A single, towering tree crowned the hill, at once alien to Morris and one with nature.  It coiled upward like a spring, with colossal palm-like leaves criss-crossing to rest their massive weight half a rotation up along the trunk.  The spiraling trunk culminated in a spherical, red-brown bulb.  Each part of the tree and its leaves twisted, turned, and branched at precise angles and increments in accordance with some pattern beyond Morris’s conscious understanding.  Several barrels stood around the base.

A stream dotted with purple water lotuses arced around the hill, then carved winding avenues through the woods to either side.  A thousand verdant greens radiated from the foliage.  Sunlight danced amidst a swaying, rustling canopy.  

This was no Wisconsin Winter.  Was he dreaming?

The normal trees bore semblance to trees he’d seen in China, and he assumed lotuses were indigenous only to Asia.  But he couldn’t be in Asia; he’d only slept a few hours.  Where the hell was he?!

Morris took deep breaths.  He was not trapped.  Ropes did not bind him.

First he needed to orient himself.  He could see more from the tree.

He clambered up the spiraling trunk, bemoaning the lack of normal branches.  He considered climbing to the center and using the leaf stems as a ladder, but the route looked awkward.  

Four rotations up his climb grew steep.  His foot slipped, and he felt himself falling.  He clutched desperately to the trunk; he slid around to the underside, scratching his face, arms, and torso, and he dangled.  Every limb clasped onto the trunk with adrenaline-strength.  

Vertigo spun him in circles.  Was he 50 feet up?  100?  He gingerly worked himself down the trunk until he found a branching leaf, then hooked it with his foot and carefully negotiated his way back on top.  He held on tightly and shut his eyes, shaking.

He finally opened his eyes.  From above, the tree’s leaves unfolded in a vast spiral.  The bottom leaves caught the sunlight over a hundred feet in most directions, and would funnel rainwater from the same area into the barrels.  Their stems grew thicker than most adult tree trunks.

Morris felt disinclined to climb further, so he set to surveying.  To the west rose first uneven hills then mountains, their slopes layered with the blue haze of distance.  To the south, the forest soon gave way to a gently rolling sea.  The uppermost tiers of a pagoda rose above treetops far to the east, and Morris breathed a sigh of relief.  There, he could find out where he was, and, more importantly, how he could get home.

He rested for a moment.  As he studied the details of his surroundings, the corners of his mouth curled into a frown.  Everywhere he looked, he was mystified by evasive slivers of déjà vu.  

His gaze rested on the bulb at the tip of the trunk; with his decreased proximity he could see vein-like grooves and a pulsating motion.  He shuddered.

As Morris started to descend, a group of hooded figures emerged from the woods to the east.  He didn’t know how they’d react to his presence, so he held close to the trunk.  Three men led, one in an immaculate white robe flanked by two in maroon.  Behind them waddled about twenty young children in over-large black robes.  A girl tripped on her robe, struck a root with her knee, and cried.  One of the maroon-robed men picked her up and comforted her.

The children sat in a semicircle near the hill’s crest.  The white-robed man removed his hood to reveal slim features and sleek, shoulder-length brown hair.  He spoke.  “Today’s lesson is about impermanence.  The world we live in is defined by impermanence -- nothing lasts forever.  One should not cling to people, objects, and ideas whose departure is inevitable.  You are all reaching an age where, sadly, you must start to shed the blissful innocence of youth.  Like everything else, innocence does not last forever.”

Morris wondered whether the children were capable of understanding this lesson.

The man continued.  “The inconvenient truth of impermanence plagues us now more than ever.   Our ancestors were a band of explorers.  As they sailed the seas they became caught in a weeks-long storm.  They could not fish, and they nearly starved; sea-sickness turned life to constant delirium and pain; all ships were damaged severely, and several were lost.”

“Finally the storm smashed their ships against the rocky cliffs of the Shù Rén Dǎo.  The survivors crawled ashore and found a giant, spiraling, tree, unlike any they had encountered in their travels.  They drank the water pooled in its leaves and found it sweeter than nectar.  They ate from a leaf and immediately felt nourished.  They built a fire beneath its canopy, huddled together, and were soon dry and warm.”

“Satisfied and comfortable for the first time in memory, they slumbered.  Later that night, they awoke one-by-one as a rhythmic sound rang from the trunk above them.  Kish!”  The man paused.  “Kish!... Kish!... Kish!

“As they watched, a strange creature slowly became visible by light of ember and star -- a humanoid thing covered in gray-brown bark, with more ridges than a wise old man has wrinkles.  A stump grew in place of its head, from which protruded several elastic tendrils; its wristless arms terminated in shovels and its legs were stilts; its stomach bulged unnaturally.  It took two steps down the trunk, Kish, Kish!, buried its shovels into the bark ahead for stability, then stepped again.  Upon reaching the ground it stopped; its tendrils probed the air purposefully, perhaps smelling the air, perhaps staring at the humans, perhaps listening.  It turned and lumbered toward the mountains.  The people followed, entranced.”

Morris stared at the pulsating bulb with equal parts fascination and disgust.

“The creature moved stiffly and slowly,” continued the man.  “Occasionally it bent and placed its tendrils against the ground.  As day broke it tested the earth, stood, and again probed the air.  It began to sway, then to drift about on its stilt-legs as if with the wind.  After a few minutes, it found its way to a hilltop and slowed to a halt.  Chunk!  It sank one arm deep into the earth, threw soil forward, Chunk!  Shoveled away dirt with the second hand, Chunk!

“All day it worked.  Often it struck rocks and damaged its hands but it did not slow.  It dug with great precision, creating a deep and narrow hole around itself.

“By the next dawn, the creature’s movements slowed noticeably.  One arm was half its original length; the other, a mere splinter.  It probed the ground, stood erect, then thrashed around with its limbs, spending its remaining energy to bury itself.  Over the next several hundred years,” the man gestured to the tree in which Morris hid, “the Buddha Palm which sprung forth from its torso has grown to full size, nourished countless generations, and finally bears a seed of its own.

The man’s tone shifted from wondrous to serious.  “Sadly, the Shù Rén Dǎo has become inhospitable.  While hundreds of Buddha Palm once flourished, only two now remain.  While our people once lived lives of plenty, we now starve and our shelters rot.  Our paradise was not permanent, and neither are we.”

The man paused for a few seconds before continuing, then gestured to the bulb at the trunk’s tip.  “In less than a week, this egg will hatch.  A Shù Rén will emerge but find no location to plant itself.  But all is not lost.  We can take the egg somewhere new.  As our ancestors found a new paradise for themselves, so can we find a new paradise for the Palm.

“But before we can find a new land we must escape this one.  Which brings me to the Theravids.  What do you know about them?”

A girl’s hand shot up.  “They’re the only people on the island who don’t live in our village!”

The man nodded.  “Anything else?”

Another girl scratched at her ear.  “There’s something wrong with them?”

“Very true,” said the man.  “Did any of you know that I myself was raised by Theravids?”

A boy gasped.  Morris raised an eyebrow, disturbed by this apparently tribal lesson.

The man nodded solemnly.  “I am deeply ashamed of the fact, but it is true.

“A hundred and eighty years ago, a rift divided the people of our island into us Mahayan, who believe in Mahayana Buddhism, and Theravids, who believe in Theravada Buddhism.  But what the Theravids practice is not true Buddhism.  To understand why, we must understand the Buddha himself.”

Morris had previously been content just to remain concealed, but as he realized he might remain stuck for an extended period he became aware of the intense discomfort of his position.  He shifted his posture, dislodging a strip of bark.  Morris watched it fall, his heart in his throat.  One of the older boys looked up and made eye contact with Morris.  Morris looked away and attempted concealment -- too late.  The boy yelled out, pointed.  Hostile eyes accosted Morris, none more so than those of the white-robed man, who shouted,  “Who are you?!  Remove yourself from our sacred tree this instant!”

Morris’s eyes widened, and he held up his hands.  “I didn’t know you considered this tree sacred.  I only seek directions to the nearest town.”

“There are no towns here, only my village and the Theravid monastery.  Clearly you are an irreverent Theravid, here to desecrate our tree!  Did Kōng Fú discover my spy and send you to gather information?”

“I don’t even know where I am.  What do you want from me?”

“Exit the tree immediately!”

Morris grimaced, and adjusted his position on the trunk.  “What do you intend to do with me if I cooperate?”

“You shall be made an example of, whether you cooperate or not.”

“What example would you make of me in front of children?”

The man sneered.  “The sort they remember.”

“Then I shall stay in the tree,” said Morris.

“Very well.  Chúndù, Qīngbái, bring me this buzzard once he falls from his perch.  The students and I shall find someplace else to continue our lesson.”

The men in burgundy robes sat cross-legged beside the tree and the others departed.  Before Morris could collect his thoughts, he spied a flicker of motion in the woods.  Voss emerged, running silently and leopard-like toward the hill.  A flash of movement from Voss’s hand; a glimmer of reflected sunlight; Chúndù collapsed in the grass.  The hilt of an oversized knife protruded from one side of his head and several inches of bloody blade protruded from the other.

Voss sprinted now, and Qīngbái continued meditating, seemingly oblivious.  Voss reached the top of the hill and hurled himself at Qīngbái.  Qīngbái threw his back flat on the grass, untwisted his legs, and landed a powerful kick as Voss flew overhead.  In one fluid motion Voss grabbed Qīngbái’s ankle, turned the pounce into a frontflip, and used the flip’s momentum to whip Qīngbái over his head and against the trunk.  Bones crunched; a shockwave ran through the tree.