by Martin Vine
The front was a broad arc more than twenty-five yards wide. Cutting through the forest like a moving carpet, its frayed edges expanded and contracted over and around all obstacles. By Hopskotch’s reckoning, failing a sudden swing to the right, the marauding insects would pass them by a safe distance uphill. If not for the unnerving tapping sounds and high-pitched “click-clickety-clicking” piercing his eardrums, he might even have breathed a sigh of relief.
It seemed as if everyone was holding their collective breaths. Nobody made a sound. Being silent and invisible had become a matter of survival. Each Syltling was playing their part as if their life depended on it.
It was the worst of times to develop an itch.
Hopskotch felt it first on the end of his nose, then over his brow. Another tickling sensation developed behind his left ear. As he fought the urge to scratch, itchy spots sprang up on all parts of his body.
“Be still, you ninny, it’s all in your head!”
He knew it for truth, but the torture continued. Even as a young child, Hopskotch had ever been first out playing statues (a popular birthday-party game). But this time the stakes were much higher; even the slightest movement could prove fatal. He wriggled in discomfort but kept his hands clenched tightly around the branch, desperately trying to divert his thoughts. A part of his brain imagined a colony of ants crawling across his scalp. Hopskotch’s eyes began to water.
It felt like half an hour had passed before the swarm eventually moved around and away from their fig-tree roost, its tail end disappearing into a thicket of sword fern covering a narrow ridge uphill.
Hopskotch exhaled loudly and began furiously scratching himself. The relief was delicious, but the thought that there were ants on his skin remained.
“All in your head!”
As far as Hopskotch was concerned, the danger had passed, but the older girl was still on full alert. Springing off the large branch, she went straight up into the canopy. Hopskotch tried to follow (not nearly as quietly), but quickly discovered he could not match her climbing skills. Eventually giving up, the Syltling returned to the tree’s cradle and waited with Dobbin and Bartrem.
When she finally returned, Hopskotch was disturbed to see the girl looked more troubled than ever. Clearing his throat, he summoned his most grown-up voice. “Umm, h-hello,” he stammered.
Drat! Way too high. Hopskotch glanced to Dobbin for support, got none. The girl had her back to him and seemed to be ignoring his bumbling attempt at conversation.
Or maybe she just didn’t hear me?
Hopskotch went to tap her shoulder. Before his arm was even halfway raised, she darted away again, ascending a nearby branch. A few yards up, the girl leapt straight into the air and onto a higher limb, before disappearing in a swoosh of leaves. Hopskotch shot a confused glance to Dobbin, who seemed likewise startled at the gravity-defying acrobatics.
Following a brief absence, the girl landed with a soft thud right in front of Hopskotch’s startled face. Nearer to the trunk of the tree, the branch was fatter all around, with a greater area for three children to stand together. Hopskotch was grateful enough for her presence, but Dobbin remained uncharacteristically quiet. Bartrem, meanwhile, looked like he’d have to be dragged out of the hollow of the tree’s cradle by force.
It occurred to Hopskotch that no one else was going to break the ice. “Where do you think they’re headed?” he asked.
The girl turned to face him. Hopskotch found himself momentarily captivated by her eyes: chestnut brown highlighted by a spattering of gold. But there was so much strangeness to her appearance.
The jacket the girl wore was badly frayed and cut off at the elbows. It was the oddest garment Hopskotch had ever seen on a female: a patchwork of animal pelt, treated leather (species unknown) and duck feather. For one travelling so far from the nearest settlement, it occurred to him as odd that she carried no luggage, neither rucksack, shoulder bag, nor sling-pouch (though Hopskotch suspected the jacket was riddled with secret pockets).
The girl stared right back at him as if scrutinising a puzzle. She tilted her head sideways like an owl.
Forcing his eyes to remain on hers, Hopskotch cut to the meat of their problem. “You see, there was someone else with, umm, us. My grandfather, actually. He looks kinda like me but much, much older and kind of, well—” – he squirmed before the girl’s unblinking stare – “older.”
Finally, the girl blinked. “You’re Hopskotch!”
Wait, what? The words left Hopskotch floundering, speechless.
Which was ever Dobbin’s cue.
“So who exactly are you?” he asked brashly. Raising himself to full height (apart from the younger of the two girls, he was still the shortest), Dobbin puffed his chest out. If his knees were not trembling so, it might even have looked intimidating.
“You first!” she replied, flatly.
Dobbin screwed his nose up. “Well, apparently you already know Hopskotch!”
Hopskotch turned to Dobbin and shook his head. He would certainly remember meeting such a striking girl, even if his memory was falling apart elsewhere.
“And hiding down there,” Dobbin said sarcastically, pointing to Team SnapTalon’s newest member, “That there’s Bartrem.”
Bartrem responded with a half-hearted wave. He didn’t trouble himself to turn his head. Hunched over with his back to everyone else, the larger boy was still refusing to leave his place.
Dobbin shook his head. Just as he went to continue his interrogation, the Syltling’s attention was diverted to the younger of the two girls, who was staring up at him with the most curious expression.
“This is Dobbin,’ Hopskotch chimed in helpfully. He nudged Dobbin again and noticed his friend’s eyes glazing over. Dobbin began to sway off balance. Hopskotch went to steady him.
He was beaten to it.
As if he were a beloved family member, the younger girl darted straight past her sister to Dobbin and slipped her right hand into his left.
At her touch, the teetering boy found his strength and balance. The feeling began to return to his wounded left arm, chasing the pins and needles away. Dobbin stared down at the little one. “Oh. Umm, well, err, h-hello there.”
Suffocating from embarrassment, Dobbin went to pull his hand away. The girl resisted. Dobbin stopped himself. It would have been easy enough for a boy his age to free himself from her grip, but those eyes held him as fast as a lock holds a turned key.
“Well, okay then,” Dobbin said from behind a goofy grin. He searched hopelessly for a place to rest his eyes. Stubbornly, they returned to the girl.
Now that she was out of the shadows, Dobbin had a chance to get a proper look at the child. Like her companion, she carried no packs or pouches, but her clothing was, in contrast, of a much more feminine style. A light summer blouse stretched across her narrow shoulders, its delicate cotton surface now stained with grime and peppered with burrs from their flight through the forest.
Dobbin barely noticed the flaw. Had she been covered head-to-toe in mud, he suspected it would not tarnish her loveliness.
Watching Dobbin squirm provided Hopskotch a great deal of amusement. He was likewise baffled at the unexpected display of affection, but it occurred to him that was not the only thing odd about the young girl. Something about her struck him as familiar, though he couldn’t place it. The memory of a strange tune rushed into his head. He remembered the music but not when or where he’d heard it.
So beautiful.
At a call from her sister the girl-child turned, breaking the spell. Her collar parted just enough for Hopskotch to notice the necklace she was wearing: a thong of plain leather holding a cluster of bird feathers. The slightest movement made them shimmer through different shades of red-brown to gold. The colours were astonishing, as blinding as the vision of the golden cicadas his brooch had shown him the day before.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Dobbin was likewise staring at the necklace. Hopskotch felt an urge to rea
ch out and stroke it. Though he still didn’t know her name, he became overwhelmed with the need to protect this young girl. The possibility of her coming to harm was unbearable to him.
Under the glare of her big sister, Hopskotch finally wrenched his gaze away. He took a deep gulp, wondering if he’d done something wrong. “Well, I suppose we should be thanking you.”
“Not I,” the older girl replied, nodding toward the little one. “Thank her. She brought me to you.”
Hopskotch and Dobbin turned as one to the petite Syltling. Bartrem popped his head over the lip of the hollow.
“Well then,” said Hopskotch, going down on one knee. “Thank you.”
The younger girl grinned warmly, but said nothing.
Hopskotch wondered if she might be mute. Before he could think to ask why she’d led her older sister to the ridge, his mind jumped back to a more practical question.
“Nissa!” the older girl said, pointing to her sister.
At the sound of her name, Nissa looked up and smiled at Hopskotch.
“And you can call me Flek.”
“Flek.” Hopskotch repeated the name out loud so he wouldn’t forget it (something his father had taught him). Then he remembered what she’d first said to him. For the second time in as many days, a complete stranger was claiming to know him. The face of the old man from Ravens Sweep appeared in his head.
“How do you know my name?” he asked.
All eyes turned to Flek. After a short pause, the girl finally spoke. “Your grandfather; he is known to my kin.”
“Grandpa Rand?” Hopskotch asked, scratching his head. Hopskotch knew his grandfather often disappeared for weeks, but he rarely spoke of his travels.
“You needn’t worry over him,” Flek said. “He’s more capable than you think.”
“Really?” asked Dobbin. “You sure we’re talking about the same fellow?”
Hopskotch shot his friend a hurt look.
Dobbin shrugged it off. His eyes travelled back to Nissa, who still held his left hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Returning to Flek, Hopskotch filled in the background, beginning with the previous day’s glide-boat journey across the lake and finishing at the point where Grandpa Rand left them to scout a trail to Witherness (he had the good sense to leave out the parts about the raven, the swan, and the mysterious stepping-stones).
Flek absorbed it all in attentive silence. Her expression remained neutral, her thoughts, impossible to read.
“I mean, m-maybe he found the trail and couldn’t get back,” Hopskotch suggested, fiddling his pouch sling. “Maybe he just got turned arou—”
“We’ll take you to Witherness,” Flek interrupted.
They were not the exact words Hopskotch was fishing for, but he found some relief in them. He heard Dobbin mumble something beneath his breath, but could not decipher the words.
“We’ll have to go cross-country,” the girl elaborated, “then over the gorge on foot. Niss’ and I know the way.” She stared out at the forest. Her eyes narrowed, and Hopskotch saw a blazing fire behind them. “This is our place.”
“So there’s a trail leading out?” Dobbin asked. “I mean, a proper on-the-ground—Hey, ow!”
Hopskotch wondered what had gotten into his friend. He noticed Nissa’s right hand had gone rigid, the same one holding onto Dobbin’s left. The girl-child began rocking from side to side on the edge of her feet. A high-pitched keening sounded from the back of her throat and her eyes bulged wide and unfocused.
Flek signalled them all down with a wave of her hand. Tilting her face to the canopy, she proceeded to sniff the air, like an animal tracing a scent. Hopskotch barely had time to register what was happening, when she was off again, scampering on all fours along the edge of the tree’s cradle. To his great horror, she swung her legs over the side and jumped straight down onto the nearest buttress root, and from there to the forest floor.
Hopskotch’s heart began to thump faster in his chest. He wished to Dellhimmel she’d jump right back up.
Alongside Dobbin’s crouching form, Nissa was on her knees, still making whimpering noises. She had finally released his hand, and Dobbin looked much relieved for it.
On all fours, Bartrem emerged from his hiding spot, crawling up alongside Hopskotch. Squinting down at Flek, he asked, “What’s she looking for?”
“Can it!” Dobbin snapped, raising a finger to his lips.
Bartrem shrugged it off, as if he didn’t really care anyway.
Long, quiet minutes passed before Flek reappeared. She crept back up the ridge of the buttress root on silent feet. Every few yards she would pause, sniff the bark, then continue; a pattern she repeated all the way to the main trunk.
The way she moved continued to intrigue Hopskotch. At times, he felt like he was observing a wild animal. He caught Bartrem shaking his head in disbelief.
As she arrived back in the tree’s cradle, Hopskotch sprung from his crouching position “What is it?” he whispered.
Flek didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned in close to the boys, sniffing them one at a time. First she tested Dobbin, then Hopskotch, and finally Bartrem, who backed away at her approach.
Flek’s eyes bored into the quivering Syltling. “You’re bleeding,” she said.
“Oh, this,” Bartrem replied nervously, tilting his left foot to reveal a nasty gash on the edge of his pad. He opened his fist to reveal a bloody strip of parchment he’d used (unsuccessfully) to stop the flow. “It’s just a scratch. Musta hit a branch or somethi—”
“Can you run?” Flek interrupted.
“Well, err, yes,” Bartrem replied, meekly.
Flek pressed the point. “Can you jump?”
“What? Umm, I mean, err, y-yes. It depends upon the need really, doesn’t it?”
Bartrem feigned a half-smile, but it looked to Hopskotch like he might faint at any moment.
“We need to move.” Flek ordered. She stared out into the forest, before returning to Bartrem. “If even one of those things stumbles across your scent, they’ll follow us all the way to Witherness.”
Bartrem went ashen at the comment. Staring at the mess of blood and parchment, Hopskotch felt a shudder run up his spine.
Flek wasted no time. Taking a large hanky from inside her blouse, she grabbed Bartrem’s wounded foot and went to work, quickly and efficiently wiping away the remaining blood.
Bartrem watched in horror as the girl then spat into her palms and began rubbing together some herbs retrieved from a secret pocket. Once she was happy with the consistency of the pulp, Flek pushed the gooey mess into the cut.
Bartrem muffled a yelp as she pressed down hard.
Hopskotch cringed, knowing only too well how his friend despised the idea of other Syltlings’ germs.
Fortunately, Bartrem was not forced to endure it long. In less than a minute it was all over, his foot cleaned and neatly wrapped in the handkerchief. The wounded youngster tested it gingerly, still favouring his right foot.
Distracted by the display, Hopskotch failed to notice the tiny, six-legged intruder scurrying up the buttress root.
“Click-clickety-click.”
A slave to its instincts, the fire-ant scout had separated from the main swarm on the trail of a familiar scent. The odour was rich and fresh, not unlike the food the colony had hunted earlier. It had led the lone insect directly to the fig tree.
The towering buttress roots posed no great obstacle. Scurrying forward, repeatedly pausing and testing the air with its antennae, the ant moved along the ridged bark, closing the distance to its prey.
The meat loomed large before it, but the ant was in no great hurry. At the cusp of the tree’s cradle, it stopped, laying down another trace of pheromones that would lead the soldiers to her position.
“Click-clickety-cliiick.”
Its duty to the colony done, the scout surged ahead. The blood scent triggered its every attack instinct. Blocking the path was a great feast: fat,
pink, irresistible.
Raising its forelegs above the branch, it tested the edible surface with a brush of its antennae. The soldiers would come, but the scout was beyond waiting. It clambered onto the meat unnoticed. The vibration of blood and muscle beneath its legs was driving it into a frenzy. Biting down hard with its powerful mandibles, the fire-ant scout sank its tail stinger deep into the flesh of Dobbin Butterfeld’s toe.
Through the Treetops
In a grey world, night settles over the land slowly, like ink spilling into water. Soon the light would fade. Shadow would rule.
The sleek canoe floated just clear of the shoreline, perfectly still and hidden beneath a blanket of fog. Three grown men sat within: two together in the stern, and one, slightly older, sitting alone at the bow facing the hills. They were all robed in finely tailored garments – the pair in black, the other in warm grey – entirely unsuitable for boating on Lake Whispermere’s unchartered western reaches. The lone Sylt kept his face hidden beneath a broad hood that cloaked his features. He was not interested in sharing words with his underlings
Therok Greifstryke leaned over the edge of the canoe and spat into the dark water. He scooped another handful of Lake Whispermere and slurped it into his mouth. Gagging, he spat it out again. Despite the purity of the cool liquid, he could still taste a foulness on his tongue. He felt dirty all over, as well he should have foreseen. Ants were not a pleasant species to brush wills with.
Even for those in his order there were rules, and he had just broken one, as much to see that it could be done as it was a crucial part of his plan.
And to spread fear, he admitted silently. Always keep your enemies on the defensive; always remain two or three steps ahead, a necessary rule of survival in an increasingly unbalanced world. Everything in his sector was about to change: the old hierarchy had been toppled and it was his intention – his destiny, in fact – to consolidate his position at the top.