Walking the Tree by Kaaron Warren Page B

of the teachers and children leaving, and he spoke of the birth of Logan's baby. Lillah felt satisfied hearing the words, as if now nothing would be lost to her memory.
      "Everything is cyclical," he said. This was one of his favourite sayings.
      The Tale-teller or his allotted helpers were the only ones allowed to tell the Tree. It was important that the information was correct. There was a time when nobody wanted to take on the responsibility of Tale-teller, so everyone just spoke whatever information they thought important or interesting. Unfortunately, not everyone took it seriously: one young man kept a tally of the teachers he slept with, including names and crude drawings he etched into the Trunk. This information was not relevant and it did not speak to inheritance. He did not impregnate anybody and many of the names were invented.
      Also, people forgot to tell the Tree on the day of events and would do it months later, sometimes forgetting precise times. The Tree sickened, stopped giving fruit, and after it was decided to vote for a teller from the citizens, the position was filled once again.
      It was an offence punishable with caging to tear Bark or Limbs from the Tree. Enough timber dropped to fill their needs.
      Lillah felt a hand creep into hers. Logan. He didn't know the stories of the Tree as well as she did. He had to memorise what Lillah told him to; it was like she could see the actual words.
      "Come to bother me?"
      Logan dropped her hand. "Is this how you want to leave? Leaving me to feel bad? Inadequate?"
      "Inadequate? Be glad you weren't chosen to carry the bags. Now that would be a shameful thing." They both glanced at the teller's feet. His son sat there, back against the Tree, feet resting on a root.
      As the teller stepped forward to tell further news to the Tree, he tripped over his son's ankles.
      "Blast it! Move! Away from the Tree!" he shouted. The poor boy shrugged, stood up, sauntered away, as if he had not been spoken to like an idiot.
      "He shows no interest unless there's a crowd," the teller said. The boy's large head seemed too big for his body. His fingers were long and bony, almost tapered; Lillah had seen him scooping the guts out of a fish then almost shucking the flesh from the bones. She imagined his fingers like knives. He didn't need tools, she thought. He could use his fingers to cut story into wood.
      Logan strapped on shoes to climb the Tree. "These feel awful."
      Lillah and the other teachers had memorised three generations of births and deaths. They remembered the time they lost six men, out building an extension to the seawalk when it collapsed. No one could reach them to rescue them, and it was devastating to the Order to watch them inching closer and closer, but never reaching shore.
      They knew that one Order remembered the story of Spikes, which killed so many of them.
      Annan said, "The others will join us?"
      "Yes. Should I gather them now?"
      "I'll send my son," Annan said, and he kicked the boy to action.
      Before long, the rest of the teachers gathered to hear the telling of their lifelines. Many others came, too; this was a recital they enjoyed.
      Annan closed his eyes and murmured. Lillah knew he was apologising to the Tree for the intrusion.
      Then he began. He was not as great a performer as some she had heard of. Maybe Dickson, if chosen to take the aging man's place, would enjoy the performance aspect more. Dickson was a natural show-off and scene-stealer. His classic story was that moments after Thea was born and everybody was cooing over her, he pulled his pants down and defecated on their mother's bed.
      Anything for attention. Dickson would enjoy being the teller, but it wouldn't be enough. He wanted everyone around the Tree to know his name. He wanted to appear in the voices in every place.
      Annan finished his recital but the people stayed gathered, chattering and amusing each