I leaned against a boulder while the sun hung low on the horizon, painting the distant tents orange. How long had I been walking?

I entered the circle of egg-shaped stones as high as the fence and found a single tree. I hadn’t seen a tree since we left our village. I didn’t know what kind of tree it was, but it looked sickly, and I could not accurately describe the stench around it. Latrines and rotten wood?

Are you here to pee on me?

“Uh?”

You foul thing. Probably while saying something like, ‘Just watering the plants, hey? If I could move, I’d make skewers out of you all.

“I won’t pee—”

You understand me? It has been too long since I have spoken to anyone, much less a filthy human. Do you know what the last human who spoke to me did?

I shook my head.

She lifted her fancy skirt and peed on me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, too melancholic to care. I found a small stone and sat there.

Someone peed there, he said. Not even two days ago.

“Then I’ll share your pain.”

The tree went silent for a while, then, in a burst of anger, spat, Now you listen to me. Don’t make me like you. You are a human, a piss-pooping monster, incapable of empathy or love.

“I lost my house,” I began, “my dad, and today I lost a friend. So I wish you were right.”

The tree considered my answer, its dead branches and feeble leaves rustling in the stinking breeze. So you won’t take a leak? Change the olive’s water? Drain the main vein? Squeeze the lemon?

“I won’t pee on you!” I shouted. “I knew a peach tree; she was my friend. And I would never pee on her.”

She? That’s the correct pronoun. What was her name?

“Her name?” I never asked her name.

And you know treespeak.

I shrugged. “Mom does. Guess I caught the habit.”

Ah! Treespeak’s no habit. You either can or cannot. It is a gift and a rare one at that.

“Fine, what’s your name?”

Tarilin. You know, you are only the second human I’ve spoken to in my tormented existence. If it turns out the first one is your mother, could you do me a favor?

I waited for Tarilin to continue.

Tell her to pee herself.

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“My mom would never pee on you.”

Are you sure? Are you sure your mommy would not? What if she had to press them apples?

“Shut up! She has been through enough.”

I thought Tarilin would finally let me rest, but, of course, he didn’t.

Do you see that stump?

I looked at it. A tree had lived there once.

She was peed away.

I sighed heavily and regretted taking such a deep breath. The urine stench burned sour in my mouth. “I’m going now,” I said. As I rounded the large stone, I saw the camp up in flames.

***

My feet were running before I knew it, heart in my hands, Graze completely out of my mind. I had to find mom. I was up and down the fence as the first stars began to twinkle in the sky.

It was all too reminiscent. People ran back and forth in panic. Men set fire to tents. Soldiers formed lines and shield walls. Madness.

“Mom!” I yelled as I darted through the turmoil. “Mom!”

I rushed to our tent and found only a balefire in its place. What happened? Wasn’t this supposed to be a safe camp? I spun on my heels, breathing erratically, eyes darting into anything that moved, but everything was moving. I was out of breath. How could I have been so thoughtless? Was this why Mom wanted me to stay close? Could she have known this could happen? But if she knew, then why were we still there?

Something touched my shoulder, and I jerked forward, nearly tripping.

“Where have you been?” Mom asked, her skin sweaty, forehead dirty with soot. She took me in her arms. “We have to move.” She pulled me by the hand toward the front gate. A soldier stabbed a refugee with his spear. I turned my face away.

“Mom, what is happening?”

She stopped and looked at me. “We need to get out.”

A soldier shouted something from the top of a barrel.

I squinted to catch his lips. “You fools, think about winter! What will you do then? Little food is better than no food at all!”

I surveyed the scene. The shield wall in front of the gate prevented the fleeing refugees from escaping. People were on their knees, praying to the Bastard or to the Light, fear and dread drenching their eyes.

“Mom, mom! I know another way out,” I said and began pulling her in the opposite direction. She did not protest.

“What is happening?” I asked when we made it to the fence.

“The lightning…the duke died. The people, they...they demanded to leave. They got scared, I—” Mom choked on her words. “I don’t know. It was all so sudden, and I kept looking for you, and then...the soldiers wouldn’t let them leave and—”

“Mom, can you climb this?”

She looked up the fence, then back at me.

“Here, I’ll show you. Just hook your fingers in and then push with your feet. See? It’s easy.”

“For a little boy, maybe.”

“Quick, Mom, before someone comes,” I said as I reached the top.

Mom took to the wall and, to my surprise, and probably to hers too, she reached the top with relative ease. “Fine, I am here now. How do we get down? We jump?”

I slid down the support log and looked back at Mom. She blew air out, puffing her cheeks, and slid down behind me. When she reached the ground, she contemplated the fence, fury in her stare. “So it’s true. Those bastards,” she mumbled. “Let us get out of here.”

“This way, Mom.”

“I’m guessing this is where you come every day,” Mom said, inspecting Fort Intrepid. “I doubt we can hide here.”

I passed her the bundle of blankets and the sword.

“Why would we need that?” Mom asked, her eyes tired but still managing to whip out some disappointment.

I shrugged. “We might need it. Trade it for something. I don’t know.”

That seemed to satisfy her a bit. “Any other stash we need to visit?”

“I know where we can hide for tonight.”

“Of course you do.”

We scampered through the flatlands. Behind us, some of the fires in the camp had died down, but an amber hue lingered like a halo around it. What had happened there? How was any of this possible? What would we do now?

My feet were so numb I couldn’t feel the grass, lumps, pebbles, or even the cold under them. When we reached the rock formation, winded and exhausted, I said, “Here, Mom.”

Mom had her hands on her knees and nodded. When she straightened, she signed, “What is that smell?”

“Pee,” I said. “You get used to it after a while.”

We made a bed with the blankets and decided to hide there until morning. Though the sky was clear, there were no northern lights. For once, I was grateful for it. Snuggling against Mom, I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, it was morning. And something not much like a voice said:

You! You peed on me.