The great tree he approached from a thin, swaying gangway was different from all the others in one respect. The smooth bark was studded with portholes of stained glass, topped by a roof of thatch that clung around the edges of the massive hollowed-out trunk. Even in this gloom, way below the crown of the tree, light from the glass punctured the endless shades of green, making the surrounding leaves look like they’d been dyed for display in a dazzling market stall. This was the effect that kirk was supposed to have. The doorway, always open, could only lead out of this drab life. Beyond, lay a kingdom of color, the palace of Diana.

Ark paused before the entrance. A trickle of water spouted from a hole in the bark and made its way into a gleaming copper bowl, forged into the shape of raven feathers and set into the trunk at waist height. Water was a gift from the roots deep down, sucked up by the tree itself to spill out into this sacred spring. Ark crossed his hands over his chest. Earth Over, Sky Under, Leaves to East & West. He said a quick prayer for the soul of his long-dead twin, then pulled the coin from his pocket and dropped it in, watching the ripples as it sank to join the other offerings. A near fortune of gold and silver shimmered a foot under the surface, enough to feed his family for years. But nobody, not even Councillor Grasp, stole from Diana.

There. He’d done as his mother had asked. Maybe he should leave now. But the open doorway beckoned to him, as it always did. Going inside meant there was a chance he might meet a Holly Woodsman. He’d have to take it. Before he could think about it, his feet carried him into the porchway where he gently pushed open the second inner door.

The main body of the kirk was a room about fifty feet around, with a carved and vaulted ceiling lost in the shadows high above. Many came to kneel in silence on the polished wooden floor. The air was thick with incense, an indoor fog of burned pine resin. Ark loved kirk, the way the light filtered through the stained glass, picking out the wooden statue of the Mother, cradling the first changed acorn. He fell for the mystery of the Holly Woodsmen, faces hidden in their hoods as they repeated words and phrases from a thousand years ago, raising their silvered acorn cup to sip of the tree’s water and share it in communion with their flock. But he also felt cooped up, as if the strength of the trees lay not in this chamber of worship but in the outside, the whole wide-wood.

About twenty feet away, a figure, draped in a black cloak and squatting on hands and knees, was laying flowers for the coming harvest: chrysanthemums, asters, and pansies.