Shadow Tree by Jake Halpern Page A

said Resuza.
    â€œOkay,” said Hill finally, handing the Pen to Resuza. “But for goodness sake, please be careful.”
    Resuza crept out of bed with the Pen in hand. Resuza had rehearsed her movements and was fairly certain she could get to her destination without a noise. Whether she would go unnoticed was another matter. She tiptoed down a pitch-black hallway that was lined with slave bunk beds. At the very end of the hallway, on the left side, was an alcove that held a simple wooden table. In better times, several pitchers of water sat on the table; but even this small gesture of humanity had been discontinued as of late and now the slaves only received water at dinner. Those slaves who had been there the longest would often look longingly at the alcove, as if the days when water was once there had been the high point of their lives. Now, the table was bare and covered with a thick layer of dust. The alcove was only about four feet high, but it was surprisingly deep, so much so that Resuza was actually able to crawl under the table and hide herself completely from view.
    So far, she and Hill had only practiced using the Pen with two of the elements: fire and air. Before coming to Dargora, Hill had used then Pen to shoot a stream of fire. On another occasion, in Dargora, Hill had blown into the empty chamber and was then able to control a gust of wind inside the slave quarters. This had occurred early in the morning when everyone was still groggy from sleep, but even then it had caused a great stir. People still spoke of the day when a gust of wind had become trapped inside their icy prison. Hill had been able to guide the wind in specific directions – as if it were a gigantic fan of sorts – but he was unable to dial up or down the strength of the wind. He suspected this was possible, but they hadn’t yet figured out how to do it.
    Resuza huddled under the table and listened quietly for a full minute. She heard nothing aside from the usual noises of slumber in the slave quarters – snores, mutters, coughs, and – inevitably – the unnerving whimpers of people trapped in nightmares. Resuza pushed herself to the back of the alcove and felt the wall. As she suspected, it was made of dirt. The slave quarters were a mix of ice caves and earthen cellars. In some places the walls were made of ice and in other places they were made of rock and dirt. Here the walls were dirt, which was a bit of good luck. She took a pinch of the dirt and inserted into the lower chamber of the Pen. She snapped the Pen back together, pointed it at the wall in front of her, and pressed the emerald at the top of the Pen. After a slight click, the Pen shot out a thin stream of dirt, although it seemed to be lighter than the kind she had initially inserted into the Pen. A cloud of dirt soon engulfed her. Resuza clicked the emerald top again, and the stream of dirt disappeared. It took several minutes until the tiny particles settled on the ground and she could survey the Pen’s effect.
    The effect was disappointingly small. A shallow divot had been carved out of the wall, as if someone very strong had punched it. But that was it. Resuza thought back to the wind that Hill had been able to control, and looking back, even that wind seemed unimpressive. She wondered whether they had overestimated the Pen’s powers. Resuza tried it again, pointing the tip of the Pen closer to the wall. The result was the same; however, this second time, she noticed something she hadn’t before. When she pressed the emerald button, the metal area around the emerald became warm. Perhaps it meant something.
    She tried a third time. While the Pen shot out its thin stream of dirt, she rubbed the area around the emerald. At first nothing happened, but then by chance she happened to rub in a clockwise direction around the emerald. The stream of dirt immediately died down to nothing. The Pen appeared to stop working. Resuza then rubbed