Everything turned yellow

He attempted to spit but it was too late. The powder formed a sticky paste as it touched his tongue and, try as he might, it wouldn’t come out. Runt’s tongue began to tingle, then itch, then burn. The fire rapidly spread up his nose, out to his ears, and into his brain. The heat sank down his throat, swelled through his lungs, and snaked down through his bowels and out towards his limbs. He heard a high-pitched scream that seemed to last forever, like a kettle left unattended on a stove-top, screaming and hissing and bubbling and spitting and whistling and seething.

Irritated by the sound, Runt wondered who would leave a kettle unattended like that. So careless. “Someone needs to take that kettle off,” he thought, “before it explodes.”

The world turned yellow.

And froze.

A lungful of air turned to ash and ice.

Silence.

“A statue world,” Runt thought, “everything, made of rock.”

Statues stared at him. He stared back. Impossible even to blink. Let alone think. Monsters frozen in an image of life.

“Rocks, all of us,” he thought, “rocks carved by other rocks.”

He saw it, then, like staring at a picture from a million miles away. He saw the beginning of it all. A tiny rock that decided to move, then split, and grew, then split again, until suddenly the earth and oceans boiled with statues that somehow blinked and moved and defied their essential nature of being a rock.

“Rocks don’t move!” Runt tried to shout but, frozen still, he stared, and stared, and stared.

He saw it, how could he not? He was trapped. Frozen. A statue. He watched the tiny rocks grow. He watched them fight and flee and grow and change and change again. He watched the tiny rocks group, and grow, and grow large. He watched them plot and plan and ponder. He watched them learn and laugh and long for life greater than that granted to those born as rocks and destined to return to the ground, mere rocks once again. He watched them weep, and curse, and rail against the unfairness of being made only to be unmade. He watched them, finally, build vast towers, dig deep tunnels, and carve crude symbols from the stone of which they came.

He saw it. He saw it all. Every rock, made different, but each one, the same.

The sound of the kettle returned. At first, just a small sound, like the buzz of a mosquito. But then, growing larger, and louder. The kettle screamed for what seemed like another decade, or perhaps a century, or perhaps a decade of centuries, until Runt understood the scream was his.

The yellow statue of a gorgon standing in front of him blinked. It took another lifetime, the eyelids gradually descending, staying shut for another hundred years, before slowly lifting up again.

Then, drib by drab, the brilliant yellows faded and Runt could see again. The guard looked up at him, mouth agape. Runt pushed it aside. Another gorgon grabbed Runt by the arm. He looked down at it, lifted his arm to look at it. The creature grunted and gasped as Runt shook his arm and flicked it off. He became aware of yelling, the sound swelling and crashing and washing over him like frothing waves of hatred and fear.

Another gorgon leaped in front of him, arms out, growling up at him with teeth bared and a fearsome glare. Runt brushed it away. Movement occurred slowly, like walking through honey, and Runt nodded to himself.

“I’m stuck inside a beehive wading through the honey,” he thought, “and that’s why everything’s yellow and slow.”

He heard a yell from behind and he turned. Slowly, of course. The air was made of honey.

Tyron stood there, grinning.

Runt balled his hand into a fist and raised it above his head. He moved towards the monster of a man. Tyron raised his fist, too, and they advanced on each other.

Runt felt something brush against his face. He turned to see a gorgon, yellow eyes blazing, looking up at him with fear in its eyes. It swung its other fist into Runt’s stomach. Runt looked down as the blow bounced off and, almost without thinking, he swept his hand up and across the gorgon’s face, sending it flying off the stage.

He turned back towards Tyron only for his vision to be obscured by two hairy arms grabbing him from behind. Runt bent over and watched the gorgon slam onto the rocky surface. The sounds of the cavern became sharper, the yellows faded more, the honey treacle air began to thin. Three more gorgons advanced, each looking to the other to strike first. Runt roared down at them and lashed out. Suddenly all three were on the ground.

He spun around, breathing heavily, to face Tyron. His old master glared at him, chest heaving, blood and sweat dripping off his face. Runt heard Tyron’s voice, yelling and laughing, but something was wrong. The voice came from far off, to his left, somewhere out in the wilderness of the amphitheatre, not here, not in front of him.

“That’s my boy!” Tyron yelled, laughing again. “That’s my boy!”

Runt lifted his hand to wipe the blood out of his eyes and watched, in horror, as the thing in front of him copied his every movement. Tyron walked forwards, towards him, as he did, and they both reached out together until their fingertips touched.

The mirror tipped back and clattered to the ground.

He was alone.

Runt looked down at the sausage sized fingers of his hands. He flexed them into fists and marvelled at the way the muscles rippled and bulged up his arms. Ignoring the shouts and curses from below he turned, walking past sad piles of fur and broken bodies at his feet, and stomped over to the barrel of yellowcake. He picked it up and stared into the depths of the barrel.

“I could take this,” Runt thought slowly, “I could take this barrel and use it to fix everything. People will listen to me now. They can’t ignore me, not like this. They will listen to me!”

He looked up to the crowd and laughed at their faces twisted into hatred and fear.

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“Now you will listen to me!” he shouted, but his mind was a blank slate. “You will listen to me!” He shouted again, but he had nothing further to say. All his thoughts, fears, and hopes were wiped clean. There was only power. Looking across, towards the stand, he saw Tyron and the guards advancing and hatred blossomed in Runt’s chest.

“You!” Runt roared at his old master. “Now you will listen to me!”

Tyron laughed again and shouted back “Your body might be bigger, Runt, but your heart’s still the same size. Small and weak, like you. Once a runt, always a runt. Stay there and let me show you.”

Runt looked down at the barrel again. The yellowcake glittered and gleamed. It whispered to him. It spoke in the way the wind speaks. It hissed and cackled and promised great things.

“Eat more,” it grated, “eat all of it. Eat every last scrap. Nothing will stop you, then. You will become like a god to them, and, like a god, you could do as you please. Command them. Devour them. Throw each of them, one by one, into the lake. Anything you want. But first, you need to eat the rest of it.”

Runt hesitated. “The harpies,” he thought, “the harpies would thank me for it. If I finished the war. They would be grateful. I’ll tell them what I’ve done, when it’s over, when I return. I’ll do it for them. The harpies. The harpies will be grateful.”

This last thought, of the harpies, bounced around in his head while he stared into the depths of the barrel. Images bubbled and burst, of Patch, of the teacher, of harpies soaring through the sky, hanging from branches, snuggled in their nests, singing and sleeping and flying and leaping and Runt snapped awake and looked around. He shook his head and trembled violently. He suddenly felt incredibly ancient and worn out. As if he had remained awake for a billion years without blinking.

He blinked.

“The harpies are under those buckets, over there,” he thought to himself, and suddenly the yellowcake was just a strange, glowing powder again. It was silent.

In a single leap, Runt soared off the stage and over the heads of the crowd milling around the base. He landed in a crouch, steadying himself with one arm, still cradling the barrel under the other, and dashed down the line of buckets, slapping the rocks off them one by one. Runt nearly cried when Patch emerged from under the last bucket, looking ragged and beaten and worn out.

“Patch!” he shouted, and bent down to hug the tiny creature. Patch looked up in fear, and scurried back several paces.

“Patch, it’s me, Runt!” he said, and tried to say more but the words stuck in his throat.

“Wolf-ghost? Is that you?” The teacher said, hobbling across to them. The ancient harpy froze when it saw the barrel of yellowcake, and then raised a trembling finger to point at it.

“Wolf-ghost! You should get rid of that. Right now.” The teacher said, in a shaky voice.

“But teacher, it’s amazing. It’s made me strong! We can win the war with this stuff.”

“It’s poison! Throw it away!” The teacher yelled, and then the teacher, too, staggered back fearfully at the face Runt made, and at the way he suddenly clutched the barrel to his chest.

“Runt?” Patch said, eyes brimming with tears. “When I asked the trees if you were going to save us, I didn’t mean just the harpies. I meant us. Us and the gorgons. All of us. The trees thought you were going to save all of us. They didn’t say you were going to kill all the gorgons just to save the harpies. I don’t know, anymore. Maybe the trees were wrong. Maybe you have to do it. But, Runt, can we please go home? I’m tired and hungry and I miss my trees.”

Runt hesitated and looked down into the barrel. It almost seemed to vibrate in his grip with a hidden power. He grasped it more tightly and stared. Runt saw a shape emerge as he gazed into the depths of the glittering yellow powder. A face. The face of his old master, Tyron. Runt blinked, shook his head, and with a sinking heart he realised it was merely a reflection from the tiny crystalline surfaces. The face was his own.

Runt looked up to see all the harpies, now, crowded around him with eyes full of concern. He forced himself to smile, shrugged, and threw the barrel over his shoulder. It splashed into the lake and quickly sank into the fiery depths. The teacher’s eyes widened in fear.

“Wolf-ghost? That, ah, that wasn’t wise. I mean, good job throwing away the awful stuff, but – “

The teacher was cut off by a loud clap of thunder. It was the first sign of what was to come. Turning, Runt saw the lake begin to seethe and boil. A giant bubble the width of the entire lake rose up and burst causing another thunderous belch of sound to echo across the chamber.

“RUN!” The teacher shouted.

Runt scooped up several harpies and the others climbed onto his back. He sprinted towards the nearest track leading up and out the cavern. They ran past the hive and, down below, Runt caught a glimpse of the lake. It boiled with an ever-increasing fury. The orange glow was replaced by a brilliant bright yellow as the lava churned and swirled.

“Fly harpies, fly!” The teacher yelled and, one by one, each of them leaped out over the lake. Runt gasped and tried to catch one but then saw how, with the furious updraft of gas and heat, they spiralled up and up as if they were flying on the pollen gust of a fey-tree. Soon only the teacher, with its damaged wing, remained. A loud explosion rocked the chamber and lava splattered around them. Runt felt a blob of it slap against his face and, suddenly, he was burning. Desperately, he beat out the flames and retreated towards the safety of the hive.

“No, not that way. We’ll be trapped.” The teacher hissed. “We need to go up.”

“Neither of us can fly, teacher,” Runt said, and grimaced at the feeling of his scorched face.

“Look at those legs you’ve grown, Wolf-ghost. Jump!”

Runt looked up and saw another ledge, above them. He crouched and prepared to leap but then paused. The teacher looked to him fearfully.

“You have to tell me first, teacher! I need to know what I did was right!”

“What are you talking about, Wolf-ghost?” The teacher yelled. Another giant bubble of lava rose up and the clap of thunder as it burst was nearly deafening.

“The picture, teacher! It showed harpies killing gorgon joeys. Did that really happen?”

“Wolf-ghost! There’s no time. I can explain later!”

“You will tell me now!” Runt yelled, and his voice was so loud it drowned out the noise of the eruptions for the briefest moment.

The teacher looked away sadly. “I was there,” the teacher began, “I saw it happen. It was harpy magic gone wrong. Made by the teacher who taught me. A group of eggs were destroyed. Not just gorgon eggs!” The teacher quickly added, as Runt sucked in a huge breath. “But harpies, too. It was a mistake. The magic failed. The gorgon and harpy eggs all perished together. It was a terrible accident. Unfortunately, a gorgon saw what happened, saw the eggs perish, and did not understand. They assumed we were trying to eliminate the gorgons.”

“Why? Why did the teacher do it? Why use magic on the eggs in the first place?” Runt asked, as another blast shook the chamber. The entire platform began to tremble and sink.

“Out of desperation, Wolf-ghost. Out of fear. The teacher tried to make the eggs stronger. To make harpies and gorgons that could stand up to the power of the demons. But it failed. It should never have happened.” The teacher said, shaking their head.

“No, it shouldn’t have happened. None of this should have happened. But it did. All we can do is try to fix it.” Runt replied, and, with a yell, he leaped upwards with all his might. They landed safely on the next platform. Runt looked up, saw another ledge, and leaped again. And again. And again.

All the while, the cavern shook, and the lake roared. Rocks tumbled. Tunnels collapsed. Huge gusts of heat, fire and gas belched upward now. Runt leaped again and, with a cry of relief, he saw the tunnel that led to the quarry. The last leg of the journey was a maddening sprint against all hope of living. Cracks appeared in the tunnel as he ran. Dust and rocks rained down. He saw the harpies, at the end of the tunnel, looking back in fear. The way was shut. With the last of his strength, Runt leaned up against the rocks guarding the exit and heaved.

The sound of the rocks, as they grated against the earth, reminded him of stone teeth grinding against stone.