Chapter Seventy-One: The Countenance of the Divine

The Druidic Order’s reverence for nature was beyond question.

Yet, after the transformations brought by modern thought, they had long since discarded many of their outdated dogmas. Their faith in nature—and in the oak—was no longer the frenzied, pathological worship of deities. To them, nature was tranquil and harmonious. Thus, when faced with the manifestation of their faith, the great oak, Fanny Campbell felt awe, yes, but far more a yearning for closeness.

In her heart, the oak was a symbol of divinity, but that divinity was nature incarnate: a being suffused with wisdom, an elder who had seen the passage of ages. Nature was the mentor of the druids, and so, naturally, was the spirit of the oak.

Now Fanny Campbell stood not only as a believer but also as a student, seeking counsel from the oak.

Many who were only just recovering from shock and fear now turned to witness Fanny Campbell’s actions. Simon watched in calm silence. Priest Barton frowned. As for the others, most looked on with a mixture of curiosity and the thrill of witnessing something extraordinary.

Fanny Campbell’s heart was uneasy.

Since posing her question, anxiety had gnawed at her. The oak’s wisdom was beyond doubt—yet would it be the kindly elder she hoped for? If the divine possessed wisdom, surely it must also possess moods both gentle and wrathful. The oak had just endured a fierce battle. Was it not presumptuous, even selfish of her, to make this request now?

The more she thought, the more reckless her actions seemed.

“It seems I am not yet steady of heart,” she chided herself. “Impulsiveness has led me here, swayed by emotion.” Rosalia, her mentor, had not been wrong: her practice was indeed lacking.

A sigh passed over her face.

A full minute slipped by. The oak remained silent, and Fanny Campbell began to accept that no answer would come.

In that moment, her disappointment weighed upon her. Slowly, she lifted her head.

The instant her gaze rose, she froze.

Upon the massive trunk before her, the deeply furrowed bark began to writhe and shift. Eyes, a nose, a mouth—the features of a neutral, ageless face emerged. It was enormous, spanning more than a dozen square meters, and though not ancient, it bore the dignity of middle age verging on old age.

The brown bark, the brown visage, all of it now lay revealed to every eye.

“This—!” Simon blurted out in utter shock, instinctively falling to his knees before the oak, aware at once of his rashness. His kin were no exception; astonishment and emotion crashed through them all. Never had they imagined their god would appear before them, so close, so real.

Simon's people were overcome with excitement, eager to prostrate themselves before their deity. The people of Westyo, witnessing such a scene for the first time, were struck dumb by wonder. Fearing to offend the divine, they copied Simon’s tribe and moved to kneel.

But then the immense face, in a voice like a gentle spring breeze, spoke:

“Followers of nature, there is no need to kneel. Stand quietly.”

At these words, all—including Priest Barton—froze mid-motion, stopping themselves at once.

Though the voice seemed to issue from the mouth formed by the bark, it resonated within each mind, a spiritual communication untroubled by language. Whether one spoke the tongue of Westyo or only the tribal dialect of Simon’s people, all heard and all understood.

Old Priest Barton was near tears with emotion.

A lifetime of devotion, generations of faith—and now their god responded, meeting them not with wrath but with boundless mercy. Barton’s heart filled with memories, a sense of honor and happiness blooming within him.

He did feel a trace of regret that the god’s manifestation was prompted by outsiders, but far more did he rejoice at this sudden epiphany.

“Holy Tree, thank you for your mercy. Barton offers you his heartfelt blessings, and prays all is well in your heavenly kingdom,” he said, bowing with utmost reverence.

Adam looked at the elderly priest, a gentle smile appearing on the face shaped from bark, the great head nodding in acknowledgement.

Then his gaze shifted to Fanny Campbell, who still stood dazed.

A miracle had descended. Though Fanny Campbell had prepared herself, she could not help but feel as though she were dreaming. Human hearts are complicated: even after witnessing the battle between the oak and the grass mound, even after hearing the oak’s command to seek shelter, to now see the oak appear in human likeness and speak with them—she felt as if she had stepped into an age of myth.

Fanny Campbell wore a long robe embroidered with golden vines, an oak leaf-shaped badge pinned to her left breast. Though she was over forty-five, she radiated the intellectual beauty of a mature woman.

Adam, the oak, regarded Fanny Campbell with a certain appreciation.

It was not for her beauty, but for her intelligence and wisdom. Priest Barton, though faithful, was ignorant, and Adam had never found conversation with him much of an attraction. Fanny Campbell was different—she came from a civilized world, possessed of knowledge, and, more importantly, was skilled in song.

Most of humanity’s creations held little interest for Adam, but he yearned for knowledge and was fond of music—especially music that celebrated nature.

After all, to live is to have pursuits, is it not?

And so, the oak Adam felt no displeasure at Fanny Campbell’s momentary lapse. Instead, he found himself more generous.

“Follower of nature, what is it you wish to ask? Now is your time,” the face of bark spoke, the tone gentle and full of wisdom.

As the ancient voice echoed, Fanny Campbell finally regained her composure.

In that instant, she bowed her head in humility and apologized, her voice trembling with reverence. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I have been discourteous.”

Your Grace—this was the honorific most faiths in this world offered their Pope.

Instinctively, it was how Fanny Campbell chose to address the oak.

To call a god “Your Grace”? It hardly seemed inappropriate.

“No offense taken,” the oak-face replied with a gentle smile.

And as they gazed upon that kindly, wise visage, both Fanny Campbell and those around her felt a surge of emotion.

To be wise yet also benevolent and compassionate—perhaps this is the very image of the god we ought to seek.