Whisperblade rolls me, Grace, out of my hammock in the morning, and the other visitors receive similar treatment. The hurried trek to the toilet begins. It isn’t close by, and there is no privacy; I don’t think the Kaniwa understand the concept of modesty. I’ve been seen by men before.

Breakfast is a stew of mush made from plant root; it’s plain and could use salt. Pell introduces us to two women, Ocho and Ixlban, and two men, Kuro and Rhold, four elders who join us for breakfast. I wait until Whisperblade starts to eat, and she waits for the elders. The elders watch us, and it feels like they’re testing us. We eat with gusto.

Finishing breakfast, the elders wander over to the fire pit under Oure’s longhouse with smoldering embers. A boy helps ancient Kuro to sit down. Everyone else form a large circle behind them, and children play outside with the our wolves, much to their delight.

Oure joins the elders and starts to speak. “I have asked the elders, and the patriarchs of the Kaniwa to come to counsel to talk about Aman.”

I look at Wolf, and almost ask him who Aman is, but he signals me to remain quiet.

The shaman continues, “I have visited Aman often; it is sick.” There are gasps from the assembled tribesmen. “The First Tree has started to lose leaves and no longer grows prop roots to support its long branches. It is because the men who cut down trees are getting closer to our land, and Aman feels the pain of the forest that feeds us.”

“If Aman fails the Kaniwa will die. The very life of the sheltering forest depends on the First Tree,” says Ixlban.

“What can we do,” asks Ocho?

Oure says, “I have brought friends of my daughter, Pell. She has judged them for many moons and tells me they are loyal friends and true to their beliefs. Their elder, Whisperblade, has been her teacher. I have taught the boy, Wolf; he is quick in our ways and has grown to be a strong warrior. He has come with his mother, sister, and two friends.”

Rhold, the youngest of the elders and still a strong man, says, “Let the elder of the warriors speak.”

Whisperblade says, “We can teach you to slow the men who cut the trees, but we cannot stop them; for every man you stop, there will be three more to take his place. If you kill a man, ten more will take his place, and they will bring weapons; strong and mean weapons.”

“We have seen their long killing sticks. What would you do for us?” asks Ixlban.

We will teach you to hurt their tree-killing monsters. Then, we will help you find a new home.”

“Aman cannot go to a new home; it has rooted to the ground for all time,” Rhold says. “If the white man’s monsters cut down Aman, or we leave, we will die.”

Kuro asks, “We know the first tree is dying. We cannot stay here. If we move, there is hope. We must send our hunters to find a good forest.”

Whisperblade speaks. “We know of three forests that no tribe claims. We can guide your hunters there to find the one that you can live in.”

“You cannot guide us. You are not Kaniwa; you are not of the forest,” Rhold says.

“My son, Wolf, carries your mark on his arm and bears a staff given by Aman. He has mastered the staff, he has studied the poison made from the skin of the dart frog, and he has lived among you to learn medicine from Oure. He will be the white hunter’s guide.”

Kuro says, “Before the white hunters guide us, they must become Kaniwa, they must take on the mark of the Kaniwa hunter, they must prove themselves.”

My head snaps up, and I speak without permission. “The Mojave tribe has marked me, and in my homeland, I have suffered for it.”

An angry Rhold asks me, “Do white people mark their face?”

“Some white men mark their bodies, but those who mark their faces are laughed at. I am, my sister is, and your Pell suffered this hurt as well.”

“Is this the way of the white man?” Rhold asks Pell.

“It is the way of many, but not of all. I have made many friends with white men. They are good people, but they do not understand the happiness that is all around them,” answers Pell.

Kuro speaks. “We must decide if we can trust the white men. We must decide in peace.”

Whisperblade stands and leads us away from the longhouse. About twenty minutes later, Oure summons us back and directs us to sit in the ring with the elders.

Kuro speaks. “We will allow the white men to lead our hunters in search of a new home.”

Ocho speaks. “You must prove yourself to be a Kaniwa hunter. You will be marked, but we will not mark your face. The first tree will test you. If you fail, you will not lead us. Speak now.”

I answer first, “I am already marked; I will undergo the test.”

Wolf and Amara also voice approval, but I see the dread in Amara’s eyes.

Whisperblade agrees to do it but adds, “My student Wart is not of age to allow this mark without his parent’s approval. Therefore, I must consult with them.”

Kuro nods, and Whisperblade retrieves her satellite phone from her backpack to call the Cunninghams. She receives their approval and tells the elders.

The Kaniwa stare at her for several minutes; they just watched her speak to someone they could not see.

We are handed loincloths and told to remove our white man’s clothes. Amara asks, “What about our breast bands?” There are none, and she growls at us. “You had better not tell anyone.”

I’m more worried that we won’t have our bulletproof vests. One has saved my life already.

Whisperblade shocks the Kaniwa with her scarred chest, scars she received from cancer, and a war wound.

We kneel in a circle, with Upatu next to me. The others also have someone at their side. Pell is next to Wart. Oure beside Whisperblade, Powtow beside Amara, and a small woman, almost a child, that I haven’t seen before, is next to Wolf. Our companions pour a bowl of water over us, and Oure produces five small green stones from a bag and passes them around.

I examine mine, and it’s an emerald. I remark on this, and Oure says it is the color of the sheltering forest. Women grind the hard stones to fine powder, mixing in drops of tree sap; I’ve seen this all before. Where will we be tattooed? On the back of our necks, it turns out.

Eee’ouch! The pain is worse, way worse than when I took on the mark on my chin, but I suck it up. I hear Wolf and Wart whining and tell them to be brave like a woman. For all my heartfelt encouragement, I receive a grumbled curse from Wolf.

The mark is soon made, and I hold Amara’s copper curls to the side to see a vast tree with prop roots supporting its branches above the ground. I hope mine is as good-looking. But, the artists have not finished; Upatu grins at me as he and our new companions receive the same tattoo.

***

There will be ten on this journey, and we start right away. Oure leads us, without our weapons, up a rocky hill, where at the crest, we look down on a bowl-shaped valley with an immense green dome at its center. Oure points his staff at the dome, saying, “Aman, the first tree.”

We hike down the slope into the valley to arrive at the tree, surrounded by an empty, lifeless strip between it and the rest of the forest. Tall prop roots indeed hold up the long and massive branches of the tree. If flattened, I think that a football stadium will fit underneath it. The tree is old, beyond old, and I see why the Kaniwa call it The First Tree.

Oure orders Wolf to drop his staff and Lady Gay and Shadow to lie down. The shaman leads the five of us between the prop roots and under the tree, where the sun becomes a memory. It is hard to see all the prop roots, and Oure warns us not to touch them.

It takes about ten minutes of dodging the thousands of prop roots to reach the tree’s massive trunk, divided into several parts with an open space in the center.

Oure faces each trunk in turn and asks for understanding of the strangers. Finished, he confronts us. “Aman will test you to see if you are worthy of being Kaniwa. Many Kaniwa have passed this test, but some have failed.”

“Who has failed? What happened to them?” I ask.

Oure’s face turns dark. “Marll, Pell’s mother, became one with the tree.”

I lunge at the little man intending to strangle him, but Whisperblade catches me with a grip I cannot break.

“Let him explain,” demands the knight.

Oure says, “Marll was young and bore me Pell, but she wanted a staff of life for herself. I forbade her to find one, she did not know how to find a good prop root, but she went into the tree anyway. I found her in the morning, joined with Aman, suffering in pain until she breathed no more. Your trial has started; you must find your way out.”

“What if we don’t find our way?” I ask.

“You will become one with the tree,” answers Oure as he slips between the trunks and is out of sight.

Wolf says, “We’ve got to move; the trunks are coming together. My arm cutting tells me there is great pain if we stay here.”

I slip between two trunks and follow a path through the prop roots. Looking back, I see no return path; the tree trunk is now one. I run but stop at a bulge in one prop root. It is Marll; there is no mistaking the root’s resemblance to her daughter, Pell. Her hands fused to the prop root she tried to possess.

I yell, “Stop! Everyone stop. I’ve found Marll. Don’t touch the tree; it will kill you.”

I hear replies of understanding from the others. I start moving again, this time being cautious of every move. The trail seems straight with few twists, but it ends with a well-developed root in the middle of the path. I reverse direction and follow the time-honored way to escape a labyrinth, following the right side of the track. It is tedious, and I eventually return to the trunk and reverse again. In ten more minutes, I am back at the start of my search to find no opening. I am trapped.

I hear Wart yell. No, not Wart, anybody but him!

I look down at the insides of my wrists with their thin scars where I once made the ultimate decision. My life since that time has been a gift. Feeling a deep calmness, I place my palms close to the first prop root but feel nothing. Moving to the next root, the hair on my arms stands up. This root is the one. Maybe I can distract the tree from Wart.

Closing my hands about the root, I am seized, my muscles bound in iron. Wood ripples under my fingers, my back breaks, I can’t breathe, and my vision darkens.

I feel a buzzing, a bee, no, I hear it. I try to swat at the noise, but my arms drag, my hands feeling nothing. Then, I remember grabbing the prison bar root; I am like Marll, a part of the tree.

I open my eyes. I am still holding the prop root. It’s no longer a root, but a staff, a heavy solid staff, and it hums in my grip. I can still feel.

I can’t let go of the root, so I try to sling it aside, but my grip holds tight. I swing the staff around, hitting another prop root, causing it to shatter.

In a dreamy fog, it dawns on me; I’ve broken out of my cage; the path out of the tree is straightforward. I stumble out from under the canopy and into the arms of Wolf and Wart while Amara runs to us. We hurriedly tell each other our tests, and I am the only one to come out with a staff.

Whisperblade has not escaped the tree; I know what has happened, and so does Wolf. He runs, searching for an opening into the tree. We tackle him before he can enter. Wolf, in turn, smashes a fist into Wart’s head. Oure darts him with dart frog poison, and he collapses, all of his energy gone.

***

We sit at the hearth all night and into the morning until Wolf stirs. It is then I see Whisperblade entering the longhouse holding a staff with cloth wrapped around a bulge in the wood and more cloth wrapped around her hands. She looks at my staff and me without expression then walks over to Wolf, who sits. I don’t hear what they say, but Wolf takes a pair of tweezers from his first aid bag and works on her hands.

When Wolf finishes his ministrations, Whisperblade informs us there will be one more trial. She had a vision that a staff bearer, a woman staff bearer, shall receive a seed from Aman. I look around to see most everyone staring at Pell, but Oure looks at me. I glance back at Whisperblade, but she is not in shape for another trial. The elders decide Pell and I must go into the tree again. What choice do I have? I must save the Kaniwa.

We are again led into the tree by the shaman and shown where to sit.

I face Pell and see real fear in her eyes. Amara told me the tree could unroll a tendril on top of me without warning; it almost happened to her. I look up and see it coming, coming down to me. I shiver even in the oppressive heat. I no longer feared when I grabbed the prop root, but now my eyes water for what I believe will be the last time. The unrolling stops in front of my face, and I see a plum-sized fruit.

Pell is looking up at another tendril dropping down towards her, but it has no fruit, and I’m sure it will kill her. I snatch the plum, and a spasm seizes me. I lie on the ground with no control, legs and arms spread out. It is forever before I am released.

Oure lifts me to a sitting position, and I see Pell, whose tendril has withered in front of her. Good, she survived.

I look at my hand, which tightly grips the hard seed, the outer pulp squeezed off. Did the tree threaten Pell to force me to grab the seed? Trees can’t think, can they? I don’t know.

Upatu weaves a net bag out of the brown fibers used for bowstrings and hangs the seed around my neck to lie protected by my meager chest. I have already found out that, like my staff, I cannot go far from the seed; it’s too painful.