Chapter 59: Yggdrasil

The Powhatan village’s relaxed attitude toward wildlife did not mean the locals lacked vigilance against foreign intrusion. In fact, the Algonquin tribe was almost entirely militarized, and the defensive structures surrounding the village were far more complete and the security much stricter than in Derin Town.

A palisade made of rounded logs encircled the outskirts of the village, with “living brambles” planted all along the top. These looked like clusters of green serpents basking in the sun; sensing any unusual movement, they would raise their barbed bodies to peer over the wall and, finding no threat, lazily retract to continue their sunbathing. Sentries patrolled both inside and outside the palisade, and every hundred paces stood a lofty watchtower equipped with surveillance gear and heavy crossbows, closely monitoring the surrounding area.

Joan followed the Conte family through several checkpoints before they were finally allowed through the village gates, immediately drawing the curious gazes of the villagers. Occasionally, someone would pause by the roadside, removing their hat and bowing in salute to the Conte family, resplendent atop their terrorclaw mount. Conte and her parents smiled and nodded in return, maintaining both courtesy and a noble bearing.

Joan also noticed a group of children, at most eight or nine years old, chasing after “Little Black” and pointing excitedly at the black treant striding down the street. The children, dressed mostly in coarse linen garments and fur vests, carried small bows or slings or had knives at their belts, appearing every bit a band of young hunters.

The Algonquins spoke the Asa dialect, which Joan could barely understand. She overheard the children repeatedly mention “Old White” as they ran after “Little Black,” debating whether this black treant was a relative of Old White. Piecing together the children’s argument and Conte’s earlier hints, Joan surmised that “Old White” was likely another intelligent plant.

Her guess was quickly confirmed.

On Conte’s strong recommendation, Victor and Matoka decided to settle “Little Black” in a new spot before returning home—or, more precisely, to “transplant” it. The chosen site was in the northeast corner of the village, just behind the Conte family estate, in a lush ash grove. This area was surrounded by protective iron fencing and patrolled even more heavily than the chieftain’s residence, a level of security that greatly puzzled Joan.

“This grove is Old White’s domain,” Conte explained in a hushed tone, having noticed Joan’s confusion. “Old White is an ancient, intelligent ash tree. It took root here long before Powhatan Village was founded and acts as the guardian of all the nearby flora, fauna, and the natural order. It is also the prophet our Algonquin people have revered for generations. No one knows Old White’s origin. Legend claims it has outlived the oldest dragons of Vares, and that it sprang from a fruit of the ‘World Tree’ sustaining the multiverse—a divine tree known in Elvish as ‘Yggdrasil.’ Old White once said that, apart from itself, there are at least two other ‘Yggdrasils’ in Vares, its siblings, each rooted thousands of miles away. Old White is too lazy to travel, so they haven’t seen one another in tens of centuries.”

“Tens of centuries?” Joan asked in disbelief. “Has Old White really lived that long?”

“Over a thousand years seems an eternity to us humans, but to a divine tree like Old White, it’s nothing. Sometimes it dozes for a century at a time, and usually it’s in a state between sleep and wakefulness. Unless you rouse it, it looks just like an ordinary ash tree—just much taller,” Conte replied with a smile.

Joan knew that “ash” in the Asa dialect also referred to the white wax tree, a species revered by druids alongside oaks. She had also heard that a small insect often infests these trees, producing a white, waxy substance ideal for making candles, which is why the tree is called the “white wax tree.”

Following the Conte family into the ash grove, Joan didn’t spot any of these insects yet, but she was greatly impressed by the trees’ tall and upright forms. She had seen hundreds of tree species, but few as consistently straight as these ashes, their trunks appearing as if planed smooth—each one as straight as a measuring rod. Even more remarkable, the entire grove shared this characteristic, resembling a forest of spears thrust into the earth. The scene brought to mind the ancient phrase “a forest of spears,” often used by poets to describe grand armies. If such “forests” referred to ash groves, the metaphor could not be more apt.

At the grove’s heart stood an especially massive white ash, nearly forty feet tall—this was “Old White,” formally called “Yggdrasil.”

Joan circled the ancient tree, its trunk at least ten feet in diameter. Aside from its sheer size, it seemed much the same as the others. She was still pondering this when Conte slid off the black oak treant and dashed up to the old tree, calling out in a loud voice.

“Old White! Wake up! I’m back! And I’ve brought you a black oak companion!”

The ancient tree seemed to hear the girl’s call, stirring from a deep slumber. The mighty trunk was infused with new vitality, transforming in slow, exaggerated movements. Thick branches drooped down to become rough, knobby hands that gently lifted Conte. A face, vast and dignified like a bas-relief, emerged on the trunk, with thick aerial roots at its chin waving in the breeze like a gray beard.

As the tree’s face appeared, its eyes, at first tightly closed, slowly opened, revealing brown irises marked by green pupils—like deep ancient wells reflecting memories and wisdom spanning the ages.

Joan’s gaze drifted lower, and she noticed at the base of the trunk—where a human’s lower abdomen would be—a rhombus-shaped fissure, nearly ten feet long and five feet across at its widest, forming a bottomless hollow that radiated powerful magical energy. She was irresistibly drawn to this hollow, moving closer, craning her neck to peer inside. To her astonishment, she saw a spiral of glowing steps descending into the darkness, their destination unknown.

Just as her curiosity peaked, her left palm suddenly grew hot. The “Tear of the Gods” emerged unbidden into her hand, and the mysterious will lodged within the gem sent a telepathic message surging through her mind, plunging her into a meditative state.

...

Mythic Sense: Mythical Being “Yggdrasil” detected, Mythic Level 7!