Nita sat quiet for a moment, remembering how it had been when she w littler. She would swing for hours on end, talking to herself, pretending k'nds of things, talking to the tree and the world in general. And some- es_ (You talked back!) she said in shocked realization. (You did, I wasn't making it up.)
(Certainly ! talked. You were talking to me, after all… . Don't be sur-nrised. Small children look at things and see them, listen to things and hear them. Of course they understand the Speech. Most of them never realize it any more than you did. It's when they get older, and stop looking and listening, that they lose the Speech, and we lose them.) The rowan sighed, many leaves showing pale undersides as the wind moved them. (None of us are ever happy about losing our children. But every now and then we get one of you back.) (All that in the book was true, then,) Nita said. (About the Battle of the Trees—)
(Certainly. Wasn't it written in the Book of Night with Moon that this world's life would become free to roam among our friends there) — the rowan stretched upward toward the turning stars for a moment—(if we helped? After the world was green and ready, we waited for a long time. We started letting all sorts of strange creatures live in our branches after they came up out of the water. We watched them all; we never knew which of our guests would be the children we were promised. And then all of a sudden one odd-looking group of creatures went down out of our branches, and looked up-ward again, and called us by name in the Speech. Your kind… .) The tree looked down musingly at Nita. (You're still an odd-looking lot,) it said.
Nita sat against the rowan and felt unhappy. (We weren't so kind to you,) she said. (And if it weren't for the plants, we wouldn't be here.)
(Don't be downcast, wizardling,) the tree said, gazing up at the sky again. (It isn't your fault.
And in any case, we knew what fate was in store for us. It was written in the Book.)
(Wait a minute. You mean you knew we were going to start destroying your kind, and you got the world ready for us anyway?)
(How could we do otherwise? You are our children.)
(But … we make our houses out of you, we—) Nita looked guiltily at tne book she was holding. (We kill you and we write on your bodies!)
The rowan continued to gaze up at the night sky. (Well,) it said. (We are all m the Book together, after all. Don't you think that we wrote enough in he rock and the soil, in our day? And we still do. We have our own lives, our
Wn 'eclings and goals. Some of them you may learn by your wizardry, but I °ubt you'll ever come to know them all. We do what we have to, to live.
Orfietimes that means breaking a rock's heart, or pushing roots down into ground that screams against the intrusion. But we never forget what we're lng As for you)—and its voice became very gentle—(how else should our dren climb to the stars but up our branches? We made our peace with that fact a long time ago, that we would be used and maybe forgotten. So be it. What you learn in your climbing will make all the life on this planet greater, more precious. You have your own stories to write. And when it comes to that, who writes the things written in your body, your life? And who reads?) It breathed out, a long sigh of leaves in the wind. (Our cases aren't that much different.)
Nita sat back and tried to absorb what the tree was saying. (The Book of Night with Moon,) she said after a while. (Do you know who wrote it?)
The rowan was silent for a long time. (None of us are sure,) it said at last. (Our legends say it wasn't written. It's simply been, as long as life has been. Since they were kindled, and before.) It gazed upward at the stars. (Then the other Book, the dark one—)
The whole tree shuddered. (That one was written, they say.) The rowan's voice dropped to a whisper. (By the Lone Power — the Witherer, the one who blights. The Kindlcr of Wildfires. Don't ask more. Even talking about that one or its works can lend it power.)
Nita sat quiet for a while, thinking. (You came to ask something,) the rowan said. (Wizards are always asking things of rowans.) (Uh, yes.)
(Don't worry about it,) the rowan said. (When we decided to be trees of the Light, we knew we were going to be in demand.)
(Well — I need some live wood. Just enough for a stick, a little wand. We're going to open the Grand Central worldgatc tomorrow morning.)
Above Nita's head there was a sharp cracking sound. She pressed back against the trunk, and a short straight branch about a foot and a half long bounced to the grass in front of her. (The Moon is almost full tonight,) the rowan said. (If I were you, I'd peel the leaves and bark off that twig and leave it out to soak up moonlight. I don't think it'll hurt the wood's usefulness for your spelling, and it may make it more valuable later on.)
(Thank you, yes,) Nita said. The book had mentioned something of the sort — a rowan rod with a night's moonlight in it could be used for some kind of defense. She would look up the reference later. (1 guess I should go in and check my spells over one more time. I'm awfully new at this.) (Go on,) the tree said, with affection. Nita picked up the stick that the rowan had dropped for her, got up and stretched, looking up at the stars through the branches. On impulse she reached up, hooked an arm around the branch that had had the swing on it. (I guess I could still come and climb sometimes,) she said.
She felt the tree looking at her, (My name in the Speech is Liused,) it said in leafrustle and starfhcker. (If there's need, remember me to the trees in Manhattan. You won't be without help if you need it.)
""I'm Nita," she said in the Speech, aloud for this once. The syllables didn't sound strange: they sounded like a native language and made English feel like a foreign tongue. For a moment every leaf on the tree quivered with her name, speaking it in a whispery echo. (Go,) the rowan said again. (Rest well.) It turned its calm regard to the stars again. Nita went back inside.
Saturday morning about eight, Kit and Nita and Fred took the bus down to the Long Island Railroad station and caught a shiny silver train for Manhattan. The train was full of the usual cargo of Saturday travelers and shoppers, none of whom paid any particular attention to the boy and girl sitting by one window, going over the odd contents of their backpacks with great care. Also apparently unnoticed was a faint spark of white light hanging in the center of the window between the two, gazing out in fascination at the backyards and parking lots and stores the train passed.