The early morning rays dripped through the needles, waking each successive bough as they passed from the top of the trees to the forest floor. The lighter sleepers woke and roused their more deeply sleeping neighbors with the sounds of their early morning bathing, breakfasts, and waking children.
Every morning a flurry of activity ensued from the top of the canopy and spread down to Bough One. Beside each shanty was a large rain barrel, and people in various stages of undress splashed water on themselves and others. They gobbled food rations, got children ready for the day, and set off for jobs, traineeships, or school. Not a soul in the canopy was idle. From the youngest infant to the most doddering elder, every person had a responsibility to fulfill their duty to the community.
My regular morning routine consisted of squeezing my eyes tight when my mother called to wake me, rolling over in my hammock, groaning, and trying to sleep for another three counts. When my mother’s voice rose to alarming, violence-threatening levels, I opened my eyes and blinked about the room, feigning innocence.
I simply could not wake in the early mornings. My mother’s voice blended into my dreams, coloring the chase sequences or punctuating a somnolent argument with sleep phantoms. She would tell me after, when I finally awoke, that I’d been carrying on an entire conversation with her. I had shambled from one end of the shanty to the other, bleary-eyed and mentally unfocused, allowing her to guide me with simple commands: Brush teeth! Comb hair! Eat something! Once she was confident I was thoroughly awake and would not slip back into dreamy unconsciousness, she recited a list of my morning rounds, and then left for the clinic. In the beginning of my traineeship, we split home visits to members of the community recovering from injuries or illnesses. As she became more confident in my abilities, she visited patients only on Boughs One and Two, leaving the upper boughs to me. Her knees were beginning to fail and the pain of climbing up and down stairs furrowed her brow and puckered her lips by evening.
One morning several months into my traineeship, Sorbus’s voice booming through the shanty awakened us both. “Good morning, sorry to disturb! We need a doctor on Bough Seven. Wingnut did something to his arm—it’s hanging there—he can’t move it—he’s in a ton of pain.”
“Ostrya, quickly,” yelled my mother. “Sounds like a dislocated shoulder! The longer the arm is out, the more difficult it will be to fix. Up! Now!”
I rolled out of the hammock, caught my big toe in the webbing, and bounce-tripped across the shanty floor toward my clothing balled in the corner. It was a relief to strip off all my clothing at night and swing in my hammock, my skin kissed by the night air. Our shanties only had doorways, no windows. They were hot and close, and sleeping was a sweaty business. I felt the crisscrossing pattern across my back where I’d lain on the hammock netting.
My mother scolded Sorbus, still hovering in the doorway, “Turn your head, young man. Nothing to see here!” He obediently turned his back to us. I smiled to myself. Like most of the adults, she didn’t realize that Sorbus was about as interested in me as he was in Salix’s roommate, which was not at all.
I squelched into my squirrel leather climbing shorts and bandeau, and then threw on a cedar fiber shirt, and then pulled my rat’s nest of hair out of my face, dug the sleep from my eyes, and scrubbed my teeth with my dogwood brush.
While I dressed, my mother drilled me. “Now, you remember how I showed you last time? Talk to me. What are the steps?”
“Bend the elbow ninety degrees. Grip the elbow, apply traction,” I said.
“Good. Next?”
“Hand to forearm, externally rotate the elbow. Maintain traction of the elbow with other hand.”
“Yes. Two vital things?”
“Ummm, elbow, forearm, traction—” I couldn’t remember what else. “I said ninety degrees, right?”
“Relax and pain. Make sure he’s relaxed and stop whenever he feels pain.”
“Yeah, duh. Of course, I know that.”
“If you don’t say it, I don’t know you know it. Last? The sound?”
“Popping. The ball of the humerus has to go back into the socket.”
“The socket?”
“The glenoid cavity.”
“Good! My hope is you won’t need to do any scapular manipulation.” She chewed her bottom lip. “We haven’t gotten to that yet, and you can get up there much quicker than I can.”
“Don’t worry, Michelia. I’ve got this.” She’d told me never to call her Mom at work. Even though we were in our shanty, this definitely qualified as work.
She squeezed my arm and faintly smiled. “I know you do. No more wasting time.” It was probably the humidity that warmed my face.
I grabbed my spider stick—I loved spiders and didn’t like killing them, but only someone courting sepsis sets out in the early hours without their spider stick—and then Sorbus and I set off running side by side for the stairway to Bough Seven, swinging our sticks in front of us.
In some earlier age, the adults had designated the upper boughs for unpartnered youth. We were told that in the beginning the entire community lived on the wide branches of the first and second boughs where it was possible to walk four abreast. As the population grew and spread upward, the adults decided the younger climbers would have an easier time among the higher, narrower boughs than the older climbers. Maybe the adults simply preferred having the loud, hormonal youth as far from the general population as possible. For some reason, most young women were assigned shanties on Bough Six and young men were assigned to Bough Seven. Non-binary and gender fluid climbers were interspersed across both boughs.
Unlike the other trainees, I still lived with my mother on Bough Two. It was closer to the clinic on Bough One, so it technically made sense. That was an easy explanation for others.
Sorbus and I were racing up the stairs when someone grabbed my elbow, yanking me to a stop. “Hey! Where you two off to at such a pace? Late from a tryst? Better hope Mangrove doesn’t find out you’re two-timing him, Ostrya.” It was Cedrus, the most sought-after builder-trainer who happened to be both Sorbus’s mentor and my sister’s annoying partner.
I shook myself free. “Shut up. Me and Mangrove aren’t a thing.”
He snorted. “That boy definitely has his eye on you!” He nodded at Sorbus. “You ready to take him on? You could certainly hold your own man to man, but Mangrove is a hunter after all, and a great shot to hear Maestro Hamamalis brag about him.”
It always amazed me how clueless the adults of this community were. I rolled my eyes at Sorbus. He winked back. “Ostrya’s not interested in me.”
“Ha! You must learn to read between the lines, my young friend. If men waited for the women, this community would have ceased to exist long ago.”
I stared at Cedrus wondering, not for the first time, what my sister saw in him. I knew that he was teasing me, and I hated being teased, especially by him. “You certainly can’t be suggesting that men should chase women who aren’t interested in them? More specifically, that Sorbus should chase me? Because that would make you sound like a grubby earthwalker. And you remember what happened to them.”
Cedrus laughed gleefully. “Oh no! Little sister’s getting mad!”
“Cedrus, let me explain this in simple terms you can understand. You and me, we’re not family. Cassia and I are sisters only because we share the same loser dad. She spent more time with him than I ever did, poor thing. Might explain her terrible taste in men.”
“Ouch!” said Cedrus. “That was harsh.”
Sorbus didn’t meet my eyes. He knew how I despised my father. “That was mean, Ostrya.”
He was right. Cedrus was annoying and forever antagonizing me—he claimed to do it out of affection for Cassia’s little sister—but he was no Yew. Yew, who’d broken one of the commandments by fathering three children, who’d walked out on Cassia’s mother before walking out on mine, who regularly swindled both buyers and sellers at the market, who abused whatever mind-numbing agents he could find, who loathed me nearly as much as I loathed him.
I should take back my words, I knew I should, but I couldn’t apologize, not to Cedrus. I wasn’t a child to be teased. Better that he thought me heartless, cold like my mother. No one dared tease Michelia.
I sniffed, glared at Cedrus. “We done here? Cuz, if you don’t mind, I have an urgent case waiting for me.” Cedrus stepped aside.
I took the stairs two at a time, feeling my thighs scream with the strain. I closed off my mind to pain, either feeling it or causing it, and I didn’t slow my pace until I’d rounded the fir on Bough Seven. Sorbus scrambled up the stairs behind me and took the lead. I followed him across the main bough, brushing past a cluster of drowsy men and leaving a chorus of angry voices behind us. Our feet pounded across a bridge, our pace causing it to swing wickedly. I was having difficulty keeping up with Sorbus; his thick legs sped on and on. I hadn’t realized before how fast he was. My lungs screamed in my chest and then, all at once, we arrived. Wingnut leaned against the side of his shanty, rocking back and forth, cradling his immobile arm.
I’d known him forever; he was as familiar to me as my own hands. And yet, his physical beauty astonished me each time I looked at him after not seeing him for a while. His broad chest rose and fell with each shuddering breath, and the sweat glistening on his golden skin accentuated his muscular abdomen and biceps. His sculpted face, set off by clear blue eyes, was drawn and pale with pain, and I set to work, trying to ignore the curious onlookers by mentally reciting the steps Michelia and I had reviewed. I squeezed my eyes shut, took a deep breath, opened them, and then he whimpered, ground his teeth, and it was done. I adjusted a sling around his shoulder.
“Well? Better?”
His breathing was shaky. “The horrible pain is gone. It’s still sore though.”
“Yeah. It will be tender while it heals. The sling will keep your arm in place. Let the shoulder heal. Come to the clinic later, let Michelia check it out.”
“Sure. I’ll do that.” He reached his healthy arm out toward Sorbus, grasped his hand. “Thanks, man. Thanks for getting Ostrya.”
Sorbus’s eyes flickered away. He looked at his feet, pulled his hand away. “No problem. You’d have done the same.” He cleared his throat, met my eyes, and smiled weakly. “I’d better hurry to get to work. Cedrus will be waiting.” He turned, squared his shoulders, looked at the few young men who lingered. “Come on, guys. Excitement’s over.”
Before I could follow them, Wingnut touched my arm. “Come in for a sec. I’ve got something for you.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” The truth was, I was in no hurry to get to the clinic today. I hadn’t seen much of Wingnut since I’d started my traineeship, and I enjoyed his company. It wasn’t his physical appeal, though there was that certainly, but something else, something deeper, truer. I could be myself with him. He understood me somehow, like we shared a secret.
I was certain he would never make a move on me. Nor did I want him to.
His shanty stank like body odor and stale weed smoke. His shanty mate, a scrawny, sunken-chested boy, snored loudly from his hammock in the corner.
“How did he sleep through all the excitement?” I asked.
Wingnut pointed at the floor beneath the hammock. I squinted in the dim light. “That looks like …”
“Yup. The most glorious bud you’ve ever seen. He’s a gardener too, been at it longer than me. Scored that yesterday. Smoked a good bit of it. He’s dead to the world this morning.”
“Is that allowed?”
He snorted. “Allowed? Technically, no. But gardening hurts a body, and sometimes you have to self-medicate. And what Maestro Ham doesn’t know won’t hurt him. You know, gardeners share with their friends. Go ahead, take some. He won’t notice and it’s the least I can do to thank you.”
I shook my head. “No thanks. I appreciate the offer and all, but I’ve seen what it can do to people who don’t need it.”
“Yew.”
“Among others.”
“Feel like sitting down?” He bent to pick up a wood stump.
“Don’t you dare. Not with that shoulder. I’ll get it.” I pushed two stumps, remnants of old apple trees the gardeners had removed several seasons ago, around the table and sat on one of them. He sat down across from me.
“How’ve you been?”
I shrugged. “You know. Hanging with Michelia.” I rolled my eyes.
He chuckled. “Come on. You make her out to be some ogre. Honestly, you’re lucky to have her.”
My own words slapped me in the face. He’d lost his mother when he was young. Spiders.
Orb weaver bites were bad enough; that’s why early risers and late evening workers never walked the pathways without their spider sticks. Orb weaver bites were probably the most common ailment among the climbers. The webs were easy to miss in the dim light of the lower boughs and especially plentiful across the pathways. The hand-sized orb weavers strung their webs from limb to limb in the dark hours and feasted upon the flies, mosquitoes, and moths while we slept. They performed a valuable service: Without them, both our crops and our skin would have been devoured by the flying beasties. But the bites of the orb weavers itched and swelled. The spiders weren’t poisonous, but they were large and their bites likewise. Without appropriate treatment, the wounds could quickly go from abrasions to infections, or even become septic, and lead to ugly skin scarring or amputation. Few climbers made it to an advanced age without one or two spider scars. Scarred faces and missing fingers were a common sight in the canopy.
Wingnut’s mother hadn’t been so lucky as to meet with an orb weaver. She had met her end by jumping spider. The average climber was less likely to encounter a jumping spider than an orb weaver because the jumpers were usually off, chasing prey. They were smaller than orb weavers but harder to avoid. Spider sticks were virtually useless against them. By the time you saw one flying toward you, it was already too late to swing.
But the Great Ones help you if you ever stumble upon a sleeping cluster of jumping spiders—they often hibernate in groups of twenty or thirty. I’d only heard about it: the ambush, spiders pouncing one after the other, the stinging bite of one hairy, striped predator after another. Thirty jumpers: That’s how many they estimated attacked Wingnut’s mom. It was an ugly, tragic death, and one that Wingnut had been old enough to remember.
Wingnut’s father never re-partnered, and Wingnut became his father’s sole reason for living. To say that Wingnut’s father was proud of his handsome, strong boy was an understatement. Wingnut was encouraged to be loud and vocal, adventurous and daring, to show no emotion but happiness.
Wingnut had confided to me that he was choosing an agricultural traineeship in the hope it would provide him the solitude he’d always craved, the ability to be alone with his thoughts.
If only. I wondered how that would feel.
“How’s life as a gardener? Is it everything you hoped for?”
“Well, there’s the free weed.” He grinned.
“Yeah, that is something. But that’s not all, right?”
It took him a moment to answer. “I’m quickly realizing it’s not as quiet as I thought. Who knew gardeners were such party people?”
“Probably has something to do with the perks.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe hunting? You’d get to spend time alone then.”
He stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes at me. “Yeah. That’s not going to work.”
Wingnut could never take the life of another creature. We all knew he was a vegetarian. I suspected he took the greatest care not to harm even an earthworm. Despite what had happened to his mother, he said once that he never went out with a spider stick. He couldn’t bring himself to injure them, and as someone who was drawn to spiders, I admired that about him.
“So, what happened? How’d you pop out the arm?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I got up this morning and did my normal workout.”
“Which is?”
“Arm strengthening. Chin-ups. I love the pull in my biceps, the stretch in my hips. I heat up the muscles pretty good before I really get going. It’s a great core workout too. After that, I run.”
“How many? Chin-ups, I mean?”
“My goal for this week was one hundred a day.”
“That seems like a lot.”
“I don’t know. I can do ninety no problem. I figured, what’s another ten? I was sore today though; Maestro Ham worked us hard yesterday hoeing and hauling. We harvested apples and prepared the planting area for the next rotation.”
Gardening in the canopy was not for the weak. New areas had to be prepared all the time with composted earth hauled from limb to limb with ropes and pulleys. Low-hanging branches and twigs were always being cleared, the detritus saved for the builders, clothing makers, or cooks, and hauled by the gardeners to construction sites, the tailor workshops, or to communal cooking areas.
When Wingnut had signed on for this traineeship, he’d probably dreamed of quiet days spent alone with birds, insects, and plants for company. I’d thought of gardening for that reason myself when I still believed I had a choice. I imagined the sun on my face, the smell of fruit and flowers in my nostrils, the soil under my fingernails.
“So, gardening?” I asked.
He scratched his neck beard. “Turns out, it’s less about growing things and watching the birds than about reorganizing nature. Weeding and pruning. So much weeding and pruning.” He nodded toward his snoring shanty mate. “And far too many of his type.”
“Yeah, shouldn’t he be at work?”
“Not my problem.”
I knew how he felt. So many loud-mouthed types in this canopy. My job had me dealing with far too many of them. And my sister had gone ahead and married one. “So, what went wrong this morning? How’d you hurt your shoulder?”
“I don’t know. I was sweating heavily. My left hand slipped from the limb and I was dangling from my right hand, which shouldn’t have been a problem.”
“But it was.”
“Apparently.”
“Well.” I slapped my thighs and stood. “I should be getting on. Visit Michelia today. She’ll probably write you a medical excuse from work. You won’t be able to do any heavy tasks until that shoulder heals.”
“We’ll see what Maestro Ham says about that.”
A loud snort from the corner startled us. Wingnut waggled his eyebrows and I laughed. He was one of my favorite people. Too bad we had no interest in each other. I turned and left the shanty.
A familiar voice called out, “Does mommy know you’re spending time on Bough Seven? What would the doctor say if she knew you were alone in a boy’s shanty?” Salix stood sentry outside Wingnut’s shanty, arms crossed.
My face burned. I knew too well that this would be fuel for Salix’s gossip machine. The last thing I needed right now. I stammered, “I … I was checking … it was nothing …”
Salix narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “One lover isn’t enough for you? Only take what you need, Ostrya.”
I hid my face behind a wall of hair and rushed down the stairway. I knew the lie that I’d slept with Wingnut would spread like fire throughout the canopy. Salix would see to that.