The stone-hard burl rose from the level limb like a rounded castle wall of dark, stone-hard timber, its outer surface ridged with nested rings of stone bark as thick as iron plate.
Yan Zhiqiu parted the hanging curtain of dry Spanish moss that draped over the natural archway on the eastern face of the growth. Her hands were careful, testing each fiber before stepping through. Inside, the hollow chamber was twenty paces across, circular, with a concave ceiling formed by the natural curl of the ancient tree’s annual growth rings. The air within was entirely dry, sheltered from the humid spore-draft of the open deep pit. It carried the rich, comforting fragrance of dried sandalwood, crushed bay leaves, and aged paper.
“The wood here is stone-hard through four-fifths of its depth,” she reported, stepping back to the entrance and gesturing toward the inside. “The outer rind is as hard as dark rock, but the inner chambers retain their stringy core. It is sound, Qiao Ming. The falling stones from the upper round hall can’t crush this arch.”
Qiao Ming walked slowly toward the opening, his bare feet moving with soundless deliberation over the ribbed bark-highway. Each step was a quiet math. The horn-like pads of his soles gripped the coarse grain of the stone-hard cedar, reading its thickness. There were no fissures running through the branch beneath them. The limb was solid, anchoring deep into the sheer rock wall of the upright deep gap half a league to the north.
