The Hundred: Fall of the Wents

by Prescott, Jennifer

  The tree had not spoken in words, exactly. It had instead opened to Hindrance a memory that she was certain she could not have manufactured herself. Suddenly, she could see a moment in the great distant past. An old, grizzled Eft crawled from a pond—the very same pond next to the ground where the tree now grew, but this time, there was no tree. Another younger Eft followed the old Eft. The younger seemed shocked by the water and took a moment to catch his breath. Both shook the water from their clothes, and the older one sneezed.

  Hindrance climbed down from the branch and stood. She saw that the younger Eft cradled a Meal-Apple next to his chest. He held it up and it was slick with water.

  “Plant it here,” said the older Eft. “It will guard and obscure the portal, and its fruit will be most powerful.”

  The younger one did as he was told. He dug a hole and placed the Meal-Apple in the ground and patted the dirt around it.

  “It may die,” said the young Eft. “It is from another time.”

  Hindrance felt a dreadful loneliness, and realized it was from the tree’s own memory. It remembered being a seed inside that apple. It was—if a tree could feel such emotions—afraid.

  “It will live,” said the older Eft. “It was the strongest sample from the grove. You picked it well, young Pomplemys.”

  The younger Eft looked proud.

  “We may need its powers sometime far from now. It will grow in obscurity and none will ever guess that it hides this portal,” said the old Eft. “This land is wild.”

  Indeed, as Hindrance looked around her, she saw that the walls of her compound, and Circadie beyond it, did not exist. There were copses of thick trees and flower-filled fields. The pond that was in her garden, however, was of the same kidney shape it had always been.

  “Shall we hunt for anything here to bring back to our collection?” said the younger Eft excitedly.

  “No, Pomplemys. We will not bother. This is a barren time in history, here, and there are no living things of interest within miles. Perhaps a million or more years hence—but then there will be things like us, and they are of little interest to the collection, yes?”

  “This portal is dull,” said the younger Eft sullenly. “I liked the one that led to the great plain with the wild, gigantic animals and the—”

  “This portal has served its purpose,” snapped the older Eft. “We are done here.”

  The two Efts turned to go back into the pond. Creatures of water as they were, they dove in without hesitation. Hindrance noticed, though, that the younger one shivered a bit and looked around him before he dove. Clearly he was before his Sea Change and found the water somewhat fearsome. Then they were gone.

  With wonder, Hindrance watched shoots rise from the ground where the Meal Apple had been planted. The shoots grew and twisted, and a tiny sapling was there, quivering in the wind. She could still sense its loneliness.

  It grew higher and higher and, as it did, so did the city around it. Buildings and walls grew up and the murmurs of commerce grew and Hindrance saw Trilings and Dualings fighting for space and mastery of the land. The tree got bigger and bore apples and dropped them and then grew again and bore more apples. It all happened in an instant in her mind, although it had taken millions of years.

  Now Hindrance was snapped back into the then-present where she stood next to a branch of that once-tiny tree.

  “How curious!” she thought. “Did you mean to show me all that?” She touched the branch and the tree seemed to creak and sway in anticipation.

  Hindrance gazed into the pond. Surely there was nothing special about it. Her Eftish siblings had played in there many times and neither one had mentioned any secret passage or portal.

  “Should I?” Hindrance asked the tree, and it seemed to groan in assent.

  Hindrance did not care for water a bit. She was not an Eft. The earth was her natural home. But the vision had suggested something magical and mysterious here. She could ask one of her brothers to explore the pool but then she would have to tell them why. She was not prepared to share the secret yet.

  As if to guard against some mishap, she plucked one of the Meal-Apples from the tree and held it against her chest. Then she thought, suddenly, that she should eat it. She felt as if the tree was telling her to do this. All her family members shunned the bitter fruit, but what if eating it made the portal open? She tried it. It was difficult to eat and stuck in her flat teeth, which were much better for mashing Went cakes and cheese and other soft things. However, she was able to choke down a small piece of the apple.

  Then she ducked her head beneath the water. The pond, which seemed so green and murky, was now lit with a brilliant blue color. She felt she could see fathoms deep into it. Surely it could not be this deep? Way below in the depths she could see a clear light shining, as if a small sun was perched there.

  She breathed a stream of tiny bubbles into the water and was astonished to discover that she did not need to lift her head to snatch another breath. Somehow, the apple had given her the ability to breathe underwater; or, rather, to live without fresh carbon dioxide (which the Wents, being once plants, inhaled like the oxygen other creatures needed).

  She was now unafraid to go deeper and she allowed herself to slide into the water, until her feet had left the earth entirely and she was floating beneath the surface. The sensation was bizarre and unfamiliar. Hindrance had been soaked by rain many times, but had never been immersed before. She did not know how to swim and this gave her a moment of panic. However, the apple the tree had given her (she realized that it was a gift and that the tree had indeed asked her to take it) had taken care of this inability as well. She moved lithely through the water, wondering at the joy her Eft siblings experienced. How wondrous it was to float in such a quiet place, without the anxieties of walking over rough ground or simply navigating other objects, creatures, trees, and the like.

  She immediately swam toward the light. In her memory, she knew what had happened next. She had had a grand and dangerous adventure. This was its beginning. There was the portal, just before her. She would go through and then—

  But in the dream it was not to be. She felt rough hands grasp her legs and drag her back up, toward the light and the air and the earth. The blossoms surrounding her face ached, as if they were heavy and swollen.

  “No,” Hindrance thought, “I want to remember this.” And she fought to reach the portal again, struggling against the dank smell of earth in the pods where the Shrikes now imprisoned her dreaming self.

  Before she was hauled back out of her dream, she thought she saw in the waters below another Went, very like her in appearance. Hindrance called out to her but there was no sound here below the surface of the water. The young Went had a glad expression, as if she recognized Hindrance. Then her face shimmered and broke apart. Hindrance thought one word in her mind: Elutia.

  Then young Hindrance was back on the edge of the pond, coughing and spluttering into the dirt, her soft white hands pawing at the ground as she tried to regain her breath. Her father-Eft Polifero was there behind her with a thunderous expression. Her brother Efts stood by—each looking at the other but neither at her.

  “Foolish thing!” said Polifero. “Wents cannot swim. Did you think to drown yourself? Thankfully Glifra and Rega found you.”

  Hindrance had nothing to say. She could barely breathe. Was this what really had happened, or part of the dream? Regardless, she did remember one thing. The tree had said to her plainly then: “Take part of me and keep it safe, and use it. You will need me.”

  In the dark of night, later, she had gone out and cut a small branch off the tree. She apologized to the tree as she did so. But the tree had given itself willingly. The wood from that cutting had lasted for many years and, with it, Hindrance had made many magical and curious toys and boxes. Every time she made one she would silently thank the tree, and wonder if it was still standing in the garden where she had grown up. But she knew—she did not want to admit that she knew, but it
was not to be avoided—that the garden and the tree and all the people she had loved had been destroyed on the day the Small War had begun and the bombs had exploded. She had never gone back to be certain. But she knew.

  The dream had faded into obscurity, the faces of her Eft father and brothers vanishing into the distance, along with the garden and the tree and all the broken and scattered memories of the playthings and boxes she had meticulously carved over the years. She thought of Tully then—his hands were outstretched to receive one of the gifts. She had loved him as if he were her very own. But that was from another time. Who knew if she would ever see him again? But then she slipped away into darkness and entered a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Calling of the Chosen

  Tully and Aarvord ran, stooping as they went and, after some time, the tunnel started to ascend up and up. They felt the first breath of the snow, and the biting winds that they had long forgotten while in the bewitched kingdom of Pomplemys. Then they saw light and they were up and out again in a world of icy whiteness. The cold was cruel and startling but, moments later, after the heat of Snell’s forge and the sleepy magic of Pomplemys’ potions and the dark eye visible through the Bathysphere, it seemed like a wondrous freedom. They all breathed in the air and felt their senses clear. It was as if they had been caught in the tendrils of a dream, those long hours that they had spent as prisoners of the Eft.

  But, now they were cold and there was nowhere to go. There was a little fir tree where they had emerged—a tree so small that it seemed it should have died ages ago from the weight of the snow. Tully marked it in his mind in case they had to get back to this place, although he did not think he would ever be willing to descend into the awful tunnel again.

  He was just wondering what they would do for food and shelter, now that they had no mentor—evil or otherwise—when he felt a small and familiar form alight on his left antennae. The tickle of it was uncommonly familiar—vaguely annoying, even.

  “I have never been so glad to see you as I am now! I could kiss and hug you, I could, but you would not notice because I am so small!” It was Fangor, the Sand Louse.

  “Fangor!” cried Tully. He had never been so happy to see the Louse in his life. He held out a hand and Fangor jumped into his cupped paw, dancing with joy and excitement. Copernicus snaked down Tully’s arm and sniffed at the little Louse, happy as well to see that he was alive and safe. His tongue flickered out and tasted the air around Fangor and the louse danced away.

  “Hey! Hey! I am glad to see you, too, snake, but don’t get too close!” squealed the Louse.

  Aarvord bent down and smiled a great, beaming grin that seemed to crack the skin around his jaw, as if it was rusty from disuse. Aarvord’s smile was as good as sunshine, and Tully was warmed to see something of his old friend return.

  “Where have you been? How did you escape?” Tully asked.

  “I ask the same of you, I do!” said Fangor. “Have you been wandering in the snow all this long time?”

  Tully was about to launch into the story of the hours—or was it days?—that they had spent in the enchanted realm of Pomplemys. It all seemed like a dream now, even though they had so recently escaped. Then he glanced up from his palm and could see two shadowy figures standing in the snow before them. He stepped forward hesitantly and their edges grew crisper. He could see them for what they were: One was a great hulking creature of feathers and fur and mottled skin, stooped as if under the weight of an awful despair. It gazed into the drifting snow as if it had not even noticed them.

  The other was the perfidious Hatch, their would-be savior, who had sent them on to the lair of Pomplemys. The Shrike looked guilty but defiant. He met Tully’s gaze with a calm and even stare. Before anyone could say anything, Aarvord had lunged forward with a great roar of anger to strike Hatch down into the snow. What he might have done to the Shrike was a mystery, for Hatch, in a flurry of energy, launched himself over the crest of a snowdrift and flapped his way into the air for a few feet, landing safely away from Aarvord’s grasp.

  It was such a comical and surprising sight that Tully laughed aloud. The reunion with Fangor had made his heart strangely light.

  “So you can fly now, can you?” roared Aarvord. “I hope you can fly far, Shrike, because when I catch you I may pluck out every scrubby feather and scrap of fur.”

  Hatch glanced around for another take-off spot, but he had landed in a ditch. He settled for hopping away gingerly, foot by foot, as Aarvord clenched and unclenched his mighty fists.

  “I taught him to fly, I did!” crowed Fangor. “What a sight it was. All the other Shrikes after us with their fiery missiles…Boom! Boom! And this one, why, he’s a hero! He saved brave little Fangor.”

  Fangor leapt from Tully to the tiny fir tree and then onto Aarvord’s shoulder, biting him gently.

  “No, no, friend!” cried Fangor. “Do not attack with fierce anger!”

  “Don’t bite me, you wretched little mite!” yelled Aarvord. Yet he seemed slightly mollified. He would deal with Hatch, all in good time. He turned away from Hatch to gaze upon the other creature. It was the Shrike-Grout, and it had shrunk in stature and strength since he had fought it within the stronghold.

  “What is it?” whispered Tully.

  “It is the child of Justice,” said Aarvord, looking with pity on the creature. “And since she is gone, it must now be mine. It is something the Shrikes made for some dreadful purpose. And still they torment it, evidently.” He looked heavily at Hatch, who looked away. Hatch’s guilt was multiplied, for he had recently fed on the misery of the Shrike-Grout to survive.

  Aarvord stepped over to the creature and placed a great paw on its shoulder. Its fur was coarse and ugly. Everything about it was ugly.

  “Can you speak?” said Aarvord. “Can you think?”

  The Shrike-Grout stood limply, as if it could not see or hear Aarvord. Inside its mind, it had gone away to a place where it could not feel. The cold winds could not touch it. Nothing could touch it. It was ready to die.

  “What happened here?” Aarvord asked Fangor, who was still perched on his shoulder. Fangor’s little antennae twiddled in nervous agitation.

  “We found it!” squeaked Fangor. “It was walking in the snow. It was alone. I didn’t know what it was. It ran, but then it waited for us. No one has touched it! No one has harmed it!”

  “This is not true,” said Hatch quietly. “I was forced to feed.”

  Hatch looked away again, and Fangor began to burble and murmur in dismay. “He had to! He could not help himself. Hatch, tell them so.” Fangor looked at his new friend imploringly. Everything seemed to have gone wrong. He wanted his friends to like Hatch. They would forgive him. They were good and loyal!

  No one said a word. While they waited, something very strange happened to the Shrike-Grout. It looked up, its eyes focused on some far distant goal. It seemed entirely renewed in energy. Without looking at any of them, it began to march steadily southward.

  “Now that is strange,” whispered Fangor. “Where is it going, hey? What’s this all about?”

  Hatch looked perturbed. He watched after the disappearing form of the Shrike-Grout with resignation.

  “It has gotten the signal, the call,” he said. “It has been beckoned.”

  “Explain!” demanded Tully.

  Hatch sighed.

  “I did not think it would work,” he said. “Other experiments have been tried before and have failed. It is all in the attempt of one final solution: to get the Wents to sing.”

  Tully felt cold. “Why? Why must they sing?”

  “Their singing is the only thing that may open the great rock,” said Hatch. “The task that my people have been attempting for the past several years. We have tried many methods, but nothing has been successful…so far.”

  “Exactly what is supposed to come out from the rock?” asked Tully, though he knew the answer. He had heard the prophecy himself. Copernicus answered for all of them: />
  “When the rock is split asunder

  The Hundred will awake.”

  The little snake shuddered as he said it.

  “The Hundred want their lives back,” assented Hatch. “They will live again; they will find a way. The rock holds the secret. And the Hundred are our masters. We do what they ask of us. Though they will no longer want me. I am a traitor.”

  He continued: “The Hundred themselves finally told us what is needed. They have told us in dreams and voices that the Wents will solve our Great Matter. Wents will do what other Wents do. They are stubborn but they follow the group mind. So the Shrikes have created some Wents of their own, much as they made that creature.” Pointing in the direction of the Shrike-Grout he shrugged, as if this were all in a day’s work.

  “You met one of them,” Hatch added. “The young one you rescued. I thought it was foolish, for there were tens of others of her kind in hidden chambers. Although she was, they thought, a unique thing.”

  Tully’s head swam. Elutia had been one of the Shrike’s manufacturings? Impossible, for she had memories of a time long before. She had known Hindrance. She was a real thing.

  “You lie!” said Tully. “Elutia was not made by the Shrikes.”

  “You don’t listen,” shot back Hatch. “I am not done in my telling. Indeed, she was made—but she was built from the memories and material of other Wents. The process was not very exact. They made fifty of them before one even lived. They made another fifty before they found one that was obedient. Then they were able to make hundreds. Your Elutia was not one of the obedient ones. She was interesting to them, for she seemed to have strange gifts. They also thought she would have great power, if they could only sway her. But you stole her before that could happen.”