Toby and the Secrets of the Tree

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Text and illustrations copyright © 2009 by Gallimard Jeunesse

  English translation copyright © 2009 by Sarah Ardizzone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  First U.S. electronic edition 2010

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  De Fombelle, Timothée

  Toby and the secrets of the tree / Timothée de Fombelle ;

  illustrated by François Place. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Thirteen-year-old Toby’s tiny world is under greater threat than ever as Leo Blue holds Elisha prisoner while hunting the Grass People and anyone who stands in the way of his devastating plans for the oak Tree in which they all live, but this time Toby is not alone.

  ISBN 978-0-7636-4655-4 (hardcover)

  [1. Adventure and adventurers — Fiction. 2. Fugitives — Fiction. 3. Ecology — Fiction. 4. Oak — Fiction. 5. Trees — Fiction. 6. Allegories.]

  I. Place, François ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.D3615Toc 2010

  [Fic] — dc22 2009014833

  ISBN 978-0-7636-5196-1 (electronic)

  The illustrations were done in pen and ink.

  Candlewick Press

  99 Dover Street

  Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

  visit us at www.candlewick.com

  PART ONE

  1. Broken Wings

  2. Beauty and the Shadow

  3. Someone Returns

  4. Between Two Worlds

  5. Alone

  6. The Garrison at Seldor

  7. The Low Branches

  8. Night School

  9. Woodcutter 505

  10. The Visitor

  11. Freedom Music

  12. The Silence of the Flying Woodcutter

  13. The Old Man with a Pancake on Top of His Head

  14. I’m Coming Back

  PART TWO

  15. Betrayal

  16. The Bride Wore Green

  17. The Last Grass Person

  18. Fugitive

  19. Butterfly

  20. In Tiger’s Claws

  21. Escaping on the Equinox

  22. Toward the Low Branches

  23. Duel Under the Moon

  24. The Mute Man Speaks

  25. Spring Uprising

  26. On the Wire

  27. The Other One

  The Major was as light as a grain of pollen, but the weight of his stupidity should have snapped the branch he was sitting on, feet dangling in midair, firing arrows at a black shape writhing around below.

  Major Krolo put a lot of effort into being this stupid. He wasn’t just an expert in stupidity; he was a stupidity genius.

  It was nighttime in the Tree, a night of thick mist and freezing wind. But it had been dark all day long: a black apocalyptic sky had shrouded the Treetop since the previous day, and the damp was causing a heavy smell like spiced bread to rise from the branches.

  “Two hundred and forty-five, two hundred and forty-six . . .”

  How many arrows would the Major have to fire to finish off the huge creature stuck in the sap? Wrapped in a stiff fur coat, he kept on counting.

  Krolo slipped his thumbs under his coat and made his suspenders go ping.

  “Two hundred and fifty-eight . . .”

  He felt a satisfied tingle and buttoned up his coat again.

  The Major had a long-standing reputation as a bully. Following a few “personal issues,” he had changed his name and made a new life for himself. He even tried to disguise himself by wearing suspenders instead of a belt. He had also awarded himself the rank of major, and to be on the safe side, these days he tortured only animals. He did this on the sly, at night and out of sight, like a grown man smoking in secret from his mother.

  Below him, the poor creature lifted its head toward its executioner for the last time. It was a butterfly. A butterfly with broken wings . . . The job had been botched, thanks to a poorly sharpened ax. All the butterfly had left on its back were two ridiculous stumps that flapped emptily. This was the work of a thug.

  “Two hundred and fifty-nine,” counted Krolo, hitting the butterfly on the right flank.

  A shadow suddenly passed by, in the thick fog behind the Major.

  A silent apparition. The nimble shadow had come from above, brushing against the bark before disappearing into the night. Yes, somebody was watching this scene. But the Major hadn’t noticed a thing, because being stupid was his full-time job.

  Krolo’s last arrow sank deep into the flesh of the butterfly. The wounded animal reared up but didn’t groan.

  The shadow passed by again, twirling with extraordinary agility. Half-dancer, half-acrobat, it was surveying the scene. This time, there was a reflection in the butterfly’s eye.

  Krolo turned around, suddenly uneasy.

  “Soldier? Is that you?”

  He scratched his head nervously, through his hat. He had a low-set forehead and wore a woollen cap with a few greasy curls peeking out from under it.

  Now, Major Krolo may have had a small head with limited neurons, but he still knew that the shadow hadn’t been cast by any of his soldiers. Everybody was talking about it: a mysterious shadow that moved around the Treetop in the evenings. Nobody knew who this furtive person was, but it was as if he or she was on guard duty.

  In public, Krolo refused to believe this story. Instead, he made himself look even sillier than usual with pathetic remarks such as, “What? A shadow? At night? Ha-ha!”

  But, given his problems in the past, the Major was scared of everything. One morning in bed, he had tried to squash one of his own toes, mistaking it for an insect sticking out from under the sheets.

  “Soldier!” he shouted, trying to convince himself. “I know it’s you! If you move again, I’ll impale you to the branch!”

  A cloud of fog rolled over the Major, and in the freezing dark, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Eeeeeeeeek!”

  Krolo turned his head sharply and bit into flesh.

  The Major prided himself on his exceptional reflexes. And it was certainly true that he hadn’t wasted a second in attacking his aggressor’s hand. His speed was impressive. But he had made a simple mistake about which way to turn, and he felt his incisors sinking deep into his own shoulder and hitting the bone.

  Stupidity on that scale really is a form of genius.

  Krolo let out a raucous cry and jumped in agony. He landed at the feet of an odd character in a bathrobe.

  “It’s me, only obliging with your respectyness, it’s me. Am I scaringly you?”

  The newcomer bowed, lifting the hem of his bathrobe.

  “It’s me, Clotty,” he added.

  Krolo bared his teeth.

  “Soldier Clot!” he exploded.

  “Don’t be afraid, Major.”

  “Afraid? Who’s afraid? Not me!”

  “Please to forgive the meddling of my curiosityness, Major, but why did you eat your own shoulder?”

  Krolo pointed threateningly at Clot.

  “If you mention to anybody that I was afraid . . .”

  The Major was still down, and the blood from his wound had painted a red epaulet on his coat. Clot bent over and held out his hand to help Krolo get up again.

  “May I have the hon-hah of helpin
g you?”

  Clot tried to comfort the Major by patting him on the shoulder, but he clumsily slapped the wound and Krolo turned white with pain.

  The Major’s strength was running out, so he spat at the soldier to keep him at bay.

  Clot leaped sideways. He was saddened by his superior’s lack of education. The soldiers figured that Krolo was an overgrown bully, but Clot saw him as more of an overgrown baby.

  What Clot really wanted to do was stick a pacifier into Krolo’s mouth, make “goo-goo-ga-ga” noises, and pat his cheeks.

  The Major contemplated the soldier’s outfit.

  “What kind of a getup is that?”

  “A bathrobe, Major.”

  “And that?” He pointed at the pair of slug slippers the soldier was wearing on his feet.

  Clot suddenly became coy.

  “Slipperties, Major.”

  “You what?”

  “It’s the middle of the night, if I’m not abusing you, so I put on my slipperties. It’s just that I was asleeping when you called.”

  “I didn’t call, you idiot. Go back home.”

  Clot heard the butterfly flapping in despair and leaned over to take a look. The Major blocked the way with his arms.

  “What d’you want?”

  “I can see something moving over there. . . .”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “There’s an animal stuck in the sap, or am I mistaking me?”

  “What are you doing here, Clot? Are you looking for trouble?”

  “Well, as it happens. . . .”

  “Speak!”

  Clot whispered, “It’s because of her.”

  “Her! Her again!” roared the Major.

  “Allow me to be sharply spearing you the details: the prisoner is asking for the Great Candle Bearer.”

  “What for?”

  “For her hot-water bottle.”

  “The Great Candle Bearer is asleep!” barked Krolo. “I’m not going to wake the Great Candle Bearer up for a hot-water bottle!”

  “I know the prisoner is making your high-brows frown, Major,” said Clot. “But if she can have the Great Candle Bearer to heat up her hot-water bottle . . .”

  Krolo wasn’t listening. He was staring at Clot’s feet.

  He was jealous.

  Slippers. He wanted a pair just like that.

  Krolo couldn’t resist the temptation. He stood on the pointy ends of Clot’s slippers. Then, using the arm that still functioned, Krolo gave a great whack that sent the rest of Clot flying thirty paces.

  A few minutes later, Major Krolo knocked on the Great Candle Bearer’s door. The wind was howling.

  “She wants the candle,” he explained through the wood.

  Someone opened a shutter. A small face appeared in the gap. It was the Great Candle Bearer himself. Even on a night as dark as this, it was clear that he wasn’t someone to mess with. He had a long face that looked like a bone, and two red, sickly eyes. He closed the shutter again and reappeared on the doorstep, grumbling.

  The Great Candle Bearer was short and hunchbacked. He carried a candle protected by a lantern, and he hid his hump under a dark cloak with a hood that shaded his face.

  He stopped for a moment to look at Krolo’s feet. Major Krolo blushed and bounced on his toes several times while looking at the ground.

  “They’re slipperties,” he explained.

  Without saying a word, the Great Candle Bearer followed the Major.

  The whole region was a confusion of twigs. You had to know the route to avoid getting lost in this enormous ball of branches so different from the rest of the Tree. On a clear moonlit night, it was possible to see what this huge bundle of sticks stuck on the Treetop was.

  A nest.

  An oversize nest. Not one of those wagtails’ nests that a hundred men can easily dismantle in a night. No. It was a nest that seemed to go on forever. A nest once inhabited by a giant bird in the highest branches.

  The use of fire was forbidden in this parched landscape. The privilege was granted to the Great Candle Bearer alone, who was called upon in cases of absolute necessity. Or, as was the case on this night, to heat a hot-water bottle.

  The fog was getting thicker. The Major walked in front. With each step, he nearly came out of the slippers he had stolen from Clot.

  “A hot-water bottle! Far be it for me to criticize,” he muttered, “but I really don’t think the boss should give in to the girl’s every wish. . . .”

  The Great Candle Bearer didn’t say anything, which is a good strategy for looking smart. Not that he had anything to fear from being compared to Krolo. Next to the Major, a toilet would have looked like an intellectual.

  The Great Candle Bearer came to an abrupt halt. There was a noise behind him. He turned and lifted his lantern. A damp breeze made his black hood flap. He had the strange feeling that he was being followed. He peered into the darkness but didn’t see the shadow that had slid all the way along a branch and landed on another and was now crouching just above them.

  “Are you coming, Great Candle Bearer?” the Major called out.

  The Great Candle Bearer hesitated, and then started walking again.

  The shadow was still following them, three paces away, undetected.

  Despite the first impression of chaos, it soon became clear that the labyrinthine Nest was actually quite organized. Lanterns glimmered at specific junctures, lighting the way on moonless nights and acting as beacons in the fog.

  They were cold lamps; each one was made up of a pyramid-shaped cage with a glowworm inside it. These lamp-worms were raised specifically for this purpose. Two or three Master Worm Rearers were renowned for the quality of their worms. They formed a thriving corporation that was the envy of the rest of the inhabitants of the Tree, who had been living in poverty and fear for a long time.

  The Treetop Nest was clean; the twigs had been planed down, and the intersections were reinforced with rope. Stairs had been sculpted out of the steepest passageways. Mixed in with the wood and dry moss, hollow straw provided an impressive network of tunnels leading to the heart of the Nest.

  There was obviously a superior intelligence behind this citadel of dead wood. It was a frozen world, austere even, but one that had been perfectly designed. So who was the architect behind the Treetop Nest? Clearly, it wasn’t just the creation of a bird’s brain.

  When the two men reached the top of the Nest, a gust of wind unveiled something even more fascinating from behind the mist.

  Pointing toward the sky, pink and smooth as a baby’s cheek, three hundred cubits high, and perfect in form and majesty, three eggs rose up.

  They looked like tall towers whose tops snagged the shreds of mist.

  “The Eggs!” the Major shouted, as if his companion hadn’t noticed.

  They climbed one last slope of dead wood and stopped to breathe in the night air. A storm had left a smell of powder in the air. They had only to cross the White Forest — a forest of down and feathers that covered the heart of the Nest and protected the Eggs — before reaching their destination. Three paths had been cleared through the undergrowth. The rest of the jungle was as spotless and pure as a snowy landscape.

  One hour later, the sentries of the South Egg saw two men approaching. They let the Great Candle Bearer climb onto the footbridge that penetrated the Egg. He disappeared inside the shell.

  Outside, one of the guards appeared to be hypnotized by Krolo’s feet.

  “They’re slipperties,” the Major explained with false modesty.

  The other guards drew near. “You what?”

  “Slipperties,” a fat soldier repeated.

  “They’re what?”

  “Slipperties!” Krolo roared.

  Not one of them had noticed, on top of the Egg, at a dizzying height, the shadow that was climbing the wall and spying down on them.

  Soon the Great Candle Bearer reappeared on the footbridge. He was walking quickly and looked furious. Krolo wanted to interrogat
e him about the prisoner, but the Great Candle Bearer pushed him aside dismissively. He was heading for the White Forest.

  “The Great Candle Bearer isn’t happy,” one of the guards remarked to the others.

  “What could she have done?” asked the Major.

  They couldn’t see the Great Candle Bearer’s expression. He was hidden under his cloak. Krolo caught up with him.

  “I’ll accompany you, Great Candle Bearer.”

  The Great Candle Bearer said nothing, just continued walking.

  They ran into Soldier Clot almost immediately, as he was climbing barefoot up through the White Forest.

  Clot’s bathrobe was in tatters and some of his teeth were missing, but he was mostly in shock from what he had discovered on Krolo’s departure. The butterfly . . . the poor animal lay dying before his eyes, banished from the sky forever. Was the Major capable of this horror?

  “Ith not pothible,” he had whispered.

  In that whack from Krolo, Clot had lost seven teeth and a great deal of innocence. Krolo wasn’t a big baby: he was a murderer. Nothing less. Anger welled up inside Clot.

  “Nathty beathtie . . .”

  Clot watched the two men pass by. They didn’t even notice him. Soldier Clot was on the lookout for the slippers that Krolo had stolen from him. But his gaze came to rest on another pair of feet.

  The Great Candle Bearer’s.

  “Cwikey . . . cwumbth . . .”

  Clot froze. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Two small feet.

  Two small white feet.

  Two small white feet that peeked from the hem of the cloak with every step. Two feet that shone like stars against the cloth of the cape.

  Two feet so delicate, so light, so supple . . . Two feet so soft you wanted to be a branch, just to feel them walking over you. Two angel’s feet.

  Clot nearly swallowed his remaining teeth.

  “Cwikey Cwot, an old Gwate Candle Beawah with feet like that . . .”

  The rest of the figure was dark. The hood hid his face. Clot couldn’t help smiling. He turned and walked away as though he hadn’t seen anything.

  When the two travelers reached the entrance to the White Forest, the Great Candle Bearer with the angel’s feet put down the lamp and lifted a great log of a feather shaft that was blocking the way. Surprised, Krolo went up to him.