The rock scratched and even left a few shallow cuts on his fingers and forearms. At least there were plenty of handholds, and–he was relieved to think–it had not been raining lately. Rough and sharp was painful, but seemed better than slick or slippery. Every two or three minutes worth or climbing there was a place to rest, too. This was a life-saver. Climbing the whole way without rest wouldn’t have been possible. The boy had to curl up in the lee of the rockface whenever he reached one of the shelves just to make enough room for Caewen to join him. He lay there, balled up, staring out at the vast blue sky and the chasing clouds, feeling his ribs heave from the exertion, listening to the sounds of Caewen following up behind him: scrabbles and huffs and exhausted winces. He was worried. She always seemed to just barely draw herself up over the lip of the ledge, puffing and grunting under her breath. It really felt as if she wouldn’t have been able to go another few feet without the respite. Then, they would lie there, resting together for a while, in silence, allowing the feeling to return into aching arms and aching legs. But in the shadows and chill winds of the cliff-shelters, hot sweat turned cold fast, and they would have to start off again just to stay warm.
When they finally, at long last, reached the topmost platform of rock, the boy could hardly believe it. Huge protrudent roots curled into the cliff all around them, making for a safer hollow to sit within than any of the little ledges had provided. The wind was whipping at a speed up here: scouring every surface clean and thrashing the few shrubs and grasses that grew in amongst root-crooks and stone-crevices. Even the lichens in their bright yellow and orange patches looked thin from being wind-torn.
Fleat was already waiting for them atop the big trunk, and seemed to be well rested. He must have made the top in much quicker time than they were capable of. Perhaps it had something to do with his birdish bones and nature. Or perhaps he simply made this climb, or similar ones, often enough to get used to it. The trunk had an upward curve to it, and arced about half a dozen or so feet above them. Steps had been nailed into the surface, and it was railed off with ropes too. After catching up on some breathing, they both got to their feet and clambered up to him. The tree trunk was wide–even wider than the boy had guessed from the ground–and surprisingly flat on top. It was easy to walk on, once they were atop it. The boy risked a glance over the side at the vast openness of air below, and immediately felt dizzy. He didn’t do that again. Way far down below, he thought he had managed to catch sight of Dapplegrim looking up at them, sunlight glinting on his keen, dark eyes. He seemed to be alone, it was hard to be sure. Caewen peered over the side too, but she didn’t say anything.
“Can you see Dapple?” he asked.
She nodded. “He seems fine. I wouldn’t want to slip, though. Quite the tumble.”
Fleat said, “Well, come on. Follow me. Follow me.” He took off along the trunk at a trot and scampered up some steps that were part-built, part-cut up one big branch, leading to the main body of the house. The house itself sprawled all through the crown of the tree, and there were outbuildings and platforms and walkways that were not connected to the main house by anything other than swaying rope bridges. The main building was made of a silvery-white wood, set with many big clear windows and roofed with what looked like pieces of huge acorn-crowns cut into shingles. If they had actually been made from huge acorns, the boy couldn’t be certain. There were no giant acorns on the tree, but it might just have been the wrong time of year.
Caewen went first now, wobbling just a little as she walked along the trunk and then to the relative safety of the stairs beyond. She waved to the boy and smiled, though the smile was an exhausted one. He took a deep breath, attempted to rearrange his courage in his chest–and realised that he actually still felt more terrified than not–there was a prickling at his fingers and in the back of his knees. But he made himself take a step forward. And another. Another. He did his best to look anywhere but down, putting foot after foot. When he was halfway, he felt a sinking feeling of horror at the thought that he was only halfway. But he pressed on, determined, and almost without realising it, he had done it. His mind numbed by the task of walking and balancing, he felt Caewen’s callused fingers grab his shoulder. He was suddenly looking into her face. “No falling now,” she said as if it were an instruction that she could make true, just by uttering it.
“If you say so,” he replied.
She went up the steps first, and he followed quickly after. The door at the top was grandly carved and set with pieces of coloured glass in hues of red and green and gold. The boy wondered briefly where they were doing their glasswork? Did they have kilns in the trees? There were more of the oak leaves and owls carved in wonderful detail all around the door. The knob was one huge, smiling and staring owl head, worn smooth with use and age until it almost looked to have lost its feathers.
As soon as they pushed inside the sound of the howling wind was subsumed by a low crackle of fire in a hearth–built on a slab of stone, and chimneyed all around by walls of small round riverstones set in mortar. It must have taken a hundred hours of labouring to get all that up here, especially given the size of the small hobs in their unwitched shape. The room was crowded with comfy-looking wood furniture. Sitting in that cosy furniture were half a dozen of the little hobs, ranging in age from a child younger than Fleat to a thin, bald-headed, thinly bearded old man who sat bent up on a whole pile of sewn cushions.
“Mm?” he said, murmurous, “Mm? Mm? Is this them then? Took their time.” He blinked dull eyes at them. “What are they, mute? Speak up. Name yourself.”
“This is them, grandpapa,” said Fleat. He had apparently already warned about their coming, or someone had. Perhaps Fleat had found some kin of his, and sent them ahead while he was waiting for the two big, dull folk to catch up with him.
“And what are they?” He squinted. “Big folk, yes? Humankind? Not Sorthelings though? From the south, yes? He squinted at Caewen. Or farther away than that I think? You have a look of a person out of the west, from beyond the great gloaming Woods of Wode. I used to take long journeys, back in the day. The Blood denied me feathers and wings for reasons unknown, but I’ve feet still, and I used them well, I did, I did.”
“Yes. We know you did, grandpapa,” said one of the other Hob-Houlards, rolling her eyes a touch. She was a middle-aged woman with a kind face and a blush of tolerant humour in her voice and expression when she addressed the old man. “But old papa is right: you need to introduce yourselves. It is only proper, if you do not mean us harm…” she added meaningfully.