TREY WAS STUNNED; Bristles was stunned; Myst was stunned-looking, her mouth agape for fun.
They reverently observed the shifting dark. The shadows peeled backward to reveal an underlying world of beach and ocean and forest. The distant hills contained clustered bamboo homes, village enclaves that confused Trey. Who's even living there? But he let that thought slip by—he’d live there, that’s who. Gorgeous—the remixed world proved positively gorgeous.
His ghost self spun in place, gazing at the humid woods that sprouted around them. The foliage pressed downward, heavy with moisture. Trey knew he was missing something. He hadn’t seen the sudden organic birth since Swishy. The damp tropics weren’t Swishy’s thing—it was Ruby’s.
Waves of shudders thrummed through Trey. His blue soul shimmered.
He peered way beyond the forest and the village enclave toward THE LAST STRAW. Ruby’s home floated in the sky like a compass, drawing everyone in. Distant shadowclaws flew in her direction. The winds and their accompaniment of debris mostly blew that way too. Everything rolled along towards the tremendous swish-sustained tree that wore as many curses as it did foliage. The mammoth blackness slithered over the castle-sized tree, flaunting its corruption, a stark foil from the beauteous nature that led there.
When it came to the dark, feeling lost was normal. He evaluated the situation as best he could:
A soul, a shadow mistress, a self-proclaimed wrathraven in Bristles, and kid-crows too fretful to admire the environment that unfolded around them. Myst chuckled her trademark chuckle, one which Trey knew to mean he wasn’t just missing a deep mystery—but something wholly obvious. He felt her focus upon him. There was something he should know about these tropics…but what?
“Windy,” Bristles said, “Such powerful wind from the sea!” I’d only read such things in books—or hath heard of it from my Shugarrian customers. There is no shortage of beauty in this world! Every day I’m mesmerized by Straw City, every day I’m blessed!” He opened his arms, his gangly wing-span nearly twice as long as his actual torso, a prehistoric-looking man. He closed his eyes, basking in the winds. His tank top billowed over his muscular body. The man was euphoric.
Trey took the distraction to whisper to Myst. “Wind…don’t tell me.”
“Yes,” said Myst.
“The Stormcellar.”
“Revamped by Ruby, anyhow.”
A laundry list—no, an entire classroom syllabus of worries buzzed around Trey’s brain. Bristles lowered his arms—basking time was done. He stared at Trey, curious. Trey remembered Bristles’ during the plaza performance, his eager brutality. Benign and friendly as his attention seemed, you didn’t want it. Yet Trey had it completely—Bristles stared into his blue soul. The wrathraven-in-training tilted his head. His careful consideration scared the form out of Trey—the outer edges of his ghosts rippled like water.
Firstly, Bristles could see him—the soul him. Trey drifted slightly to the left and then to the right. He bobbed in place, testing out different heights, yet the gourd vendor’s eyes effortlessly tracked him. He couldn’t see Myst, though—otherwise he would’ve mentioned that first.
Secondly, his body—please don’t let this guy see my body—and as Trey patrolled his periphery to check. Myst smirked—Trey was properly vanished, likely in some darkness he didn’t want to see himself. A brief relief came, knowing Bristles couldn’t drive a stake through him.
Thirdly, the kid-crows. They trembled against his immaterial hip. They attempted to cling to him, though their hands phased right through him—he was ghostly, after all. But they found comfort behind his translucence, and Trey was glad for that.
Fourth worry: Bristles himself. He took the first steps forward in a measured pace. He stood tall, showing off his gigantic body. He was built like a suit of armor—without the actual suit. Broad shoulders, thick forearms, and thighs like produce barrels—Bristles was man-shaped murder.
The thudding steps pressed onwards as Trey drifted backward.
He receded through a tree—as the children had the spatial awareness to backpedal around said tree. “Spread out,” he told the kids, and they did, fleeing toward divergent paths. They didn’t go too far, however, unwilling to leave Trey’s presence—which he liked. It reminded him of his parents telling him he could play outside, but not to leave the neighborhood. The kid-crows’ understanding of safety was intuitive enough.
Trey looked at them with pride. Oh ya’ll are some good kids, some hood kids. I like, I like.
“Where is Lord Swish? Is he lost? What hast thee done that he is not present. Answer, Trey, dear ward of the lord of straw.” Bristles pulled another finger full of satchel straw and popped it into his mouth. He noisily crunched upon the wheat, his human mouth struggling with the roughage. Droplets of blood dribbled from the corner of his lip.
“Are those people?” Trey stared in horror at Bristles’ open-mouthed chewing.
“A question for a question. Must thee concern me so? But allow me to graciously answer: Straw is love; straw is life. It only stands to reason that straw and soul are one and the same. That’s why it’s special. That’s why we the people crave it so. Oh, Trey, thou art missing the magic of what’s happening here. This heartful, soulful straw is Swish-lord’s. It matters not that a failed human became a failed scarecrow. It matters not that souls cry within mine satchel, or in these hands, or in the crevices between mine teeth. The souls I consume have chosen me as leader. They are the food, fuel for the larger animal. Together, we are greater. Greater as one.”
“Individuals are individuals. We don’t live to be great. You Straw City folks are smoking something. God, I wish you’d stayed a bird—that way you’d leave us alone.”
“I, too, wisheth for my bird body back. That we agree on. But be assured, Trey, that even as an animal I would’ve known of thou’s existence. My soul, my heart, would have been deeply molested by the pressure—the presence—of Trey somewhere in this world. This person who would do away with our God, who’d fail to look after Lord Swish. It is mine own purpose—in every lifetime past and present—to scrubeth thee from existence.”
“Swishy is a big boy. Is he not a god as you say? Straw boy will be fiiine,” Trey drew all his insolence into his expression—all for show, of course.
He was terrified.
Golden-brown and murderous, Bristles looked like he belonged to this island. He appeared as a Stormcellar spirit, a guardian of sorts. But he was really just an animal, a beast that’d adopted the ways of a fanatic. Bristles stared back at Trey and slowly chewed his meal, making a point to scrunch and grind the wheat. “Hey, hey, stop that!”
“Thou wisheth to deprive me? Straw City is steady meals. Straw City is anti-starvation. Everybody eats—you know our culture. Nothing is more sacred than food. How dare thee, Trey.” Bristles gnashed deliberately, grinding the screaming wheat—and he even shoved another handful into his mouth. “They are MINE—MINE! These foolish scarecrows cannot even feel. They know no pain. This is no torture. This is simply defeat. They lost themselves and came into mine possession. They are nutritious. They are with purpose. Spare me thy shallow judgment…Now I repeat: where is Lord Swish? Produce him, fiend.”
Bristles pulled a bow from his back wiggled his fingers, stretching them. Trey studied the weapon—pure straw, pure Swishy.
“When did you get that?”
“Oh Trey, thy allergy to answering questions is most disturbing. Lord Swish is one of gifts, one of miracles. Where is thy weapon? How does one serve a deity with no weapon. Here you are, in this beauteous and gift-giving darkness—without power, without Swishy, without even a body, somehow…Do not think thyself a guardian when thou art are a failure.”
Trey didn’t want to admit that Bristles was right—his failure was fact. Swishy was out there somewhere, hurting no doubt. He shook the thought away—no wallowing. He glanced at the kid-crows, directing them with his eyes. Most of them didn’t catch the cue, but purple-bowed Amie ran into the thicket and the others followed after them. Thank goodness they have a leader, sheesh.
“How valiant of you, to disperse the children.” Bristles clapped at speed before switching to a slow clap. Clap. Clap. Even his claps echoed like cannon rapport.
Jing-jangle, jing-jangle! The snitchtalons were here.
“Submit thyself to a test. A simple exercise. Defend thy kids—or rather, mine food—from the flock. I’m curious to see what this blue thing you’re doing can do…and better yet, I’m curious as to where one puts their body. Pray I don’t find it…”
Trey did—he prayed and prayed. His mind was a flurry of Oh Lord, Please Lord, Protect me Lord. These mental pleas continued as he watched leaves fall from the foliage as the birds positioned themselves within. Trey focused and sought out their frequencies just like Swishy. The bird souls possessed thin outlines that waxed and waned—and waned some more. The weakened birds struggled in their shaky flight. They’d fought and lost yet forced themselves into The Curseworks. Or rather, they’d accepted a new leader: Bristles.
(…)
“Spread!” Trey yelled to the kid-crows. The snitchtalons rustled through the woods, haggard and hurt, yet caught a child within seconds.
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“Ah, stop! Let me go!” Jimena cried as she was lifted into the canopies above.
“Let little Jimmy go!”
“Don’t call me that,” Jimena pouted as she thrashed.
“ZZT!” Trey shot a yellow-blue crackle at the snitchtalon’s wing, singing it. Smoke rose from the burnt wing, but he wouldn’t let go, not completely. Trey shot two more ZZTs and weakened the bird, which began to land.
“Use your words, idiot!” Amethyst Amie screamed from inside a tree hollow. Trey could tell because her little hand reached out of the tree trunk to snatch her fallen purple bow. “Scratch him like Swishy!”
“With what rake, Amie?” Jimena kicked her legs, spilling straw everywhere.
“Words, Jimmy Junior, words!” Amie was unamused, purely allergic to stupidity.
“Don’t call me that! Ugh!”
A sudden intent burst from Jimena’s core, six gold-speckled letters: SPIKES.
Her wheat sharpened into points and jutted outwards like a porcupine. “CACAW!” The bird screamed and dropped her.
Trey flew around the trees, tracing the souls of the children. “SOUL,” he reactivated the spell, keeping it constantly active, same as when he used his ZAP dome to light his path. He was determined to track the kids, to track the snitchtalons. He noticed immediately when other kids were caught, lifted from their hiding places.
“ZLIDE!” Trey zlid from one location to another, blasting the snitchtalons with point-blank ZAPs. He teleported from place to place, frying the birds, serving up a two-piece here, a family meal there.
The birds persisted. ZAP was nothing to them. When one snitchtalon was deterred, another appeared right behind it. Every bird had taken significant damage in the city—yet all of them wanted a piece of Trey. They phased through his soul but could harm his allies. They converged upon the kid-crows in a great hurricane, a storm of caws.
Multiple children were flown off. They’d used SPIKE intents; they’d used QUILLS; they’d used PORCUPINE. But when one bird suffered too much damage, another swooped in to assist in the carry. The birds were a single organism, a military unit. And they were angry. They were deeply invested in Trey’s suffering. One of the worst things about being a soul was knowing what they said.
The kids first—and Swishy next! We win this round, loser!
Bristles watched. Observed. He gradually worked out Trey’s demise.
Trey ignored him, his mind games. He focused hard, feeling the shadows around him. There was power in this place—Myst made no secret of that. Trey couldn’t be squeamish about the altar now. He needed that strength; he needed to pay the cost to save the children; he needed to man up and suffer. Like the men of old, he’d have to accept one simple fact of life: sometimes you die in war—it is what it is.
“Please Myst, show me the way. I have nothing physical to give but I’ll offer you friendship for real. As your champion, I’ll care for you like I care for these kids. Though you’re stronger than me, I’ll offer you my protection anyway. That’s my word as a man, that’s my vow as a friend of darkness. Show me the way of a shadow slinger.”
“I’m touched,” Myst replied, her silky voice gliding through the area. The birds heard it, turning their heads in search of the vocal source. The children were confused, too. Bristles glared all around him, scanning the surrounding darkness. He couldn’t pinpoint Mysts’ location but his intuitive keenness of the shadowdeep put Trey on high alert. “Embrace the darkness then, my so-called friend. Every spell is a shadow. That’s the hint I’ll give. A hint only—so you don’t have to pay too much.”
Trey smirked. He loved that Myst was working with him, that instead of filling with power, he was given knowledge. “Thanks for the freebie!”
“To whom dost thou speak?” Bristles seemed offended at Trey’s apparent disregard for him and the current situation.
Trey didn’t respond. He closed his eyes, controlled his breathing, and opened his hands in a clawed position. ZAP intent crackled around Trey. Errant sparks snapped from his shoulders, his hands, his eyes. The boy of lightning was good at breaking down context clues, the operative one being to embrace the darkness. The shadows underneath him flowed into his hands like a dark gas. He felt the darkness of his crevices—his organs and muscle sinews—draw towards his clawed hands as well. Next step—every spell is a shadow. He’d gathered the shadows, shadows that now required a form. His pointer fingers instinctively into guns.
ZAP intent thickened, the individual letters spinning over his topmost knuckle like a turbine. He grinned at Bristles, then laughed at the kidnapping hench-birds. He shot the electric spell, his hand bucking from the recoil. The first bird was shot through the heart, spasming and falling, releasing the child from its claws. Then Trey shot again and again, the letters Z-A-P horizontally cycling over the invisible revolver barrel. He fired his dual six-shooters—or rather, zix-zhooters—rapid firing barrage after barrage of shock bolts.
The static pops of zzts filled the air. The birds were shot from the sky in quick succession as the fallen kid-crows crawled and jogged away, hiding themselves in the dense forest.
As the lightning barrage persisted, smoke gathered at the tips of Trey’s fingers. He enjoyed the feeling of get-back, of taking small revenge against his enemies. But most of all, he was relieved to be an effective babysitter. As the kids slunk away, he inwardly said a spiritual word of gratitude: Thank the Lord, and…these fortunate circumstances.
He felt Myst, the fortunate circumstance herself, smile from where she lurked. She, too, had telepathic words to spare: You’re such a quick learner. I knew you could do it! Every spell IS a shadow. Shadows are what every spell is made of. The more you gather, the more spells you can use—or the larger the spell you can use.
“Oh wow! You’re finally giving me the tutorial!”
I can be a fair shadow bitch, sometimes. People must know of my adherence to justice when they visit my future altar, the one you'll build me.
“I’m listening,” Trey said. “By all means, shower me with your knowledgeable justice.”
Myst responded in curiosity, in playful condescension. My, my, a greedy one. Fine then, friend. As I said, spells and shadows are one and the same. Creatures, animals, and souls of the shadowdeep all gather darkness and mold spells from that darkness quite easily. They do it accidentally—they see the image and the spell just happens.
Trey thought back to the kids and their different variations of straw-sharp spells—spikes, quills, porcupine, and the like. “I have one more ‘help’ question, then. What’s with the themed spells? My ‘heart’ spells, that is.”
Because it’s fun.
“Now Myst.”
It is fun! It’s also Heart! Spell types are flexible and individualized. Swishy gave you a heart book, so you have heart spells.
“Then what’s with my Z expressions?”
The shadows of a nearby tree did a quick up-down, indicating a shrug. You like playful things—I know you better than you know yourself. Z limitations are fun exercise for you. And fun is what you needed. Unless, of course, you want to use Ruby’s Biblical flashcards forever—
“Oh, heck no! You’re right, you’re right. Good looking out.”
Always, dear friend of darkness.
“How fortunate,” Bristles interrupted. He’d followed the trail of fallen birds and smoke-filled skies to Trey. He glared around at the collateral damage, the snapped branches and burnt vegetation. A straw-chew dangled from between his lips—what Trey had once viewed as a simple healing salve now seemed to him like a soul who’d given up, a scarecrow part that now lacked soul enough to scream. Bristles flashed a toothy smile flecked with crushed wheat. He wanted Trey to see.
Trey loaded his zix-zhooter, drawing the shrinking shadows beneath him. Shoot—only three shots. The shadows beneath him had all but drained. The area near him had been stripped of darkness. A glance behind him revealed that the trees were shadowless besides a couple of hollows here and there. Bristles, though, had full darkness at his back. To load up on more shadow, he’d have to make it through him.
Myst interjected once more: Yes Trey, the shadows come back eventually, usually within a day when they’re completely striped. Cearth is the darkness engine that keeps on giving—we’re just slow about it is all.
“Thanks for the notice…”
“Yes, shadow woman, I also offer sincere thanks. Your guidance has been most useful...dear altar.” Bristles gleamed toward the shadows. He saw Trey as a soul—it was only a matter of time before he sensed Myst. “Now don’t be surprised that I’ve seen what you’re up to. Didn’t you hear her? Creatures of shadow—that’s me. A wrathraven. A wrathraven that’d been sucked through the altar, no less, captured by Ruby. You disappointment of a man. This discovery was only inevitable.” Bristles shook his head and finger-tapped his forehead.
The condescension raised Trey’s blood pressure—annoyance and fear formed a horrible combo. Trey shot a zap at Bristles’ head—but he dodged with his neck and smirked.
“Now Trey, I knoweth thee thinks yourself a guardian of Swishy. Please don’t tell me of the intention to become a priest of Cearth. Worthiness is a prerequisite. Know thine worth—and submit.”
“Submission is death. I'd rather die twice before bending to you.”
“Submission is death. Indeed. I want thee to die. That’s what I said.” He whistled an extended note that soared and dipped in pitch. And the birds flew towards Bristles, their jewel-jingling feathers hurting Trey’s ears and psyche. Snitchtalons occupied the surrounding branches. They leaned their tired bodies against tree trunks. They pecked around Bristles’ feet for gold-straw he now crushed and dusted the ground with.
He continued his sickening address:
“Now let me show you what power is. As the foolish scarecrows of the city wished themselves into straw-bound wretchedness, I made my own wish. As you know, I earned this flock. They’re mine—bound to me by the altar. I wished for them—or rather, I forced them to wish themselves to me. I threatened their lives and they went requested the altar to become my slave—through coercion, of course. That was the ultimatum. ULTIMATUM is a wrathraven special. Die or submit. It’s an easy choice. There’s no more natural choice for the defeated than that. Having a choice such as that is the only grace a loser can hope for. They wanted to work for me, to become part of me. They’re beyond shadowclaws now. They’re beyond snitchtalons as you call them, too—because they don’t do Ruby’s bidding. Their snitching days are over.
“Now come to me, my flock. SLAVETALONS, payeth the mistress—for my wish.”
The birds flew into the dark clouds; they soared into the underbrush of trees; they dive-bombed the floor—disappearing into shadowy poofs. As they flew, he caught a glimpse of a special bird accessory, shadowy shackles around their ankles. They were altar-bound to Bristles, embarrassingly branded. They were at his disposal for real, a disposable and willing altar bait. As such, Myst collected them in her ubiquitous portal of self.
“Myst, you can’t grant his wish! Wait, hold up!”
“Sure, I can Trey. Cearth compels me. I hope you didn’t think I was a lady with a choice.” She sighed. “We’re all slavetalons in some sense, wouldn’t you agree?” Her wry smile contained the melancholy of every other curse. Trey was caught off guard, feeling a little sorry for her—a fleeting feeling once Bristles announced his wish.
“Please, dear altar, reveal Trey’s body. I don’t need it. I’d simply like to see it. I wish to have a conversation with Trey, face to physical face.”
“Hey-hey-hey, now wait!”
“I am waiting—waiting for thy body. Now altar, a 10-minute conversation with this physical, able-bodied man shouldn’t cost too much, now should it?”
Trey watched in horror as the shadows stopped accepting the slavetalons. Only a cool baker’s dozen had been accepted as payment. What an efficient and cheap wish: 10 minutes of conversation. Why does evil have to be so smart?
Before Trey, a slab of shadow rose from the ground, offering up his physical body.
Trey, thinking quickly, shoved his hands into the curse-laden slab, gathering as much of the shadows as he could. He’d reload his zix-zhooter and more.
“Smart, smart, smart,” Bristles laughed as he menacingly marched towards Trey’s body. “Perhaps thou art a quarter way worthy—perhaps even a third. Now allow me to visit thy body. I, a proper citizen, must payeth respects.”
Myst laughed, too. “Goodness Trey, this one’s ruthless. In another life, him and I might’ve been cousins.”
“Birds of a feather, so they say.”
“Oh you have no idea!” Myst was positively enthused.
Bristles squeezed his bow, his forearms bulging from the chokehold grip.
“I have every idea,” Trey groaned.
“Good luck,” Myst said, fading into a wisp.