Declaration of war

“Teacher!” Runt yelled from the base of the giant fey-tree. “Where are you? We need to talk, urgently!”

It was midday. The hollow chamber was predictably quiet apart from the chorus of gentle snoring from the multitude of harpies snuggled in their nests. The base of the chamber was deserted. The cauldron simmered, unattended, with its seething roil of ever-changing colours. The teacher was absent.

Runt’s heart sank as he looked around the chamber. “They have no idea,” he thought to himself, “they’ve been asleep. They don’t know what’s coming.”

Runt knew, though. He needed to find the teacher. It was too late, but he needed to find the teacher all the same.

He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the bright light outside, and started to climb. He was halfway up the tree when he saw the light grey tail wrapped around the branch, right near the top. Runt gritted his teeth and climbed faster.

“You weren’t here upon our return, Wolf-ghost. Were you lost?”

The teacher sat on a branch right near the uppermost canopy. Runt did his best not to look down as he clung to the fork where the branch met the trunk. The teacher didn’t look at Runt as it spoke. It stared impassively out towards the horizon.

“I was there. I saw everything. At the fight and at the quarry.” Runt shot back hotly.

The teacher sighed and, when it spoke, the voice was distant. Almost a sad whisper.

“I guessed as much. Demons, after all, cannot be trusted. Not even with the smallest promise. Liars and oath breakers, every one of them.”

“I never promised anything! You’re not the boss of me. And you haven’t been completely honest about everything either, have you? Like how you know Tyron, and he knows about the harpies.”

The teacher’s eyes flinched for the briefest moment at the mention of Tyron’s name. It continued staring out towards the horizon, though, and showed no further emotion.

“Yes, we know him. And he knows about us and our struggles. The man you call Tyron we knew as Wild-one. He lived in the forest when he was young. He was raised in the Wilds. Harpies helped. We watched him grow into the giant that he is. We thought he could be a great ally to us in our struggles. We showed him the ways of the forest but, like the gorgons, he became obsessed with demon magic. With booze, power, and death. He saw the plight of the harpies and turned away. Now he is as bad as any demon. Killing, boozing, and encouraging the gorgons to wage this war against us.”

“But Tyron said you’ve always been at war, and that’s what the Captain said, too. Is it true?”

The teacher chuckled, but it was a joyless laugh.

“Truly, a demon’s memory is like a morning fog that vanishes as the sun rises. Or, perhaps a demon’s memory is like the wall of a mountain. It echoes the last thing yelled towards it. Wolf-ghost, you were there. You saw the images in the remembering place. You know those words of war cannot be right. Still, there is a grain of truth in the rotting heap of lies these demons tell themselves.”

“From the Wild-one’s point of view, harpies and gorgons have been at war forever. The Wild-one is young. He has only ever seen trouble between us. But, like all demons, he lies when it suits him, when it means he can get what he wants.”

“We took the Wild-one to the remembering place. He knows the stories from the ancient times. He knows we have not always been at war. There is something more, though.” The teacher continued in a sad, thoughtful whisper.

“The Wild-one speaks to the gorgons, or at least, I think he does. Many of the gorgons would remember a time when we were not at war. They must!”

“However,” the teacher paused, and cleared its throat, “it would be fair to say the gorgons were not always happy with the harpies, either. Harpies and gorgons need each other to survive. The mother tree unites us. But we are very different creatures.”

“Gorgons are loud, excitable, violent. Harpies are quiet, thoughtful, passive. The leader of the gorgons, the big boss, rules with its fists. Harpies train their leader over many years, to be the most wise and thoughtful. Sometimes I wonder if they got it wrong, when they selected me. Have I been wise, or foolish?” The teacher shook its head before continuing. “When the demons came, they drove a wedge between us and the gorgons. Every problem was amplified. Minor annoyances became outrageous betrayals. Small disagreements became violent arguments. Forgiveness was forgotten.”

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“Amongst this disquiet, the demons began whispering a lie to the gorgons. They planted a seed that, once sprouted, grew into this disastrous war that stretches its poisonous limbs over every part of the island. They told the gorgons it was possible for them to live without the harpies.”

“The gorgons have forgotten the old ways. The booze did it. It wiped their minds clean and, without harpies to help them remember, they believed every lie the demons told them. But to think that they would believe this lie, the greatest lie of all, that they could survive without the harpies! Surely they must realise, without us, without the mother trees, they are doomed.”

Runt frowned and spoke.

“I don’t understand, teacher. Why are they doomed without the fey-trees?”

The teacher’s eyebrows raised, and it turned to face Runt, just for a moment, before returning to stare at the horizon.

“I forget that you demons know nothing of our ways. A thing that does not affect you directly is not a thing worth knowing about. Wolf-ghost, have you never heard the grubs burrowing in the mother tree? Did you not wonder where the grating noise under the skin of the mother came from?”

“But… I thought those were harpy grubs! I saw them, glowing at night-time.”

“Ah, yes, those glowing lights are indeed harpy grubs. They sit at the top of the pouch in the mother and drink sap until they are grown. The gorgon grubs, though, sit below them, and eat the wood.”

“There’s two grubs in each hole?” Runt boggled at the thought.

“Two, yes, always two.”

“But then, the gorgons are tearing down the place they grow babies in! Not just yours! That doesn’t make sense!”

“No,” the teacher said, turning again, “it doesn’t.”

“But teacher, it’s worse than that. That’s what I came here to say. They’re going faster now. I followed them. There’s hundreds of gorgons, hundreds! And, they’re not just taking one tree at a time anymore.”

The memory replayed in his mind. They weren’t taking the trees at all. The horde of gorgons split up as they reached the scrub. Runt followed one group from a distance. He would’ve got closer but the risk of Stripes being spotted was too great. When they got to the clearing the gorgons, as a group, began attacking the base of a fey-tree. He recalled vividly, the sound of their teeth gnashing at the wood, like rabid dogs fighting over a pile of bones. And when the tree fell, they left it, and moved on. Runt overheard one of the gorgons question it.

“What? No carry?” It grunted to the leader.

“New orders. Break first. Carry later.” The leader replied.

The fey-tree was left, lying there, broken and lifeless. They moved on to the next one. And the next. The groans of tumbling fey-trees echoed all around them while Runt and his dog raced back to the lake.

Runt searched the teacher’s face for shock, sadness, or any kind of emotion as he related the story. Instead, the harpy simply continued staring out towards the horizon.

“Teacher! Don’t you understand? They’re working day and night now. They’re trying to finish it once and for all.”

“Yes, Wolf-ghost, I understand. What do you think I’ve been looking at all this time?” The teacher replied, and pointed.

Runt paused and looked out towards the horizon. The great fey-tree stood much taller than any other and, from up high, they could see for miles. The teacher looked north, past the gash of the port road, towards the group of fey-trees that stood in the path of the sunset. As they watched together, one of the fey-trees began to tremble. Moments later, it disappeared. Further along, the same thing happened. Over and over. Runt gasped.

“We’ve got to stop them, teacher! The harpies will starve without the pollen. We can’t let them take those last trees.”

The teacher sighed. “Tonight. It ends tonight. One way or another.”

They sat there, together, watching the trees fall one by one. As the day drew towards dusk the younger harpies began joining them. Soon enough, the uppermost limbs of the trees were covered with harpies. Some of them wept. Others, like the teacher, sat in grim silence with stony faces. All of them turned their ears, though, when the teacher finally spoke.

“Harpies, tonight the unthinkable will transpire. Gorgons are tearing down the mother trees in a fit of madness. Soon, none that taste the sunset will be left. Long have we agonised over this. Long have we debated what is to be done. The time for talk has passed. Tonight, we must confront the gorgons in their lair of stone.”

Several of the harpies began talking to their neighbours in frantic whispers. They all hushed again as the teacher continued.

“I do not hold any hope for those of us that enter that place. In fact, I do not expect any of us will return. That is why only the bravest, or most foolish, may go. There is plenty of stardust stored in the belly of this great mother. Plenty enough to feed the old ones until their eggs are ripe. But ripe eggs are worthless unless the gorgons stop their senseless destruction.”

One of the harpies cried out, pointing towards the horizon. The sinking sun moved under the dragon’s mouth, now, and painted the Wilds red.

“So few left.” The teacher whispered. They watched, in horror, as another tree tumbled. Only a handful remained standing within the glow of sunset.