They ran for the rest of the day, taking regular breaks to eat sap and drink water and massage Dirt’s mana vessel. Although he’d felt filled up with mana at the start of the day, by the end of the day he felt even more filled up in the same amount of space. When he asked them what they were doing, the dryads simply said there were no words for the faculty they were helping him increase, but that it would benefit him. And it didn’t hurt or seem dangerous, so he was happy to sit there and enjoy the pulsing vibrations of their magic.
At the first hint of nightfall, they guided him to the nearest tree, a blank-looking girl with medium-length hair, and had him touch her root. As soon as he did, he felt himself whisked forward at incredible speed and deposited instantly in the dirt next to his house. Before he even knew she was there, Home gently took him in her arms and helped him lay down to fight the dizziness that they all expected, but it never came.
“I didn’t get sick from it this time. Did you do something different, or was that me?” he asked.
“We took greater notice of the state of your anatomy than before,” said Home, stroking his hair. “There is a system related to your hearing that regulates balance. Now we know its importance.”
“How does that work, exactly? How are you making me travel so fast?”
“We have long been able to transfer nutrients through our roots. We improved on the method to carry you.”
“Am I actually going through the roots? Do you make me really small?”
Home was quiet for a moment, and since her tree was right there he could look at her mind. She was trying to find a way to explain something which to her was simple and obvious, like ‘How do you walk?’
“There is much to explain regarding connections, geometric progression, and other calculations, so for now I will simply say that it is magic.”
Dirt snorted, amused. “I guess that works.”
The other dryads weren’t coming this time, it seemed. It felt strange to be nearly alone again, after a full day spent in the middle of a crowd. Dirt relaxed, enjoying the feeling of Home’s fingertips, the gentleness of her touch. How softly she held him. If human mothers cared for their young like wolves did, it must be something like this.
Still, the day was over and night was coming and he found himself feeling restless. It had only been a couple days since he’d seen Socks, but it felt like longer than that because so much had changed. And now that he had time to sit and think about it, that uneasy feeling he’d had this morning had never really left.
What if Socks was fighting for his life right now against something like that tentacle monster, or some sort of puppy-snatching bird from the sky, or… other wolves. Enemy wolves. He had no idea and the more he thought about it, the worse things he imagined.
“When can I see Socks again?” he asked, trying not to sound as worried as he felt. “Oh, is it a test that’s threatening him? Something Mother had him do that’s dangerous?”
Home sighed, patting his forehead. “I do not know when, dear Dirt, but he will only be vulnerable for a time. He will outgrow the threat. I can say that it is not a test.”
“Do you know what the threat is, though?”
“Only in part. It is something new to us. But the threat itself is not the knowledge that would put you in danger. There is a secret related to its intentions that we will not try to guess, in the interest of good relations.”
“I wish you could tell me more about it. I hate not knowing,” he said, his mood darkening. “I’m afraid, Home. I’m scared I’m gonna lose him.”
-not so easy-
Dirt jumped up so fast he almost brought Home to her feet with him. Had that been real, or did he imagine it?
“Socks?” he said aloud. Then in his mind, “Socks?”
-this far-
“Stay safe, Socks! I miss you!”
-get stronger-
Although he waited for more, straining his senses against the silence, no other words came. But those ones burned in Dirt’s chest like fire.
“What happened, dear Dirt?” asked Home.
“I heard Socks just now.”
“Then I suppose he is getting stronger as well. Are you pleased, little Dirt?”
“I’m glad.”
Home went to sleep shortly after that. Dirt was too restless to lay down early, though. His mind swirled with conflict between his resolve to be the strongest human and his desire to sneak away and make sure Socks was really fine somehow. Now that all the dryads were asleep, he had nothing to do but sit around and fret until he was tired enough to pass out.
He decided to eat a grub or two for variety, but no matter where he dug he couldn’t find any. They had simply all vanished, even though he kept looking until it got so dark he was worried he might not find his way back. He went to sleep with nervous gratitude that the dryads were feeding him, because otherwise what would he eat? Maybe he could catch a bird?
The next day was much like the last one except there were fewer dryads overall, and many of those came and went. In the afternoon they switched to playing a game of speed, racing around several trees in order to see who was the fastest. The dryads were often just a tiny bit faster, and it didn’t take Dirt long to realize what they were doing. He beat them only once—by acting tired halfway through, he got them to slow down just enough to pass them with a burst of speed at the end.
On the third day of running, Dirt made it all the way to the edge of the forest, where the outer trees were half the size of the others, some even smaller. He stopped right at the edge of the sunlight, where it made a fuzzy boundary between day and shadow. It was the side of the forest with the grassy plains, and the bright sunlight reflecting off the pale fields hurt Dirt’s eyes.
Callius said, “The ones growing out here enjoy the sunlight on their trunks. I think it sounds unpleasant. It dries us out.”
Dirt said, “I don’t mind the sunlight much, but I like the forest better. It’s too bright out there, and the sky is always… too open.”
Suddenly the dryad turned around to look past the twenty or so standing nearby. Dawn and Home were absent for now and Dirt hadn’t noticed them leave.
“We found something! Come see it! Come on, Dirt,” said Callius, tugging Dirt’s hand excitedly.
They ran back into the forest, but didn’t travel in a straight line. Callius led them from tree to tree, navigating in a way he could understand. Dirt saw it long before they got there—a smudge of white against the dim horizon.
It was a portion of a wall, that was all; a length about twenty paces long, pale yellow brick with pillars of white marble on both ends. It appeared to have been slowly sinking into the ground for many years, or perhaps the ground was growing up around it, because it was only a few inches taller than Dirt. The rest of the building was nowhere to be seen, presumably collapsed and long buried.
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“What is it, Dirt?” asked Callius.
“It used to be part of a building. See here, where it’s smooth, and then around this corner where it’s jagged? The rest of it broke off and fell over. It’s probably buried deep by now.”
“So, a house?”
“Maybe. But something like that. I’m surprised there’s only one. I bet there’s all kinds of stuff buried here. This dirt must have been getting thicker and thicker this whole time.”
“Do you think humans made it?” asked Callius.
Dirt said, “Oh, of course. Humans made all kinds of stuff. There are whole cities where it’s just buildings like this. I saw one with Socks and I can kind of remember living in them. Almost.”
“How did they shape the rock?”
“I have no idea. Maybe they looked around for ones that were already that shape,” said Dirt, even though that didn’t seem likely.
Callius sank into the ground so quick Dirt had to lean over the spot and look for a hole. There wasn’t one. He popped up a moment later a short distance away and said, “You’re right. There’s more, but it’s about as deep down as you are tall. Perhaps we can dig it out another time. Someone just told me they found another one. Want to go see?”
“Sure,” said Dirt.
In one spot, a sheepish girl showed them a half-buried basin, cracked down the middle. In another, a silent, half-formed dryad pointed them toward a row of pillars, which Dirt was certain lined a buried street. They found a hole in the ground, ten feet deep, that went to nothing, and a mound taller than Dirt that had nothing but gravel inside it.
They never did find the temple, or if the dryads had found it, they weren’t interested in taking him there. And that was probably for the best—he didn’t ask about it because he wasn’t sure he could resist the temptation to peek inside twice. Once had been hard enough.
By the end of the day the forest seemed filled with old ruins, even though it still looked the same almost anywhere. And while Dirt wasn’t sure he could find his way back to any of them, just knowing they were out there made the forest feel a lot more like the place he belonged than it had before. It had been a human place once, and he was a human; it was a wild place now, and he was wild, if anything. Everything man had built here was buried beneath the dirt, and Dirt walked on top of that.
That night as he was drifting off to sleep, a sensation of pain from his collar to his groin entered his mind, accompanied by Socks saying -almost got me but I’m safe.-
Nothing more came, no matter how Dirt listened or called out the pup’s name. Dirt woke four times that night, fleeing nightmares about teeth and claws rising up from the ground to bite his feet.
The next day, a huge host of dryads had gathered again, as many as he’d seen. Some were late and rose from the ground like something underneath was pushing them up.
Home said, “Listen well, little Dirt. The world of magic contains structures and shapes, and power given a shape and form can cause a thing to be real in the other worlds. To do a greater work of magic than run or jump, you must learn to shape mana. Your mana vessel guides—“
“Home,” said Dirt, “I’m really sorry, and I know this is important, but I can’t just sit around learning all day. I need to see Socks. I need to. He’s hurt. Can you help me?”
“You should not be impatient, dear Dirt. Let the rhythm of time guide you along the natural course,” said Home. She continued, “Your mana vessel guides the flow of power, and by shaping the vessel with your spirit and will, you can create a new shape or structure and cause a thing to be.”
“Okay,” said Dirt. “Home, I want to learn all this. I really, really do, and I’m grateful that you’re teaching me. But you are more patient than me because you’re thousands of years old and I’m only maybe twenty days old. I lost count. Can I please just go see him, and then come back? If Mother won’t allow it, then maybe I can at least get close enough to talk. You could even drop me in front of the den with root travel, since that’s how you got me here. Please?”
Dawn went blank first, quickly followed by Home and several others. Dirt’s heart leaped, knowing it meant they were asking Mother. He was sure of it. He waited, nervous energy filling him. He wanted to scream or jump or something but he didn’t because he had to wait.
When she retook control of her dryad, Dawn frowned, eyes full of pity. Before she even opened her mouth, Dirt said, “Never mind. I can already guess the answer. Please don’t even say it. Tell me later.”
“I am sorry, dear Dirt. I feel sad for pity’s sake,” said Dawn, her voice filling with anguish.
Dirt knew how to handle sadness better than she did, he realized. Better than any of them. What did they know of pain? Nothing. They’d said so. He scowled, because now, on top of angry and nervous, he felt guilty.
“I’m sorry too, Dawn. I feel like I put you in a difficult position.”
The poor dryad started wilting. All the little leaves that covered most of her torso shriveled and wilted and parts of her went stiff as if she’d lost control. Other parts went limp, and it was a more pitiable sight than he was prepared to handle. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle sadness that well—she truly had no defense against it. None.
Dirt jumped forward and grabbed her in a hug, holding her as tight as he could.
“Don’t be sad, my sweet little Dawn. My dear, precious Dawn, please don’t be sad. I love you and I’m sorry I made you sad.”
The other dryads looked contrite, their eyes downcast and regretful. But Dirt also noticed they were standing back a bit, edging away slightly as if they feared whatever Dawn had was contagious.
Dawn recovered after only a few moments. After she perked back up, Dirt released her and said, “Do you feel better now?”
“Yes. That was more intense than I realized. Do you feel like that often? Do you feel that way now?” asked Dawn.
“No, I feel better now. Let’s just forget it,” he said, hoping to avoid a relapse. “I have so many friends here now, and I’ll see Socks when Mother says it’s right, no matter what I think about it. Home, would you continue?”
He listened to Home’s explanation of magic despite all his mental distractions, but at the end he could only remember bits and pieces. He got the general idea—magic took different shapes or forms, and those shapes caused an effect in one of the worlds, usually the physical. He had to exercise his will, which rose from his core and spirit, to shape his mana vessel and cause something to happen.
Shaping mana for his body was easy, because his mana vessel was already in the right shape for that, just naturally. Running and jumping with magic was almost second nature to him, especially after his time with Socks.
But when he tried to do more, to cause wind or lift something with his mind or the dozen other things the dryads came up with, it always fell apart. By the end of the day, Dirt was more frustrated and worn out than educated. The whole day had been a waste, and when he lay down early to sleep, mostly just to get some time to himself, he felt guilty for wasting it.
-You have to learn, little Dirt. Pay more attention tomorrow.- The pup’s voice in his mind was quiet and distant, but clear.
“Socks! I can hear you much better today. Can you hear me? Can we finally talk? I hope—“
-If you want to talk to me, you have to talk aloud. I can’t see your thoughts from here. Say something, little Dirt.-
“I miss you!” he shouted. “I’m scared!”
-I miss you, but I am not scared because I am a strong wolf. Day and night, I hide or fight alongside Father. We hunt and I learn. My enemy is wily and I am tired. I keep getting hurt. I’m glad you’re far away and safe, Dirt. Stay safe and learn. I can watch you with ghost sight, sometimes. We will talk each night if we can.-
“It’s not the same,” said Dirt, frustrated to the point of tears. “I want to hug you.”
-I want to lick your face and make you giggle. That day will come again. Good night, little Dirt.-
Enough of the pup’s true emotion came through with his words to tell Dirt that Socks was bluffing, in part: he was scared. Socks was being hunted and there was no respite, no safety, despite being guarded by the strongest things that could possibly exist.
Dirt cried for his friend, sobbing into the supple balls of fiber that comprised his bed, and for himself, who had to suffer far away, unable to help.
The next day, Dirt grit his teeth and remembered what his real power was. Not muscle or claws or even his knife. Discipline and sincerity. That’s what kept him alive and it’s what he needed now. He needed to focus on what the incredibly patient dryads were trying to teach him, so he did.
When they told him to picture wind with his pure will and not his imagination, he forced out every other thought. He refused to get tired or bored or distracted, but focused with all his might on the task. When they said to use that willpower to force his mana vessel into the shape of wind, he stood stern and unmoving, unflinching against repeated failure and frustration, turning down food and water until he got it right. Hour after hour his mind stood resolute like the stone wall that refused to fall down after millenia.
Dirt only relented when he could tell the dryads were getting nervous. Near mid-day, he smiled and laughed and ate all the sap they gave him, and washed it down with plenty of water. They ran together and played, free and innocent and happy for a time. But as soon as he sensed the opportunity, he was right back at it, forcing his mana vessel and the power it contained into the shape of wind.
In the mid-afternoon, he finally got it. A gust of wind arose from nowhere and shook the ferns as it blew forward. It traveled only thirty paces before it died and left the air calm and heavy again.
The dryads cheered but he ignored them, except for a polite grin to let them know he noticed. Instead he did it again and again, a dozen more times, until his mind felt ragged and his mana vessel sore. Not strong winds, although he was sure he could make them stronger, but deliberate ones. Careful wind, disciplined, until he felt like he’d mastered it.
When he finally stopped, he was so mentally exhausted that he collapsed flat on the ground. Only then did he cheer, raising his arms to the green sky and howling like a wolf. The wind was his.