier to say, “My sister died,” than to feel it. When you could break down the torrent of grief into words, you could control it. Repeating the story could make it safe, externalising the pain into something that could be shared, contained, overcome.

But not yet, not again.

I should give Dad a call
, thought Chris.

* * *

Luke stared glumly at the window full of fresh lemon tarts and glazed biscuits. He knew he’d been a bit of a bastard that morning, but being back in Vardeci was…difficult. The low-hanging clouds and pressing forests, which had been so comforting to him before, were now a reminder of havens lost. It was true—you could never go back.

Luke had rarely visited the town when he’d lived at the seminary, so his surly mood from earlier lifted slowly as he wandered the small cottage shops, with their handicrafts and local delicacies. He had heard Chris’s stomach rumbling all the way up the hill and down again, but she hadn’t said anything.

Luke stepped into the bakery and inhaled the aroma of fresh bread and butter cakes. The man behind the counter smiled at him.

“Could I please have two apricot tarts, two chocolate cupcakes, and a stick of garlic bread?” said Luke.

As Luke glanced around the shop, his gaze was drawn to an extravagantly frosted wedding cake in a display refrigerator, topped with what appeared to be a startled glass eyeball. He noticed a small poster stuck to the side of the fridge, with a dramatic photograph of a gothic castle. Panelled along the bottom of the page were pictures of a modest ballroom, a wedding cake, and a nervous, smiling man with a finely trimmed moustache and goatee.

“Excuse me, what’s this?” Luke pointed to the poster.

“Almovar Castle,” said the baker. “They do nice weddings.” The man glanced around, then leaned forward. “He’s a little odd,” he whispered. “But he’s licensed.”

“Odd?” asked Luke, leaning in.

The man leaned in further.

“They say he’s a Satanist.” His voice crept further down in volume.

“A Satanist who does weddings?”

The man shrugged.

“They say he studies profane magic,” he said. “That’s how he stays so young.”

“Are you sure it’s not Botox?”

The man looked unconvinced.

“Uh, thank you,” said Luke, taking the bag of pastries.

As he stepped out of the bakery, Chris emerged from the curio shop, carrying a paper bag.

“Hey,” said Luke.

Chris looked up, tucking the wooden cross into her bag.

“Got anything?” asked Chris.

“Pastries.”

“Goric Almovar,” said Chris, heading back towards the car. “I think our guy’s an eccentric who lives about forty Ks out. Rarely comes to town, allegedly shuns the townsfolk or vice versa. Apparently, sales of the Evil Eye go up every time he swings by to pick up groceries.”

“According to the locals, he’s an evil celebrant who does nice weddings,” said Luke.

He slowed suddenly, noticing a sheet of paper stuck under the windscreen wiper of their rental car.

“My God, they have parking tickets in Romania?” said Chris.

“Language please. And I dread to think what else you thought was legal here.”

Chris ran to the car and tore the page from the windscreen.

“I didn’t even notice we had windscreen wipers,” said Luke.

Chris’s expression turned flinty as she read the sheet of paper, and she passed it wordlessly to Luke. It was a handwritten note in large print.

Stop Looking
.

Chris took the page from Luke’s hands and scrunched it into a tight wad, glaring at the swaying fields.

“So we go see Almovar,” said Chris. “I have a plan.”

* * *

“I have my doubts about this plan,” said Luke, reluctantly taking off his clerical collar and putting it in his backpack.

“It wouldn’t be a cliché if it didn’t work sometimes,” said Chris.

“Perhaps it has something to do with the entertainment value,” muttered Luke, grimacing as the car bounced over the narrow, rocky road.

The sky was darkening, and the heavy clouds looked low enough to knock your head against. Negotiating a hairpin bend, the car skidded on loose gravel, coming dangerously close to a steep drop over the side of the mountain. The car coughed and shuddered like a pack-a-day smoker in withdrawal.

“The sign said it was only a few miles ahead,” said Chris, ignoring Luke’s white knuckles gripping the seat.

“The sign also said ‘Beware!’”

The engine stuttered, and the car lurched to an exhausted halt just as the road ended in a clearing. To one side, a rough walking track had been cut through the rock, winding towards the top of the mountain. A faded wooden signpost was staked into the hard ground, the washed-out text reading: “Almovar Castle.”

Luke glanced at the sky as he climbed out of the car. Dark clouds rippled and troughed like inverted meringue peaks.

“Looks like it’s gonna storm,” said Chris, heading towards the track.

Something flip-flopped inside Luke as he looked up at the looming cliff. Since they’d arrived in Vardeci, he hadn’t been able to shake a sense of deep foreboding. He hefted his pack and followed Chris up the path.

The stony track seemed fairly disused, although flat steps were carved into the rock every few paces. Dried leaves and fallen twigs scattered the ground, and tall pines were thickly wooded on either side. Spiders hung from elaborate webs, while small creatures rustled in the underbrush.

Chris and Luke finally emerged from the woods, and before them, hunched on the mountain overhang, was Almovar Castle. It looked like a classic gothic castle, scaled down slightly. Built from large blocks of rough granite, the structure had been constructed to loom. Towers and turrets spiked from four wings, crowned in parapets and climbing with gargoyles. Moss and lichen crusted the foundations of the castle, and silted water stains marred the stonework. Several of the turret roofs were missing portions of slate, and one of the hanging stone balconies was badly cracked.

A massive, iron-bound door was set into the front of the castle, behind a metal portcullis, to which a neat wooden sign was affixed.

We do not worship Satan
.

We do not kill puppies
.

Please leave your shoes by the door
.

“I guess I should have worn my good socks,” said Chris, jangling the iron bell by the gate.

The sky began to rumble, and they could feel thunder tremoring through the ground. Luke looked over his shoulder, scanning the shadowy treeline.

“Hello?” called Chris, jangling the bell again.

After several minutes, the front door creaked open, and a pale, bearded face appeared in the gap.

“Mr. Almovar?” said Luke.

The door opened further to reveal a neatly dressed man in his sixties. He looked neither youthful nor smiling.

“Let me guess,” said Almovar. “Your car broke down and you’d like to use the phone, and possibly the sacrificial altar?”

His voice was slightly accented with the local dialect, but his words were clearly enunciated, like a man educated in the era before loudspeaker systems were commonplace.

“Actually,” said Chris. “We’re getting married soon, and we saw your website—”

Almovar’s expression changed, lighting up with a nervous smile.

“Please, do come in,” he said, running over to a rusty handle. The chain rattled loudly as the portcullis creaked up, sharp spikes pulling from the ground.

Chris prodded a distracted Luke as they were ushered inside by Almovar. A staircase curved up dramatically from the main hall, and ornate iron chandeliers hung from high ceilings. The flagstones were an ashen grey, and dusty tapestries adorned the walls, depicting mythical scenes of dragons and armies, angels and monsters.

Almovar led Chris and Luke into an atmospherically lit study, full of unrestored antique furniture. Rusted weapons hung on bare stone walls, and wooden carvings of watchful animals filled the corners. A small, badly moth-eaten, brown owl lay on a pile of faded South American weavings.

“Please, sit down,” said Almovar, clearing a broken rocking chair and stacking two Venetian parlour puffs.

Chris slid quickly into the rocking chair and almost tumbled back out, grabbing desperately onto a nearby African drum painted with stylised giraffes. Luke sat down wordlessly on the velveteen puffs.

Almovar pulled up a chair, sitting behind a mahogany desk carved with Japanese cranes.

“Welcome to Almovar Castle,” he said, folding his hands on the desk.

The stuffed owl suddenly gave a little hooting cough and scrambled to its feet, looking disoriented and dishevelled.

“I’m sorry,” said Almovar, scooping up the little owl and placing it in something resembling a knitted egg cup. “Sooty has a problem with her inner ear.”

He cleared his throat.

“Welcome to Almovar Castle. As you know, marriage is a very personal and significant decision, and it’s important that you select a celebrant who will be a positive part of the process. Everyone’s journeys and expectations are different, but the commitment of marriage should be equally meaningful for every couple. So, please tell me a little about why you’re getting married.”

“She’s pregnant,” said Luke.

Chris’s jaw dropped.

“I see,” said Almovar, a little awkwardly.

There was a brief silence.

“I don’t think it’s even mine,” said Luke.

“Okay!” Chris shot to her feet. “Luke, could I have a word?”

She gave Almovar an apologetic smile and dragged Luke from the room. She waited until they had walked almost the entire length of the corridor before she stopped beside a copper coat of arms.

“You said act like a couple,” said Luke. “This is my experience of married couples.”

“Only the ones who get counselling!”

“They
all
get counselling,” said Luke. “Except the
really
dysfunctional ones.”

The hallway suddenly flashed with white light, and a loud crack rumbled through the castle.