Just as the picture of a great tree was materializing in the magiscope, a screech came from the speakers in the dragon statues. The globe went all jagged with colors like a bad signal from an analogue antenna.
"One moment," Death said. Kristen and Science looked at him. He was lifting the needle and trying to gently settle it on the moving record. "He started recording in stereo and everything now tends to go haywire. He could never leave well enough alone."
The needle seemed to find its groove and the scene resumed. It did sound more immersive.
"Way northward on Rootworld, Firewise, in the native tongue, a tree had just suffered its first pruning at the center of Ego's estuary."
"Is that Lancelot narrating again?" Kristen couldn't help but ask when it sounded familiar.
"Yes," said Death, pointing the remote. He had paused it. "Cooking doesn't quite pay the bills. He's been making these magic video discs for some time."
She guessed she could believe that.
There was a hopeful click of Death's jaw as he nervously hit the play button. It resumed without a hitch.
"An oghamologist named Yestrasmartis had just placed the final leaf from its virgin budding into his satchel and was ready to deliver it to the Firewise branch of the Rootworld library immediately."
"Earl happened to stop him before he could even get down the slope, much less his report to the mayor, which he was also hoping to avoid."
The narration stopped and Kristen became immersed in the magic of the sphere.
"So?" said Earl.
Yestra thought that it was very unlikely 'how was your day' was going to follow a 'so' like that. If it did, then a 'what do you think?', or just rather more pointedly, 'what does it say?' would likely follow that. Luckily, Yestra had prepared for this.
The long and short of it was that science could no longer be denied. But he wasn't going to spill the beans just yet. He had a daughter to think about. Yestrasmartis had seen it coming from miles away, as he was the lead Decipher on Ogham. He read everything before it was even turned into print. Rumor had it that he could tell from a simple leaf scar what volume any tongue belonged to without even seeing the veins.
Then of course there had been the poems he'd published that everyone seemed to think were prophetic. But the truth was that he wasn't all that smart, and he definitely was no prophet! He owed his ability to the mushrooms. It was they that were doing the reading. Without the mushrooms his mind went all swimmy and he couldn't tell one leaf from another. And those poems, well, those were just how the mushrooms felt parading around inside of his head while enjoying a misty afternoon.
"So, what?" asked Yestra, forgetting his preparations. He immediately regretted it and cinched his satchel more tightly under his arm.
Earl asked, "So, what do you think?" He might have even asked, "So, how was your day?" but Yestra heard none of it. He was too busy telling himself what he'd do differently next time he got caught in this situation. It's always hard to hear others when your own thoughts won't stop blabbing. Or was it the mushrooms? Sometimes, it was hard to tell anymore.
He found that if he simply let the sentient beings do their thing, everything was well. But if he tried directing their efforts, things seemed to come back and bite him when he wasn't looking. It gave him the aching feeling that the fungus might be playing with him in more ways than one.
Right now, he was becoming reasonably certain that there weren't any sentient beings along for the ride. They usually vacate right at the end of a good reading. So, Yestra was free to do as he pleased, and he definitely wasn't going to let Earl spread rumors on this side of the universe.
"Well," he said, "It's all desert! As far out as you can imagine. And then a little further." It wasn't lying if you never even heard a question to begin with, was it? He had this little speech planned in advance.
"What do you mean?" asked Earl, now genuinely curious as to what exactly the leaves under Yestra's arm were going to reveal. "Do you mean to say it's telling us that the desert is endless?"
At least that is what Earl would have said if Yestra had been listening. But, as it happened, Yestra was raising his internal voice to an octave higher than Earl's to drown out the question entirely. The end result of this was plausible self-deniability.
"The whole of everything is shaped like a triangle. Or a pyramid, to be exact," Yestra said aloud.
Earl stared up at him, considering this development for a moment. Though the oghamologist was shorter than Earl, not to mention everyone else, he still held the high ground.
"Then why does everyone seem to figure that the shape of it is a wallaby?" Earl finally asked.
"Well, that's just the shape of the Center sea. Scholars falsely assume the outside shape is the same."
"Well, that's what's at the center of the Globe, ya know? A pyramid. Can't be a coincidence that the triangle is holding things together over there and nothing holds us together here."
"Uh, Mound Mariatites?"
"Oh, you mean the round tower?"
Yestra affirmed unbelievingly, noticing Earl squint in tandem with each nod of his head. How could someone not know as much?
"But I still can't get why the scholars of Rootworld could have gotten it wrong. So it's not a kangaroo?"
It was time to plan his escape. "Well, that's what the cartographers came up with."
"But how'd they know?"
"The pioneers," said Yestra, his pupils flitting to and fro. Then after sizing up the beefy blockade, he said, "Rather the pioneers' bones."
"You mean the skeletons told 'em?" Earl asked. Yestra looked like an angel with a halo of light behind him. The angle of the estuary slope up to the tree was such that the great white hole was directly behind him.
"Nah, ya numbskull. The second pioneers who'd come upon the bones of the first pioneers and were smart enough to turn back. Well, see, they took the measurements."
"Ah. Now I see." Earl looked enlightened, then downtrodden. "Shame that."
"Yeah, shame. I still reckon it's a triangle."
"D'ya get all that from the leaves?" Earl's arms were outspread, making as large an obstacle as possible for the oghamologist, just in case he tried to bolt before giving him any more answers.
"Nah," he said, breathing a sigh of relief, "has to do with the weather. Deserts never get any rain because the clouds don't make it out that far. That means there's no room for them, as far as I can figure."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. The only reason the wind blows, says science, is 'cause the heat rises. And science says heat rises 'cause the air's gone all cold and frozen up into clouds, then is pushed out and away."
"Yeah?" He watched Yestra's eyes dart as if looking for an escape.
"Well, if the clouds are pushing themselves out and away, then the space they have up there must be tapering down like in a pyramid fashion. Also, could explain why most of the water's at the kangaroo deluge in the center. Hence, the wallaby assumption"
"You gotta be careful with all that science stuff."
"Ah," said Yestra. He caught that one loud and clear. "I see. You're referring to what the Leyonisians say happened to Arthur."
"I am. Science nearly messed up a good spell there, didn't it?"
Yestra really didn't have time for dogma. "I'm not certain that was a spell, and you probably shouldn't believe everything you read."
He made his move. First to the left, which Earl had suspected. But what he hadn't expected was the blinding light that he was now trying to shield his eyes from with his left hand. Yestra saw the man's pupils constrict before he turned to the right, ducking beneath and past Earl's left elbow before they adjusted.
In a flash, Earl was trailing him like a giant after a leprechaun with a purse of gold.
"I only go to mass on Sundays," said Earl close behind.
"If Arthur left all the sinners Globe-side, then why is someone trying to steal from me?" Yestra mumbled under his breath at a steady gait.
"Uh," said Earl, now coming alongside but panting heavily, "I can see you're in a hurry, but could you sign this for my son?"
Yestra kept moving but looked over suspiciously.
"He's read both of your scrolls," Earl said peevishly.
Yestra stopped, and the big oaf kept right on going just as Newton's laws of motion predicted. After Earl's feet finally slowed his body mass enough to put it in reverse and return to where Yestra was standing, he handed over the scroll.
Yestra surveyed it. "First edition."
Earl nodded. "He's a fan."
"And you allow him?"
Earl's arms were balled into fists, thumping the sides of his thighs like a magnetic ball pendulum. "He won't go to church," he said, downtrodden.
"I see," said Yestra. That explained the animosity toward science, he thought. Yestra put his satchel down, flipped the clasp, and spread the accordion bag open enough to retrieve his quill. He could see Earl's shadow grow as the large man tried to take a peek. Yestra stood. "Ya know," he said, "you might find that if you show a bit more interest in your son's beliefs, he may show a bit more interest in yours." He thought he might regret saying that but added, "Church isn't all terrible. Its exclusion is what's terrible."
"And intolerance!" Earl said energetically. "That's what the bishop says that Arthur taught!"
Yestra himself was on the verge of being guilty of that very thing. He waved the parchment and pen around uncertainly.
"Oh," said Earl, turning around and squatting so Yestra could reach.
Using the oaf's back, Yestra scribbled his name at the bottom. He thought for a moment about completely shattering the old boy's belief system by sticking the feather anywhere except in his hat. But he reconsidered, patted Earl's shoulder, and handed him the parchment with glee. Yestra then replaced the quill in his satchel and re-shouldered it. "Now, I really must be going."
"Yestra?" said Earl, beginning to walk away more naturally this time.
"Yes, Earl?"
"What would you say the forecast is for tomorrow?"
"Slight chance of rain," Yestra replied.
"You know what I mean," Earl said.
And Yestra did know exactly what he meant. Those were the famous parting words of most people who had a fortuitous run-in with the semi-famous Yestrasmartis. "You'll still be around, Dufus," he said, earning an audible sigh of relief. Truth be told, that was just statistics. You always bet on life in private because, even if you're wrong, no one will be the wiser. He was thinking that he really should consider teaching a class at the Academy of the Arts. Prophecy 101, perhaps?
He could see it now: the first years asking if he'd always known he'd end up teaching prophecy. Well, thought Yestra, as he mounted his llama, if that ever comes to pass, I suppose I can honestly say that it was always in the cards.
He waved goodbye, and his llama gave a good spit from the side of its mouth before they headed off Earthwise at a canter.