It had given Torfus chills to hear it, for it seemed to explain, in part, that look that Oliver Patrick gave them all, and that warmth that he exuded. But it wasn't the progress that Torfus knew. He'd always wanted more, like any man, but when he had grasped for it, he had found the world harsh with condescension, as if telling him to know his place. Now progress came as if as an extra. His joy was simply in the doing, and when his joy reached such a profound point, that the warmth glowed within him, he'd feel that spark manifest, and he'd see magic, and know that its name was progress.
A great tree that sprung out of the ground, with leaves golder than the ones that fell in autumn, and fruits to be plucked, blood red, deeper than even cherries. Such was the tree of progress, such was the image that Torfus felt growing in his head. It was something greater than he had ever dreamed to be a part of it. It was a bounty nourished by a sun brighter than he'd ever borne witness to.
