It gathered around him in a figure eight, the symbol of infinity, curving and sinuous between his hands, a river, the universe, the Milky Way between his palms.
The magic looked soft, and it was. But then, so was water. So was time. So was love.
And every one of those things had carved holes into the world and changed civilizations.
It was always amazing to see him use magic so easily. It flowed through his blood, came to him through soil and root and leaf.
I didn’t know how he was going to talk a tree that old into growing in a new way, and to somehow balance the canopy in a new way, leaning its trunk out of the swamp siren’s line of sight.
I just hoped he wasn’t going to destroy such an old, strong tree.
The magic built, thick enough I could feel the pressure as a pain in my molars, a thumb pressing too hard on my forehead.
He didn’t raise his voice, but I could hear the string of soft words, more song than spell, as he ordered the magic to follow his will.
The ground shook. A deep, low tremble built and built. Birds fled branches, squirrels chittered, fish jumped, bugs swarmed upward into clouds.
The great tree swayed, the huge canopy flailing as if buffeted by hurricane winds. Winds I could not feel.
I had a moment to double-check the height of the tree against my position. If the tree fell toward me, I was not in the clear.
I didn’t think Card was angry enough to smash me with an entire tree, but then, I hadn’t expected him to show up at my doorstep having pickpocketed Fate.
I clasped my hand tighter around the rocks in my pocket, feeling the warm connection between me and the Crossroads, ready to pull myself closer to my home soil if needed.
Just to be on the safe side, I also took several steps backward.
The ground shook hard and fast, like a dog shedding rain. The big tree rocked backward.
But instead of falling or leaning to one side, the tree roots lifted up out of the wet and muck, huge, long, and snake-like, rising to the sky like a squid flailing for the top of a tank.
Mud, grasses, and gunk bombed down from above, a fire hose spray of dirt and grime pounding into the water and weeds.
I ducked and threw one arm over my head, stumbling backward toward clearer space, except there was no clearer space.
I couldn’t see the swamp siren, but then, I could barely see anything.
My nose and mouth filled with the gritty mineral taste of mud mixed with rotten eggs, duckweed, and fish poop.
I spat and sputtered and clambered backward until my calves hit against a log too thick to climb over.
The ground wasn’t shaking as much now. The deluge of mud lightened to a spotty drizzle.
I clawed a layer of muck off my eyes and tried to assess the situation.
The tree, the great, old tree that held the sky in its branches, was moving.
It was not leaning.
It was not falling.
It was moving with a motion I’d only ever seen in videos of octopuses walking across the sandy bottom of an ocean.
The tree, the great, old tree had pulled up its roots like octopus tentacles. Those roots wobbled and reached, carrying the whole of the tree structure with it in a staggering, weirdly mincing gait.
“Hell’s balls,” I swore.
I had seen a lot of magic in my life. My house was filled with magic. I took care of magical things, had met a lot of magical people.
