Chapter 16: The Tree that Ate Starlight

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears:

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles

--William Blake, “A Poison Tree”

Have you ever experienced silence? Not just the word used in everyday language (which is more accurately a “muffling”) but a true escape from sound? Cities are famously some of the loudest places, with nonstop crowds, traffic, and alarms. Yet rural spaces also bring constant encounters with noise, be it weather ranged from a gale’s howl down to a breeze’s sigh, or the cycling of animals: birds most of the year, crickets by spring, and cicadas all summer.

Those are merely the external forms of sound, requiring the medium of ears. Perhaps you are deaf, yet surely you hear thoughts internally, as when reading the lines on this page. Grace had her own difficulty, being especially sensitive to noise. Others could train themselves to tune out noises, or at least the ones they do not like. (This goes for thoughts as well.) Nonetheless, there is always at least some sound cluttering the background. They can be ignored, perhaps even suppressed, but are never cancelled out entirely.

Feel grateful that, whatever your circumstances, you have never had to deal with true silence. Genuine quiet never comes with a side of “peace and…” but instead, is terrifying. The known world is full of echoes, and the echoes of echoes. The Silent Forest was a place of the unknown. The moment Grace passed through O’s portal with Goldtalon, Bennu, Schrodinger, Fox, and Diana—the Murder refused to leave Waif—she encountered the opposite of her typical sense-issue.

The Silent Forest lived up to its name, though once inside Grace forgot what names were. A haze fell over her. Even her thoughts were weighed down, especially the part of her that made plans. She forgot why she bothered coming here, and also that there was another place she originally came from.

Other senses were not so badly affected. She felt sweat on her skin. An oppressive humidity with no breeze to disperse it. In fact, not only was there no wind, there was hardly any air. Biologically, she knew to breathe, as when sleeping. But she also inhaled significant quantities of dust. Added together, these problems prevented quick movement.

This did not stop the six from quickly separating. Each shuffled in their own direction, without a care to the original mission.

The Silent Forest never experienced sunlight, but it was not in total darkness. Certainly not the kind of black boxes Schrodinger traveled through, which were things of raw possibility.

The closest comparison to how the Forest felt was if the box turned out to be empty, and you double-checked to see if there was a receipt, only to find the box no longer existed and you were holding nothing, and, in fact, you had no hands with which to hold anything. The Forest was a place of no possibilities whatsoever, suspended in perpetual dusk.

The companions left soundless footsteps on dusty ground with might have been quicksand if it could simply muster the initiative. Except for them, there were no animals. Nor were there many plants. All grass in the lightless region had long withered. The remaining trees were bare of foliage. Their timber lacked the usual range of browns, instead settling on a bleached white-silver. There were no saplings. Only those with fat trunks ornamented by knots which almost resembled lips.

Incrementally, Grace moved away from those she entered with. Closer to branches resembling hands, with long, crooked, multi-jointed fingers. Hands stripped to the bone. In her normal state of mind, she would have been curious about how they could brush past her hair when there was no wind.

Before she got any closer, Goldtalon struck into a trunk. One of his wings snagged on a branch. The instinct that sensed danger had been compromised, but his body gently tried to pull away. His jerking became more insistent the longer he stuck in place. Eventually, he took a beak to the offending bough, trying to bite through so he might continue wandering to nowhere. In reaction, the branch formed a fist and punched him square between the eyes.

By their imprint, when Grace’s griffin felt pain, she experienced it, too. Its acuteness overcame the pervasive dullness in the atmosphere. Somehow, the branches could move by their own power, and they beat Goldtalon about his head, legs, and sides. Grace rushed to his defense, and she was not alone.

As they shared a Hatching Day, Goldtalon would always be connected with Bennu, albeit not so strongly as with Grace. Bennu could not sing, or reflect any light off his tail, but he used what little mass he had to tug Goldtalon by his middle away from the offending branches. The three were attacked, but pain made them alert. No matter how many branches were broken—splashing the trio with silvery sap in the process—more came from all sides.

Schrodinger, Fox, and Diana also stumbled into trees, and felt just as befuddled why they would be so bombarded.

Then, a lip-shaped knot opened near Bennu, exposing what can only be called a mouth: an uneven, gaping thing, with splinters instead of teeth. The plants were not just attacking, they meant to feed! Before discovering what kind of stomach a tree might have evolved, Bennu bursts into flames. Ambient moisture instantly put out the blaze.

Even so, the splintery mouth snapped shut. In fact, the carnivorous plant dropped everything in its branches, including Goldtalon and Grace. In whatever mind it possessed, the tree remembered from long ago to keep away from burning things.

Fire has lungs, the same as creatures, and need oxygen to breathe. Due to so little existing in the Silent Forest, the lifespan of flames was not very long, nor for beings whose powers came from fire. Grace once knew that phoenixes never slept or dreamed, but apparently, they could be knocked unconscious. Bennu collapsed like a soggy ragdoll.

Another tree grabbed Diana, trying to pull her towards one of its many mouths. With her wet, loose skin, however, she had little problem slipping out of its clutches. While safe, she sobbed silently on the ground. A fog existed around her long before entering the woods, so her personality had not changed much.

Schrodinger, by contrast, was hardly himself. Composure cultivated from years of library work was replaced with a frantic fur-shaking. Not only did he fail to dry himself off, he brought the trees’ attentions on himself. When the skeletal branches struck, though, feline instincts popped his claws loose. He raked and sliced till they were only twigs and sap sticking to his fur. As suddenly as they attacked, the trees went dormant.

Fox’s stones were falling. Specifically, on her. Alone in the group that blindly trekked into this place of disquieting quiet, she was never assaulted by Flesh-Eater Trees. Poltergeist abilities were not something she was trained to turn on-or-off.

While not causing any major injuries, the persistent irritation proved enough to keep her just that little bit more focused than the others, even as a pall still hung over her mind. Without enemies to keep them awake, the others had gone numb again. They did not care about the different ways they might die, like suffocation from a finite supply of oxygen, or starvation. Already, stomachs growled, though it went unheard. Some just sat around. That made Fox angrier.

So she would have to keep them going? Without using so much as a whisper, Fox’s gestures told everyone not to wander off. From the rear, she pushed them forward, because it was unacceptable to stop moving. Staying still was a luxury reserved for trees. If the companions stopped, they might as well put down roots of their own, and would never escape. And there was a way to escape. But they had to do something first, right?

Granted, Fox did not know which direction to boss her friends towards. Only that it was important to keep moving their feet, whether they had two or four. Of course, they were diligently reminded to step carefully. Often with an open palm, sometimes with a closed fist.

There were no trails, but there were thin strips of bare sand outside the range of any given tree’s branches. As long as they walked single-file, they were not in immediate danger of being devoured.

Being biggest and strongest, Goldtalon had no trouble carrying his unconscious hatchmate on his back. Uncomfortable heat leaked from Bennu, but at least it proved he was still alive. While she had no idea who he was, Grace kept a hand on Goldtalon’s side. She could not hear him purr, but felt it.

If not for lacking any idea where they were going, it could be said the companions backtracked on themselves. Some paths were actually loops. Humidity added exponentially to what they already carried. The atmosphere was full of moisture, yet they felt dehydrated.

Stolen story; please report.

Grace slapped her palm against what now felt like an unbearably heavy bag. A waterskin fell out.

Lifting from where she just tripped herself, Diana’s nervous fingers found it, and unscrewed the cap. How thankful, then, to find potable water. Even if it was tepid.

Fox commandeered it, to make sure everyone got a drink. Too quickly, though, it emptied.

Grace noticed the soil they walked on had morphed from sand to something closer to loam. Or rather, her feet noticed. The group had accidentally tramped into Moleman’s Green, just as Diana narrowly avoided being sucked into a tree mouth large enough to swallow her whole.

Turns out, the place was not green. Nor did it feature any moles, men, or combination thereof. How, then, did Grace know (not think, as that was still difficult in the silence, but know) this was the proper place?

From the most primitive sections of their brains, griffins are drawn to precious metals and gems. The zeal Goldtalon now felt passed to Grace, clearing her head even more than pain had. The ring of soft dirt they had stumbled upon was littered with crystals.

They shone internally. Contrast with the black soil where they lay half-buried made them stand out even more. Something was already sifting the area, pulling out the luminescent gems, then shattering them into fragments.

The tree in the exact center of the circle closely resembled the Flesh-Eaters. Its trunk was fat. Its long, leafless branches could easily be mistaken for hands. But the trunk lacked those knots hiding splintery mouths, and its silver boughs did not move. Its roots were what moved, constantly turning over ground so it never had time to sit and dry out. They probed for crystals. Whenever they snared a twinkling gem, the limbs tightened, squeezing it into dust. A great, yet cold, flash shocked the other companions awake.

As the roots sucked up starlight (for what else could it be, to bring such illumination into that inherently dark place?) the trunk briefly glowed, too. The roots were thin, but must have been very strong, because when Goldtalon tried to pry out a souvenir of his own, he could not lift the crystal. Grace kept clear of the roots, while also keeping away from the Flesh-Eaters beyond the perimeter. The Star-Digger literally stood apart from its dangerous cousins.

Fox saw Goldtalon struggling, and gently—for her—pushed her friend aside. She lifted her left hand. The stones gravitating above her head began twirling around her fingers. Then, she closed her hand into a fist. The rocks dropped, subsequently fading back to wherever they came from. She made a fist with her other hand, staring right at the crystal the griffin yearned for.

Fox put her hands together, miming the pulling a rope. A very long rope, and thick, too. Her hands visibly chaffed. She pulled at the crystal without actually touching it. Sweat joined the dew already on her brow. Her face bore the strangest mix of happiness and anger, so that none could discern whether she was smiling or baring teeth.

Like stones, gems are minerals. While hardly flying through the air, it wobbled, brushing aside dirt it had been embedded in for however many eons. At last, it parted ways with the ground. Fox lost all strength, and could not so much as hold the sharp-edged, irregular rectangle of starlight.

Goldtalon gladly took the burden. The gem was a bit longer than the agate he hatched from, but thinner. It fit fine in his paw, but weighed heavy. Grace shared in his half-conscious drawing on his magical strength. As others looked on, he hoisting the crystal high, as if to show off after his prior impotency. Aside from Bennu, a feeling passed through the group: they had accomplished something. Even if they could not grasp the significance.

The problems of the world and Nephelokokkygia were irrelevant there. They also forgot O created a portal to the Forest from her Dojo, and that the window still existed. They stuck together regardless. They knew—or Fox did, at least—it was important to keep moving. Else, they’d sink beneath the overbearing dew into the grassless dust, as Diana and Schrodinger already showed signs of.

Still, it was the grimalkin who noticed the change in air first. Fox was about to badger him to resume pace, then smelt it, too. Grace tugged up her patched shirt’s collar to cover her mouth and nose. Partnered with the humidity, the oncoming miasma was almost tangible. Stench pervaded everything. The sadly familiar odor of an enemy. It brought back memories only recently misplaced.

In a colorless place, a black-and-white striped creature blends in perfectly. Lucky that, while the Aniwye could not be seen or heard clearly, his giant movements made vibrations easy to feel, even from a distance.

While one lens of his pince-nez was cracked, skunks see better in the dark anyway. He had not spotted them yet, though.

Nostrils contracted and expanded. How his own stink did not block out everything else was unknown. The toilet-brush tail waved, bumping against handy branches. As the companions tried sneaking away, the Aniwye spotted Schrodinger. Huge nostrils flared. For having such bulk, the skunk ran very fast. Rage conquered the burden of humidity. Near-invisible, the skunk stalked them. Branches stuck out, but he powered past before they held him down.

The companions fled, still single-file. Grace in front, followed by Goldtalon carrying Bennu, then Diana, then Schrodinger, with Fox and her rain of stones in back. They took a break a moment, breathing deeply. But how could that be? The Forest had no spare oxygen, but something fresh drifted to them…as if to counterbalance the skunk.

Grace scanned every direction, finding the subtle breeze and the portal she and her friends must have entered from. In following his prey, the egg snatching skunk needed to bend the iron bars to accommodate his size.

A great tremor came from behind where they huddled. Grace sprung up, vowing to never look back. But, in confusion, Diana caught her foot in a hole. Instantly, Grace turned to help, as did Fox. Together they lifted Diana up, but greedy branches bore down from above.

All the excessive movement had finally raised the trees from dormancy. Their twigs were sharp as needles and knives, finding every breach in the girls’ worn clothes. They also went straight for Goldtalon and Schrodinger’s pink flesh, penetrating fur and feathers.

At least the boughs attacked the Aniwye with equal ferocity, and he made a bigger target. The skunk bashed head-first to where the friends were held up.

Fox hit the Aniwye with stones, unfortunately as ineffective as when they previously fought. She did, however, succeed in knocking off his pince-nez.

The violence failed to awaken Bennu, whose light had been the one consistent thing to weaken the monster.

Goldtalon broke free of the branches tearing his wings, moving to shield Grace.

Biting the Aniwye’s face, Schrodinger choked on dirty fur. Goldtalon cracked his knuckles and jumped on the enemy’s back, digging in his namesake. The Aniwye slammed them both against a trunk. Another wave of branches attacked. Everyone—no matter how large—was tossed upside-down. The Aniwye caught his neck in a wood vise, but his lower body was positioned in a place to spray.

Grace found footing even before the feline (and part feline) managed to. She saw Fox and Diana tangled in roots. That these roots did not move like the Star-Digger’s proved little comfort. Diana tried standing on her own, but her webbed foot failed to find purchase on sand. She tripped again. Rather than crying, as normal, her warty face took on a strangely serene appearance.

Grace reached out to both, but the hand thrust to Diana was pushed aside. She insistently nodded in Fox’s direction, so Grace helped her stand first. They moved to get Diana free, but she shook her head and waved them away. Though the squonk (or former squonk) could not be heard, the intention was clear. “No time, save yourselves!”

In answer, Fox made a rude gesture. Her other hand again stretched to Diana. Putting her directly under the Aniwye’s backside.

How to describe even the most indirect whiff of the gargantuan skunk’s spray? Landfills the size of countries, the amount of sulfur a volcano produces during its geological lifespan, garlic cultivated in sports arena restrooms. No matter how terrible all those things combined might smell, suffering the full attack—as Diana, and only Diana, since Fox was pushed away—was eight hundred times worse.

Grace could not get a clear look at her friend’s face. Sizzling vapors concealed it. Even if the spray was not exactly acid, Diana’s eyes might be damaged the rest of her life. Grace remembered what Schrodinger said about griffin feathers. (She had really missed having a memory.) Their feathers cured blindness! With a heave with no time for “ho,” she and Fox hefted Diana face-first onto Goldtalon’s back, right beside Bennu.

Schrodinger provided distractions by taunting, then dodging, the Aniwye. Evidentially, the skunk only had one spray ready to go, otherwise he would have already hit the grimalkin.

He still had giant claws and teeth, which might easily close the tabby’s eighth or ninth life.

Finally reorienting herself after the branch attack, Grace pinpointed O’s gate. It seemed so far away on foot. Diana might not make it…or any of them for that matter. Grace turned to Goldtalon, pointing into the sky. If the gesture was not clear enough, some mental urgency passed to the griffin.

More than a bit reluctant, Goldtalon tried getting past the skeletal branches which grasped and tore at his head, torso, six limbs, and tail. He shouldered the added weight of Bennu and Diana well enough. As Grace once taught him, his lion limbs sprung away from the silver tree tops. With so little air, gliding was difficult. But pivoting his wing muscles till they nearly dislocated themselves, he achieved true flight.

Only he would ever experience the sheer emptiness between night and day. Coming back, nothing frightened him like nothing before or after. He careened down, past the iron bars into the Dojo. Bennu and Diana safely on his back. The crystal stayed in his paws.

Elsewhere, Fox came behind Grace, giving her a hard shove forward. Grace returned the favor. They ran together, ignoring their shared collection of scratches and splinters with the support of adrenaline, anger, worry, and hope.

Even as one saw the other double over from burning lungs, lightheadedness, or the bane of all runner, side cramps, they ran against the breeze, pulling each other towards the portal. When Fox fell in a ditch, Grace dug dirty nails into her wrist, yanking the older girl upright while not slowing down herself.

Schrodinger could easily race past on his four legs. Instead, he lagged, checking the Aniwye was not following. He had little reason to worry. Flesh-Eating Trees only act in interest of their own hunger. Their branches wrestled to get at the largest prey available. The grimalkin kept low to the ground to avoid being snared in the mad wrangling.

Fox slid past the door. Coming to a sudden complete halt, she crashed and skinned her knees on the floor. Grace and Schrodinger escaped together. Even the most seasoned marathon judge would be at a loss deciding who made it out last.

The Aniwye found himself tangled between multiple carnivorous trees. Lacking noses, his reek proved no deterrent. The closest mouth-knots opened wide, taking little time to savoring the first feast to come along in measureless times—since they had no stars or seasons to keep a calendar.

He snapped and scratched back, momentarily getting free. A might paw stomped on an already broken pince-nez. Then, he was in the trees’ power again. For things also lacking eyes, struggling only made the meal easier to locate, working up a decent appetite besides.

Grace and Schrodinger panted on either side of the magically-created doorway. Sound would take getting used to. They could hear the Aniwye gurgle what is best written out as “Vresket!” Before O closed the gap in the iron bars, Grace broke her vow again and looked back. She could not explain what compelled her to do so, but she thought even for such a noxious beast, the Silent Forest was no place to die.