Sunborn Rising

by Aaron Safronoff

  There were two doctors with them, a Weaver named Searowe who could spin out a suture fast and clean with his eyes closed, and a Muskkat who went by Mareki. Methodical and keen of judgment, Mareki made sure the worst wounds were addressed first. Brace nodded toward nothing in particular at the periphery of the camp. A Listlespur emerged from the darkness, the same who had first reported the location of the towering creature that had broken through the Root.

  “Get the doctors please?” she asked the slender, younger version of herself. Jaeden lowered her head in affirmation, and then bounded away.

  Brace knew the doctors were busy—the fights against the fungal-puppets rarely ended well for the Arboreals. The diabolical creatures always came with greater numbers, and not being overly concerned with self-preservation, they could fight and keep fighting. Still, Brace needed the doctors to come for Barra. She needed them to tell her that her daughter was going to be okay.

  Back at the center of the campsite, the rest of the expedition surrounded Plicks and Tory. They provided food, compassion, and more questions. The short version of the bups’ story was relayed without embellishment—it didn’t need any. The camp cheered, laughed, and cried as the story was told. Afterward, they asked about Argus and his minions; what had Tory seen, what had Plicks? Fizzit’s description inspired confusion, awe, and suspicion. They ventured guesses about him in secretive whispers. Rumors began about the Nebules too. Arboreals familiar with the archives wondered if the jellies were related to the legendary creatures of the same name who had created the Aetherials. There was no way to know for sure.

  Standing back, far away from the crowd, Jerrun leaned on his staff and listened. At the mention of Fizzit, he asked the mist, “What game are you playing?”

  Behind him, an amber eye opened with no distinguishable head to hold it. “I explain myself to no one,” said the stranger in a way that made his final word stick in Jerrun’s ear like a barbed nettle. Then with a sudden change of tone, he added humorously, “If I explained myself we’d be here forever. I have that kind of time, but I don’t think you do. Do you?”

  The Head of Council didn’t respond. He listened in on the expedition awhile longer, and then asked, “Is it already done then? The Creeper is in the water?” He seemed defeated.

  “Not yet,” Fizzit said. “We should talk.” Jerrun, already sagging, managed to slump down even more. He turned around, limping around his staff. He joined Fizzit, and they disappeared into the mist.

  Not one of the expedition noticed Jerrun’s departure, or his uninvited guest. They were too preoccupied with Tory. The newly bonded minerals caused worry at first, but as his story unfolded, speculation consulted legend for answers. The Rugosics, Tory’s father among them, thought about the ocean and the vast clouds of minerals, and wondered about their ancestors. The audience finally broke up, and Tory was alone with his father.

  They had a few false starts, colliding with each other’s words. “Thanks for being here,” Tory said. He threw his arms around his Father and held on tight.

  “I’m just so glad we found you.” Tory’s father hugged him back powerfully. He said, “I couldn’t imagine…” The rough-skinned Rugosic held his son by the shoulders, “Let me look at you!” Tears glinted in his eyes. He sniffled, and then he said, “My bup!”

  The outpouring of emotion overwhelmed Tory. His legs weakened and he just collapsed into his father’s arms, allowing himself to be held. Char bobbed in, extending and retracting his small spheres in jubilant cascades. The Nebule kept at it until he finally got Tory’s attention.

  “Meet Char,” Tory said. It was a personal introduction even though the Nebules had been announced to everyone. “Char, this is my father, Ven Luke Mafic,” he said with pride. And the conversation gained momentum from there, words flowing smoothly, as though there hadn’t been awkward rings of silence between them.

  Plicks was bundled up into a ball and tossed around by his family. They hugged him and passed him on. The large collection of Kolalabats expressed their emotions easily, crying and laughing, hugging and petting. The boisterousness of Plicks’ family usually made him anxious and embarrassed, but not now. He was glad for the unending chain of warmth and support. His feet never touched the ground as he went from greeting to greeting. Blue enjoyed it too, flying around behind Plicks, snuggling and being snuggled. He swooped in at times and stole some attention for himself.

  While the rest of the camp was busy with Plicks and Tory, Jaeden returned to Brace with the doctors. The wound stumped both of them; they’d never seen anything like it. Red guided them through the examination. She demonstrated the wrap she provided for Barra, the way she wound her tentacle around the wound. Mareki was impressed, but solemn, respecting Brace’s concern. The suds bubbled up on the wound and Red turned muddy. Searowe said he believed the Nebule was cleaning the wound, but not curing the infection. The doctors felt there was little more they could do. The sparse vegetation the Root provided was unfamiliar in terms of the herbs and remedies they knew. The consensus was to get Barra back to the Loft as soon as possible. The doctors were thanked and excused.

  Brace became hardened by the news. She stroked her daughter’s hair, and whispered, “Burbur. My sweet Burbur. We’ll be home soon. I promise.”

  Jaeden appeared, forming out of seemingly distant branches. She stood, a mere tail’s length away. “You’ll have to tell me sometime how you got so good at that,” Brace nodded, impressed. Stealth wasn’t exactly practiced among Listlespurs anymore, at least not within the polite community of the Loft.

  “Sometime,” Jaeden said.

  Brace wanted to know about Jaeden’s Thread, too. Jaeden wore woven ropes around her forearms like a Rugosic but no curios had been sewn into them. When the expedition made it home, Brace looked forward to an explanation. In the meantime, she said, “Right. What is it? Did you find Jerrun?”

  “He’s not in the camp.” Jaeden’s eyes were vivid orange with ash-gray rims, steady beacons against the dark.

  “He was taken?” Brace was stunned.

  “He wasn’t ambushed. He left on his own,” Jaeden said with a hint of intrigue, like she knew more but wasn’t telling. She added, “I didn’t follow his trail far, but it was like he knew where he was going.”

  “What do you mean?” Brace spoke tightly. She looked at her daughter. Wasn’t there enough already to fear without Jerrun playing mysterious games? She reached down to Barra’s forehead, and found that whatever Red was doing was at least relieving the fever.

  “I mean there’s something not right about that old Arboreal,” Jaeden said, but then she shrugged. Disgusted, she went on, “Maybe it’s just me, but this whole place stinks. I’ve got splashes of them in my nose. I’m scent-blind. It’s making me twitchy.”

  “Well, we’ll just leave him if he doesn’t return before we break camp. I don’t know how the rest will take it, but we’re not waiting around for him.” She spoke like there was acid on her tongue.

  Jaeden bowed her head slightly to say farewell and then she vanished into the surrounding wood. Brace noted the glint in her fellow Listlespur’s eye, the nervy twitch of a smile that had appeared when she’d suggested they leave Jerrun behind. Another question for Brace’s list.

  Brace nodded so that Jaeden would see, and pointed at Barra. She wanted her daughter guarded. Back in the main area of the camp, Brace began organizing the expedition to go home.

  28. Sacrifices

  The pathwood back to the Loft was fraught and unknown. Even with all the accumulated knowledge, the expedition’s plan to climb a Great Tree seemed much more daunting from the bottom. Routes had been built into the Trees many rings ago by Arboreals frequently traveling between Loft and Root. But the Trees were younger then, smaller. Worse than the prospect of the climb, as close as they were to the base of the Umberwood, Argus was closer. The eyeless wretch and his puppet minions seemed to be everywhere. While
they debated climbing options, the scouting continued.

  Kolalabats and Listlespurs returned regularly with information about the rootscape. They refined their understanding of the Root while keeping an eye out for the puppets. Everyone hoped a scout would return with news of a clandestine path, a secret way to the trunk. There was none. As the days passed, the creeping periphery seemed to grow closer and thicker, but Brace hoped it was just her imagination.

  She made a round of the camp whenever she needed a break to think. She checked in on Barra—who was somewhat better, even if her arm wasn’t—and then visited Plicks and Tory. There was a tight rope of emotion holding the families together. They’d been given a second chance, which doubled their fear of losing them. The families were jumpy and uncertain. Every shadow was a looming portent, the unseen threatening to swallow their young ones again. Brace did her rounds, kept her words short and encouraging, even though she shared their same fears.

  Patrolling the outer fringes of the camp, Brace was intercepted by Jaeden, who reported, “Jerrun’s back.”

  Brace was disappointed. “Well, at least I don’t have to explain to the Council how I lost him,” she said.

  Jaeden was often terse, and quick to leave, so Brace thought it odd that the mysterious Listlespur was still standing there. She asked, “Was there something else?”

  “He’s addressing the camp… something about the bups or their companions? A threat to all of us,” Jaeden said.

  “What?!” Brace didn’t wait for more explanation. She picked up her pace and found Jerrun already had everyone’s attention at the center of camp. His tone was aggressive, his words condemning. His message was clear; the bups were infected.

  With a strain of will, Brace composed herself and approached. “What’s all this?”

  “Ah, Brace, glad to see you could make it,” Jerrun said. “I’ve spoken to Mareki and Searowe. When were you planning on telling the rest of us about your daughter’s wound?”

  Brace was caught completely off guard. She hadn’t hidden anything from anyone. It hadn’t occurred to her that a wounded bup was considered a threat. “It’s hardly a secret, Jerrun. What’s the problem?” she said impatiently.

  “What’s the problem?” Jerrun asked the crowd, suggesting Brace’s question alone implied she was blind. “Problems, Brace, there are several.” Jerrun turned his face up in disgust, “Your daughter has a gaping wound that smells like, well, everything in this place. It’s full of rot, and we do not understand it, and you’d have us bring it to our Loft?”

  Jerrun’s barbed words worked their way into Brace’s ears, stunning her. He sensed her weakness and continued, “Tory has strange new markings…”

  Ven Mafic spoke up, unafraid, “They’re harmless!”

  “Maybe, Luke, maybe. But what if they’re not?” Jerrun then implored the rest of the gathering, “We need to be sure for the sake of all of our families. As hard as it might be to hear, we didn’t find the bups the same as they left.” There was no response except the passive agreement of silence, and he turned again on Brace.

  “We know the source of the darkness now. I assumed you, Brace, of all Arboreals, would be the first to want to put an end to it,” Jerrun phrased the idea as though only a fool would think otherwise.

  Brace was not a fool. Not so easily manipulated. “Our goal has always been to save the bups. We’re only halfway there.” She waved to everyone. “We need to get home. With the bups, and everything we now know about the Root.”

  “We can’t go back to the Loft,” Jerrun hissed at Brace.

  The crowd of Arboreals became restless. There were cries from the group. “You’re mad!” they said. “We’re going home!”

  Jerrun implored the entire expedition, “Don’t you see? None of us can go back. Not without carrying this… this rot right into our homes! Everyone will die!”

  Brace was livid, “What are we even talking about?”

  “Look around!” Jerrun leaned on his staff. “This Root? It’s the land of the dead. And the Creepervine is just death’s cold hand reaching up for our lives in the Loft. We can’t let it succeed—”

  “What would you have us do?! Attack what, exactly? The fungal-puppets?! We can’t destroy them all.” Brace was incredulous.

  Jaeden slid into the enclave and walked right up to Brace. “The puppets are on the move.”

  The boughs began writhing all around them. Glowing eyes blinked on as the puppet horrors appeared out of the darkness. They were surrounded.

  29. Familiar Foes

  All stories are merely moments strung together one after another into simple threads. The stories of grand adventures and great civilizations, the stories of uneventful days, and the stories of the Arboreals—each one of them, all stories, moments held together by the most fragile of strings. Usually, one precious moment gives birth to the next, so that every moment carries on the lineage, recognizable and easy to follow. But sometimes a moment seems to come from nothing. Sometimes, the ancestral tapestry is sewn into knots, and new unfamiliar patterns grow. Where this present moment came from can be almost impossible to know, but this moment cannot lie, it can only make the thread harder to unravel. The rest of the times—perhaps, most of the times?—the causes are more obvious, and the effects, more immediate.

  ~ Excerpt: Fizzit’s Leaves

  The expedition was surrounded by Argus’ minions. Their individual moments were collected, and exposed. Each Kolalabat, Listlespur, and Rugosic, every Nectarbadger and Weaver, every Rattlebark and Bellbottom was given a stretch of time to review the strings of their lives. Not one wondered how they’d arrived at that moment. Some felt regret and others pride, but each understood. It was a rare moment, the kind that grants absolute clarity. A moment from which no one can hide.

  The moment of reflection collapsed. Time sped forward to catch up.

  The circle broke. Brace alone stood her ground as the rest scattered. She bared her teeth and hissed vicious spittle. Growls and barks echoed back from the dark, the Arboreals responding to her call to stay. With control, she lowered herself to all fours, and punished the air with her tail. The sharp, staccato whipping made blood promises Brace intended to keep.

  The monstrosities rushed the camp. They were held together by fungus and animated by vines like other puppets, but beyond that the similarities vanished. Where Brace expected dull claws and broken talons, sharpened and complete versions grew. More staggering than the physical differences, these puppets were coordinated. They worked together, closing off avenues of escape. They isolated the weakest Arboreals, and doubled up against the strong. In place of torpor, they had determination and awareness. They attacked from every direction.

  The campsite exploded with howls, growls, and screams. A serpent-like puppet sprang at Brace, but she’d spied the intent in the creature’s eyes and dodged easily. Brace lashed the beast to the ground, and then tore through its back with her claws. Yellow-green splashed into the air in bright spurts. The monstrosity wriggled, unable to stand up, and Brace shifted her attention to the only thing that mattered: her daughter.

  She careened toward the wall of fungal-puppets. Crashing into the nearest, she tackled the monster while slashing at its vines, using her tail to tie up its limbs. They rolled to a stop, Brace landing on top. She sliced through each of its arms, and then, using its body like a spring board, she jumped up and dashed to where she’d left Barra sleeping.

  Jerrun faded into the background at the first sign of the attack, hiding. As Brace left the area, he slunk after her using his robe as camouflage. His progress was slow, but he followed her scent.

  Racing, Brace shivered as she heard a scream. The sound of it was so distorted by pain that it was almost impossible to imagine it came from any living creature. Her only solace was that the scream came from behind her. It wasn’t Barra. Still, her heart reached back as she drove forward. She came up on t
he small resting area, and saw two hulking minions converging on her daughter.

  Barra was already awake and alert. Red lashed out at the fungal-puppets, keeping them at bay. Waiting to reveal herself, Brace sampled the air and found Jaeden nearby. No words were exchanged, but their assault was coordinated, swift and lethal. Only severed limbs and mangled corpses remained.

  “Mom,” Barra jumped to her mother and embraced her. Red bobbed and flitted around, but never went far from Barra. Looking over her shoulder, Brace thanked Jaeden with a deep nod. Jaeden nodded back, and bowed into the darkness again.

  Sounds of combat were ferocious and close. Barra’s mother held her at arm’s distance and asked, “Can you fly again? Or dive into the ocean? You have to get away! Someplace safe!”

  “What about you!? And where are Tory and Plicks?” Barra said, high pitched with worry and fear. “Where are they?”

  Brace thought back, trying to piece together what she’d seen. Plicks and Tory were caught in the fight, but she refused to tell her daughter that. She said calmly, “I’ll find them, but I need to know you’re safe in order to do that. Fly away with Red. Stealth, hide. I’ll find you.”

  The ground rumbled before either could move. Wounds in the woods split open, and new scars were torn into the bark. A flood of dark liquid poured from the largest gaping rent. Vines appeared out of the treacle and climbed the nearby branches. A head emerged, sagging, eyeless, and heavy. Shoulders and torso followed, attached to a rising trunk of Creepervine that was riddled with thorns. Smaller vines continued to pour out around Argus’ feet, along with more fungus and pooling darkness. He raised his head and peered at the Swiftspurs with empty sockets.