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by Therese Arkenberg
Fantasy, 15 pages.
Originally Published in Thoughtcrime Experiments, 2009
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Xanathan Kurtler didn’t die because of greed. Not his own, anyway. It wasn’t greed that made him plant those trees.
I know that’s how the rest of them tell it. I’m not the rest of them, and I’m the one you asked to tell the story.
I met him traveling through what had been until recently Tuscroean country. The reason I was traveling isn’t important. If I told you everything I did in those days, I’d just give you ideas, and this isn’t a story about me, anyway. This was just after the War of Ekandrian Expansion—and I’m showing my age, telling you that — and by then the land was mostly inhabited by settlers.
Sparsely inhabited, though. There was no village in miles as far as I could tell, but because the land around was so quiet I didn’t fear the prospect of spending the night under the stars, alone. In fact, I was sort of warming to it. I was young in those days, and thought that adventure was a thing you should seek out sometime.
So I was kind of let down when I saw the fire. If it was friendly, there went my plans for sleeping out alone — and then there was also the possibility that it wasn’t. Now, I sure loved living, but by that time I was tired. So I crept closer and was disappointed, but not too much, when I saw above the firelight a good-sized, sandy bucket hat.
The man beneath the hat was the same sandy color: sandy tanned skin, sandy yellow-brown eyes, sandy hair going snowy. Only his teeth weren’t sand-colored; in fact, they nearly threw my reflection back at me when he smiled.
“Hello there,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see a young person here. Particularly not an Ekandrian one.”
“Seen many Tuscroes?” My fingers were looped in my sash, where I carried a light lady’s pistol and a small knife. I noticed the sandy man was unarmed.
He shook his head. “Haven’t seen, but they’re out there. And when you’re hearing footsteps beyond your firelight, well, Tuscroe’s far more likely than any white girl.”
“Sorry if I scared you.”
“You didn’t scare me, miss. Maybe startled a little bit. Nothing a youngster need apologize for. Here, sit down.“
I sat. “You’re camped pretty far back from the road, sir.” He was. I didn’t mention that before? Way far back. I can’t guess, maybe a hundred feet, or a hundred and fifty.
“I wanted to sleep among the trees.” He gestured around us with a smile.
His fire was in the trees, right enough, but it wasn’t a forest like you’re probably thinking. I’d seen his fire from the road, despite the distance, because the trees were too small and slender to block it. And they were spaced out in a way that wasn’t natural. There wasn’t any undergrowth, just some grass and a few weeds — goosefoot, plantain, dandelion. It looked a lot like an orchard.
“I’m Xanathan Kurtler,” the sandy man said. “Most people call me Xanny, or sometimes Xan.”
In those days saying what your friends called you was an invitation to do the same, so I said, “Hello, Xan. I’m Andra Nattinsen.” I looked around. “Say, what kind of —”
“These are Orel trees,” he said. “I planted them myself.”
Yes, that’s what he said!
I was about as surprised as you are now — actually, more, because I had never heard the tale of Xanathan Goldenseed before. I just walked right into it.
He laughed at the look on my face. “They really are. Go on, look them over.”
I rose and went to one of the trees. I knew something of apple trees — we’d started the Nattinsen orchard recently. The Orels looked pretty similar, and if they were as they appeared, they were young. Maybe five years old. It was late summer and there, weighing down the branches, peeking through the dark green, tiny leaves, were some of the first fruit.
All made of gold. It shone a deep yellow-orange in the light of the fire, a little darker than Xan’s sandy-amber eyes.
“Pick one if you want,” he said. “I planted them, so I guess they’re mine to give if they’re anybody’s.”
So I picked one. It twisted from the stem easily, almost slid off. It was cool, about the size of an apple, and very heavy.
“Wouldn’t want to bite one of those.” Xan chuckled at his own joke.
I smiled and shook my head. “Guess not. But it’s very pretty. Thank you.” I sat back down across the fire from him and polished the fruit on my skirt. An Orel, I guess you’d call it; I’ve never told this story before so I never thought of it. “I didn’t know Orel trees were real.”
“They almost weren’t,” he said. “I spent seven years searching, and by the time I found one on the shores of the Middle Sea, it was nearly the last Orel tree alive.”
“What happened to the rest?”
“There never were many. They don’t die easily—I’ve heard that once you plant one, leave it alone and it’ll live near forever. So it’s planting them th -- [End of Preview.]