Chapter 19 The Golden Apple

Chapter 19 The Golden Apple

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The cold water ran down the face of Alex and the first thing that he experienced was not pain. It was weightlessness, the weird sensation of a body that had been dropped in some soft place and lost.

His eyes were opened.

Above him, there was a ceiling, of dark, smoky light--neither sunlight nor firelight, but something other than the one or the other, something which had no natural origin which he could name.

Alex inhaled sharply. It was a half-second afterwards that he sneezed and the water came pouring out of his lungs, and his palms banged down against what he was on. But it wasn't mud. It wasn't stone. It was water. He rested on the surface of a lake as on a mattress, his back to the shallow floor beneath and the water holding him in a horizontal position and not in the least turbulent, smooth and glassy and not like any water he had ever felt. It knew him, it was as though it knew him. It swallow the first fright that it might have made.

He propped himself up, and looked at himself.

His clothes were damp and cold, but his body wrong. Not bad bad. Wrong, how a man has woken up, and thinks that he has a knife still in him, and finds that he has only clean skin. His ribs were fine. His arms were fine. No skin bruises. No cuts. No broken bones. Nothing.

Alex went still. He crossed his hands together, and gazed at them on either side, as though he hoped he would detect some blood in them, in case he gazed long enough at them. Nothing came. His fingers were flexible, and moved without resistance, without pain. He took a deep breath, and had a sense of his heart beating beneath it. He was able to remember the pain quite clearly. Real pain. The one that makes you creep on the ground people laughing at you. And it was all over with it now. The world had simply revolved and un-done the damage.

With a lifting of his head he looked around.

It was a wide shallow circle of a lake, as smooth as a mirror brobed in the ground. It was bordered with natural stone walls, which curved up to a domesticated chamber that had the appearance of the inside of a sunken temple. No doors. No windows. Clear water and silence and the tiniest murmur of his breathing.

then he saw the tree.

It was in the middle of the lake, and grew out of the shallow water on a small mound of rock. It wasn't large. It wasn't old-looking. It was not so large as the sacred tree in the village, but it had something which the tree in the village never had. Light. It was not burned inside darkly, not sweetly, but with the uncontingent fire of a torch burning somewhere in the living bark. Up and down the trunk ran gold and pale green veins, and throbbed slowly, rhythmically, as though the tree were breathing. The light was seen bounced back in the water and tossed along the stone walls in line in slow changing lines.

His throat narrowed, and Alex’s gaze was fixed on it. It was that about it which caused his skin to itch not with any sense of fear, but of that which was really, wholly alive in a way which the majority of living things were not.

He strode up to it. He could hear the sound of water round his feet.

Splash.

He hesitated and looked. And the water was hot, almost so warm as skin. And where it met with his ankle he felt a slight itching in his leg, as though something were crawling up through, and clearing out all the veins on its path. Healing. It was the only word that was suitable.

He turned around and beheld the tree of light.

So this lake he said, and his voice was coarse, but it ran all in the room and stuck me.

The idea could not have been imagined. But in this world impossible was just a word that was applied to define things which ordinary citizens were killed without knowing anything about them.

Alex was in the water and he knew not what to do. He was alone. No villagers. No screaming. His bones in the mud trampled by the feet of no one. Not a word, and the laborious tread of something that was glowing in front of him.

Then a voice in the room came.

Not loud. Not whispered. And all at once we heard it everywhere, as though the very air itself had decided to speak.

There, child, here come to me.

The spine of Alex was straightened. He gazed left, and right. sees along the lake up and down. Nothing moved. There were no foot-tracks, no shadows, no bodies in the water. His hands fisted.

Who, said he, said so?

A silence prevailed. Then the voice came round, and filled the place as it had filled it, the first time, and was nowhere and everywhere.

"Come closer."

Alex's eyes narrowed. His jaw locked. He turned and stared at the tree which was on fire. One, quick and short, almost a heartbeat, the light flashed. He gulp and his throat bobbed. His intuition informed him that it was not a good thing to walk towards a talking tree in a submerged room that was secret. His instincts had been present all the time he was being beaten, and no help they had given him at that.

He stepped forward. Splash. Then another. Splash. The closer he came the closer the water, and the air was the thicker round him, and had a funny smell--fresh rain and something stinging and metallic, like it were blood that had dried and been sprayed with rain.

He stood still a few feet before the trunk, and looked at it in the face.

And that you, said he. The one calling me?

The light upon the bark to-and-fro. Once again was heard the voice, and this time it seemed to be in the tree, somewhere in the wood.

Yes. It's Me. I am The middle tree. Please Approach.
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Alex took a breath. A talking tree. Of course. The universe had chosen to provide him with a scenario that had no precedent and guidebook. He made a step forward, till he could plainly see the surface of the bark, and what he saw was a halt. It was no ordinary bark. The scales were covered upon it, and a fine, sharp line, resembling a line of writing, cut in each scale, appeared to me to be written in an unknown language.

His hand went up towards it, and hung there in the air, without making contact.

What are you? he growled, his voice becoming sharper. I spent the rest of my life in that village; I never heard of you.

The brightness of the light along the trunk was intensified momentarily, as though it disliked to be asked.

Then the voice again came, soft and leisurely.

I am the actual sacred tree. The one that is concealed in the bigger shell above.

Eyes of Alex were wide open. There was a slight opening of the mouth. His mind instantly turned to the sacred tree in the village--the one to which people paid a reverence, the one which they said preserved them under the protection of the village, the one which had done not the least good to them in all the infliction which they had endured of the beating out in the dirt.

He stared at this glowing tree and had his shock changed to something. Something stinging and pressing. Hope. Frantic and crude, the type that seizes you before you can even wonder whether it is reasonable.

His fingers were shaking.

You the holy tree? he said, with a tight and rising voice. Then thou mayest help me.

It was answered by the tree, as though the tree had been awaiting just those words.

Naturally. That is why you came. Your prayer, and your desperation, and your hatred--it raised me.

The breath of Alex was quickened. He did not even decide to kneel, as his knees struck the water.

Splash.

The reason he bowed forward was not that he was full of respect at this moment, but because the force of authority which hung in the atmosphere in which he found himself was so great that he could not stand against it without bending.

Give me thy strength, said he, my voice trembling, Great Sacred Tree.

The tree did not respond in a friendly or welcoming manner. Rather, the voice re-emerged relaxed and nearly chilled, a question under it that seemed to be a test.

Why? why do you want strength?

Alex raised his head. Not soft his eyes. They were the eyes of one who looked straight into the faces of all those who had broken something in him and will not turn his head.

The words were hard, and came out because of that village, he said. Thanks to the fact that those people have made up their minds that an orphan with no family was something which could be used to get amusement. They have called me talentless. Worthless and they have used me as something to strike against when they were bored. His hands were locked together in his sides, with his nails piercing his palms. And when they were done, when they left me half dead in the dirt, they threw me out, they did not take the trouble to kill me; they just dropped me out and went away.

His breaths were harsh as now. And his voice lifted, and filled the room and bounced back at him off the stone walls.

They left me to rot. otherwise I would have died in that mud alone, as I should have been pulled along here. He stared right into the tree. His voice went down to a lower, yet more difficult, tone. That is why I want power. So that I can go back and make each and every one of them pay it. I want to destroy that village. I want them to regret all the things that they have done.

The room was quieted down. The glow of the tree was a little dimmed, as though something within it were deliberating on what it has just heard.

Then again the voice was heard.

I see. and, as revenge thou hast desire, I can grant it. A pause. Nonetheless, there is nothing like free power. Will you pay it?"

Alex replied without so much as a puff.

Anything, he said, and his voice was now as steady as ever. Anything, so long as I can go and destroy them.

The branches of the tree swayed. There was no wind in the room, but the leaves turned, and turned, like a wind, but no wind. Then one of the branches was curved downwards towards him, and at the end of it something started to shape out. It began small, as a closed bud. Then it distended outwards. The surface hardened. And there grew a fruit, but not of a red colour, or of a green colour, or of any common colour. It was gold. One of these golden apples had been suspended to the branch, and was glittering like an object that had been smithed in a furnace, as well as produced by a tree, and the light of this object was falling into the water and making the entire room warm with fire.

Alex gazed at it, and was unable to take his eyes off.

eat this golden apple, said the tree. It will make you as strong as you would be.--but beware--the cost will be.

The throat of Alex was parched. He got up slowly and came forward and reached up. His hands were round the fruit. It was warm. Nearly hot, the happiness of a stone, which has been in the sun all day. He wrenched it out of the tree.

Snap.

The note was brief and clear and definite.

He took the apple in his hand and swiveled it in the light. The skin was cool and perfect, and it was glowing within. An ugly smile spread all over his face, full of content.

"Finally," he whispered. At last I have what I merit.

Paxton came into his thoughts. The first to have ever struck him. The person who had demonstrated to the rest of us that it was not only not immoral, but it was fun.

Paxton, said he, I am going to squeeze the life out of you. And all the rest of you. Wait till I come.

He sank his teeth in it.

Crunch.

The flesh broke like brittle crystal. Sweetness hit his mouth, but it wasn't any sweetness he recognized—it tasted like heat and lightning and something very old being poured directly into his blood. He swallowed.

And immediately felt it.

Power. Raw and total. It flooded his chest and spread into his arms and surged up into his skull. His vision sharpened to something almost painful. His hearing expanded until he could pick out each individual water drop falling from the ceiling, the faint creak of the tree's branches, even his own heartbeat hitting like a drum. Alex laughed under his breath.

Then the pain came.

Not bruise pain. Not bone pain. This was deeper and worse than either of those. It was internal, like his organs were being wrung out and his veins were being set on fire from the inside simultaneously. The laugh died instantly. His body jerked hard. He went to his knees.

"What the hell is happening?!" he shouted, his voice breaking.

His hands hit the water. Splash. His muscles locked. His stomach clenched like a fist. His spine arched backward as though something inside him was fighting to tear its way out. He tried to stand and his legs gave out completely. His vision went blurry. He pressed his teeth together so hard he thought they might crack.

"Stop," he rasped. "Stop this."

The pain did not stop. It spread through every inch of him, every nerve, every bone, reaching into places inside him that he hadn't known had feeling. It wasn't injury. It was transformation. Forced and violent and completely indifferent to what he wanted.

Alex's eyes rolled back. His fingers clawed at the ground beneath the water. His body pitched forward and hit the surface.

Thud.

Then silence.

The lake began to change. Slowly the water was pumped out, and it appeared that something was pumped out of the water at the bottom. It was warm. The water died away, and left bare rock. And flickered, and dimmed, and dimmed, the light of the sacred tree. Its bark dried out. Its leave folded in, and dried up. The light faded away to nothing till there remained in the middle of the shrinking pool a dead husk, grey and hollow, the bark falling off in bits. A trade was done. Something was given, something was taken, and the tree had paid the half which cost it all.

Alex lay still, on the damp rock.

Then his fingers flew.

His head was lifted up slowly. His eyes opened. But the eyes which opened were not those which had closed. Something that was alive was there. Something cold and settled and old, something that had never belonged to the orphan who had kneeling begged to be helped.

He stood up. Slowly. Smoothly. The way a person walks when he/she is free and is not in a hurry because he/she is free with his/her body.

His face smiled. Not desperate. Not relieved. A smirk, carrying with it the true substance of content, that profound, silent content which pertains to one long denied.

At last, he said. His voice was not the same any more. Lower. Sharper. With a burden that had never before been there, as a second voice uttering somewhere behind the first. "Finally. I'm free."

He stretched his arms, and turned his shoulders, experimenting with the body like an experimenter with a new tool before he can bring it to serious labour.

then he looked at himself--his hands, his skin, his legs, and he smiled.

Indeed, as I thought, he thought to himself. The body that I created several years ago is also working.

Things were not so beautiful on the ground. Alex was never Alex. Not that anybody knew. This institution had been established. A vessel created and moulded and not filled, a vessel created by the sacred tree many years before this time, to be filled when they shall be. A blank container. This was why initial Alex had never managed to awaken a beast taming skill. This was what the village called him as worthless. This is what made them kick him out without even considering it. They were ignorant that they were losing something which had been prepared to give way to something far more perilous than any of them could imagine.

Alex startled his head and looked out to the village, somewhere beyond the stone walls of the dead chamber.

His expression was not angry. It was hungry.

Almost, it said, he said, as though it were a respect, the name by which I mean, Alex, now, now, because somehow it was. I shall not make you die in vain. He clasped his hand. I shall do thy will. His eyes were sucked in to a flat, sharp. I shall burn that village and I shall kill them all. Then he turned aside and his voice was lowered even further. And yet I would like to check something.

He raised his chin.

System, he said. "I'm back."

The air rippled.

On his side of the screen was seen.

Hello to the Beast Hacker System\].

He looked at it some time. Then his smile came back, wider this time, the smile of a man who had seen something that he thought he should never see again after a very long war.

And still it was fixed to his soul. Still his. Still waiting.

Everything seemed to him, suddenly clear and pure. He was no orphan. He was a transmigrator, a man who had once possessed the real power, and had lost it in wasteful dissipation. He had worked the machine in his sleep, and had thrown the powers therein, in an unscrupulous way, about, and at last the powers had found him out. His body had been stolen by somebody. Not entirely, but adequately--had cut his soul out of his flesh and stuffed it into a seed, and thrown it out in a combat, that it would be destroyed without notice. The thief wished that he would keep on suffering but the system could not match anyone. The robber was angry. The seed got lost. Years passed.

That seed Alex was locked up in had taught him. He had hacked. He had been toiling at the seed itself, within, slowly and tediously transforming it into a tree of life, and hoarding power the slow and steady manner, instead of dissipating it the moment he had it. And now, at last, he had finally finished the building of a ship which could transport him in a befitting way.

This body.

Ready.

He stared out to the village. He gazed coolly, and nothing to do with peace. It was the calm of one who had already decided on the amount of people that would be killed and was simply walking to the first victim.

He smirked.

Now to pay the price, I said to myself.

He left the dead lake and the shriveled stump of the tree behind him, and with no hurry, no hurry, made his way, slowly, to0916 404 0156 wards the village as though he had nowhere to go but the place he was going to.

The crack of drying earth was all that remained to be heard in the chamber.

Crk. Crk. Crk.

Alex grinned to himself as he headed to the village.