FLUX—THAT ABOUT SUMMED IT UP.
The scarecrow entered the portal and the environment just about melted—the sky, the ground, the living beings. A transitional darkness set in, something of a waiting room. The sudden stillness struck him as an interlude to life. He knew stimuli were coming but for now, he enjoyed lingering in the altar of an exit.
And then came the turbulence, the spirit-disturbing force of metamorphosis. Exiting the wrathraven nest left Swishy with a parting gift of stress. The fractured realm forced him and his entourage outward. Though he couldn’t see Trey and Straw Guardian, he faintly heard their voices, their rustling. But roaring and gurgling sounds commenced. The environment constricted around him in a squeezing sensation. With the realm collapsing upon him, he now occupied a world of one. Him, the apparent binding around him, and the overwhelming pressure against his soul.
Everything must go, communicated the nest, and Swishy felt pushed between a tube of muscle.
The sheer disgust of how he was moved along wasn’t lost on him. The curses that constructed the exit were writhing, slithering, pressing themselves against Swishy as he pushed through their wretchedness.
A feeling of a smirk grazed Swishy, a mischievous curse in passing. The wrathraven nest, though dying, hadn’t altogether abandoned its wrathraven traits, its unapologetic leeriness.
There were more smirks in the ‘tube’ walls, more evil grins.
Swishy got chills from those interactions but moved along. After all that he’d been through, it became easier to endure the predatory attention. But he could never, never fully put these instances out of his mind. He took it all to heart—and he was meant to—because nature, Cearth, liked to loudly state its aliveness. Curses were its blood and air, its favorite unit of being. Concentrated will, concentrated feeling, and concentrated intent.
Swishy respected that. He’d struggled his whole (short) life to do the same. But when Cearth imposed upon him, Swishy felt small. It’s okay to be small, he coached himself. The best things come in mini-mini packages.
The image of his ladybug friend drifted through his mind—he couldn’t wait to visit as a Goldie again.
But the cursed mouths now cackled, a screaming tunnel of jump-scares. The curses were small, too, and Swishy only wished they could live beyond the wants they represented.
If only kindness were louder—Swishy supposed that would be his project once he got out, once he’d confronted whatever the outside had for him.
Would the world he’d plotted on creating one that Cearth would endorse? That remained to be seen.
Easier said than done. Easier dreamed than executed.
And so Swishy held his breath in the submersed feeling of his realm exit, waiting for the outside world to allow his spirit breath again.
The moments were long, the moments were confusing, and these moments were things that Swishy made peace with.
But then he stopped moving. He even stopped feeling the spiritual friction of curses around his body. Though he traveled between realms, he couldn’t shake the sensation that he wasn’t traveling at all.
Boom!
A sudden inertia slammed into Swishy’s back—once, then several more times. The constant thumping continued with a predictable rhythm, a smack-smack-smacking like what he’d seen done to choke rescuees. Swishy flapped, hoping to outpace the waves of blunt force—to no avail. His propulsion stolen from him, he was stuck.
“Is the portal broken? Is the world still there? Is this…my new home?”
Silence.
No wind, no senses, no inertia.
He wasn’t buoyant like a sea-dweller or gently shifting like a bird.
Swishy was suspended with no stimuli other than the devils of his mind. Blackwheat feelings spilled from his heart, spreading in thick slime to every edge of his body.
“Come on portal, take me home!”
The terror spread.
“Please, I just got my wings!”
More terror, more soul-dwindling poison.
“I won, now let me go!”
But ensnarement was his prize.
“Please, one more shot at Ruby!”
He thrashed, he flapped, he screamed—but it didn’t do any good.
Fortunately, though, the boy’s release was upon him. There was movement again, a gentle current pushing him forth. Beneath his feet, a shadow conveyor pulled him along. The glitch in the nest was over now.
“I guess I needed the reminder…”
The world came to him in spurts, introducing its elements one at a time. Shadows first, then colors, then textures. Suddenly, he felt like he was floating around in globs of paint. He got the sense that the outside was deciding what to show him. Nature dressed itself in a hurry as Swishy knocked on its door, asking to hang out.
Swishy waited for the type of world he was going to be sent into. There should’ve been a friendly realm on the end of the door. A Cearth that was welcoming and smiling.
Then he thought of the friends he had with him and turned around, but his vision was obscured. A brief shock rolled through him. He braced himself.
“Trey!” He yelled.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Just checking.”
“I won’t disappear on you!”
“Thanks, Trey!”
“It’s scary, though, huh?”
“If you were scared, Trey, you should’ve told me that first before I called out to you. I can comfort you. My straw is soft!”
“You’ve learned how to be a little jerk. I wonder where you got that from.”
“I wonder…”
Shared laughter steadied the scarecrow. Unity made this a whole lot easier. Before Swishy knew it, the edges of his periphery smoothed out, and that effect carried toward the center of his vision.
A frame of shadows appeared—it was a door, a proper door.
The scarecrow was drawn closer and closer. Then closer.
Then he was right at the edge.
Past that boundary—whoosh—a sudden wind catapulted him beyond the shadow frame.
(…)
ORANGE, RED, AND HONEY—these were the colors that fuzzed Swishy's vision as he exploded into the world.
A glimpse of the land revealed the warm tapestry of fall colors, Swishy’s chosen element.
Only two seconds back into the world and he already couldn’t wait to drown in autumn. The air somehow felt delicious. Each wind triggered the flavors of Swishy’s favorite foods, and each breath tasted to his soul like sweet potato pie, nutmeg, and cinnamon. His cross-crossed senses were blitzed with pleasure, and he spread his arms in full-bodied acceptance of this euphoric recalibration to the outside.
He couldn’t tell the exact time of day but assumed somewhere between midnight and dawn. The skies were still dark yet there was an umbral softness. Sky-blues were starting to appear in patches. Straw City had a sun, just not yet, just far, far away. For now, the night had to run its course.
The boy knew that dawn would come through his power.
But for now Swishy was rocketed into the real Straw City, shooting straight into a thicket of clouds. He tumbled along at high speed but quickly brought his momentum under control with his wings. His gold wing steadied him while the black urged him forward.
He flapped his wings; he flapped his arms; he lived life with his whole entire chest.
As Swishy flew, he mimicked the slow rotations of a globe. Nothing but blue energy flowed from his body. For that brief moment of being exiled from the doom nest, Swishy became all spirit. His return to the playful energy that he’d known from the very beginning was entirely refreshing.
His hopes were the most powerful thing there was. Those same hopes were diverted to his friends that he waited to come right behind him. So far, the portal was devoid of activity. Swishy turned toward the cracked door of the wrathraven nest, his business with it not yet completed.
“Give me my luggage!” Swishy shouted.
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And so the nest provided.
He heard Trey screaming, swallowing in so much air. Swishy was afraid that he’d turn into a balloon, that he’d come as close to popping as a human being could. By the time Trey emerged from the portal, he was lifeless. His unconscious body flipped through the air like a tossed starfish—but was caught by the Straw Guardian’s lasso-ing vines.
Straw Guardian was always looking out. On its end, it was graceful, too large to be catapulted. The giant scarecrow returned to life with its full due of dignity.
All along the collosus were its accouterments of opened birdcages around its neck and wrists and cape lapels. The wrathraven eggs were recessed into its waist as belt charms or set into its knuckles like beautiful rings. Feathers were draped upon it like expensive clothing, a headband, a cape, and a vest. When the Straw Guardian broke into the world, Swishy was jaw-dropped by the stunning richness of its colors. The boy had seen the guardian in the dark, in the blinding golden skies, but the deep autumn was its true element.
It flapped once every other second, floating effortlessly upon its massive wings.
In the blue sky, the wrathraven eggs gleamed upon its body like jewels. Straw Guardian appeared as a world landmark for raiders to pillage.
The colossus dangled Trey from its vine like a pocket watch. Then he brought the ragdoll Trey up to its face and shook his head, a lumbering motion of embarrassment.
Trey, the blue soul, appeared right beside Swishy.
“Whoa, Trey! When did you use your spell?
“Soon as I saw the light of day. If I can be a soul, then why would I subject myself to all that nausea?”
“Nausea? That must be another human thing.”
“It is, and it sucks. Now be right back.”
Blue Trey turned into a stream of vapor and flowed into his vine-wrapped body. But when he reawakened, he held his head over the guardian’s grasp and vomited his life away.
“Nausea…” Swishy thoughtfully whispered. “Please keep that flashcard. It’s not for me.”
Trey, head hanging in disgrace, offered the boy a thumbs-up.
From within the gaps in straw, Swishy noticed the stowaways: the snitchtalons, the live ones that’d entered the nest with them. The black birds peered around in disbelief. Some of those flock also coughed and gagged. Others were dizzied, their heads swaying for a moment. Then they collected themselves, flying from bird to bird, checking on each other, patting their heads and backs with their wings.
The tenderness was unbecoming of those birds but Swishy was glad they’d had that in them. He loved that they were alive.
“You made it!” Swishy called.
We thought you were sending us to our deaths!
“I’d never do that…”
The split-up-and-plant-gold-straw plan seemed like one of those moments to us!
“Now to be fair, the death chased us. If the danger is already there, then it doesn’t count.
Jackass.
Swishy shrugged.
It’s okay. It worked out in the end. When Bristles went wild, we stopped getting chased. Between you and him, we were practically home free…except for the roving through darkness part.
“Yes, still favorable, but still scary.”
And when you guys were breaking, we just snuck through once the wrathravens started shrinking. Even now they could kill us but we lucked out.
“You mean because Bristles stayed behind?”
He did, yeah…doing whatever. Maybe he’s laying under a planted wishwillow, achieving peace.
“That’s good! It’s untrue but let’s go with that for our peace of mind.”
Yes, the birds decided.
“I have a question.”
Ask it, you’re never shy anyway.
“Did you meet your…cousins? You know, the blue ones?”
Didn’t meet them but watched them be cool. May they rest—or come back whenever this idiot decides. Then the flock perched upon stomach-sick Trey for fun.
“You okay, Trey?” Swishy put a hand on his forehead.
Trey lifted his head, smiled, then waved Swishy off. “I’ll just be a sec.”
For good measure, Swishy patted his head one more time.
(…)
With that, Swishy resumed his business, scoping out the state of the city.
Straw City was laid out in three sections: the township that the zeppelin had crashed upon, The Curseworks-turned-woods that Swishy had planted the first wishwillows upon, and Ruby’s High Chasm that spread outward with its sprawling roots.
While the original township was doused in blackness, in the marked path of the [Midnight] curses, the Curseworks provided most of the reds and oranges. There were wishwillows and everytrees in equal measure. Swishy wondered how that happened when he’d only planted several of them. Where did the gold multiplication come from?
The High Chasm, of course, was all dark with two gleaming towers on its higher reaches, the stolen wishwillows no doubt. It concerned Swishy that Ruby had successfully planted the colonized goods.
This small success of Ruby’s made him worried.
He’d expected to come into a world where Ruby and Myst were still scrapping. Their levels of shadow craft shouldn’t have allowed either one to fold easily or quickly. Yet there was no sign of continued battle. There was only aftermath, another ecosystem makeover.
A steady energy streamed through the surrounding air that picked a consistent pathway, arched overhead. It was an invisible dome, a ceiling.
A limit to the world that was physical while pretending not to be.
Another postcard, a gorgeous cage, an insidious sandbox of picture-perfect pleasures.
But where was Myst? Ruby? Where were the wrathravens that followed Ruby around? Everything that was animal about the realm was suddenly gone. That’s when Swishy started to get the too-quiet feeling that stirred through his blackwheat, but he resisted it. He was back, he was flying, and he knew that he could sort these things out sooner than he normally could.
For now, though, he decided to catch a glimpse of home. He flew up to Trey—who now was standing on the guardian’s shoulder. Trey was also peering around, making his curious observations.
“Where do you think Sling and the villagers are?”
“I think they’re definitely hiding. I mean…I would.”
The scarecrow started to glow, wanting to feel them, but when he tried to peer into the soulscape a blanket of curses obstructed him.
There was the evidence of Ruby, of the wrathravens, a familiar [Hush] spell that kept the surface mutely in check.
“I can’t see what you see but you can’t find them, Swish? How come? Thick pollution?”
“Yeah…”
“Are you going down there?”
“I might. I want to find the others.”
“Hmm…” Trey seemed distracted. He was concentrating on something. Swishy watched the Clayborne’s soul currents redirect toward his heart, swirling and swirling.
“What about you? You seem like you’re working on something.”
“Znitches!” Trey called, raising his hands in the air—but nothing.
Some of the snitchtalons were settled around the guardian’s body, briefly hopeful in Trey, but then disappointed when the blue birds failed to conjure.
“Do you think they ever come back?” Swishy asked.
“I don’t know. I know they were in my soul and that maybe they aren’t now. But it was a spell, something I did. That can’t be the end of it.”
“Mmm, yeah, maybe they’re just sleeping.”
“Eternally,” Trey groaned.
Hey! The snitchtalons warned.
“Sorry,” Trey said to the birds, then turned back to Swishy. “Let’s head down together. No sense going it alone.”
“I can just fly myself,” something Swishy was proud to say.
“No, let’s just ride big homie over here.”
As the boys stood upon the guardian’s shoulders, they stumbled from its shifting arm. It’d offered its own thumbs-up of coiled vines.
“Okay, friend-giant, let’s go then.”
And so the guardian flew down into the woods, that mysterious labyrinth of red-orange-honey. The tree trunks, the roots, and the foliage were all interchangeably these colors. Sometimes, depending on the angle of the light, they appeared to strobe and change.
When they came upon the treetops, Swishy wondered if this was purely a [Postcard] creation. It was easy for him to assume that the world belonged to Ruby, that hers’ was the sole influence. But the environmental energy felt different to him. Even when they brushed past the red and orange trees, the branches began to bear golden fruit. The wishwillow trait wasn’t lost on the boys, who quizzically looked at each other.
Swishy used his rake to stab through a fruit as they passed, while Trey just used his swift reach for his own. They held their fruits to each other, a lustrous show-and-tell.
The scarecrow held a golden apple, and the Clayborne, a miniaturized pumpkin.
Swishy frowned at his head-shaped treat. “The wishwillows don’t lie. You really are trying to eat me.”
“I don’t think pumpkins are the same as scarecrows.”
“They’re the same enough.”
“Whatever, still delicious.” Trey feigned taking a bite.
Swishy bopped him on the head with his apple.
Trey, annoyed, bit into the pumpkin rind for real—and his eyes widened at the edible rind, no give at all.
“Criminal!” Swishy pointed with his rake with drama, the pronged apple still stuck to the end.
“I didn’t mean it!”
“But you did it!”
Then Trey took another bite.
Another scarecrow gasped.
“I’m sorry, bro, but this shit is delicious.”
“Whatever, finish it you heathen.”
Trey did.
Swishy brought the rake tines up to his mouth, staring at his apple prize. The Straw Guardian hovered through the woods and an array of golden apples bloomed within each tree they passed. He felt personally greeted by the trees, their familiar spirits.
“Do you think I grew these?”
“I’d say anything’s possible. The town was after you for a reason…that exact reason you stated.”
“Hmm…”
It was just hard to believe that the [Hush] intent had corrupted the grounds to the extent that it had. When Swishy was in the sky he saw it upon every millimeter of surface. There were no pores, just a gapless skin of darkness that hid him from his loved ones, and his loved ones from each other.
Yet now that Swishy was ground-level, the cursed hush was undetectable. He and Trey were having a decent time, the Ruby circumstances notwithstanding.
“Where did the darkness go?” Swishy said to himself but Trey had a response for him.
“I see you’re confused. I thought you were all-seeing. What happened, my guy?”
“I…I think the shadows are hiding?”
“Nope, just look a little farther.”
Swishy gazed beyond the space of fruit-offering wishwillows and flame-colored forestry to the edges of the Straw Guardian’s great aura, the colossal brightness warding off the darkness. They traveled within their personal dome of spirit, a shield that evaporated all corruption that came too close.
The boy knew that he’d gotten strong, that he’d produced a being that was formidable as well but hadn’t experienced the benefit of an aura quite like this.
Swishy flexed his biceps.
“Yup, that straw is built tough.”
“If it wasn’t, I don’t know what we’d do.”
“Yeah…”
Straw Guardian carried them through the forest in their bubble of light. Now that the corruption’s presence was clear to them, it appeared scarier than ever. While the dark flames couldn’t penetrate their space, their actions beyond the guardian’s aura were nebulous at best. The shadowed walls were far, far away, but they were there. Nothing could be seen in those dark midsts.
Swishy hoped that his followers weren’t somewhere out there. He thought of Sling, the Straw-bound, the kid-crows. He even thought of the remaining shadowclaws that somehow managed to keep their bodies.
Even his little ladybug friend came into his head.
There was so much that could be lost, that needed rescue.
Myst, what about Myst. Was this the type of darkness that she could endure? His blackwheat rippled beneath the surface of his current skin, tugging at his brown hay, requesting to change places.
The boy tried to glow, to spread his soul outward for the Straw-bound to find through their emblems.
Surely the prayers, the wishes, hadn’t stopped.
But once his soul ebbed toward the collected darkness, it couldn’t melt the shadows away. The curses were staunch, unrelenting, uncompromising. Within the murkiness, a carbonated sizzling issued, that familiar sound of the curses rejecting him.
“I think we’re in for a time…” Swishy sighed.
“I think it’s been like that for weeks now. What’s new?”
But thankfully that rhetorical question was answered in a positive, hopeful way.
The Straw Guardian paused, pivoted around, and then the wheat upon his other shoulder started to glow. He turned in that direction and pressed onward.
Straw Village was only several meters away, the guardian wheat blinking rapidly like a radar. Past the trees of red and orange, the flames of autumn, lay a clearing dominated by a trunk that tripled the size of the others. A golden wishwillow with multiple hollows all along its base—doors. There were even windows carved near the top of the arches. The Straw-bound kept it cute, especially when it came to their homes.
The giant scarecrow held its hand to his forehead and the boys stepped onto the platform and were deposited to the ground.
Swishy and Trey looked in wonder at the renewed, somehow-not-destroyed village.
“These guys really turned a tree into an apartment? It’s cute as hell, not gonna lie.”
The boy was stunned, amazed, and terrified. This happened to him a lot, the influx of terror when faced with that which he most wanted to protect. His responsibility gripped at his heart, both the solid core and his chasm alike.
“I love this,” Swishy said.
“We love it too,” Sling said, walking out of her doorway, which was slightly taller—but there was a descending stairway inside that contained her height. “Welcome home, little Swishy. But you can’t stay here long. There’s you have much to do.”
“I do, huh?”
“Yes, you have no idea, my dear.”