Page 98 of Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox
Argent merely hummed, lost in his own thoughts.
The song’s lilting lines reminded Tsumiko of a lullaby, an appropriate choice for a birth attendant. Words flowed soothingly, but Tsumiko couldn’t understand them. “What language is that?” she asked.
“The old one,” Argent said.
She shook her head in confusion.
He tilted his head to one side, listening now. “She knows the songs of trees.”
Tsumiko asked, “A song about trees?”
“A song sung by trees.” He cast a sidelong look at Stewart, then shrugged. “They are our oldest songs, handed down beside every child’s cradle. You would call them nursery rhymes, bedtime stories, or even fairy tales.”
“The Amaranthine have fairy tales?” Tsumiko asked.
Stewart chuckled. “Youarefairy tales.”
Argent smiled faintly. “Then these are the fairy tales of fairy tales.”
“Tell us?” Tsumiko begged.
“Please,” Stewart urged. “Unless it’s a secret. Though you can count on me to keep it.”
He left them in suspense for the length of time it took to set a fresh pot of tea to steep, then rejoin them at the table.
“Amaranthine clans are aligned with the creatures of this world—land animals, reptiles, birds, and all manner of creeping things. We are their kindred, their caretakers. But in our oldest stories, we share this world with the kin to trees, to mountains, to the sky, and to the sea.”
Tsumiko brightened as she made a connection to passages she’d studied since childhood. “Trees clap, stones cry out, and stars sing.”
Argent nodded. “They are the lingering Impressions of the divine upon our universe. Imps.”
“So are there Amaranthine who change into trees?” Stewart asked.
“Wouldn’t it be the other way around?” Tsumiko countered. “A tree who can take human form?”
“The latter,” said Argent. “Or so the stories go.”
“They’re not real?” She would have liked to meet a tree person.
“Truth hides itself in tales such as these.” Argent poured more tea into their mugs. “The trees may have been lost, but I suspect they were also found. That is why we still know their songs.”
Stewart asked, “So they exist, but they’re hidden? In the same way your people remained hidden until this past year.”
Argent leaned back in his chair, a faraway look in his eyes. “High valleys, walled gardens, remote islands—our trees hide from the axes of men in secret groves. According to some stories, they rain passersby with leaves or pods or unripe fruit, tripping them with their roots and generally making a nuisance of themselves. In others, they are tempters who waylay the unsuspecting.” Indicating the ceiling, he said, “This song is a lesson for any who stumble into such a grove.”
Tsumiko leaned forward. “What are the words?”
“Do not sleep under trees who sing sweet lullabies, who drip with honey and scatter petals upon a mossy bed.” His lips twitched. “Beware trees who press the flesh of their fruit past your lips with the sweetness of their kisses. But if you succumb, be gentle with the blessing of their child.”
She blinked several times. “Child?”
Stewart said, “I’m not sure I follow.”
With a sly smile, Argent kept up a lilting translation, letting the song speak for itself. “Take the golden seed from the babe’s hand and plant it beside your front door. Teach the child to watch and water, to tend to their twin, and they shall know a tree’s age and be a blessing to their home.”
“How is that possible?” asked Tsumiko.
“Itshouldn’tbe.” But Stewart sounded anything but sure.
