I squint my eyes as I heave the dull, chipped blade of my ax, once again, as I always have, into the trunk of the Great Tree. Faint whimpers whisper through the numinous bark with each blow landed. For years, I have tried to block out the cries of sorrow, and for years I shall continue. The Order says that one day, provided we remain faithful, we shall break through to the interior and descend into the safety of the Depths of the Earth. Sometimes, I question if our toil is for naught, but I have known no else and have no better solution. No matter my doubts, I would be a fool to shirk the kindness and protection offered to me by the Order of Yggdrasil.  According to ancient texts, it has been more than 400 years since Man has been allowed to walk the Earth in light of the Sun.

Cardinal William patrols our congregation, doling out penance to any not working with the vigor of God. In one hand, he carries a torch of Yggdrasil, which would not go out even when swung in the wind. In the other is a wretched instrument of torment. A twisted, vile amalgamation of vines, branches, and blood. When my eyes meet this object of harrow, dozens of old and recent wounds cry out in fear of their progenitor. I grit my teeth and strike the Tree, as I always have, as I always will.

The crack of the whip splits the air, signaling for us that it’s time to return to the church. I rack my ax in its sling, gather the sacred flesh, and saunter west to our holy hole in the ground. As I increase the distance between the Tree and myself, the lush ground turns to thin grass, then to dirt, then to sand. Several dozen feet away, I see the light of the single torch which marks the Manhole. It is about two men wide and made entirely of root and vine. In the center lies a pulsating ball of energy and vines. Cardinal William arrives first and begins the Rite of Asylum.

Natura nihil frustra facit

When he mutters the phrase, the whip comes to life and plunges itself into the port in the hatch. We watch silently, I in disdain, as the blood of my brothers spills into the keyhole. When the hatch is satisfied, the whorl of roots and vines pulsate a heavenly green, bathing all who await entrance in the warmth of God, then unraveling to reveal knotted stairs of root.

“And honor your brothers and yourself in silent prayer, as it is your blood that allows for the sanctuary of man from light.”

Following the Cardinal, we descend, as we always have, as we always will.

I breathe deep the last fresh air I will be beholden to for some time, then slump farther into the hole. I hoist my tired body down the uneven steps toward the soft glow of the arch at the bottom of the stairs. As I descend, my nose fights to grow accustomed to the smell of mildew and rot. There is hustle and bustle in the common room. The sisters have prepared the usual stew as reward for a hard day of reaping. I walk in line with my brothers to the Scales. Each man takes their turn unshouldering the wicker sack from their back, dumping their bounty upon the measurement device, then waiting for Bishop Edmund to take our daily weight of sin. Once it has been recorded, the husks are taken away into the church.

“I will one day bring home enough husk to ascend to priesthood.”

“Not before I”

“Nor I”

My brothers know not what they do, for they do not hear the voice of The Tree. Each day, under the guise of religion, we scar the very deity which we hold so sacred. None other hear the screaming and crying and pleading of The Tree as we hack its immortal flesh away. They think I am mad. I am not mad. I fear I am the only sane soul cast unto this place by the wretched thing I call God. Why else, then, would he silence the ears of the others? I lay my husk on the Scale. As I always have. As I always will.

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“Twenty-eight and a half pounds, THREE ounces”

I sit down across from Brother Simeon and mash the solid parts of the stew down while looking around the room. I mustn’t look at the stew. I see thirty or so scarred brothers, just as I. The sisters are coming around, tending to fresh wounds with sap of the Tree, filling our cups with groundwater as they go. Some of the women carry leeches for those with infection, I wonder where they are still finding leeches. I glance at the stew. I am met with a strange brown/gray paste full of amber flakes which shimmer in the torchlight. As I stir the mixture, I see a small, bent leg, that of an insect. Still bugs. Always bugs.

Further in the woody cavern, toward the Tree, the level rises, there are more tables, Priests eat there, then above them are Bishops, then Archbishops, then Cardinal William and Arthur. Once every two moons, the Pope Saint John XXIII would come to the Manhole with his pale skin, putrid eyes, long nose, and pointed teeth to assess our progress. The Man of The Wood, some called him, always appeared suddenly from the walls, as if the walls had created him. Perhaps he is the wall.

“Simeon, do you still not hear the cries of the Tree?” I ask.

“Cease that talk, they’ll hear you,” he replies.

Some of the brothers overhear us and snicker. They know not what they do.

“The Mad Prophet is starting his sermon! Come one, come all, allow the sacred words of the Man Who Could Hear to enlighten our damned souls. O Prophet, speak! What, pray tell, has the Tree told you today?” hooted Brother Gideon.

The brothers are sneering and cackling as Gideon repeatedly places his hands over his ears, closing his eyes, then suddenly opening his hands and screaming. They know not what they do. Simeon hides his face in his hands, and I catch a glimpse of his expression; it is one of pity and embarrassment. He feels sorry for me. Even Simeon does not believe me. Am I making it all up? Is there something wrong with me? I begin to feel hot.

I raise the bowl to my lips and push mouthfuls of stew into my contracting esophagus. Tears well in my eyes as I fight to swallow. I begin to retch and clamp my mouth shut, swirling the bile and mash together and forcing it back down. I manage to finish the bowl. I brace myself and suck down the murky liquid. It tangs of iron and sulfur today. I drag my wrist across my eyes, then my lips. A sister gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she passes by.

I rise, walk to the mess counter.

“You don’t have to do that, y’know,” says the sweaty sister Ethel.

“I know, but I can, and I don’t mind,” I say.

She sighs and steps to the side. She is older and has always been nice to me. I dunk my bowl in the water and scrub it with a coarse brush.

“You don’t have to let those boys be so mean. Why don’t you tell them you stopped hearing the Tree? That you made it all up for attention?” Ethel asks.

“But sister, I haven’t. I haven’t made it up and the Tree grows louder. I don’t think that axes and violence are the key to eternal sanctuary. There must be a holy way inside the Tree.”

“You mustn’t speak against the directives of the Order. The Great Pope Saint John XXIII himself was told by God that man must take up ax and hack away the root of evil.”

“As I always have, as I always will.”

Ethel whacks the back of my head with a spoon.

“And quit that forsaken mantra!”

I am trying to ignore the incessant hooting and hollering of the brothers. They’ve begun to whistle and make kissing noises. I avoid eye contact and finish cleaning my bowl, spoon, and tankard. I lower my head and walk across the room, glancing up at the upper levels. The priests have bread and roast mole; they are drinking wine and have joined in the cacophony of howling hecklers. I pass under another arch and begin my walk to Dormio.

The hall is long and twisted, taking several turns in nonsensical directions with no doors, save the one at the end. A dim green light glows from the ceiling and walls in the Manhole; we mustn’t light fires here. I open the door and walk to the corner of the reeking room where my cot lies. Once again, someone has shit on my cot. I suspect brother Gideon. I unhook my ax and feel its weight in my hands. I could kill him for this. Why should I not kill him for this? I wedge the blade under the bloody stool and scrape the majority onto the ax. I consider walking out to the common room and making him eat it. I scrape it along the underside of his cot. I take his pillow and use it to remove the remainder from my place of rest, then my ax. I crawl into the shit-stained cot and fall asleep fuming.