The world outside is now awash in a silver gleam, and feeling the need to see the source, you turn your eyes upwards seeking for the moon. The clouds are spilling across the sky, revealing the fathomless night behind them, but the moon is nowhere to be find—so you turn around and rush to the opposite window.
The first view your binoculars find is once more that of the mountain, its furrowed walls gentler in the moonlight. Yet the cave still guards its secrets in the darkness—and to your disappointment the pulsating fire within is gone. You wanted to behold it again, watch it, and try to perceive or divine—or maybe just imagine—its hidden nature.
However, you swiftly move on to the other mystery: the similar oak and its inhabitant. Its enormous branches are flailing about in the windstorm. Even the giant tree itself looks like it’s swaying slowly back and forth—yet curiously you don’t sense the same where you are standing: its counterpart feels still and firm. You locate the window, but are dismayed to find that it too is empty. You peer a while into the yellow of the other room, imagining it being just like this one, while feeling the great distance in-between. Then—a form emerges from within and suddenly stands there in the window like before! The silhouette is no easier to discern than last time, branches swinging in and out in front of the hut. Your fellow tree-dweller salutes you, but then seems to gesture upwards, signaling to something above with a raised hand. Where are you meant to look? Your eyes search among the foliage of the other tree. When your gaze returns to the window, it’s empty once again.
You then remember your self-assigned mission. You quickly find that this side’s sky is also devoid of any light-source save the stars. But before you can collect your thoughts, several events occur. Shafts of light shoot down from above, filtering through the oak’s crown: moonlight bouncing down from leaf to leaf, flickering streaks painting the interior white. At the same time, the gale from outside decides to charge in through the window, whipping up the papers from the writing desk and whirling them around the room. The papers dance in the air catching the twinkling beams of light, while you frantically jump around grabbing what you can—yet some fly out through the windows. At last you place what you rescued back on the desk, securing the stack with the spying glasses as it had been. But you know you didn’t return all to the way it was. How many lettered pages escaped into the deep, illuminated night? Was valuable knowledge lost, or are the pages bound for some unknowable destiny?
Now you understand that the moon is directly above you. Was this what the other person meant? A sense of urgency to ascend further fills you, but you reject the feeling: there are unsolved riddles here that need your attention—the locked book, the map on the wall, the arriving galleon … You feel almost obligated to keep searching for answers. And yet—
The decanter—still there on the desk—now seems to draw towards itself an increasing multitude of the moonbeams from above, the stars inside it shining ever brighter as they flit around nervously in the dark liquid. Resolutely you step towards the flask, lift the stopper, pour another glass, and drink. The same rejuvenating sensation as before spreads rapidly through your body, but stronger, and the taste leaves you thirsty for more. But instead you put the decanter back in its box, place it in the cabinet and lock it. You now notice something that you’re amazed that you did not see before: there in the tree’s bole is the frame of a door. Indeed, its edges almost glow faintly before your eyes. With nary any effort you locate where to push to open it, and you stare into a dark and narrow closet. Stepping in, you see that it’s a shaft leading upwards, carved out of the interior of the trunk to one side. Rungs of a ladder are embedded in the inner wall. They feel sturdy enough, and the choice to start climbing seems easy. You close the door behind you and begin.