The Logic of Leaves

For another long hour, Zen observed the papery sentinels, memorizing their synchronized, silent patrols. The important thing was how they assimilated the stone—not by crushing it or throwing it away. The goal was to preserve a pure, unadulterated state, not to cause destruction. What defines a state? The million-ryo question was that.

Murmuring, "They're not just guards," Zen drew quickly in his journal. As custodians, they are. Janitors of strange things. They also dislike litter. He tapped the page with his pencil. "The straight method has been abandoned. The 'litter' of subterfuge is probably distinct. What's left over after that?

He skimmed Icor's notebook, searching for any mention of such constructions. His master's papers on the Warden's Grove were incredibly ambiguous; they relied more on conjecture based on second- or third-hand recollections from long-dead explorers than on firsthand observation. He was particularly drawn to one sentence, though: "Where nature's logic is perverted, look for the original template." Corruption rarely creates entirely; it frequently imitates. It consistently enforces the rules, no matter how they are twisted.

"Original template… rules…" Zen studied the illusions' papery, featureless forms. Strangely, they resembled heightened, nearly ritualized representations of woodland animals. However, their material consists of paper-like skins and fragile leaves.

A bold and possibly stupid notion started to take shape. What if I provide something that isn't foreign, and they're sort of 'custodians' and this place hates foreign things? Or at the very least, something that complements their... style?"

He looked around him, at the leathery, yellowed leaves of the odd trees that surrounded the Grove. They resembled the composition of the illusions themselves in texture, if not form. He picked a few of the biggest, sturdiest leaves with care. In his hands, they were dry and rustled like ancient parchment.

He addressed the quiet woodland, "Alright, Plan A," with a hint of sardonic amusement. "Let's see if you appreciate a gift that matches the décor."

His initial effort was cautious. He bided his time till the closest patrolling illusion reached the farthest end of its path. Then he tossed a single enormous yellow leaf a few feet inside the barrier, gently and underhand, onto the grey concrete.

It had an instant impact. With that eerie, silent speed, the closest illusion, one of the three that had stayed still, turned. It moved in the direction of the leaf. Zen held his breath. But the creature hesitated rather than absorbed it. Its oval, featureless head tilted as though it were studying the leaf. Then it poked the leaf with a nearly delicate motion of its sharp-edged forelimb. The leaf moved over the asphalt, skittering a few inches. Again and again, slowly and deliberately, the illusion pushed it in the direction of the circle's outer edge. The illusion straightened and went back to its place once the leaf was back on the forest floor, beyond the paved barrier.

Zen blinked. "All right. That's a reaction. Not absorbed. Refusal. My 'gift' is still regarded as inappropriate, therefore. not requested. The present manifest does not include it. He scowled. "The protocol isn't just about material; it's about belonging."

He made another attempt, this time using a tiny stack of three leaves that had been thoughtfully placed. The same outcome. Each leaf was herded back out of its realm by the illusion with patience, almost meticulously. There was no aggressiveness, no animosity. Simply a strict obedience to an unidentified set of rules.

Grasping his temples, Zen said, "This isn't working," Maybe it was his irritation, but the subtle, metallic smell of the Grove appeared to be growing stronger. "They are reacting to the unapproved presence of the stuff rather than the thing itself as a threat. It's similar to attempting to negotiate with a customs officer who follows the rules and speaks a language you don't comprehend.

He examined his own equipment, which was spread out next to him: the little engraved stones, his pencils, his reader, and his unusual cartographic diary. The caution from the frayed note that had been discovered earlier reappeared: "Their order is madness." And Icor's insight: "Corruption frequently imitates..." What was being imitated here? A bureaucracy? A custom?

It felt like a wall, the energy signature of the Grove, that impersonal, icy sense of formality. Here, he was unable to use his typical analytical techniques, such as detecting nuances in natural energies or emotional clues. This system was artificial, placed on top of whatever was underneath it.

Turning it over in his fingers, he picked up one of Icor's carved stones. intense focus. Icor had employed them to portray serenity or inquiry, or to "harmonize" with the energy of nature. What, though, might he project here? His intention was to go in and look around, which is by definition an act of "intrusion" from the Grove's point of view.

He had a fresh idea that was disturbing in its consequences. The leaves weren't herded randomly by the illusions. It was accurate, as though it were going along unnoticed paths or lines on the pavement surface. He narrowed his eyes, attempting to see through the flat grey. Did he overlook any patterns?

He produced his polarized goggles, which he occasionally used to see through glare or pick up on minute changes in illumination. The grey paving stones appeared to sparkle as you looked through them. Invisible to the naked sight, faint, nearly imperceptible lines crisscrossed the entire circular surface, resembling a faded game grid or a huge, intricate circuit board. Now he knew that the illusions were following this path. Not only did they patrol the perimeter, but they also followed a predetermined, highly complex pattern inside the circle.

"Ah," Zen uttered, a faint smile slipping across his lips in spite of the dismal circumstances. "Now, that's intriguing. Not merely a border. The internal transit system is clearly established. The 'flow of travel,' as it were, was being disturbed by my leaves.

The challenge wasn't simply entering; it was figuring out how to go around this rule-bound, invisible maze once he was inside without setting off all of the custodians. Deep inside the center, moving structure, the blinking dot on his reader appeared much farther away.