Sunborn Rising

by Aaron Safronoff

  Plicks knew they were protecting him, tip-toeing around him. He felt embarrassed for how he’d been acting—he wanted to keep his chin up like Tory and Barra. Chewing on his lower lip, clicking his talons, he tried to think of something to say.

  “Okay, so Tory has the first watch. I’ll take the next,” Barra said. She quickly counted the lilies knowing they would close back up at regular intervals, the reverse of how they’d opened. She said, “Wake me when there are sixteen left, or if you start to nod.”

  Tory agreed. Stretching his body in every conceivable direction, he bounced to get his blood moving. “Sleep well,” he said and sauntered off.

  “Come on, Plicks,” Barra started off toward an inviting patch of ferns.

  Always a natural with math, Plicks had only to glance at the lilies to know that the watch had been divided in half, instead of thirds. He felt like a burden. It was the same with his brothers and sisters. He was never sure what to do to help, or what he had to offer.

  Barra saw Plicks staring blankly instead of following her, and she shouted, “Plicks!” Startled, he blinked several times, and then she continued, “Come on, worrywart. Tory’s got it covered.” She meant to be encouraging, but it was the last thing Plicks wanted to hear; that someone else was taking care of him again. After lifting and dropping a heavy sigh, he scuttled over to Barra.

  The two had more than enough room to sleep comfortably on the patch together, but as Barra circled and flattened the ferns, Plicks stood apart. He released his scruffs and began arranging them on the floor of the Root. Barra liked sleeping alone, not having any siblings of her own, but was surprised to find that she wanted Plicks’ company, wanted him close. She wouldn’t have admitted it aloud, but she was scared. She was about to call him over, but as he settled into his scruffs, she decided not to bother him. Instead, she said, “Good night.”

  “Night,” Plicks returned softly, looking out from beneath a blanket of fur. He didn’t want to be a burden anymore. He wanted to apologize, but wasn’t sure how. Tomorrow, he’d keep his head on straight. They were going to be okay. Pulling his furry scruff down over his face, he went to sleep.

  Barra closed her eyes but stayed awake awhile longer. She thought about the eyeless monster. Her pulse quickened, and she had to stop herself from snarling. She had to think about something else if she wanted to sleep. She tried to occupy her mind with pragmatic thoughts. Food and water were important objectives. Knowing the layout of the cirque was another. After that? Well, that was tomorrow.

  Eventually, her thoughts wandered to her father. He had left the trees long before Barra could’ve ever gone exploring with him. She envisioned them together adventuring in some exotic Loft abundant with curiosities. There were ancient dens with unique bindings, eccentric shapes, and strange rooms. She imagined a warm, safe place replete with fragrant blooms. Her father taught her the names of the flowers, and her breath fell into a regular rhythm, and she fell asleep.

  Barra’s dream began like most dreams; it began in nothingness. And then…

  A single seed appeared, and from that seed, a single sprout.

  It grew tall and broad with countless roots and branches. Buds poked out from the bark and leaves unfurled. Petals burst and flowers were born.

  A lush canopy expanded and created the sky. An intricate system of roots stretched and created the sea. New trees sprang to life in every direction. Vital shades of green painted the leaves, and radiant flowers illuminated the scene.

  Barra sprinted over the boughs. Her veins pulsed and her lungs swelled. Her strong limbs carried her easily, as though at any moment, she might fly from the trees. Her tail rippled behind her, flexing and catching the rushing air. It swung behind her and kept her balanced.

  Without slowing down, the treescape became abruptly static.

  A Listlespur stood in front of her with his back turned. She knew it was her father, and he was staring at something far below them.

  Dad? What is it? Barra’s dreamself asked.

  There’s something down there, he said, curious.

  That’s the Fall… there’s nothing down there but the end of branches, the end of life, Barra said.

  Her father turned around, and said, No, beneath the Fall. See for yourself. It’s the beginning…

  Barra stepped up beside her father and stared down through the interwoven forever of boughs, leaves, and flowers. Deeper and deeper she looked until finally she saw a speck of darkness. The longer she looked the bigger it became. She was mesmerized. The black speck swallowed the trees, and she was stuck in place. It grew faster and faster, and made her feel like her whole world was falling into an abyss.

  She turned to her father. We have to run! she screamed. But he was gone.

  Running vertically at top speed, Barra tried to escape. But the darkness beneath her grew as fast as she climbed. She dug deep, and moved even faster. The darkness matched. The darkness gained.

  Barra saw the sky. It was full of distant, bright purple sparks that pierced the thinning canopy above her. And the leaves parted, and she saw more of the red cloud that belted the Reach than she ever had before. And she knew that soon, there would be nothing left for her to climb. The darkness grew.

  She ran even faster! And at the top of her home tree, she reached such a speed that she launched herself into the sky. She was free, floating and weightless. But the darkness was endless below her, the black swallowing everything.

  And soon, there was nothing around her. Nothing to see. Nothing to smell, or taste. Barra commanded her arms and legs to grab something, to grab anything!

  But there was nothing.

  Nothing to hold.

  Nothing to stop her fall.

  17. Three

  In her dream, Barra plunged through nothingness until the big black became an ocean. She thrashed about helplessly, struggling to swim, but she couldn’t find the surface. A voice echoed in the water, and a soft radiance followed it. She swam toward the light in fitful bursts and then broke through in a splash.

  “Barra!”

  She bolted up onto all fours, poised to strike. Water dripped from her whiskers and ears. She shook the remnants of her dream away, trying to make sense of things.

  She heard laughter. It was Plicks. He rolled around, giggling fitfully, but Barra was still too lost to understand why. She saw Tory standing nearby holding a spongy-looking tuber as thick as his arm. Long, hair-like roots hung down in bunches from the tuber, dripping water from their ends.

  Grinning widely, Tory asked, “Sleep well?” Barra looked a little like a drowned Kolalabat, at least around her face.

  Brooding, Barra squinted and licked her piercing incisors, putting a point on her displeasure with each of them. “Sleeping was fine,” Barra said. “It’s the waking up part I could do without. Hey, that stuff tastes good!” she changed her attitude mid-sentence as she sampled the water on her lips.

  “I know, right?” Tory handed her the tuber, and Plicks shuffled over to join them.

  Sitting back on her haunches, Barra squeezed the root and droplets rained down. Thirsty, she licked at it while Plicks explained, “I couldn’t sleep much, and neither could Tory, so we paired up for your shift and looked for food at the same time.” He looked around and shrugged. “We didn’t find much, but I found that perennating organ. The root filters all the salt, and—”

  “Perennating?” Barra winced. “Plicks, this tastes great. Don’t ruin it by teaching me about it.” She regretted her words, as she watched Plicks’ enthusiasm drain from him. He shuffled his feet, shoulders sagging.

  Tory bailed her out. “I would’ve never found it on my own! He recognized the leaves sprouting from the floor bark over there.”

  The scenery had changed overnight. The cirque was better lit, though still dusky, and Barra could see much farther. The surrounding woods had opened up, new flowers had blossome
d, and high above her, water was streaming over petals and leaves. The falling water filled the cirque with pitter-patter like a pleasant conversation among splashes, plops, and kerplunks.

  Tory pointed to a small opening in the Root where bunches of long red leaves sprouted in ordered rows. He said, “Plicks spotted them right away, you should have seen him go! Dove in face first, talons clicking! Then he tricked the whole thing out at once. Pretty good, huh? I’ve had five already.”

  “Thank you,” Barra said, making sure Plicks heard her sincerity. She drank again from the tuber, spilling more of the water on her face.

  Plicks walked over to the remaining bunches. Scratching at the white tuft on his chest like a much older Kolalabat might, he said, “I’ve never seen them growing like this. Usually, they’re farther apart. These taste better too. The sponges at home are just sorta bland.”

  “I bet they are.” The unfamiliar voice was silky clear, and too close for comfort. The bups spun around, and Barra instinctively jumped out in front of her friends to protect them. But protect them from whom? There was no one there.

  “Does the rotting thing know you’re here?” the voice asked with passing curiosity.

  Barra was sure she was staring right at the source, but she couldn’t see anything there that could possibly talk. There came a sound like a Rattlebark moving slowly, like tree bark slapping softly against wood. Barra spoke over her shoulder to her friends, “I don’t see anything.”

  “You’re staring directly at me!” the voice exclaimed brightly. He went on, talking to himself out loud, “The rotting thing doesn’t know you’re here, but he knows you’re here. Just like you know I’m here, but you don’t know where I am. Interesting.” He held the ‘ng’ for far too long, and then chuckled, a round, playful sound.

  Standing where the owner of the voice should be was a tall broken bough thicker than Tory. That bough, where it leaned back into the bramble thickets, began to move. The stumped top bent around and down toward the bups. A twist of a knot curled in its bark and then puckered like lips preparing to kiss. The pucker whistled. The notes belonged to a song not one of them knew.

  The bups were enthralled, unable to move.

  Arms and legs unfurled from the animated bough, and three distinct tails snaked around its base. The tails rippled without rhythm as the whistling knot continued its hypnotizing dirge. The outline of an Arboreal-like body became clear as the woody camouflage dissolved into mottled, auburn fur.

  Two molasses eyes opened beneath the knot of a mouth, and the whistling stopped. He winked one eye—apparently at Plicks—as a third eye opened between and beneath the other two. “I know where you are,” he said.

  Lowering itself head over heels to the ground, he put his hands on the floor and flipped over backwards in a flourish. His tails flowed up around him as he spun and stood up in one graceful motion. Melodramatic, poised, serious, the stranger said, “I’m proud to meet all of you.” He closed his eyes—all three of them—and bowed slightly. His third eye opened first and took a shifty look around.

  Unbowed the creature stood taller than Tory. Long flat fingers and toes like a Rattlebark’s extended from his hands and feet, and fur similar to a Listlespur’s covered his body. Similar, but not the same. His fur shifted often, blurring between patterns that hinted at familiar shapes. His somewhat flattened snout held many tiny sharp teeth. As creepy-looking as he was, Barra was relieved his eyes were finally above his mouth.

  “I see you’ve helped yourselves to my garden?” he asked with a quirky twitch. He bounded over to the sprouted bunches where the tubers were growing. The bups circled, never taking their eyes off the strange creature.

  Light from the small pool sparked in the rich molasses of his eyes, but the irises emitted their own light as well. The odd creature picked at the floor bark where Plicks had carefully dug up the spongy roots. Rather absentmindedly, he said, “Now that we’re all here, we should figure out where this is.”

  Several heavy moments passed. The strange creature picked at his plants, meticulously rearranging tiny bits and licking his fingers. Feeling less threatened than she did at first, Barra looked to her friends to see if they felt the same. They shared a group shrug. Ending the silence, Barra shook her head while asking, “What are you?”

  The creatures peeled back his lips and licked his teeth. With his head projected forward from his body, farther than Barra would have thought possible, he mirrored her shaking her head and said, “I’m Fizzit. What are you?” He pointed all three of his tails and a finger at her.

  Barra squinted and leaned toward the Fizzit. She answered stiltedly, “I’m. A. Listlespur.” If he didn’t recognize a common Listlespur, she thought he might be challenged in other ways. When the Fizzit said nothing more, Barra settled back a bit. She tilted her head, deciding whether or not to trust the weird creature. Not able to make up her mind yet, she began introductions, “I’m Barra. This is…”

  But the creature interjected, “Barra? Never heard of it.”

  “No, I’m Barra,” she restated, pointing to herself, her patience worn thin from the journey.

  He looked up from what he was doing, and observed Barra methodically. Each eye blinked, one after another in a circle. “No,” he said clearly. With even greater impatience than Barra, he continued, “I’m positive this isn’t Barra. I’ve been here a long time… if you were here I would have known it.”

  She wrinkled up her nose, unable to make heads or tails of his statement. “Well, who are you then?” she asked, a point on the end of the question.

  “I told you already… not all of us are here, so we haven’t all been introduced.” He shrugged and went back to tending his plants.

  “You’re not all here,” Tory said sarcastically under his breath, unable to stop himself from voicing the thought.

  Plicks shot Tory a reproachful look, pleading for Tory not to rile the eccentric creature.

  Barra decided she was done with pleasantries, and attempted to advance the conversation, “We fell, you know, from the Loft?” She pointed up. “The top of the Umberwood? We’re trying to go home.”

  The stranger turned and sat, his tails dancing mysteriously behind him. His shiny teeth glistened as he spoke, “Aha! Now! Now, we’re getting to somewhere. This must be the crossroads!” He saw how confused the bups were, and his face sagged, disappointed. Each eye focused on a different bup, and he said gently, “Come here. Sit with me.” He even had three tones to his voice—an echo for each of them.

  Tentatively, Barra and Tory made their way toward him. Plicks was apprehensive, but he joined the others where they sat across the small pool from Fizzit. Each of Fizzit’s eyes followed a specific bup, though they traded from time to time. He braided his tails masterfully and curled the result around his bottom, covering his feet.

  “I didn’t know this was the crossroads,” Fizzit said. “I’ve been here for so long… so long. The pathwoods all went to no where—to the same no place—as far as I followed them.” It was hard to tell to whom he was speaking exactly. He might have been talking to himself. His subtle echoes faded away, and then he said, “The pathwood home is the hardest to find sometimes. And sometimes it’s the hardest to travel.”

  A broad silence followed, and Barra took it as an opportunity to speak again, “Well, we have a plan. We just need to get to the base of the trunk of the Umberwood, or any Great Tree really. We think we can climb from there.”

  “There are many ways from the crossroads.” Fizzit shrugged. “That is the nature of its existence… going up is one direction. Going down is another.” He spoke as though he was stating something obvious, trying hard not to be patronizing.

  Barra was confused. She looked from Tory to Plicks, and neither seemed to understand more than she did. Trying to steer the conversation back to something she could use, she said, “Well, sure. There’re lots of ways to go, but we wan
t to go home. We have to go up. So, if you could help us find the—”

  “You have many homes,” Fizzit interrupted, toying with his braided tail. “One of them is at the end of every pathwood.”

  The conversation caught Tory’s attention because he’d heard similar language used to describe the art of binding. Binders often described the process of shaping a branch as choosing a path for the growth. Allowing the intrinsic path to guide their choices, Binders invariably produced better, healthier structures. But there were many paths, never just one, to the right binding. But Tory didn’t want to end up somewhere that became home because that’s where he happened to be; he wanted to go to his home in the Loft. He tried to explain, “No, no. This is different. We’re not exploring. We’re not looking for a new place to live. We know where we want to go.”

  The stranger’s three eyes blinked in unison, slowly, as he tilted his head. He whistled again to forestall the Rugosic. Smirking good-naturedly, he challenged, “Do you, really?” Then, to himself, he said, “Fascinating. I’m still finding my way… so many destinies. Each of us has so many destinies.” Addressing Tory again, he asked, “How did you choose yours?”

  “I…” Tory groped for a reasonable reply to what he thought was an unreasonable question. Assuming the stranger meant destination not destiny, Tory eventually settled on an answer. “I didn’t have much to do with it. I was born there.”

  “Ahhh, that makes more sense,” Fizzit said, nodding emphatically. One teasing eye winked at Tory. “You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t know where you’ve been.”

  “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the company, and the fresh water,” Barra started in again, “But we’ve got to get back home. Can you help us?”

  “You’ve left the nest. You should be proud. You can never go back,” he stated, not without kindness.

  Plicks heard those last words, and echoed in despair, “We can never go back.”