by A. C. Salter
The rope struck the next branch and rapidly unwound before snapping tight. The sudden movement jerked Dylap to a halt before swinging him out like a pendulum. On the swing back, he flicked his wrist to dislodge the spider silk from where it had clung and he dropped onto the bridge which spanned between two trees.
He’d dropped twice as far as he had on his first jump.
“Madness,” Ebbin proclaimed as he landed beside him. “You almost splattered against that oak. But I must admit…”
Dylap didn’t given him the chance to finish his sentence before he launched himself into the air once again.
This time as he fell, Dylap cast his gaze as far down as he could, penetrating the branches and foliage below and seeing the gaps between. He began to pick up speed, the useless spines on his back whistling as they caused drag although they did little to slow him down.
When the solid block of a platform came into view, Dylap flicked out the spider silk. The sticky rope struck the bark of the closest tree, halting the fall and flinging him out away from the fairy-made structure. As he swung clear, he yanked the silk from the bark and he continued to fall once again.
Now the obstacle of the platform was clear, the silver thread of the winding stream sparkled, catching the dawn light. It was still many spans below, but now he had a view of the ground proper. It also became clear that the branches became thinner and fewer, giving way to more fae-built bridges, platforms and small leaf-thatched buildings. The sudden space that loomed before him also brought his vertigo rushing back.
Feeling giddy and fuelled by panic, Dylap tossed the rope out once again. He caught sight of the end of it thumping against the last large branch he passed. It hit the smooth wood and slid down its thick girth without clinging.
Terror raked through him as he frantically unravelled more of the spider silk from his arm. He threw the length wide but there was nothing for it to catch onto and the trunk was now beyond reach. Far above him he watched Ebbin fold his wings flat into a dive, yet he knew that the fairy wouldn’t be able to catch him.
Falling out of control, Dylap reeled the rope back in, hugging the coil close as the closest of the bridges approached at a frightening speed. Below that was a row of tight squat buildings, the roofs coming to crooked points and appearing sharp enough to impale.
Biting his bottom lip, Dylap cast the rope out once again, throwing it over the arching bridge.
It suddenly tightened, the portion around his waist cutting through his clothes as he swung under. The momentum carrying him back up over the bridge as the silk began to wrap around the structure, before he began to fall. A dizziness pushed the blood to his head as he began to wind around a second time and then a third, the circles becoming increasingly shorter until the length of rope became so small that on the fifth swing he ended up cracking his head against the underside of the bridge before coming to a stop.
“Are you trying to kill yourself?”
Dylap opened his eyes, and saw his friend hovering upside down. No – it was himself that was hanging upside down. When he attempted to reply, he found that his words, along with his breath, were trapped beneath the constricting silk he was wrapped up in.
With the help of Ebbin, he freed his arms and scrambled onto the bridge. He dropped what was left of the spider silk on the floor.
“It failed to cling to the last branch I passed,” he explained, struggling to calm his heaving chest. “Otherwise I would have landed way up there.”
“I think it’s lost its sticky,” Ebbin said, rubbing his thumb along the end, a frown drawing his eyebrows together. “You’re lucky it wasn’t the ground that caught you.”
“I know,” Dylap admitted, holding his hands up to placate his friend. “You were right, but we’re nearly there now.”
Ebbin dropped the rope over the side and watched it fall before the breeze caught it and carried it away. When he looked up his frown melted away and was replaced with a grin.
“You’re crazier than a pin-bush squirrel,” he laughed, shaking his head. “But it did save us some time. Now let’s go, and no more mad ideas.”
Dylap shared the grin as he followed Ebbin across the bridge and down a flight of steps that had been carved through the trunk of an ash tree. They emerged onto the trail once again as it wound down to the mist-cloaked ground.
Dew drops clung to the points of the tall grass. The sparkling beads running down the blades as they pushed through, splashing to smaller drops as they hit the damp terrain. An earthy smell, rich with dirt filled the air, riding on the mild aroma of honeysuckle. It brought a half memory to Dylap’s mind. A vision of a world of darkness – cold, damp, lonely…it was gone the instant he probed it further. Like the other flashbacks that were sparked by smell or familiar shapes picked out in random patterns he noticed. Disappearing the moment his mind stumbled upon them. If the memories he desired were locked inside his brain, they were so well hidden that he doubted he would ever remember them again.
“What is it?” Ebbin asked as he climbed up a slab of granite wedged between roots and a berry shrub.
“I almost remembered something, it doesn’t matter,” Dylap replied, pulling his jerkin tight.
“From before you came out of the Twine?”
Dylap nodded. He was about to add something else when his bare foot splashed through a puddle and mud squelch between his toes. He pulled it free and went to join Ebbin on the rock, trailing wet footprints behind him.
“You’re late,” came a deep voice through the mist.
A figure loomed out of the white vapour. Extremely tall and lithe, he hopped closer, crouching down to squint at them.
“I’ve been here ages, the cold has been seeping into me bones,” he complained, lifting a cloth cap and scratching wiry hair. “Them worms will be rotten by the time the birdies gets them.”
Ebbin spread his wings and hovered above him.
“We’re here now, brownie,” he snapped, glowering at the creature in a way that was uncharacteristic of his friend. “No ground-dweller is going to speak to me like that.”
Dylap took in the rangy creature that cringed away from Ebbin. The brownie was old and although stooped, stood at least three times his height. Dressed in a patchwork of filthy rags and fingerless gloves, he averted his deep-set eyes to the floor.
“Sorry master,” he offered. Then shaking his head and making smacking noises with his lips, as if to erase the last few moments, beckoned them closer. He patted a large cart behind him with two stag beetles harnessed to it.
“Tis full with the fat wrigglers,” he said excitedly. “They’re plump and squirmed straight into my traps when…” The brownie paused mid-sentence as his gaze fell on Dylap. “What is you?” he asked.
Before Dylap realised what the brownie intended to do, he felt one of his spines being tugged and a wave of heat flashed through him.
“Ouch!” the creature cried as he fell back against his cart, spilling several dead worms onto the rock. They flopped down, slapping hard against the granite.
“See what you made me do with your stingy thing?” he complained, putting his fingers in his mouth and treating Dylap to a hostile stare.
“That was your own stupid fault,” Ebbin shouted. “You can’t go around touching a fairy’s wings, it isn’t right. And now you’ve spilled worms out of the cart.”
“He’s not a fairy,” the brownie argued.
Ebbin’s cheeks flushed red as his scowl deepened. Dylap reached up and laid a hand on his boot to prevent him from berating the brownie further.
“It’s alright, he wasn’t to know,” he said before stepping closer to the creature that he thought could easily overpower the pair of them. “My name is Dylap and I am a fairy, or at least some kind of fae. What is your name?”
The brownie seemed apprehensive to reply, but then shook his head and replaced his trembling lip with a toothy grin.
“Merrybone,” he replied.
“Merrybone?” Ebbin laughed. “
I’ve been taking worms from you for the last two years and never known you to be in any happier mood than plain miserable.”
“Ain’t no fairy ever asked me my name before. You high-and-mighty fae that look down on us ground-dwellers and treat us mean.” His dower countenance swiftly returned. “And you can drag those worms back onto the cart yourselves.”
Dylap stared at the large dead beasts on the rock and thought that even between himself and Ebbin, they would struggle to lift even a portion of a worm.
“Merrybone, thank you for bringing the worms. Ebbin is sorry for speaking to you the way he did. But would you please put the worms back on the cart?”
Merrybone, glanced from him to Ebbin and then back. “I’ll do it for Dylap,” he offered, putting his back to Ebbin who was still glaring from above. “Dylap is nice.”
The brownie bent low and slid his long arms beneath a worm before lifting the limp body from the ground. He grunted as he threw it on the cart where it settled onto the many other corpses. Then hastily did the same to the remaining worms at his feet. Within moments the task was done.
“Thank you,” Dylap said and jabbed Ebbin in the ribs as he floated down to the rock.
His friend cleared his throat, “Erm… yeah, thank you…Merrybone,” he said.
The brownie regarded them thoughtfully for a time before shrugging and simply stalked away. Leaving them staring as his body vanished into the mist.
“See you later,” he shouted back.
“That was the oddest thing,” Ebbin remarked as he climbed up on the cart and grasped the beetle reins. “He hasn’t ever helped before. He rarely even speaks and when he does it’s only to moan.”
Dylap climbed onto the seat beside Ebbin as he flicked the reins and set the beetles into scurrying along the rock.
“It helps to be nice,” he said as he watched with fascination as the many legs of the insects tapped along the trail. The shell-cased heads with long spiky pincers, weaving from side to side as they trudged on. They pulled the heavy cart with ease. Even though the load must be many times their own weight.
“But brownies are ground-dwellers.”
“And Merrybone could have left us to pick up the worms. Besides, if you’re going to treat him like that, you’d be no better than Spoffle.”
“I’m not like him.”
Dylap offered his friend a smile. “I know you’re not. It’s this whole class thing that has us treating others the way we do. I’ve only been in Farro a short while and can already see the unfairness of the place.”
“I suppose. But it is what it is. Here,” Ebbin said as he passed him the reins. “You’ll be doing this by yourself soon, so you better start learning.”
Dylap gripped the soft leather strands and tried to hold them the same way that Ebbin had. “What do I do?”
“It’s easy. The beetles know the trail up to the Aviary. They’ve done it a thousand times before. All you need to do is bring them to a halt if we meet an obstacle, which hardly ever happens.”
The wheels of the cart fell snuggly into the short trail walls that had been carved from the roots. Grooves that had worn into the wood kept the cart in place as they began to wind around the trunk, the beetles making easy work of the ascent, feet drumming rhythmically on the wood.
As they climbed further into Farro, the city began to wake. Windows and balcony doors were opening, fairies were flying from tree to tree or hovering between, conversing with others or doing tasks. Fae were carrying bundles of clothes down to the stream, or pushing trollies full of dimming sun gems. The contents emptied into buckets, ready to be collected by the gem keepers who would take them above the canopy to be bathed in the sun. They would soak up the rays and be ready for the evening.
“We usually miss the dawn activities,” Ebbin explained as they began to cross a bridge. “The stewer should be stirring the worms in the cauldrons by now. The little ones will be chirping.”
“Who’s the stewer?”
“Once you’ve learned how to gut worms, then I get promoted to stewer.”
“And the fairy stewing now, what does he become?”
“Feeder, and the feeder gets promoted to scraper. And so on until you reach the dizzying heights of head boy.”
“Spoffle?”
Ebbin nodded. “Spoffle began like we all do, as a worm-gutter – Master Sabesto wouldn’t have it any other way. Yet somehow, Spoffle made head boy within the year. Probably due to his father and those pure wings of his. Once he’s done his time, he’ll be apprenticed to the Taming Tree and probably become squire to a bird racer and begin training to race himself.”
“But what about Jambilee? She doesn’t seem old enough to have passed through all those jobs to be where she is.”
“Jambilee’s special, she has a way with the birds. She can bond with the finches and hummers like no other. Sabesto recognised that early on and gave her a position in the Taming Tree. It isn’t often that someone with her markings gets so high.”
At the end of the bridge the trail forked. One path leading along a platform and a row of buildings while the other spiralled up an ash. Dylap stared at his hands and wondered if he should pull on the reigns to guide the beetles in the right direction, but as they came to the fork, the long pincers of the beetles drifted right and they scurried after.
“What markings? Do you mean her wings?” Dylap asked, still feeling how unfair the whole class system of Farro was. He was sure, that where ever he came from, there was no such thing as rankings in society.
“Yeah, much like mine. There is a mixing of colours. Dapples, spots, stripes or flecks. It doesn’t really matter the pattern or colour. The less pure your wings are, the lower down the class you’ll find yourself.”
“And if you don’t have wings at all,” Dylap lifted one of his spines and let it fall again, “you’re at the very bottom?”
“Afraid so…sorry,” Ebbin offered as he stared ahead, ignoring the attention they were receiving from the fae that paused in their work and conversations to regard them with curiosity or contempt. “It is totally unfair.”
“It is what it is,” Dylap replied, mimicking Ebbin’s words from earlier.
They continued the rest of the journey in silence. The stag beetles keeping to a steady pace as they pulled the cart through the city. Ascending to the halo lift where they halted while it carried them up into the big reds. Dylap’s sense of vertigo returned more than once, especially when they traversed bridges or platforms and the cart seemed so precariously close to the edge. He was thankful when they arrived at the Aviary, coming to a stop on a thick branch beneath the nesting birds.
The cart pulled up alongside a row of large cauldrons full of boiling water. Beneath each iron vessel was a stack of sun gems, which kept the water bubbling.
The chirping from the nests above suddenly grew in volume. The birds’ shrill calls drowning out all other sounds.
“They’re hungry,” Ebbin said as he gazed up. “And they know we’re here.”
He flew from the cart to a metal trolley that was of the same height as the cart. He pushed it to the back of the cart and opened a nearby tool closet that was carved into the side of a knot. He pulled out a pair of sharp hooks and a pair of long knifes with curved blades. He handed a hook to Dylap and pointed at the worms on the cart. “Now for the messy part of the job. It’s time to gut. Watch me and try not to spill too much on the floor. It’ll only make more work for the scraper.”
Dylap watched as Ebbin struck the hook deep into a carcass and dragged it onto the metal trolley and began to cut down the centre of the worm, one long gash from its head to its tail. Or was that from its tail to its head? He couldn’t tell one end from the other.
A sickly-sweet smell permeated from the depths of the worm as its inners spilled out and flopped onto the trolley.
“The trick is to keep the body in the centre of the tray when you cut,” Ebbin explained as he sliced his blade back and forth, cutting the meat into small
er chunks. “That way the juices won’t run over the side.”
Once he was satisfied that the worm had been butchered into small enough chunks, he steered the trolley towards the closest cauldron. The top of the trolley was hinged so when he lifted one end, the grisly contents slopped into the bubbling vessel.
“Now it’s your turn,” Ebbin offered as he gestured for him to push the trolley back to the cart.
Breathing through his mouth to evade the smell the best he could, Dylap shoved the trolley until it was flush with the bed of the cart. Then gripping tightly to the hook, he slammed it into the body of a worm and dragged it onto the trolley. It was a lot heavier than he imagined as he struggled it into the centre.
He gave a furtive glance at Ebbin as he inserted the blade into the end of the long body, attempting to gauge if he was cutting in the right place. His friend nodded encouragingly. Then grasping the handle in both hands, he sliced down the length of the worm, feeling it jerk beneath his grip at the ridges that circled the body.
“Not so deep,” Ebbin cautioned, “It’s only the layer of skin you need to cut.”
Dylap eased the pressure off the knife and found that it slid through the carcass more smoothly and before he had chance to react, the guts spewed from the cut to engulf his arms.
“Now you know why I was called Wormgut. Took me an age to master this without getting myself covered.”
Dylap fought the urge to be sick as he carried on slicing to the end. Then began to cut the gutted body into chunks, splashing himself with more gore. Ebbin had made it look so easy.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it.”
When he thought he had chopped the meat into small enough pieces, Dylap pushed the trolley over to the cauldron and tipped the contents into the steaming broth.
“Good, well done,” Ebbin said, slapping him on the back. “Now let’s get the rest done. I’ll begin stewing them ready for the feeders.”
By the time the sun had fully risen and the birds were beginning to sound furious with waiting, they were finished. The entire cart of worms had been gutted, chopped and were now stewing in the cauldrons.