The Acryptus Tree Read online

  THE ACRYPTUS TREE

  “This book is dedicated to everyone who believed I could do it, and to anyone whose doubts inspired me to rise to the challenge.”

  PROLOGUE

  It began in the early days of December, 1796. A humble British supply vessel had just set sail for the newly freed American coast. It was named the Diocles, and it was in awful disrepair. The weary beams creaked and grinded as waves crashed alongside its aged hull. Cold wind hissed as it battered the sails clinging to the ship’s one solitary mast. The crew, a band of drunkards and misfits, came from destitute families with meager backgrounds. Even the captain was a surly oaf with fragile nerves and slothful posture. The Diocles rarely made good time.

  Without warning, a destructive storm had consumed the skies. The bows of the ship heaved and groaned as the sails were quickly torn to shreds. Lethal winds and the shrill bite of freezing torrents made control of the Diocles impossible. Its crew and captain clung to their bunks and cried out for mercy, to no avail. It took only moments for the vessel to sink, pulling what supplies it carried down into endless oblivion.

  Only four sailors survived: Francis Culver, the ship ’s cook and the oldest of eleven brothers; Peter Forsythe, the learned but prideful first mate; Joseph Gale, a zealous missionary intent on spreading faith amongst the growing nation; and John Cecil Rollins, the adolescent midshipman, cast out by his parents for want of food. Each had managed to grab hold of the same piece of floating debris as unrelenting currents carried them deeper into the chaos. The tumultuous waves rose to towering heights before crashing back down onto the survivors with growing ferocity. The skin of each man stung as if attacked by a thousand wasps. Their teeth chattered to the point of breaking and their hold on reality gradually grew faint. It was only a matter of time before their aching palms would loosen and they slipped away into watery darkness.

  After what seemed an eternity, they each found the strength to open their eyes. The sound of deafening thunder still numbed their ears. All the clouds that had overpowered the sun for so long were now dissipating, and rays of hopeful sunlight beamed down upon the floating wreckage. It was at that moment that the survivors beheld a colossal island composed of solid rock looming in the distance. It rose up for what seemed two hundred yards, drawing closer as they weakly paddled their way towards it.

  The four men had scaled the hazardous crag. Agonizing groans escaped their dry, cracking lips as they grasped each crevice with every upward inch. Though excruciating, the climb provided an undeniable sense of hope. This feeling, however, had evaporated as they finally reached the top, only to find a flat and barren surface where nothing could survive. Puddles of icy rainwater quenched the sailors’ thirst, but the freezing temperatures and growing hunger in their bellies remained. It became clear that death would again come looking for them on that lifeless rock. This time there would be no escaping it. Not a single passing vessel was spotted, and it seemed unlikely that anyone might come searching for the wreckage of their ship. No one would grieve over the sinking of the Diocles. There would be no disheartened families, nor financial ruin. Life, for the rest of the populous, would go on.

  The survivor, Joseph Gale, wished to explore the island more thoroughly before accepting it as his grave. The others stayed behind, calmly awaiting their impending doom. The missionary was not so easily defeated. For generations, his family had suffered long, nightmarish bouts with bad fortune, illness, and death. Some had interpreted it all as fate’s cruel laughter while others considered it as an invulnerable curse. Whatever it was, the Gales had lived on, finding new ways to survive year after year. The decision by Joseph, however, to pursue a religious path had definitively ended their lineage. What precious time he had left in life he had sworn to make of use. His father had always said this was the only valuable action any man could do, and so he believed, with all his will and strength, that his ability to help the world wouldn’t end that day.

  Walking along, Gale discovered what appeared to be a brief incantation crudely carved into the ground beneath his feet. He called his comrades over to examine it. They all agreed that it had been inscribed long before their arrival. Peering closer, they each read one line aloud:

  “I call upon t hat which was, and may be again To rise up and be, as it was before I accept the charges given, and the rewards to keep Now never to pass on, now never more to sleep”

  As they finished, a deep rumbling noise broke the calm. Out in the distance, from beneath the depths, there arose another mass of land. This one was larger, almost half the size of their beloved England. Fresh, green grass blanketed the ground, colorful plants blossomed, towering trees full of fruit grew bountifully, and serene beaches composed of the purest sand formed before the sailors’ eyes. Birds could be seen descending from the clouds above to make their homes in the branches of trees, while the distant rumbling and mating calls of various land dwelling beasts resounded from beyond the coastline.

  The survivors, struck with awe and f ear, couldn’t believe what they saw. An entirely new world was being birthed right before them. It could have been a hallucination brought on by the frosty air or insatiable hunger, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. Whether what they saw was real or conjured up, it was far too beautiful to question. As they watched the wondrous phenomenon, each man felt whole again.

  Four velvet flowers suddenly sprouted up from beneath their feet. They grew from the solid rock as if from freshly tilled soil. Overcome with hunger and fatigue, the castaways fell to their knees, devouring them without hesitation. Their aggressive hunger diminished and their bodies were soon rejuvenated.

  The historical records of later years would show that the event would be forever known as The Swelling. The sailors made their way to the land mass and divided it into four equal provinces, which they named Amber, Daroon, Helite and Falcas. Helite went to Francis Culver. Daroon was given to Joseph Gale, while Falcas was claimed by Forsythe. The province of Amber was taken by Rollins. Together, the four men vowed unwavering loyalty to one another and to any who would help them colonize the land. The chances of being spotted were too monumental to ignore.

  Hours of waiting turned into days. Days turned into weeks. No one came. It seemed as if the land was hidden from the view of passing ships. Hope soon turned into despair amongst the rulers, and all appeared to be lost, until one day the ocean was again consumed in a turbulent storm. When it passed, several ships lay cast upon the shore. The four lords came together once again to assist the survivors. Multiple families optimistically made their way across the land, creating small towns and villages while awaiting the search parties from home eventually sent to find them. Time passed on. With it came tempest after tempest, each bringing more crippled vessels to the shore and countless castaways seeking help. Soon the entire land was well populated and growing prosperously.

  Apart from rich soil and bountiful harvests, the new residents soon made an exciting discovery. An accidental find during a routine mining operation revealed a collection of strange, glowing orbs buried deep underground. Some were the size of a mere egg, while others weighed in as much as a mountain boulder. Regardless of weight, each one seemed to offer an unlimited supply of wondrous energy. This led to the invention of various contraptions that improved everyday life. The origin of the glowing spheres, or “lorbs” as they came to be called, was never fully investigated. It never seemed curious to their finders that the caches of each supply appeared to be easy to locate, as if by design.

  It became clear to the four lords that perhaps their destinies were not back in England, but rather in that strange new world that had saved their lives and supplied rare artifacts. They proclaimed the land an independent institution, and named it “Sanctumsea” for th
e salvation it had brought to all whose lives were shattered in the storms. Every new arrival chose a province to call home, and together the land grew in population and prosperity.

  Each lord secured his province and ruled over it for several hundred years. This remarkable feat was possible because of the baffling flowers each sailor had eaten back on the stone island. They called it sunweed: a rare and powerful plant that granted its consumer extended life. Its magical properties varied, depending on who consumed it. Peter Forsythe died at the age of a hundred and twelve. The cook, Culver, passed away the day before his three hundredth birthday. Joseph Gale expired at age four hundred and nine. The midshipman, Rollins, was the last to go, making it to just over five hundred and fifty before the power of the plant finally wore off. Small clusters of sunweed had sprouted up from the gardens of each lord the day before his passing. No other sighting of the rare and powerful plant had been reported across all the land. Each lord instructed his chosen replacement to consume it as he had done. It became clear this was the manner in which rulers of Sanctumsea would reign to pass constructive laws and shield their subjects from harm.

  The laws that were formed were modest and effective. All the provinces adhered to them.

  They were as follows: 1) No lord of Sanctumsea may take aggressive action against his fellow rulers in any circumstance. Each shall rule steadfast in his province without interference in other provincial matters.

  2) Any influences from “Memoriam”, the land beyond Sanctumsea, should be strongly monitored.

  3) Once a citizen of a province, always a citizen of that province. To relinquish one’s citizenship can only result in permanent exile.

  4) All crimes, including but not limited to slander, thievery, false statement, and the harm of a fellow citizen are expressly forbidden. Any participation in such actions will be swiftly dealt with as per the duties of the ruling lord.

  5) Any peculiarities in Sanctumsea, whether resourceful or deadly, shall be weathered, but never investigated. Ignorance is kinder than curiosity.

  The failure of these laws would result in immediate war amongst the provinces. This was an action no lord wanted to ensue. Violent conflict and bloody resolution were things of Memoriam. In Sanctumsea, it was avoided at all costs. The price of life was far too high. Because of this, most issues in each province were resolved diplomatically and without unnecessary force. And so, the people lived in peace, governed by their individual lord. This was the way things had been since The Swelling, and for over five hundred years, not much had changed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Deep in the Amber province sat the pleasant village of Havendale. Like many others in Sanctumsea, it managed to rule itself without much influence or regard from its newly appointed lord. Though still subject to his rules, it stood in serenity and justice without incident or crime. Founded by Scottish, Italian, and German survivors over three hundred years ago, Havendale was a beacon of peaceful progress. Build on fertile ground with unhindered streams and rivers all within walking distance, there was little to complain about. Nestled against the quiet shade of the Wallowing Woods, the village had successfully grown over the years to accommodate its inhabitants.

  What made Havendale stand out amongst its neighbors was the creation of the Guild of Promise. This was a compilation of its most intelligent and dedicated citizens, whose actions touched countless lives. The core virtues of a member were selflessness and heroism. Though multiple candidates could be elected, only one was selected to join the honorable guild per year. During this particular election, only five names had been entered. Of these five, one had generously declined. Another had been caught in the middle of a complicated love affair. Only three remained.

  After each Guild ceremony, the residents of Havendale would take pleasure in the luxurious festivities of Wintersbane. This was a time for everyone in the village to gather to dine in celebration of spring and share their hopes for a prosperous harvest. Various committees and volunteers had already begun setting up tables, chairs, and banners in a large field just outside the front gate. The intoxicating aroma of various soups, broths, meats, and freshly baked breads carried high above the village streets. Every belly in Havendale ached with hunger as the time to celebrate drew near.

  Invitations had been sent throughout Amber, encouraging other villages and nearby towns to partake in the wondrous festivities. This was just a formality. No one in Havendale had the slightest interest in being bothered by folk born from outside the village. To be from Havendale meant to be a living and breathing part of it, and not to be concerned with anyone that resided outside the village walls.

  The Guild election was set for noon. The village square would be packed with all the citizens of Havendale, patiently awaiting the ceremonies. The mayor would give some opening remarks before allowing the nominated parties to give a short, eloquent speech. This would be immediately followed by the counting of ballots. Once the votes were tallied, the mayor would announce the winner before wrapping an aquamarine sash around the victor’s arm. This was a symbol of the Guild, and every member was required to wear it.

  One such individual was named Adelaide Stokes. As families in Havendale went, hers was one of the more reputable. The villagers knew her for her exquisite beauty and spirited demeanor, though she could have been blessed with a little more gratitude and grace, in her mother’s opinion. She was exceptionally tall for a girl of eighteen. Her long strawberry blonde hair flowed down half the length of her back. She kept it straight and never braided. Her eyes were emerald green and her skin was light and fair. Sun kissed freckles dotted her nose and chin. She was fit in appearance but proper in manner, and all who knew her liked her well.

  Adelaide lived in a two-story cottage near the center of Havendale. The outer walls were covered with lemon colored paint, and birds danced and nested cheerily on the chipped, white window sills. Thin puffs of wispy smoke escaped from the tar plastered chimney and drifted lazily along the cobble-top roof. Of all the houses and shops in the village, the Stokes’s establishment was revered and longed for by any and all who beheld it.

  The matriarch of the family was named Henrietta, but everyone called her Hattie for short. She was awkwardly slender with poor taste in clothes and hairstyle. Her face, which was small and tight, constantly had a nervous expression upon it. The sound of a cough could make her jump. A substantial portion of her parents’ wealth had enabled her to live comfortably without lifting a finger to do anything, besides occasionally meander around in spiritless bouts of housework.

  Adelaide also had two brothers. Many hours of outdoor labor had given her older sibling, Ronan, both rugged features and a muscular build. This had secured the fondness and dotage of several women throughout the village. Itdidn’t hurt that he was a caring sort with funny jokes, a protective streak, and endless charisma. Gable, the youngest in the family, was spunky and swift. He had a legendary knack for getting into trouble, ever since the day he could crawl. Even so, his short scruffy hair and adorable smile had kept him in everyone’s good graces. As a constant source of unlimited energy, there was no adventure too reckless, or grand, for the nine year old to tackle. No one in Havendale failed to acknowledge his potential for one day accomplishing remarkable things.

  Adelaide’s father, B ard Stokes, had been the casualty of a tragic hunting accident some years before. While on a family picnic on the outskirts of the Wallowing Woods, he had entered them to find Adelaide, who’d run off to play. While calling her name, he had stepped into the path of an unknown hunter, who had fled the scene after his weapon discharged. Adelaide herself had been standing not far behind and learned that if her father hadn’t stood where he had, she may have very well died that day, instead. A thorough investigation into the matter had yielded no suspects and ultimately led to the banning of powerful firearms and other Memoriam-influenced weaponry in certain parts of Amber.

  Born and raised in Havendale, Bard had always been considered to be an outstanding citizen
by all. As a younger man, he had been nominated for a place in the Guild of Promise. He had lost, however, to a stubborn, irksome girl who often rebuked him for his unkempt appearance and lack of fashion. It had always humored the good folk of the village that, in time, she and Bard would one day marry and have three children.

  Until his untimely passing, Hattie Stokes had always held her husband accountable for one particular vice: drinking. Though never excessive, some in the village believed it had driven a wedge between the two of them not long before his death. Hattie even went so far as to claim it was in a fit of drunkenness that Bard had lost his way in the Wallowing Woods and stumbled foolishly into the hunter’s path.

  “A real man w ould have commanded more common sense when his loved ones are concerned,” she sometimes said at the breakfast table, “but your father enjoyed squandering our fortune in the hollows of ghastly taverns. He kept more company with babbling drunkards than he did with his own beloved family.”

  Adelaide had never once doubted her father, not even after all her mother had said. To her, Hattie seemed to remember only the bad things. Adelaide could remember much more. There were family picnics and outings. Sometimes she would return home from school to find a new, expensive dress waiting in her room. She could still hear Bard’s laugh as Gable made funny faces behind Ronan’s head at the dinner table. Her father’s smile had never faltered. Whatever his faults might have been, Adelaide knew in her heart that Bard always considered his three children to be his greatest achievement. With these things in mind, it seemed unfair to only see his mistakes.

  Any lingering memory of him had been pushed aside that day by Hattie as she prepared a hasty lunch of corn beef sandwiches in the kitchen. A tall pitcher of ice cold raspberry lemonade stood on the table next to a freshly baked loaf of banana bread, lightly glazed with honey. Gable was playing fetch in the living room with Pallard, the family beagle. Ronan had not yet returned home. After supper the evening before, he had stopped at the local floral shop. It was owned by the pretty and perky Jolene Ingram, whose reputation in the village held some questionable behavior. She had given Ronan several subtle invitations to pay her a visit after closing hours. The night had been quite strenuous.