EYES ON THE PRIZE, EYES ON EVERYTHING—grand notions that Swishy found daunting but empowering.

The Swish-minis were five in number, a small squad teeming with firelight glow, weak individually and weak together as well—but their light was the start of something great. They could feel it. It’d been quite a while since they had this much gold to work with.

Because the prize comprised all that his eyes could see, he experienced the reservations he sensed in the others. The jackpot was expansive, wondrous, and intimating. And he for once wanted the world. There was something outside his autonomy that he needed to possess. And the ambition felt like rake teeth dragged against his insides. The drive was so unlike him. Yet he steadied himself as all change pained him in some way. Accepting that he had to fight toward an end was no different.

Ambition scared him—because failure was on the other end of the coin, that great destroyer of spirits and will. But he had to absorb the risks. The night buzzed as a cavernous hive of shadows. Even the stars acquired a bladed glimmer.

This was the place where the boy chose to change with his magic, to turn its shadows benign. This, he knew, was going to be difficult.

Chin up! Or chins up I should say…

The Swish-minis fluttered as a troupe beneath the cover of the forest canopies. Despite their unity, they were still the tiniest creatures by a long shot. The ant trails along the branches looked to them like herds of insanely strong horses. The dirt rocks and leaves carried by them were anvils to the gold-straw fairies. As the boys drifted along, they watched a ladybug take flight, its dotted wings mesmerizing them. The insect’s joyous reds brightened across their vision when stricken by the fairy light.

One of the Goldies reached out to touch it and the ladybug whipped around toward it, frightening the boy. But the energy was calm. It offered its head and received soft pats from all five Swish-minis. The bug’s compound eyes were so squishy looking, so large, and so kind.

That’s how we should be too. All those eye thingies. We need to be a lot of eyes, a lot of watching my back.

The Swish-minis moved onward, patrolling in different directions. All sides were covered—at least that was the plan. They wanted to use their gold in a way that wouldn’t get them eaten but struggled to keep their heads together. Fear obstructed their minds from working right but they cobbled together enough composure for a bare bones plan: find Trey—his soul at least, find a way to un-do the D-E-A-T-H in the air, and find Ruby.

Each Swish-mini gulped. The straw around their necks rose and prickled. But it was better than turning to blackwheat. He wouldn’t allow that to happen anymore.

Power oozed from him, though in his miniature form he felt far more potent than he actually was. With him, healing would begin.

Sling clearing the nearest portals was inspiring and Swishy needed to method to support that. The boy liked the idea of a community garden, but bigger. Cleansing, beautifying—he’d do the Ruby thing in the Swishy kind of way. Out with the dark and in with the gold.

But the dark fought back with unthinking aggression. One of the troupe members was caught unawares and drawn powerfully by the force of a hidden node. The floating portal was on the other side of the leaves they’d passed, and as the current sucked the Swish-mini in the other four grabbed hold, pulling faster, pulling hard. After a stressful two seconds that felt like twenty minutes, they muscled their doll out of the force.

They were shaken, though. More aware, more wary, more sensitive.

Another downside to splitting Swishy’s consciousness between multiple dolls: less resistance to the darkness. The raw strength of the gravity hadn’t increased but Swishy’s control and sturdiness over his dolls reduced. They moved even slower now, ever more cautious of the slog of portals, of aerial quicksand. It was so easy to be trapped, so easy to be lost. Five Swish-minis, five moments of fluttering in place as he practiced synchronized wing movements, arm reaches, leg kicks, maneuvers that made him confident over his control of himself.

I don’t have time to practice but I guess this’ll have to do.

Then he was off, opting to face the magnetic dark head-on.

As he flew around the woods, Swishy ruminated on what made a good God. The only way out of his current situation was to become a god, and the first quality that came to mind was taking care of everyone. Being successful at it too. Miracles were what was needed, especially if he were to overcome the Cearth.

In his version of the world, the pink snow paradise that the Straw Village had reveled in—he needed those exact feelings for his reign when the time came. It fueled him. It propelled him. And it stoked his memories of his very first magic word, one that pre-dated his time in the altar’s shadowdeep.

CURIOSITY crackled through him amid his fully dark body. Even with his consciousness focused beyond his original self, they were still guided by that bustling intent that his dormant body stored. And the Swish-minis were charged with carrying out that will, to turn curiosity into a discovery, into something that the main Swishy could use.

Those nine luminous letters lit through him. It was the only light he knew.

Everyone had given them so much. Now he would give them a world.

The Swish-minis approached the everytrees and their wood splintered open into a mass of smiling faces, welcoming and sadistic all at once. Gaping maws noticed them, all of them large enough to disappear their souls forever. Bravery was hard to come by in Goldie form—the world was against you, an insect, a passing insignificance. The tree’s expressions made Swishy feel like he was about to get attacked. He told himself to stay his fear. He’d been inside the trees already and it wasn’t a good time. But he’d gone through those trunk hollows nonetheless, chased by curses. On the other side, he’d managed to be whole.

The fog orbs of the everytrees descended upon them, giant masses of foreboding. Separate orbs were fixed to the branches like chaotic planets. Each boy, though dolls, felt the chill. Fear of the dark bonded and isolated them.

But they’d survived before. It took a lot of reminders to make the notion stick. Before the paralytic terror took hold, the entire squad reached their hands out.

And the orbs reacted.

The everytrees whose fruit transformed into the black versions of raspberries, blueberries, and all the berries that Sling had introduced him to through the bandage wraps. Swishy was especially easy for the shadows to read now that he carried the fresh memory of his recent Sling-styled meal. Even the smallest fruits were several times his size. But instead the darkness of the fruit skins had gained a light—Swishy’s light. From the point of contact, the boy’s soul stretched outward, bleaching away the blackness in favor of the fruit’s natural color—the dark reds of the raspberries and the cerulean tones of the blueberries.

There was yet another progression too. The colors changed one more time, brightening into gold. The fruits were rich and luminous.

Each tree was gigantic, terrifying, and they paid him way too much attention for his comfort.

Yet the everytrees did the same thing they were designed to do, which was to serve the people what they wanted. They were perfect foods. Perfect butlers and maids. Ruby had outdone herself with this one. And Swishy would now outdo her.

His hands stretched out and grazed the berries. The blackness sloughed away, their cursed skins shedding in flakes as their insides revealed a golden gleam.

I did it? I…I don’t know what this is. I did it, though, that’s me, my magic.

But whatever it was, the curses seemed to like it. The shadowy woods smiled wider, softer though. The sharpened corners had rounded into a childish awe. They’d liked what Swishy had encouraged them to become.

Black fog now generated within the cracked mouths of the everytrees. The exploratory vapors flowed the same as the blues of Swishy’s gourd. They were their expressions, their feelers, their projection of their true selves to the world. Swishy related on a deep level. The everytrees were never themselves, each nucleus that hung from the tips of the branches took the form of what others wanted from them—never having in mind what the trees wished to become.

Swishy decided to be the change he wanted to see. Do the right thing—which is the hard thing. Why is it always the hard thing? Oh well.

“Do you like this?” Swishy pushed their fruit back to the tree. “Know what this is called?”

A pause. Then the mouths turned into soft ‘o’ shapes, slightly puckered. Tell us, tell us!

Child-like cadence came from the lot of them. Swishy knew he could work with this. Natural playfulness was his element. He named the fruit, just freestyling wisdom to impress his new plant friends.

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“A wishfruit.”

A wishfruit?

“Yes, a wishfruit. Cool, right?” Swishy floated to another branch cluster and the wing’s cast-off gold pollinated the everyfruits, transforming them into their prettier, lustrous forms.

There was no response from the trees, just entrancement. They were in love with their luminous selves. Swishy wished he could share in the feeling of being renewed. His time would come no doubt.

He flew up the tree in slow spirals, dusting them in gold. Once the majority of the gaseous energy was transformed into wishfruits, the attached branches began to change color. Instead of pure gold the wood turned into pale yellow that mildly glowed. Swishy sensed warmth. His soul felt it, though his body didn’t know how spirit energy flowed when influenced by coziness. The trees had become controlled campfires of soul. When Swishy reached the top, he knew he’d completed his most significant feat yet.

Wishes, wishes, there’s so many wishes! We are wishes!

“I mean, wishes are the fruit. You’re still a tree.”

Wish tree!

“Let’s go with Wishwillow.”

Wishwillow, yes!

Swishy wiped a hand across his forehead, soul-sweating from the bullet dodged. There were many crimes within the fabric of Straw City and he refused to allow tacky taste to be one of them.

“Do me a quick favor, yeah?”

I owe you straw sprites everything.

“Dramatic but sure. Spread your arms. The rubbery arms is your old life. Gold is sturdy. It’s the straw sprite way.”

The boy demonstrated his T-pose, five-fold.

And the tree’s wood creaked and cracked. The snapping sounds of the wood growth increased as the seconds went by. Those oversoft limbs returned to the standard firmness of trees, their branches stretched into a humongous golden hug.

“That’s the way!”

Feels…divine!

He transformed one tree—and then his remaining minions pollinated four others. They were within the same cluster, not too far from the village. Rarely did Swishy do something that everybody was happy about. The everytrees—now newly minted wishwillows—the curses, the animals and the insects were all pleased. He soon heard a series of rhythmic thuds. The cadence was predictable, one at a time. He thought they were a type of jump and then landing. Hop. Hop. Hop. A slow progression that sped up to hop-hop, hop-hop, and then ramped up to hop-hop-hops.

The straw-bound were visible through a gap in the woods, all of them jumping upon their stakes toward the gold. Sling was right behind them as the kid-crows rode upon her shoulders, sitting on her or gripping their arms around her neck. Because Sling was a lady, proudly graceful, her footfalls were silent.

[Sanctuary] was brewed within the bandages that floated around her head. They moved on the fly, taking Swishy’s cue to work behind him in their cleansing project. The first wishwillows were created and Sling came behind to protect the area from the undesirable darkness.

Cradled in Sling’s arms was Swishy’s main body, its blackwheat relaxing, soaking in soul light. The straw-bound proved to be good protectors. And with them staying nearby, he could protect them. He’d have faster access to his body as he forced his way deeper into Ruby’s territory—or rather, as he ascended The High Chasm, seeking that sky-piercer’s metamorphosis.

“The gold is coming for you too,” Swishy breathed. “I’ll fix you, I’ll fix everything.”

Swishy’s wish troupe pressed onward to the next everytree. The slow build of gleaming nature seemed like the right move, especially since the scarecrows were right on his heels to protect it. A plan was coming into focus, Swishy’s dreamily conceived community garden turning real.

The everytree held out its fruit, reading Swishy’s spiritual palette, serving up what the most childish version of him would like. The gaseous node turned into a black yam.

“Is that a sweet potato?”

We saw that you like pie.

“I do, yeah!”

And the yam went from black enigma to the true browns of yams, and then progressed into the golden luxury of a yam wishfruit—until a problem occurred.

Seeing the beacon of Straw City’s first wishwillows, everyone came.

(…)

Clouds disappeared, overtaken by legions of snitchtalons.

The dark letters of D-E-A-T-H deepened in color and glided toward the wishwillow. One gold presence soothed Swishy. It was Trey. His astral projected soul was near. Within the midnight tones of the environment, his contrasting light was even more incredible. And soothing. So soothing.

His wishwillow lighthouse in the night was a come-one-come-all for all the city’s monsters, curses, and avaricious people. Swishy had no way to defend himself. He backed into the treetop, meshing into the foliage. Chameleon that he was, he felt clever.

Ruby’s presence stalked the area too. There were no broom sightings. The air just felt like her. And her feathered soldiers dived from the sky, plunging into the throes of the woods. Seeing the golden wishwillow, they knew their target was near. The flock’s war cries buffeted the wish troupe with blackened gusts. The boys clung behind their wishfruit yam, desperate to make sense of the frenzy of movement and sound.

Wingbeats and caws were the language of the night.

Meanwhile, D-E-A-T-H called to Swishy. Its tone and spiritual texture seemed friendly enough, a contrast to the murderous birds. The word stretched wide with the thinnest of smoky tendrils connecting the letters. But those links spread throughout the sky and the woods and even momentarily dipped below the surface, swimming through the solid constitution of Cearth.

Kill death…what kind of quest is that? Even I know how demanding and unfair that is…

Death, death, death—Swishy needed to know it better. He had to learn how to avoid encountering it without losing himself in its mire. He chose first to pursue the letters, proactive, though he dismissed how seeking death might cause it to happen to him. But the nature of death was a clue that he couldn’t miss out on, a dangerous one.

Yet as the straw fairies shot off in separate routes, the D-E-A-T-H chain stretched its bindings, each letter autonomously gliding toward their assigned Swish-mini. Not a pursuit, just an interest. Sensing life, death considered that it maybe needed to say Hi.

The Swish-minis and the “D” word were more alike than Swishy wanted to admit. The curiosity, the inquisitiveness, and the exploration.

What one Goldie saw, they all saw. And what another thought, the other straw fairies could access. Their oneness was the easy part. But to travel alone gave all five the same fear as if there were only one of them. A lone Swish-mini was a weak Swish-mini, and as such they were prone to all the horror movie feelings—and were right to feel them.

With the first of Swishy’s straw sprites, he steered it toward a stray “D”, studying its edges, learning the enchantment. He refused to shy away from this. He wouldn’t be a repeat of the ZLAVE intent, his history lesson. There was no running away this time. He’d take on the worst that the Cearth had to offer. Through feeling, he’d find knowledge.

Swishy concentrated with his full spirit, piloting five of the Swish-minis, one for each letter of DEATH for their investigation. After they absorbed the lessons from the dark alphabet, he hid the remote bodies beneath leaves or within a hollow and rested. But gold was the hot commodity for some and the enemy for others and they drew tons of attention. Everywhere he went, he left a telltale sawdust.

Almost as soon as the first Goldie left the “A” letter, a snitchtalon swooped down and swallowed it whole. Before the boy dissolved, the previously eaten worms and grubs got to him first. Anything alive wanted gold. And that gold flowed upward to the bird’s eye. This was the one who Swishy had savaged with a quill spell. The injured snitch had gotten his revenge—and his healing.

That fifth of the scarecrow’s consciousness were split into the remaining four sprites—whose bodies now trembled.

Snitchtalons overhead were smirking, intuiting their psychology edge.

But the investigation couldn’t be stopped. Swishy focused most of his energy toward the Swish-mini that clung to the letter “D” and warily eyed the nearest snitchtalons that clicked their beaks, glaring sickles into him. They had spotted him and were hesitant about approaching, choosing to instead hover around like a menacing net. Fast flight, purposeful flight, yet always within a range. Swishy was safe within the steady aura of death. It kept the birds away while Goldie’s light warded the worst of the intent.

Black aura crushed down upon Swishy, the balloon-like “D” exerting its force, but the light barrier around his body held up. Part of it was his determination. He’d guard each Goldie as if it were his real body. The mathematical part of it was that there was more gold-straw. The village had been generous with him, and he—he’d hoped—had been generous with himself. The overpowering night signaled to him that he needed to be a true gold-straw factory if anyone would ever see the light of day again.

The boy touched the darkness, soul to soul, and learned what it had to say about death. A vision passed before his eyes of the ritualizing scarecrows, T’d and prosperous, stoking their soul blues under the crush of Cearth. Then they flaked away, burning into cinders.

Like the flashcards of his original learning, the words weren’t linguistic definitions. Swishy education was one of feelings. Inside, he was a vast library of all the ways a being could love, lose, and hurt.

“D” contained a fifth of that truth. When the birds soared toward the Goldie, finally deciding to risk a hex.

He dove into the letter itself and restrained his aura. Swishy allowed the blackness to take him until the gold-straw was snuffed. The disappearing act, the self-immolation, sent that unused focus to the last three mini-crows.

With each letter, Swishy took in the particles of death, and then he saw his friends die. It was fascinating how death could look a thousand different ways. His brief interactions with the intent gave him lasting impressions.

The “D” presented the village whirlpooling in a lake of darkness only to disappear, to melt into the stew of black ether. The “A” mocked him as the snitchtalon ate him. His little trio now clung to the last of the letters, psyching themselves up for a dive. They had to move fast. Birds were coming. Their CACAW rage breathing upon them.

E-T-H waited patiently, smiling even.

Birds busted through their respective parts of the forest, hunting the last three Swish-minis.

Then into the darkness the boys went, submitting themselves to the letters.

Then he stopped rotating his hummingbird wings. The golden dust semitting from his multiple bodies. He gave himself over to death.

The “E” showed him the E-squad coincidentally, taking him inside the inner chasm that tore the paper silhouettes to ribbons.

“T” was for Trey. There was no gory dream vision associated with memories of his friend—only the actual memory of him being subsumed by Ruby’s shadows moments ago. The clearest thing to Swishy was that death was an important boundary, it was a realm that Trey said he didn’t want to cross into. Trey had said No. No was enough. Death would have to move on elsewhere.

“H” was hot. “H” showed Hell. The city burned and burned and burned, its creatures and feathers and things of beauty. The flames were black. Cearth had a running theme that it was faithful to. The darkness of death. The soul repositioning. The full loss of autonomy and personality when it came to giving yourself over to the other side. That shadowed side. Swishy knew the feeling—he fought it constantly, never knowing if he were winning or losing.

The dark letters grew dense on the inside, shrouding him. As his straw sprites crushed into atoms, their last sights were the jeering expressions of the snitchtalons—

Along with a glimpse of Ruby, her true body, placing a hand on the wishwillow.

A golden glitter stained her hands, then burned away into black vapor.

Once again, the boy got a front row seat to demise—three times over.