Fey-trees

It was only later that afternoon, when Runt saw his first hopper, that he understood the reason for the two heads. This time he saw the creature, the hopper, across the other side of a clearing. Balancing on its tail and the tips of its toes, it stood nearly ten feet tall, and used its long arms to grab branches from above its head. Runt watched in fascination as a second head popped out of the belly of this creature, just like the mammoth, and he nearly clapped with joy when he saw the baby hopper emerge completely.

“A pouch!” he whispered to Stripes, excitedly. “They have a pouch. They somehow keep their baby in a little bag on their tummy. How clever.” He looked down at his own tummy and poked it disappointedly.

The hopper’s ears pricked up at some unexpected sound and it turned to leave. The baby promptly clambered back into the pouch and they both disappeared into the scrub.

The clearing itself now drew Runt’s attention. It was roughly circular and approximately a hundred yards across. Runt realised with a jolt that the clearing was not natural. Something had cleared it. The remains of many trees were scattered across the clearing, knocked down and busted up into piles. Each of the piles was a similar size, circular, and shaped like a cup. They reminded Runt of a bird’s nest but, if that was true, the birds must be giant. The piles were enormous.

A single, magnificent tree stood at the centre of the clearing. Runt knew at once that he had found his first fey-tree. He stumbled towards it, almost in a trance, eyes goggling and mouth agape.

A shock of bright green glossy leaves covered the tree from top to bottom. It stood at least half as tall again as any other tree in the nearby scrub. Branches as thick as the trunk of a normal tree stretched out horizontally at regular intervals seemingly in defiance of gravity. The main trunk, itself, was enormous. Thick roots snaked out over the ground in all directions like twisted fingers clawing at the earth. The tree loomed over everything.

Size alone, though, is not what caused Runt to wander forwards as if hypnotised. It was a fey-tree, and he now knew why they earned that name. The tree was cursed.

Here and there, up the trunk and along the branches, huge chunks had been gouged out of the tree, as if a giant creature wandered into the clearing, crouched down, and chomped bite after bite in random places along the wood. Runt estimated the largest holes to be three feet around, and nearly a foot deep – literally big enough for him to climb inside and huddle in comfortably. These wounds in the tree bled freely. Dark sap oozed from the cavities and trickled down the trunk like bloody mouths. Walking closer, Runt saw pale grey boulders piled in regular intervals around at the very base of the tree, in the gaps amongst the snaking roots.

Runt didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t believe in magic. But there was something ghostly and magical about these trees. An ancient power. Something dangerous but exciting. The tree almost seemed to be trying to tell him something. Runt stumbled forwards.

Stripes began to growl. The dog was looking back where they came from. Runt heard it, then. The crashing of scrub. Wild beasts about to barge through into the clearing? But then, the worst sound of all. Human voices. Tyron’s voice. They had come for him.

Runt was only a few yards from the nearest cup-shaped pile of branches. Without a second thought he clambered up, over, and tumbled into the centre of the “nest”. Stripes leaped over in a single bound. They both lay down in the shadows of the hollowed middle, quiet and still.

“His trail definitely comes this way, no mistake. We’ll have him before the days out.” Runt wasn’t sure who this voice belonged to, but the reply was definitely Tyron.

“Yeah?” The boss really was a man of few words.

“Oh, great! Where now? The trail ends at this clearing. We can’t stay out here all day after the night we’ve had, you know?” A third voice.

“He’d be hungry. Food up ahead.”

“In the tree? Well, I don’t see him there. This is hopeless. We should’ve brought a dog to track him properly.”

“Nah. All injured.”

“And what’s the point of all this, anyway? He’s just a midget kid with a bad haircut. Who cares if he saw us running booze? It’s not like he knows about us taking it to the quarry to keep the slaves happy.”

This caused the other man to snort, and Tyron to frown. Runt stifled a gasp. Nobody spoke about a quarry back in Demonia. Or slaves. The only slave Runt knew about was himself.

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“You talk too much, Jethro.” Tyron growled.

“Yeah well you don’t talk enough. Me and Darren wanna know what the big deal about this kid is. Gunther was practically frothing about the whole thing last night. All the way down to the port, up to the quarry, and back home again. He told me I’d get paid double if we brought him back. Dead or alive, he said. Dead or alive. A kid!”

Runt found that, if he sat in just the right spot, he could see out the gaps in the sides of the nest. Across, at the edge of the clearing, he saw Tyron with two of the men from the night before. The taller one talking was Jethro. The shorter one must be Darren. They were, all of them, red faced and sweating profusely. The trio began walking towards the fey-tree. The direction they took was going to bring them within a few yards of Runt’s hiding place. His heart began to pound, wondering, if he could see out, could they see in? Fortunately, they seemed more interested in studying the tree.

“What do you reckon makes those marks on the tree, hey? They’re huge!” Darren said.

“Some kind of wild animal, I reckon.” Jethro replied. “The same thing that makes these nests. I bet there’s eggs in them, big enough to feed a whole family.”

“Grubs.” Tyron grunted tersely.

“What? What did you call us?” Darren asked hotly.

“Grubs. Grubs make the holes.”

Both men erupted with laughter, fell against each other, and stumbled on.

“Grubs? Imagine the size of them.” Jethro cackled. “Caterpillars as big as your bloody dogs, eh?”

“Maybe. Get a move on.” Tyron barked as he marched on towards the tree. He paused at the outer edge of the canopy. The three men had their backs to Runt, now.

“I heard the fruit is like nothing you’ve ever tasted.” Darren said. “That you can go mad once you’ve eaten it, if you can’t get any more. You gotta keep eating and eating until you burst. That’s what I heard. The taste drives you mad. We should pick some.”

“That’s nothing.” Jethro replied. “I heard there’s Gorgon statues at the base of the fey-trees, all around it, and the Captain pays a thousand gold if you bring him the head of one.”

“That’s bloody daft,” said Darren, “the Captain’s the one who says we’re not allowed out here. Why would he pay people to go where he forbid it? And, anyway, who went and made statues of a bunch of bloody monsters?”

“Gorgons turn you to stone if they look at you in the eye for long enough,” Jethro replied, “and they turn to stone when they die. As for being forbidden to come out here, well, that’s why he pays so much, isn’t it? Coz you gotta be a pair of cheeky brave lads like us. And, look! There are statues. I wonder how hard it is to get a head off?”

Jethro picked his way over the thick roots that twisted and turned across the ground until he stood before the base of the tree. Runt saw it now. Not boulders, but statues, nestled in the gaps.

“Here, gimme a hand. It’s stuck on tight.”

The man bent his leg up against the chest of the statue for leverage and strained. At the edge of his vision, Runt saw the faintest hint of movement. Something crouched along the branch directly above Jethro’s head. Something big. Almost like a giant cat. A drop-bear. The little boy gasped.

Tyron flinched almost at the exact same moment, then burst forward in a sprint. Runt had never seen the boss move that fast. Jethro continued yanking at the statue, unaware that Tyron barrelled towards him until the giant man grabbed his arm and yanked.

The creature hissed as it leaped towards the men with forelimbs extended. A long claw raked down Jethro’s torso and he cried out in pain. Tyron flung the wounded man behind him and roared in the drop-bear’s face. It crouched on all fours facing him, tensed, hissing, mouth wide open revealing horrific knife-like teeth. The bearish kennel master roared again and swung his arm, slapping it across the face. The creature’s nostrils flared. Tyron roared again, slapping it with his other arm. This time his fist connected solidly and it made a satisfying whack.

The drop-bear shook its head, hissed, and retreated a step. Tyron roared again, waved his arms, and stomped forward. It was clearly too much for a creature familiar with being the hunter, not the hunted. It turned and loped off in the other direction. Tyron stared as it fled then turned back to the wounded man. Jethro sat, hunched against the tree root, clutching the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers.

“You’ll live.” Tyron grunted, then motioned to Darren. “Help him up. We’re going.”

Darren stumbled over, more preoccupied with looking up into the branches than watching where the roots lay. Jethro cried out as he was lifted under the armpits. Darren helped him to a standing position and the wounded man stood there, swaying.

“What about the kid?” Darren muttered, frowning. “What about our money?”

“Kid’s dead,” Tyron said flatly. “Drop-bear must’ve got him. Besides, he wouldn’t last a week out here. No place for a kid.”

“You’ll say that for us? To Gunther? So we get paid? I didn’t come out here for nothing!”

Tyron shrugged and the trio departed once again. The two men staggered behind the giant bear of a man as he led them back to the farmland, and safety.

Runt looked down at Stripes who sat silently and still through the whole encounter and gave his dog an enormous hug.

“You know, boy,” he said, almost laughing, “I could have sworn the boss was looking right at us, then. Man, are we lucky!”