The winter sun shone on the sloping ruins. A group in black climbed the hill, once a royal palace but now no more than heaps of stone. A palanquin with a black covering accompanied them. At the top of the hill they were heading toward, something like a bare tree branch jutted sharply into the air.
The way was rough. No, there was no way. They advanced, treading over towers and palaces that had collapsed forty-odd years earlier, broken furniture and wagons, shattered pottery and glass. Dust settled on their collars, and the feet in their leather shoes tore here and there and bled. Yet no one stopped, limped, or rested. They had to reach the top before sunset. Winter days were short. The sun beyond the clouds was gray as a blunt spearhead.
When a slow song drifted from the front, those following answered with murmurs. The song gradually became a wail, and the answering voices drew close to sobbing. It looked like a funeral procession, but there was no coffin in the palanquin. There were signs of life. Nor were they quiet signs. Someone inside struggled and struck against one wall after another, making the bearers walk with an unsteady gait like that of drunken men. But no one complained. Only the breathless, strangled gasps of the struggling mass of blood spread into the cold wind.
As the group reached the top of the hill, the sun hid itself. At the same time, a fierce wind tried to move the hill. Everyone halted and hunched their bodies. Pieces of wood, scraps of paper, and dust flew about. A strip of torn cloth, blown from somewhere, billowed like a ghost and swept toward them, then wound around the tree branch. The branch quivered.
The officiating priest leading the group looked up at the branch. Though called a branch, in size alone it was no less than a tree. It rose to five times an adult’s height, and even the trunk below was an armful around, but it narrowed as it rose until the end was as fine as a thread. Yet it had neither twigs nor leaves. Not even a knot. It merely stretched obliquely, like a finger pointing at the sky.
“O sovereign.”
The priest opened his mouth. Slowly, he walked before the branch. The others remained behind. The mass of blood inside the palanquin became a groan.
“Punish us. Whip those who came late. Strike dead with stones those who accomplished nothing. If we cannot repay our debt, we shall be crushed like ants beneath the sovereign’s feet.”
At the priest’s signal, the bearers brought the palanquin and set it beneath the branch. When the palanquin shook heavily and then grew still for a moment, the priest lifted its curtains and flung open the locked door. An old man, his hands bound and even his eyes covered, sprang out. Since his feet were not bound, he rose at once and staggered several steps, nearly falling over a broken wall. The priest took his arm and helped him up, but the old man wrenched himself away and spat curses.
“You madmen!”
The priest answered calmly.
“We have arrived. You need only wait a little.”
“Wait for what! You want me to wait for you to eat me! Rotten villains! The gods will surely judge you for what you do!”
Then the priest pushed back his hood and gave a bitter smile.
“That is difficult to hear. We have endured so many hardships for decades for Your Majesty Vitalis. How could you reward us so?”
“That is not my name! I am Henrik!”
The priest ignored Henrik’s protest. At a glance from him, the black-clad figures held Henrik’s arms. Others took up shovels and went beneath the branch. While they dug, Henrik struggled several times, then at last sagged as though he had given up. Muttering rose from his trembling jaw.
“These bastards will kill me. They’ll tear me to pieces and eat me. There’ll still be some left. What do I care about your kingdom? Murderous man-eaters…”
With his white hair, tanned and wrinkled face, and disheveled farmer’s clothes, Henrik seemed far removed from the title “Your Majesty.” His behavior and manner of speaking, too, were no more or less than those of a country old man. Yet his voice was strong, and his body healthy for his age.
Blindfolded, Henrik did not know it, but the priest had been watching him all along. Like the eyes of a predator waiting for the moment to cut short the breath of its prey, they were as Henrik had said. In other words, they held an intense yearning.
The men digging beneath the branch set down their shovels, withdrew, and called the priest. Approaching, the priest looked into the pit and nodded.
“Bring him.”
When those holding him began to move, Henrik tried to resist uselessly once more. In the end, he could only be dragged before the pit. Made to crouch at the edge of a hole shaped suitably for a coffin, Henrik was now trembling violently. Bowing his head, the priest spoke politely.
“Your Majesty, we know you are anxious. We understand well why. That is why we deliberately covered your eyes, but since this is an important moment, we shall uncover them if you wish. What would you like?”
When Henrik nodded, the priest removed his blindfold. As his surroundings suddenly brightened, Henrik frowned and blinked. A little later, he could dimly make out the inside of the pit. That was worse. Seeing what looked like hundreds of snakes tangled together, Henrik drew his breath as though suffocating. Just then, the sun emerged from the clouds, pouring down intense light. The others narrowed their eyes at it, so Henrik could see nothing at all.
“Then we shall begin.”
“Wait! Just a moment!”
Henrik desperately twisted and braced himself, but merely kicked clods of earth into the pit. Then, lifting his foot to try something else, he nearly stepped in himself. The priest chuckled at the sight, but Henrik did not see it.
“In a little while, you will thank us. Ah, yes, we should untie your hands too.”
His wrists were freed, but before he could try anything, a dozen strong hands seized him from head to toe and shoved him into the pit. Because he resisted so fiercely, they almost had to throw him. As the rough branches struck his back, Henrik thrashed and spat curses. Facing death, one might expect him to beg for his life, yet strangely Henrik never yielded to the end.
“You damned villains! If what you say is true, I’ll kill you first of all! Hm? Are you listening? Get me out this instant! Shall I trample every one of you to death?”
Suddenly Henrik’s cries stopped short. Something seized his body and coiled around him. The black-clad figures quickly withdrew. A little later, a long scream rang out.
At the same time, the tree branch began to change. Flesh filled out what had looked like a dried finger. Swollen knots rose upon it. It became taut as though filled with the energy of spring. Yet instead of green, it glowed red. At the same time, countless long, threadlike branches sprouted from every part of the bark that had held not even a knot. Those things fluttered in the wind. If one called them branches, they might have been, but the boughs filled with them resembled the mane of an enormous beast, or a centipede writhing with thousands of legs.
The black-clad figures waited. Soon he would return. He who had been the last sovereign and would become the first once more. Their sovereign, their god, Vitalis, plunderer of castles.
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