Negative Film

by Leonard Petracci

  The others walked inwards, but a guard caught Darian’s shoulder, pulling him back before he could pass through the gate. I paused, listening as two cornered him, my fingers twitching as I prepared to call upon my power.

  “Whether what you did was right or wrong, I cannot say,” said the voice through the mask, one I recognized as Lola’s sister. "But know this. That I am grateful, that we are grateful, despite what you will hear.”

  Then she pushed us forwards until we caught up to others that had already entered the enclosure, before Darian had a chance to answer.

  “Now that— that’s green,” said Slugger as we stepped through, halting at the edge with a low whistle. "And that’s coming from someone who's just escaped the jungle.”

  Stone homes grew out of the inner wall like a mushroom circle, cropping up at intervals that seemed to have been designated at random. Ahead, the path was covered in thick moss that surged beneath our toes with each step, making our left-behind shoes unnecessary. Flower beds erupted from either side in every variety imaginable and more— with roses the size of sunflowers, dandelions with seeds like parasails, and lilies large enough to be chairs.

  Animal activity swarmed about us as bees played hopscotch with the flowers and birds occupied every available cranny as a nest. Lizards darted underfoot, rustling through thick grass that left wakes behind them. Reddish squirrels chattered from the branches, their cheeks filled with enough nuts to last an apocalypse, and competing with monkeys for the best real estate to watch our arrival.

  The roots themselves sprawled out from the center, thick enough to be tree trunks themselves, like giant gnarled hands that gripped at the soil and spread their fingers deep beneath. They bucked as they roamed, ending only at the base of the stone wall, and seeming to press against even that in an effort for expansion. And though the dirt around them agreed, the stone refused, almost magnifying their power in a cradle seemed fit only for life.

  But greatest of all was the towering tree in the center, that seemed to have its own presence—almost a heartbeat that flowed away from it. A form of life, a power that I could feel strumming through the air, as real yet as intangible as Lola herself.

  And unlike the other parts of the jungle, which seemed just to tolerate our presence, there was something about the roots that drew us in, that seemed to welcome us rather than resent us. As if we too were a part of that garden.

  The ground sloped forwards gently as we walked, ending in a semicircle of chairs formed by the buckles in the roots themselves, centered around a small cabin built into a hollow of the great tree. Except for a few strips of unfinished wood, it was more of a door, a portal into the heart of the tree itself. Lola directed us to the back of the root chairs, where we waited as others came to join, emerging down other mossy paths that all converged on the cabin.

  There we waited in a silence of words but not of nature— the birds chirped as the throats cleared. The leaves rustled as the congregation shifted in their chairs, their clothes dragging against the bark. As feet shifted, so too did the millipedes that traversed the floor.

  But one aspect stood apart from the vibrancy of the gardens— at the very base of the tree, perhaps a dozen figures stood equally spaced from each other, each looking radially away. Each stood straight, their chins raised high, their eyes obscured with masks so dark, they refused to let even a glimmer of sunlight escape. And despite the flurry of motion about them, they were so still, it was as if they too had been blended to stone, the dark paint streaks matching the granite of the wall outside.

  “Lola,” hissed Lucio, unable to take his eyes of them and leaning over to her. "Who are they?”

  “Shhhh,” she answered, dropping her hand in a signal to lower his voice.

  “What’s that?" asked Lucio as Darian rolled his eyes. "Did you want me to ask louder?”

  “They’re called Deathguards, guardians of the tree,” she whispered, her cheeks turning red then slightly transparent. "And if you really want to know who they are, maybe you should go talk to one.”

  For a moment, Lucio looked confused, prepared to rise out of his chair. Then Darian put a hand on his shoulder with a single warning word.

  “Don’t.”

  Then, when every seat had been filled, with people of all ages and shapes, but all with fresh brush strokes of paint upon their faces, did the door crack open and Lola’s grandmother step out. She bore a tray of small cups, and as she spoke, her voice just barely carried over the crowd.

  “May you draw wisdom from the great tree upon which you sit, and may it guide your judgment," she said, then brandished the dish such that the cups jostled against each other. "But first, coffee. So your perceptions may rise about the forest of common thought.”

  Chapter 89

  Lola’s grandmother walked to each in attendance, followed by servants that replenished the cups on her tray, leaving one at each of the seated assembly with a scoop of honey.

  “It is our belief,” whispered Lola, “that every meeting should start such as this. The leader must give to the followers, must provide for them. It is a way of showing gratitude, but more importantly, that a leader’s loyalty is more important than the followers’.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Lucio. “It’s her job to lead. They should be serving her.”

  “And that,” said Zeke in an interjection, “is how many leaders fall. By forgetting who props them up. All rock turns to sand if not protected.”

  Lucio started to answer then stopped, a short realization crossing his face before Aetia appeared before him with a cup.

  “And how much honey for you?” she asked, while Lucio’s eyes were still unfocused.

  “Three,” he answered without thinking as Lola glared daggers at him and Darian’s eyes rolled again.

  “My,” Aetia said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who likes that much honey. Three’s about the most I’ve ever seen.”

  But before she could change her mind, Lucio received his three dollops, his cheeks turning slightly red as the others stared, his head turned slightly to the side. Lola’s sister in particular stared down her nose, her eyes hard, and her own coffee missing any sweetener. And Lola’s grandmother made her way through our ranks, the last to receive the small gift before returning to the front of the circle.

  “Long ago, so long it is but a wisp of my memory, our people came upon this tree after centuries of wandering. Even then, before it was near the size of today, we knew it was special. For us, it seemed the center of the jungle, existing to harbor life itself. And so we made that our own purpose—to grow life. We cultivated it, we brought it to its vibrancy—and I dare say that no other place on this earth is this much alive. Let our words continue those actions.”

  “And just as the invading termite destroys the entire tree, so too do foreigners consume us from the inside,” came a snide voice from the right side of the semicircle, near the base of the tree. A woman sat there, flanked with two others, slightly apart from the rest of the group. She was older, but nowhere near as aged as Aetia, and she wore jewelry atop her leather garments—long strands of amber beads jostled when she moved, paired with glass baubles that glittered in the sunlight.

  Aetia cleared her throat then continued, speaking over the slight murmurs in the crowd.

  “As Waela has been so courteous to remind us, we are accompanied today by others from outside the reach of the forest. We owe them the greatest thanks for returning my granddaughter, who we thought so long to be lost.”

  “Whose mother should never have left in the first place!”

  The faces near Waela shrank away as Lola’s grandmother answered, the volume of her voice unchanged, but the tone deadly. “Perhaps, Waela, your memory falters that we agreed to send her as our eye into the world. Or perhaps you had not yet left the cradle then, with you being so young? My memory may be full, but it recalls you voting yes.”

  “Regardless,” Waela answered, pushing the point aside, her beads
clicking angrily, “they returned through blasphemous methods—trespassing on the other side, walking where we hold it sacred. We have never let such transgressions pass by before.”

  “No, we have not—and I shall address that in time. But first, I have already announced long ago my intent to lay down the crown. I seek a retirement, though I feel it shall be far shorter than my reign. My bones grow weary, my sight dims. The outside world has always changed, but I can no longer maintain pace with it. So I bring forth my two granddaughters, Lola and Rila, that one of them shall replace me and lead the tribe long beyond my death.”

  “And why should they receive it?” Waela hissed back, her face hard. “There are others who have served longer, who have served greater. Others that may be more fitting to lead.”

  “And by that, do you mean yourself, Waela?” Aetia shot back, and the crowd bristled. “But should you be so willing, I advise you to join my granddaughters on the eve of the full moon, when naught but the point of a spear shall decide.”

  From directly opposite Waela, Rila ran her thumb down a knife she kept at her belt, staring at the older woman as the metal nicked into skin. Her face showed no mercy, and though she bore the same frame as Lola, her muscles left no uncertainty about the threat.

  “And you would sacrifice one of them for this fate?” Waela attempted, backing slightly away. “Tradition dictates a death, but if one were to run unopposed, none would be required.”

  “I would not. It is for them to decide. As is tradition, and should they choose, they may step down.”

  “And I choose to defend my honor!” shouted Lola from next to me, her voice bearing far more weight than her usual higher tone.

  “And I choose to win it!” shouted Rila, her teeth bared with such a ferocity that even I stepped back.

  “Then it is settled!” cried their grandmother before the others had a chance to respond. “In but seven days’ time, you shall have a new leader as is our tradition.”

  “Tradition?” shrieked Waela, throwing down her fists, her voice piercing the glade. “Tradition? Ending the heretic’s life would be tradition! Unless he proves himself now!” She threw a darted finger at Darian, and the crowd waited as Aetia nodded to him. He drew a deep breath, drawing upon Lola as she flickered not far away, lending him her power. Then he closed his eyes, and his shadow behind him began to fade, all heads turning to watch, all breathing halting in anticipation.

  With a second push, I could see right through him to Rila beyond, even her expression softening. His hair took on the quality of melting snow, his veins moved with each heartbeat, and I could see Aetia’s cup of coffee resting just inside his shirt.

  And just for an instant, so quickly that neither I nor the crowd could determine its validity, he flickered before snapping back as fully solid, shuddering and stumbling. He held his hands up just as the clamoring began, sinking down to a knee as he tried to force his way through, but again he faltered, the springing back to our side like that of a rubber band. But just as the crowd stepped forwards, and I readied myself to fight, a horn sounded in the distance, drawing all eyes up the slopes and away from the roots to the edge of the bramble wall, where the guards were now gathering, joining in the chorus of alarms.

  Chapter 90

  As one, the congregation rushed to the bramble wall, politics forgotten under the urgent horns. There, great stalks as green as limes and thick as trees bent in upon themselves at the inner edge, each with a leaf the size of a minivan resting along the mossy ground. With a leap, Lola led us onto one, then pulled a length of twine held taut between the stem and a stake driven into the ground. As the knot came free, the stem straightened, lifting us into the air with a lurch. The stalk twisted as it unfolded, positioning the leaf so that we entered into a recess on the wall invisible from the outside, but several stories above the ground.

  In moments, a dozen other stalks rose alongside ours as a score of warriors arrived to surround Aetia and her entourage of several additional leaders from the council, three yellow adolescents accompanying the original Speaker of Tongues, and ten green-painted Vibrants. The Vibrants led the way into the brambles, casting the jumbled weave into fabric like floorboards while raising a tunnel over our heads. And in moments, we broke into the outside from fifty feet in the air, a rail twisting itself to guard against the ledge, and a balcony extending out into space.

  Lola held us back as Aetia hobbled onto the platform, somehow appearing even older and more frail than usual. She leaned heavily on a cane and squinted far below, where a group of figures waited.

  Sparky, Blake, and the flamethrower henchman stood in a triangle, each with a small portion of their powers activated. A fireball the size of a quarter danced between the flamethrower’s fingers, while Sparky’s hair stood on end with small blue discharges, and Blake’s right arm was cast solid diamond. To my satisfaction, bandages wrapped around his left hand and he tucked it behind his back, hiding the red splotches that had made their way through the cloth.

  Lacit stood in the center of them, but what drew my attention was a fifth figure that sat against a tree trunk a few feet away, with handcuffs slapped against his wrist and his clothes near rags.

  “Looks like Lacit swallowed his pride,” I whispered to Arial as Lucio gasped and Lola held a finger to her lips. For though he could not see us in the darkness of the tunnel, Olef’s gaze turned upwards as he sniffed the air, and his eyes widened. Then Aetia gestured, and the arch around her exploded in flowers, shrouding her in a backdrop of color while petals drifted to cover the visitors below.

  “You stand outside the heart of the jungle,” she called below, her words translated as they fell. “Who might you be? And what do you seek?”

  “We come seeking refuge, kind lady,” said Lacit with a faux smile and short bow. “For we are weary travelers. Have we found the right place to lay our heads?”

  “Why yes, you have,” Aetia responded, doubling Lacit’s smile as she answered, her voice as sweet as the honey she provided Lucio. “But a mere half mile to the east are the crested caves, with freshwater and bountiful fruit, which I recommend for staying any number of days. You shall find provisions there as well, and even cots maintained by us for the unlikely visitor.”

  “Ah, but our feet are weary, and our bags are heavy,” Lacit responded, his smile faltering for an instant. “Perhaps we could enter your home? We can offer payment and could be of service.”

  “Perhaps my eyesight is fading, but I don’t see a door down there. We must have forgotten it.” Aetia laughed as annoyance crossed Lacit’s face. “If you can enter, who am I to stop you? We are more than generous with our supplies, and would be most happy to restock you or provide hammocks for you to sleep as you are, such that you would not have to move at all.”

  “But for just one night—” Lacit started before he was sharply interrupted.

  “And just one answer, as I fear the wind must be obscuring my tone, and you are exhausting my politeness,” she said, now all pretenses of politeness faded. “No.”

  Lacit shifted, and his followers squared their shoulders as he shouted back upwards, his finger running up the scar on his neck.

  “Our short patience is something we both seem to share,” he called and stepped towards the wall of brambles. “But though you cannot see a door, I can.”

  He extended his hands outwards then pulled his fingers apart, focusing upon the section of wall directly in front of him. Around us, the breath of the ten Vibrants quickened, their faces flushing with blood as the entire structure quivered. Below, Lacit raised his chin as he tried again, his fingers curling, the muscles on his forearms tensing.

  This time, the structure shook like an earthquake, and several of the Vibrants locked elbows to keep from falling, muffling their cries of pain. But below, not a twig snapped or a leaf fell, nor did the greenery part. Above Aetia, her arch of flowers curled in upon themselves as they turned brown, thorns and dark spiked leaves replacing the multitude of colors. And
from within the bramble barrier, something howled, the chilling sound ululating to match the shaking.

  Lacit threw down his hands as the Vibrants breathed a collective sigh of relief, their knees shaking, and Aetia laughed again, the sound making him bristle.

  “There are powers at work here older than you know!” she claimed, pointing down to the wall. “I caution you against awakening them. Now, I ask you again—what do you seek?”

  Seething, Lacit stared back at her, every leaf within arm’s reach crumbling to dust that settled in intricate patterns of concentric circles at his feet.

  “You may know some of your powers, but what you possess is beyond your knowledge. What you have is the power to change the outside world forever.”

  “Dearie,” chastised Aetia, “If you think I do not know, then I pity your infantile ignorance.”

  “Hear me. With it, you could become kings and queens with the flick of your finger. Else more of us will come. That is what I seek,” he said, his voice barely level, struggling to contain a mixture of excitement and rage. “I seek death.”

  “Then death you shall find,” Aetia spat, and the wall snapped shut around her like a curtain.

  Chapter 91

  “No one turns their back on me!” shouted Lacit from far below, his voice muffled by the branches. I heard the crackle of lightning and the roar of fire as the Vibrants tensed once more. Though against the weaker powers, their faces showed far less strain.

  “Give them a warning,” commanded Aetia, and two dark figures walked forwards, one who had been concealed by shadows paired with a dark mask. They sank as they walked, the plants beneath them bowing under their weight, shrinking away at their very touch. Aetia turned to them and whispered, her voice just loud enough to reach our ears.

  “Just enough to scare them, dearies, to frighten them. Leave them with a taste, leave them thirsty, so they return.”