Swishy squeezed Trey’s back and ribs, eliciting a wince.
I hurt him? But I’m soft, I’m plush—there’s no way…
He ran his hands over his torso, feeling under his parka. The hardness and grooves weren’t set the way they should've been. He assessed the damage, taking stock of his friend’s plethora of injuries. Trey was in rough shape. Swishy worried about the inflicted damage. An amalgam of danger and guilt crawled within his weaves, blackwheat hairs rising on his neck. Stop it! Swishy told himself, forcing a surge of willpower. And the blackwheat halted—it listened. Swishy proved his fortitude, his self-discipline, his RESOLVE.
The word suddenly appeared. It didn’t even glow. RESOLVE cascaded into his mind as rushing and coiling cords of interwoven hay. The letters were a mix of orange-wheat and yellow-straw, normal—normal and thick. The blackwheat hairs upon Swishy’s body were swallowed by tiny, localized waves of healthy straw that submerged the cursed sections.
Resolve, that’s a good word. Something I’ve used all along.
He focused on how best to heal his friend. There were parts of Trey that were cracked, a little broken, smooshed aside. His friend was like play-dough, that’s how Swishy decided to think of it—so as not to freak himself out. Human anatomy was nothing like the flexible shapes and arcane properties of the soul. But he didn’t need to be a doctor to have options. He just needed to be a Swishy, a so-called miracle.
He held Trey closely—but with care. His friend was a China dish, a shatter-prone brother. He focused on creating a golden wrap that mimicked the shape of his arms, the shape of a hug. The situation was harrowing but Swishy focused on the positive, on everything golden he’d experienced. The un-dark had been good to him—in some ways. Focus on those ways. Focus on the good, the good, the good! And so the bright weaves began to wrap around Trey’s ribs in one layer, two layers, and in several more layers.
Swishy clung to the rest of Trey’s body, spreading gold wraps around his arms. He placed his friend’s legs together and wrapped those in a single, many-layered binding. He made Trey a crown of gold-straw and affixed them to his thick tufts of hair. The boy even created small-sized golds for his friend’s scratches and bruises, sticking him with dots and strips and little cartoon X patterns.
“Ta-daaa!” Swishy swished. “Straw is the cure! Straw is the way! That’s what you guys like to say anyway…” He scoffed. He was pleased, so pleased. Trey was repairing. The magic seeped into his body. Swishy’s soul could see the undone parts of Trey rejoining together, his insides forming into their original whole just like Swishy’s own self-reconstructions.
Trey dumbly smiled. That was the most his empty vessel could manage. Swishy saw the HEART STRINGS work their pulse-controlling magic, puppeteering the blood flow and synaptic lightning within.
Swishy’s darkness crept up on him then, the wing flapping and causing a commotion. It was the cursed way—to protest, to cry foul at the fortune of others and the neglect of themselves—and so the feathered peeves yelled: What about us? Share with us! Heal us! You think we’re just in perfect shape once you ATE us? Once we got RIPPED from our wrathraven body? We weren’t running the show—this is true—but it HURT. Sharing is caring! And even if you don’t care, care for us anyway. Isn’t that the right thing to do?
“I already fed you, Wingy.”
Snack, yes! But give us a proper heal, will ya? We live here. We have no choice. Do you want us to say please? Thank you?
“Yes, that’s a start.”
Do you know how HUMILIATING that is? To thank the person who ate us? That’s unfair!
“Okay, so? You lost.”
Ugh! Wingy heaved a sigh and resettled upon the shoulder blade. Please, a few straw band-aids. And thank you. Much like with the E-squad at the Curseworks entrance, led by Emi-Emilio-Eren-Emily, the grouping of souls was spoken for by the dominant personality—dubbed Wingy—and the dozens of others supported its will. As the Wingy said its reluctant Thank-You, the other curses echoed the gratitude with varying degrees of enthusiasm—some dragging it out of themselves while others screamed it to the heavens, really selling it.
The boy paused—initially from the annoyance at the sudden interruption, but then in proper thought. Making things right, doing the right thing—that could mean extending courtesies to the darkness, the possible enemies. He’d already fed them before, just to calm them down, a little Myst-inspired trickery. But the idea of feeding them with love was novel to him. Maybe. Why not? His moral fibers, both literal and intangible, moved him toward openness. He decided to see things Wingy’s way, the cursed way. The peeves were annoying little buggers but at least these gave him wing-jump.
The brief memory of his wing-assisted hang time conjured a dusting of gold-straw within.
Swishy plucked a straw-chew from his chest, a wheat piece steeped in cardiac residuals. “Here, then.” He tossed the gold-tinged straw-chew into his plumage. The glowing gold was dissolved, absorbed, and integrated. Wingy flexed, then relaxed.
Ah, that was good! Uuuh…thank you. Followed by several other thank-yous, being the curses-see-curses-do type.
“No problem,” Swishy said, plucking more straw from his chest. He tossed a handful over his shoulder and the wing flared upwards, catching every piece. Swishy relaxed as his wing curses fed. He listened to the soft rustles, the audible chewing patterns of his absorbed curses.
That was so good! We’re not fulfilled but you know…glass an eighth full?
“And not seven-eighths empty?”
That’s solid math! Scarecrows sure are something.
“I’ve been told,” Swishy laughed.
Hope your friend is okay…
“You’re just saying that for more straw.”
Duh! But you’re running the show. What’s good for you is good for us! That’s a starting point, you know.
The scarecrow shrugged. “Life sure is strange.”
The wing shrugged in kind and said: Dang, bro. Who do you think you're telling? The cursed abyss of feathers laughed. One of them let out a prolonged, bruuuuh.
And then the wing went slack, blissed out by the gold-straw. In Trey-like fashion, they were resting, healing up—or so they claimed.
Swishy turned his attention to Trey who lay on the ground, grinning and glowing. The healing appeared to be going well but needed more time. He sensed his magic build bridges on the inside, closing the wounds and inconsistencies. “Okay, let’s go,” He commanded Trey. He figured his friend had rested enough. The restoration progressed faster than anticipated. A few of Trey’s scars had already disappeared.
No response.
Oh…
Trey wriggled but couldn’t move. He was fully bound in thick bundles of straw. He resembled Swishy’s BOY BALLOON technique. The young man flashed another innocent smile. The message was clear. Help me, yeah?
“Sure, friend, I got you!” Swishy slung a gold-wheat rope to the end of Trey’s feet. He tugged it taut, testing it. Satisfied with the connection, he nodded to Trey.
Trey nodded back.
An urge struck Swishy, one impossible to resist. He spread his arms outward, matching Trey. They were twin T’s, twin scarecrows. Swishy glimpsed the gleaming cross on Trey’s chest. He remembered calling him The Scarecrow of Clayhearth but figured that didn’t quite fit anymore—not with Trey being scarecrow’d in wheat and wonder, looking more beautiful than Swishy had ever seen him.
Hi Jesus—of Clayhearth. Thanks for being with my friend.
And the boys proceeded onward, Swishy in the lead with a firm grip on the rope—and Trey getting dragged along the ground, averting his face from the occasional kicked-up dirt rock.
(...)
But he had to proceed with caution. The skies were filled with snitchtalons. They appeared lower in the sky now, having seen something they liked. The golds. The remnant aura of the wrathraven death site. Swishy turned his head to where he’d healed the trees, shimmering particles ghosting the air. There was the sudden gold-straw wheat which they loved to make their nest out of. Swishy, in making things right, had created a bit of habitat for his enemies. Which was the intention, in a way, to do something for the other side. Bridging the gap—but not while they wanted to bridge that distance to drop him from the sky.
They were in the treetops, pecking around. But they weren’t stupid either. They knew how the gold got there, but their animal instincts made them prioritize the wheat first, thankfully.
Swishy ran onwards, delving into the next thicket. He followed after the snitchtalon flocks that circled the skies. They circled and dived, circled and dived, creating a pattern comprised of surveying, landing, pecking around, and then taking to the skies again. Swishy sensed the aggression in their jagged-edged souls, the whirl of activity. They were fighting—that much was clear. Their feathers were burned, too, clear evidence of ZZT and ZAP blasts, Trey roasting them under his karmic heat lamps.
The answer was obvious, though. Trey—they hated him. The snitchtalons weren’t any fan of Swishy’s either, but he’d touched more than enough to know they’d shoot bird glue all over Trey’s tombstone.
When at first they were pleased by the luminosity of the clearing—its shine, its striking shadows, its red-orange trees and dark-green willows—but soon swiveled their necks for the next threat. They knew that this pristine area came out of nowhere. Every snitchtalon in the city knew that this was a Swish construction job.
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Where are you, pumpkin head? Show yourself and catch these talons. We just want to talk to you—talk and other things…but come on out. Have some words. Nibble a little straw. We’re not stupid, you know?
But the scarecrow remained hidden, traveling with soft measured steps. He clocked the snitchtalons’ movements and noticed a difference in them. Other than their damage, a black shackle bound their feet together. A cursed fog lifted off their ankles and melded with their feathers. For some reason, their bindings were part of their being, a soulful construction that shocked and alarmed Swishy. The letters revealed themselves then, s-l-a-v-e, traveling throughout every portion of the bird’s body, coiling through its legs and chest and neck and head before turning its path toward the ankles again. The word stretched and looped like a DNA double helix, becoming one with the bird’s essence.
Swishy knew they were compromised. They were hateful birds but undeserving of bondage.
Maybe they deserved it a little bit…whatever, it's all bad.
He concentrated on each step, closing his eyes, keeping track of the flock through their soul frequencies. If they moved one way, Swishy stepped once in the opposite direction. Dragging Trey with utmost care. He held a finger against his lips, shushing Trey, but Trey couldn’t help but grunt at each bump in the ground. The birds craned their necks toward Swishy’s direction—not finding him, though they heard the sound. But Swishy worked to minimize his soul, tamping down his golds, his blacks, becoming emotionless. Perfectly neutral. A perfect kidnapping—Trey-napping—ninja.
Shadows. Tremendous ones. Everything went black for a moment before the sunshine returned. A secondary swath of blackness cast upon them, a shadow long and wide in zeppelin fashion. Swishy concealed himself against a tree and gazed into the sky. His neck craned in time with the curious snitchtalons—who then trembled in fear. The scarecrow joined them in their unsteadiness. Only Trey’s body was calm, empty as it was, smiling dumbly at the three beasts overhead.
Swishy outright ran, dragging Trey along. The snitchtalons didn’t even look in the boys’ direction. The protracted crunches of wheat and leaves were obvious but everyone present had something more terrifying on their minds.
The dark creatures grew closer, closer, closer still. So close that the purple iridescence of their feathers was seeable. The smaller details came into focus, their beaks, their claws, their…immensity.
The individual shapes of the birds reminded him of shadowclaws but the truth was more terrible that than. Wrathravens, all wrathravens. Three in total.
And flying towards the clearing, its alluring golds. They, too, didn’t care for the snitchtalons—because their wrathraven bodies casually drew the shadows into them. The snitchtalons couldn’t make a sound but their faces were stuck in gasping expressions, their feathers and talons and souls breaking down into black atoms. The small creatures were burned away, shackles and all, as their remaining vapors flowed into the feathers of the wrathravens.
There were no last words—no snark, no pleas, no defiance. The natural order absorbed them into the larger creature, plain and simple. Swishy’s bird nature innately knew—yet his sentient nature knew that these were three more problems than he could reasonably handle.
Screw this, I’m out of here!
Swishy plunged into a nearby thicket and attempted to hide. He could hear the flapping flock, even from far, far away. There was so much gold on him—the latent traces of magic inside him, the gold-straw crumbs upon his feasting wing, and the ostentatious glowing scarecrow cast that contained Trey.
The wrathravens were coming, sensing—and perhaps seeing—their attractive plunder.
Phoosh! Phoosh!
The wingbeats were right upon Swishy, their deafening loudness making it hard to think.
(...)
The wrathraven trio was hot on Swishy's trail. They passed over the battle site, circling briefly as they recognized the feathers of their fallen brethren before wing-blasting the dead plumage away in dismissal. The flock cared not for their flock mate, but for the shine—only the shine. Their singular focus brought them toward the felled trees and broken branches. They sniffed at the crown of gold-straw from Swishy’s victory attack. One of the birds even picked up wheat strands to decorate its wings with.
After a blissful pause, the creatures moved on. They accurately glided over the path that Swishy and Treycrow took. Swishy's gold left glowing trails from the scarecrow cast, which the boy disguised by turning random corners, brushing his hand against bushes in a straight line, enlivening them with gold—while taking off in the opposite direction. But the wrathravens were never deterred long by the bait—they'd descended upon said bait, consumed it, then quickly moved on in the correct direction—always correct, never tricked.
Gosh, they’re hunters for real. They could stand to be less good at this…
Swishy amplified his enchanted efforts, touching every tree, every wheat stalk, every blade of grass. He was creating a gold field, spending himself to create new beacons for distraction. His efforts were twofold in that they'd aid his escape and invigorate the forest at once. So the boy created a blaze of gold, transforming every clearing he passed, wavering between smugness and distress.
He felt like a real human as he ran on since his heart contracted from the magic cost. After enlivening one clearing, a fifth of his heart was consumed. Then he'd spent another fifth when using his Midas touch on the next several sections of forest.
Meanwhile, Trey chuffed along behind him as precious scarecrow cargo.
A clearer section of forest was upon them, with far fewer trees and much more wheat. The rounded hills and modest village were about a mile ahead. Nowhere to hide but everywhere to run. And to Swishy's satisfaction, he believed he'd run successfully.
The scarecrow—and scarecrow cargo—were here, properly escaped, and the wrathravens were left behind in Swishy's gilded woods—
Until they weren't: three portals of shadow surrounded him from the ground, spewing black geysers from which the wrathraven trio appeared.
They rose as one and spoke, also, as one.
More…give us more! Give us a gold forest. What are you waiting for?
They flapped rapidly, flexing their talons, shaking their heads, screeching and screeching and screeching. The thrilling bliss of gold made them antsy, anxious, violent. Avarice and antsiness were a terrible, terrible combo, forcing Swishy to tremble within the gunpowder air.
Mindfully, he positioned himself in front of Trey and double-wrapped the straw rope that attached them around his hand. His straw-spun mind moved like a turbine, searching for a clever way to diffuse the savage tension.
"Wait, wait, wait, I have to go see Ruby. She'll want a golden forest. I talked to her—that's on her list, I swear." He impulsively spewed—lying with what he thought was the truth. Ruby would want a golden forest. He told no lie but a future truth.
Three voices responded—in triple the vitriol. Forget Ruby! You don't need her to produce. Now, boy...get to the heart-gold of the matter...NOW.
The flock closed in, containing Swishy within a cage of shadows. The pitch consumed him. He turned skyward but the pastel heavens were compressed into a speck, a pinhole, before fully closing.
The wrathravens were mindful enough to seal all hope. That was their specialty, after all.
The birds enforced a curtain of night around Swishy—who couldn’t tell one body part from the other. He didn’t know what was a face, a rib cage, a wing, a violently snapping mouth. But he could only tell that they were closing in, an enthusiastic mood of murder filling them.
A dark smoke of ULTIMATUM ebbed from the wrathravens, the three of them in sync, tripling the size of the intent. The words towered over Swishy as obelisks of pain.
Serve or skewer...
Skewer? Swishy couldn't resist the imagery forced upon him by the question. The ULTIMATUM dissolved and dispersed into vapor, turning the cage of wrathraven bodies into a gas chamber. As the intent entered Swishy, he saw the shape of the skewer—the monsters had really meant stake. A wooden javelin formed above him, darkness leaking from its splintered surface. Should Swishy resist "serve", then the skewer was ready—
Skewers. Another one formed, this one for Trey.
Trey's expression hadn't changed. That empty grin remained on his face. He even appeared to sleepily doze. A dead weight—a slumbering one, so to speak.
"You don't have to do this! Let's work this out!"
The death trinity laughed. We ARE working it out, foolish scarecrow.
For posterity, a third black stake splintered into existence, larger than the other two.
Three to our flock! The wrathravens declared. Three stakes! Complete the look! More screech-stuttered laughter, a horrendous cacophony of condescension and mirth.
As their bellowing laughs echoed within the chamber of their eclipse-enforcing bodies, growing louder and louder and louder still, the ULTIMATUM intent swelled and became the very air of the cage.
Serve or skewer? The wrathravens repeated their question, and Swishy, their captured quarry, had no choice but to answer.
Swishy's heart swayed toward the former of the choices. The s and the e and the r were dragged from his chest, then the v, and if Swishy didn't make a move now that final letter would fly out of him, rending him defeated. He could feel the spell capturing his essence. Inside, he heard the jangle of chains plunging through his wheat, physically touching his soul. Terror-stricken, he expected blackwheat but the spell commanded him to serve, to produce gold-straw, and so as that final e slowly drew its from Swishy—a fourth of the way out of his chest, then half, then three-quarters—the scarecrow became completely gold. His shining outsides didn't match the fears inside him—but his feelings were of no significance to the wrathravens.
Yes, yes, yes! The screeching beasts rejoiced. Serve, serve, serve!
He couldn't let it end like this. He refused. RESOLVE—How could he forget his resolve? The boy closed his eyes and repeated the word as a mantra. "Resolve, resolve, resolve, resolve..." And as the final e of serve jutted from Swishy's chest, the RESOLVE intent formed around the e, locking it in place, then drawing it back inside him. He withheld an immediate answer, refusing to give the wrathravens what they wanted. Firm, Swishy would remain firm, especially now that the shackles inside had lost a couple of chain links.
WHAT? Insolent boy! SERVE or SKEWER? You MUST pick! You WILL pick. Now CHOOSE!
The skewers did indeed lower, all three adjusting their aim toward Trey. They gradually sank like a cinematic torture device, but each unit of their progression only served to intensify the spirit of Swishy's resistance. He wouldn't back down. The question had an answer—a third one that Swishy would create.
A rake—that was his answer—one which he drew from the ground, enlarging to twice, then triple, then quadruple its normal size. The final three-fifths of his heart shriveled down into gold-rake power. Inside, a dark wind blew around the nub inside that remained.
A void inside yet powerful outside—that was the way of the world.
I'll be fine. People do this every day, and I'll do it too!
The rake created a luminous tower in the wrathraven darkness, their rubbery necks stretching towards it and around it in curious coils, their now-illuminated expressions purely rapturous.
He then released the rope that bound himself to Trey's cast. The cord floated on its own and wrapped around Swishy's waist several times over. Next, scarecrow-Trey erected from the ground, raising as a Christian cross. Swishy's waist rope then stretched and coiled around both himself and Trey, binding them to each other.
Incredible light tricks! The wrathravens delightedly proclaimed. A dance of light, a precursor to the human's death, and your slavery... mwahaha!
Swishy unleashed a powerful flap—wing-jump!—launching him and Trey parallel to the rake, landing them atop its prongs. He locked eyes with each wrathraven as he passed upward—birds who breathed upon him in a loving yet deadly manner.
Yes! Yes! Do more! More gold!
Yet the shadows inside them, the cursed individuals who were absorbed within their plumage, simply sobbed at the light. We’ll never have something so good. Even when it’s upon us, it belongs to the main consciousness. We’re never chosen, only used. Always the bridesmaid but never the bride. Always on sale, on clearance, on a buy one get a thousand free deal. We’re samples. Useless, useless samples…
“Sorry for your lives,” Swishy said—and then softly followed up with. “Sorry you have to live…”
And then—wing-jump!—his ascent continued, straight into the skewers.
Swishy stared up at the skewers above him, face to face with the spirit of demise. When pushed to the brink, choices must be made. Swishy responded to the ULTIMATUM, swinging both arms outward, exposing his chest:
"Do you trust me, Trey?"
A pause, Trey's head lolling within the cast, before his body subconsciously responded: "I always do," laughing, snoring, drooling.
CHOOSE, the wrathravens demanded for the third and final time. Their eyes stared into their dual suns, golden scarecrows beaming down upon their shadowed essences.
"Skewer," Swishy said.
And the storm of stakes commenced.