Tuesday Is a Good Day to Offer Sweet Poison

Some mornings start with a steaming cup of coffee. Some start leisurely, with a bit of stretching. This morning wasn’t one of those. Tuesday didn’t come with alarm, but Painter didn’t open her eyes to silence either: a loud, almost inhuman cry shattered her dreamland. Groggily, Painter got up and plodded towards the door. What was happening so early in the morning?

As she opened the door, Painter noticed Mask and Detective rushing to Dreamer’s place. It wasn’t Dreamer who was screaming, was it? A memory of a comely young woman appeared in her head.

As her dream-addled consciousness woke up, Painter went over to the Dreamer’s house. Dreamer was shivering while sitting on her bed.

“Whatever she saw in her dream, Dreamer is affected by it,” Mask grumbled. “Bring her some water, Detective.”

Detective opened the wardrobe silently and unscrewed one of the bottles, holding it out to Mask.

“Here, little one. Drink it, slowly,” Mask put the bottleneck to Dreamer’s lips. Dreamer obediently made a few sips. Her eyes seemed to regain some clarity.

“Alright, you seem to be better now. Well then, will you deign to inform us just what in heaven's name made you so spooked out?”

“I failed,” Dreamer whimpered. Suddenly, her whole body started convulsing and she fell, breathless. Mask caught Dreamer, but then put her down.

“Dead,” he mused. Then he picked up the bottle, thoughtfully, and sniffed it. He spat with disgust: “Poison.”

Painter noticed Monk coming up, two sandwiches and two bottles of water in his hands. She left Dreamer’s house and went towards him, “Dreamer is dead. Her bottle of water was poisoned.”

“Tuesday person? That was to be expected,” Monk nodded, giving Painter a sandwich and a bottle. Were they laced with poison? Painter felt a tinge of worry.

“It’s not Wednesday nor Saturday, so there’s no need to worry,” Monk expressed his opinion after he saw Painter eye the bottle.

“Let’s continue the exploration,” Painter said finally. She looked at the sumptuous sandwich in her hands and continued, “After we have breakfast.”

The island wasn’t particularly big, just yesterday Monk and Painter explored half of the island, that’s unless for some reason the Northern part of the island was humongous. But surely, that wouldn’t be the case, would it?

“Did you dream of anything?” Monk breached the silence.

“I dreamt of autumn. Of trees whose leaves changed colors. I was there, looking at them fall,” Painter retold her experiences.

“Autumn, huh. It is supposed to be the first part of the riddle, so what’s the significance of it?” Monk wondered. “I saw myself being backstabbed time after time.”

“So you need to be betrayed?” Painter asked without missing a beat.

“I’m unsure of it myself. Perhaps, tonight’s dream will shed some light on our predicament,” Monk shrugged. Tomorrow was Wednesday, the day Monk was supposed to die. Would they really be able to save him?

As Monk and Painter went through the grove, fluffy balls swarmed them again. Painter was carefully walking, while avoiding stepping on the little creatures. Monk looked at the little ones longingly.

“We could stay in their company on our way back,” Painter exhaled, observing his childish reaction, to which Monk nodded.

As they went north, Painter suddenly stopped. Was it an earthquake? The ground under them seemed to shake ever so slightly. The way north ended with a steep cliff. Down there lay a dell, in which massive trees were shaking their crowns. No, not shaking. The giant trees were actually walking, their footfalls making the earth tremble.

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“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Monk asked.

“Maybe?” Painter answered doubtfully. Without any further explanation, Monk charged towards the cliff and jumped off it onto one of the larger trees, whose crown towered over the cliff. He grasped a branch and sat down comfortably, waving to Painter. He didn’t expect her to jump, did he? It didn’t seem to be safe. Then, she noticed that the Monk’s tree was slowly walking away. Here goes nothing. Painter dashed towards the cliff and leaped, trying to not look down. She gripped a branch, but it was too thin and immediately broke with a loud crunch. Monk’s hand grasped Painter’s tightly, not letting her go.

Painter looked at the branch lying down there. She might have fallen just like that. Painter leaned on the massive trunk and closed her eyes for a moment.

“Are you alright?” Monk asked. Painter nodded silently. “It’s interesting. All those trees… They are walking around that immense oak at the center, aren’t they?”

“Seems like it,” Painter said as she opened her eyes, looking at it attentively.

“Would you like to take a closer look? We could get down, using all those vines, if needed.” Monk suggested. There really were a lot of vines, but it wouldn’t be as easy to climb them up and down, as Monk made it sound.

“No need. At least, not now,” Painter shook her head. The tree, aside from its size, didn’t seem to be special. And risking their lives for nothing didn’t feel particularly alluring.

At last, the tree crossed to the other side of the dell, and Monk and Painter were able to get down to a similar cliff. A forest, covered by white fog, loomed in the distance. As they got closer, Painter made a discovery: fog never seemed to leave the trees, existing only within the forest’s premises. It seemed like there was a special mystical quality to it.

Monk and Painter stood on the outskirts of the forest, unsure whether to proceed.

“Shall we go?” Painter mused.

“I’m unsure,” Monk said. “Once we go in, will we be able to return? The fog is too dense - I can’t see anything just a few meters in.”

In the end, they decided to go back. As they were about to cross the dell of walking trees, they spotted a familiar figure.

Scion sized the two of them up, “Wednesday and Saturday, we met again.”

“Hello to you too,” Monk said amicably. Painter didn’t like Scion’s words.

“You come from the other side. Have you seen the inside of the old oak tree yet?” Scion asked.

“The tree in the middle? Was it hollow?” Painter asked, surprised.

“Follow me,” Scion said simply.

They mounted a particularly sprawling tree and waited until it was close to the middle, where the huge oak towered in the sky, its peak unseen. Then they descended using the vines. Scion pressed on a particular section of the oak, which upon close scrutiny seemed to differ from the rest of the trunk. It moved aside, revealing the tree’s inside. The great oak was completely hollow. A metal ladder, nailed to the inner layer of the oak, gleamed invitingly, welcoming its guests somewhere underground.

The three of them climbed down the ladder and went into haze of the tunnel, lit by lanterns, glowing with soft green radiance. They were moving somewhere in the south. Where was Scion leading them? It wasn’t a trap, was it?

Finally, they reached a wide stone spiral staircase leading upward. As they were moving up higher and higher, Painter recognized it. There was only one place on the island, big enough to encompass the entire staircase inside. They were climbing the mountain they avoided yesterday.

At the top of the staircase was a ledge, around which fluffy clouds swirled. Scion looked at Monk and Painter and leapt down.

“Wait,” Monk tried to stop her, but to no avail. Painter looked at it with disbelief.

“Perhaps, Scion couldn’t stand the pressure, so she took her own life?” Painter guessed.

“Sometimes, it’s the silent people who make the most unexpected decisions,” Monk mused. He looked down and a gasp of surprise escaped his mouth. Painter came closer and looked at what left Monk so bewildered. Scion sat down there on one of the clouds, watching the two in silence. Then she hopped from a cloud to cloud, until she reached the ledge, where she stood, leaning on the mountain rock.

“Would you like to try?” Painter asked Monk. The latter nodded and the two of them hopped from the cloud to cloud, as a gentle breeze caressed them. Far down there laid pathways to the winter land and white abyss. A single misstep could be fatal, but neither of them seemed to care - a possibility to ride clouds seemed to be too enchanting to stop.

Finally, as the two were exhausted and it started to get late, they stopped. Scion was still there, watching them, her eyes blurred. As Monk passed her, Scion whispered to Painter: “You shouldn’t have gotten so close.”

Painter turned around and watched Scion attentively. The expression of the latter seemed indifferent, but Painter had a feeling that Scion was suffering more than any of them. Still, neither of them said anything more, and so, Painter followed Monk down the stairway. As they exited the oak, one of the walking trees knelt before them, allowing Painter and Monk to climb it easily.

When they returned, the sun was already setting, the golden disk clad in a crimson mantle. The color of the sky reminded Painter of blood. Surely, it was just the weather peculiarity and not a grim omen, right? Monk and Painter sat on a shore, close enough to see nimble fish frolic in the water. When the sun disappeared from the view, Painter got up.

“Good night,” Monk wished her.

“Good night to you too,” Painter responded. She looked at Monk carefully. She really hoped it wasn’t the last time she saw him.

Painter returned to her house, took a quick shower and ate a pizza, which she found in her wardrobe. Miraculously, it was still warm. Soon, she went to bed. It was the second and last piece of the riddle that she was supposed to see tonight.

Painter dreamt of a single plant. She was familiar with it. That flower was called bleeding-heart. She got closer to it and tried to touch it, but the moment she did, the ground and sky turned around and the dream shattered.