Barra didn’t argue. She went in after him. Tory was reluctant to enter, but after one more suspicious look around, he joined them as well.
The interior of the den was unlike any other that Barra knew. If seats, beds, or tables had grown there before, they hadn’t left much evidence of their existence. The high ceiling was domed in a familiar way, but instead of bindings as the bups knew them, there were jagged, stony shards holding the branches together. There were smooth, reflective shards too, embedded into the ceiling. Walking around the room caused a cascade of reflections that unnerved Barra.
There was a deep basin in the center of the floor made from spiraling branches big enough to fit all of Tory and more. A shallow, luminescent pool of water rested at the bottom.
Barra leaned way over the lip of the basin and sniffed at the water. After smelling from a few angles, she decided it was safe and lapped up a few tongues full. She sat up. “It tastes strange, but I think it’s safe.”
Tory and Plicks drank. After each had slaked his thirst, the basin was almost empty. In a couple of moments, the water began refilling slowly from the bared roots at the bottom.
Barra’s fur was still matted from the trapwillow moss, and Tory pointed it out. “You might want to clean that off in case you need to stealth again.”
Barra reached up with a paw and unceremoniously began ripping the thin strands from her fur. “Ow!” Barra stopped suddenly, and inspected her arm where a bright line of red appeared. She began licking at it, lapping up the blood that beaded up. Scrutinizing the sticky strands she held she saw a large thorn glued to one. It was small, but it had a nasty hooked point on it.
“You okay?” Tory asked. He was at a window keeping watch.
“It’s only a scratch,” Barra lied. It was deeper than a scratch, but it didn’t look serious. “Watch out for the thorns on that black vine, they’re really sharp.” She finished pulling the last of the strands from her fur—more carefully than before—and cleaned up as best she could.
Tory paced from opening to opening, watching for anything dangerous that might come their way. His patrol was interrupted by a dense, low hum that began at his feet and travelled up his spine. The den swayed subtly, causing his vision to swim.
Tory lost his balance. “Whoa. Do you feel that?”
Plicks was shock-calm in the alien environment, staring at his feet where he dangled them into the watery basin. He was disconnected from their plight, detached from the world. He said nothing.
Barra felt the den moving. She experienced the same eerie disorientation as Tory, and echoed his thoughts, “What is it?”
The swaying and vibrating increased. The hum became a rumble and the floor of the den seemed to slide around beneath their feet. The pool lapped at Plicks’ toes, startling him. He retreated from the lip of the basin like it was the salivating mouth of a hungry animal. Indeed, the opening of the basin narrowed. Plicks pointed and erpped repeatedly.
Barra and Tory followed Plicks’ gaze and saw the basin closing. The narrowing opening created a conical light that was focused on the ceiling. Barra was the first to look up. The mirrored surfaces came together as the branches rearranged themselves. Barra yelled, “It’s the Buckle!”
The Great Trees were sliding together for the night. The floor was shrinking, the ceiling collapsing. The windows of the den were closing and Barra feared they’d be trapped inside. She raced to action. Dashing to the closest porthole, Barra leapt through. Outside, she turned around to see Tory and Plicks standing motionless, slow to react, apparently mesmerized. “Come on!” Barra screamed. The sound of the wild thicket weaving all around her was terrifying, hissing wet and sinister. The implications were havoc in her mind.
Tory and Plicks were still stuck in place. Barra scratched anxiously at the opening that wouldn’t be for much longer. Glancing over her shoulder at the rootscape, she sighed. Inside the mysterious den or outside in the scary unknown; she’d rather be with her friends than alone.
Barra slipped back inside.
“What’re you doing!?” Tory exclaimed as he and Plicks finally ran over to her.
“The window’s already too small!” Barra pointed and yelled angrily.
Tory didn’t blink. He only stared at her, unable to process everything that was happening.
The Buckle eventually ended, and just like that, they were sealed off from the rest of the Root for the night. Trapped maybe, but also safe from the green eyes that lingered outside.
13. Reflection’s End
The ancient den was well lit, the ceiling buckled into a mostly contiguous array of reflective surfaces where the shrunken basin focused a wavering blue light. The soothing nature of the curvy lines bouncing around the room did nothing to ease the bups’ fear.
The trio searched for a way out. A few obvious doorways offered hope, but their bindings had erupted long ago, rendering them impassable. No escape, the trio instead found an alcove sprouting a few withering berries and sweet roots. The food only appeared meager, but was in fact potent. The strong flavors woke the bellies of the ravenous bups and they ate every bit.
Nothing left to explore and having found no exit, the three friends rested around the narrow basin. They watched the ceiling dance, and despite their circumstances, felt awe. The longer they looked, the deeper the reflection pulled them in.
After a while, Tory whispered, “What’re we gonna do?”
Barra was preoccupied and Plicks still had a detached, glazed-over look in his eyes. Propping himself up, Tory reiterated, “No really, what’s the plan?”
Barra was thinking about her father and the Root, trying to remember everything from the journal. She didn’t appreciate the interruption. She glared at Tory and said, “Tonight? What do you want us to do? There’s nothing we can do.”
“We can’t talk about it? Try to figure it out? We’ve got the time,” Tory said, an edge of agitation in his voice. Of course, they were stuck. He knew they were stuck. He wanted to get unstuck. That was the idea.
Oblivious, Plicks said, “What do you think makes the light ripple like that?”
Tory threw his hands up, eyes rolling.
Barra scrutinized her fluffy friend, and wondered if he’d hit his head on the way down.
No one answered Plicks. No one said anything. Barra felt pressure to say something, to offer a plan, but her mind was swimming. The laceration from the thorn pricked for her attention, and she licked at it absentmindedly while she tried to think.
Tory walked his nervous energy off, circling the mouth of the water basin. After many tiny laps he knelt down beside Plicks. Tory waved his hand in front of Plicks’ face. The Kolalabat wore an unflinching, unsettling expression and didn’t react. Tory poked at him, “Hey. Hey, you gonna be alright?”
“Sure. I’m good,” Plicks seemed surprised that Tory would think anything else. After an uncomfortable delay, as though he’d suddenly remembered something, he returned, “How are you?”
“I’m doin’ okay,” he said, evenly. Tory sat again, right beside his dazed friend. He tried to see what fascinated the Kolalabat so much about the ceiling. It was brilliantly architected—Tory couldn’t imagine how the binders accomplished it all—but he thought Plicks saw more.
As Tory watched the beautiful play of light and shadow, he calmed down. His irritation with Barra subsided. He thought he could almost see through the ceiling into another world. Looking deep into the reflected image instead of at the surfaces that created it, he thought he saw something familiar.
He pointed and said, “I can almost make out some boughs. Reminds me of when my mom took me to the Mangrove Loft. We visited the wading pools with the other Rugosics, and left the deeper ones for the swimmers—Bellbottoms, you know? But I was curious, and I snuck off to look at the deep pools. There were branches grown into them, Arboreals darting in and out. Looked like fun. Anyway though, the water w
as green, but otherwise it looked a lot like this.”
Barra wasn’t interested in the ceiling. She sat up and said, “I think we had the right idea already. Find a Great Trunk and climb.” Shrugging, she continued, “We found food, and I expect we’ll find more in other dens like this. Nothing left to do tonight but rest. Tomorrow, we hop from den to den until we find the Umberwood.”
Nodding, Tory said, “Yeah. Yeah, that could work. Maybe start thinking about saving some food too.”
Grimacing, she recalled how poorly her last attempt at weaving had turned out; the satchel she’d made fell apart the first time she’d used it. She said, “Ermm, we’ll have to figure that out I guess.”
Plicks’ legs jerked like he’d nodded off. He rolled onto his side and said, “Night.”
Barra and Tory took the cue, exchanged goodnights, and tried to get comfortable.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Their sleep broke many times as the night opened to day. The foreign sounds of the rootscape agitated their dreams, and the uncomfortable floor of the den kept them tossing and turning.
Daytime in the Loft wasn’t exactly bright, but the Root was worse—like the Loft wearing a shroud. There were few flowers, though some fungal blooms sprouted in the nooks where roots entangled or split. The mushrooms had shoots that sprung like hair from their caps and cast light from their tips, but not enough to see by. Instead, the bups’ vision relied on the faint mist that soaked the air, which lit the perilous rootscape but also obscured it. Barra did her best to guide them.
As they travelled, the alarms in Tory’s head kept going off. He was sure they were being followed, but whenever he looked, there was nothing. He suspected every shadow of hiding a threat. That wasn’t all he had to worry about either. Plicks had apparently worsened overnight so that now he muttered nonsense from time to time without explanation. The Kolalabat startled easily too, which only fueled Tory’s rampant imagination. The Rugosic kept a vigilant watch on his friend, and the wood.
The slimy boughs high above the floor of the Root were home to a variety of dens. None had a reflective ceiling like the first, though the woodwork of each did make unusual use of stones and metals. There were several food plants as well, but never in great quantity. Barra worried that when it came time to store some for the climb there wouldn’t be enough, but she tried not to think about it. Besides, not one of the bups was experienced enough to weave any of the bark fibers they’d found so far into anything useful. Barra kept a look out, hoping to spot a familiar willow or anything she could make into a satchel.
The passage of time was difficult to track. They hadn’t seen a dayflower, and couldn’t guess the time by changes in light. Regardless, eventually all three were sure evening was coming. They began seeking a shelter that would offer more comfort than the last. Approaching one of the largest dens they’d seen, Plicks took off running. “I’ll search this one!” he called back over his shoulder.
Barra and Tory raced after him and caught up to him inside the den. Barra scolded, “Don’t do that! We have to stick together.” She liked his attitude less and less, and wanted to snap him out of it. Everything she thought of saying just sounded mean, so she held her tongue.
The den they’d entered was large, with several doorways. Like everything else they’d seen at the Root, it was overgrown with vines, and the floor and walls were becoming unbound. Nevertheless, the den was accommodating.
Despite Barra’s warning, Plicks bounded off through one of the doorways into an adjoining room. He yelled back, “I think it’s a nestroom!”
Tory and Barra followed and found Plicks rolled up on some moss. Barra sniffed the air and said to Tory, “It doesn’t smell worse here than anywhere else.” She was tired after trekking all day, and willing to rest pretty much anywhere.
“I don’t like it,” Tory said while shaking his head slowly. “It’s so big. Right now, I gotta admit I kinda want the security of a neatly bound space. If we stay here, we’ll have to take turns keeping a look out.”
Plicks whined, “This is the safest place we’ve found! We need a break.”
Just as exhausted as everyone else, Tory said, “We just have to do some work to check it all out. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Great! I’ll check the nestrooms!” Plicks got up and left in a bolt of nervous energy.
Barra shrugged, and gestured for Tory to follow her. She said, “Let’s look around outside. See if we can guess how the bindings are going to work tonight. I don’t really know what time it is. Might be better to stay here, regardless. You know? Rather than get caught outside?”
“Whoa, what about him? You really want to leave him alone in here?” Tory asked.
“No, I don’t want to, but we have to talk… about him. We won’t go far. He’ll be okay,” she said. She added, “It’s not like there’s been an Arboreal alive down here in a million rings.”
Tory wasn’t worried about other Arboreals. Still, they hadn’t actually seen anything else to fear either. He followed her out, and they climbed the perimeter together. Tory called attention to several misshapen, obviously broken bindings, and guessed that several were missing, but saw nothing that worried him about the safety of the structure.
Certain they were out of Plicks’ earshot, Tory began, “There’s something wrong with him.”
Barra said, “Yeah, definitely. We gotta help him, but I don’t know what to do. He seems like he’s already given up.”
“He’ll figure it out. We just have to stay positive, and… I don’t know. He’ll be okay. We’re all going to be okay, right?” Tory asked.
“Hey, I’m scared too, but we gotta keep it together. We’re…,” she trailed off, distracted by something.
Tory thought Barra could use some help keeping it together, considering how she seemed just as edgy as the rest of them. He peered into the shadows trying to see whatever had distracted her.
Barra sniffed the air, and Tory could see her pupils grow so wide that the emerald of her irises disappeared.
“What is it?” Tory asked, but Barra was already running to the front of the den. He ran after her, but when he caught up she was already inside. He found her sniffing and dashing frenetically around the room. “Where’s…?” Tory didn’t finish the question.
Plicks was gone.
14. Extinguished
Fresh talon marks carved the floor, wood curling from the runs that ended at a far window. Tory leapt to the window and peered out, but saw nothing. Hanging half out the window he hissed to Barra, “Come on! Something dragged Plicks outta here! We gotta go after him!”
Barra’s pupils were swallowed by her emerald irises. She didn’t move. “There’s something awful out there,” she said. She sounded utterly lost.
Tory ran over to her. “That awful—whatever it is—has Plicks. We gotta go.”
Barra didn’t need to hear it from Tory. It didn’t matter who or what took Plicks, they had to go after him. Her head was achy, her thoughts fuzzy. Barra was overcome with guilt.
Reading her face, Tory firmly said, “When we find Plicks, we can both tell him how sorry we are.”
She nodded. Focusing, she sniffed the room one more time. Confident she’d identified the mingled scent of Plicks and his captors, she jumped out the window following the trail with Tory close behind.
They alternated between racing and crawling, and refused to rest. Barra’s nostrils pulsed rapidly, into the air, along branches, hovering over any surface with a hint of Plicks’ passage on it. She kept them going, and Tory stayed close and alert. As it turned out, the trail was more than distinctive, it was pungent. The stench was difficult to breathe, and after a short while, Barra became dizzy from the fumes. She had to stop frequently to keep from passing out. She started believing the trail was purposefully rank, as a deterrent. Sure, it was easy to follow, but who would want to?
E
very time they stopped, Barra worried Plicks was slipping away from them. She couldn’t let him disappear. They kept on his trail even though her body ached for rest. She tried to forget the stress wearing her down, but each passing measure of time was a painful reminder.
They found a grown-over, derelict pathwood and followed it down. All around them were empty dens, like an abandoned Nest. The dwellings seemed to sprawl endlessly in every direction. Barra thought the number of dens could support a greater population of Arboreals than any Loft she knew, even the Umberwood, and that made the emptiness and ruin even more unsettling.
Overgrowths of jagged, twisting brambles choked the pathwood they travelled into dangerous, narrow sections. They were careful to avoid the dark vine which seemed to grow everywhere, its flat, hooked thorns carving up the open spaces. Barra still hadn’t told Tory that she suspected it was the Creepervine. He’d read the passage about her father’s infected cut, and she didn’t want him connecting the dots. Rescuing Plicks was all that mattered. The gash on Barra’s arm was merely a throbbing reminder to stay far away from the thorns.
The pathwood eventually bottomed out, twisting into the intertwined boughs of the Root. The dens didn’t continue down with them to the bottom. Instead, lattices of ropey, vertical boughs sprawled in every direction. The braids of wood supported the weight of the dens above, though Barra thought they looked more like tethers to keep the dens from flying away. Closer to the Root the lattice was a complex maze with hollows that felt like cages. Barra swallowed hard.
As they continued, Barra and Tory homed in on a not too distant blue glow. Barra sniffed at the damp air and tried to squint through the mist. She prowled up a branch to get a better view while Tory stood guard below. After a few moments of observation, she skulked back down. Standing beside Tory, Barra stretched and tested the strength of her ankle.
Sunborn Rising Page 10