As if reading his thoughts, Bryde said, “They’re all so young. Second growth. Beginning of the twentieth century, this was all twigs, because of logging. Looked like a war zone. Was, even. The army used to fire mortars here. Imagine this place razed and stubbled and smoking, the sounds of gunfire.”

Ronan couldn’t.

“Yes,” Bryde said. “Amazing what you can change in a century, if you have a purpose. Humankind razed this place, but humankind also built it back up again. Planted trees. Put up fences to keep the cattle out. Dragged the rivers into shape where trauma erased them. Replaced all the living things that grew along them to hold them in place. Deep down, there are always some that miss it. Do you really feel nothing at all, Ronan?”

Ronan muttered, “Not while awake.”

Bryde went on. “Did you feel how strong the line was when you were dreaming? And that is with it smothered. In the sixties, a dam was built southeast of here that disrupted its energy. But before that, it was strong enough to spill out ley energy into distant tributaries.”

“Stronger than this?” Hennessy said. She didn’t sound pleased.

“Come here, both of you,” Bryde said. “Put your hands on this.”

They did as he asked, Ronan in his old leather jacket scarred by escaped nightmares, Hennessy in her stolen smelly coat with the snow caught in the tips of its fur, Bryde in the same jacket he always wore, that light gray windbreaker with a light stripe down its arm. All their hands were placed on the ragged edge of the stump.

Bryde said, “This is one of the originals. It looks dead, but it’s just sleeping. The others keep it alive. Beneath the soil, these trees are connected. The strength of one makes the others strong. The weakness of one challenges the others. They value their oldest members, as do I.”

“How much longer for this video essay?” Hennessy said. “I can’t feel my tits.”

“A little fucking awe would be appropriate,” Bryde said calmly. “This forest was like your Lindenmere not long ago, Ronan, but its dreamer died and there was no one to protect it. It is old and hard of hearing and no dreamers have tried to befriend it for a long time. It is still doing its work on this line; it is a wonder these young silly trees had the thought to keep it alive to ground it all, but we should be grateful for it.”

“Thanks for the dream, tree,” Hennessy said. “I hated it.”