Forbidden fruit

Runt did not leave the nest until he found a nice sturdy, straight stick. He gave it a few practise swings and nodded. Later, he would sharpen the end to make a spear, but a stick would do for now.

The statues under the fey-tree were hideous. Runt wasn’t sure what creature they were meant to be, but every statue was the same kind. They were a bit like a person, but shorter (though still taller than Runt), rounder, and extremely hairy. Jethro called them Gorgons.

“Whoever made these statues,” Runt decided, “had a lot of spare time.”

The hair on the Gorgons was literally carved into the rock. It must have taken great skill. Runt ran his fingers over some of them. The hairs, being made of rock, were very spiky. It reminded him of brushing the kiddner’s prickles earlier that day.

The statues were all sitting with their backs resting against the tree. They had short, stumpy legs that poked out from under their large, round stomachs. Their arms were much longer, almost twice as long as their legs. The arms looked strong. The Gorgon heads were round and had pointy ears poking up on either side. It was the position of the arms, and the expression on the faces, that made the statues hideous. Every one of them appeared frozen in a scream.

Some of the Gorgons held their arms forward, with fingers hooked out like claws, their eyes frowning and their mouths open wide showing rows of vicious flat teeth. Others grimaced with fists clenched and arms in a position as if ready to strike. One had its eyes crossed, its arms twisted, and its tongue poking out sideways as if it were demented. Each pose and facial expression was different but they were all clearly intended to be scary.

“But who, or what, is it meant to scare?” Runt wondered, “And why? Something to do with the drop-bears, perhaps?”

It was an interesting idea. He thought back to how Tyron had stood, and roared, and loomed over the drop-bear to intimidate it into fleeing.

Were these the harpies Greybeard had talked about? Runt couldn’t be sure. The old man was adamant that they flew, and had folds of skin connecting their arms and legs. These did not. But, then again, Runt was slowly discovering several of Greybeard’s stories, while holding grains of truth, also contained inaccuracies.

One thing was for sure. He wasn’t going to solve the mystery on an empty stomach. Runt eased past the statues and up the trunk. Carrying a stick while climbing wasn’t easy, but he managed. A stick, he decided, was a very useful tool out in the scrub. It could poke spider webs before they got to his face, push branches out the way, help when balancing over rocky ground and, most of all, it could keep a drop-bear out of chomping distance. Or, at the very least, he added, the drop-bear would have to eat the stick before it could eat the boy.

He paused at one of the scars and found that he could indeed fit inside one. The sap that dripped and drooled down the edges was hard and dry. Old wounds, then. Interestingly, the gouged out wood on the insides was mostly smooth, but rippled. Runt thought back to Tyron’s comment. Could grubs really do such a large amount of damage? And what happened to them?

He continued to climb. Runt could see coloured bulbs further up, along, and out. The fruit appeared to grow up high, right on the edge of the trees upper canopy, where the freshest leaves were growing. He made it to a thick, horizontal branch that was wide enough to be a footbridge. Runt balanced along it towards the edge. He was very high up and, if he was not so intent on finding fruit, Runt would have found the view to be breathtaking. Right now, though, his eyes were fixed on the fruit and his mind focused on not falling. Runt carefully stepped over a hollowed-out scar on the top of the branch and made it to the leaves.

Collecting the fruit proved to be its own challenge. They grew where the branches fanned out and thinned. Runt decided the best way to collect fruit (after he nearly tumbled and fell more than once) was to bend the thin branches back towards himself, while standing on the thicker branches. The fruit were delicious, Greybeard had not lied about that, but unlike Darren’s suggestion, Runt didn’t think they were worth going mad over. He began picking handfuls at a time and tossed them into the hollow of the scar behind him which made a handy natural basket.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Stripes, meanwhile, was busy snuffling in amongst the many nooks and crannies made by the roots that twisted over the earth. Runt threw a few berries down but the dog, after inspecting them, didn’t seem interested.

“More for me then,” Runt giggled, and lay back in the scar-basket, munching fruit until he wondered whether he might burst.

Runt was lucky. Had he simply perched near the edge of the branch and eaten handful after handful of the fruit it was quite likely he would have dropped to his death. Or, at least, fallen and broken a few bones. What he didn’t know, and hadn’t been told, was the fruit contained a chemical that made people quite sleepy when eaten in large amounts. Lying there, in the scar-basket, Runt felt his eyes grow heavy. Within seconds he was fast asleep.

Hours later Runt was buffeted awake by a storm of wind. He bolted upright, remembered where he was, and gripped onto the edges of the scar-basket. His hair whipped around his face as the tree rocked back and forth in time to the strong gusts. Then, as quickly as it began, it stopped. Runt’s thumping heartbeat slowly returned to normal. Off in the distance he heard a similar sound. It was like a breath of wind that began as a whisper, built to a screaming gust, then tapered off into silence. Runt listened closely. It happened again, this time much further off, almost too far to make out, but definitely there.

Dust began filtering down through the canopy. It shimmered and glinted in the dying light of dusk. The sun had dropped behind the mountains. Only its dull red glow, lighting up the mountain ridge, remained. The dust was all around, now, slowly meandering down to earth. Runt held out his hand and caught some. It was colourful and it smelled sweet.

“Pollen, from the tree flowers,” Runt said, “not dust at all. The wind must have knocked it out.”

Runt looked around, and gasped. At this height, he sat above the main canopy of the other trees. At this height, other fey-trees could be seen. Their shock of glossy green leaves poked a full head and shoulders above the rest of the trees. At this height, he could see that the next nearest fey-trees had done the same thing. Vast clouds of pollen surrounded each tree like a glittering haze, slowly and delicately wafting back to earth.

“The spirit of the dragon.” Runt said, thoughtfully. “It’s from the trees?”

While he watched he saw another tree burst forth with pollen, and then another. And every time the pollen burst forth it was preceded by a gust of furious wind seemingly coming from the tree itself. This continued in a curving line that followed the edge of the mountains until, despite squinting, it became too distant to view.

Runt looked from right to left along the line of fey-trees. Now that they were highlighted by clouds of pollen it was easier to make them out. Further along to the left, though, there was a break in the line. A blank spot where no pollen, or “dragon spirit”, had erupted.

“That gap is because of the road,” Runt thought, “That means the port is down there. And the quarry. And the slaves.”

Stripes stood at the base of the tree, barking up at him impatiently. It began to sink in, then. His situation. He had a dog that depended on him and no secure source of food or shelter. He was essentially an exile from the city and the safety it represented. If Gunther or Tyron saw him, well, who knows what they would do? Runt didn’t want to find out.

On the other hand, according to Tyron and Gunther, he was missing, presumed dead. He was a ghost to them, now. He was free.

“Could I survive out here, in the Wilds?” Runt wondered to himself. Stripes could probably find enough game to eat. There seemed plenty of fruit. And if he ate all the fruit on one fey-tree he could walk to the next. He decided they probably could survive. But was surviving the same as living?

What Runt really wanted was answers. Why was Gunther so intent on killing him? What was the purpose of all the booze? Where were the slaves being kept and for what purpose?

Runt made up his mind. If he had become a living ghost he would act like one. He would stay hidden in the shadows and watch, and learn the secrets his boss kept from him. Starting with the port, and the quarry, and the slaves they kept there.

“Because, maybe,” he thought, “maybe the slaves are people just like me. Maybe the people there are where I really belong.”