The night grew thick and bold. Clouds had been rubbed raw pink that seemed to fade with a hurry as the moon climbed higher. Diantha knew this was nothing new and that the sky would return the next day. Her heart clenched at the thought. Night had to last a little longer… the minutes had to stop their pull on time. Let them grow, she pleaded, but not beyond reason.
She felt the burns on her thighs warm. Her father had whipped her not three hours ago, his movements deft and violent. In truth, she had forgotten her transgression. She questioned whether she had made one at all. Her father had a certain kind of love for punishing her for small things. He had done worse to her mother, of that she was certain. The pain always kept her on edge like a lithe Meowth, as it did her mother.
There was great a risk to her late-night escapades from Château des Rêves. The lawns were always carefully tended to by an army of gardeners, and they would be all but inclined to regale her father of her nighttime misdeeds. She had to be mindful to take the most obstructive path through the towering dewberries, which not even the fiercest of gardeners would dare explore, to better cover her tracks.
Wearing high heels had been her first and only mistake. She had been caught by her mother scraping thorns and nettles from her shoes near the Palafin fountains. It had been a warm day and the cloudless sky had baked the grass an ugly brown, even with the added help of twenty sprinklers. Her mother had sat her down and warned her to be more cautious in her nightly activities, though praised her for finally doing something rebellious and spoke of her own little getaways whenever her husband turned a blind eye.
That conversation played over in her mind at times such as these. Here she should have felt some semblance of peace. The memories warmed her cheeks.
She was far from home now. The walls around her were far warmer than those of her family’s Great Hall. Ten sets of eyes weren’t glued to her every move, possibly wondering if later that day she would fling herself from La Flèche de l’Éternité, where her bedroom overlooked the Château from the south. Here – no less than three miles away – she could breathe easy. Here she was at home, though by no account was she alone.
An old lady called Elia Beaumont had become a great friend of hers over the past three months. The old woman had always said she was more than pleased to accommodate her at any hour. Diantha had taken her words to heart. No less than two moons had turned before she returned, her forehead sprinkled with sweat and her breath mere pale, icy mist.
Elia was a plump lady who wore aprons that frequently pooled over her wrinkly feet, so she hadn’t stern words for Diantha’s appearance. Her face had a wart akin to a raisin over her left white eyebrow; her eyes, which were so dark they looked like puddles of ink, would often drift apart.
Elia hummed along to an old record in the kitchen, adjacent to the living room and below the old woman’s bedroom. The music would warp and emit despondent, dulcet tones of ungracious murmurings. Once upon a time, such music was refined and smooth.
Time always won. Time reigned supreme. The hours always passed. She would have to go home soon, but not yet. No, she thought, I shall stay an hour longer.
“Tea?”
She blinked. “Oh, why yes, please! I’m parched.”
Elia tutted. She did that often. It had infuriated Diantha two months ago. Two months had passed. Diantha winced. The grandfather clock stood still in her peripheral vision. It looked newly polished as it had when she first saw it. The smooth oak soldier – that’s what she called it. She wanted a soldier. Her father would be impaled upon his sword by nightfall, and his head mounted on the battlements of Château des Rêves before sunrise.
Diantha closed her eyes.
What would he look like? Would he be a beautiful prince with golden hair? Maybe he would have brown hair of Ébène Royale, her favourite dark chocolate. Would his lips be of smooth velvet, too? Such thoughts kept her awake on hot nights. It was always hard to see him. In her dreams, he was… abnormal, even a little wild.
A porcelain tray clinked against the tea stand. Her knee bounced a mile a minute.
“Ma’am,” she began, nervous.
“You have an hour.”
“Yes,” Diantha replied. She nervously opened the small sugar jar beside a stack of warm biscuits. Her fingers tightened around the sugar spoon. She loved its Shellder design – such a distraction was welcome.
“Sugar or not, that tea will soon be stone cold.” Elia sighed, reaching for her walking stick. “I must say you need to eat. The biscuits are freshly baked. Be mindful of the time.”
As if she needs to remind me, Diantha thought coldly. It is not you, Elia, that feels a burn on your thighs. No, that is I. Soon I shall be dead, and for what? Gallavanting in the dark for a paintbrush. You cannot understand. I hope you never do.
The nearest biscuit floated out of reach. Her breath hitched, and she nearly choked on her tea. Her breathing softened when she saw Ralts waving her arms from her pink purse.
“You mustn’t,” she warned aloud. “Father will kill you. Be… Just be cautious.” Ironic, given that I had received such wisdom mere moments ago. “You can always ask for help. We’re friends.”
She nibbled on the edge of a biscuit. It wasn’t cold. She had often forgotten the taste of treats. She had been forbidden from eating such delights many years ago. There was no smooth cocoa to coat her tongue, which displeased her greatly. Her soldier must have stolen them away, along with his presence from the very castle he was needed in most.
Diantha finished her treat and waved for Ralts to follow.
“We can practice in a week,” she said slowly. “Father will be gone. Mother is always happy to see you. Maybe we could explore some of the battlegrounds… practice a little here and there. You’ll be beautiful as always.”
Ralts hid behind her arms, shy.
Diantha fell in step with her Pokémon. “Have you an idea of what you will paint? I fear I’m struggling at the moment.”
They moved through the home without a sound. Ralts was just as unsure as herself when it came to creative endeavours. They spied on people from the village sometimes for inspiration. On one occasion, they had been caught by the postman staring at streaks of silver light from a disco ball as it dangled above twenty partygoers. He had been disturbed by their silence. He did not understand that silence was their seal of safety. They had left in the end after he threatened to contact the authorities.
Ralts placed a tripping curse on him in retribution. He had stumbled with two left feet to his crimson van which had been parked perpendicular to the pavement. He did not turn to glare their way. It had been the first time she had seen Ralts so upset.
Stars cut across her vision followed by a dull ache in her stomach. She gripped the door to the Beaumont conservatory and gritted her teeth. Ralts shuffled inside with a squeak of joy.
Diantha knew she could not follow, not yet.
Frost danced across the nearest windowpane, obscuring several miles of meandering rivers and icy oxbow lakes. In the distance she could see, hidden amidst sphagnum moss the size of Exeggutor, tall trees so black they looked like blades of obsidian. Nature died at the Drenched Quagmire’s mouth.
Several scientific expeditions had been made over the last several months into the southern section of the quagmire. Those who returned had been changed by their experiences. One scientist had her skin turned a spotted charcoal black where it had once been a gentle pearlescent white. She died the following morning from a seizure. Her assistant had entered with soft brown eyes and black skin. He later emerged on all fours, grey as silt, with eyes of ruby red that beat akin to a heart.
It was strange to consider any life surviving the Drenched Quagmire. There had been many a tale over the years of its strange curses. Few Pokémon could stomach it.
She remembered the poor assistant and how he had begged his god of silt and stone to reclaim him. He hadn’t survived a day beyond the boundary of saturated ground. She still saw his face when she slept. She would awake to the sound of his teeth gnawing on the bedpost nearest her wardrobe. He fell silent when her breath hitched.
He was dead, though. I know it true as I left him a bouquet of flowers. I had scattered the earth over his casket. He had tried to speak before death took him. I later found out that he had gripped his heart so tightly his nails popped from their nail bed. I do hope he is at peace…
Diantha shivered and entered the Beaumont conservatory.
Warmth caressed her cheek. A steady candle burned to her right. It hid beneath a porcelain tealight dome that Diantha just loved. It was so plain and simple. Like herself. She held the hope that someday Elia would gift her a set or perhaps tell her, maybe on the eve of the red moon, that she was not a burden to be shouldered.
Three-quarters of the conservatory remained cast in a nightly shadow. Each corner was its own world, distant and remote.
She knew well of the gentleness of fire. Diantha also knew of its dangers. Should a passing eye catch the conservatory aglow in reddish light, the news would soon travel and find the wrong ears. Therefore, they remained in close proximity to the door, where the glass was thicker and covered in artwork.
“Come, come,” Elia insisted.
And so our fun begins.
Diantha sat in a large wooden chair, impatient. Ralts lifted herself onto her lap and waved her now purple arms excitedly. The smell of paint was strong. She took care not to sneeze. Two droplets threatened to stain her white shorts before Ralts caught them with her strange power.
Again, she chided her friend for being so overt.
Suspicion arose in her heart when Elia stared out into the night. Her old body was drawn in, protective. Her fingers clasped the frame of an old painting – one her husband had made before he passed away. It was a snowy mountain that towered above the clouds. There was something bright at its zenith, cloaked in an aurora borealis and bathed in a grim silver moonlight. Diantha nibbled her lip in worry. Elia still hadn’t moved.
“The night is quite cold,” said Elia, quiet-like.
Diantha tickled Ralts’ horn. “September showers draw near.” Her leg started bouncing again. “We had a long summer this year – longest in twelve years, apparently.”
“Yes,” Elia replied, her lips drawn tight. “Warmth soon turns cold. Summer dies for a chilly autumn. Say – do you feel it? The air tonight cuts deep. A sharp cold, you see?”
“Yes, I feel it,” she replied, uneasy. I felt it the moment I left my chambers to visit you. Cold always cuts deep. There is no difference tonight…
Elia shuffled three easels into view. Two were large enough for adults, whereas the last was so small she need only nudge it with her foot to slide it across the room. She took care not to strike any of the potted plants resting on a Beartic rug. The candle waned with Elia’s strength. The woman hated help of any sort.
On the first night Diantha arrived, there had been a lack of firewood to calm the pains of Elia’s arthritis. She had returned from the old woman’s woodshed with six chopped logs, all wrapped in a tight bundle of silver cloth, and stacked them ready for the night. The old woman had regarded the pile coolly, ending their session there and then.
I would feel annoyed if someone told me I was weak, too. Pain makes me cry no more than cruel words. I cannot hope to see a world where my mind breaks. Ralts must not face such a fate either. We are both weak in body, but that is all. I someday hope you see as well as I, Elia, that friends are important. Don’t freeze alone… just don’t.
Silver mist swirled in a tight coil in the distance. Several Pokémon flew to the south – some were large enough to shadow Elia’s home. Diantha felt her eyes widen. The slender trees had moved – she was sure of it. She inched closer to the window facing east and pressed her nose against the frigid glass.
They were taller now and their bark glistened; great black eyes like baubles glared her way in contempt. She was certain they were headed west, though, with doubt to her own self-centredness, she worried her mind was playing a trick on her. Lichen ran down each branch like laced gloves; its rough fingers ended with leaves so thin they looked like veins of swampy peat, and they were straining to reach for her.
Diantha blinked.
The trees vanished into the storm.
She slid her bottom onto an uncomfortable wooden stool and smiled at Ralts. While Elia readied up beside her, she initiated a game of guess-who with the Pokémon. Diantha blew up her cheeks and held her breath. Stars twinkled behind her eyes.
Ralts painted her answer:
Abrushow [https://see.fontimg.com/api/rf5/ALwDD/NWMyYTMzMDNkOWNlNDFmODg1ODljZTI3MzM3NTM4ZjAudHRm/RkFUIE1FQU4gT05F/abrushow.png?r=fs&h=59&w=1000&fg=494848&bg=FFFFFF&tb=1&s=59]
Diantha giggled, “That’s right! I’m impressed.”
“Impressed with that?” said Elia, scandalised. She dipped her paintbrush into a bed of squelchy lilac. “I suppose I’ll have to teach you often. Such a crude remark is undeserving of praise!”
Ralts dipped her head and smiled.
If it’s all the same to you, Diantha mused. Returning here is my favourite pastime. On this day, I shall paint something special for you. I trust you with my eyes closed, and so does Ralts. But what to paint? The moving trees seem the better option, with their eerie branches and towering forms…
Diantha remained silent.
She closed her eyes and waited for something to enchant her. Outside, the leaves sang their midnight melody beneath a torrent of harsh wind. In Elia’s garden, the upturned, densely packed crown of her dragon blood tree shuddered only once as if alive. Something was wrong. Its lifeblood – copper red sap – leaked down its face in an unending stream. It had never bled as such before.
I know plenty of its bleeding ritual. I have seen it no less than thirty times. It is different tonight – I can feel its concern. The tree is crying, and it is crying for me.
A sound came from the Lechonk pens. It was heavy and made Ralts shudder. Elia cast a sidelong look her way in warning. They dared not move. The sound drew closer, as did ragged, pained breaths Diantha disbelieved belonged to walking pork.
Ralts locked the windows.
The thuds stopped.
Moonlight gave way to the creature's shape. Ruffy white fur covered its neck and chest, smoothly travelling down its long limbs beneath the windowsill. It was no Persian – it had to be twice a normal feline’s size. A scythe-shaped horn supplanted the milky light in a clean, deep blue cut that spilt over the floor like water.
Red eyes glared inside… The horn dipped low and clinked against the brick wall. And then it was gone. The wind howled. Something moved in the shadow of the dragon blood tree.
Diantha let out a breath, which came out misty and cold. Her fingers stiffened. Her paintbrush slipped out of her hand and clattered against the floor, sending a slither of black up her shin. Colour faded into a muted grey, followed by a silent whimper. Her whimper.
Elia was right. This night cuts deep, and I am lost. My socks are stained and I am without excuse. My palms are shining – I have never felt so afraid. But I have twenty minutes of freedom… twenty minutes to live. Ralts knows it too. We will be all right… the night cannot touch me yet. It will wait for now.
Diantha retrieved her paintbrush and palette. Eight blobs of paint, all equally distant from another, dotted the rim. She chose them to match the dragon blood tree. She had never painted a tree before; the thought enticed her. Careful to not disturb Elia, who had long since started, she closed her eyes and let her imagination run free.
Her eyelids were alight with life. She was not in a place of darkness – she was in a forest. It was grey and dead. The sun could not touch it. Corpses of several Victreebell waited near the bottom of the nearest path. Their eyes were far but she felt they saw her regardless. She also felt, for a terrifying moment, that they were more alive than they seemed.
The ground shook.
A tree stood in the distance. It was surrounded by a sea of black clouds that stretched on for several miles. Large Pokémon flew around its leaves of early autumn; so dark were they that the warped gneiss behind looked as bright as the sun. Its branches were towering spikes so known to death that they shone milk-white from top to bottom.
Powerful gales from the western sea tore smaller trees to shreds. Each time they tried to tear apart the Goliath, however, the tree rebuked the wind and lashed out, sending a douse of thick pollen into the air. The sky grew yellow as a result. More dragons – Dragonite, Diantha believed – tried to attack the tree, falling soon thereafter in a heap of twisted brambles and sharp spines the length of swords.
The world moved her closer.
She wished it hadn’t.
She found herself in a town. Old cloth and hand-carved talismans hung from twisted, rotting oaks behind every thatched home. Spectres with ten, perhaps twenty faces flew by, cackling in a swarm of blue and grey mist. The trees whipped their weeds high; the sound was so loud Diantha looked to the ashen sky, curious if a thunderstorm was passing overhead.
The world wasn’t finished yet. It moved her even closer.
“Can you –?” Her anger faded. There was a man prowling about the flat grey soil circling the tree. “Hello?”
His eyes were fine cuts of gold but they could not distract her for long. He wore a suit of scaly armour from head to toe. It took her a moment to realise that it was actually his skin. He wore no clothes and walked barefoot in large, strange circles. A Buneary hung from his mouth, long since dead, with its blood pouring down his naked body. His nails were now lengthy black daggers of midnight.
He was as wild as the dragons above.
Her eyes roamed him… lazily. Accidentally. This was not her prince; this was it – the creature that her prince had to slay. But he was not here. The beast was. He snorted great plumes of smoke and scratched the ground in sweeping arcs, almost tauntingly. Though who saw fit to try their fortune against such a man, she would very much like to know.
Keep your territory, I have no need of it. Stay there and I shall remain here, watching you… Stranger. Why did the world show me this? An elm tree taller than everything, of all things. I’d rather a rainbow ended with eccentric dwarfs, thank you very much. They could tip their deep green top hats and teach me how to dance. I would love to see them. I hate seeing you.
She looked up.
One of the tree’s branches had seen fit to greet her with black onyx eyes, gleaming white teeth, and thousands of spiny arms that hung over her like an unearthed Centiskorch. The sea of clouds swept down the goliath’s sides like a pyroclastic flow. Within she saw a face of gold that forked into lassos of jagged lightning, stretching on forever. And beyond that, she took note of a mountain taller than the Goliath, which barely poked through the growing haze.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Sharp claws seized her by the throat –
She awoke to a deep, resonant echo. The grandfather clock – Elia’s soldier – rang true. It was time for her to leave. Her legs would not move. Elia turned her painting Diantha’s way with a proud smile.
“I thought it fair,” she commented lightly. It was the white-furred beast. “Such a beautiful thing…”
Diantha smiled politely and faced her own painting. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“A tree?” Elia commented, teasing.
“It is not the tree that bothers me.”
“A man… No, that is no man.” Elia moved closer. “A… never mind. How unique. And look at Ralts’ work! Have you ever seen a town so old? Why, it’s fantastic.”
She rubbed her hands together nervously. “I can’t recall painting a person before.”
“It seems Ralts followed your example!”
Diantha felt a lead weight settle in her chest.
Without even turning, she knew Ralts had painted… that village. The one of her mind’s eye. And true to her fears, Ralts had painted exactly that. In the corner of a shabby thatched hut, just through the glassless window, were a pair of glowing yellow eyes. It was the only home without a sentinel. The tree behind was gone; a mere stump that looked, with a second glance, like a well-used chopping block, stained a bloodied red.
She rubbed her throat, uncomfortable.
“It’s time.”
“Yes,” she replied uneasily. “Are you going to check on your Lechonk? I fear they may be unsafe.”
Elia smiled. “You have a sweet heart, dear. I often forget how young you are. It is a lovely thing to care for others, even those not of shared species.” Diantha watched her stare at the beastly human. “Love is strange…”
“Why do you have them? The Lechonk?”
“To keep the pests at bay, of course,” Elia replied gently. “Insects are disturbed by their aroma. Lechonk are fantastic repellents. My husband purchased them before his passing. Unfortunately, the upkeep wears on my bones. I shall sell them to the Santalune Prodigious Farm by month’s end.”
Elia’s voice was full of sorrow. Diantha patted the woman’s paint-stained apron, setting a hand firm on her knee.
“He loved them…” Tears brimmed in Elia’s eyes. “Oh, if he were here now! I can only imagine how angry he’d be. But I haven’t a choice! His ghost haunts me even now, lurking about these silly walls, always watching over me. But he cannot help. I wish some nights that I could hear him again.”
I know how you feel. I remember my old grandfather – his hands were calloused, often overworked from efforts in the steel mill. He would throw me high, so far so I could overlook every hedge on my old street. Perish my father’s name should he still live, but he does not. Even now, I have my mother for help. You have no one.
A terrifying thought struck her: what kept Elia from leaving? There was nothing left here, nothing except –
“You should go,” said Elia, hidden behind her handkerchief.
Diantha carried Ralts to her pink purse and set her down gently within. The Pokémon waved her arms, though without humour. “I know you don’t want to leave. I don’t want to, either, but our place isn’t here. You know where we belong.”
Ralts stole a slice of shortbread from Elia’s biscuit tin. She refused to look Diantha’s way, unmoved by the crumbs dotting her friend’s bag.
“I know, I know…” Diantha consoled.
To whom do I console? I think we both already know…
She took a long, hateful look at her socks. There were few explanations she had in mind for the streak of darkness. A hand came to her cheek, soft and caring, gentle enough to pull her away from her pitiful state. Elia pulled her aside and opened a chest of drawers near the grandfather clock. She rummaged for a minute before presenting Diantha with warm, white socks.
“You always wear the same pair,” Elia explained. “I thought it a matter of time before, well.” She gave a pointed look at Diantha’s socks.
“Thank you!” said Diantha, clutching her chest.
“No need. We all know.”
I’d be astounded otherwise, Diantha considered. Some days I’d be impressed if my screams did not reach the bowels of the Drenched Quagmire itself. Maybe the god of silt and stone would send his men to my aid. I can already see the army of red eyes, all pointed southwest, floating toward the Château des Rêves in haste. Let them save me before the morning comes. Please. I cannot take much more. Father leaves in one week. That is too long now – I see my time better spent elsewhere.
I pray to any god, let me escape.
“I shall repay you in time,” Diantha promised.
“For socks? No, they are easily replaced. There are more upstairs yet to be unpacked, and dare I say they shall see some use?”
Diantha nodded. Her eyes drifted to the door with knowing contempt. She sat on the bottom step of the stairs, her calves rubbing against the carpet. She grimaced when she saw her feet. The tightness of her boots had turned them red, and a lemon-coloured bruise had formed over her toes.
“Off with you,” said Elia. “And be careful. The cold has no mercy tonight. I shall keep you in my prayers, darling.” Diantha accepted the offered hand. “There we go! Promise me you’ll fill up on something when you return. I can’t bear seeing those bony legs a day longer.”
Nor can I.
“Of course,” Diantha replied quietly.
The door opened.
----------------------------------------
Diantha looked up the street and assessed the closed cafés calmly. The small village had finally fallen asleep. Few roamed the streets at night, least of all women, and so she felt alone and oddly at ease. The soft click of her boots echoed into the night, though offered no response to its worried, frantic tempo.
Confetti dotted most of the pavement before her, courtesy of a late-night party by the Dubois. She took care in her steps not to dissuade the glittering blanket of its apparent independence. Several Rattata were not of the same opinion. They scurried and snapped at her as she tried to pass, only forced away by Ralts waving her arms. Her Pokémon snickered behind the remaining shortbread.
She regretted not stealing one for herself. But then came the obvious crumbs on her cheek, her lips, followed shortly thereafter by an array of difficult questions with disturbing answers. She imagined her father’s reaction laid bare beneath a swaying lightbulb, hidden away in a small metallic room with a one-way mirror.
“No, Father, how many times must I say it? I spread his legs, not my own,” she murmured, imagining her fist slamming against a table. “He screamed, not I.”
Ralts poked her hand.
“What is it?” Diantha whispered. She rejoiced for keeping a steady grip on her purse.
Ralts pointed to the trees, her face set in a tight frown. Diantha followed her glare to the east. The Rosewood Path had changed… drastically. Brown soil had soured into an ugly grey, and the plants and flowers had wilted into shrivelled husks. The soil reminded her of those she saw near the strange, tall elm tree.
Diantha considered snowfall responsible for a moment. She dared not consider her vision true. “Ralts we need to go home. Please be quiet… I don’t like this at all.”
She grabbed a handful of the soil, observing it closely. It blackened into a thick, sticky paste that tried to crawl up her arms. She stifled a scream and scraped her hands against a tree stump. Her heart raced and her vision doubled. A strange smell of burnt plastic filled her nose, followed by a warm liquid that trickled down her hands.
“Oh no,” she whined. Large fangs, akin to those found in adolescent Ariados, stuck out of her skin at odd angles. “No, this cannot be happening. I hope all the dangerous Pokémon are hibernating… I cannot say what’d happen if they picked up the scent of blood…”
She sat on the clean side of the stump and tore the fangs free from her skin. In thanks to her long sleeves, the wound was obscured well enough to remain unseen by an untrained eye. Diantha counted her blessings while staring at the steaming blue venom pooling around the dark fangs.
Diantha stopped moving. The sign naming the forest path was missing. She knew where it had stood off by heart having crossed it countless times; doubt crawled into her heart, however. She turned and observed the small cottage across the road, taking in its familiarity like recalling the covers scattered across her bed. She was certain her distancing was correct, and that the cottage belonged to the same madman that had pointed at her with his walking stick.
Have I mistaken one entrance for another? No, that cannot be. I have explored this area plenty – only the Rosewood Path guides travellers through the Blackwood Forest. I remember these railings differently. There were frisbees and baby shoes tied around their green posts. Now they are silver and without any item nearby. I am more disturbed by my knowledge of thousands crossing this boundary every single day, yet not a single footprint is impressed upon the earth.
Old white paint streaked across a small wooden board draped across a hundred or so twigs to the right of the open gate. It took Diantha a good few seconds to discern the writing, realising it was the missing sign. Thick roots wrapped around its frame and pulled harshly against the rusted iron bars, cracking the white message in two. But that wasn’t all – it had been defaced with silver tree sap, anointing the new name Grey Ground in bold, blocky letters over Rosewood.
She stepped closer and knelt, heedless of the clay-cold ground, to sever the roots with her nails. Little time passed before she gave in, leaving the board behind. She paced stormily down the ashen path.
“Who would do such a thing?” she muttered. “That sign has been there for years. I didn’t think this area would ever have vandals.”
The path veered to the southeast. Tall black trees with small branches and grey leaves stood motionless on either side of her. She didn’t like it. There was something to the cold now – she could not deny it. Blades of icy wind cut at her knees and ankles, working their way up into her eyes like an unwieldy pocketknife. A harsh gale came in from the trees to the north. The left side of her face ached and soon numbed; her body fought the urge to curl into itself.
Movement. It was a flicker of darkness set aside in her peripheral vision. A tree. It was unordinary for the forest; as where hundreds retained a slither of smooth coal-black bark, this one was different. Puce bark of the darkest purple and red looped and cracked and did all that a tree should not. It was not tall and imposing, yet she felt an itch in the back of her mind, a story told at her mother’s breast, which made Diantha look for a place to hide.
Trees have hearts as much as any man. Some are unnatural and learn to hate... learn to remember the faces of those that have mistreated them. None are so deadly as Devil’s Twirl, which reigns as death in Kalos. One hundred and eight branches… they all watch for enemies… They always know where the guilty hide. No soul knows why it exists, nor what it protects.
Should its eyes watch you, be wary. Do not cross the thirteenth stone or a curse shall follow you for the rest of your days.
I haven’t harmed it by mistake, have I? I cannot run if that is the case. What is the connection between the soil and the tree? Does it think I have wreaked havoc somehow? Or is it trying to warn me? The dragon blood tree cried for me no less than twelve minutes ago, and I am unsure yet if it has stopped. It’s possible it knew… or maybe it was Devil’s Twirl all along.
Stones and twigs crunched beneath her boots as she climbed. Thrice her legs nearly failed her, but she pushed on anyway. The soil slid from her shoes like water in spite of its solidity, running down the small hill like a tributary. She fought off the low-hanging branches and protected her purse from thorny bushes.
Diantha furrowed her brow. She was on the eastern side of Devil’s Twirl, overlooking a large portion of the Blackwood Forest, despite having travelled directly south. She stared at the tree.
What are you trying to show me?
Without an answer, she took a long look at the path ahead. There was an obstruction in the otherwise plain open land. A long layer of thick rocks blockaded the normal path to the east, forcing her to walk further southwest toward the Blackwood Forest. She could not climb it and risk falling. Something in her chest told her that, yes, that was exactly the point. Though what point that was unnerved her greatly.
Thirteen stones surrounded Devil’s Twirl, just like the story. They were strange things that greened if she stared for too long. A faint, wispy black smoke floated above each stone, even though there was no flame to be seen, and concealed Devil’s Twirl with their deceptive techniques.
Ralts murmured something and pulled her hand.
“Yes?”
Ralts tugged harder, wanting to go south already. Diantha decided to follow her friend’s advice.
Half an hour had passed before she reached the last stone. It was a large, spiky thing with red spots that glared her way. She ignored it and continued walking, only for a shabby white-furred beast to mount it a second later. It was the same as before, though now she could see its injuries. Beneath its glowing red eyes, a large red thread-like mark cut through its chin and halfway down its chest.
She stilled her legs and arms.
It let out a gentle cry and slid weakly to the soil. It leapt at the Pokémon’s sides as it had her arm.
“Leave him be!” she squeaked.
Downed and tired, the Pokémon was still larger than her. It could have whipped its wicked scythe-shaped horn and cleaved her in two with little effort.
The soil cascaded to the ground just as all of the rocks steamed, billowing black cloud-like castles above a volcano. A part of her was still convinced she had yet to leave Elia’s conservatory, but she knew that to be impossible. The pain from her toes dismissed the pleasant thought of warm tea and a sugar spoon, which floated just beyond her reach.
Diantha’s breath hitched. The shabby-haired Pokémon was gone. It left no trail to follow, even though its blood seeped into the soil, no longer steaming hot. She stared for a while, willing something else to happen. She hoped for at least a strand of hair to catch against one of the rocks, to no avail.
What interested her was the absence of the moon in the night sky, yet the ground remained alive with light. A headache dissuaded her from staring up for too long, and even Ralts had trouble looking skyward. Diantha saw thirteen flashes of white-hot stars, all wavering in fear around a blanket of inky black clouds.
A thunderous rumble from the northeast made her jump.
She floundered down the thickly covered declivity; her feet, arms, legs, and hair constantly caught on branches and brambles, often forcing her to slow or risk losing her hold on her handbag.
Through the slender trees and black bushes, Diantha saw Calebirth’s home. It was more a speck of green, moulded timber from afar than the bright orange to which she had grown accustomed. Shroomish and Paras were walking on his roof; he didn’t seem to mind, which was odd knowing his contempt for both species. She admired his body at a distance, often shirtless, clad in creamy-white gloves with dark blue jeans.
He paced in strange circles, painting something on the floor. Then he stopped, satisfied, and turned her way. He was staring at her. How, she could not say, for most of her blended into the forest floor. Yet his gaze never faltered, never strayed to a pair of small Starly circling the thirteen stars; Diantha felt the hairs on her neck rise.
Calebirth turned, grabbed a felling axe, and began chopping his prized black poplars for firewood. She saw a stack of wood ready by the cabin door that stood taller than the strange man’s home.
Diantha hurried to the northeast where a path – the same she’d travelled hours passed – waited for her. Halfway there, she noticed the two watchtowers usually manned by unfortunate interns for the Ranger Squad. They were quiet and cold. The searchlights were both pointed northeast, unmoving. She felt uncomfortable lurking out there, with her, deep in the woods. A part of her knew, then and there, that it was not a Pokémon that disturbed her so.
It bothered her tremendously. Ralts was silent, too busy trembling at something she had seen in the sky. The Pokémon had not made to speak since her command.
Two pop-up gazebos laden with rich cerulean fabric and finely cut florid lace rippled beside a crackling orange fire. The flame stretched high and arced south. It was uncontrolled and threatened to set alight the trees of Blackwood Forest. She hurried over and yelled for the Rangers to do something, though stood hidden in the shadow of a nearby bush. She waited, slowly growing more anxious.
Haven’t they any pride? Your fire will torch these trees! Devil’s Twirl will consume everyone because of it, even I, an innocent, shall be blamed. I could put the flame out for you. I could save the forest… but then I would be without safety. You Rangers would take my name, address, and contact my father to ask why such a girl journeys about a forest past midnight.
You deserve no answer from me.
“I must be a fool,” she murmured. “Ralts watch my back. Do not interfere unless you must.”
She pulled free from the darkness, stopping short of a large blue tarp. Moss covered it from one end to the next, forcing it to sag lower by the minute. Several lawn chairs and duffle bags were under threat, but not more than the trees were from the ever-wilder fire.
Both gazebos were torn apart. Long cuts ran down their sides, wafting at odd angles from a breeze inalienable to her skin. Deadfall slithered across the entrances; a metallic wire strung around the skull of a Rhydon stretched, its line taut and drawn back, against each parting. She was careful to avoid the wire, entering the gazebo in Ralts’ line of view, and reminded herself that – in spite of her panic – Rangers were people too. Anyone could tire on a night’s watch.
“Hello?” she whispered. A can of beer crumpled under her boot. She waited, frightened. Nothing. “Hello?” she tried again, her back so straight it ached.
An upturned plastic picnic table with snapped legs embraced by the wintery soil stuck to the forest floor, blocking off the centre of the gazebo. A portable hand wash station leaked strange black fluid which puddled beside a packet of hot dog buns, turning the bread rolls a sickly ochre. It reminded her of Elia’s candle, and she thought it smelled alike, too.
Several snapped Poké Balls lost their crimson edge to a Rattata brown, smeared almost delicately across their surface. The jagged edges were ugly, disgusting things that reminded her all too well of the tree following her. A concerning question floated about her mind: Where are the Pokémon now? She need not be told their chances, not in this new, dangerous world. Yet – told plenty a tale of a Ranger’s bravery – she knew their Pokémon had to be well-trained.
So why run? What released you from your Poké Balls? What could have startled you so? You have all fled into the darkness. Why? The Starly have fled to join the rest of you, perhaps? I cannot say. But I must confess, I share no sympathies with your friends for them to so callously start such a fire. Then again… who knows who started it?
Diantha moved aside a privacy curtain, unconcerned. A map nailed to the wall caught her attention. She did not understand its meanings – they were not of her language. A hunting knife struck through a point beyond her current position, along with bright blue arrows hastily labelled, ‘To prevent them getting close’.
Teal light washed up the forest's edge just to the north of Karp Tail Crossing, the only bridge between the forest and her way home. Her palms started to glisten, and now she had noticed something far worse, far more terrifying: The ground was losing its lustre.
She grabbed her handbag and petted Ralts’ horn. “Are you all right?”
Ralts shuddered, cold, and zipped the bag closed.
Diantha thought that strange. She had found a bucket of water twenty paces south of the great blaze and doused it so suddenly that steam crawled about her face before racing upward, swallowed into the pitch-black sky. Ever since, she could not feel the cold at all.
Further east she crossed a familiar wooden arch, crafted an age before her birth. It was familiar territory but she found no strength to smile. Twenty minutes later, her frown had deepened into an ugly scowl.
The silver beast was waiting for her. Its blood had long since dried into a deep mahogany, staining its once regal splendour. The Pokémon stretched, its claws curved and terrible. It looked deathly tired.
“What do you want?” Diantha questioned. The beast’s oval eyes bathed in a sea of blood. It approached her with soundless, gentle steps.
Its growl was deep and pained. Diantha stilled her shaking fingers as it began to sniff her. More injuries – deep and frothing with puss – streaked across its long legs. Patches of pink skin long since scarred appeared almost as soon as they vanished. The Pokémon had been mauled and left to death’s mercy. Had she the courage, she could signal Calebirth using one of the beacons of light. His skills with an axe were notorious… impressive… swift. Her heart protested with a fierceness she ought not have.
She followed the Pokémon.
A light drizzle caressed her cheek, soft as silk. The sky turned a morose grey, shaded deep and obscure. Tall, leafless trees made no effort to curtail the elements.
She walked abreast her guide. The branches retracted and allowed more rain to smother them in a cold, heartless embrace. Beast or not, the Pokémon was undeterred and padded forward silently. She could not stay her crunches against the soil, nor her ragged, terrified breaths that echoed a little too loud into the night.
Comforting cyan waters of the Karp Tail Pass meandered through portions of sodden earth, swallowing as much grass as able. It, however, swerved clear of the infectious, obliquitous grey soil as a predator would sick prey. Her eyes lingered on the silver blades of grass, disturbed. The earth tossed and turned with a gentle stream westward only several hours passed. She knew this well, having enjoyed the Ribombee light show over the land on her way to Elia’s. Now, the water faced east and stretched far from the Blackwood Forest, fleeing the tall trees with haste.
Walls of old sarsen sloped into the Karp Tail – whose namesake, as she knew, came from the population of crippled Magikarp – at a steep, unsafe angle. The path south through the trees made her grimace, and so she decided for the cumbersome way ahead nearest the river, grinding her teeth with each click of her slippery boots.
A narrow sidewalk laden with Ariados and Spinarak webs snaked ahead of her like the tail of a great Gyarados. Rotten planks and nylon ropes nailed on either side of the surrounding wall thudded and clattered. The wind failed time and again to unhook either, and it was an endless battle.
She hated every last second of it all. An uninvited sight made her eyes widen. Her throat tightened as though she had swallowed a particularly large lemon. The Karp Tail Crossing was a shadowed archway of freedom, and it was oh-so-close. Diantha restrained herself from running. It was almost over.
Water lapped against her feet.
Half of the old stone wall to her west had collapsed into the river, squeezing a frothy spit into the sidewalk like a burst underground tunnel. It tried to climb her socks but Ralts used her power to force them astray. Diantha hugged the eastern wall for all she was worth, mumbling to herself that – as best she knew – things could hardly get worse.
The white beast waded through the waters, unbothered.
On the other side, sarsen foundations crawled into a strange circle-like platform; affixed parallel to the current, a small fishing vessel bobbed beside an old wooden cleat. Long pale nylon rope held it no further than a foot from the rock, parted on occasion by a drop in water level lasting no longer than five seconds.
Magikarp and Remoraid flopped parallel to a sloppy, muddy slope gently subsiding beneath the surface of the water. Countless Shellder remains dotted the ground as sharp obstructions, trapping the fish on land.
She wrinkled her nose. A sharp, rotting stench crawled from the boat. Diantha felt her eyes sting from its warmth. She had no desire in mind to find its source. The fish had a more stable aroma, which she thought less a concern and more natural than the other. She could not consider such things decent, or comforting.
Diantha crossed the cleat and pulled the taut rope closer. Water splashed beneath her arms, soaking her sleeves a murky blue. The boat weighed more than she, but her efforts drew it near enough for passage. Hesitantly, she mounted the boat's edge, her left hand clenched tight around its cold metallic rail, whereas the other held her handbag so firm her knuckles whitened.
The deck was stained red with dried blood which spurted across the winch and wire coils. Three life vests floated in a pool of caramel-red spilt across two tubs of fish coolers, devoid of any catches for the day. Waves slapped against its hull – with it came a force wrenching the ship to starboard, anchoring it firm against the Shellder coast.
A cupboard slid from the wheelhouse, its latch upturned and half-melted, emptying raincoats and several books.
She looked up. The Drenched Quagmire had moved closer; its steaming teal waters swayed hypnotic-like, forcing her eyelids closer. The jagged obsidian trees were bent at half-height, arcing toward a triage of strange castles in the distance. Diantha smiled weakly.
I am lost. Take me there – for it should be a home suited to my likeness. They are strange, tall, fat buildings, and I shall have them all. Give them to me. Please. I need all but step aside and crawl aloft your steaming pathway. Wave to me and be my friend, my soldier, my everything.
Diantha shook her head, reigniting the flaming headache that had – urgent as it was unnatural – quietened in her trance.
Her fingers could hold the rail no longer, and she fell. Her legs gave in beneath her weight; a bed of tiny, pin-like fungi cushioned her fall, though failed to save her elbows from striking small rocks. The stalks swirled and lashed at her skin, stopping once she twitched and forced her eyes open. Ralts crawled her way in terrible pain and slick with mud.
Karp Tail Crossing shadowed the messy white grasses and blackened flowers. It was more formidable, rigid.
Disturbed, she sat and watched its shadow creep closer. Moonlight was absent still; the shadows seemed to writhe at her thought. They were closer now, like fingers of sprinkled pepper slowly closing in around her – around her throat. Like the beast. She wondered if he awaited her on the other side.
Warmth spread from her cheeks to her hips, pressing low against her clitoris. She hissed cold-like steam from her nose; heat coiled low in her belly, tightening like a noose she wished was around her neck. It stung her pleasantly in the night. Diantha dared hope for the feeling to stay, but she focused on Ralts, who clambered to her leg with tears streaming down her face.
The warmth faded and crisp, uncomfortable reality set in.
“We’ll be all right,” she repeated aloud, stroking Ralts behind the neck. She lifted the Pokémon onto her shoulder. “From up there, you can see everything! Just look at how fabulous the world is!”
Ralts clung to her hair. Tepid liquid trickled down her collarbone and crested the swell of her breast. The white beast gave her room to walk, edging her further south with firm stares, indifferent enough to curtail her drunken strides. Her ankles submerged beneath the odd whitecap that seemed all too alive for her liking… like it wanted to drag her far, far away into Drenched Quagmire’s lands. That was where she knew the plants would consume her head-to-toe before scattering her bones to foster their growth.