by T. Wyse
Inky wraiths crept from the shadows, and under the starlight, they formed into the black dogs. They snapped and nipped at his ankles but couldn’t hope to catch him, chasing fruitlessly before shuffling back into the darkness. They came and went under the stars, and yet the empty world unfocused as he flowed within the beat of the shifting earth below. He passed over stolen streets, over the memories of houses, and through the cluttered ruins peeking above the sands.
The coming of the dawn chased away the smearing feeling, and he felt his pace ebb, his legs and arms making vague protests. He stumbled when his feet met the swamp, changing his pace and movements to glide over the patches of ground. Guided by the gaze of the black dome, he was far enough away that Wolf’s running form blocked it.
Trees grew in the swamps, fat and scaled trunks exploding out to myriad branches that reached to greedily grasp at the sun. Their roots drank in the murky water, forming solid islands that shivered with fragile life as he ran over them. Eyes followed his progress, of jagged-toothed lizards and the turtles grown into mossy-shelled beasts. Not even the singing insects stung at him; not a single leech bothered to cling to his shoes.
He came to the end of his river, to where the pooling lake met the swamp. The border respected the silent truce, but both the swamp and the lake stretched into the horizon beyond the scope of his eyes. The water in the lake deepened from blue to an abyssal black, the surface rolling with lively waves. He came to a stumbling stop just as the swamp ended and the lakeshore began. He gasped for breath, falling to his knees on the naked white sand, still clammy and cool from the night’s dew. He drank at the water but spit it back out, only wetting his throat the tiniest bit, as the water had an acrid, skunky taste to it. Wolf trotted to a stop above the incline of the beach, among the field grasses above.
Shifting to his feet, he headed to the riverside and tried to recapture the rhythm, but the grass proved a stinging deterrent and kept him within reality. The grasses stood beyond his waist in places, and the feeling of the myriad eyes crept on him again, though they stared while hidden by the rustling foliage.
He arrived at the river, mist chilling his face with a welcoming embrace as he stumbled onto the banks, drinking heavily of the clear and sweet water. He fattened the flask as the pensive chant of the flying insects filled his ears again, the fish crowding around with curiosity at his intrusion into the water.
He followed the banks without running, his back aching, yearning for the staff to lean on again. His slow pace made it more surprising when the tips of his shimmering green and blue leaves crept toward the horizon.
“Have we really come so far?” he muttered against the droning buzz, giving some swats to shoo the intruders.
“If you had taken the boy’s domain, you would have been home already,” Wolf scolded.
They approached the beginnings of the forest, little saplings wound in the clinging grass. The smaller of the intruding trees were swallowed, stifled as they tried to rise above the natives. The larger saplings, who had survived long enough, were gripped by the grass like ivy. Many were frozen in a forced bow, being dragged into the darkness of the jagged green.
As the larger trees began, their leaves choked out the grass in shade. When the last few traces of the grass blended into the familiar tangled foliage of his forest, his feet and muscles chilled and relaxed.
Kechua strode through the forest, embracing his own rhythm, and left the grumbling Wolf behind without the slightest effort. The brown trunks smudged about him, and the clean grey of his mountain joined the canvas, though the ascent took no toll or notice upon his legs.
He paused at the peak, not daring to sit, but wedged his shoulder against the silence of the cool rock. He stared into the changed world, stealing a drink of his flask, and gnawed upon one of the ration bars. The foam of the river raged below, cutting a swath of jagged white steam through the green and blue sea. The waterfall stretched in his absence too, growing from a respectable width to one impossible to cross.
The forest spread into the horizon, encircling every part of the mountain he could see. A spot of brown popped above the canopy, to the right of his view. It looked like a tiny ball of hair, little strands writhing out of the centre mass like hungry tentacles. “That’s where they died,” he softly stated to his companion, but found it was one of the hosf who stood beside him. It waited silently, glancing behind. Another appeared, a smaller female, both bobbing with uncertain silence and shying away from his glances.
“Lord!” A hissing voice broke the silence beside him. “Lord, there is urgency!” it continued, the little tendrils reaching towards him but not daring to touch. The ugly little armored creature did a furious dance, slipping with a hovering smoothness.
“Silence! Do not bother him. There is time,” echoed the voice of the hosf in the stone.
Wolf’s panting figure grew from the cliff, and he slumped into a grey pile with an angry groan.
“Well, what is it?” He glanced at the two hosf. “Come closer. It’s hard to hear you over the waterfall.” He chuckled. The skitterling shuffled nervously to stand between him and the two greater beasts.
“Intruders,” the vile little thing hissed. “Intruders in the valley! We wanted to bite and sting and gnaw, just to chase. Just to chase, we swear! Boomhooves wouldn’t let us. Boomhooves said no, no, no,” the creature pouted shrilly.
“It is true, Lord. There are humans below now, near the river, but not upon it. They were upon it at first, but their things were swallowed by the river as it grew,” the larger-horned hosf said. “We were unsure what you would want, but we agreed you did not want what the crawlers did.” It lowered its massively antlered head to glare at the armored creature, who waved the knifed tendrils in a defiant glare.
“Are they starting fires? Have you observed them?”
“Lord, forgive me.” The female hosf nudged forward. “They had tried to hunt us, but we never allowed it. I was careless one day to drink at the water, and one of them came upon me.” She glanced at the other but continued, “I . . . spoke to him and he listened. I have spoken at length with him. Forgive me, I thought you would want that. That seems your way.”
“Absolutely. What have you learned?” He paused before adding, “Do you have a name? Do either of you? You are the first I spoke to, are you not?”
“We do not have names, Lord Earth, but yes, I am the first among us.” The larger hosf bowed.
“Would you choose ones for yourselves, so we can speak more easily?” He smiled.
“I . . . ” The male paused.
“Erta,” the female said crisply.
“Yul,” the male declared. “If that so pleases—“
“Perfect, Erta and Yul.” Kechua grinned. “So, what have you learned?”
“They are there, among the trees, near the river but not upon it.” She gazed into the forest and raised a hoof in a rather unhelpfully vague gesture. She pointed somewhere to the right of the river.
“I don’t see it.” Kechua squinted, glancing back between Erta’s gesture and the forest below. He shifted back to his leaning stance against the rock.
“The trees do not fall, so they sleep on bags in the soil, and with cloth and tarp,”
Erta continued. “I believe the man I speak to would listen if you gave commands; terms to live upon your land, or we could chase them out as the crawling ones wish.”
The armored creature turned its eyes towards Kechua, the bony plates shivering.
“The dogs don’t come in the forest, do they? Makes sense to stay there then.” Kechua remembered the specters hesitated in the chase. “For now, make it clear that the mountain is not for them. They will light no fires, cut no trees, and eat only of the fish and fruits in the forest. If any among them dies, and they do not bury the body with respect, then the skitterlings may have that body. For now, they will not hunt game, or those in error will be punished, but only those in error.”
Erta and Yul both nodded slowly, and the s
kitterling trembled with excitement at the declaration of meat upon transgression.
“There is one other thing, Lord . . . ” Erta began, but an annoyed snort from Yul interrupted her.
“Please, speak.” Kechua raised an eyebrow at Yul.
“I would ask the freedom to walk alongside the man, to learn more of him and the humans, perhaps.” She gave a funny little twitching glance behind her.
“You would be safe with them?”
“I ask that I could walk as a human with them. I confess, I have grown fond of this man, and his spirit, and . . . ” She trailed off, making that flicking glance behind again. Was it embarrassment; the equivalent of a blush in these creatures?
“Can you do that?” Kechua wondered aloud. “Please don’t be embarrassed.”
“We can if you permit it.” Yul bowed slowly, his irritation fading away. “We are yet soft boned and swimming with possibility.”
“Do you need me to do something?” Kechua asked. “Do I need to make some gesture?”
“Your word is enough.” She bowed and glanced at Yul, holding the stare.
“Go, but never forget yourself. Ever remember you are my daughter, little one.” Yul gave a great, rumbling sigh.
“I would ask that you either come back here when you can, or speak to the others to keep me informed of what’s going on down there. I’m not up for a visit myself just yet.” Kechua broke from the rock again and gave Erta a soft pat on the head.
“Of course, Lord Earth.” She bowed, shying away from the touch.
“May I see how it happens?” He grinned.
“I . . . forgive me, but I would like that the man be the first to see me as a human.” She shivered and made the snapping glance away.
“Of course!” Kechua withdrew quickly. “I’m sorry. Go, go ahead.” He smiled.
He watched her disappear down the path, and Yul leaned over the edge, tail whipping pensively.
“I . . . ” The boy trailed off, stifling whatever useless words would have flowed.
“Yul, I think I’m going to try a fire. Do you think you could gather some wood for me, on the beach near the ruin? I’d also like to try planting some seed while I’m here. Is there a good spot, you think?” A frantic scattering of hooves rumbled in the foliage.
“They will not need my help with the wood.” Yul’s voice rang with sadness, his eyes slowly tracing Erta’s path down the cliffs. “Sowing the earth is not our domain, however. We can guard it as needed, but it would be better to—”
“Assk us, O’ great towering lord!” The skitterling popped in front of Kechua’s feet, slipping and hovering and waving its tendrils frantically. “Clear and churn the soil, and rich it and moist it!”
“Alright then. Where would you recommend, writhing one?”
The creature mounted his foot, reaching upwards in its frantic excitement. Kechua gently nudged it off, to which it curled into a ball, half slipping into the earth.
“Near the stacked stones, near our birth.” The creature unraveled and the tendrils swept its face as if dusting itself off. “Ready to churn and turn and reveal the dirt.”
“While I’m away, are any of you capable of keeping what I plant watered then?” He glanced at Yul, who didn’t so much as turn to him, but the skitterling broke into its happy little writhing dance.
“Keep moist just perfect, we will do!” it trumpeted. “Must say though, must tell us so!”
“Please, prepare some soil for me near the broken shell and the ruin,” Kechua said. “I think a few rows for now. I just want to see how the seed grows. Maybe twice as tall as I am, in a square. Do you understand?”
“But Lord is tall as the sky, so great!” The skitterling’s tentacles wobbled joyously.
“Do you understand?” Kechua repeated, shooing another attempt at approaching his foot.
“Already begun, almost done. Done quicker than the wood stacks if only asked us first,” it pouted.
“If there is nothing else, I would speak to her mother of what happened.” Yul’s eyes snapped from the earth below, but his head hung low, not meeting Kechua’s gaze.
“Please do.” Kechua made a vague mirror of Yul’s parting bow. “Alright, let’s see your handiwork then.” He motioned at the crawler, who froze in delight before following the boy into the woods.
He strode through the forest, the trees rushing aside to reveal the wall of green. The sides of the school lay entirely covered in clinging ivy, though not a single leaf trespassed against the patterned glass. The flowering and thorned plants spilled from the cracked black shell and kept a wall against the thick grasses, ensuring the concrete and stone of the school lay in a pristine state.
He laid his pack down upon the ghostly classroom and glanced between the packets of seeds, rummaging to find the farmer’s book. He tried his best to skim the pages, at least finding the purposes of the seeds.
With the packets of seed in hand and the book open, he walked back among his little cacti, little spines shrinking away from his ankles.
“This way, this way!” the creature chimed joyously from just beyond the thorny field, resuming its energetic little dance.
He followed it to a little patch of earth, the smell of fallen logs and moss nipping at his nose, but the soil certainly appeared dark, like the soil Anah’s grandmother used to garden with.
“No, no!” The creature gave a shrill shout. “Too small, see him now? Bigger!” it commanded.
Kechua watched from the edge of the square of black as the edges beyond him fluttered, the grass seeming to be gobbled under, and black earth churned like slow and gentle waves.
“More, little more.” The skitterling clung to his leg, eyestalks bobbing carefully. Kechua could almost feel the thing squinting.
“That’s alright. I didn’t mean exactly twice my height,” he said, stepping onto the soft soil. “Thank you.” He nodded, and the heaving earth stopped.
“Hm,” Kechua pondered. In the end, he decided to plant twenty-three seeds from each bag. He drew them out in lines as the book indicated, at least for most of them, and gave each seed a little cupped mound of earth.
His little companion fluttered beside him, muttering from time to time. “No, too firm!” it scolded, gently pushing away his hand from the tightly packed cup. It rustled the earth with its back legs until it gave a satisfied nod of its eyes. It followed like this, watching and chiding him for his mistakes. In the end, it grew mostly silent, apparently satisfied with his progress.
“Good, good, so wonderous lord!” It waved its tendrils joyously. “But one thing. One thing to make them grow faster and more gloried!” It shivered.
“Oh? How long will they take to grow now? How glorious will they be now?” he muttered, gently nudging the thing away from his foot again.
“Glorious and tall, days only, richer and tended in perfect wonder!” it rambled with a sing-song tone. “But to be more, to be gloried beyond, you could churn the soil with your gift!”
Kechua clenched his teeth in a silent snarl, the growing tolerance for the vile thing all shed. “You mean my blood.”
“Yes, yes! Sweet and tasty, and so good for the soil,” the creature shrilled, the black knives behind it trembling.
“Go, out of my sight,” Kechua snarled.
“Oh, yes, yes,” the creature muttered, pouting, and slipped into the tilled earth.
The boy paused in his angry turn from the plot and turned half back, giving a nod at the unseen workers. “Thank you. Thank you all,” he conceded before returning the heavy burdened bags of seed back to the safety of his pack.
He found the stack of wood on the beach, exactly at the point where the curve reached closest to the school, though the building lay concealed beyond the trees. The hosf, who he could hear shuffling beyond the sandy banks, had apparently felt the need to create a stack twice as tall as him in width and height. It was built in a singular layer, as if in competition with the skitterlings.
“I . . . thank yo
u all.” He tried to project into the woods, and a nervous chorus of stamping hooves answered him, forcing a smile.
“Where are you, Old Man?” he asked, only to have the pair of red eyes open from a spot of dense shade beyond the sandy banks.
“Hm?” Wolf growled with a tired disinterest, his eyes focusing into crescent slits.
“You said you knew fire before. I need you to watch. I need you to tell me if it still feels wrong.”
“What do you plan to do?” Wolf muttered, his shadowed form rolling onto its side.
“I want to go into the forest.” Kechua gathered a cluster of wood, tossing smaller branches well away from the plotted pile. “No.” Kechua spat, tossing the logs out of his arms, and drawing a club to catch Wolf mid-lunge, jaw wide open for the kill. “Not that way.”
He glared.
Wolf offered a retreating snap at the boy’s club, but he lazily leapt back into the shadow above.
“I want to go in on my feet. Not dying or dreaming, not coming from desperation. On my feet.” Kechua felt the utter quiet of the earth below. “I’m going to do what I should have the second this place was mine.” And with a quiet heart, he went about forming the wood into flame.
The rhythm of making fire was simple, and it began the music of the moment. He rubbed in time, rotating the instrument of wood against a wider waiting base. Smoke rose with a disappointing ease, and it wafted up with the familiar clinging burn, laced with a sweetened savory incense. The glowing ember, resonant with the rhythm of the sticks, ejected into the prepared flame, a beating and hopeful heart into his creation.
He blew upon it, puffing with short and surgical bursts. After a few hesitant moments, it erupted into fire. Light grey snakes squirmed up, forming into a singular fat body, but they had none of the piercing oil of the fire before, and the flame’s heat washed over his chest and face.