With each reverberation of the morning bell, I become painfully aware that my dream has once again followed me into reality. My face is swollen, and every small movement feels like a lashing. I tepidly bring a bony hand to my face and graze the side of my nose, the explosion following confirms it to be broken. Flies swarm the corner of my cot where a sticky spatter of maroon has stained the canvas.

“Your nose! What happened?” Simeon exclaims, rising from his cot with wide eyes.

“Another nightmare. They’re getting worse, brother.” I take a deep breath, then begin working my nose into a more familiar shape.

“I’ve seen you scratch yourself before, but never anything like this. Was it the same dream? Did you wake up?” He cringes as he watches my fingers bend and slide the fractured cartilage into place.

“No, it was different. Instead of an observer, I was the Tree itself. I watched as humanity poured themselves into me, then my face was removed by the Man of The Wood. I woke with the bell, same as you.” My fingers delicately navigate my lacerated face and find other damage where the axe had impacted.

“Humanity… Into you… The Man of The Wood? What are you talking about? Pope Saint John XXIII was sent by the Tree to shepherd us into the Manholes, then into salvation. If the Tree had a face, why would he remove it?” He looks distraught, never having considered such questions before.

“Maybe the Tree spoke against him. Maybe he wasn’t sent by the Tree at all. What if we’re all that’s left? Just the bound playthings of some eldritch horror?” I ramble on for some time until Simeon seems overwhelmed.

“Enough!” He interjects. “You’ve had a bad dream and smashed your face on your own cot. I don’t know how to help you, but filling your head with baseless conspiracies doesn’t sound like a strong start. He’s coming to our Manhole today, and we must treat him with the utmost reverence. I suggest you keep your distance.” He advises, then slinks down the hall to the common room.

I wrestle the final piece of my tattered nose into some semblance of normality, then blot it with sap. An easy warmth alleviates the immediate stinging as I fill the cuts. I catch furtive glances from gawking brothers as I perform the bloody deed. No wonder they think I’m mad. Alas, I string up my sandals and head to the washbasin. The murky water turns a sickly pink as I scrub my hands together, then red when I wet and wring my hair. Dormio is all but empty, many of the boys have already left to watch Gideon’s inauguration. When the water returns to its virgin murky state, I withdraw and set down the hall to join them.

Celebration hangs thick in the air as I scan for an empty seat and find that Simeon has saved me one next to him. The usual bowls of slop are nowhere to be found, and the scent of fresh bread, a rare treat, wafts through the room, mingling with the usual earthy musk of the subterranean hall. All eyes fall upon Gideon at the center of the room. He wears a cocky grin and watches patiently as tables fill out around him. Dozens of hushed conversations cease as the final brother finds his place. Cardinals Arthur and William rise, signaling the start of the ceremony. The gravity of the moment settles over us like a thick fog, each brother acutely aware of the importance of what is about to unfold.

“Please, don’t try to speak to him.” Simeon reminds me.

Each cardinal places his left hand upon the arboreal wall, about a man apart. Between them, roots writhe and contort to reveal a gateway of golden light. A pale hand places itself upon the archway’s edge, then another to match. I watch in horror as he drags his hulking body through the glowing gateway. His shoulders start around the eyes of the cardinals, then rise, then rise some more. When he stands in our Manhole in his entirety, his midsection meets the cardinal’s nose.

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Adorned with crimson robes and an intricate sash of woven gold, The Man of the Wood surveys the room with a commanding presence. His eyes dance upon our bone-ridden sacks, sinking every detail in his piercing gaze. He eyes the brothers with sinister interest, feasting upon each figure with an animalistic fever. His ocular waltz is long and wide, shifting from face to toes with rapacious fervor. It flies about the room, fleeting from husk to shadow, until it finds Gideon. He stops, lingers for a while, then studies the boy’s body intently before meeting his eyes. Gideon lowers his forehead in a short bow, then returns his stare.

The Pope’s tight lips retreat to reveal clean, sharp fangs in the semblance of a grin. He raises his arms in a slow, fanning motion. As he does, the Cardinals bow, then the rest of the congregation echo their stance of penitence, I included. All, but Gideon. He stands at the center, locked in eye contact with the Pope. The figure’s arms swing inward, and he seems to pull Gideon’s very soul toward himself. His body drags through the room, his feet hardly touching the ground. He makes no snarky comment, nor triumphant cry as he flies up the gnarled stairs. There’s not a breath nor gasp as he’s swallowed by the glowing archway.

The pope lowers his arms and brings his massive body into a bow. The congregation puts forth a hearty, “Amen”, and we return to our feet. The pope raises his head to leave, but not before spying me cowering at the back of the room. The moment we lock eyes, everything else stops. The smell of bread is gone. The room is neither hot nor cold, and the air stands oppressively still. Despite his size, The Man of The Wood prowls down the stairs with a beastlike cadence. I want to turn and run, but the air is more than still; it’s frozen, binding me within. He reaches the base of the stairs and cuts straight for me, unimpeded by the newly solid surroundings. In the void, I feel his heat approaching. He lays his vile nose upon my neck and excitedly drags it through my hair and up my ear, laying it on my temple, sniffing like dog that lost a bone.

“It’s you.” His lips part further to distort the grin that has not yet left his face since meeting Gideon’s stare, revealing a grotesque scene as it expands.

“I’ve been in your head for quite some time, Prophet.” His lips seem to touch his ears as he spits through his fangs. He has blood pouring from his back teeth and keeps sucking it in with a tight, “Hsshh”. His demon tongue flits to wet his lips as he examines my soul. I’m filled with a lightness as he invades my body. Though I cannot move, I wonder if I’m like Gideon, or the woman in my dream, floating above the ground. His presence sooths all my sorrows, my grievances, my torments. His exploration of my psyche feels like tending to many muscles I never knew I had.

“Your life has been one of pain and servility… Would you like to be free of this life?” His grin stretches to his eyes, revealing pale, dead gums and white stripes of tendons. My eyes, unfrozen, survey the room to find not a single movement. Not only do none angle to listen to the speech, but I see not a chest rise to breathe, let alone speak. I try to pull air into my own lungs but realize that function has been frozen as well. I stand, recalling what it is to have a physical form, very alive, frozen in space with a creature that can cut through time.

“I will offer you a choice…” His words pierce the darkest corners of my mind, rallying my deepest resentments against those who have forced me into this existence.

"This choice holds either hell or salvation. Of which it becomes is entirely what you make of it.” He smacks his lips in delight.

“I will welcome you and one other into Yggdrasil’s grace, but this Manhole will be closed. All you know will be returned to the Earth. Will you slay your congregation for your own salvation, or will you continue on the road to nowhere?” He turns and bounds back up the stairs, assuming his original position at the head of it all. He cuts his eyes at me one last time, and the space is unfrozen. I’ve never noticed how much noise lies in silence. The small sniffs, the quiet scratching of skin, the rustling of dirty clothing, my own heartbeat. Suddenly, I’m deafened by these tiny sounds I’ve never chosen to notice before. A shiver worms through my body as the warmth and dampness of the room invades my skin; I realize that I own my body once again.