Sunborn Rising (12 page)

Finally, Barra said, “I don’t think we can get above this.”

Tory said, “I was thinking the same—”

“What do you mean?” Plicks interrupted.

Tory explained, “We can’t get above the fog. It’s empty. Branchless. I guess I thought we’d be able to climb to a vantage of some kind, but look around. I can’t see any better now than when we began climbing.”

Barra watched Plicks’ face waver as Tory spelled it out, vacillating between hysteria and despair. She extended her tail to hold him around the shoulders, but he flinched away.

Dumbfounded, Plicks barked a shaky question, “Well, you’re not suggesting going back down?!”

There was a sharp sting in Barra’s eyes as she watched Plicks tear up. She needed to say something encouraging, but fumbled the words and said nothing.

“The plan’s the same,” Tory offered sympathetically. “We get to the trunk of the Great Tree and make the climb from there.”

Barra joined in optimistically, “Exactly. Any trunk will do. Doesn’t even have to be the Umberwood.”

Plicks was in shock. He glared at Barra. He glared at Tory. Anger, sadness, frustration, and fear overcame him. The emotional load spiked, but instead of screaming or crying, Plicks smiled oddly. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

“Plicks! You saved us!” Barra impressed on him. “We’re alive! We can do this. It’s just a little detour,” she said, afraid it was obvious that she was trying to convince herself. She reached out to Plicks, but again he recoiled from her touch. Barra was disappointed. She wanted a hug as badly as she wanted to give one.

Apprehensive, Tory suggested they get going. Something was unnerving him, but he didn’t say what. Barra didn’t ask. She led the way back down. Inviting hues of blue became visible as they descended. Barra guided the trio toward those lights, kinder than the bilic greens around them.

Through the misty air, Barra eventually made out a great expanse of tightly interwoven boughs beneath them. The rolling stretch of continuous footing was like the bridges between Lofts. Thousands of bindings were used to create those enormous highways, but the surface they saw now was larger by far. There was no end to it in any direction. It had to be the Root.

They came upon strange dwellings similar to the dens in the Middens except they were squat and heavier looking. Their bindings were unrecognizable. Barra impulsively steered her friends toward one of the dens. As they approached, Barra could see the dwelling was much larger than she’d first thought, at least three times the size of anything she’d explored before. The outside was a tangle of petrified knots. There were giant misshapen fists of wood growing at irregular intervals along the walls, sometimes growing into twists larger than Tory. The den had identifiable windows and even a doorway. Tendrils of charcoal grey vines wove into and around the entire structure, sprouting bunches of glassy blue berries.

Barra was feeling her first hunger pangs, but she wasn’t eager to eat anything growing from the menacing vine. On close inspection the berries were stuck together by black ooze that looked similar to the stuff they’d found on Ari. As they stepped up to the entrance, Barra could see that the vine had attached itself to the den with a combination of hooked thorns and tarry ooze—just like her father had described the Creepervine is his journal. She didn’t want to frighten her friends, so she kept her thoughts to herself.

“What are we doing here?” Tory looked uncomfortable.

“Investigating?” Barra didn’t sound sure, but she went with it, “There may be some clue inside, something to tell us where we are.”

“Come on,” Tory said, “We
know
where we are.” He leaned into Barra, revealing what was on his mind, “I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being followed.”

Plicks took in the environment with uncharacteristic calm. His attitude was irritating Barra because he looked more like he’d lost hope than gained confidence. He said matter-of-factly, “I don’t see anything.” He stepped between his friends and entered the den as he added, “Let’s go in.”

Barra didn’t argue. She went in after him. Tory was reluctant to enter, but after one more suspicious look around, he joined them as well.

The interior of the den was unlike any other that Barra knew. If seats, beds, or tables had grown there before, they hadn’t left much evidence of their existence. The high ceiling was domed in a familiar way, but instead of bindings as the bups knew them, there were jagged, stony shards holding the branches together. There were smooth, reflective shards too, embedded into the ceiling. Walking around the room caused a cascade of reflections that unnerved Barra.

There was a deep basin in the center of the floor made from spiraling branches big enough to fit all of Tory and more. A shallow, luminescent pool of water rested at the bottom.

Barra leaned way over the lip of the basin and sniffed at the water. After smelling from a few angles, she decided it was safe and lapped up a few tongues full. She sat up. “It tastes strange, but I think it’s safe.”

Tory and Plicks drank. After each had slaked his thirst, the basin was almost empty. In a couple of moments, the water began refilling slowly from the bared roots at the bottom.

Barra’s fur was still matted from the trapwillow moss, and Tory pointed it out. “You might want to clean that off in case you need to stealth again.”

Barra reached up with a paw and unceremoniously began ripping the thin strands from her fur. “Ow!” Barra stopped suddenly, and inspected her arm where a bright line of red appeared. She began licking at it, lapping up the blood that beaded up. Scrutinizing the sticky strands she held she saw a large thorn glued to one. It was small, but it had a nasty hooked point on it.

“You okay?” Tory asked. He was at a window keeping watch.

“It’s only a scratch,” Barra lied. It was deeper than a scratch, but it didn’t look serious. “Watch out for the thorns on that black vine, they’re really sharp.” She finished pulling the last of the strands from her fur—more carefully than before—and cleaned up as best she could.

Tory paced from opening to opening, watching for anything dangerous that might come their way. His patrol was interrupted by a dense, low hum that began at his feet and travelled up his spine. The den swayed subtly, causing his vision to swim.

Tory lost his balance. “Whoa. Do you feel that?”

Plicks was shock-calm in the alien environment, staring at his feet where he dangled them into the watery basin. He was disconnected from their plight, detached from the world. He said nothing.

Barra felt the den moving. She experienced the same eerie disorientation as Tory, and echoed his thoughts, “What is
it?”

The swaying and vibrating increased. The hum became a rumble and the floor of the den seemed to slide around beneath their feet. The pool lapped at Plicks’ toes, startling him. He retreated from the lip of the basin like it was the salivating mouth of a hungry animal. Indeed, the opening of the basin narrowed. Plicks pointed and
erpped
repeatedly.

Barra and Tory followed Plicks’ gaze and saw the basin closing. The narrowing opening created a conical light that was focused on the ceiling. Barra was the first to look up. The mirrored surfaces came together as the branches rearranged themselves. Barra yelled, “It’s the Buckle!”

The Great Trees were sliding together for the night. The floor was shrinking, the ceiling collapsing. The windows of the den were closing and Barra feared they’d be trapped inside. She raced to action. Dashing to the closest porthole, Barra leapt through. Outside, she turned around to see Tory and Plicks standing motionless, slow to react, apparently mesmerized. “Come on!” Barra screamed. The sound of the wild thicket weaving all around her was terrifying, hissing wet and sinister. The implications were havoc in her mind.

Tory and Plicks were still stuck in place. Barra scratched anxiously at the opening that wouldn’t be for much longer. Glancing over her shoulder at the rootscape, she sighed. Inside the mysterious den or outside in the scary unknown; she’d rather be with her friends than alone.

Barra slipped back inside.

“What’re you doing!?” Tory exclaimed as he and Plicks finally ran over to her.

“The window’s already too small!” Barra pointed and yelled angrily.

Tory didn’t blink. He only stared at her, unable to process everything that was happening.

The Buckle eventually ended, and just like that, they were sealed off from the rest of the Root for the night. Trapped maybe, but also safe from the green eyes that lingered outside.

13. Reflection’s End

The ancient den was well lit, the ceiling buckled into a mostly contiguous array of reflective surfaces where the shrunken basin focused a wavering blue light. The soothing nature of the curvy lines bouncing around the room did nothing to ease the bups’ fear.

The trio searched for a way out. A few obvious doorways offered hope, but their bindings had erupted long ago, rendering them impassable. No escape, the trio instead found an alcove sprouting a few withering berries and sweet roots. The food only appeared meager, but was in fact potent. The strong flavors woke the bellies of the ravenous bups and they ate every bit.

Nothing left to explore and having found no exit, the three friends rested around the narrow basin. They watched the ceiling dance, and despite their circumstances, felt awe. The longer they looked, the deeper the reflection pulled them in.

After a while, Tory whispered, “What’re we gonna do?”

Barra was preoccupied and Plicks still had a detached, glazed-over look in his eyes. Propping himself up, Tory reiterated, “No really, what’s the plan?”

Barra was thinking about her father and the Root, trying to remember everything from the journal. She didn’t appreciate the interruption. She glared at Tory and said, “Tonight? What do you want us to do? There’s nothing we can do.”

“We can’t talk about it? Try to figure it out? We’ve got the time,” Tory said, an edge of agitation in his voice. Of course, they were stuck. He knew they were stuck. He wanted to get unstuck. That was the idea.

Oblivious, Plicks said, “What do you think makes the light ripple like that?”

Tory threw his hands up, eyes rolling.

Barra scrutinized her fluffy friend, and wondered if he’d hit his head on the way down.

No one answered Plicks. No one said anything. Barra felt pressure to say something, to offer a plan, but her mind was swimming. The laceration from the thorn pricked for her attention, and she licked at it absentmindedly while she tried to think.

Tory walked his nervous energy off, circling the mouth of the water basin. After many tiny laps he knelt down beside Plicks. Tory waved his hand in front of Plicks’ face. The Kolalabat wore an unflinching, unsettling expression and didn’t react. Tory poked at him, “Hey. Hey, you gonna be alright?”

“Sure. I’m good,” Plicks seemed surprised that Tory would think anything else. After an uncomfortable delay, as though he’d suddenly remembered something, he returned, “How are you?”

“I’m doin’ okay,” he said, evenly. Tory sat again, right beside his dazed friend. He tried to see what fascinated the Kolalabat so much about the ceiling. It was brilliantly architected—Tory couldn’t imagine how the binders accomplished it all—but he thought Plicks saw more.

As Tory watched the beautiful play of light and shadow, he calmed down. His irritation with Barra subsided. He thought he could almost see through the ceiling into another world. Looking deep into the reflected image instead of at the surfaces that created it, he thought he saw something familiar.