by Jeffrey Hall
“Up here!”
He looked and saw Wings soaring across the air overhead, keeping pace with a few simple flaps of his wings.
“Take Moso!” shouted Wish as he felt the whoosh of air slap behind him as another tree fell in.
“The box!” shouted Wings, pointing with a blue finger.
“Moso!”
“The box first!”
Wish snarled and obliged, tossing the box into the Eclectun’s clutches. He secured it on his back, then he reached out for Moso just as Wish felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Wish handed his partner to Wings, and with both weights lifted from him, charged for the cobbled street up ahead.
The ground crumbled beneath him. He saw darkness appear beneath his feet. With no other option, he jumped and grabbed hold of Wings’s feet just as the Eclectun was starting to pull away.
He squawked and dropped. Wish’s legs dangled over the crumbling root garden. For a moment he thought he had doomed all three of them, but Wings’s wings snapped, and Wish felt them start to rise.
“Damn you!” cried the Eclectun over the sound of the falling trees.
Wish looked down again. The cobbled stones appeared beneath him. He let go and met the hard ground, tumbling end over end until he lay on his back, staring up at the night sky, breathing in and out.
The sounds of falling trees had stopped. Only the whispers of shifting soil still settling from the great disturbance sounded behind him. He found it peaceful there as he rested his exhausted mind for a moment. But it did not last.
He heard Wings fussing nearby, and immediately thought of Moso. He sat up and saw the Eclectun in the middle of the street, the box open, the piece of paper inside already in his hands. Moso lay beside him, a pile of fur like a piece of dead game being handled by a hunter.
Wish rushed over to them.
“Is he alive?” he shouted.
Wings glanced at him and nodded. “He’s still breathing.”
Relief flooded Wish as he reached the Chassa. He turned Moso over and saw his chest rise. Suddenly the monkey coughed and his eyes fluttered open. He forced a long, drawn-out mewl.
“You alright?” said Wish.
Moso’s tail weakly fluttered. That’s another one you owe me.
Wish smiled, glad to see the Chassa’s sense of humor hadn’t been hurt with the blow. Wish helped him upright, and Moso grabbed his ribs.
“Broken?”
Moso nodded and held up his fingers as his tail swished. At least two.
“You can still perform without ribs,” said Wings, clamping the box shut. “Nothing more than a minor pain.”
Wish’s fist clenched. “What is wrong with you? We were about to be a part of that bulb garden and all you can ask for is the damn box?”
Wings sucked at the top of his beak. “You are tools for the job. This box”—he gave the box a gentle shake—“is the job.”
I have to appreciate his honesty.
Wings stood and surveyed the streets, his eyes dancing to the shadows as if he was expecting predators to shoot out from each and everyone of them. “The Limbs will not dally for long. They will recover from their loss and return. I would suggest we keep moving.”
Moving where? said Moso.
Wish rubbed his brow. “Poor Mother’s Pond.”
Moso slumped. That’s what the third box said?
Wish nodded.
“Tabari was said to frequent there because of the unique plant life that grew from the milk.” Wings adjusted the sack with the second box on his shoulder. “Well, it looks like you gentlemen will need protection against the creatures that call that place home.” Wings stretched his wings. “If there is another already on the hunt, I suggest you hurry. The deal was all the boxes, remember?”
And without another word Wings took to the air and left them in the street, the broken grove at their backs like a disastrous metaphor for their bodies and what they’d done to find the damned boxes in the first place.
Wish watched the Eclectun go until the buildings took him from sight. “What kind of people have we gotten ourselves mixed up with?”
The same kind of people we always do, said Moso. Idiots trying to make something for themselves. He grabbed his ribs. The same kind of people as us. He’s right, though. No way we’re going near that pond without protecting our teekas.
“I-I thought you were dead,” admitted Wish.
No reason to celebrate yet, said Moso. Save it for when I can no longer wag my tail in your face. Then you can finally call quits on me.
“You’re a fool,” said Wish. “But you’re a damn stubborn one.”
Isn’t that why we work so well together? Our stubbornness?
Or was it their foolishness? Their own damn stupidity to not know when it was time to quit? But even with their bodies calling out for them to stop. Even with what felt like the entire world conspiring to prevent them from succeeding, they kept on. Like always.
Like the stubborn fools that they were.
Who knows, maybe Poor Mother’s Pond will be the place where that finally happens? He stretched his side and winced. Shall we find out?
Wish brushed at the soil caking his skin and nodded, hoping he would never have to find out. Hoping that despite the odds, they’d keep finding away to slither through the hole they were constantly put in.
And with that thought in mind, together they limped back into the city.
Chapter 9
They walked through the jungle, the morning light piercing the canopy pink and raw like a missing piece of skin. Its harsh rays made Wish squint. It was a constant nag just like the rest of the aches and wounds that decorated his body.
He and Moso had taken the rest of the night to patch themselves up. They took turns sewing each other’s deep cuts, using leaves to dull the pain and the hair of a lactus to close their wounds shut. Ragged work. Poor in comparison to what they could get from the priestesses of the Nest or a medicine man. But it stopped the bleeding. After, they purchased as many nets as they could from a general goods stall still open and peddling fresh mountain water to the drunks wobbling about the streets.
“What are you trying to catch?” said the grey-skinned Tortallan as he handed over a stack of twelve expertly woven nets, things that had cost them half a lunar, money they’d had to scrounge by selling some of the other items on their person and using the crescents Moso had stolen from the botamancers.
“It’s what will be trying to catch us,” said Wish as he stuffed the nets beneath his arms. And it was true. The closest he had ever come to Poor Mother’s Pond was just to brush up against the strange, ghostly vegetation that grew out from its edge. The trees had looked pale and lifeless, as if a bat had sucked them dry of their life. The smell that emanated from the place was barely endurable. But it was the nearby forest’s denizens, the things that the pond had attracted, that sent him running. He had only lingered there for minutes before a swarm of nipper flies and kunga mouths were fluttering about him, taking small nibbles of his skin. He left as fast as he could, the itchy and painful bumps decorating his hide all he needed to know the strangeness of Poor Mother’s Pond.
Yet there they were, headed back to its grotesque edges like fools.
Each of them looked like an abomination conjured up from the jungle in the layers of nets they had covered themselves in. Nothing but walking, nondescript creatures that moved along the forest floor like blobs bent on collecting as much of the debris as they could.
He supposed it was better than what lay beneath the nets.
They had glimpsed each other before they had adorned their new protection with strange sadness and awe. They looked like poorer versions of themselves. In their profession, they were prone to scars, but never so many so quickly.
The higher the payout the higher the cost, Moso had said after they had each taken a swig of rum to burn away the previous few days’ pain, a drink the Chassa had gotten his hands on thanks to the help of someone that owed him a favor. Or
so he had said. Wish wouldn’t have been surprised if he had swiped it from some unsuspecting distillery stall along one of the markets they had passed through.
Wish had grunted a laugh. “I just hope it doesn’t ask for too much.”
And if it does, what’s the alternative?
Wish thought, took another swig of rum, and then spoke. “You can still walk away at least. You don’t need the money like I do. People are counting on me. Your debts are paid.”
Moso laughed, took the bottle from him, and swilled two gulps.
“Hey. Take it easy. We don’t want to arrive to the pond swaying.”
Moso put the bottle down and wiped his mouth, the scent of rum wafting out from him like the familiar perfume of a courtesan. The normal half-grin on his face was replaced by a rare look of seriousness. You ever wonder if what they say about the jungle is true and not just some superstition?
“What do you mean?”
That the jungle will come for you if you take from it too much.
“I think we’ve been around long enough to know that it is true.”
Moso nodded. We’ve tried to account for everything we’ve taken. Maybe we’ve slipped up here and there, but we’ve been good about it, right?
“I think so,” said Wish, recalling the many occasions he had taken too much, grabbing an extra fruit here, killing a bird there because of the value of its feathers in the market.
But what about the things we haven’t accounted for? What about all the dirt we’ve taken with our boots? What about all the bugs we’ve crushed as we sat on a log? What about the stories of things we’ve seen that we’ve told others that were never supposed to leave... We’ve thought we’ve been good, but perhaps we’ve taken more than we could ever make up for. Maybe our debt is so high that the only way we’ll ever pay it off is by giving this place our lives.
Wish eyed him, suspicious. He had rarely seen the monkey so glum. Especially so often over the last few days. “What’s a matter with you? Too much rum?”
Moso looked at the bottle in his hand and poured out the remaining contents onto the ground. Too much rum, his tail flickered lazily.Too much time stuck in the shit of this place.Too exhausted from trying to squirm out of it with every last piece of me and still hold onto some shred of who I am.
“Hey.” Wish grunted, pulling his partner’s attention from the ground. “Two thousand lunars, remember,” he said like a speech meant to inspire him.
Right, right. Two thousand lunars and then freedom. He nodded as if in agreement, as if just then remembering why they were so tired and down and out in the first place.
“Then let’s get the next box.”
Moso tossed the bottle of rum, letting it smash against the wall of the building they slouched in front of, and together they rose to face the jungle.
That was many hours ago. They hadn’t slept. The fugue caused by the few swigs of rum had turned Wish’s mouth dry and his tongue rough. It had been stupid of them to imbibe, but they’d needed something to stop the pain and give them a brief reprieve from this hellish job.
He was thankful to be in the jungle again. The familiarity of it, the comfort it offered, rejuvenated him in a way that no rest could. He felt awakened within it, even more so after seeing it still intact. The dream the botamancer had put in his head still lingered painfully, and deep down there was a fear that he’d enter it and find only ashes remaining for him.
But even with that surge of relief gifted by the jungle, other thoughts kept plaguing him. Was his father alright? Were Marli and her people treating him well? Were she and his daughter okay? The botamancer had said the last flower would attack his brain—what did the dream mean? Was it nothing more than a way to strike fear into him, or was it trying to tell him something? Was it trying to say that he would never be enough to protect everything he cherished?
You smell that? Moso’s tail flickered ahead of him, recapturing his thoughts.
He sniffed. A faint miasma of bile snuck between the underbrush. It was the same smell he remembered smelling those many years ago when he’d dared come close to the pond in the first place. The further they went, the more the stench crept into their noses like burning mites meant to set ablaze their lungs and turn their minds to ashes. They tried to disguise it, plucking sweet petals from vines they passed and stuffing them atop their lips, but soon even their sugary scents were not potent enough to stop the stench rising from deeper in the jungle. Wish plugged his nose, daring to breathe through his mouth and letting the vile scent dance upon his taste buds.
Moso stopped and retched. Remind me to come here next time I need help getting a good night at the taverns out of my stomach.
It didn’t take long for the bugs to get their scent. First came a family of trader moths, big furry things that ferried pollen between flowers. They were harmless save for the impairment they caused on their vision as they settled happily on the front of their nets, thinking they were some new plant to explore. But then came the dagger lips and the winged fires, annoying creatures who desperately tried to burrow their way through the tiny holes in their nets. It wasn’t long before they were overrun.
By the gods, this is terrible.
Wish glanced at Moso’s tail flicking beneath the nets, the outside of him alive with wings and legs.
Not long after they heard a buzzing. The buzzing grew louder, and croaks soon joined in. Together they formed one incessant ramble. A relentless murmur of a thousand madmen all going on angrily about a thousand indiscernible things. A lost mob whose true argument had been forgotten. It was a disquieting thing to approach. It took their concentration from the smell. It filled in the stories they had heard of the place with a noise, the tales in which there were only visions and no sound. But now those thoughts had a chorus to accompany them. And soon they would have a sight.
The forest changed the closer they came. The wide, moss-ridden trees and tightly coiled vines were replaced by maligned vegetation: Trees with trunks curled disjointedly like broken spines. Bushes with spiky limbs which never curled or bent. Vines so thin and white that they looked like old spider webs almost done over by time, the feathery leaves flapping from their sides the only things to keep them from wholly looking like the work of an arachnid.
What the hell was that mother trying to do? Poison her kit? Moso batted away a giant carrion beetle fluttering in front of him.
And as Moso asked the question they stepped through a tangle of bushes and saw the pond.
A white pool spread out in the middle of the jungle like a place infected by another world. The cream colored liquid looked ridiculous against the brilliant greens and browns that dominated the jungle beside it. A yellow crust of fat curdled along its edges, bunching itself into strange soil which grew reeds and flowers with heads like small children, their petals and burs forming barely recognizable facial features. Further in, dotting the steaming liquid, were lonesome curdles floating atop the steaming liquid like lily pads, with a lone white flower growing atop of each like skinless hands. The only things that enhanced its absurdity even more were the creatures that called it home. The things that had made the noises in the first place.
The frogs and the insects they feasted upon.
The amphibians lay strewn across the pond’s edges, some sitting atop the fatty lily pads, others perched along the ruins, a rainbow shattered and brought back to life in a thousand, ridiculous forms of scales and bulging throats. And yet buzzing around them, no doubt feasting upon the nutrients constantly bubbling within this strange plash, were the insects. Everywhere Wish looked he saw mosquitoes and hot-wings, biliths and snocks, orange arrows and wood walkers, all of them hopping along the milky plash, each trying to stay one step ahead of the frogs making meals out of them in hopes of taking one nourishing, revolting sip from the spoiled milk that still persevered below them. His vision felt distorted and blurred, not because of the intoxicating fumes that emanated from the top of the pond, but because of the restless swarm.
>
From what he could see, the pond itself was larger than he’d imagined. It stretched to the size of a small village, the other side maybe reachable by a strong throw of a rock. A pile of pale ruins grew out from the liquid’s center like a massive ladle stuck in stew.
It was maddening to stand beneath such a disarray of life where it seemed everything was in motion, trying to untangle the fabric of the world with each swift movement. A hundred insects settled upon their nets, and he was thankful that they kept the creatures off their skins when their long snouts and stingers probed outwardly, curious and hungry.
Explain to me then why the bug-mongers don’t come here to make a fortune?
“I hear a few do,” said Wish, having heard stories of a few in the Chatter District before.
Why not more? Seems like easy pickings.
“Because of them.” He pointed to a small, shadowy figure he could make out across the pond. It had long, thin fur that dangled from a grey scalp and eyes that glowed yellow in the shadows cast by the nearby trees. It wore a jerkin made of Binturonga fur, a shaggy, thick piece of hide most likely crafted to deal with the insects. The rest of its body it did not seem concerned with covering up. It lifted a cup made of bone from the pond and to its thin, fang-filled mouth and drank, its eyes not leaving Wish and Moso.
A chatokin. A dweller of the upper canopy. A bashful, fearsome creature who, despite its lack of long limbs, tail, or wings like the monkeys and birds, made a way of life in the highest reaches of the Fanglaran jungles. There were few reasons they ever left the high reaches of the canopy. To drink from the pond of milk that one of their own females had made long ago must have been one of them.
“They say it’s bad luck to cross paths with one of the creatures. They say once they’ve laid eyes on you, they’ve marked you for the upper canopy.”
I’ve heard the stories, said Moso, batting aside another onslaught of bugs. Just what we need, more bad luck.
The chatokin rose from its squat along the edge of the pond and slowly returned its cup to somewhere within its jerkin. It grabbed a pronged spear from beside itself and faded away into the jungle without its eyes leaving the two. Eventually the shadows dissolved all the light from its eyes as it disappeared into the forest.