The villagers received them with open arms—black ones.

The straw god and his mummy-crow companion entered the forest clearing with deliberate steps and took everything in.

A persistent creaking resounded from their backdrop of everytrees, their branches opening ever so slightly, mimicking the straw-bound’s welcoming pose. The snapping sounds of the woods tapped against Swishy’s psyche. Every movement cracked the bark, pulling chips from the tree trunks. And the fallen wood chips then melted into the ground as a type of fertilizer, reintegrating into the soil and roots.

Swishy’s mind remembered the tempest of the original Stormcellar. These trees healed from their damage, unable to truly lose any of what they lost. No wind could tear them apart. Nothing could starve childhood Ruby or her kin ever again.

The villagers gazed at them with love and expectancy. Their black selves buzzed and hopped from the reunion, the near-death experience and subsequent survival.

Swishy and Sling greeted them with warm expressions but with wise distance. Sling stopped slightly behind Swishy and treated her bandages, infusing her aura into a charcoal stick and writing MILKSHAKE and SODA FLOAT and FUDGE DELIGHT within her disturbed wraps.

The black scarecrows unsettled the boy but he wouldn’t hold that against them. He’d done this to them, after all.

He glanced at his glowing rake, snuck at nibble at a loose bit of straw, and calmed as his pumpkin absorbed the magic. “Hello,” he said to the black scarecrows. “Are you okay? Did the wind hurt you bad? Do you feel…functional?”

The scarecrows waved their barbed hands at Swishy. The blackwheat had a way of creating thorns and spikes upon their bodies, the curses displaying their aliveness to the world. Black aura lifted from them.

As a fledgling curse-wielder, he wasn’t about to go and touch unfamiliar ones. And that’s when Swishy realized a slight change in the straw-bound: they were no longer wary of him. Was it he who’d earned their trust? Or the blackwheat overwriting their personalities?

But the straw-bound were all smiles. One of them spoke as the others gazed at the speaker and silently co-signed. “We’re secure and the enemy is vanquished. You and Priest Trey have done it again.”

Lovely words, a lovely welcome, but there were two problems. The villager spoke in two voices, one a human and the other an unknown entity.

“Have you always sounded like that?” Swishy asked.

“Whatever do you mean, this is my voice?”

“Voices. Those are voices.” Swishy insisted.

But the person stared and smiled, supplying no other comment or explanation.

Swishy found other distractions as well, his eyes drawn to the villagers’ black limbs. The curses slithered like worms over their arms, briefly surfacing before re-burrowing into the bodies.

Swishy and Sling exchanged looks—Swishy’s worried expression meeting Sling’s encouraging one. Still, he could tell she concealed her worries. Her grip on Trey tightened while her free hand drifted toward her belt of children, massaging the tops of their heads with light strokes of her forefingers. She was prepared to run, that’s what she meant for Swishy to see.

“Is this everyone? I didn’t count the vessels I made.” Swishy wanted to say bodies and was proud of avoiding a slip-up.

“We’re all here,” a different villager said—as themselves and their echo. “We all made it.”

“All? What’s with that emphasis? You’re worrying me.”

“All is all,” another scarecrow politely said. Each new speaker attracted everyone’s eyes. The straw-bound were linked, which they tended to be, but the notion that they were linked in curses bothered Swishy.

The scarecrows opened their hands and black auras swirled within their palms like flames. “All of us, together, as Straw Village.”

Sling’s eyes widened. She leaned into Swishy and whispered into his gourd. “I need to prepare some curse-wraps…” Her soul broadened as she prepared talismans. The woman’s concentration was deep and urgent.

Swishy noticed the giantess but attentively eyed the villagers. “That’s…that’s not something you should have to deal with. I’m sorry. I should’ve done better.”

Multiple scarecrows now responded, beginning to crowd Swishy from all sides, a new speaker—and echo—for every sentence. “No matter. This is better. This is progress. You taught us spells. You gave us a way to survive to this point. And you can give us more…”

“More?”

“More tutelage, more spells!” They raised their darkness to the sky, black fountains spraying from their hands, emitting a fog around the area.

“I think you should practice your [Bale] and [Pile] and [Quills] and [Scarecrow]. You’re beginners still.”

“But we’re in new bodies now. Our little friends tell us that we can be more. And even if we weren’t told, we can feel it. Teach us other spells, darker ones. We can be beginners at those too. But we can’t be torn apart again. We’re fighting for our lives, and darker spells have a place in that, wouldn’t you agree?”

Fufufu…Myst returned to the environment as a gentle wind. She breezed through Swishy’s straw, leaving trails of her aura amid his wheat. Yes, little boy, they’re fighting for their lives and souls. Arming them is the right thing to do.

Swishy inwardly groaned, then smiled at the villagers. He wanted to deny them but their latest change was all on him. He finally spoke. “I want to help but even I don’t know how to protect myself from the curses. When there’s too many, your insides get overrun.”

“We can take that risk. Give us a chance, dearest Straw.”

Swishy considered the request, wondering what the introductory versions of his techniques were. Bale, Pile, Quills, Scarecrow…how do I blacken these? “Do you have your charms?” Swishy asked.

The scarecrows presented their jewelry, holding their Swishy-themed necklaces and bracelets up to him—but his former gold-straw had been vanquished in the fight, and they’d recreated their charms with the Swish-treated blackwheat instead. The charms were different, too. Many wore black effigies of Swishy. A few donned necklaces of a tattered, hole-riddled scarecrow, the hexed version of [Straw Guardian].

They kissed and rubbed their charms. “Please, show us new techniques. We won’t waste your wisdom and dedication.”

“Okay…” Swishy hesitated, knowing he had to correct his tone. “Yes, yes, I’ll send techniques through the charms. I won’t let you down.”

“Thank you, thank you!” everyone said at once.

Swishy turned to Sling as well, making eye contact. He spoke in a low voice. “And you, I’ll help you. I know you have…a lot.”

“Yes, it’s quite difficult to manage.”

“And it’s a lot you can work with…Myst wasn’t wrong—she never is. She’s just…”

“Also difficult.”

“Yeah!”

“Thank you for thinking about me too.”

“Of course, Slingy.”

Myst chimed in once again, a second set of devilish thoughts affirming Swishy’s cursed progression. Yes, I see your little village-cult situation is paying dividends. You may as well eat that gold rake. You’re a dark dweller—act like it. It’s not called Cearth for nothing, just embrace it…

“You’re interfering a lot lately…you sure the Cearth is okay with this?”

I couldn’t say…but you’re right. I’ve been a bit more unbound lately. Would you begrudge a girl her freedom?

“No,” Swishy said. “Not even yours.”

Good answer, she laughed, her presence relaxing, thinning into imperceptibility again. But Swishy wasn’t fooled by that either. Something wasn’t right with the way he sensed Myst’s rapid heartbeat.

The villagers were worked up by their cursed straw.

And Myst was worked up by the heart inside.

He found her way above him, somersaulting within the clouds, the heart leading her on a leash. She couldn’t stop playing. The graceful and lovely movements that Swishy had been entranced by when he first gave her the heart, now became faster, sporadic. There were sudden stoppages and pivots. Sharper angles. As the heart jackhammered within Myst, the area’s fog thickened and thinned with the rhythm. The strobe of shadows couldn’t be stopped.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The straw-bound, making peace with their new darkness, welcomed the unstable lighting.

But they couldn’t see the runaway heart. Anxiety swelled within Swishy. He knew this could go wrong but had no clue as to how.

“Mysty! Are you okay?” Words he never thought he’d say.

“Never better!” She called back. “I’ve never felt so alive!”

(…)

The straw-bound felt the same as Myst: alive.

The scarecrows didn’t quite sense her but they played in the darkness. They treated the fog as a smoke, breathing it in, basking delightedly. Knowing that they’d soon be on the move, that further snitches were likely coming, they practiced their [Weave] intent. They played with their straw like a new toy, creating black flowers, a woven potpourri garden.

One made a fire pit and stoked a dark aura flame inside the kindling. Another used [Weave] on piles of crushed debris to make a snowman—followed by a snow wife, snow children, and snow birdie in a cage.

Several others had quickly erected a dark dome for everyone to congregate and talk, speaking fervently about their stable futures.

Some gazed at Sling, staring at her belt of children. They waved to the confined children, hoping they felt their greetings through their gauze blindfolds.

It was hard to decipher their stares from the look of their straw—they weren’t quite as good as Swishy at sculpting their expressions. Everyone was more or less dead in the face—at least until they opened their wrecked mouths. In fact, they had no mouths. But when they spoke, something of a mouth tore open, the wheat splintering in sickening cracks.

Swishy hated to admit it, but he was distressed by his own kind. He wished he could give them pumpkin heads at least, something strong and expressive, something a little more alive.

They did everything but create a new settlement. Life had taught them that they’d be nomadic for a little while longer.

When Trey stirred from his sleep, Swishy was relieved. The [Doze] had run its course. Trey stretched his arms wide, yawning within Sling’s grasp. “I hear swishing…are we with the villagers now?”

“Yeah, we are…” Swishy knew he was in trouble.

“Welcome, Trey!” The double-voiced scarecrows said.

Swishy was nervous for this moment—and Trey proved him right about that, hesitating as he recognized the blackwheat limbs and necks.

“Explain, Swish,” Trey said, blinking himself into consciousness.

Sling, still holding Trey, yo-yo’d him to the ground. The Clayborne easily unraveled himself, struggling to remain calm. He was trembling—both mad and scared—and then made it back on his feet.

“I did this. It was me,” Swishy said.

“Oh, did you now?” Trey glared at the boy, the gleaming blackcrows, and then back at the boy.

“You saw the hurricane…the old bodies didn’t make it…”

Trey shook his head sadly. “Actually yeah, I saw some of that…”

The scarecrows all responded over each other, a cacophony of It was horrible. I was terrified. I’d become nothing. But we kept we never lost our souls. Swishy guided us back to the ground, to these powerful vessels. We are saved—again! We are saved by Lord Swishy, always and forever!

The comments were too loud, everyone speaking with dual voices, one cadence layered atop another.

“What’s with the echo? Two voices?” Trey then whispered to Swishy. “Are they cursed?”

“We’re ourselves!” Everyone said with their layered voices. “We just have some friends with us—in us.” They laughed at their village wit, and Trey cracked a smile too—a smile that faltered as he scolded Swishy with a glare.

“Umm…” Trey scratched his chin, considering his line of questioning. “Your friends are behaving, right?”

“As far as we know!”

Swishy couldn’t trust this cryptic answer. It was as if the villager’s true self spoke in one voice, and the darkness laughed at him with the second. “That’s not what I asked,” he said. “Why am I hearing two? Please, I need to know.”

“Forget that line of inquiry. As we go through struggles, as we go through the shadows, we change. For now, please consider this double-voicedness an accent.” They said this with an edge, then smiled that perceived annoyance away.

“Sorry…” Swishy was disconcerted by their tone. He didn’t need everyone to treat him as a god but this seemed a little harsh.

“It’s okay. We are alive. And better yet, we are empowered…” They studied their opened palms, amazed by their dark bodies and pulsating energies. “We’ve never felt anything like it. This rawness. These limbs…they’re screaming.”

“I understand.” Swishy truly did, except at this moment it was his mind that screamed.

D-R-E… formed over Swishy’s head in a cotton candy cloud of darkness. He resisted the further letters, stifling the creeping “dread”. He hated blackwheat. He hated himself. And then he didn’t. He told himself he loved himself. That he was doing his best. That he had to stay positive because the Straw Village fed off that energy.

Trey used [Soul], his phantom edging slightly away from his body, inspecting the scarecrows. And then he returned inside himself. “That’s a lot…” he muttered.

Swishy stared up at Trey for approval. “I had no choice. Besides, they seem okay. They’re taking everything in stride.”

“That’s one way to put it, Swish. Well, what’s done is done.”

The straw boy shrank from his friend, feeling he hadn’t done good enough.

Trey patted him on the shoulder. “Hey! That rake! You’re packing gold again. Your heart is churning out the good stuff again.”

“I have to…Myst is acting crazy. She tried me again.”

“Didn’t she already take one heart?”

“She wants to try other hearts. She thinks she can try all the flavors like at RYE AND WISDOM.”

Trey gazed at the flickering sky, the slate darkening to charcoal, and the charcoal lightening back into slate. The pattern of Myst’s madness was all-encompassing. He opened his mouth to say something but decided against it.

“Yeah, that’s smart,” Swishy said. “We don’t really have a plan if she decides to turn against us.”

“Everybody acts like they’re so heartless around here. And maybe they are, but who told them to act this crazy? What do they think they’re missing out on? Was having a heart so important to them before you got here?”

“The way I feel after losing hearts, I know that hearts are irreplaceable—even though I replace them.”

“What a world. Maybe none of us deserve to have anything at all.”

“Do you believe that, Trey?”

“No, I don’t. I’m just frustrated.”

“Okay.”

The boys found themselves in sudden shade. They turned around and realized it was Sling. She smiled at the pair and then stepped directly over them to address the villagers. Everyone eyed her with awe and excitement—they still had plenty for her even after the attention they’d lavished upon their god.

“Sling, lovely to see you, our Chief.”

“Yes, I feel the same way,” Sling was playing morphing a spell in her hands—Swishy couldn’t see the letters and was attracted to the blueish glow. He realized that this was always the impression he had of her. She continued her passive spell craft, a mysticism of softness and support. The mummycrow’s totem pole of a body emitted blue energy, her outer edges set soulfully aflame.

But the villagers’ attention quickly diverted to her belt. The children hung in their mummified cocoons, sheltered as could be. Swishy chuckled as their feet bulged and kicked. Their muffled protests were adorable but Sling just patted their bodies, [Nurture] taps that calmed them down.

“You’re a walking drug,” one scarecrow said. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s the right way to parent!”

The surrounding ones laughed, and Sling did too—though she cut herself short, refocusing on her gathered aura.

“You’ve brought our kids. Let us see them.” The scarecrows stepped up to the mummified children, reaching for Sling’s belt of kids.

Sling straightened her posture enough to draw the children out of reach. “Not yet, my friends, you require treatment.”

“But we’re fine! And our children are scared. They need us! We only want to hug them.”

But the children didn’t want to hug them back. They quivered as cross-shaped mummies, unable to see what had become of the storm or their parents. Only Amie seemed relatively calm and unmoving, her whole cast moving from the heaviest sigh. But aside from that, Amie was properly at rest, the purple ribbon fashioned into a flower petal bow, decorating her chest as a fabric-like broach.

But when the blackcrows stepped forward again, Sling barred them with her javelin of an arm. “Now, now, please settle down. You just received new bodies. Different ones. Please, I beg of you all, [Acclimate].”

Strips of bandages lifted from her shoulders in strips, floating upward.

Each talisman carried was inked in [Acclimate], [Adapt], and [Assimilate] words flew from Sling’s body, the talismans sealing to the blackcrow’s foreheads. A blue vapor rose from the paper charms, Sling’s soul-infused magic.

The villagers calmed, relaxing into compliance.

“You’re good at that,” Swishy said. “Why do yours say food, like creamsicles and stuff like that?”

“I can’t pretend to know everyone’s favorite things, so I just settle for leading people to calmness.”

“Very cool,” Trey chimed in. “Harmony is your talent.”

“Crowd control is nothing new to me. Not in this chaotic world.” As she moved her fingers, directing the paper slips, infusing them with soul, she then expanded them. The forehead bandages lengthened unto themselves and layered around their entire faces and necks. Other slips floated and detached from Sling’s body, gravitating toward the villager’s blackwheat limbs. Upon contact with the dark straw, the bandages wrapped around the area in question multiple times, soothing the curses like a balm.

“How are you feeling?” She asked the villagers, now a horde of mummies, wrapped in all their blackwheat places. Their curses hummed in self-satisfaction, comfortably nesting. Even Sling’s wrath-babies were woozy from the negativity seal.

Great! Good! Perfect! Rich—like a mummified pharaoh.

“Perfect. Now let me babysit the children. You trust me, don’t you.”

Always! Their jubilance was palpable, and, most importantly, single-voiced.

Relief.

Joy.

And darkness.

The skies bulged with a strange silhouette, a horribly massive one.

The mass shadow approached in the village’s direction, ominous and powerful. Swishy knew it wasn’t simple weather, not with the way the silhouette was shaped, spiky and jagged and distinctly non-cloud-like. There was death up there, but its form was uncertain.

The trio—Swishy, Sling, and Trey—were all worried. Their bodies trembled. Their souls trembled. And their hearts quivered from their total quaking.

“Uuuh, we have a problem, don’t we?” Trey stared with an open mouth toward the sky.

Sling breathed in, breathed out, hoping all her inhabitants—the kid-crows, the wrath babies, and backpack Bristles—wouldn’t feel her.

Swishy gripped his rake as tight as possible, infecting his golden handle with stray tendrils of blackwheat. He allowed this, granting himself permission to feel the moment.

“No…” he said.

A giant scarecrow. A flighted one. The behemoth drifted over their lives like Straw City’s former blimp. No wings, no mechanics. Streams of darkness boosted it from its underside. The arms were outstretched, the legs were nonexistent, and the stake that served as its spine was severed at the base—torn from the ground in which it was set.

[Straw Guardian], its harvested remains, dark and vicious. The blackwheat husk was torn, devastated, yet somehow alive.

As it drew closer, Swishy sorrowed, the light draining from his rake. His once proud guardian had now become a hive of curses. Thousands upon thousands of dark entities crawled over each other.

“STRAW TEARS” proclaimed the hive’s many, many voices.

From the [Straw Guardian], the needles rained down.