Now it was the wont of the Aphelossamê always to sleep in the night-time, though sleep was not needful for immortal men and women. While the body slumbered, its power flowed into the mind, so that sleep afforded a space for long, deep thought. These travels of the mind were not dreams, for the will of the sleeper directed them. Yet the thoughts of the sleeper might not journey without limits. At some times he found his vision clear and deep; and at others dim and shallow. Of all those in Aphelos, Obrámus’s thoughts journeyed farthest in space and time, and it may be that he often conversed in thought with his master, the Messenger from the West.
One night the thoughts of the Lord Ingos ranged over the world, and his vision had never been so clear. But suddenly his thoughts fled back to his own realm, to the Silver Tree. In his mind he saw Obrámus the Wise gazing at the Tree; and out of the past he heard the Messenger say— ‘Guard it well, and watch for the deceiver!’
Ingos awoke; it was the middle of the night. He knew that all was not well, and arose quickly. He hastened to the Great Tree, on the mound called Ingos’s seat. His friend, the Moon, shone down brightly. He saw Obrámus by the Tree, looking upwards. The branches of the Tree were tossing and shaking. Two men were standing in the top branches of the Tree. One of the men in the Tree was Hergal, his wife’s cousin. He was clothed again in his rags and belt; something flashed in his upraised hand — the axe. And in truth, this was Ganting, the very same weapon which which Rauwenna smote her sister Dâyamuna.
The Lord of Aphelos ran to the Silver Tree and began to climb its welcoming branches. But then a great shudder went through the Tree, like a boat pounded by the waves. The Aphelossamê, sleeping on the ground below, felt a tremor in the earth; the wood seemed to moan as it bent, though no wind blew. For Hergal the deceiver had cut through the topmost branch of the Silver Tree, and held the severed limb aloft, with its golden fruit of immortality. He uttered a great shout of triumph. The Moon shone on the face of his companion. It was Usta, Ingos’s son.
Then grief struck the Lord of Aphelos, as the deceiver’s axe had struck the Great Tree. His purpose had been to cast Hergal from the Tree, but now his power drained from him. He simply said, ‘My son…’
‘Father!’ cried Usta to his father when he recognized him. But then a great black shape arose from the forest beyond and blotted out the white Moon. It was a flying monster that Hergal had summoned by some evil art from far beyond the shores of Aphelos; it came at its master’s call and hovered on dark beating wings by the maimed tree top.
Hergal now mounted its scaly back. ‘Usta!’ he called. Usta looked from where he stood on a bough, and then looked towards Ingos.
‘Father!’ he said again.
‘Usta, be not a traitor, but come when your master calls you!’ Hergal called with a rough, loud voice. ‘Your master awaits you! Come when I call you!’
Then Usta climbed the branches and mounted the monster behind Hergal. Ingos could do nothing.
The monster beat its wings slowly and Hergal wheeled it round to face Ingos. Its face and stench were alike hideous.
‘Hear this, Ingos, lord of Aphelos that is no more!’ Hergal cried out, his rasping voice full of scorn. ‘Or should I say, lord of Nothing? Now shall your Realm be taken from you, for the Tree is despoiled. My father, Nagbith, is the Heir of Ungubith the Great, the father of my fathers, Lord of Aumbrus, who once was abased but is to arise in power once more. I have taken the Fruit of Life for my father, and he shall be immortal, the High and Mighty, and no mere steward. His people will not wander like savages, without a Made Thing among them. They will labour to enrich themselves. They shall wrest the Lordship of the Earth from the paltry Doitherúna and use it to profit themselves. They will be masters of every skill and art. They will learn the secrets of the world.
‘Nagbith the mighty rules the North and he shall rule the South too. He shall rule the Midworld. He will be made immortal, and his lordship will have no end. Farewell, Ingos! We shall meet again, perhaps, when your people are begging their way about the world. Come to my father’s door and see what he spares for you. Say farewell to your only dear son! I send no good wishes to my brothers and sisters and the other savages!’
With that Hergal wheeled his foul steed about and fled away into the darkness, bearing the son of Ingos and Díamun with him.
Ingos came down from the Tree and stood facing his people, who were assembled in the clearing. For a long time no word was spoken, and the Moon sank slowly down.
All the people of Aphelos stood mourning by the stricken Tree.
But Obrámus said: ‘Lord, we have suffered a grievous harm and loss. We cannot in this hour confront our grief, nor take counsel together, so great is the shock. Let us rather return to our sleep, and in the morning our minds will be the clearer.’
‘My thoughts will journey far in sleep, seeking my lost child,’ replied the Lady Díamun.
‘Yea, Lady, so all our minds shall be scattered, if we give them their accustomed freedom. Therefore I counsel a remedy. Stretch forth your staff, Lord Ingos, and let each Immortal here take hold of it.’
And so the people of Ingos, grieving as they never had in all their time in Aphelos, came together and each laid a hand upon the staff of immortal wood, stronger than stone. Then Obrámus the Wise chanted words of peace that none there knew but he. Then they all cast themselves on the ground to rest. Straight away a blessed oblivion wrapped their minds until the first light of dawn.
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