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The open expanse of lawn immediately adjacent to the Abhorsen's House was dominated by a giant fig tree, its massive limbs radiating in all directions from a central trunk. It was late summer in the Old Kingdom, and every branch drooped with heavy purple fruit, drawing in riotous flocks of waxwings and robins to feast on the bounty. Judging from the sickly sweet smell of fermentation from the fallen fruit and their increasingly erratic flight patterns, the birds were well and thoroughly drunk as they darted from perch to perch overhead. Nor were they the only creatures here to take advantage of the abundance--underneath the noisy squawks was a buzzing counterpoint from graceful black-and-yellow wasps and the larger and clumsier iridescent green scarab beetles scrabbling for their share. No doubt the sendings that served the House had already harvested plenty of fresh figs for the table as well, and dry the considerable surplus for the winter stores.
Even with so much competition, a quick scan of the lower-hanging branches within arm's reach revealed plenty of fruit hidden behind coarse and scratchy leaves roughly the same size and shape as Sabriel's hand. Through trial and error, she quickly learned the best figs were pleasantly soft and squishy to the touch when fully ripe, their thick purple skins lined with myriad small cracks. Unripe fruit clung stubbornly to the branches, spewing a bitter milky sap when forcibly removed; overripe fruit melted in her palm, accompanied by a sharp alcoholic tang.
In the six months since the final showdown with Kerrigor at Wyverley College, Sabriel had spent little time alone at the Abhorsen's House, either in Belisaere with Touchstone or on the road alone. When she'd first come to the Old Kingdom after years at school in Ancelstierre, it had been in the heart of winter, and she'd had far too many pressing concerns to stop and admire the grounds. Now back at the House again in a more welcoming season, she finally had the freedom to explore one of the more pleasant parts of her inheritance at her leisure.
Fresh figs were a rare and expensive treat in the Old Kingdom, needing both summer heat and winter shelter to thrive. They were much more common further south in Ancelstierre, where some adventurous gardener had planted a tree at Wyverley College behind the glasshouse, bearing tiny golden fruits that Sabriel and the other students on campus during the summer breaks had filched at every opportunity. A fig tree, especially one with such impressive girth at the Abhorsen's House was a delightfully unexpected surprise--and the fact that it bore such vast quantities of delicious fruit was all the better.
Chewing thoughtfully, Sabriel craned her neck and peered up at the canopy several hundred feet above her, dwarfing both the House and the high tower beside it. How had this fig tree come to Abhorsen's House and who had planted it, anyway? Judging from the sheer size, it must be hundreds of years old and might even predate the House itself. She made a mental note to check for records in the library, though given how much knowledge had been lost over the centuries as the Abhorsens' fortunes waxed and waned, there was no guarantee she would find a definitive answer.
Stepping inside the circle of the fig's branches was like being transported to another world. The sunlight filtering through the canopy was dappled and peaceful and the chatter of the birds and insects strangely muted. On impulse, Sabriel hoisted herself up onto a branch so low it nearly brushed the ground, and began clambering up the smooth gray limbs as if they were a ladder as she moved swiftly towards the top.
Thirty feet shy of the crown, she spotted a familiar fluffy tail dangling overhead, attached to a small white cat with a single silver bell on the bright red collar around his neck. The cat lay curled up in a little hollow formed by the intersection of trunk and branch, fast asleep and seemingly oblivious to Sabriel's presence. Judging from the single brown feather glued to the side of his mouth just below his whiskers, he, too, had been feasting--on the birds that came to eat the figs rather than on the figs themselves.
"Mogget!" Sabriel said. "What are you doing up here?"
A single green eye opened lazily, squinting down at her in annoyance. "What does it look like I'm doing? Sleeping. Or trying to, anyway, before you came along."
Though he looked harmless enough on the surface, Mogget was a Free Magic creature of considerable power and malice whom Sabriel's ancestors had bound to serve them. Sabriel had deliberately released the binding in his collar twice now, restraining him the second time with Ranna instead of Saraneth because she'd had no other bells at hand. As a result, Mogget was now perpetually drowsy, which Sabriel privately thought was no bad thing, even if he was even more irascible than usual when roused.
"But I could ask the same of you, Abhorsen," Mogget went on with the faintest hint of mockery. "Don't you have better things to be doing right now than tree-climbing?"
"I thought I'd come up and see the view," Sabriel said, gesturing around her.
This high up, the dense curtain of leaves had thinned enough to offer an impressive panorama of the House and grounds as well as the deep blue expanse of Ratterlin River surrounding it. Today the sky was clear enough she could pick out the stepping stones across the river to the cliffs on the eastern shore, as well as the fuzzy white line that marked the pounding falls downstream. But even when world outside was shrouded in dense fog, the sun always shone on the House itself--make it a rare island of peace and safety in a world that was all too frequently unpredictable and cruel.
"I suppose this tendency to poke your nose into everything runs in the family," Mogget said. "This is where I met Terciel, after all."
"My father climbed this tree?" Sabriel said, surprised in spite of herself. "I never would have guessed it."
"Oh, yes--he was a child then, newly the Abhorsen-in-Waiting with no idea what was in store for him. One look at this place and he was desperate to escape." A dry chuckle. "Can't say I blame him. Maybe if he had, he would have survived longer than he did. Or maybe not. Difficult to say, don't you think?"
It was strange to think of her father as a child himself, or that he and Mogget had known each other before Sabriel was even born. There was so much she still didn't know about the Abhorsen before her--and likely never would, now that he had passed on fully into Death.
She did recall that her father had been surprised to learn that "Mogget" appeared as a cat to her--he'd known the same being in human form as "Moregrim," an albino dwarf. Once again, she was reminded that no matter resourceful and clever he was, Mogget was by no means a reliable source--even if he was one of the few resources now remaining to her for uncovering the past.
Which reminded her. "Where did this tree come from?" Sabriel said, pivoting to a less emotionally fraught topic. "Who planted it and why? Do you know?"
Mogget hissed softly through his teeth. "When the Ratterlin was diverted to make the island, it's said the first Abhorsen pitched her tent here on barren rock. Later on, the fig was planted to mark the spot where the tent had once been, although I've never been able to fathom why anyone would want to do that."
So the tree likely did predate the House then, just as she suspected. "Why a fig, though?"
"Damned if I know," Mogget said. "Regardless, this tree has been here now for a very long time, and will likely be here at the very end." Another hiss, this one darkly amused. "I wonder if I'll be here to see it."
"You sound almost fond of it," Sabriel observed.
"Do I? It's sheltered and fed me countless times over the years without requiring anything of me. I suppose I'd miss it if something were to happen to it," the cat said. "But if you have no more pressing business with me to discuss, it's time to get back to my nap."
And before Sabriel could respond, he had closed his eyes and was asleep once more, and the conversation was over--for now, anyway. Lost in thought, she leaned back against the trunk of the fig tree, listening to the soft but persistent whistle of snores overhead as she closed her eyes.
Sure enough, when she probed outward with her senses, there was a faint hum of long-dormant Free Magic within the tree, not unlike Mogget with his new collar. Whatever it was, it a power unlike any she had ever experienced before--a wild and untamed, yet indisputably benevolent presence firmly grounded in the earth even as it stretched for the sky. Instead of the frosty touch of Death, it was Life itself that greeted her--warmth on her skin, leaves rustling gently in the wind, and the sweet, lightheaded giddiness of sugar and sunlight sweeping through her entire body. She understood then, just a little, why some distant ancestor of hers had planted the fig tree here in the first place and awoken its spirit as a counterpoint to the dark and terrible power commanded by the Abhorsen's line.
After all, who better to appreciate the taste of Life at its fullest than those who walked the river and shores of Death itself?