Haven C. Barker

Weekly Fiction

• Flash Fiction
• Short Stories
• Chapter Previews

Flash Fiction

• Tracy
• Summer Haze
• The Fern
• Rote
• The Judge

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Short Stories

• Trailhead
• Holiday Feelings

• The Boy Whose Friend Was a Rock

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The King of the Flooding World
Chapter Previews

• Chapter 1
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The Judge

The frog smacked its fat lips. A mix of saliva and yellow snot swung back and forth from the corner of its mouth. Its bulbous eyes gleamed like polished beryl, reflecting the dim halogen light. Its slimy skin shone with oil and expensive cologne.

It lightly hammered its gavel and croaked for silence in the small county courtroom. Its eyes wandered between empty seats and trembling insects. Its tongue flicked in and out of its cavernous maw, flinging slobber over its laser cut name display and onto the blue flower-patterned carpet.

An old house fly buzzed up to the defendant's seat. Her front two limbs twitched and her chittering hushed. Her red tessellated eyes kept glancing at the pews, until the frog hammered its gavel again. She froze under the watch of its hungry eyes.

Its lips stretched and thinned, widening into a smile. It bared rows of dull teeth like lines of white eggs. Spittle dripped from its pursed lower lip and onto the wooden desk top. It belched out guilty fumes, stinking the courtroom with partially digested meals.

The fly chirped and squirmed.

The frog's red tongue zipped out and snatched the fly. Then she disappeared behind its mandibles.

The frog smacked its fat lips.

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Rote

Sparkling yellow sand trickled onto the glass, bouncing across the clear circle. The grains jumped and skipped into one another, halting at the sloped wall. Pale yellow and clear salt mixed into the growing granular sand mound, glittering in the white recessed can light bulb.

A graphite pencil scratched on paper stained with age. Incessant scribbling and an occasional warble of a page turning muffled the hurried silence.

The sand mound expanded slowly. Grains bounded down the steep slope, dragging volume with it. The tip of the cone sank quickly, the additional sand beneath catching it. Particles peppered the coarse surface, building up the mound again.

The soprano rubbing of minerals against dried tree pulp paused. Air, trapped in a vortex of inhaled breath, whispered through the girl’s nostrils. It quieted for moments of sandfall, stilled within her body. Precious moments. Sand spattered onto the ever-growing heap. Her breath hissed out.

She continued writing. Her sweat slicked the painted surface of the octagonal shape, slipping on the angled tip. Her thumb and forefinger contorted to maintain grip of the pencil. Damp wrinkles warped the smooth paper under the heel of her palm, soaking up salty moisture exuded from her skin.

A dimple formed in the sand of the upper glass bulb, collapsing into vacated space. The sinkhole widened, sucking quickly and more quickly.

Short breaths. Ragged breaths. Time slipping away.

The last trace of sand vanished down the neck of the hourglass. The sand mound settled, stray grains tumbling down its edge and stopping against the glass wall.

“Stop,” a shrill voice mandated.

The pencil clattered on the wooden school desk. It rolled with the slope of the connected armrest and bumped into her elbow. Her palm slammed onto the runaway writing instrument, pinning it on the edge of the desktop.

A shadow passed over the desk, veiling the glittering reflections in the sand. Fingers grabbed the top bulb and lifted the hourglass. The timepiece spun horizontally in their hand, senile dexterity guarding it from falling.

“Again,” the acute voice demanded.

The fingers set the hourglass back, less than a millimeter from where it was before. Faint fingerprints obscured the glass, the moisture left by warm fingers.

The sparkling yellow sand trickled through the glass neck, bouncing into the enclosed circle below.

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The Fern

At first, Fern doesn’t know who he is. He sits at the table taking a quiz, but he can't remember why. He understands the answers perfectly, but the questions become less and less clear. He’s frustrated because he feels totally lost. In a fit, he stands up and throws the papers across the room. He screams, “ Get me out of here.” Nobody responds. The walls begin to darken in color. And then a screen turns on behind him. It starts playing a video in a language he doesn’t understand . A lady looks like she’s explaining a product, but he’s never seen her or the thing she's holding. Before long, he notices that there is a glass box in the room with the lady. He looks closer and he sees himself in that box. He waves his arms. He looks up, but he cannot see himself. Ignoring the screen, he starts frantically looking for an exit. He looks at himself on the colorized monitor and realizes that he is green and leafy. Oh wait, his name is Fern.

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Summer Haze

Bountiful vineyards smolder across the countryside, darkening the sky.Dry summer heat reflects off the beach umbrellas of relaxing vacationers. Cool ocean waves beckon frenzied children to splash and dunk each other. Serene mothers read books on healthy eating and dragon romance, glad for the respite from daily parenting. Radiant newlyweds giggle, not wanting their honeymoon to end.The crystal clear horizon distracts all but one boy from the expanding smog. He waves his arms, trying to direct the other children’s attention away from their games, but they pay him no mind. Remaining untagged is a far more pressing concern to them. The boy’s voice drowns in the ruckus.Grape clusters sag in the fire’s oppressive glare. Vines wriggle as flames crawl on their backs, breaking off their stems and shattering on the charred ground. Rows of trellises burn and the wildfire blows across single-lane roadways—wineries and farmhouses plume smoke and fire as trapped lambs bleat in their pens. Vintners flee, abandoning their homes as the remaining areas succumbed to the blaze.A father scrolls through the newsfeed despite his wife’s insistence that he put aside his phone for vacation. He frowns at the recent report of brush fires in his area and shows his wife.The boy surges out of the water, running to his mother with tears in his eyes. She thinks the other kids have been mean to him. He blubbers to her, pointing at the sky behind her parasol. She consoles him but does not look up.Birds flood the sky above the beach and sprinkle droppings on the tourists. A red stag springs from the forest and kicks up sand as it stops and looks back. It is not frightened by the people. Another deer joins it and they stare into the woods.The honeymooning couple notices the deer and smiles. She takes photos and cherishes the memory. He comments on how lucky they are to be there together, how beautiful their vacation has been, then how beautiful she is. She smiles and kisses him.Heat swells across the beach. The father urges his wife out of her daydream and folds the umbrella, sweating all over. The boy begs his mother to look so she closes her book and turns around. They see the orange glow between distant tree trunks. She shouts to the other children to immediately return from the tide.The couple scoffs at the shouting woman, infatuated by the wildlife that pours from the woodline. They gawk at the wolves which stand amidst prey but do not strike.Other beachgoers notice the clouds of smoke and stand up to leave. The parking lot swarms with fleeing tourists but the exit is blocked by flames. Angry howls erupt from the cars waiting in line, unaware of their captivity. Screams ensue and people run past their windows to escape the intense heat.The boy pulls the latch of the back car door but the child lock is engaged. His family flees to the sand. His mother is halfway to the ocean when she realizes he is missing. The key fob no longer works.The couple looks at the oncoming blaze and panics. All memory of their joyful travels is forgotten in the frenzy. The husband asks her for her engagement ring.The car overheats and the boy squirms as he bakes. The mother dodges blowing embers and fumbles with the locking mechanism. When she turns the key in the lock, the warped door does not open. The child wilts and closes his eyes. He feels exhausted.The newlywed man yells for the mother to move. He drops the ring on the pavement and crushes it with the sole of his shoe, removing the large diamond from the setting.A tree collapses and crushes another car. The flame height is now taller than the people and licks up trees as its midafternoon snack. The child slumps in the car. Gripping the diamond between his index and middle fingers with the point facing out and his thumb pressed against the faceted top, the man slams his hand into the window.The window shatters into a million glass cubes and spills onto the leather car seats. He accidentally drops the ring into the mess of glass and it disappears. He reaches in and lifts the boy out. The mother cries out in delight and they flee to the water.Fishing boats pull people out of the water and sail to safety.

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Tracy

The boys chortled in the back of the classroom. The teacher shouted at them to be quiet or else they would be sent to the office. They didn’t care. One passed a revealing photograph of one of the girls in class to the other boys. They liked this one, but the teacher snatched it from their hands.She displayed it to all the class, demanding to know how the boys acquired this picture. The girl named Tracy burst into tears because the image was of her. None of the other girls consoled her, but eyed her with disgust.The boys glanced at one another and did not say. None of them took the photo. The teacher selected the boy with whom she found the image and sent him to the office despite his pleas of innocence. The other boys wiped their brows and grinned at one another.Chiming sounded the end of class and the boys scampered to the door. The teacher eyed Tracy, then sat and graded homework.The girls chatted in the halls.Tracy shuffled out of the room to the waiting circle of boys. They were always there at the end of school. Always there for her. She hung her head and handed them another photo. They crowded around it, excitement melting into disappointment.“Too similar,” one whined.“It’s not good enough,” another said.
She hugged herself and dreamed of talking with the other girls.“Don’t be a wimp. There’s no need to cry,” the first jibed. “You just look kinda ugly in this one. Not enough skin.”The other boys mumbled their agreement, surrounding her. Tracy covered her face so they couldn’t see her tears, until they shoved her against her cold locker door, which closed and pinched her arm. She sank to the floor and buried her face in her knees as the boys jeered. One of them kicked her in the side and she sprawled out.The teacher called for the throng to disperse and leave school. Tracy stood and pretended that nothing happened to avoid another suspension.Feminine voices laughed together down the hall, without her. Always without her.

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Co-ed Soccer

The referee whistles and the co-ed soccer teams retreat off the field. Boys and girls swarm the bench and guzzle water from plastic bottles. The coach proffers banana halves and reminds them to throw away their garbage. Between deep breaths, the players chat about the game. Despite the score, they laugh, because winning does not matter. They have lost every game this year, but have always done so together. The hot summer sun dries their sweat as they bask in the warmth of exercise and camaraderie.The coach rallies them for a half-time speech focused on the positive plays as opposed to the six goal deficit. The striker cracks a joke and the whole team bursts out laughing, even the coach. He urges the boys and girls to have fun, which earns exuberant nods.The second half starts, and the players run around the field for half an hour. They lose the game, but none of them care. They lose every week, but always have each other. The referee whistles and the soccer teams retreat off the field.

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Old Pages

Sunlight glittered off droplets of water recently spilled. An old letter lay open on the desk, soaking up the drips. Open windows whisked warm wind through the room, carrying bird songs and the rustling of leaves. A woman sat and stared out at the rolling countryside, breathing softly. Cows grazed in fenced off meadows. A pond sparkled with little white waves at the hill’s bottom.Sweet magnolia fragrance wafted in from the tree adjacent to the window, a gentle reminder of childhood summers when she played tag with her friends in the lawn. The wind puffed up the floral curtains, which drifted back against the wall like a peeping ghost. A quill pen rocked in the dry inkwell, spent on messages lost in a foreign grave.Thumping feet echoed down the hall, followed by giggling children. The woman stood and exited the room, drawn away by responsibility. The tears dried on the old letter, wrinkling the paper and smudging the ink, forever promising her a man who would never come home. Forever warping those old pages.

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A Sliver of Sky

Sweat condensed on the man’s wrinkled forehead. Beads trembled, creeping into streaks down his stained cheek. The droplets trembled on his chin for a moment before flinging out of the white electric glare. Every third drip splashed on his clenched hands, sliding in between interlocked fingers. The salt water and grease wobbled on the knob of his second knuckle, finally falling to the cold stone floor.The white electric light blinked as a shadow crossed in front of the rectangular overhead lights outside the cell. The man did not look up at the clanging, but sat quietly on the concrete bed support, poised and unmoving.A face glanced in the window, then down at the controls. The door blared and slid open, revealing a tall, fat man in uniform.“Come on, buckaroo. It’s your lucky day,” the warden growled. He clapped the man on the back and shoved him into the hallway. Plexiglass slits in doors lined the hallway, with sets of eyes peeking out to watch the disturbance.The man shuffled down the corridor while staring at the floor. He rubbed the long scab on his left arm, breaking off a bit and causing it to bleed. Clang, clang, clang, went the officer’s boots behind him. At the end, they entered an office labeled “superintendent.”“Sit down,” the gruff man commanded, circling the desk and plopped into a rolling chair. The man inched into the room, and lowered himself onto the small steel folding chair across from the warden. Pictures of other officers lined the walls above various trinkets and trophies.He craned his neck to see through a small window that let in sunlight. Outside, he saw a sliver of bright blue sky and puffy white clouds. It looked like a warm day out there.“It seems the jury finally decided on your case. Only took ‘em three weeks.” The warden opened a file and sifted through papers. The man’s picture stared up from one of them. He selected a certain page and realigned the sheets. “I have to say, I thought you were a rotten murderer. Turns out, some things can still surprise me.”He picked up a stamp and slammed it onto the paper. The fat man rotated the page and slid it toward the prisoner.“Officer Payton will drive you into town. Pray to God that you never see me again.”In bold blue letters was a single word.Released.

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“Do you think Christmas is going to be better this year?” I whisper to my mom, hoping the slouched figure in the next room doesn't hear. I doubt he will, but I lower my voice just in case.

“I don’t know,” she says back, shaking her head slightly without looking up from the cutting board. She heaps chunks of butternut squash into a metal mixing bowl, the reflective surface tarnished by vegetable blood. The yellow-orange squash cubes rumble into one another, bouncing with muted thuds. Stray skin peppers the marble countertop, thin shavings haphazardly collected in the rush to get dinner on the table.

I watch in silence for a while as she finishes the cuts and tosses the contents of the bowl into a pot on the stove. Mango-mac is our dinner tonight—a nickname given by a friend of mine who had never seen a butternut squash. Or maybe he wasn’t thinking when he spoke. Either way, the name stuck.

The meal was one of my favorites. My siblings and I all wanted mac and cheese and my mom wanted us to eat vegetables, so this was the compromise. The cheesy, gooey sauce mixed in with the macaroni hid the squash well.

As time went by the flavor of it grew less delicious. Perhaps it was because I’d tried more types of mac and cheese, or maybe it was because my taste buds had changed—I heard they could as I got older. But the tasty cheese now has an aftertaste that I know was there all along, a tangy, tart undertone that reminds me of soap.

A cheer erupts from the living room. It’s a quick bark, then a shallow laugh. I look over and see my grandpa sitting in the faded green armchair, his wrinkled fist raised in the air. The skin on his arm is purple and brown, but I know it’s not just liver spots. The effects of his recent fall didn’t want to heal.

“Let’s go, mister!” he cries to the television screen, pointing at a figure that the camera has chosen to follow. He’s watching the Kansas City Chiefs win the superbowl against the San Francisco 49ers for the millionth time, but he doesn’t mind. He thinks it's live. He doesn’t remember watching on Sunday with me while we ate vanilla ice cream with too much chocolate syrup. He put peanuts in his bowl, trying to convince me to do the same.

He likes Patrick Mahomes, the quarterback for Kansas City, and he says his name every time the back of his jersey is close enough to read. I wonder sometimes why he likes Mahomes. He says he’s the new superstar, that he can throw the ball like nobody else. That’s true enough. I’ve watched every game from last season with him a dozen times.

But I think it’s more than that. Mahomes represents something that Grandpa doesn’t have. It’s not just youth or fame, it’s not money or a girlfriend. I don’t actually think my grandfather can recognize those words anymore, let alone understand the intricate cultural meanings bound within the American dream that seems to slip farther away from him every day.

Patrick Mahomes is passing on a legacy. His stats, his wins, the records he’s breaking. People will remember him for a generation or two. His name will be forever written in the NFL Hall of Fame book, until history decides football doesn’t matter anymore, or until the world ends.

In some twisted way, Grandpa believes that what Mahomes does really matters. It matters to him because in his elderly state, he can’t do the same. Every day, he sits in front of the television, reliving the excitement of a new football game, a faint memory tickling the back of his mind telling him that something is wrong, but he doesn’t know what.

I watch him for a while, then I sigh, turning away. I motion through my disc golf swing, pretending to throw a frisbee through the large window pane. I’m waiting for dinner, knowing that it’s still fifteen minutes away. It’s not enough time to do anything. My eyes drift into the backyard as the imaginary disc dodges between our two trees, an inch of white layered on the dead branches. The faint outline of the trampoline in the back corner of the fence is barely visible in the darkness.

I do the motion again, and I realize that I’m standing on the other end of life from my Grandpa. I still hold the imaginary disc in my hand, its path laid out before me in my mind. My hopes are high for what my life could become. College, trade school, freelance work. Maybe I’ll be a carpenter. I think I’d like that.

Sooner or later, my life will be on a course that I did not expect. Then I’ll land somewhere, just like my grandpa, looking back on what could have been.

“Can you set the table?” my mom asks, moving the pot to a trivet on the marble island. “Dinner is almost ready. And can you go get your father?”

I mumble an affirmative, shuffling behind Grandpa’s armchair. My socks slide on the hardwood floors as I skate past him, turning around the wall to the old-fashioned bureau. I take out four mismatched Peruvian placemats and gray cloth napkins. I lay them out on the tall dining table and fetch forks and knives, even though I know I won’t use the knife. Grandpa will need to.

I dash up the stairs and poke my head in my parents room, signaling to my dad that dinner is ready. He gives me a thumbs up and takes his headphones out, then I’m out the door and scrambling back to the kitchen.

“Grandpa, dinner is ready,” I say.

He chuckles, turning to me. “Did you see that?” he asks, pointing at the television.

“No,” I lie, deciding in a split second that it is better to let him explain it than to tell him I already know. “What is it?”

“Him, that man, the-the-the gumbleshog,” he says, fumbling with the words.

“The quarterback?”

“Yeah, he…” He acts out the throw with his hands, whistling as his finger trails a ball flying in the air. “Right on the guy.”

I smile, knowing he’s talking about Patrick Mahomes’s pass to Sammy Watkins Plate in the fourth quarter. I know it without even looking.

“C’mon, Grandpa. Dinner is ready.”

He chuckles again, turning back to the game, my words not registering in what’s left of his mind. I tap his shoulder and motion for him to stand, repeating the words.

“Oh! Dinner is ready?” he asks, leaping to his feet. In his excitement, he shoves hard on the chair and it slides backward. He teeters, reaching for something to steady himself. Before he falls, I put a hand on his shoulder and push him upright.

I line up after him and he hands me a plate. Today is a good day for him. I hope it lasts through the holidays. I doubt it will. He doesn’t do well with lots of people, especially my grandma. He is like a child again, expecting more and more gifts, becoming less and less satisfied with them. That was what it was like last year when he still remembered our names.

“Ooh. It’s warm,” he comments, grinning at me. I nudge him forward, my stomach grumbling. I can’t wait to eat.

We serve the mango-mac and a honey glazed ham that my mom bought from Costco. We take our seats, and my mom calls out for my dad, who clomps down the stairs. His familiar footfalls are always a little late for dinner, matched by the surge of a flushing toilet. He rushes to the table to say grace before he serves his own food. He doesn’t want to make us wait.

After the prayer, I take a bite of the mango-mac. The flavor is faded, soured by the bitter aftertaste that I can’t help but notice. I shake salt and pepper onto the cheesy casserole, then I take the hot sauce proffered by my dad and dump it on too. It helps cover up the blandness. The meal has lost its shine, its luster. It’s a lesser version of what it used to be.

Just like my grandpa.

Just like how I will be one day.

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I walked from Anfang to Ziel by way of the old underground paths. The dreadful days of hiking have been of much consequence to me in the years since, wearisome as it was. Though I bear no physical marks from the journey, my soul is marked with scars of onerous purpose.I began my journey with nothing but a walking stick and a backpack of preserved foodstuffs. I headed west toward Ausruhen and walked alone for two days in the underground. Those hours ticked quickly away in excitement for the journey. It was the beginning of a long road, but the start is always the best part.My companion came in the form of a squirmy lawyer named Verloren with a slicked back hairdo. His nervous posture constantly reminded me of his mistrust, though he denied any such feelings. He was a bratty fellow with a well-built gut to last him.He reluctantly shared why he was travelling to Traum, something regarding his dead son and a memorial service he didn’t want to attend. That was all I could gather. Perhaps my demands were too incessant to construct a proper friendship, but I think he was never intending to be friends. Still, I hoped he would share. We would be spending the next sixty days in each other’s company.I gave great effort to remain indifferent about his sour attitude during the trip. His sarcastic sense of humor spoiled any sense of good conversation, as did his inability to meet my eyes as we walked.I met him near the train station at Hier. I was standing up from a rest and a snack when I noticed him walking near me in the darkness. His shuffling presence wasn’t frightening, rather it was saddening. I beckoned him to join me as I trod and I asked him of his destination. In a few terse words, he stated his goal to reach Traum before two months passed.His brusk spirit made me silent for the first few miles. He did not yet say what was in Traum nor why he must arrive before the two months were up until after our first few days together.I pondered my own destination and arrival. I am somewhat embarrassed to admit a lack of purpose in my quest. I could have taken the train, just as Verloren could have. And yet there we were, trudging through sodden train lines.Our suffering feet distracted us from each other. Most comments that we made were negative reflections on the old underground paths. The lack of upkeep was apparent in the sputtering electric lights and black puddles drowning the rusted rails. Walking with wet feet has always been my least favorite endeavor.By the end of our first day together we had blisters on our feet and fresh food in our minds. We found an old diner in a collection of closed shops. The crone at the register was kind despite her repugnant features, and she welcomed us into her home for the night.I’m not convinced Verloren would have stopped if I weren’t with him, but once our bellies were full his demeanor changed to a tired, pleasant smile.In the morning, we woke up early to the old woman's alarm and made quick work of her breakfast. Then we started walking again.I asked him what was in Traum that lured him there, and why he elected to walk the great distance instead of riding the train. It cost him two months' time and although the kind lady hadn’t charged us for the food and stay, I knew the price tag on this trip would be far greater than any train ticket.

He had an old friend in the city who would take him in. He said he didn’t know what to do with his life and he didn't want to pay the train fare. That of course was not a real reason. I pressed further to find that he was burdened by a great sorrow. This trek through the forgotten country he hoped would give him direction in his life.He clamped his jaws shut when I asked about his sorrow. I don’t know if it was ignorance or pride that stayed his tongue, but he kept it behind his teeth no matter what I did.Whatever cast itself upon his mind surely, I determined, was not my business.Our trek was long that second day together. With old friends, too much time together consumes every topic of conversation. With us, the youthfulness of our relationship and the exhausting uphills kept us from speaking at all. Scant words passed my lips as a matter of direction, but that was all.Walking alone is a prime breeding ground for fostering thoughts. It was easy to let my eyes drift along the old tunnel walls and the dangling plants that clung to them. The light from my lantern gave a white electric cast like a movie screen turned on too late at night. Two tracks snaked through the wilderness here, lichen growing on them in patches. I imagined the builders from a century past carving through the rock to connect these few remote towns.A flicker of nervousness passed through me as I realized the danger of walking these paths, should a train come barreling through. A faint light approached slowly down the corridor, or rather we approached it. I had the sudden feeling that if a train advanced on us, its speed and distance would give no indication which track it took.But they were unused for ages. I knew that as a child. The light came from another traveler who sat against the wall. He muttered a salute and I returned it, asking which direction he journeyed. He was traveling the opposite way, so we did not stop.One can only look at stone walls for so long before the mind wanders to other things. I thought about my home and how much I already missed it. My cozy apartment on Main Street called to me, now such a long distance behind me.Places become so far away when all one has to do to get there is pay a small fee and wait a short time. I spent much of my childhood in the great city of Alles. Overwhelming multicolored lights and the sounds of electric bikes zooming through the streets epitomize its busy culture. I remembered watching animated advertisements through the glass of the candy shop window, swallowing my saliva and drinking in the pretty sight.I thought about my own reason for trekking this route. I too could have taken the train. I too could easily have paid the charge and would have arrived in Ziel within the first day of travel.But I hadn’t left to get there quickly. I informed my master before leaving that it might take me a few months. I started walking from Anfang because I wanted to think and be somewhat alone for a long time.And I had plenty of time to think. Perhaps too much. I look at it now and see the total purposelessness to the adventure. If I wanted time to think, I would have made time for it in the first place. This was the first conclusion of my journey.It takes the soul out of a man to realize that he walks for no reason. Only now I had to walk for walking’s sake, or else I would consign myself to a slow death in the underbelly of the world. Deep depression washed over me.

On the fifth day together, I shared my sorrow with Verloren. He laughed at my stupidity but he thanked me for the company, silent as it was most of the time. His words were of little comfort to me, but his presence was enough.We came to an empty train station at the edge of the city of Kreuzung and laid down our packs and rested on the concrete platform with our legs dangling over the tracks. The two tracks branched in a dozen directions with no indication of their destinations. The overgrown paths bore no tracks or footprints for us to follow, only soft mosses and the steady dripping of a leaking pipe.Verloren poked about the abandoned terminal for leftover rations or any trace of humanity. He returned with a few strips of pork jerky in a bag and an armful of expired soup cans. He informed me of an earthquake fissure across the main road to the city of Kreuzung that blocked any travel that way. I didn't realize the city was so close, even though we could not go there.Many of the train tracks were filled with rubble from previous collapses but a few were clear. The broadest one had both tracks bending in a shallow descent and the remnants of previous adventurers left along the walls. Down it, I noticed glowing fireflies and a soft humming that sweetly echoed up the tunnel. It was the seductive tune of sleep and an overplenty of pastries that lull the mind and body into a satisfied half-smile with drooping eyes. Down that road I knew was the town of Versuchen, where all are welcome to stay but few to leave.My dear companion looked long and hard down that way. He stumbled forward into its depths as he peered, all the while claiming he just wanted to look. As he lurched toward the wavering light, I shouted to cover the sounds and closed my eyes and yanked him back to the safety of the right path. I scolded him for his ignorant manner and demanded of him at that moment to decide which way he would travel and to commit to it. He looked with a far off expression at the comfort of Versuchen just beyond the bend, but then he sighed and nodded and agreed to continue to his initial destination.It was this that finally opened his mouth to the true nature of his course.The last path open to us was the one we took. Scratched writing on the wall indicated the length of our forthcoming hike. Forty-two days down this narrow, winding tunnel would become the most memorable experience of our lives, for good or ill.This route separated from the train tunnels into irregular terrain. Rocks and boulders crowded the tunnel, not from the collapsing ceiling but lack of use. We hiked by the white light of my dying lantern and the occasional glow of bioluminescent lichen.He told me of his son who died ten months prior of a terminal heart condition. The boy’s heart failed due to an irregular heartbeat after years of admissions into the hospital and resuscitations. The disease left him weak all his life and in need of constant support from nurses and aides.Verloren’s fondest memory was the boy’s wide smile and sparkling eyes. His tricky attitude uplifted those around him despite his ineptitude at completing a prank. For the first time, my companion actually smiled when he described his son’s demeanor.

I asked why he lived so far away from the memorial, for a sixty day walk is not small even by hover car or train. I caught him in a forthright mood because he didn’t cut short his tale with silence, rather he wept about his divorce and the regret he bore from abandoning his boy to the care of a heartless and impoverished woman. His son didn’t receive excellent medical attention because his wife was too poor.In my heart I cursed Verloren and his lifestyle of greed. His lawyer's mind surely knew the legal requirements of a separated husband in support of the child. And surely his lawyer’s purse knew how to acquire the best goods in every category. This man was so selfish that his desire to pursue riches outweighed his ability to love his own son. I abhored myself for such incompetent selection in companions. The sleazy lawyer was despicable.My bitterness locked my teeth together until we fatigued to the point of sleep. We sidled into a gap in the cave wall and warmed ourselves with our breath. It took me long to fade to the darkness because my mind spun about Verloren’s purpose for the hike. I understood well that he was no saint, but I could not grasp why a man with money would waste weeks traveling by foot.I dwelt upon my own purpose, that which I had initially lost. I found contentment in the certainty that my expedition was no waste. I learned much from my companion, much about whom I hated in the world, whom I wished never to become. Perhaps this was my true purpose, to learn more about the evils of mankind. This little comfort put my mind at ease and let me rest.In the morning we snacked on the remains of the soup with mild fear of food poisoning. We had no option but to consume the contents of the ancient cans.We hiked for days without discussion. Words became to me an acquaintance with whom I had not engaged for a while and they slipped my mind. I thought not in speech and tongue but with a vivid imagination of images and sounds, for I became a creature of eyes and ears.The rough stones proved uninteresting in the dull white light of my lantern, with no scenery to break up the dreary trek. One time in fifteen days we uncovered a large cavern filled with luminescent vines and a steady river of water. We bathed and ate cavern fruit until our time in the oasis was finished. I gazed at its beauty, locked far away from civilization for the eyes of but a few wanderers.My mind was made regarding my companion’s character and I wondered what value existed in any company at all. Our silence resembled solitude so closely that I felt as if I were alone despite his presence. Perhaps my purpose was instead to learn that no companion is suitable for me or for anyone, that the whistling of one’s own mouth and the beat of one’s own feet is enough.Verloren broke the silence with a guilty admission. He didn’t want to go to Traum for fear of his previous wife. He was afraid and ashamed to see her. Without pity I scoffed and declared that whatever penalty came upon him was well deserved for I had never met someone so rapacious that he neglected his own son. My words struck deep within him for he did not lash back in wrath as I expected, but he stewed for a minute. Then in a quiet voice he continued his story.He was not the horrid man that I believed as he supported his son for quite a while. He visited when possible, though less frequently over the years, until he learned how his money was being spent on the mother’s alcohol addiction. He resented her for the waste, but resented himself more for believing she changed.

I interrupted him to ask why the money wasn’t delivered straight to the hospital to circumvent her. He said at times it was, but his realization arrived too late to kindle hope for his son’s survival. I apologized for my harsh comment and reflected upon my own arrogance to neglect the whole story. He smirked and continued to share.His wife had always loved the drink too much. Even before they were wed, she frequented pubs and laid waste to her sobriety. The bouts of drunken stupor diminished in their early marriage, but returned with force after their son was born. Verloren described in anguish how he longed for her to change but was lost as to how. He wished for the woman back whom he loved, not the wavering shadow he saw.I walked ahead of my companion for most of the journey, so he did not see my tears spilling for his sorrowful experience. My blurry eyesight misled my feet and I stumbled down a ragged slope. Sharp rocks sliced my skin and in a moment I lay in a groaning heap at the bottom of the hill. My body was not broken, but I banged my head during the tumble and could not think properly.My companion rushed down to me, though far slower than my descent. He took care not to cast himself to the same end as I, but rolled me over and tended to my wounds with a grin at my foolery. He thought, I assumed, that my tears were of pain wrought from the fall, so I let him believe it.We stayed a while quietly in that place. He had grown a liking to me and refused to depart and leave me alone, perhaps because he saw more clearly that my injuries were mild. In my memory, my body ached like it was crushed by an avalanche.Our supply of water was dwindling, but a well was due on our path. After a day I struggled to my feet and we set off. Next to the well we found a carven house in the wall of the tunnel but it was empty for the moment. Telltale signs of life surrounded the house so we did not enter, but we sat on the step and pondered who might dwell so far from civilization. The quantity of candles in the gated porch indicated a chandler of sorts, but an odor of pig slop lurked in the aftertaste.It turned out to be an old man dressed all in checkered rags with ancient spectacles and well worn pig leather shoes. He scowled at us but beckoned us to follow him into the home and poured us tea and fed us biscuits. The house was poorly decorated with relics from a century past, faded film images, and obsolete tools that he clearly still used. He was a farmer by trade, but for such an isolated man all skills were his. His weathered skin bore scars from more than farming but neither of us dared to ask him what caused them.He, on the other hand, freely inquired of our journey. Naturally his position as host in a strange place made him question why two strangers walked the unused road. Verloren’s lips resealed and he shared nothing of his mourning or his contention with his previous wife. I correctly hoped that his vulnerability would return once we were alone again.I shared of my mentor and my learning in the program of mental self-application. I learned art and literature and science and geology. Every area of study was my field to plow and I dedicated myself to intense education. I wrote essays on botany and technology for the university, I assisted in the formulation of laws regarding ecology and ethics, and I created sculptures housed in the great museums of the world.Verloren balked at my accomplishments, but the old man chuckled and shook his head and asked me a question I could not answer. He asked me why I pursued these things. I shrugged and opened my mouth to express their importance, but my retort died in my heart. Here I walked through the unknown territories with nothing to show for my work.

I don’t doubt he believed that I had done as I said, but I could not formulate a reason for my academic and moral striving. It was simply the direction I went.He clapped me on the shoulder and bade us welcome to rest until our feet regained their strength. Dinner was a roasted pork leg and sauteed greens with no seasoning. My appetite fled me and I ate nearly nothing until the next morning when we left.We left the old farmer with full canteens and rations aplenty. I counted fourteen days remaining until we reached Ziel where my companion would continue on to Traum. The complaining surprised me, for after a rest and a hot meal, he felt that he deserved much better accommodations than a stone mattress and jerky for supper. Listening was difficult when my opinion was so contrary to his because our circumstances were exactly as before.He excused his behavior because of his wretched affliction of insomnia. Even before he left his home he could not sleep. Before he became a lawyer, back in his childhood he developed the condition and it never left. His wife’s anger stimulated by the excess alcohol burned late into each night and many nights he wouldn’t rest a wink. He preferred work to home life to escape her tormenting voice, even though he didn’t see his son. Divorce was the best solution.I implored him to divulge why he didn’t fight for time with his son after the separation and his reasoning was simple. His life was required at the law firm day in and out. Life could not exist for him and his son together because he had filled it completely. Verloren admitted this as his deepest regret and I did not hold it against him, for he already bore the weight of his mistake.Near the end of our journey, we reached more railways and enjoyed flat and easy ground. These tracks were clear with many still in use, but the fenced walkway along the wall was wide enough for us to stroll shoulder to shoulder and remain safe from any trains.I understood at that moment what my purpose was to trek such a great distance. Though I learned much of my fellow man and understood the deep complexity within him, I found this comparable to my own experience. Both of us set our minds so firmly on the things of the present that we neglected that of the future. In desiring to fulfill the demands of what lay in front of our eyes, we failed to see beyond to the purpose of it all.I suppose I got what I wanted. I sought time away from the city to slow down and think about life, but this that I sought I discovered to be necessary at all times. Just as a journey without purpose is worthless, so a life without purpose is meaningless, no matter the achievements or mistakes it includes.I urged Verloren to return to me after the memorial in Traum, but he said he must attempt to reconcile with his wife. It seemed his convictions were as strong as mine. We parted ways with sorrow and deep breaths, then he was out of sight.In the days following my journey I abandoned the mentoring program not because it was unhelpful or disinteresting, but because it had no purpose. Instead I dedicated myself to the pursuit of purpose in hopes that my life may be of some value.

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Once upon a time, there was a boy named Gerald who lived by the waterfalls and whose best friend was a rock. He ate meals with his family and did his chores on time, then passed the time with his rock and gave it all of his attention. He washed it and hugged it, carrying it with him wherever he went. While he fed the dogs or swept the kitchen, he spoke to the rock. Day and night he shared his feelings with it.The rock listened patiently. It never interrupted him, and when Gerald was feeling sad, it whispered sweet things to elevate his mood. Sometimes the boy would ask him questions of life and love, or whatever else was on his mind. Every time, the rock answered to the best of its ability, asking the other stones for answers it did not know.Gerald’s family ridiculed him for his care for the rock. “You have no friends!” they said.“The rock is my friend. It cares about me,” he replied.“It doesn’t care about you, for it is just a rock,” they insisted.But he objected again, “The rock listens to me and how I feel and you do not. Does it not care about me more than you do? It helps me when I’m confused, and guides me when I’m lost. You laugh and do not care. So does the rock not love me more than you do?”The family was stubborn but had no argument remaining, so they simply said, “It is not right for a boy to care so much for a rock!”Gerald loved his family, but they did not understand. He thought to himself that, surely, there were other boys like him who were friends with a rock. They would understand! So he set it upon himself to leave in search of those like him. He told his family that he would return, that the rock would lead him on his journey. With bags stuffed full, he departed into the quiet wood.The trail was long, but he was determined. Not many people lived near the waterfalls, so he walked for days until he crested a hill and came upon a little town. An old man sat on his wooden porch overlooking the road and rocked in his chair. Gerald spotted him from afar and dashed to him to show him the rock.“Look!” he said. “My rock speaks to me. It tells me where to go. I talk to it and it listens to me. Is this not a wonderful thing?”“It sounds useless,” the old man said. “How do you know that it is pointing you in the right direction?”“Well, it is a rock,” the boy reasoned. “Rocks do not lie. Men are not trustworthy and trees misguide, but surely my rock knows the land.”“But say, then, that you lose your rock. How then will you find your way?” the man asked. He smiled a wicked thing at the boy’s rising terror.Gerald shook his head and stamped his foot. “I will never be without it. I’ll make certain that I never lose sight of my rock. Say, do you know of other boys who talk to rocks? I very much wish to find them.”“Yes. Down the road is the city. There you will find others,” the old man said and pointed along a dark path through the woods.Gerald thanked him and gripped his rock tightly for fear that the man’s theory may come to pass. Along he ran, for time he did not want to waste. Into the woods he dared to trek, though never had he traveled such a distance before.The road was long and the sun had set. The rock whispered encouragements to him, how wonderful it would be once he found the others. It warmed his heart has he clutched it during the frigid nights.

At last, after many days of walking, Gerald spotted the city. Huge walls circled rows of stone buildings, bigger than any he had seen before. He knew that this was the place, for the rock told him it was here.He walked up to the gate and called to the steel-capped guard atop it. “Let me in!” he shouted.“If I let you in, I cannot let you leave,” the guardsman said. “For none who enter are permitted to exit.”“Do the boys who talk to rocks live here? I wish to speak with them.”“Yes, they do. This is their city, but you must enter to speak to them.”Gerald did not want to be trapped behind the huge walls, but the rock urged him forward. This was his true home, it told him. These people would understand. So Gerald agreed and the guard opened the gate.The quiet streets brimmed with rocks of many sizes, stacked in heaps beside doorways and underneath windows. A few ashen faced boys sat amidst the stones with eyes fixated on the rocks in their hands. Their stones were beautiful, glittering with various colors and patterns.None of them noticed him enter, so he skipped up to the first said, “I am one of you. Look, I talk to my rock.”The other boy did not respond, so Gerald tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. The boy shied away from him as from a beast and his lips quivered, but still he did not utter a word. Gerald stretched out his hand to offer a handshake, but the boy scampered into a house and shut the door.How odd, Gerald remarked. No explanation came to mind for the stranger’s behavior, so he inquired of his rock. But the rock did not respond to his request as in days past. It demanded that he look into its depths and gaze upon its strata lines, promising to show him pleasing things. Indeed, the rock was beautiful, and it said many soothing things.He shook himself from his stupor and scolded the rock for distracting him from his goal. He wanted to find someone who understood him and his companion. Surely he could confide in one of these boys, unlike with his family.Gerald found another boy and asked him, “Do you have a rock?”“Of course I do! I live in the city of rocks. Everyone here has rocks to keep them company.”“How many are there of you?”“Many,” the boy said. “I do not know how many.”“Can you take me to the others?” he asked.The boy looked down in shame and muttered, “I do not know the others. I know only my rock.”“But you live with them! How do you not know them?” he demanded.“They are not my friends. My rock is my friend.”Gerald decided that these boys were not normal. He wanted to find normal people like himself, so he set off to the center toward the tall city hall building. More boys sat silently on the cobbles and stared at their rocks. He marched past them and up the steps to find whoever governed the city.Three smiling old men stood in a circle inside, turning to him and beckoned him closer. “Come, young lad. You are new. What is your name?”

“Gerald,” he said. “What is wrong with other boys outside?”“Wrong? We see nothing wrong.”“They have no friends but their rock! They do nothing but stare!”“And what is wrong with that?” they asked.Gerald could not say, so he asked his rock for the answer. It said that nothing was wrong with them, for they were happy and healthy, like every boy should be. He could be too, if he stayed for a while.“He sees much,” one said.“Yes, too much,” said another.“We need more stones,” said the third.“To the furnace then,” the first agreed.Gerald backed away, holding the rock close to his heart. Now he saw their sinister plan and feared what pain they must inflict upon him. He ran to the gates and implored the guard to let open the way. The iron clad man did not move, so Gerald climbed to the top of the wall.“You are not allowed to leave,” the guardsman finally said, grabbing his arm and holding on so that he could not get away.“I must!” Gerald said, thinking of a way out. “I must tell others of this place so that many will come to look upon the rocks.”The guard thought for a moment, then nodded. He lowered him down the wall and set him free on the other side. Gerald fled into the forest in a panic. His feet ached from so many days of walking, but he dared not stop. Into the brush, he dashed, as far away from the city of rocks as he could. His lungs burned, and before long he stopped in a gully to catch his breath. Trees and leaves blocked his vision behind and ahead.He gripped his rock and begged it to guide him, but it only directed him back to the city of rocks. Fear crept up his spine, followed by anger. He was lost in the woods without a path and his rock was useless. It did not want him to go home, but back to the city. Gerald begged and begged, but it responded with the same cool tone, telling him the wrong way home.He realized that he was wrong all along. The boy in the city did not know those with whom he lived, yet neither had Gerald when he lived by the waterfall. The rock had consumed all of his relational desire. The rock did not care about him. It did not want the best for him, but for itself.The old man in the little town knew where he was because he did not rely on a stupid rock to lead him. Now Gerald was alone in the forest with no clue how to get home. He pitied himself for his foolishness. After all, who would choose a rock to guide them?As he huddled in the dark forest, he knew quite suddenly that it was his own fault. Though his family did not listen or care, they were not to blame, just as the old man was not to blame. The rock too had not erred, for it had accomplished its purpose by leading Gerald to the city of rocks.It was his own fault for following the rock that was his friend.

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Naia’s boots squished on the ground as she walked across the cursed swamp. The swamp itself wasn’t cursed, but the city that lay beneath it was. Nobody scavenged here for fear of ghosts or beasts. Or Avirin’s retribution, if you believed he existed, she thought. The muddy ground disguised the tops of buildings, remnants of an age long past. Naia splashed reddish-brown mud on her trousers as she trudged toward a particularly promising cluster of buildings.

The red mud saturated everything in this city. The buildings were submerged in the thick sludge, years upon years of deposition from the Flood. The mud piled higher than the flat rooftops by a few inches, disguising the city as a swamp. A treacherous swamp to the unsuspecting visitor.

Naia trotted through the center of the mudflats, eyes flitting between the ground and the exposed buildings up ahead. She had trekked up to the city a handful of times, but her last trip was fresh in her mind. She had been scavenging on the eastern side of the city when she fell into a flooded building full of blood spores. She had barely made it back to town before collapsing from the blood loss.

Today, she was extra careful. She knew what to look for, the shallow dimples over roofs, the streaks in the mud. Streaks were the safest place to walk, trails left by the fleeing Flood. Or by sympathetic ghosts.

Perhaps the reason folks thought that the city was cursed was from its lack of flora. All across the open marsh, Naia could only see patches of redweed and the occasional stalk of waterwort. Nothing dangerous, not from the plants at least. Hopefully she wouldn’t find anything dangerous today. To her left and right, a forest of waterwort enclosed the city, a dense wall of fibrous straws. It looked like it kept people in, instead of keeping people out. But waterwort was too flimsy to keep anyone anywhere.

She passed an exposed building, filled with murky water. It was a large, fifty foot square, bigger than any house Naia had seen. Whoever lived in the city must have been rich. Or maybe space was abundant before the Flood. It didn’t matter now.

Her shadow passed over the brown water, covering the glare and giving her a glimpse into the hazy darkness. Something flashed under the surface. Maybe. Maybe not. It was probably nothing.

To her, this city represented hope. Not the hope that normal people have. Not the hope to be someone great, who has a powerful destiny. Not that hope. That hope was foolish. Nor was it the hope of success, to change society in a meaningful way. That hope was also foolish, but for a more tragic reason.

No, Naia’s hope was the hope of a poor girl who had expended all other options, who just wanted to eat. It was a gambler’s hope, a hope that she would find something she could trade for dinner. And this city was her last option.

She was a scavenger. She foraged for roots, reeds, and trinkets lost in the Flood. She often found something here. Last time was fishing hooks. The time before was rusty belt buckles. It wasn’t much, but they were usually worth a loaf of bread. Anything metal was valuable to Master Hayward, even if it was rusty.

Now she was on her last loaf of bread, having split one with Wulgrun this morning.

Naia focused on the larger buildings across the swamp. These structures rested at the foot of a steep slope, the walls jutting out of the hillside. These buildings were taller than the others, or at least their shapes stretched higher. The old walls were barely visible amidst the reddish-brown muck, faint bricks outlining its edges.

She imagined the city as it would have been in its glory days, wide arrays of stone buildings, spires that pierced the sky. People shouting in the streets between buildings. They were laughing. Some were arguing.

From her handful of trips to the cursed city, she had developed a decent picture of the landscape. She was on the southern side, where it was mostly flat. The city limit wasn’t far behind her, right up against downslope. The hill in front of her wrapped all the way from the west to the east, with a gash on the western side. The fissure guarded a path that led up to the western clefts, where the buildings were elevated, carved into the sides of a great canyon.

The buildings increased in size the closer to the center they became. It was easier to tell on the eastern side of the giant hill. She had never climbed the hill, not successfully at least, but she could see verdant growth at the top. The hill covered the center of the city, hiding the biggest secrets. Naia only got the smallest glimpse of ancient history. It was more than most people knew.

The buildings that she was approaching must have been uncovered recently, hopefully in the Pull fourteen days ago. She hadn’t seen them last time, though it had been a few cycles. She liked the taller buildings. Though she couldn’t explain it, they tended to be dry inside. Dry meant treasure. A set of sewing pins, or a tin water canister. Maybe a set of stone tools, if she was lucky. If there was any moisture inside, all she would find was dust.

Once, the fear of ghosts kept her from the city. Well, fear of Mother. Mother threatened to beat her to drippings if she came home with a curse. Or if she came home at all. Mother was afraid of the ancient city. Drunk Mother was terrified of ghosts.

Mother wasn’t interested in providing for Naia and Wulgrun. She traded her wages for alcohol, or sometimes angel pollen. Mother was addicted to getting drunk, Father was addicted to getting high. Only her brother loved her, so she gathered only for him. In trade, he took their parents’ anger, suffering as the scapegoat. Really only Mother’s anger, but it was a fair trade, in Naia’s opinion.

One of the first times that Naia had come home from the cursed city, Wulgrun had claimed that he had gone in her stead. Mother had been so drunk and angry that she tore off part of the wall to beat him.

Naia sighed, not wanting to think about the past. Right now, she needed to find something to trade for food. Her stomach growled at her. Half a loaf of bread wasn’t enough for a trek to the ancient city. Half a loaf of bread wasn’t enough for anything. Hopefully Wulgrun had made enough today at the tar factory. It didn’t pay very much, but it would be something.

Naia had gotten kicked out of the factory for misdemeanors and insolence. Curse them, she thought. It hadn’t always been her flooding fault! The last time the tar barrels spilled was because they hadn’t been sealed properly, not because she had knocked them over. It had cost Puko a fortune, or so he had said. None of them even had a fortune to lose.

The hucum farmers didn’t want her either, but she didn’t know why. Maybe Puko had warned them against her. Flooding glet.

She hesitated. Something was wrong with the buildings. Naia was close enough now to see a large crack splitting the bricks, wide enough for a person to get through. She wiped her sweaty forehead, pushing back her long locks of black hair. The sun was past noon, but there were no clouds to give her shade.

She crept forward, confused. The break in the wall didn’t look like a result of the Pull. The Pull dragged the water away calmly. Relatively calmly, when compared to the Flood. But how could the Pull break a crevice in the clay wall? And if it was the Flood, the whole wall would be destroyed.

Naia sidled up next to the crack in the wall's surface, peering into the dark room. The light shone in the crack, lighting a pile of rotten pulp and clay chunks below. If there had been a second story in this building, it was long gone. She could see nothing else in the darkness.

Darkness was darker for Naia than for most people. For everyone else, their eyes adjusted to the low light levels, making dark things bright, and bright things blinding. But for Naia, her eyes didn’t do that. They never had. She had the same brown eyes as everyone else in town, save for Wulgrun. She was simply cursed. For her, when a room was dark, it was black. Pitch black like the bullfrogs in the south. Taren said he’d met someone with a similar condition before. He called it “night blindness.” The name rang true.

She took off her sac, sitting next to the gap. It was a crude bag, just a few pieces of cloth sewed together. It had a cloth strap for each shoulder, though they had been replaced many times. Naia unwound the small cord that tied the opening shut. She dug her hand in, pulling out a small blazeroot. She was running low on blazeroot as well.

The root was a pale white knot of little fingers, like a ginger. Little black hairs dotted the skin of the blazeroot, the beginning of new growths. She pinched one of these, twisting as quickly as she could. It tore off, leaving a small red dot. The dot expanded and grew, lighting the whole root on fire. It would light the room for about fifteen minutes, before burning out.

Naia lightly tossed her bag through the gap, down to the room below. She dropped the blazeroot down next, then squeezed herself through the gap. She turned, clutching the muddy ledge with both hands and lowering herself to the floor. She dropped the last foot to the stone floor. The gap wasn’t far from the floor, maybe seven feet. Close enough for her to jump and grab the ledge to get out.

Her feet landed in a small puddle, splashing the wall with brown water. A couple puddlings scampered away in the darkness. The slimy creatures were cute, pumping their four stubby legs as fast as they could. They were short and brown, with no tail. All their features were bulbous and round, like spheres. Their oily skin was patterned like a web of water droplets, merging into one another. The puddlings skittered out of sight. The blazeroot only lit so much, especially for Naia’s impaired vision. A couple puddlings weren’t dangerous, so long as there were no floodlings. She did not want to meet one of those beasts.

The room wasn’t very wide, only a dozen feet across. It was the same reddish-brown clay wall. The bricks were large, longer than her forearm. To Naia’s left, the room continued a ways, but she couldn’t tell how far. She could only see about ten feet, but the echoes of fleeing creatures continued much farther.

To her right, there loomed an ancient altar. An enormous face protruded from the wall, mouth and eyes open. Its hair was long and flowy, similar to underwater redweed. The face’s expression was angry, like it was yelling at someone. It looked like a woman, but that was just a guess.

Naia’s heart pounded in her head, excited and terrified. What was this place? She had never come across religious artifacts of the past, let alone a shrine. Or whatever this was. Virinism was the only religion she knew, but she didn’t believe in that silt. Everyone bent their knee to the Flood.

The menacing visage scared her, but the mystery drove her forward. This wasn’t just a thousand-year-old relic, but a glimpse into the past. Who was this god? Who worshiped them? She tiptoed around the crumbling pile of decay to get a closer look, her boots scraping against the ground.

A steady drip thundered in the room. She stepped over to the mouth of the altar, which was so big that it could have engulfed her. It had lost a couple teeth over the past millennia, which was shockingly few. The carved face was made entirely of tarnished bronze, and its eyes glittered emerald green. Can I get one of those jewels out? she wondered. They would be worth a fortune. But the emeralds were embedded underneath a layer of metal, revealed only by a small hole.

Between the locks of hair, Naia spotted a landscape etched into the metal. It was an ocean, with ships sailing and winds blowing. She traced her finger along the lines, feeling the deep gouges.

Naia gasped, covering her mouth. By the roil! She gagged as she saw two bodies laying in the corner, one covered in bright orange blood. One was human, its misty blood had settled on the floor and walls. The other was a strange creature, its blood oddly liquid. She had never come across a body before in all of her adventures. Especially not two, nor one this exotic.

She stepped closer, examining the figures. The creature had blue skin, with fins running up and down its limbs. The skin on its face was stretched, like a small blanket over a tall man. Its hair was not hair, but rather small red branches, sticking straight out of its scalp. It was wearing tattered clothes, stained with its orange blood. Its lanky arms were clamped by a metal claw, the large steel teeth piercing its skin. A spring trap. Some of the other scavengers used them to catch birds and the like. In its bloody, webbed hands, the creature clutched a sword. A dirty, yet rust-free sword.

The man who lay next to the creature was short with a big beard. He had tan, leathery skin, much like her own, from many years spent in the sun. His clothes looked like they were torn long before whatever fight these two had. He was probably some sort of sailor who landed here by accident. Pour soul. May the Flood carry his spirit onward. His blood had already settled on the walls. Vaporous blood usually stayed in the air for about a couple hours, before sinking to the ground.

Whatever happened between the two, their injuries were fresh. The bodies hadn’t been here very long, certainly not buried here for thousands of years. Naia didn’t know what to do. Her instincts told her to leave, but that was a waste of an opportunity. Her people refused to loot corpses, and for good reason. A corpse could carry a curse with it, or its ghost might become an ill-favored companion.

But the creature wasn’t exactly a corpse, was it? It certainly wasn’t human. She heard legends of the Bashian creatures, who lived underwater. Was this one? She inched forward, determined to grab the sword before she left. One this nice would get her and Wulgrun both food for half a cycle. That was valuable during the Highwaters. She wouldn’t be on the brink of death, desperately trying to find a slider to eat.

Naia was terrible at fishing. Wulgrun was better, but neither were very lucky. During the fifteen days of the Highwaters, there was no scavenging, farming, or working in the factory. The hucum tar factory was just south of town, by the farms, and its components were too heavy to float. The two of them had to stockpile food before each Flood. Even when she was hungry, she didn’t want to eat a slider.

Sliders were basically large snails with no shell. They grew from chitin on the underside of the town during the highwaters. They were easy to grab, but eating them made her sick. Eating them made everyone sick. It was always stomach cramps, a mild fever, and a nasty headache. It was enough to make life miserable. Well, more miserable.

With this sword, or even with the spring trap, Wulgrun and she wouldn’t have to worry. The Flood was tonight. Good timing for a great find. She grabbed the end of the sword. She could…

The creature twitched. Its arm shifted, and its eyes opened. Pale green eyes, like a shark. The pupil wasn’t quite the shape of a human's eye, but not a slit either. It was a small black square, with rounded corners and a faint glimmer of life.

Naia scrambled backward, dropping the sword. Her mind was racing. Has it noticed me yet? Its eyes seemed unfocused, jumping around the room. She crouched, trying to use the soggy debris as cover. She slowly crept around it. The creature continued to stir, gurgling from its mouth. More of its liquid blood dripped from between its purple lips, mixing with the puddle on its chest.

Then its eyes met hers.

“Have you come to take the key?” it said in a raspy voice. It coughed, spewing ichor and water across its chin.

Naia said nothing.

“You’ll never find the king's bloodline! Every town you raid is proof of your madness,” the creature spat. Naia didn’t understand. King’s bloodline?

It tried to stand, but its leg was badly broken at the shin, the webbed foot pointed backward. Its toes were long, like fingers, and there were only four of them. It tried to use its arms for balance, but they were restrained. It collapsed back to the ground, gasping in pain. Naia was about to run for the crevice, but she paused. What about the sword? Half a cycle of meals made her stomach growl. The creature’s eyes refocused on her.

“Wait, you're just a girl!” It coughed again, orange blood spraying out this time. Liquid blood. That still baffled her. “Please help me!”

Again, Naia said nothing. What should she say? What could she say?

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just—I want to feel my hands again!” The creature's face looked agonized. She almost wanted to feel pity on it. Almost.

“What did you do to this man?” she demanded. She certainly didn’t want to free it if it would kill her too.

“He tried to capture me. Thinks I’m valuable or something. He got the clamp on before…” It gestured with the sword. It was a weak gesture, its hands barely able to lift it. It winced from the motion.

“Why should I help you? You still killed him, didn’t you? What even are you anyway?” she asked, curiosity getting the best of her. Besides, she might still be able to snag that sword.

“He was hardly innocent. Can’t you see what he did to me? Not to mention his quest to destroy the world.”

Naia stifled a laugh. “Destroy the world? How?”

"They're trying to claim the power of an old god, one who rules the Flood. What would happen if you never knew when the Flood was coming?” The creature hacked up another bout of gooey coughs. He began to wheeze, inhaling quick, shallow breaths.

Naia hesitated. The Flood came at a regular interval every cycle. Fourteen days of land, then the Flood. Fourteen days of sea, then the Pull. Tang was well prepared each cycle. They knew how much time they had to patch the rafts, wall the farms, and mend the ropes. If they didn’t know when it was coming, would they be able to adapt?

But how could someone control the roiling Flood!?! That was a ridiculous goal, especially for a sailor. Or a pirate, if he was raiding towns.

“How did you know about his plan?”

“So many questions,” the creature sighed. “Are you planning on freeing my arms or not?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Decide quickly!” it demanded, growing frantic. “I might still survive, but I certainly won’t like this.” Naia bit her lip. She had no idea how strong this thing was. Would it try to kill her?

“First, give me your sword.”

It sighed again, pushing the sword forward. It scraped against the ground, carving a line in the layer of dirt. She crept forward, not taking her eyes off of the creature. It stared back, its eyes displaying its agony. It coughed again, spraying droplets of blood onto Naia’s outstretched hand. She whipped her hand back, wiping it on her trousers. Yuck!

She grabbed the tip off the sword again, pulling it toward her. She stood, taking hold of the sword by its handle and pointing it at the creature.

“I told you I wasn’t going to hurt you,” it whined. Nevermind what it had said, Naia still didn’t trust it. “You are still going to undo the clamp, right?”

“You gotta answer a few questions first.”

“I already did!”

“You said something about him raiding towns. What was that about?”

“He’s part of a band of pirates who are looking for the old Bashian emperor. Do you know anything about that?” Perhaps this creature was a Bashian. Naia didn’t remember what the legends described. They weren’t very clear, anyway.

“No.” Why would she? Her town, Tang, was in the middle of nowhere. The ruling nation of Dayron was to the northeast, Lord Rozanne was lord over her town. Tang often had visitors from other nations, but none were from the Bashian empire. It was just a legend. There was no Bashian empire, especially not one with strange creatures and a king in her town.

“Well, I’m sorry for you, then. They’ll take your stuff and maybe kill a couple of you for not being cooperative. I imagine your town won’t be if they're anything like you.”

“When?”

“Let me out first, then I’ll tell you.” Dregs, he’s sly. Gave her enough information to need to know more, then bargained with it. Naia bit her lip again.

“Fine, but you have to promise not to run away,” she said.

“You think I can run away with this leg?” She glared at the blue creature. “Fine! I swear it.”

“How do I get you out? You said something about a key.” She didn’t move any closer.

"No, no. There's a ratchet on the bottom that loads the device. If you crank it, it will free me."

Naia shifted forward, doing her best to keep the sword pointed at the creature, but she had to put it down to fiddle with the metal snare. The creature wasn't doing much to help, having no strength left in his arms. Naia lifted its long arms up on her shoulder, accidentally smearing orange blood on her brown tunic. She brushed her fingers along the bottom of the trap, feeling for the ratchet. The entire apparatus was coated in blood, and before long her hands were drenched. She found the crank handle—a small, flat bar—and started winding.

It was discomforting kneeling so close to a dead man. She glanced over more than once to see cold eyes staring at her. She shivered. If she touched him, his spirit would cling to her, tormenting her for helping his enemy.

Naia tried not to think about it, winding the ratchet underneath the creature's arms. The creature was shrieking in pain. It started thrashing, and Naia kept losing her grip on the ratchet. Her fingers were covered in blood.

More than once, she questioned herself, not entirely convinced that freeing the creature was the best move. It was in so much pain! Opening the spring trap seemed to be doing more harm than good.

Yet it had promised to tell her the pirates' plans. She needed to know what they were. The ratchet mechanism clicked in her fingers as she wound it, and the claws slowly released their grip on the blue creature’s arms.

As the spring trap released, more and more blood gushed out of its wounded arms. It covered her arms and formed a puddle around her knees. The creature was gasping for ragged breaths, and its eyes glazed over.

Naia pulled the trap off of its arms, setting it aside with a clatter. On what little skin was showing, she saw criss-crossing cuts on its forearms. In a few places, chunks of flesh flopped over, leaving large cavities in its skin. She stood, picking the sword back up.

“Now, when do the pirates plan on raiding my town?” she demanded again. Was the creature going to survive? She started to worry that it wouldn’t be able to answer her questions.

“Soon. I’m not entirely sure how long I’ve been unconscious. They will plunder you before the Flood,” it said, its voice barely audible. The poor thing was starting to fade.

Naia’s eyes widened. She knew that the flood was only hours away. Enough time for her to walk back to camp, but only barely. And if the pirates were planning on attacking today, then they would be there soon.

She snatched the spring trap off the ground, dashing back to her sac. She stuffed the mechanism into the cloth bag, then jammed the sword in, hilt first. The blade stuck out the top, so she tied the sac closed around it. I hope it doesn’t come loose. She didn’t want the sword flying out of place and slicing her. She swung the bag around, sliding her arms into the straps.

"Wait!" it cried, coughing. It was fumbling with its torn jacket, trying to fish something out of the pocket, but its arms were shaking. It was exerting every effort it had just to move its finger. She frowned, ready to jump for the ledge.

“Take this," it rasped, pulling its hand out of its pocket and pushing something toward her. Its arm flopped against its leg, limp. It wasn’t coughing anymore. Was that a good sign? "Take this key. It’s extremely valuable, and the pirates are looking for it. Don’t let them find it."

"If it's so valuable to them, why not just toss it to the Flood?"

"No! Do not let it feel the water, or it will be drawn back to Shira." It jolted, trying to draw its hand back, but the arm only twitched. The key fell to the ground. Fear flashed across its face.

"Who is Shira?"

"The one who—" It cut off at the sound of voices up above. Naia ducked out of the light, and prayed that whoever was up there wouldn't see the burning blazeroot in the darkness.

“Kastor thinks this is a bad idea,” the voice said, deep and grating.

“Dregs, man! You think I care what Kastor thinks,” a second voice retorted. This one sounded pretentious. “If he has three useful thoughts in the next cycle, I’ll drown myself in the Flood.”

The voices passed above Naia, a shadow covering the hole for a brief second. She froze with fear. Are they the pirates? The creature wheezed loudly. She held her breath. All it would take was for one of the pirates to look in here and Naia would be dead.

“They will see. I’ll deal with the ones that side with him. Besides, anyone who challenges me has to deal with the Admiral. Don’t you worry about it,” the second replied again. After a pause he asked, “We will find him, you know that right?”

“I know! I know. It’s just that we’ve been searching for…”

The voices faded as they walked farther away from the rocky shelter. She released her breath, turning back to the creature.

“Who is Sh—”

The creature wasn’t moving. It wasn’t breathing, and its blood was no longer pumping. Floods. That had been kind of an important question!

Naia crept back over and picked the key up off the ground. It was a large key, colored emerald green. It was bulky, and its blade had large teeth. Later. She needed to leave. She could look at the strange key once she was back in town. She reached up and stuffed the key through the neck of the sac.

She nodded to the dead creature. May the Flood carry your spirit onward. Then Naia turned and jumped, catching the ledge. She pulled herself out of the gap, hoisting herself to her feet. The blazeroot was sputtering out.

Peering out, she could see the two men walking along the base of the slope. One wore a white suit with a tall white hat. The other was missing a hand. Farther along, she saw a camp, disguised amidst the forest of waterwort. It was hard to make out, but Naia should have spotted it on the way in. Floods, she had walked right next to it!

She waited until the pair of pirates were out of sight. Then taking a deep breath, she dashed out across into the mudflats.

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Zyon Rozanne woke, comfortable and warm in his bed. And he was both comfortable and warm solely because he was in bed. It was, in fact, quite cold in his room.The sun shone brightly through the window, lighting the room in brilliance. A brilliance that prohibited Zyon from returning to sleep. He rolled over, bunching up his covers. He closed his eyes, trying to go back to his slumber, but the light was too bright. A stiff breeze filled the room. Zyon frowned, sitting up. Where was it coming from? The door was shut, and the window was… Ah, right. No glass windows in this city. That was going to take some getting used to.He sat up, his eyes adjusting to the light. Mills had left a plate of food on his side table, some steamed vegetables and some bread with cheese. The attached note read, ‘I’m out aiding your father, and should be back in the afternoon.’Father had often made use of Zyon’s servant growing up, probably because Zyon often didn’t. Mill’s was his friend, and so Zyon treated him as such. Father didn’t like that very much, and clearly things hadn’t changed.Zyon reached over grabbing one of the pieces of bread off the platter. A few crumbs landed on the sheets as he brought the bread to his mouth. He didn't bother brushing them off. Today was going to be a big day. Not a big day for him, but a big day nonetheless.The cheese was delicious, crumbly and flavorful. It had a tang to it, a tartness that enhanced the flavors in his mouth. He put a hand over his mouth as he chewed his far too large bite. His jaw was still stiff from sleep, making it difficult to chew.Gulp!The limp red and white vegetables were next, cut into thin strips. Unfortunately, in the hours that Zyon had overslept, the pile of mushy vegetable chunks had cooled. Lukewarm vegetables were better than cold ones, but they weren’t good. Besides, they had been steamed. Everyone knew that was the worst way to cook beetroot and cauliflower. Zyon ignored the fork, gripping a few pieces between his index finger and thumb. He grimaced, then popped them into his mouth.They were slimy and flavorless, on top of being lukewarm. He nearly gagged, but managed to swallow them. Yuck! He was supposed to eat them to keep up his strength, but Zyon wasn’t sure he could force any more down. They desperately needed some salt and pepper.He stretched, yawning. It was time for him to get up. Not because he had much to do today. If he stayed in bed too long, he would be very tired. And he couldn’t be tired today, for it was a big day, just not for him. He shed his covers, shivering, and stood up. It was cold! The air smelled thick and salty, like a burly man after a day in the sun. His window overlooked part of the city, but Keep Rozanne was near the slums. And so it smelled like it.Zyon already missed home. He had been here for only two weeks, arriving just before the Pull, but the stink of Lior was wretched. The city was dirty, way dirtier than his hometown of Aton. His father had sent for him for the first time in years. His note had been direct and mysterious, reading, ‘I need you in Lior to act as an agent for me. Pack your belongings and sail here with Fleet Admiral Idalia.’

Zyon hadn’t spoken much with Father after he arrived, but Zyon had quickly learned the truth. His brother Crezel, Father’s favorite child, was ill and was going to die soon. The two of them were not close, but Zyon had always looked up to Crezel. He hadn’t seen his brother in years, and now the once-strong man layed in bed unable to move. It was weird looking at Crezel now. His illness had come so rapidly, overtaking him in a cycle’s span.For the past five years, Zyon only saw his father for two cycles out of the year, when he visited their homeland. They had never gotten along, but it was worse now, and Father was angrier than ever. At Avirin, Zyon assumed, but his father’s faith was weak. None of them were all that religious. Father’s anger came out with harsh accusations and dumb rules.For example, he had required Zyon to participate in the big day. Today.Today was the king's birthday. Not that special, not a big day for Zyon. And yet, it was a big day for him, because today, he would go to his first party. He would be thrown into the throng of fellow aristocrats, amidst his fellow inhabitants of this stinking city. He didn’t particularly want to go.He walked over to the window peering out, over the city. It was late in the morning, and the city was bustling. People shouted at one another, some curses, others haggling for goods. Keep Rozanne neighbored a noisy marketplace.Zyon watched as a parade entered along the main road. A herald announced the parade, crying, “How great is our king! Celebrate. Celebrate!”The man continued speaking, but Zyon couldn’t make out the rest. Behind him, ten or so dancers hopped to and fro. Each was shrouded in long, flowing clothes, colored Hadrien black. The only skin showing was a small slit for their eyes. Their garments had long golding tassels sewn to their arms, like scarfs, which whipped around as they spun and danced. It was beautiful, and their synchronization was immaculate.Many of the street goers stopped and watched, amazed by the performance. Behind the dancers, a marching band trumpeted, sounding a song that Zyon didn’t know. He leaned against the windowsill, hanging his head out the window. What a wonderful surprise! He wondered if a parade like this marched every year on the king's birthday.Lior was known as the City of Celebration. He had always assumed that the name had sprung from the frequent balls and parties thrown by the aristocracy. Perhaps that was correct, but Zyon was beginning to understand the truth. It was less about the frequency, and more about the intensity of the celebration. Some of the civilians below cheered, others clapped.After a while, Zyon grew weary of standing at the window. He returned to his bed and sat down. The vegetables were getting colder, not that he would have eaten them anyway. He took a couple more bites of bread and cheese, which were also quite cool now, but just as delicious. He closed his eyes, focusing on the flavor.By the floods, this cheese was good! Unfortunately, it was almost gone.Zyon thought about searching for more, but his latest experience in the kitchen gave him pause. Their chef, whose name he had yet to learn, had “utmost authority” in the kitchen. His thick Nadian accent was impossible to understand, but it was always aggressive and possibly threatening. Zyon had asked Mills later that day, and the kitchen was described to him as off limits.“I’m sorry, but Ivan said so,” Mills had said. His apology hadn’t put any more food in Zyon’s stomach.“I’m sorry, but Ivan said so,” Mills had said. His apology hadn’t put any more food in Zyon’s stomach.

Back home, he had been good friends with their chef. Terina had been an older lady, who had compassion on Zyon and his chasm for a stomach. Whenever he walked in, she would magically have a meal fully prepared for him.He sighed, remembering his old life, without a care in the world. No longer. He was being forced to grow up. After consideration, he supposed that was a good thing. After all, he was twenty years old. By all rights, he should have “grown up” years ago.And he had, in some respects. He had been dedicated in his studies of history, agriculture, and finance. He had learned to fence and speak publicly. He had hunted and killed his very own honeylion. He didn’t know drippings about fishing, and that fact bugged him.It was the responsibility that bothered him most and he knew it. And the new environment. His life was plain different, and it was filled with loneliness and sobering thoughts. He had none of his old friends. He couldn’t do any of his old hobbies, except for reading.And his brother was about to die.He didn’t want to think about that right now.He had half a dozen hours until the king’s birthday party began, and undoubtedly, he would still be late. It was a chronic habit of his.There were a couple options open to Zyon to do today. And a couple was its extent. First and foremost in his mind was reading. He had finished a dozen books already in the past weeks, even some rather boring ones. Most notably was The Complete History of the Outer Muram Islands: Swamp Hunting. Yes, he had read that book, and yes, he had enjoyed it. The book was filled with strategies on how to avoid certain animals and carnivorous plants.The book had been a bit of a disappointment. Zyon wanted to see the plants, to know what they did, how they ate people. The author had gone to great lengths to describe how to dodge the worst plants, but he didn’t actually say what they did.It would be fascinating to see them in person someday! he thought to himself. He was intrigued by nature, and he wanted to see what the world was like at the bottom of the Flood. But another part of him was terrified to come so close to death. One day, he kept telling himself. That day didn’t seem to be getting any closer.So, reading was his first option. It was quite tempting. However, Zyon was slowly becoming bored of reading. He never thought he would see the day!His second option was less tempting, but more exhilarating. He could sneak out into the city and pretend to be a commoner. It would be scary, and pointless, but fun. He quickly passed up this idea.Zyon had considered visiting another keep to meet some new faces. Mills had warned him against it. The elderly servant had declared it “unsociable” and “perhaps provocative” of the other houses. Mills had also expressed his father’s view on the subject, as it would be unhelpful for the cause of the house. Balls and parties were the proper place for mingling with strangers.But Zyon didn’t particularly want to go to the parties.He sighed, unsure what to do. None of the options appealed to him. He didn’t want to leave the safety of the keep. There just wasn’t a point to going out. He probably should get dressed though.

He walked over to his closet, stretching once more. He rifled through different shirts, but couldn’t pick the right one. Many were soft pink, a beautiful color to the outsider, but to a member of House Rozanne, quite bland. Too often had he been required to wear the house’s color to a memorial or event of some sort.The other outfits in the closet were bland in actuality, not just in overuse. He had many cream-colored shirts and gray shirts, each with matching pants or belts or other accessories. His favorite costume was currently in the wash!Where was Miriam? This load of laundry was taking extra long. The housemaid certainly had a lot to do around here, but cleaning his clothes couldn’t be that hard, right?He rustled through his partially unpacked suitcase. Trousers, beach shirts, a couple old neckties, more trousers with oversized pockets. He hadn’t bothered taking them out. He didn’t really wear these ones anyway.He found the pocket watch that he’d thought he’d lost on the trip here. It was a tarnished silver with a long chain attached to one end of the watch face. He had lost the winding key years ago, so the clock hands were stuck at the time six forty-seven.He also found a small metal duck figurine. The brass was heavy, despite the petite size of the sculpture. Crezel had given it to him when Zyon first learned how to swim. A piece of paper was glued to the bottom displaying in a swooping handwriting the words ‘I love you, brother.’ He set the miniature duck on his bedside table. He would find a better place to put it.He returned to the closet and selected a bland set, the gray kind, and put it on. This costume was a baggy shirt with a thick sweater overtop. The slacks were colored the same as the shirt and sweater, and he wore a standard leather belt with a simple silver buckle. He wrapped a pink scarf around his neck, then slipped on a warm pair of stockings and a comfortable set of shoes.Now he was ready for the day.And yet, he still hadn’t decided what today would be.A knock came at the bedroom door. A light knock, in a set of three.“Come in!”A small woman opened the door, probably only fifteen years old. Miriam. Zyon wondered how long she had been employed by the Rozannes. He couldn’t imagine very long, but he didn’t know. She had a young face with dark brown eyes, and her brunette hair was tied into a bun with a black hair spike. She wore servants’ blacks, with pink accents to signify her loyalty.“Ah Miriam! How are my clothes coming?” Zyon asked. He noticed that there was no basket with her.“They’re dryin’ right now, ma lord,” she said. Her street accent was thick, more so than most of the ruffians outside. It meshed words together, truncating some. “Sorry for the d’lay, but you received a lett’r just now.”Zyon rushed over to her. “Who is it from?”She held it out, and he excitedly snatched it from her hand. He loved letters, though he didn’t have many people who wrote to him.“It's from Master Matson. I’d figured you’d be waitin’ for it, so I brought it right up.” She smiled.“Waiting indeed! Thank you, Miriam,” he said. The letter was just what he needed, something to take his mind off of the party this evening.The serving girl retreated, softly shutting the door behind her. He ripped open the letter, setting its pages onto his disheveled bedsheets. He had a desk in the study, but he was hasty in reading the letter. Bernard Matson was an adventurer, cartographer, ecologist, and one of Zyon’s closest friends. He was far older than Zyon, around fifty years old, but the two had keen interest in the same things. Bernard had been Zyon’s teacher for a couple of years, before he departed with one of the Rozanne captains to explore and document the world. It had been cycles now since they had seen each other.
Zyon longed to see the creatures and wildlife that Bernard saw, so the old man drew pictures of the more extraordinary organisms. Two of the three sheets of paper were solely drawings, some of plants, some of creatures. The letter itself was rather short.

My dear Zyon,I hope this finds you well and in good spirits at your new residence. I wish I could be there with you and keep you company in your new adventure. My advice for you is this: take care when speaking with the other nobles, for they are snakes and are skilled at extracting information from you. And get out there! I know you well, and I know you will want to stay home.These are my findings: trumpetroot, mistleech, and tendrilsnare ivy. See the attached diagrams. Tragedy befell our ship, as one of my fellow sailors was overtaken by mistleeches, which are extremely stealthy.Your true friend,Bernard Matson

Zyon examined the charcoal sketches. They were quite good! Bernard had always been an excellent artist. The trumpetroot looked similar to waterwort or bamboo, with long stalks and bulbous joints, but it had limbs branching sideways. The note underneath indicated that these limbs, which indeed looked like trumpets, spout pollen at speeds of up to fifty knots.His eyes widened with curiosity as he read the notes underneath the diagram.

The pollen always causes some reaction among the sailors, though it is different depending on its color. The blue pollen made a few mates grow sick to the stomach and retch. The green pollen made them start laughing hysterically, unable to stop. The variance in the types of these effects seems endless.

The mistleech was hard to grasp when looking at the sketch. The pencil lines were very faint, as if Bernard had barely touched the paper when he drew it.

This mistleech is nearly invisible, except to the keenest eye. They stay in a pack, and surround their target before pouncing. I think it’s a type of slug, though I can’t be sure. They have small wings that hum, which is the best way to avoid being attacked.

The last group of images depicted a rock covered with a stringy plant. The ivy latched onto nearby plants and boulders, spanning large gaps indicated on the diagram as at least ten feet. Bernard didn’t include a note on this diagram, save for a few words pointing to different parts of the ivy. The tendrils were toxic, and they had microscopic hooks which made it impossible to remove once grasped.Zyon looked back over the sketches, intently taking in every detail. It was amazing! Up above the floodline, the plants were boring and simple. A tree here, a bush there. Nothing crazy. The flowers were the most interesting thing. But this? This was wild, as nature should be.He had questions. Where did Bernard find the plants? When did the trumpetroot release its pollen? Was the mistleech always found in mist? How did the tendrilsnare ivy catch someone? Zyon snatched up the papers, scrambling to the door. He needed to respond!In his haste, Zyon accidentally knocked over the tray of cold cauliflower and beetroot.Ugh!“Miriam! Could you come clean this up for me?” She was there in an instant, rags at the ready. “Of course, ma lord!”“Thank you,” he said before jogging to the study to write a response letter.

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