Rumi's Riddle

by Eliot Schrefer

  “You are forgiven, you dope,” Gogi says.

  “But—”

  “Forgiven, Rumi.”

  Gogi’s fur is soft against Rumi’s sensitive frog skin. The trembling that took over his body gradually stills and stops. “Gogi. Thank you.”

  “As long as you didn’t just poison me,” Gogi says.

  “I managed not to,” Rumi murmurs.

  The hum of Gogi’s pulse makes Rumi realize how rarely he’s been in physical contact with his friends, how much his poison skin and intellectual calculations have kept them at a distance. He feels closer to Gogi than he ever has before. And how did it happen? By revealing what he thought was the worst thing about him.

  How wonderful hearts are, he thinks to himself. And how very fascinating.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Banu says.

  Rumi decides that he should be the one to lead them over the rise and into his home swamp. He can’t see anything yet, but the smell is what brings it back first. There’s a musty tang, tannins from peat moss and the lush rising currents of rotting vegetation. It’s a really wonderful place.

  Or was.

  As Rumi hops nearer, visions come unbidden to his mind, of downed trees and pulverized froglings, of dead birds sprawled on upturned soil.

  “Are you ready for this?” Gogi asks.

  “Not really,” Rumi chirps back, “but I never could be. We should go forward anyway.”

  “You should at least ride on my head,” Gogi says.

  “Yes, that would help,” Rumi says.

  Gogi lifts him to sit between his eyebrows, and Sky takes up a position at Gogi’s side. With Banu just behind, and Auriel riding along Gogi’s shoulders, the friends crest the rise.

  The trees are still down, giant ironwoods and figs and monguba all interlocking, forming haphazard triangles over the earth.

  But each of those fallen giants has sprouted at least a dozen saplings, their reedy trunks a vibrant yellow-green against the open blue sky. Songbirds soar between them, growing nests in the crannies that have opened up in the ravaged trunks. Tree rats nibble on bracket fungus, beneath the flocks of colorful butterflies flitting between the surfaces of the new growth.

  “It doesn’t look too bad!” Gogi says.

  “Well, that shouldn’t be surprising,” Sky caws. “Life will always find a way.”

  “I mean, you did probably slaughter thousands of organisms?” Gogi says. “But the rainforest here seems to be recovering.”

  “Felling those giant trees opened up a whole new patch of jungle,” Sky says, tilting his head. “Some of these saplings will someday be giants, and that wouldn’t have been possible without the ancient ones falling.”

  “It still feels terrible, what I did,” Rumi says.

  “And that’s okay too,” Sky says. “But your only option is to accept it and move on. There’s no alternative.”

  “How do you feel, buddy?” Gogi asks.

  Rumi considers his emotions. He still feels wretched, but he also feels . . . new. Like back when he’d grown his first legs after spending weeks as an algae-scrounging tadpole. “I think I might eventually get my mind around this whole accepting-my-mistakes thing,” he says.

  “You’ve been carrying a lot of weight around,” Sky says.

  “Yes,” Rumi replies. “More than I realized.”

  Gogi taps his lips. “I mean, if you had stolen food from an elderly anteater and then pushed him into a ditch or something, that would be terrible. But blowing up your home swamp? That could happen to anyone!”

  “Monkey logic is very strange, but I can’t say I mind it,” Rumi says. He stares out at the sunset sky, at the possibilities the coming night might bring. “Thanks, Gogi.”

  “Might I suggest that we return to my directive feathers?” Sky says. “So we can know what’s happened to Mez, Chumba, and Lima?”

  Rumi hops right into the air, landing on his back and flipping over before leaping into the air again. “Mez, Chumba, and Lima! Yes, right away. My heart feels plenty strong enough now.”

  ALL IS FRANTIC fiery chaos, and Rumi, watching through the memory embedded in Sky’s feather strapped to Mez’s back, can’t figure out anything that’s happening. Ferns whip through his view, then the starry sky, then fire, terrible arcs of fire. Mez must be barrel-rolling as she tries to escape the attack, Rumi realizes, and it’s sending his vision barrel-rolling right along with her. Finally the sights sort themselves out so that he’s following Mez more precisely, low and stealthy against the ground. She slinks between and through a melee of enemies, always on the defensive, avoiding the attacks of giant spiders and frogs, of claws and beaks and fangs.

  Rumi feels his belly dropping away, nausea threatening to overcome him. But he forces himself to remain engaged in the swirling images, to watch as Mez avoids death time and again, her extraordinary panther reflexes the only thing keeping her from succumbing to snapping jaws and talons. Rumi wonders why she hasn’t used her magic, but then realizes his answer when he sees that Chumba is fighting her own battles, surrounded by a horde of enemies. If Mez went invisible, both sets of opponents would be on her sister.

  There’s a flash of white, and Rumi realizes that there’s a method to Mez’s movements—she’s running from her cultist enemies, but she’s also facing down Mist. With his multiple magical abilities, he will surely be an intimidating opponent in open combat, but Mez harries her way closer and closer to him, risking direct confrontation. Maybe there’s something to her thinking—for his part, Mist isn’t directly engaging, but instead feinting backward, so he keeps his cultists between him and Mez.

  Finally Mez fakes left, then breaks right, joining Chumba at her flank. Without needing a single word of communication, the two sisters streak in formation toward Mist. They’re in an open space of moist nighttime air, their cousin backed up against the burial mound. Derli’s eyes are wide open, watching in terror and desperate hope as his family wheels around him.

  “I challenge you!” Mez gasps. “I challenge you for control.”

  A boa constrictor had been approaching Mez and Chumba from behind, but at Mez’s words it stops, tongue licking the air. Apparently even the boa knows the strict rules of panther life.

  One of Mist’s ears flicks. He tilts his head.

  Lima’s voice squeaks down from above. “There must be some other way! Don’t do this, Mez!”

  Chumba purrs loudly, butting her head against Mez’s flank, giving a wordless sister warning.

  “Mist,” Mez growls. “You know the rules. You must accept my challenge.”

  “There is nothing in Caldera that I ‘must’ do,” Mist hisses, gaze flicking around his assembled minions. “You have been aiding the daywalkers in destroying our land. The old rules are obviously gone.”

  “What are you talking about? Why would daywalkers want to destroy the rainforest? And how would they cause that smoke? It’s a volcano, Mist, all of Caldera is a volcano, and it’s going to explode. You’re here trying to accumulate power when everything’s going to be gone, all gone, no matter who’s in charge. We need to work together if we want to survive.”

  The nightwalker cult begins to hoot and murmur.

  “How typical,” Mist says. “You’ll say anything to get your way, to trick nightwalkers into destroying themselves. We are through with the lies of the shadowwalkers and daywalkers! I will not listen to you.”

  Mez bares her teeth and paws the earth. “Then you don’t need to listen to my words. I’m ready to fight.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Mez,” Mist says. “I can destroy you in an instant.”

  “Be that as it may,” Mez says. “I will still try to defeat you.”

  “Let me do the ritual combat instead!” Chumba says.

  “No,” Mez replies. “This fight is mine.”

  There’s a flash of anger in Chumba’s eyes. Rumi remembers hearing about a time when Chumba was furious about Mez’s constant need to protect her.


  Mist’s minions form a circle around Mez and Mist and Chumba and Derli. Rumi can’t see Usha, Yerlo, or Jerlo—they must have gone into hiding during the confrontation. “This is a ritual combat,” Mez says. “While it is underway, you must promise the safety of Chumba and Derli. By everything that still might bind you to the panther world.”

  “And me!” squeaks Lima from somewhere in the branches up above. “Don’t forget about my safety! These owls are terrifying.”

  “Chumba, get Derli out of the ring,” Mez says, keeping her eyes locked on Mist’s. “These nightwalkers won’t hurt you.”

  Looking at the malevolent eyes of the nightwalker cult that rings them, eerily lit in the firelight, Rumi’s not so sure. But he’s powerless to say or do anything about it.

  Chumba sets her teeth into the scruff at the nape of Derli’s neck and awkwardly drags the young panther into the crowd at the edge of the circle. He’s young, but too heavy to drag the way she would a pup. The nightwalkers give them a wide berth, watching the turncoat panthers in disgust.

  “This fight is to the death, or to submission,” Mez growls.

  “And once I defeat you, you can never challenge me again.”

  Mez’s tail thrashes. “Or the other way around, cousin.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Not likely.”

  “Back to back,” Mez says.

  Yowling nervously, the scent of pantherfear heavy in the air, the white and calico panthers back up against each other, tails whipping and entwining. “Three lengths,” Mez says.

  They stalk away from each other, with Mez counting. “One . . . two . . . three.”

  The clearing goes still, the assembled animals silent as they watch the adversaries turn and take each other in. Panthers are ambush predators, so each is missing their primary means of attack. Yowling, they circle the burial mound, waiting for one or the other to make the first move.

  Neither uses any magic yet. That makes sense to Rumi: how they use their magical powers could be each animal’s one surprise move, and surprise is the main source of a panther’s combat strength.

  As she circles, Mez veers too close to the assembled nightwalkers, and the ocelot snarls and paws her back into the ring. “Don’t you dare get close to me, filthy shadowwalker,” it says.

  Chumba growls. “There’s no rule saying that I couldn’t attack you, pussycat,” she says.

  The ocelot doesn’t back off, exactly, but conspicuously licks its paw and looks away.

  Mez tries to regain her poise, but she’s caught flat pawed by the ocelot’s unexpected shove. Her ears flick. Mist takes advantage of the moment to lunge, his open jaws going for her throat. She leaps away, but Mist’s long teeth snag her ear, tearing it to the edge. Mez is immediately on the counterattack, rolling onto her back and wriggling forward, extended front claws grasping for Mist, slashing through air and dirt.

  She manages to snag his flank with one claw, rolling her cousin onto his side, where she can rake him with her back paws. The force of it is enough to stretch Mist’s body out, his cousin’s powerful claws gouging red lines along his rib cage. Mist responds by releasing a jet of air from his shoulders, sending Mez sliding across the battleground, dirt and dead leaves flying through the air.

  A jet of air? Mist is using Rumi’s own magic against Mez!

  Then he adds in Mez’s magic. Mist blinks out of view.

  Terror rims Mez’s eyes in white as she looks about the clearing. Then she goes invisible, too.

  The nightwalker cult goes silent. Chumba, Derli, and Lima go silent too, all watching as the two invisible panthers face off. Where are they? As the wait goes long, Rumi wonders if maybe one or both panthers have fled. But there is slightly more sound in the area than the motionless spectators can account for, and here and there a leaf moves, or a stick shifts, with no wind to account for it.

  As the invisible standoff continues, the nightwalkers shuffle and murmur. Chumba exchanges looks with Lima. Do we do something?

  Then there’s the fireball.

  Mez suddenly materializes, her calico fur singed and smoking. She howls in pain and streaks in retreat—but the ring of nightwalkers blocks her. Panicked, she follows their line, looking for an opening, but the nightwalker cult is ruthless in keeping her in the ring, hissing and lunging.

  Mist appears, snarling as he approaches Mez, tail thrashing and teeth bared. Mez doesn’t have an extra wit to spend on him, rolling in the mud to try to put out her still-flaming fur.

  It’s too much for Lima. Screeching wordlessly, she darts through the air toward Mez, landing on her shoulder and bringing her mouth to the fur and burned skin beneath, using the magic in her licks to heal her friend even as bat winds up rolling with panther.

  The fire on Mez’s fur finally goes out, and Lima goes about licking the wounds that riddle Mez’s body.

  Her entering the fray, though, has broken the rules, provoking gasps of rage from the assembled nightwalkers. They narrow the ring, licking lips and baring teeth as they descend on Mez and Lima. Panic setting her fur on end, Chumba pushes through the crowd and streaks to join her sister. At least they can go out together.

  Mez whirls. “No, Chumba!”

  It’s the opening that Mist needs. He pounces on Mez, rolling her still-sizzling body in the soil. She howls in pain as he pins her, using his sharp claws to press her smoking body into the ground.

  Mist holds up a paw, and the cultists stop their inward push. “So much for honor,” he snarls down at Mez. “I have defeated you, and on top of that you have broken the panther code. You have lost this fight. You have lost any status you ever had in the panther world.”

  Mez hasn’t noticed Lima yet. Her eyes dart around in confusion, then she notices the bat on her belly. “Oh no, Lima, you didn’t.”

  “You might have died,” Lima says quietly. “You’re still seriously wounded.”

  Mez closes her eyes heavily and nods. “But now I . . . I . . .” She can’t seem to bring herself to say it.

  “I’m sorry, Mez,” Lima says.

  “You were only trying to help,” Mez whispers, before returning her gaze to her cousin.

  Lima goes back to her licking.

  “Now I may do with you as I will,” Mist says, eyes narrowing.

  Chumba cowers by her sister as the rest of the nightwalkers close in. She tugs Derli near too, and even though his limbs are still bound, simply to be close to his cousins brings tight relief to his features. Through the directive, Rumi can smell the stinking carrion blossoms of the cult as it hems them in.

  “Finish it quick,” Mez hisses.

  “Nothing about this will be quick,” Mist says as he takes a step toward them. “I have plenty of use for you. You will be collateral to get the daywalkers to stop their plan to destroy Caldera.”

  “For the last time,” Mez says, “the daywalkers have no such plan. Why would they destroy their own home? That makes no sense.”

  But Mist’s strategy does make sense, Rumi realizes as he watches the cultists shake their heads severely. Their fear has made them fully committed to Mist. By giving them an enemy, he has made them even more beholden to him. It doesn’t matter whether the daywalker conspiracy he’s talking about is real. It’s terrifyingly effective either way.

  Mist gestures to a pair of opossums in the tight circle of nightwalker cultists. “Tie up the panthers and the bat. To appease the forces threatening Caldera, to thwart the explosion threatening our way of life, we will bring the shadowwalkers to the center of Caldera. There we will sacrifice them to the volcano. Then the natural order will finally be restored, and Caldera can go back to the way that it was before either of the eclipses.”

  The small and nimble animals tear down lengths of vine and approach the panthers. Chumba growls menacingly, hackles rising as she bares her teeth and swats at the air. The opossums lose courage, looking to Mist. But it’s Mez who speaks next. “Let them do it,” she tells her sister through gritted teeth. “We’ve lost our advantage here. We
’re at their mercy.”

  Chumba looks at Mez in shock, but at the sight of her sister’s crestfallen expression, she nods. There’s clearly no chance of fighting back now—and they’re lucky to have their lives for the time being. Even if it’s only eventually to be hurled into smoking lava.

  Panthers are such regal, powerful creatures—there’s something utterly demoralizing about seeing Mez and then Chumba lower their heads, more and more until they are prone on the ground, chins in the mud. Mez has bald patches where Mist’s blast hit her hardest, the calico hair matted and melted. Maybe Lima can heal hair? It seems unlikely. The hair doesn’t matter in the long run, of course, but it only adds to Rumi’s misery at seeing Mez and Chumba brought so low.

  “Now tie them,” Mist says.

  Lima’s wings are soon bound around her with rough liana vine. The opossums even bind her little feet. Then they move on to the panthers, wrapping their ankles together with lengths of braided fibers. The opossums tremble as they maneuver, and Rumi suspects they wouldn’t have the courage to even attempt what they’re doing if it weren’t for Mist’s presence.

  Rumi wants to look away, but he forces himself to watch every motion as his friends are restrained, paw by paw and wing by wing.

  A voice intrudes, a voice he knows but that makes no sense here. “Rumi,” it says.

  Rumi startles. Who is that? Have the nightwalker cultists seen him, perhaps because Mist absorbed some of Sky’s divination magic? But no—the voice is Sky’s. It’s coming from the other side of the divination, where Rumi’s real body is.

  “Rumi, come back. Please. We need you!”

  WHEN RUMI LURCHES back into his own body, he sees that he’s still where he was when he opened the link to the panthers: nestled into the assortment of logs that the group has collected. Over the course of the day, the three muscular tapirs have hauled the lumber toward the beach, carrying Rumi right along with the mass. Right now, though, the tapirs are in nightcoma, the logs motionless until the Veil next lifts.

  As Rumi removes his finger from Sky’s scarlet feather, he sees a lot more feathers. These aren’t directives, though—they’re still attached to the bird himself. Sky’s right beside Rumi, squawking at him.