Cobpleton was not always the leading center of trade in Nursing, it used to be a perfectly good wilderness. Nursing county was once rolling hills and patchy forest as far as the eye could see, but if the eye got any closer, it would see that those forests were overgrown temples and those hills were burial mounds. Long before priests of the old gods ever arrived, some form of civilization occupied this land.

It would be tempting to think that this pre-everything civilization was some sort of highly advanced marvel. That these artifacts were lost technology and Cobpleton was built just over a megacity that was unusually intact. It’s tempting because it was true! At least partly. An ancient race of aliens with power comparable to gods had once colonized Nursing county. Their unfathomable cities stretched into more than three dimensions. Their weakest weapon could put a hole in a mountain from half a world away. They even farmed abstract concepts like the current residents farmed wheat.

But they were nearly a billion years extinct. Any trace of them was ground to dust, reabsorbed into the food cycle, or spread across shifting continents. The last shred of their existence, a small chip that contained an entire galaxy’s worth of knowledge, was eaten by a goat this morning. So Nursing had to settle for the runner up precursor, hunter-gatherers.

Hunter-gatherer does not mean simple. True, they did not wield the power cosmic, but they could make a thousand tools from the skeleton of anyone who called them simple. Wizard’s owed a lot to hunter-gatherer healers. They studied the patterns of nature and movement of stars, and they didn’t need to write it down to do it. Before a wizard ever looked up and wondered why, a healer looked up and said ‘damn, looks like athlete’s foot for the whole tribe this year’.

Many centuries later the cobbler, John Cobble, opened a shoe repair shop, even though at that point Nursing consisted of dense foliage and a single dirt road. His business plan was to be the only cobbler at the end of a long road. Long roads wore out shoes and he was the only cobbler for miles. It almost didn’t completely fail, because he managed to sell a pair in his first year. According to legend, little forest elves felt bad for him. There was only so much ‘grown man crying into shoes every night’ you could take. Using this source of free labor, John Cobble became a shoe tycoon, like all those who become very wealthy very quickly. Sadly, the elves didn’t unionize until after his death.

John Cobble was laid to rest next to his wife, also named John Cobble. The town that bears their name grew around them, from trading post to village to burning timbers that one year to the market town it is today.

Though perhaps the most notable thing about Cobpleton was the p in the middle. The p in the name of course, the fountain in the center of town had been urine free for five days and counting. At some point in the town’s history, the meager gate had rusted. Through weather and time the letters held fast, but the second b was the first to succumb. It bravely held on for centuries until Cobbleton was forgotten on Cobpleton was born. The p was so cherished by its citizens that its motto was ‘Cobpleton, where bathrooms are so private the p is silent‘

Mace looked up at Cobpleton’s gate and motto. She didn’t know whether to be offended by the toilet joke, or the fact that the motto would make a pretty good chant. Mace and Thistle walked down the street.

Nearly a week had passed since her adventure in the grotto and subsequent journey to bizarre dimensions. She was still waiting on Tria to return, but managed to keep herself busy in the meantime. She still taught Thistle a lesson or two about magic, but she was more preoccupied with her new flying broom. Flying was a bit a stretch though. It hovered, but didn’t have any way to propel itself. It was less a flying broom and more a not falling broom. So far, all Thistle was able to do was tiptoe with it between her legs. And even with that Thistle was utterly enchanted by it. She left it at home while she and Mace had business to attend to.

Several, smaller portals had opened up across town. Much more of a nuisance than dangerous, and Mace was happy for the distraction. Mr. Yurt’s basement had grown an infinite staircase. Mace was dizzy with vertigo the first time gazed into the winding abyss. The abyss gazed into her, and she shut that down quickly. She was here to work, not to flirt with cosmically horrific steps. Mace simply put a roller skate on the top step to prevent anything from coming up. It was by all means a stupid solution, but it worked. In less than a day Mr. Yurt had his man cave back to normal. But sometimes magic was stupid, especially Pull magic. If you spotted a misplaced roller skate at the top of the stairs, your brain automatically put a mental barrier around it. It was the same even with godly intelligences. Pratfalls transcended all levels of consciousness.

Mace breathed in the early summer air and let Cobpleton in. Uneven cobblestones beneath her feet, a dozen garbled conversations, and the fetid stench of urban decay. It smelled like fried potatoes today. It wasn’t awful once you got used to it, and Mace was getting used to the town. Sure its buildings slouched and its people naturally distrusted anything it couldn’t monetize, but there was a certain charm to it. It was like a raccoon. Sleazy and cantankerous, but you kind of rooted for it. Get that trash you little goblin.

It was outside one of these slouching buildings that Mace and Thistle found themselves. The bottom floor leaned to one side while the top leaned to the other. Mace supposed it was balanced enough. She gave the door a quick knock. Cin Frost opened the door.

“Mrs. Nightwarren, Miss Perovay,” he said curtly.

Mace gave him a nervous smile. The last they met, she was tearing up his toy store and making fun of his name. She had heard that being sleep deprived was like being drunk, and she was feeling the after effects. Particularly everyone’s memory of something she had no memory of.

“You here about the tree?”

“We are sir!” said Thistle chipperly. He waved them in.

Frost’s living space was comfortable and clean, if a bit musty. The smell of old dusty wood wafted up from knick knacks and old picture frames. Noticeably absent were the stacks of toys he made.

“Just started growing out of one of my pots last night. I didn’t know what to do so I just covered it with a blanket. It seems to be asleep now.”

“Asleep? What do you mean by a-” asked Mace, but was interrupted when Hostile whipped the blanket off. Both her and Thistle’s jaws fell open.

A baby, a wooden baby. With a little flower bud for hair and its roots, or legs, firmly planted in Frost’s cook pot. It was sucking on its branch, or chubby little arm as it appeared. It was curled up on itself and peacefully snoozing.

“Quiet!” he hissed. “I just got it to sleep.”

“It’s so…” started Mace.

“Cute?” finished Thistle.

“Sure.” Mace didn’t even think regular babies were that cute.

Mace reached her hand out to gently touch its bark? Skin? Whatever it was, it was rising up and down. Are plants supposed to respirate like that? Its bark was incredibly smooth, almost like it had been freshly lacquered. It squirmed at her touch, and gave the smallest yawn as it stretched its little limbs. That pun was mandatory.

“Oh!” said Thistle softly.

Mace could practically hear the fluttering of Thistle’s heart.

It opened its eyes, which appeared to be small amber stones. It looked all around it.

“Muh muh muh,” it cooed, its like ravioli fists waving around.

“Aww, come here little guy,” said Thistle as she scooped it up. The stumpy baby did not protest, and laid the knot that was its head in her comforting shoulder. “Have you named him yet?”

“Named him?!” said Frost incredulously. “No, I haven't named the monster plant growing out of my kitchenware!”

“I think it might be a ‘her’,” put in Mace. She searched the lexicon of bizarre entities and had a hypothesis.

“How can you be sure?” asked Frost.

Mace shrugged. “It’s a hunch, but I have to be sure.” She leaned over to Thistle and asked, “Hey, baby, what’s the meaning of life?”

It raised its little head and blinked at her. Then it looked thoughtful for a moment, and said, “Abba hablbg, amuh ebble.” Then went back to snuggling into Thistle’s shoulder.

“Just as I thought,” said Macey

“You could understand that?” asked Thistle.

“Nope, but she did understand my question. There’s real wisdom in that tiny head. What you have here Mr. Frost, is a Grandmother Tree.”

They both looked at her blankly. The ‘tree’ part of that was obvious, but the ‘grandmother’ part was incongruous with this baby.

“Well, a baby Grandmother Tree at least. A Grandmother Sapling? A Grandbaby Sapling?”

“What the hell is a Grandmother Tree?” asked Frost flatly.

“Language!” scolded Thistle, putting her hands over the baby’s ears. Or where it would have had ears.

“Grandmother Trees are living, semi-humanoid trees that soak up the wisdom of the world and impart it to young heroes, or so the legends go. They’re fully self-aware and conscious. We used to have one at Aethowix, but she’s no longer with us.”

Thistle gasped, “Did she…” she made a chopping motion with her hand. “Have an accident?”

Mace shook her head. “No, moved to the tropics with her new boughfriend.”

“So it’s…uh she’s not a monster?” asked Frost quietly.

“Not unless you consider unsolicited advice from the elderly to be monstrous,” said Mace. She thought back to Aethowix’s Grandmother Tree. She had already been uprooted before Mace enrolled, but she remembered playing in her branches whenever she visited as a child. She called herself Aethel, after the school, and would tell little Macey embarrassing stories of her mom and uncle. She hoped Aethel was doing well down south. Tanning her bark and relaxing with that nice palm tree.

“Such a smart little lady!” said Thistle, then blew on the baby’s tummy. The sapling laughed so hard that she burped. It sounded like a C# on a clarinet.

“Oh…I guess she has a little woodwind,” reasoned Thistle.

They hadn’t been there five minutes and already the tree puns were running thin as paper. Mace and Thistle needed to make like a tree and…damn.

“May I have a word with you Miss Perovay,” whispered Frost suddenly.

He led her back into his den. He gave her a long appraising look before speaking. “If you banished her, where would she go?”

“That’s a good question,” she answered honestly. “It’s a bit up in the air. She could return to where came from, or pop up somewhere else on Munth.”

He simply nodded and didn’t try to argue. Mace was still getting used to being treated like a knowledgeable and professional wizard.

An idea struck her. “I could take her back to Aethowix when I leave,” she suggested. “Plenty of light, good soil, and she’d be raised by wizards.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He nodded, and looked around his house. Mace didn’t notice how empty it felt before, Frost seemed to realize this too.

“Can I have some time to think about it?” he asked her quietly.

“Oh…uh, sure,” Mace was caught a little off guard by this. Cinnamon Frost had so many conflicting aspects. From his name to his war career to his profession to his attitude. It was so hard to tell what he was thinking because your own thoughts were trying to piece him together.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” interrupted Thistle as she came into the den. “But I think she’s a little thirsty.” She had the baby tree in her arms, which was fussing and scrunching up its face. “That or she’s…um, soiled herself?”

They took her out to a small water pump outside. They showered or more accurately fed her. She giggled as she tried to grab at the water.

“I suppose she’ll need a name,” said Frost. “Any ideas?”

“Blossom?”suggested Thistle.

“Woodbaby?” tried Mace.

“Blossom could work…” said Frost as he scratched at his stubble.

“Well it should be something meaningful to you,” said Thistle. “Like you’re favorite relative, or a dear friend. Clover and I named our kids after our favorite magic words.”

“I was named after my mom’s favorite smell,” shrugged Mace.

“The smell of a metal mace?” asked Thistle.

Mace shook her head. “My full name is Bear-Mace Pevorvay. Said she loved the smell because handsy coppers hated it. Used to take it with her to every protest.”

Thistle and Frost looked at each other. It said more about Mace’s mother than Mace herself, but it did explain a lot about her personality.

“Anyway, I can whip up some baby clothes for little-“ Thistle started.

“Gunpowder,” said Frost.

“Little Gunpowder?”

“It’s my favorite smell.”

“Yes but I don’t know if it’s appropriate to name a plant after something so flammable,” Thistle protested.

“It only lights on fire if it’s lit.” Which was scientifically accurate.

The locomotive train had yet to be invented on Munth, but Mace felt the one in her brain derail, though she didn’t have the words for it. Unhook? Off sides? Jump ship? Her rationality scattered. Yes he was technically correct in that gunpowder was only explosive if you lit it, but Mace often found that technically correct was often paired with dangerous stupidity. She looked Frost in his stern but honest face, and just went with it.

“Welp, welcome to the world little Gunpowder.” She stuck her finger out, which Gunpowder shook and let out a happy squeal.

“Aw,” sighed Thistle. “She already knows her godmother.”

“That’s right baby, I’m going bring you up in the faith. You’ll believe in gods that are either dead or missing. But I suppose you could pray to yourself.”

“Are you sure she’s a god?” asked Thistle. “She seems pretty different from that slug monster we fought.”

“Slug monster?” came Frost?

Mace waved vaguely. “‘God’ is a catch-all term for entities that live just outside of reality. Like animals or plants. Some, like the Old and New Gods would be like whales, powerful and mysterious. Little Gunpowder here is more of a minnow in comparison. Gods tended to rank themselves by power rather than intelligence, like what humans did with the animal kingdom. Humans and humanoids liked to put themselves near the top, and have been trying to edge past raccoons for centuries.

“Aw, my mini-minnow,” fawned Thistle.

“But Gunpowder is in a taxonomic kingdom or her own,” said Mace as she softly poked the infant’s nose.

Gunpowder giggled and burbled at her.

“That’s right, all hail the Queen.”

All ‘gods’ were classified as living organisms, but instead of step by step evolution, gods took the approach of a pole vaulter. They swung up and down the tree of life, and could gain and lose sentience in the span of a sentence. Mace guessed it had something to do with their omnipo-chondria, the all-powerhouse of the cell.

The summer heat went from sweaty to comfortably warm as the afternoon went on. Mace dabbed at her forehead with her sleeve as she watched the sky. That was the good thing about dagged sleeves, you never ran out of fresh sleeve. Gunpowder had fallen asleep in Thistles arms, which wasn’t an easy task since she was twice as heavy as the average newborn. Wood was still wood even when it was a baby. Thoughts like this would have seemed incoherent two hours ago, Mace reflected. She supposed that that was the way of the world. Only half of reality was ever coherent. She wanted to get philosophical with it, reality was only what was perceived by her.

She decided against it and closed her eyes. They had no more appointments that day, so maybe she and her apprentice could think of a slogan. Mace pitched “We Don’t Believe in Gods” while Thistle had “Thistle and Mace are on the Case!” The latter was awful because it was so catchy.

She tried to drown out her thoughts by listening to the cicadas. But instead of their familiar whine, Mace heard a low thrumming. She opened an eye and say a dark cloud. That wasn’t right.

“Hey Mace, I’m not wizard but I’m fairly certain clouds don’t make sound,” said Thistle worriedly.

“In what world do clouds make-“ but she remembered that thunder existed, and while not technically made by the clouds, you could argue-

“We need to move,” ordered Frost.

Right. Move now think later. They ran as the soft thrumming turned into a threatening rumble. Midday became twilight as millions of tiny insects swarmed above. The rumble became an overwhelming buzzing. They just managed to clear the door as the locusts descended.

“That’s it!” shouted Frost. “I’m burning my almanac!”

They watched day turn to night outside. Every tree, rock, and stone was covered in the insects. Frost’s entire yard was so blanketed, Mace didn’t ever know there was a yard. Gunpowder was already crying as Thistle tried to rock her. Her eyes were wide with terror.

Movement outside caught Mace’s eye. The locusts were perched on the water spigot, and were shaking it. They tore the pipe out of the ground! Quickly taking it up and out of sight. Locusts never did that.

She adjusted her glasses and studied the creatures when one slammed into the window! Mace stared at it. The thing had a human head.

It hissed and spit behind the glass. Stringy, unwashed hair deputed out of the tiny head. What Mace thought at first was carapace, was actually an insect sized golden crown.

“What in the world?” she breathed.

The thing slammed it’s head into the glass again. A crack formed.

Oh no. The was the last thing before the window exploded. Shattered glass and locusts burst into the room. Mace dove.

Frost shouted a war cry. He took a ladle and began swinging wildly at the torrent of insects.

Thistle was screaming, using one hand to swat while the other held Gunpowder. The baby was crying at the top of her little lungs, but even that was drowned out by the locusts.

As Mace covered her head, searching for anything up her sleeves. She didn’t have anything big or wide enough to swat them. She could hear a faint voice.

“Metal! Metal!” The voice was shrill and stung her ears, more like a thousand small whistles than a voice.

So they were intelligent, or at least smart enough to be scared. She could work with that. Out of her sleeve came a small pouch. Inside was what could’ve been described as individually wrapped candies. You could bite into one, but they burned hotter than any cinnamon and would probably literally break your jaw.

She threw it at the ground as hard as she could and screamed, “Fireball!”. It popped and flashed. The swarm began to slow down. Mace threw another one down. “Fireball!” she cried again. She felt something change in the locusts, a feeling of alertness that wasn’t there before.

She crawled past Frost, who was trying to wrench his ladle away from a locust. She threw open his cupboards, searching for…she found them! Mace drew out the two largest baking sheets she could find.

“Thunder!” she cried and slammed them together. “Thunder!”

A whisper started in the swarm. When a thousand minds got together, they inevitably acted as one large mind. The word traveled and soon the entire swarm was saying it.

“Wizard!” they screeched. “Wizard! Wizard!” The swarm outside got the news, and millions of tiny wings started to panic.

“That’s right!” screamed Mace. “Go back to whatever fissure you squeezed out of! This is my territory!”

“Wizard! Wizard!” The frenzied swarm drained out of the kitchen through the window they broke, hissing all the way.

“This whole town is now under my protection!” she shouted after them.

They fled as fast as they came. Only managing to plunder a few of Frost’s silverware.

“Mace!” yelled Thistle. “The baby!”

Mace froze, eyes frantically searching the swarm. She saw her. Gunpowder was crying as locusts were carrying her up and away. But why would they want a Grandmother Tree, they only wanted…the metal pot. Without thinking, Mace vaulted herself onto the counter and out the broken window, cutting herself on the shards of glass. She didn’t notice. She landed on the grass and started sprinting. Gunpowder was still in arm’s reach. Mace grabbed on to the pot’s handles and heaved backwards. It was no use, these bugs were strong!

“It’s ok! It’s ok Gunny!” Mace tried to comfort. She didn’t know how well because her own face was a mix of fear and pain. She was starting to register her cut up hands.

“Away! Away!” hissed the locusts.

“Not on your miserable little lives!” she growled back. She began to feel her feet leave the ground. Not good.

Mace and Gunpowder were lifted by the swarm. A torrent of insects engulfed her, biting and stinging as she thrashed and kicked. She shut her eyes and screamed at herself internally. You have a trick for every situation and you just dive after the baby without thinking?! Real clever Mace!

She opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. There was nothing below her but nearly a hundred feet of empty air. Gunpowder was weeping as she was trying to grab onto Mace. She took hold of her little hand and tried her best to calm the little tree. The blood from the cuts was starting to become slick.

In an instant, Mace knew she would slip. She grabbed Gunpowder out of the pot and held her to her chest. They fell.

Mace didn’t scream. She never really screamed in situations like this. Even when she was a girl on fair rides. She did what she always did. Shut her eyes, tightened her jaw, felt her stomach turn upside down, and waited for it to be over.

A million thoughts crowded in. Thoughts of her life, her mother, Turpenwile, how stupid she was, but one thought managed to stand out. Well at least I can be a cushion. She hugged Gunpowder closer, and waited for it to be over.

“You can open your eyes now,” came a gentle voice.

Mace hazarded a glance. Tria Durana was looking down at her. Mace’s head spun around. Yes she was still off the ground, the locusts were retreating, but she wasn’t falling. Tria was carrying her while her skirt was fully inflated. They gently floated to the ground.

“I finally figured out floating!” said Tria cheerfully. “And really, we have to stop meeting like this,” she cocked an eyebrow down at Mace.

When Mace looked back on this moment in her life, she remembered saying something cool and sarcastic like “I bet you’re expecting a thank you?”. That’s how she liked to remember it, instead of the sniveling and snot dripping from her face.

“OhmygodohmygodIalmostdiedohmygod,” Mace blubbered. Tria looked a little embarrassed as she brought two crying babies back to earth.

A very tearful and joyous Thistle scooped up the baby from Mace’s shaking arms.

“Shh, it’s ok! It’s alright,” she soothed. “Auntie Mace saved you, it’s alright.”

Gunpowder snuggled into Thistle’s shoulder and sucked on the cloth of her collar.

Mace looked up at Tria. “Thank you,” she said through watery brown eyes.

“You’re welcome,” she said kindly, wrapping an arm around Mace. “Is that a baby Grandmother Tree?”

Mace shakily nodded. “They were after the pot…the metal pot she was planted in.” It occurred to her that Gunpowder no longer had any to hold her soil in. Clods of dirt were starting to fall as Thistle rocked her. She was without a ceramic diaper.

Frost lugged an old planter and dumped out its contents. Thistle carefully placed Gunpowder into it and shoveled in some fresh soil up to the baby’s waist. Gunpowder began to sleep soundly. The planter was nearly three times her size.

“I guess she’ll grow into it,” he observed.

The four of them stood there for a moment, watching this bizarre tree infant sleep. Thoughts of what just happened could wait. For everything that occurred, Gunpowder was unscathed. Thistle and Frost had a few scratches, but Mace was the one in need of attention. Frost led her and Tria to his kitchen and pulled an eyepiece out of his pocket.

“No glass on your hand, that’s good,” he mumbled.

“Uh,” Mace grunted. The sight of blood usually made her woozy, the sight of her own blood made her catatonic.

“Shallow too, very lucky.”

“Uh.”

He fetched a water basin. “Can you purify this?”

“Uh.”

“I can,” said Tria. She took the basin and whispered. Even with a wizard, boiling and cooling water could take minutes that Mace didn’t have. She wasn’t bleeding out, but something in her panicked brain told her it was.

“I-Iodine,” she murmured.

“What?” asked Tria.

“I-Iodine, you can g-get it from salt p-peter. Disinfects w-water.”

“That’s a component of gunpowder,” said Frost. “The actual stuff, not my baby- you know what I’ll just go get it.”

He returned a few moments later with a small pouch of powder. Tria closed her eyes and put her hand out. Salpeter separated from the gunpowder, iodine separated from saltpeter. Tiny, purple flecks hovered into the bowl.

Mace giggled uneasily.

“What?” asked Tria worriedly.

“I saved Gunpowder, now gunpowder is going to save me!”

Mace relaxed as Frost cleaned out her cuts. His angry expression hadn’t changed since she first met him, but his hands were gentle and his bandages were tied neatly. Her muscles untensed as she let out a breath.

“Gods, I’m so lucky I made friends with a Pusher,” she sighed. “I guess that’s three I owe you?”

Tria smiled. “Let’s just call it even. Oh! The reason I was looking for you is this!” She excitedly took a letter out of her pocket and presented it to Mace. “A writ of permission from Gorganthal himself!”

Mace took the letter and immediately hissed through the pain in her hand. “I’ll take your word for it,” she breathed.

Tria let out her own sympathetic hiss. “Yeah…Did you want to see his belongings today or…?”

Mace looked down at her bloody bandages, and thought of all the dirty, dusty, and moldy stuff that usually lurked in a wizard’s home.

“I might need a day or two.”