FOR STARTERS, TREY WAS GLAD HE BROUGHT A JACKET.
It was horrifically cold.
Ascension was his goal. His mind’s eye filled with visions for how they’d settle this situation. He wanted to handle this all at once. But for that he needed to rise. There was a place in the sky reserved for him, and from that location he’d hoped to calm the storm.
Things never turned out the way he wanted them to. But they would this time. They had to.
He used his first [Zlide] to warp the max distance upward, 20 meters give or take. He’d reemerged from his domain within a swirling canopy of trees, the winds blowing the sharp branches in his face. He immediately dove into another [Zlide] and reemerged higher, within the thick of the dark tornado. The debris, the weather, the grotesquery of splintered straw, all confronted him. He held his arms up, blocking his body from the amalgam of beaks and talons that reached out for him.
A third [Zlide].
Whenever the [Zlide] exit opened, the bolstered winds vacuumed Trey from the shadows and into the storm cycle. He gritted his teeth and focused on not biting his tongue. The air pressure squeezed his muscles. The aches and fatigue were instant and overwhelming. The tornado was cleaner—but darker. Grains of blackwheat peppered the air, its dusty particles spraying Trey’s body. He could feel the anger, a vicious energy surging through him.
He squinted his eyes and covered his mouth as the wind drove him around and around and around. He felt like a toy, like a fixture to this carousel of birds and shadows.
Desperate for escape, he aimed his fourth [Zlide] in his immediate path.
Thankfully, the wind drove him through the passage.
A momentary reprieve, a momentary lack of pain. His compressed muscles felt like they’d re-inflated, gasping for circulation. Trey’s insides drank from himself as he rode the dark current toward his warp point.
And then a pair of snitchtalons came toward him, having followed him inside. Is this where you’re keeping our kin? I knew your sick ass had a murder den! CACAW, CACAW!
“Believe what you want!” Trey extended his arms superhero style—the exit couldn’t come fast enough.
We can’t believe this gaslighting! The pursuing snitches bit at Trey and missed, the [Zlide] current too powerful.
Another exit—another blast of cold and dark and frightful suctioning. The winds took him again, drawing him into the current. The portal birds were right behind him—while other snitches were outside waiting. They were beholden to the tornado’s orbit but glared at Trey with cheeky confidence.
We see you. You can’t run.
But what concerned him most was the array of blue dots. The color, the texture—those were without a doubt the scarecrow souls. As the rushing darkness brushed by them, the spirits lost form and mass. Little by little, the cursed winds whittled the villagers away.
I have to hurry…Trey noticed his fast-approaching collision course with a tree.
[Zlide] five. Thankfully, he’d already prepared the spell before the prior one ended, conjuring the gate shape within his palm. He’d achieved a rhythm, a flow, though he’d already burnt through a quarter of his soul reserves. Physical pain and spiritual drainage were a poor combination.
Upon the next exit, he encountered pure chaos. Birds were bursting from his portal, chasing him. There were birds willfully leaving the storm cycle in a dart-like attack. And the winds tore the treetops from their trunks, juggling them in its hellacious spin cycle—and chucking a mass of thick branches at him.
[Zlide] six. [Zlide] seven.
He’d surpassed the trees now—but not the winds. There was less world but somehow more darkness. He’d come to realize that the snitchtalons amplified their spell. Now that they’d defeated the villagers, Trey was next on the list.
They flew harder, faster, straining their necks as if to stretch their bodies into perfect, streamlined arrows. The weather spiraled as a tunnel of cursed words, MALICE and MEANNESS blaring most prominently in billboard font sizes.
Eight.
Nine.
Each time he bounced from [Zlide] to [Zlide], his spell preparation got faster, the warps were smoother, and the crush of frost and air pressure was suffered for less time. He no longer allowed himself to get dragged into the hurricane.
He was a professional teleporter—though the snitchtalons were along for the ride. They felt his magic. They learned the shadows and gold speckles that so characterized his gates. Once Trey entered them, so too did they. Every time Trey teleported he brought over a dozen snitchtalons with him, the remainder of them staying behind to spin the wind, to cultivate the dark-storm curses.
During the ascent he hoped to stretch the spell thin, that as the black winds chased him, they would grow weaker at the base. Less birds and curses for Swishy to deal with. He believed this was the case, and that they’d have a chance to recollect the lost scarecrows.
[Zlide].
[Zlide].
[Zlide].
Trey went higher. And higher still. And soon he was beyond the boundaries of the snitch hurricane. He traveled until he reached the clearest skies. He soared until he was sure he surpassed Ruby’s reach. There was no way she could reach Heaven—could she? He didn’t know and he didn’t care because he was beyond the storm now. Past a certain point—he didn’t know when—the rage-stricken groups of birds ceased pursuit.
A particularly tenacious bird had followed along in straggly flight, its wing tips solidified by frost. It sank to the world beyond, swallowed by the nebula of wind and shadow and hatred.
The young man kept going. He used up to half his soul reserves. Up in the high altitude, the frost crackled along his bones, and the hard-to-breathe air was thin as could be.
The winds encased him no longer. There was fog all around—in his breath, in the clouds, in the shimmering lines of nighttime mist. And the stars…he wondered which were real and which were Ruby’s. And the moon—could he touch it? Could he tear it down like a party decoration?
He reached above him. He hadn’t expected the emotions to capture him like this. But the Clayborne had never been this close to space before, this close to God.
[Zlide]. One more for the road…
There was more to investigate.
Above the storm, Trey expected a patch of clear sky and cloud mist to soothe his spirit.
Instead, there was a list of woes that no amount of [Zzt] or [Zap] thunderclaps could come remotely close to addressing.
[Midnight], of course. The heavens allowed him visibility to the spell’s current state.
New creatures were popping up, unidentified ones. The shapes of these strange souls were of species that he’d never seen in a book or zoo.
As Trey surveyed the village’s old route—beyond the beach, beyond the stretches of woods—those old paths were swallowed by the immense traveling darkness. The [Midnight] curses rolled through the land like oceanic waves. And within these cresting currents, the heads and limbs of strange creatures were present. Through the stew of curses had emerged creatures.
The shadows were birthing a population.
[Midnight] curses were converting their share of The High Chasm energy, of Swishy’s first heart, into bodies. The curses had always been real—unseen but real—and now that they had access to a wellspring of energy, they could at last assert their presence upon the Cearth.
Trey gazed down in horror. The flock’s horrendous spell stared up at him, awaiting his return. Within the howling smokiness, several words revealed themselves with gross clarity: ENFEEBLE, EVISCERATE, EXECUTE, END. But that was only the half of it. The other half was the same word, the flock’s most prominent prayer: JUSTICE.
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“You and I both…” Trey said in a soft-spoken eulogy for the world.
Cearth was cursed—but he knew that already.
The cold and silence, the shadows, the misery—after emerging from the final [Zlide] his hands were full of electricity. He was ready for the showdown.
He slipped from the portal and began his descent.
As the young man fell, plunging into the icy darkness, he clutched balls of bolts in each hand.
(…)
RED EYES, BLACK WINDS, AND DISINTEGRATED SCARECROWS.
The blackwheat eyes of the birds were glued on him—though some had turned upward in Trey’s direction. If distraction was part of Trey’s plan, it was working, and for this Swishy grinned. He knew this was his first time getting to work with Trey—and not simply taking direction. They were a team. And after thousands of times receiving Trey's support, Swishy was ready to give back to his friend.
Swishy went through the past versions of himself—fleeing from the snitches in the library, ditching Trey after the [Zlave] lesson, cowering before a projection of Ruby. But then he’d toppled wrathravens. He’d overcome one heart loss, and then another. In no time at all, he’d worked out his relationship with the curses. The boy freaked less about the heart he should have. Whatever heart he had at the moment was the heart he had. The world has a way of working on you that Swishy gradually came to accept.
But the dark magic and spiteful birds.
Black gusts leveled the forestry. There was no guilt from Swishy at the collateral damage. He was sure this wasn’t his fault. And he had no compulsion to heal the everytrees either—they were creepy, strangely durable. While several of the surrounding trees were mowed down by the winds, other everytrees survived the blows, swaying in the inclement conditions like reeds. The shadowy trees with their mysterious frees were flexible, bouncy, rubbery. Each impact against their trunks sprung them in the direction of the wind—only for them to bounce back to normal.
The vibrating, rubbery woods creeped Swishy out. He wanted to love that Ruby’s trees could withstand The Stormcellar—he tuned into that fantasy in no time flat. But he couldn’t accept what he saw. This world wasn’t a good place, the everytrees included.
The tidings were horrendous but Swishy would find a way—as he always did, and as he was called to do.
The scarecrow refused to idle as his friend warped into bird-spinning madness.
He counted the souls, taking a status update. The blue souls were pinpricks in the night, ebbing ever so slightly. But the straw boy was in tune with their pulse. Everyone at their lowest point needed saving. And the salvation was him, always him.
“I’m coming,” he said.
Straw god, please. The echos were weak but moved through Swishy like a Cearthquake.
“Can you move? Can you find any straw?”
We’re trying but a lot of it is blackwheat.
“Okay, sit tight.”
We’re floating, believe it or not.
Their humor tickled his spirit.
He placed a hand on what he thought was Sling’s back—but turned out to be her calf.
She looked down at him and Swishy looked away, a little embarrassed. “Yes, child god, you have something for me, I presume.”
“I do.” Swishy fed energy into his hand—he aimed for gold but what came in spurts were his standard yellow and orange hay. The boy kept at, though, yearning to provide Sling with proper support.
“It’s okay,” Sling removed Swishy’s hand from her with her two immense fingertips. “Thank you, this is plenty.” She gathered up the clusters of yellow-stalk and orange-wheat from Swishy and started eating them.
Swishy watched her carefully, seeing her soul replenish. Her insides had gone from the toothpick width to her proper size, thin but full. He was impressed by her bandages. They were nearly pristine despite the massive winds that blew through the area. Scarecrows were reduced to dust, their souls freely floating, waiting for their rescue. But Sling appeared in perfect condition, the winds blowing through the portions she left loose for spells.
There was a portion of her that loosened, though, only slightly, but she hurriedly sealed herself. A modest mummy—though Swishy wondered what kind of scarecrow needed wraps.
The woman rubbed her hands together, conjuring intent. She began at [NEST] but rearranged it—she was working on something. Funnily enough, the wrathraven chicks had looked over her shoulder and watched her hands, cheering her on.
Bristles also stirred, still deep in the scarecrow-cast-induced coma. He was a mess, straw in his hair, drool on his cheek. It was like he’d never menaced the villagers at all. Specks of blackwheat and scarecrow dust blew in the wind, dusting Bristles’ eyelids.
The boy grew nervous, waiting for the other shoe to drop—and he wasn’t the only one.
Swishy checked on the kid-crows, who, now mummified, screamed for their parents. They whimpered as the wind blew around them. They couldn’t see a thing—because Sling had bandaged their eyes. Swishy also liked that they were stuck in “T” positions. He hoped this would bring calmness to the kids like it’d do for him.
The wind strove on faster, its destructive ambitions coming to fruition.
Sling just focused on her magic, casting the occasional worried glance at their obsidian prison.
But Swishy didn’t stick around to see Sling’s maneuver. He ran around the boundaries of the tornado, chasing after the straw-bound. Their souls were once complete orbs but diminished rapidly. Before Swishy could measure their inner selves with both hands, he now felt like he could carry all their souls within his palm. The villagers were shaved down to marbles, and Swishy had to get them before it was too late.
“[Scarecrow], you guys, use [Scarecrow]!”
But the souls barely stirred. They were struggling to exist, let alone cobble themselves together into scarecrows. They’d used so much magic and had been slammed with a vicious darkness.
Not everyone was meant to fight but everyone had to fight for their lives, nonetheless, another sad truth of Cearth.
The villagers were trying their best. The boy could tell as the wind-blown straw that littered the clearing exhibited unnatural movements. Each errant strand had wiggled and slithered along as if they were worms. At full strength, the wheat would’ve effortlessly glided into the air. But in their soul-beaten state, they could hardly locate themselves, let alone collect their due of straw.
It was time for another straw god feat. He collected as much straw as he could. Swishy used his straw-kinesis upon the litter of damaged stalks in the area. He raised his hand to the sky and pulled it from the wind. There were unused stalks between the trees that his power had dug up and harvested.
He grabbed twigs, leaves, and flowers. He even drew upon the tattered pink sky.
No matter what he could draw toward him, no matter how much he’d amassed within his hodgepodge nature of a pile, these contents weren’t enough to recreate even a quarter of the scarecrows in the village.
Swishy mournfully stared at the debris-riddled tornado. He was upset at himself for even thinking of the word debris because he knew that these were his followers’ bodies. They’d relied on these vessels and lost them again.
Keep faith, Swishy said through the remains of his gold-straw. He detected the occasional fleck twisting in the wind. This was all he could offer the villagers.
But he wouldn’t be sad about it. There was an option—not ideal, but a path to survival.
Because there was plenty of blackwheat in the tornado. Swishy knew what he had at his disposal, and he knew exactly the level of darkness he could handle. But what could the straw-bound handle? He pushed the thought aside—they’d get there in due time.
“Blackwheat, come.”
And the blackwheat did, zipping toward him in eager waves. The straw returned to him as if he were their home. He’d created one pile. Then a second pile. After several seconds, there were several piles. He was stacking them up, dark hay bales. The cursed potential was astounding and hopeful.
“How very interesting,” Sling said.
“I hate it.”
“No, I mean it. This is a good idea.”
“I hope so.”
“Beggars can’t choose their own straw,” she shrugged.
“Right,” Swishy said as he used [Weave] on a pile, creating a head, limbs, and the rest. “Villagers, it’s time, get in here!”
Hesitation. The boy couldn’t tell if the meager souls were halted by the blackwheat fear or if they simply couldn’t move well. Perhaps, both.
“Come here! I have bodies, there’s plenty, there’s enough.”
The dots of soul drifted in the air, progressing like pollen riding a summer breeze. The weather was horrible but the current of their faith in Swishy was lovely. Dark skies meant nothing when their god was there for them.
Meanwhile, Swishy focused on [Weave]. The straw god was determined to provide them with the best bodies they could have. He made all the standard anatomy. He made sure the heads were thick and fortified, and that the necks were sturdy. Strong shoulders to support the arms—and long fingers to grasp their destinies. And legs, thick legs, almost wooden in the thighs but delicate and properly shaped at the calves and feet.
The torso was the last touch, made of non-blackwheat scraps. Their hearts would stand a chance. He wouldn’t start them out with the darkness of heart—the world would do that to them. The world had already done so. But they were being born anew, another chance to remake themselves into stability.
A setback, that’s all this was. One setback for the civilization to come.
Swishy remembered that last lesson with Trey, the way CIVILIZATION bloomed through his limbs and [Heart Armor]. The life they could have was all Swishy could see. He trusted his friend’s knowledge, happy that a place like Clayhearth existed for Trey—and now Swishy wanted that for himself and these scarecrows. In his mind’s eye, a beautiful vision occurred. Everyone would be in the plains, the village homes and stores at their backs, and the sun in their face. The entire village would stand in the fields and “T” together. The shadowclaws streaked across the sky—just birds, not enemies—and they stayed among the harvest, happy, knowing that nature was there for them, but content that they’d rarely have to collect it.
And the altar? Perhaps he’d seal it. Or hide it. Or return there himself. He hadn’t worked that out yet. Maybe he’d ask Myst to manage it—with the caveat that people weren’t allowed to become monsters.
Was that possible? A boy could only hope.
The souls flowed into the bodies. They hadn’t awakened yet as they were still small and weak. But they were healing. The blackwheat limbs lapped at the boundaries of the torso, eager to eat their hearts.
“I can help,” Sling said.
“Please,” Swishy said.
Sling’s bandages unraveled from her wrist, an endless supply of magic wrap. As the spools unraveled toward the dark scarecrows, they began to wrap around the blackwheat limbs, wind-proofing them. But protection from the gusts was only one effect.
Swishy saw the true nature of the bandages as he read the words inked on the insides of the unlimited bindings: REPOSE, COMPOSURE, OPTIMISM. The wraps coming from Sling’s other hand read NEST, NURTURE, and HOME. Another length of paper that stretched from her ribs said: DONUTS, APPLE PIE, SUNDAE, CHERRY ON TOP.
“I like your taste in sweets,” Swishy said.
“Thank you, straw god,” Sling giggled, embarrassed.
But the small talk didn’t help them—not as they were birthing blackcrows. Swishy absorbed and molded the blackwheat into bodies while Sling treated them with her bandages. During the construction, the gales at last took a toll on Sling, who developed cuts and splits in her gauze. The nicks were negligible at first—until her straw poked out of it.
Black.
“Sling, you’re…”
“I’m in control of it,” she said, pushing the blackwheat back in.
“Okay, that’s good news.”
“Let’s hope they can control it, too.”
Swishy nodded, then called out to his blackcrows: “Don’t let it take your heart, okay?”
“Yes, Straw God,” The first blackcrow said in two voices—one their original, and the second something else entirely.