The odd couple

They made an odd pair, Runt and the harpy, as they travelled over the road, across the blackened and blasted clearing, and into the swampy southern Wilds. The harpy made a big deal when Runt called Stripes over. It knew about wolves, and knew about dogs, but had never seen a wolf-dog before. For his part, Stripes simply sniffed at the creature, sneezed, then decided it was alright.

They were halfway to the giant fey-tree when its pollen cloud burst forth. The harpy just shrugged and said that bringing Runt back to the tree was more important.

The harpy barely sat still the whole trip. It darted onto the pup’s head, or leaped onto Runt’s shoulder, or scampered down onto Stripes’ rump to watch his tail wag back and forth. Other times it jumped up into trees to look inside a bird’s nest before gliding back down again, or raced across the ground to stare deeply into a puddle. And, all the while, it chattered constantly as they continued on, pointing out plants, animals, boulders, and ponds.

“…and that pond, there, see that? That one grows Red Eye frogs. And other frogs, too. But I like the ones with red eyes. Do you like them, Little Guy?”

“Runt.”

“What?”

“Runt. My name’s Runt.”

“Oh?” The harpy turned to look at him closely. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. Why, what’s your name?”

“I’m a harpy, of course!”

“Yes, but what’s your name? What do I call you?”

This stumped it. The harpy looked at him as if he’d asked about its favourite flavour of rock. Or whether it preferred purple or yellow handshakes.

“I… we don’t… that’s not a thing.” it said slowly. The harpy was thinking so hard it started to frown. “I’m just a harpy…”

“Can I call you Patch, then?” Runt asked, pointing at the streak of dark fur across its left eye.

“Oh? Patch?” it said, clutching its face, then laughed. “Good one! Sure, why not? Patch!” and then it laughed again.

Runt laughed too. Patch had the kind of laugh that was infectious. It was nearly impossible not to laugh when Patch did.

“Patch?” Runt asked. “Are you a boy, or a girl?”

This time the harpy gave Runt a look as if he’d asked which road led to the moon. Or what temperature the word hello felt like.

“It’s just,” Runt continued quickly, “I noticed your pouch and wondered if you were a girl. Because I think that’s where mothers hold their babies.”

Patch looked down at its pouch as if they’d seen it for the first time.

“This? No. Babies don’t go in there. That’s so funny!” and burst out laughing again.

“So, you’re a boy, then?” Runt asked hesitantly.

“No, I’m a harpy. Or Patch. Didn’t we just talk about this?” Patch said, and stared at Runt quizzically. “You are a strange creature, Runt.”

They stood together at the edge of the lake. The tree was, once again, a riot of sound and movement. Patch looked up at Runt expectantly. Runt looked down at Patch.

“So… I can’t swim.” Runt said, almost apologetically.

“I know. Me neither. I’ll see you on the other side?” Patch said, leaping into a tree.

“No, wait. How am I meant to get across?” he asked hotly.

Patch paused, and said, “I thought your lot just walked across?”

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“I can’t walk across water!”

“Oh, no, I mean, walked across the bottom.” Patch replied, making a U-shaped dipping motion with its arm.

Runt simply shook his head. The harpy jumped back down and looked closely at Runt with a cocked head.

“Your kind are much stranger than I realised. And different to what the teacher told us.” Patch said thoughtfully. The harpy looked at Stripes for a second then seemed to come to a decision.

“Hop on again,” Patch said, “the wolf-dog can swim you over.”

“Oh, I don’t know whether Stripes could do that.” Runt protested, but the harpy had already climbed onto Stripes’ head. It began murmuring and tracing lines around the pup’s eyes, and occasionally reached into its pouch to extract and sprinkle a pinch of something that looked like the colourful pollen of the fey-trees.

“Wait, what are you doing to my dog?” Runt demanded, but it was already over.

“Just talking. Now hop on!” Patch sang, as the dog plunged into the lake. Runt leaped forwards and clung to the dog’s neck. Stripes began pumping his legs and was soon halfway across. Runt watched as the harpy continued to murmur to Stripes and was reminded of Greybeards warning, that harpies were witches that hypnotised their prey. He wondered, with a jolt, whether the harpies “talked” to other animals, like wolves, in the same way Patch was talking to Stripes. Could the harpies convince a pack of loner wolves to group together and attack a booze cart?

“Was that pollen in your pouch?” Runt asked.

Patch, delicately balanced between Stripes’ ears, looked down at its belly and pulled the furry fold of skin back a little. “We call it stardust. It comes from the mother trees.”

“You mean the fey-trees?”

“Oh? Is that what you call them? How odd. Yes, it comes from the fey-trees, and we sometimes keep a little in our pouches. To eat, you see? Or for other things. Just like how you keep the fruit in your pouch to eat.”

Stripes clambered out of the lake as Runt and Patch alighted on the broad hill at the foot of the giant fey-tree. The dog immediately shook himself dry before finding a nice spot to curl up in amongst the twisting roots of the tree. Runt saw there were no gorgon statues around the base of this tree, only piles of smashed rock here and there where statues might have been. The noise in the canopy above was intense. Looking up, Runt saw hundreds of the harpies, all playing and chattering amongst themselves.

“Come on,” Patch said, climbing up the trunk, “follow me!”

Runt’s heart began to pound. He liked Patch, Patch was friendly, but there was no guarantee the others would be. He thought back to the little harpy sprinkling pollen and whispering things to Stripes to make his dog swim over the lake. Would they use their magic on him, too? Had they already?

“Come on,” Patch repeated, “I’m going to take you to visit our Great Teacher, the eldest of harpies. They’re going to be so pleased to see you. And they’ll be so pleased with me for finding you! It’s just a little way up the trunk.”

Runt licked his lips, shrugged, and started to climb. Before he did, though, he checked his spear was tightly knotted over his shoulder and he gave Stripes one last pat, for good luck.

It was amazing this fey-tree was still alive. There were gaping wounds all over the tree. Almost no section of trunk or branch was untouched by the gouges. The tree was literally covered in scars. Sap leaked over everything. As he climbed Runt spotted some of the little glowing lights. One was just above his left hand.

There was a tiny hole in the bark. The glowing light came from there. Intrigued, Runt got closer until his eye was right next to the trunk. He could barely see inside, the hole was covered in a web that continued into the hole, but there was a tiny creature burrowed into the wood, no bigger than a caterpillar, pulsing and glowing.

Runt stared in fascination at the tiny creature. It glowed with colours that slowly changed, from red, to blue, to orange, to white, to yellow. Sometimes the colours swirled together. Other times it seemed to fade almost to black. Runt looked up to ask Patch about it and saw the harpy, well above, waving at him to follow.

A few other harpies noticed him climbing now and, one by one, their laughing, singing, and boasting quieted. Runt felt hundreds of eyes drawing to him as he struggled up onto a broad, horizontal tree limb in relative silence. He was relieved to find Patch standing there, by a hollow, leading into the main trunk. The harpy beckoned him inside.

Runt groaned as he barely managed to squeeze through. He could’ve sworn he heard a pop as his bottom eased past the gap. He fell awkwardly to the floor and looked around in amazement. The insides of the tree were carved out to form a spacious chamber. Craning his neck up, Runt could barely see the ceiling. Multiple entrances like the one he came through lined the trunk and, from most of these, harpies hung and groomed themselves.

The entire room glowed with an everchanging, eerie light. The same colours, Runt decided, as the small caterpillar burrowed into the bark. There was no one source of light but, in the centre of the room, taking up most of the floor, a wooden cauldron glowed brightly. The air in the room, though, also glowed.

“It’s the pollen!” Runt exclaimed. The harpies above paused their grooming as the pollen shaken off their fur continued to drift down into the chamber. The dust twinkled and sparkled as it fell until it collected in the cauldron. Runt sat at the edge of this broad, shallow container.

The room, previously filled with chatter, banter, and singing, fell into deathly silence. All eyes turned down. Never in the history of the harpies had a human voice spoken in the chamber of the great mother tree.

“Great old ones, teachers, and fellow harpies,” Patch boasted, “I have, today, been so lucky to find one of the lost children. I would like you to meet – “

“What is the meaning of this?” A small, light grey harpy yelled from across the cauldron. The creature grunted as it hobbled in quick, jerking movements around the broad bowl, before pointing a trembling finger in Runt’s direction.

“Why have you brought this demon to our final, sacred place? The one last refuge of the harpies? You have brought death to us with this demon!”

“Demon?” Patch said, frowning. “It’s not a demon. It’s a little gorgon!”