This story was inspired by a combination of pieces in an Endless Landscape and an idea regarding trees that didn’t seem to go away...

Hergewick swabbed a handkerchief over his brow. A handkerchief that could have been used as a bandanna to go under his hat before he left the Marzipanne at whatever O-clock it had been this morning. But then the morning had displayed not a whisper of the drums the sun was going to pound barely two hours into the afternoon. A set of drums that included the stretch of road between Darnsket and Mistannicci that Hergewick ‘happened’ to be on, and a fair bit upon either side.

Indeed, the parallel course formed by the Darn was acting as a mirror of the Noon Star’s belligerence, making Hergewick’s right eye twitter. Lina knew what it was doing to the plough man and yoke of oxen in the intermediate field, or the person beyond who was repositioning a bow-less fishing rod. But then they were getting the first impact of the edge-cutting breeze coming from the confluence. That or whatever was depriving Cresten Isle of its usual lower-slope haze. Although the edge had begun to make a comeback by the time it reached Hergewick, merely adding another bead to his be speckled brow.

“They should make siestas mandatory in weather like this,” a voice coughed. Hergewick’s staff clattered on the paves as he brought both hands across his eyes. A child-sized lemon with the luminosity of the sun was up ahead, getting larger as it approached him.

“Are you alright?” the voice inquired.

“Slightly dazed, that’s all,” said Hergewick, keeping one hand over his face whilst dropping to the ground and groping for his staff with the other. “D-don’t come any closer.”

He opened his eyes properly, for the ‘glare’ had decreased by fifty degrees; safe enough for him to lower the other hand. Within his eyeline, he could see a pair of dust-coated or sand-frosted knee-length obsidian boots - almost like the pair he wore when he had to be in the saddle. Above them ‘shone’ the reason he was on his knees near the side of the road in the first place; the most garish yellow trousers that he had ever seen. Even a lemon, or brimstone butterfly, wasn’t that alarming and with the complementary sky-blue coat Hergewick could almost feel the drums picking up pace again.

“I’m not going to take your walking stick if that’s what you’re worried about,” the chap said, stopping as Hergewick got hold of his staff and ‘struggled’ to his feet. “Just expressing a note of ‘traveller’s concern’.”

“It is appreciated, Mr-”

“Pipcastle,” the lemon trousered fellow replied with a face barely the safe side of a tomato. “Earnest Pipcastle.”

“Fontarius Hergewick,” Hergewick said with a less than steady bow, and stopping short of the trousers.

The other man stepped back and looked at him as if he dropped off the face of the moon. “Not the Fontarius Hergewick who spent one afternoon remaking the Kildonsair Knot.”

Hergewick nodded.

“The Fontarius who tracked the Porcelain Stealers back to their Guard House hide-out then with lavender fumes knocked them all out.”

“Same.”

“And when not riddle-unravelling or sending crooks to Neyeshayes Prison, spends his spare time looking for the more ‘uncommon’ forms of wildlife?”

“Got it in one, Mr Pipcastle,” Hergewick said as he adjusted his hat.

“Lins-lavenders,” Pipcastle continued, taking off his own, felted hat and fanning himself with it. “I don’t think I can take another surprise.”

“Believe me, Mr Pipcastle, from where I’m standing, that is but a gentle awakening…”

“Please, call me Earnest,” the chap added. “Only that bunch in the cottages yonder call me Mr Pipcastle and most of the time it’s not even with the ‘Mr’.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Fontarius then if we’re on that road,” Fontarius answered, wiping another set of beads from his brow. “I’ve heard of a Pipcastle — or rather a city with the same name — a good way across the ocean.”

“Well, I hope it’s not getting this afternoon heat,” Earnest replied. “It was so hot in the living room that I came out here for some ‘air’. I might go into the Darn if this carries on.”

“It might recede as unexpectedly as it turned up,” said Fontarius. “At least I would like to hope that it does somewhere between here and Darnskett.”

Earnest returned his hat to its residence upon his head. “Are you… on a case…?” he whispered.

“Not this side of tea,” said Fontarius. “But don’t tell me; you’ve got one that I might be interested in.”

“Oh, I’m sure Mrs Pipcastle and the Cottage Circle have one or two instances for you to look at. Mine was more over your interest in the uncommon…”

Fontarius had to stop himself from sighing. If he wasn’t being tested then he was being measured for what he knew about animals that were all around them if they would just look. “Go on…”

Earnest pointed towards a shape the colour of slate high up in the sky. “That bird. I’ve never seen it before.”

“Nor I,” Fontarius almost yawned, then stared, “Although it does look a little like a kite.”

“I can’t see any string.”

“Well it’s not a ‘buzzard’,” Fontarius continued. “The forked tail gives it away. And hawks are usually ‘passing through’ in this type of country. I have heard of Black Kites away south who turn up for the summer, but the ones in this realm of Mistanizzle are usually of the red variety.”

“I’ve heard of the Kite Duels up in Larnsdaisyn,” said Earnest, “but no one’s flying that thing.”

Fontarius let the groan escape. “How long has it been here for?”

“Little Merchisé saw it yesterday afternoon, and Mrs Pipcastle saw it looking down at her this morning.”

“From your roof?”

“From that tree.”

Fontarius followed Earnest’s gaze across the road to a grand tree with the appearance of a mineral green dome. “Really?”

“I can show you,” said Earnest, striding across the road. Fontarius followed, not taking his eyes from the heavy, half-sphere canopied grandee, standing unbowed in the beating of the solar drum and putting its canopy to good use. Although despite being able to give a sigh of relief in the refreshing shade, he had to follow Earnest’s arm pointing up one of those lance-straight main branches.

“Don’t ask me why the Missus was so close,” said Earnest. “Probably talking to one of her friends coming up from Mistannicci. But as she lifted her head to laugh, she spied a pair of purple eyes looking back at her, plus a squawk; or was it a quack…?”

“Purple-?” Fontarius nearly choked.

Earnest nodded. “I’d say amethyst if birds flew about with jewels for eyes. It hasn’t been back to the tree for as long as I’ve been outside, but it’s never strayed very far from a circle with here and Cresten forming the two points of the diameter. Do you know what it is, apart from the fact it looks like a Kite.”

“I have to say, this is a fine specimen of an Acer,” Fontarius continued, putting a hand on the shaggy pink-grey trunk, “tall, grand and spherically handsome.”

Earnest frowned, “Acer?”

“Sycamore.”

“Oh, this isn’t the biggest one around here,” said Earnest, glancing at an approaching man with three pack mules, then walking in the opposite direction. “If you care for a glass of cellar cordiale I can show it to you from my house.”

“Why thank you,” said Fontarius, also looking at the approaching triple mule-driver, then following after Earnest. Half an hour out of the sun wouldn’t do any harm, and another acer of the present one’s magnitude would be a sight not to be missed. Although he could not escape the slight sensation that if the sycamore was such a grand dome, why did two points of blue in its upper reaches, fail to look like the firmament above?