Scattered Suns - Kevin J. Anderson [162]
“Sounds like magic,” Celli said.
“The power is there, believe me. The verdani fashioned their bodies into the great trees, and they would do so again, in their own good time.” Beneto’s hollow voice took on a more urgent note. “Inspire them. Make them see that they cannot wait for centuries to recover at their usual sedate pace. We need them now before the hydrogues return.”
“I’ll second that.” Curious, Celli went to a large charcoal-scarred tree. “Here goes.”
With her knuckles she cracked a layer of burned bark, peeling away the scorched material until she could touch solid wood. Through her fingers, and even through her bare feet on the ground, Celli sensed the flow of sap, the blood of the earth. The roots went deep, interconnected in a network of forest that extended across the continents. Was this what green priests felt all the time?
Beneto remained as still as a tree, his carved feet pushed hard against the soil. His chest swelled as he took a deep, unnecessary breath, as if squeezing energy from the forest mind up into the surrounding dirt and burned wood.
“Since the hydrogue attack, the worldforest has withdrawn far into the soil, holding its reservoirs safe and sheltered,” the tree golem said. “Even so, they responded to the joyful treedancing that you two did where you thought no one could witness it. Draw out that response again, while I am here to guide it. I will use my human awareness to help my verdani heart understand what it needs to know.”
Though she stood in the burnt section, Celli could feel the rustle of freshly unfolded leaves drinking in sunlight and nutrients, sensations transmitted from other living sections of the worldforest, oases of vegetation that had survived the onslaught. But those verdant sensations came from far away, isolated patches of surviving wilderness. And in between...just numb shock, as if the wounded verdani had fallen into something like a coma.
“It’s alive, but it needs to be shaken hard to wake up. Come on, Solimar.”
Celli studied the charred debris field, trying to judge which branches and trees would support their weight and where hazards might be hiding. She smiled at Solimar, then took a preparatory breath, ready to go. “I’ll start with the Condorfly Mating Dance, then move into Butterfly Pursuit.”
Solimar’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll be right behind you.”
They sprang together, doing handstands and graceful leaps until they caught low branches. Swinging himself around, Solimar swept her into his muscular arms and gave her a boost to a higher level.
Celli bounded with a graceful leap like a gazelle. She ricocheted off a thick branch and pushed herself sideways to another blackened trunk, from which she kicked off and spun a triple somersault in the air. She had forgotten how much fun this was. She landed on the ash-encrusted ground again before springing into a second move. Immediately behind her, Solimar continued with his own routine.
Tilting his sculpted chin toward the bright sky, Beneto spread his arms rigidly at his sides, his feet and legs together. “I will demand that they witness.” As if turning back into a tree and taking root, he let his feet sink into the soil. “The worldtrees must be made to use their own deep power of rejuvenation and cellular synthesis.”
Each time she touched a branch or trunk, Celli felt a spark, like a release of electrical energy, as if she was giving a jolt to the comatose forest. Behind them, Beneto thrust one of his arms into a thick tree, fusing to the trunk up past his elbow. His expression was no longer wooden, but straining, yearning. He seemed to be forcing the verdani to watch them.
She kept dancing. Originally, treedance moves had been crafted to evoke parts of the forest: swaying fronds, flying insects, blossoming flowers. Some of the routines were symbolic of the pollination of epiphytes by beetles, the simultaneous hatching of huge numbers of purple butterfly analogs, the flight of a wyvern. The