Freewalker

by Dennis Foon

One of the stalks closest to the shore suddenly bends over, its tendrils grasping a struggling frog. It’s over in a blink. The bullfrog is still, then gone. As if on cue, the other plants bend over, each scooping up its supper.

  “Tell me it’s a crazy idea,” says Lumpy, “but could these plants have herded them here?”

  “That would be a pretty complex hunting strategy.”

  “Have you ever heard of a plant doing this kind of thing?”

  “Nope,” says Roan.

  The feeding frenzy goes on. By the time the sun peeks over the horizon, the only surviving bullfrogs are the few that have managed to leap onto a branch out of the tendrils’ reach.

  “Natural selection in action,” Roan comments dryly.

  “Yeah. I’d be fascinated if we weren’t surrounded by a forest of carnivorous plants.”

  Though the vegetation now stands straight and motionless, its relentless carnage is so fresh in Roan and Lumpy’s minds that they remain glued to their spots, staring and waiting.

  “They haven’t fed for a while now,” says Lumpy.

  “They’ve probably all eaten their fill.”

  But the two friends stay safely aloft until all the remaining bullfrogs jump off the island and survive their venture back into the water, undisturbed by the plants.

  “As good a time as any,” says Roan.

  Slowly, they slide down the tree. All remains still. Roan lifts up his pack, which, apart from a bit of slime, seems intact. As they carefully step toward the water, Lumpy instantly lurches backwards. A stalk has swallowed his left hand. He frantically attempts to extricate himself, but within moments his arm is sucked in up to his elbow.

  Slipping his hook-sword from his pack, Roan slices the bulbous head off the plant with one hand while the other pulls Lumpy up and away. Two more plants strike, but by then the friends are huddled against the tree, just barely out of range.

  “Guess we’re the second course.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be a lot better once I have this thing off my hand.”

  The neck of the severed stalk gives way easily, but Roan finds removing the sticky tendrils a delicate and painstaking task. Once the last one is detached, Roan sniffs it. A sharp, almost sickeningly sweet scent. Before Lumpy can stop him, Roan tastes it.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Trying to figure out what it is.”

  “Why—you sure you want to know this thing better?”

  “This thing isn’t like a normal plant.”

  “I kind of already figured that out.”

  Roan ignores the slight. “They have an... energy. Almost like...” Roan stops, struggling for an explanation.

  “What?”

  “Thought.”

  “But they’re... plants.”

  “You’re right,” says Roan. But he’s not sure he believes it. He has a close look at Lumpy’s hand. “I think it will be alright. How does it feel?”

  “Fine. Just numb, that’s all.”

  “That’s why the frogs stopped struggling so quickly. The tendrils must inject a paralyzing venom in their prey.”

  “Lucky I’m bigger than a bullfrog.”

  “Yeh. But if five or ten of those things got hold of us at once, it could be lethal.”

  “Good point.”

  “Best to wait till sunset. If we’re lucky, they’ll drift off again, looking to herd some more frogs.”

  “How lucky are you feeling?”

  “Can’t say I foresaw being besieged by plants. Not one of the books in Saint’s library covered that topic.”

  “I’d laugh if I wasn’t so scared. Hey, what did Bildt say about plants? Sensitive to sound, remember?”

  “That’s right. She talks and sings to them.”

  “You should play for them, it might have an effect, maybe drive them away, or put them to sleep.”

  “Worth a try.”

  Back up in the safety of the tree, Roan hangs his pack from a nearby branch. He locates his recorder and slides it gently from its sleeve.

  “It’s hard to imagine a Brother making the effort to find something so... unwarlike.”

  “Brother Asp was different. I couldn’t understand how he could be with them, he seemed so kind, but he said it gave him more opportunities to work as a healer. In the end, I think I felt the most betrayed by him. He knew all the time what Saint and the Brothers did to Longlight, he was there for all the Visitations and bloody rituals—and he never tried to stop any of it.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t what he seemed. Alandra lived in Fairview, and as sick as it made her, she went along with the child harvest. She tolerated it because she was waiting for you, right? For you and our kids. Hey, what if Asp was a Dirt Eater, too?”

  “Brother Asp?”

  “Well,” says Lumpy, “if the Dirt Eaters were watching over you at Oasis and Fairview, then Newlight, what would have stopped them from having someone with the Brothers?”

  Roan mulls it over, considering Asp’s generosity, his concern for people, his keen interest in Longlight. “I’ve never thought of that before. But when you put it that way, it seems so obvious.”

  “Thanks. Now will you play the damned recorder so we can see if there’s a chance of hypnotizing those plants?”

  Balancing the instrument in his fingers, Roan lifts it and blows, the honeyed quavers of a ballad from Longlight drifting lazily in the early morning haze. The world he lost floats on the surface of his eyes and when he finishes he cannot bring himself to look up at Lumpy.

  “Keep playing,” Lumpy gently urges.

  Roan plays all the Longlight tunes he knows, melodies he heard over and over as a child that he rearranged for the children of Newlight. Lona had started it, demanding that he make her some pipes so she could join his playing, and soon Bub and all the others were in on the act. He and Lumpy had spent many evenings carving flutes for them all—except for Jam, who wanted a drum. They’d played together every night after dinner. In a matter of weeks, their little pipe orchestra was harmonizing at a level beyond anything Roan had thought possible. He shouldn’t have been surprised. There was nothing ordinary about those children. Nothing ordinary at all.

  One look at Lumpy’s misty eyes tells him that the music is evoking similar memories in them both.

  The voracious plants, however, do not disperse despite hours of Roan’s soulful playing. In fact, quite the opposite.

  “The good news is the numbness is gone in my hand,” says Lumpy. “The bad news is those plants really like your playing. Hey—they’re shifting position.”

  Roan looks up to see a mass of tendrils swooping toward them. “Lift your legs!” he shouts. The plants smash against the tree, and Roan senses a fine powder drift past his face.

  “Do you feel that?”

  “What?”

  “Something... I’m not sure.” Keeping all his senses attuned to the plants, Roan tries to shake off the sluggishness folding over him.

  “You’re sure this isn’t a trap, right? No chance at all the Turned might have stuck the image of the boy in your mind to draw you here.”

  “No. I’ve felt some of their tricks before. This is different.” Roan holds out the recorder. “Your turn. At least it kept them at bay.”

  “I’d try, only, well... you’ve heard me. I don’t want to make them angry.”

  “I need a break, my fingers are aching. Play Jaw’s song,” says Roan, pushing the instrument into Lumpy’s hand.

  Lumpy takes a breath and blows, picking out the notes of a tune he and Jaw wrote together. The only one he knows really well, the one he and his little friend played so often. Eyes closed, lost in thoughts of brighter days, he repeats the simple melody again and again. The attacks soon abate. The stalks weave and nod. Crimson tendrils wave in the wind, creating a hypnotic vista, the echo of a rhythm to sleep by, a rhythm to die by. Whenever Lumpy pauses, the stalks strike, surrounding them in a cloud of powder. In a short time, Lumpy too is played out and the
worried look he shares with Roan speaks volumes. They know in a matter of hours they will succumb to exhaustion and the plants will have them.

  When dissonant thumps, not unlike the call of a wild bird, echo through the marshlands, the sound seems an eerie prelude to their demise.

  “What was that?”

  Roan signals Lumpy to be quiet. Breathing very slowly, he releases all fear, thought, and self-awareness. When his mind is completely clear, he reaches for his hook-sword.

  “Roan!” Lumpy whispers, but Roan’s feet are already on the ground.

  “Grab the packs and follow me.”

  Tendrils swoop down, but Roan can see a pattern, like a moving tapestry. He anticipates every assault, slicing the carnivorous plants off at the head, slowly clearing the way to the water.

  “There!” Lumpy gasps, and Roan stops.

  The stalks are parting. A sleek, low boat is coming toward them. A box is fastened to the bow, thick smoke billowing out of it. The stalks edge away from the smoke. It’s oddly comforting to know that the sword is not the only way to manage this threat. The paddler draws in, close enough for Roan to see his face.

  “Get in,” the boy says.

  PERFECT BODY AND MIND

  OH, TO BE A DOCTOR IN THE CITY

  YOU’D BE RICH, WELL FED AND WITTY

  BUT TO KEEP THE MASTERS PRETTY

  IS A JOB SOME WOULD DEEM... GRITTY

  AND THAT’S THE ENDING TO MY DITTY

  —LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

  AMASS OF WIRES extends from every part of Stowe. Each wire connects to a machine where technicians hover anxiously over dials. Dr. Arcanthas has been testing her for hours, scanning, monitoring, probing.

  “I want to see Darius.” The imperiousness in Stowe’s voice causes the doctor’s tiny eyebrows to lift.

  “Pardon me?”

  Stowe shoots him a rabid glare. “I want to speak with Darius.”

  His face tics nervously, his cheek lifting. “I relayed a message, as you requested, one hour ago, Our Stowe, and every hour before that.”

  “Do it again,” she snarls.

  Dr. Arcanthas freezes, as do the three technicians. They cannot leave their posts, but it is clear they wish they could be anywhere else but here, close to her. They are all terrified of what she could do to them, cowed by the dreaded wrath of Our Stowe.

  Good. She smiles. “Until he comes, we wait.”

  Bowing until he’s backed out the door, Dr. Arcanthas leaves the technicians standing rigid at their posts. Stowe promptly forgets them to ponder her situation. After her session with Kordan in the Dreamfield, she had felt elated. Having successfully accomplished his every test, she felt sure Darius would see her. But he rebuffed her request. Then, this morning, she awoke to be told the Eldest had ordered tests. She went instantly to talk to him, hoping that if she could see him, she could make him understand. But his door was shut to her. For almost three years, she’s had access to him whenever she desired, night or day. Now, because of one small incident of “inappropriate” behavior, it’s as if she exists simply as an object to experiment on. Is that her punishment? How long will it go on? It’s difficult to stifle the urge to leave her body and get some answers. But if Willum mentioned her “dream” to Darius, then her new ability might be suspected. One of these machines might be set up to detect that kind of astral movement and she must not play into their hands.

  For the past few nights she’s had real dreams, dreams about Roan. In these dreams, his eyes are crystals, and when she looks into them, she sees a great iron gate spanning an abyss. Its bars have eyes that slide open to stare at her. And lips that seem to say something, relay some message, but she can’t quite grasp it. She wakes burning with frustration and doubt.

  She shouldn’t have mentioned Raven to Willum. She revealed too much. And what she did to the clerics... stupid. But Willum used an aura to protect himself... she’s never seen that except in the Dreamfield. Stowe realizes with a start that she has no real idea of the extent of the Masters’ powers. If her lowly tutor can do that, they all must be able to. And yet, Darius is having her wired and probed—he must want to know whether her power is starting to surpass theirs, like Willum said.

  The doctor returns, but it is Willum who follows, not Darius. His impassive face is a sure sign he’s annoyed.

  Willum hesitates for a moment, his glare ensuring her silence, then addresses the doctor. “The report, please. Turn the viewer so Our Stowe can see, and explain with precision.”

  The doctor nods furiously at a technician who rushes over, pushing the screen close to Stowe’s bed. Numbers fly across the illuminated surface.

  “These represent readings of all of your systems: respiratory, circulatory, nervous, digestive, endocrine, excretory, immunological, lymphatic, muscular, skeletal, your tissues and organs.”

  “And?” she asks.

  The doctor’s mouth moves but no words come out; he can’t seem to find them.

  “If you please, Dr. Arcanthas,” urges Willum.

  “You’re a perfect human specimen. Better than perfect. Every one of your systems is functioning at an extraordinary level. I understand now, from a physiological point of view, why Our Stowe is so honored. You are the best of us all.”

  “Then she is fit enough to continue the next phase of her training,” says Willum. “If you would be kind enough to disengage her, we might commence.”

  Once inside the confines of the Travel Room, Stowe relaxes considerably. Darius had only wanted to ensure that her body was strong enough for what lay ahead. A practical but also fatherly concern. Could it be that he’s not so terribly mad at her after all?

  Willum is about to push her, she can tell, but a part of her enjoys his challenges. She’s always surprised at how much she is actually able to accomplish. Still, it’s difficult not to drop her guard around him. She doesn’t find him threatening, although she cannot put her finger on exactly why. That in itself should disturb her. How much of what she reveals to him does he pass on to Darius?

  Willum reaches into his pocket and takes out a velvet bag. “Today we will work on changing your composition in the Dreamfield.”

  Stowe smiles at the concept. “Sounds intriguing.”

  “You are aware that the form you have is temporary, a kind of interim body. But it can be manipulated to serve you in different ways. For instance, as a form of protection.”

  “Like armor?”

  “Exactly. You choose a substance, and with proper concentration it can be called upon to replace your clay form.”

  “How do I do it?”

  Willum hands the velvet bag to her. Stowe tips the contents into her hand. A diamond the size of her thumb tip glistens in her palm.

  “Contemplate it. Take in every facet. Feel the weight. Find its internal resonance. You need to imprint the diamond essence on your consciousness.”

  Stowe rolls the gem between her palms. Squeezing it between thumb and forefinger, she sits down in her glass travel chair, and raises it to her eye. She submerges herself in the light reflecting off each facet. Her breathing becomes shallow, her vision fixated, her entire being engaged with the stone. She’s unaware of the passage of time, of where she is. All is one with the diamond.

  A tone, barely discernible at first, purrs against her fingers, then the hum increases in intensity. She lets it in, allows the pulse to spread through her organs, her bones, her marrow, until her entire body is filled with its ephemeral vibration. When every cell is touched, the essence of the crystal is available to her. She opens her eyes and hands the diamond back to Willum.

  “I won’t need this anymore.”

  Willum nods approvingly. “When you enter the Dreamfield you have simply to recall the resonance for it to manifest. The process can be painful, but if you do not falter, you will be successful. There is no other way to accomplish the tasks set before you.”

  The door opens and a grating voice contaminates the air behind her. “It’s time we began. You�
��ve been at this for the best part of the afternoon. We’ll see now if the time’s been wasted.” Kordan lifts the silver lid from his bowl of Dirt. “Is Willum joining us today?” He sneers as he offers Willum the container. “Worried over how well you’ve done?”

  Willum disregards the remark and, taking a tiny pinch, settles serenely into his chair. Kordan takes the same amount for himself, then turning so that his back shields her from Willum’s view, he slips a heaping spoonful to Stowe, who eagerly gulps, then holds her mouth open for another. Kordan, grinning, obliges.

  WAVES SPLASH AGAINST THE SHORE OF THE SANDSWEPT ISLAND. NO MORE THAN A LEAGUE AWAY, THE VAULTING BEAMS OF THE RAMPARTS RISE FROM THE SEA. THE FIRST OF THE SIX CONSTRUCTIONS, IT IS AN IMPENETRABLE BARRIER DEMARCATING THEIR EASTERN BOUNDARY FROM THE EATERS.

  A FALCON PERCHED ON STOWE’S TERRA-COTTA SHOULDER WHISPERS, “BEGIN THE PROCESS NOW.”

  STOWE FINDS THE TONE AND NURTURES IT LIKE A TINY FLAME, LETTING IT RISE AND BUILD INSIDE HER, DIRECTING THE VIBRATION. A TERRIBLE PAIN STABS INTO THE SOLES OF HER FEET AS DIAMOND ERUPTS OVER THEIR SURFACE. SHE CRIES OUT, AND THE TRANSFORMATION STOPS.

  THE VULTURE LOOMS OVER HER. “THERE, YOU SEE! IT IS BEYOND HER ABILITY,” SNEERS KORDAN.

  WILLUM, THE FALCON, GENTLY ENCOURAGES HER. “JUST A LITTLE AT A TIME. MAKE THE PAIN SERVE YOU. FORCE IT TO DRIVE THE CHANGE.”

  SHE RETRIEVES THE TONE AND RECALIBRATES HER ANKLES, HER CALVES, HER KNEES TO ITS RESONANCE. BENDING HER LEFT LEG SLIGHTLY, AN EXPLOSION OF PAIN SENDS HER REELING TO THE SAND.

  “RIDICULOUS!” MUTTERS THE VULTURE, BLACK EYES MOCKING.

  BUT THE FALCON’S CLAWS, STEADY ON STOWE’S SHOULDER, REMIND HER TO SWALLOW THE PAIN, USE IT AS FUEL.

  SHE COAXES ANOTHER SERIES OF ERUPTIONS, CRYSTALS FORMING THROUGH HER THIGHS. WHEN THEY REACH HER HIPS, WILLUM ORDERS HER TO STOP.

  “GOOD, THAT IS ENOUGH FOR TODAY.”

  STOWE SIGHS, THE AGONY ABATING, AND FOCUSES ON THE TASK AHEAD.

  “WE’LL SEE IF SHE’S ABLE TO MAINTAIN THE DENSITY IN HER LEGS WHEN SHE RISES,” THE VULTURE SAYS DISPARAGINGLY, THEN SWOOPS AHEAD, LEADING THE WAY TO THE RAMPARTS.

  “REMEMBER YOUR PROTECTION IS ONLY PARTIAL. EMPLOY YOUR ARMS IN YOUR DEFENSE AND YOU MAY LOSE THEM,” WILLUM WARNS, THEN DIVES TOWARD THE ISLAND.