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Make the Pain Fly Away

Birds with large brains relative to their size are better able to solve problems and respond to changing environments.  Those with smaller brains, on the other hand, appear less capable of behavioral adaptation.  As a result, they appear to be declining in number.

—The Second Korus of the Sapphire Tree

Perched atop Brixton’s elevated train tracks, Nigel stood at the edge of oblivion, staring down at a target he knew he’d never hit.  He didn’t wonder if he could jump that far, nor did he fear what would happen when he missed the window twenty feet below.  It didn’t matter.  Anything was less painful than facing his classmates with a mouth full of stitches, or confessing to his father what really happened at Westminster Station.  Given his options, oblivion sounded rather pleasant, actually.

His life was already a train wreck and, as one of its victims, he lived with its agony on a daily basis.  The pain of abusive parents, of never being good enough or smart enough, of never having anyone to talk to, of having mates who were more afraid of him than actually liked him…It was all pain as far as he was concerned, fuel he simply converted into anger when confronted by others.

“You sure about this?” Sal called out.  Nigel glanced at his scrawny mate who looked like he belonged underneath a rock.  Though he goaded Sal at every turn, he actually felt sorry for the bloody orphan.  How Sal could follow him after he’d taken a knife to him, he’d never figure.  Sal must’ve felt more pain than he did or—perhaps worse, less—and that said a lot about his so-called “friend.”  And here he was about to leap off the same train trestle with him.  Now that was loyalty…Or was it friendship?  More likely it was fear.

For Nigel it was all about easing the pain.  Sometimes that meant sharing it; sometimes that meant inflicting it.  But somehow you had to get rid of it.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he yelled back.  “Let me show you how it’s done.”  With that, Nigel Hawkins took a running leap and jumped into the blue, Brixton sky.

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Nowhere Man

A map provides one of the best examples of a picture being worth a thousand words.

—The Eighth Korus of the Black Tree

TRACKER:  Dragonflies.  YES!  They’re the key!

Max sighed as the 10:15 blasted by.  Brilliant.  Attention, class.  The nutty professor’s in. There’d be no shutting Tracker up, whoever he was.  Once, Max had asked Dr. Caulfield if he’d heard of the obsessed loon, but the professor had looked at him as if he were the daft one.

Max stared at the screen as more information from Tracker flowed by.  Species: 2,874; migratory patterns: worldwide; number of lenses in their eyes: 30,000; speed: 35 mph… It was as if the guy were searching for something never seen before in the order Odonata.  Something supernatural.

TRACKER:  Keep looking.  It’s bound to be there.

Yeah, just like the two blokes picking you up in the upholstered truck.

SPYDER:   Danny, you said your dragonfly delivered a message.  What was it, dawg?

Just then, a thwap sounded at his bedroom window.   Then another.  Max was afraid to look.  Another.  Thwap!

“Bloody hell?”

Sure enough, the green bug was back.  The collywobbles returned too, only this time doing somersaults.  THWAP! This wasn’t funny.

Max rose from his laptop and made his way to the window and the aerial intruder tapping at the glass.  It took a moment of sincere, logical, internal discussion—really, what harm could a dragonfly do?—before Max finally obliged.   “All right then,” he lectured the bug as he fiddled with the latch, “Play nice, or else.”

Max had just enough time to duck before the dragonfly bolted into his bedroom like an emerald laser.  He dove for cover, burying himself beneath the dirty laundry as the insect ricocheted off every corner of the room.  First over the bed, then the dresser, then past his desk.  It paused for a moment in front of the giant fly poster—hello—before rocketing toward the door.  Max peered through a pair of undercrackers as the dragonfly ping-ponged by.

“Li Fang was right.  We Euros do know evil when we see it!”

The dragonfly made a few more quick passes, then streaked back out into the London sky.  Pulling himself off the floor, Max sprang to the window and leaned out.  The dragonfly was gone, leaving behind nothing but the train tracks out of Brixton and the promise of The City beyond.

“What a cheeky bugger.  Maybe—”

Dashing into the parlor, he scanned the view from the front of his flat.  Nothing but more London.  Max waited just the same.  That’s when he caught sight of the three lads disappearing beneath the tracks on the street below.  Maybe he should yell down, ask if they’d seen a supersonic insect.  Then again, maybe not.  There were already too many loons in this part of London.  Why add his name to the list?

Returning to his bedroom, Max surveyed the flat, pale sky one last time.  Closing the window, his eyes traveled from the skyline to the window frame, and finally to the curtain pull beside him, the one twinkling in the mid-morning light.

Except we don’t have curtain pulls.

A piece of metal dangled from a leather cord wrapped around the window latch.  Now what?

As he reached for the cord, Max narrowly avoided stepping on a fold of paper that had gone unnoticed during the dragonfly’s blitz.  His brow twisted into a question mark as he bent down to pick it up.  Triangular in shape, the fold was small, not more than two inches at its widest point.  It was its feel, however, that took him by surprise.  Rather than recycled stock from his printer, or the glossy sheets ripped from magazines, this paper appeared to be more weathered parchment than anything else.  He held it to his nose.  Rather than musty, however, it smelled oddly fresh, like the bark of a tree or a reed of grass.  Papyrus maybe?

Papyrus? Now who was the loon?

Gently, Max unfolded the slim stack, taking care not to tear its delicate weave.  First one layer, then two, then more, and still more, and after that, even more!  Finally, with a mix of awe and disbelief, he spread one impossibly large triangle of parchment across his bedroom floor.

With its base at his feet and the tip of the triangle pointing away, Max stared at the paper, perplexed.   He tilted his head first one way, then the other.  At last, he realized the cause of his confusion.  “You daft prune, you’ve got it upside down.”

Grabbing several pushpins from his desk, he flipped the parchment over and pinned it to the wall—covering a suddenly irritating giant fly poster—the map’s peak pointing down.

“Now what exactly do we have here?” Max stepped back for inspection.

Nearly five feet across, the inverted triangle appeared to be a section of an ancient, richly decorated map, the kind he’d seen in the British Museum—the ones used to chart ancient oceans or record new lands, maps that plotted the heavens before the birth of telescopes, and that used intricate, three-dimensional illustrations to highlight mermaids and warn of serpents.

But beyond its shape, what made this map unusual was its orientation.  Unlike those that incorporated the Earth’s curvature—commonly referred to as mercator, or sinusoidal projections—the map pinned to Max’s wall was…well… reversed.  Instead of a world “mapped” to the outside of a globe, this world appeared to be within one!  All the continents and seas were wallpapered to the interior of a sphere, as if it were a world existing within a bubble.

Max stepped back even further from the mystery he’d unfolded.  Again, his collywobbles beat their war drums.

“Where in Prince Charlie’s knickers is this place?”

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A Hawk Stoops

Hawks rarely dive straight down.  Instead, they dive at an angle in order to better catch their prey.

—The Fifth Korus of the Sapphire Tree

“Wot?” screamed Rodney.

“You ‘eard me, Slug.”  Nigel’s eyes burned into Rodney’s like lasers.  “We’re attacking by bloody air.”

Rodney gazed up at the three-story Brixton flat tilting sadly towards the elevated train tracks next to it.  Had Nigel gone bonkers?  “We aren’t the flippin’ RAF, you know.”  He swallowed and sucked in what he could of his layered gut.  “Me, especially.”

“Look, rollo,” hissed Nigel.  “Don’t make me any more psycho than I already am.  First you tell me this is where Bug Nut lives.  Then you tell me the front door is locked,  and you knocked but no one answered, so let’s just go home.  Not exactly fightin’ words, mate.”

Rodney fixed his eyes on the seams in the cobblestones as Nigel continued.

“So what I’m telling you is that we’re going to jump through those upstairs windows to see if the smarmy bugger is in.”

Rodney joined Nigel and Sal, craning his neck to look up the brick façade to the second floor, where the Bug Nut was most likely hiding out.  He studied the three windows.  Bugger of it was, they were twenty feet up and looked awfully small.  And while he was in complete agreement with Nigel—after all, the sod deserved a sound walloping—he had no idea how they were going to pull this off.  Yes, he’d done a bit of flying lately—flying down the stairs of Westminster Station to be exact—but that didn’t mean he’d learned to fly.  It was more of a suggestion, really—by way of gravity, a floor buffer’s cord, and the smart bastard two flights up.

Rodney looked over at Sal, who rolled his one good eye.  Sal had taken his tumble down Westminster’s stairs mostly on his right side, smashing into the railing before coming to rest against the Hawk’s tail pipe.  His right eye was black and blue and the size of a cricket ball.  Good thing a person’s got two eyes.  You could always lose one and still operate your pint if you had to.

Rodney didn’t dare look at Nigel.  Nigel had fared far worse.  Slamming one’s chin on a concrete and steel staircase was sure to knock anyone’s teeth out, but biting through your lip?  That just wasn’t right.  According to Nigel, the doctors had stopped counting when the stitches reached a hundred.

All in all, Rodney figured he’d escaped with relatively minor injuries—just a cast on his broken wrist.  He drew in a breath and looked up at Nigel.  He’d give it one more go.  “Fly?  Are you off your trolley?  Through those windows?  Mate, ain’t we had enough?  Maybe we should let the crazy bugger be.”

“Never,” barked Nigel.  “The Bug Nut is going to pay, and this time in blood.”

“Maybe the Slug’s right, Nigel,” said Sal.  “Every time we get near him, something happens.  Not to ‘im.  Us.  It’s like he’s protected or something.  Let’s go home.  Do something criminal on the way.  That’ll cheer you up.”

It took but a heartbeat before the switchblade was pressed against Sal’s throat.  Sal’s eyes grew wide, the whites overwhelming his pupils.  Nigel held the knife steady.  “I told you.  He is going to pay, and he is going to pay today, do you understand?”

Rodney swallowed hard.  He’d never seen Nigel so worked up before, so dangerous.  Nickin’ scooters and rollin’ tinkers was one thing, but sticking a knife at your mate?  Nigel may have shaken more than his teeth loose when he fell at Westminster.

“I said, do you understand?” Nigel worked the blade until a drop of Sal’s blood slid down its edge.

Sal nodded ever so slightly.  Evidently, he didn’t want his Adam’s apple sliced off.  “Sure, Nigel.  Just offering options, is all.  Nothing more.”

“We go through the second floor windows just like you said.”  Rodney did his best to take some of the steam out of the situation.  “Just tell us how.”

Nigel continued to hold Sal at knifepoint.  With his other hand, he pointed at the train tracks—the elevated train tracks almost twenty feet from the windows they were supposed to jump through, the elevated train tracks that shuddered wildly as the 10:15 roared overhead toward London.

“We’re going to jump?”  Rodney choked on his words as he eyed the trestle.  “From there?”

Nigel spat as the train hurtled by.  “Damn right we are.”

“Oh, well that’s different,” squeaked Rodney.  “I thought you wanted us to do something stupid.”

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Friends Like These

Most interactions between species involve food, and are generally brief.  There are many cases, however, where two or more species live in close association for long periods of time.  Such associations are called symbiotic—from the Greek word symbiosis, which means, “living together”.  Symbiotic relationships in which each species benefits are called mutualistic.

—The Fourteenth Korus of the Emerald Tree

When Max first entered his bedroom, the scientific illustration of the giant fly on his wall stared back at him with an intensity he’d never noticed before.  Something about it, mingled with the episode of the shield bug and now the interrogation by Inspector Dragonfly, twisted a knot in his gut—the kind not easily undone.  Maybe it was the bugs or maybe it was dodging another thumping from Nigel and his birds.  Regardless, the collywobbles in his stomach were getting to him, and skipping school looked to be more and more a stroke of genius as the morning wore on.

Max fired up his laptop.  His fingers shook as he typed.  Within seconds he’d loaded the familiar page:  http://blog.emeraldwatch.com.  As the beach ball rotated on-screen, he thought about Tracker, the loon who kept showing up in their digital sandbox.  The guy was obsessed with dragonflies.  Hadn’t stopped blogging about them for months, constantly scouring the message boards for any news about “unique occurrences.”  Please don’t tell me we have something in common… Please!

Max stared at the screen.  Good thing no one could see the sweat dripping from his brow as he hit the keys.

SPYDER:  Hey, Wave Dancer, you out there?

Remain calm.  Reach out to friends.  No sense panicking…Yet.

WAVE DANCER: Yeah, I’m here.

Whew.  Sanity.

SPYDER:  It seems I’ve become a magnet for UFIs.

WAVE DANCER: UFIs?

SPYDER:  Unidentified Freaked-out Insects.  This morning I was strafed by a dragonfly I’ve never seen before.  Yesterday, it was an alien visit from an out-of-town stinkbug.  I’m wondering if anything strange has been happening to anyone else?

WAVE DANCER:  Normally I would’ve asked you if your cornrows were too tight, but scary thing? I have one, too.  A dragonfly.  Blue.  In my cabin, right now.  It sounds like a chainsaw and it won’t go away.

At least if they lock me up, I’ll have company.

SPYDER:  No kidding?

WAVE DANCER:  Nope.

Piper Jenson, aka WAVE DANCER, was a Californian who, when not online or being home-schooled, spent most of her waking hours surfing the chilly, shark-infested Pacific off the Monterey Peninsula.  Not exactly his cup of a tea.

He and Piper had been blogging for the past year and, of anyone he’d met at the Emerald Watch, he felt closest to her.  Maybe because they both had single parents.  Her father took care of the sharks at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and she never knew her mum, just as he never knew his dad.  Or maybe it was the simple fact they were each naturalists at heart.  Okay, so she was a marine biology freak—eeewww! Still, the connection was there.

SPYDER:  You have a dragonfly buzzing your cabin right now?  It must be the middle of the night.  Dragonflies aren’t nocturnal.

WAVE DANCER:  Tell that to the dragonfly.  The crazy thing keeps dive-bombing me.

SPYDER: Did you say dive-bombing?

Max scanned the room, half expecting his “own” dragonfly to reappear.

WAVE DANCER: Wait a minute…

Piper’s cursor paused, then continued.

That’s strange.  It’s gone.

Max swallowed hard.  Uh-oh.  His fingers flew across the keyboard.

SPYDER:  Like out the window “gone”?

WAVE DANCER: I live on a sailboat, remember?  We don’t have windows, we have portholes.  Hello.  And at the moment, they’re all battened down.  Don’t you understand?  The dragonfly simply disappeared.  As in, poof!

Bugga.  They’d both seen hyperactive dragonflies, his copper, hers blue, and each had disappeared in the blink of an eye.  That sealed things.  Everyone was off their nutter.  Better make room for more company at Uncle Albert’s funny factory.

WHITE DRAGON:  Bear in mind, depending on whom you ask, seeing a Dragonfly can mean many things.  They’re not always what they seem.

Ah, WHITE DRAGON. Could this be the voice of reason?

SPYDER:  You mean out of control?

WHITE DRAGON:  No, I mean they’re not always insects.

That was WHITE DRAGON for you.  “Bailong” in Mandarin, White Dragon’s login might as well been Yoda, Pliny the Elder, or Henry David Thoreau.  He never failed to keep the group guessing.  Born Wu Li Fang, WHITE DRAGON lived off Upper Bukit Timah Road in Singapore, near the island nation’s tropical nature reserve.  Over months of corresponding, Max had learned that Li Fang spent many an hour there, sketching the reptilian wildlife that called the Malaysian peninsula home:  the Tokay Gecko, the Malayan Water Monitor (a distant cousin of the Komodo Dragon)—even the King Cobra, the emperor of all snakes,.  Li Fang felt the same way about reptiles that he, Max, felt about bugs.

In addition to being the blog’s artist, Li Fang was also its resident philosopher.  And while his posted sketches were works of art, it was his bleedin’ genius that kept Max sharp.  Li Fang had more facts stuffed into that head of his than there were insects to an acre (clue: over a million).  More important, Li Fang was not just smart, he was wise.  Way too wise for a fifteen year old.  No wonder Chinese lore depicted the White Dragon as the protector of virtuous kings.  If you were king, who else would you pick as your wingman if not the smartest guy—make that dragon—in the room?

WHITE DRAGON:  If you ask a European, he’ll tell you the dragonfly is an omen of evil, sometimes referred to as a “troll’s spindle” or “ear cutter.” Whereas if you ask a First American, a Navajo perhaps, he’ll say they are good omens, indicators of pure water, for instance.  The Japanese will tell you the dragonfly is the symbol of courage, strength, and happiness.  Before the country officially became Japan, it was known as Akitsushima, the “Land of the Dragonflies.”

WAVE DANCER:  And if we asked someone from China?

WHITE DRAGON:  They will tell you what I believe.  That they are messengers.

WAVE DANCER: Messengers…

SPYDER: Well, if they’re messengers, mine gave up before delivering his.

Wait a minute, thought Max.  There had been a message.  North.

WILD DOG:  Well, mine didn’t.  And you won’t believe what’s in the package!

WAVE DANCER, SPYDER, WHITE DRAGON:  Danny!

The Wonder from Down Under! Danny Blackstone, aka WILD DOG.  Born to an opal miner’s family, Danny had spent most of his outback childhood chasing wallabies, bush turkeys and sand goannas around Uluru, also known as Ayer’s Rock or, as his aboriginal friends the Anangu called it, the Dreamtime Express.

It was there, in the shadow of Australia’s iconic monolith, that Danny claimed you could access both parts of your life—the day-to-day and the Dreamtime, a reality said to be more real than life itself.  Aboriginal lore professed you lived a fuller life in your dreams than you did while awake.  Max thought it was just the heat getting to everyone—it could get up to forty-five degrees Celsius (one hundred and thirteen degrees Fahrenheit) in the bush—but Danny didn’t mind the jab.  He could take it as easily as he could dish it out.  Besides, keeping cool was routine.  Like most miners in the Outback, Danny and his family lived underground, where, thirty feet down, the temperature never rose above twenty-one degrees Celsius (seventy degrees Fahrenheit).

WILD DOG:  G’Day, Piper.  Or is it night there? I can never remember.

WAVE DANCER:  It’s two in the morning, West Coast time.

WHITE DRAGON:  It’s six in the evening here in Singapore.

SPYDER:  Ten in the AM, according to Big Ben.

WILD DOG:  Well, here in the calm evening of Coober Pedy it’s eight thirty, but that isn’t the strange part.  Around here, it seems our dragonflies come with directions, too.

SPYDER:  You mean, as in NORTH?

WAVE DANCER:  Or WEST?

WHITE DRAGON:  Most possibly EAST?

WILD DOG:  Yours too! The wings on mine said “SOUTH.”  Did you find the rest of their message?

SPYDER, WAVE DANCER, WHITE DRAGON: What?

WILD DOG:  The rest of their message! And it ain’t directions to the local billabong, mates!

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Buzz OFF!

The behavior of animals is often closely linked to impending weather.  Bees are said to stay close to their hives when a summer rain is imminent while birds fly close to the ground, increase their foraging, or gather to roost before bad weather sets in.  During good weather birds fly higher in the sky and spiders are known to be more active.

—The Tenth Korus of the Sapphire Tree

In the distance, the school buzzer could be heard heralding the beginning of class.  Max kept low behind the concrete wall, waiting until Nigel and mates gave up their wait.  No sense in sacrificing oneself for a few hours of schooling.  Besides, bleedin’ honor roll or not, he actually had to be alive in order to graduate.

Max tasted dust and smelled the dew on the Oxford ragwort and goat’s beard growing amongst the scattered trash and surrounding weeds.  The thin morning sun warmed his face as he leaned against the damp concrete.  Slowly, the gray evaporated from London and, more importantly, from him.  Maybe a day off was just what the doctor ordered.  Hit the museum.  Wander St.  James.  Chum around Mayfair.  Just don’t let Mum find out.

Suddenly, his ears picked up a low-pitched hum.  A dragonfly buzzed beneath his nose, its wings whirring against his skin.  Irritated, he swiped at the insect and missed.  A tiny rush of air tickled his ear as the creature darted around his head like a dive-bomber gone mad.  Again, he tried to shoo it away but the insect was faster.

And oddly persistent.

I love bugs, he thought, as his conscience argued with his temper, but this bloke is begging for it. Then the memory of the shield bug returned and Max stopped swinging.  Could this dragonfly and Mr.  Stink somehow be connected?  Was his world of bugs trying to tell him something?

The dragonfly returned, hovering within inches of his face.  Max could almost feel the heat and motion in his eyelashes as it stared him in the eye.  The insect was the polish of a green beyond description, with iridescent hues of copper and gold layered across its abdominal segments, each ringed with tiny strips of scarlet.  It was unlike any he’d ever seen around London, even along the shoreline skirting the Long Water near Kensington Palace.

He focused on the insect’s tiny, frantic flutter of wings.   No.  It can’t be. He looked again, clearing his focus with a few wide-eyed blinks.  There, on each wing—etched within the blur of thirty beats per second—was a word!  Sure enough, though it was soft and out of focus—oy!—it was there, alright.

NORTH.

North? I must be losing me flippin’ nuggets!

Then, in the blink of an eye, the dragonfly vanished.  Max searched the grass.  He scanned the length of the concrete wall.  His eyes roamed the slate September sky.

Nothing.

“What in the bleedin’ hell is going on?”

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A Town called Survival

Modern humans, though far removed from their simian ancestors in the jungle, are still expert at spotting both predator and prey.

—The Eleventh Korus of the White Tree

A typical drizzle glazed the forlorn streets outside Max’s Brixton flat.  Headlights from the morning traffic added sheen to the glaze and sparkle to the rain, but like anything in this part of London, nothing could wash away the weariness.

Brixton had long been known as the city’s working-class quarter, its “shoulders and backs,” a place where an honest Englishman could break a sweat and get shilling for it.  Or at least it used to be.  Now it housed the newly migrated, those who wished to rinse away their previous lives, their foreign stain, and start over, assumedly with Britain’s blessings.

They came to this part of the city from all over the globe: the Caribbean (Jamaica mostly), Africa (Senegal, Kenya, and Zimbabwe in particular) and Southeast Asia (Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia).  There were gypsies from Eastern Europe, refugees from Myanmar, and lower-caste immigrants from India.  Brixton promised not so much a new life for those so far from home, but new dreams, dreams that a start in Jolly Olde England might someday reward.  The catch was, you had to survive Brixton first.

Max closed the wrought iron fence that surrounded his three-story, falling-down walk-up, and headed for school.  It was a short jaunt compared to his mum’s commute—to distant central London via train—and most mornings he didn’t mind the walk.  It was the weather that soured his days.

Conveniently, the South London line of the National Rail went right by their second story window, so “training it” to work was easy for her, as was getting home (usually late).  Inconveniently, it also went by their second floor window on his mum’s days off, too, though they were few.  During those precious hours his mother would often wake with a start as the rail hurtled toward Loughborough Junction, worried she was late.  Max wished they could move to the other side of their building, to the side facing the noisy traffic of Milkwood Road.  Maybe then his mum would wake with a start and go out and buy a car.  Then he wouldn’t have to walk to school.  In the rain.

The other catch about Brixton?  If you were going to dream, make sure you tossed in some practicality.

Hoodie pulled low and feet dragging, Max forced himself into the morning gray.  Getting a start on this day had been harder than most.  His dreams had swarmed with lost insects, mostly flying stinkbugs.  The insects had zigged and zagged until, exhausted and inert, they plummeted to the ground.  Max spent the night reaching out for them, trying to rescue them before they augured in.  By the time he awoke, he was drenched in sweat and more tired than when he’d gone to bed.

His talk with Caulfield about finding the errant shield bug was obviously taking its toll but what could he do?  Hand out ice cubes in hopes of halting global warming?  Still, he was amused his nightmares had let him off so easy.  The real thing was worse.  A lot worse.

Like the bugs in his dreams, Max zigged and zagged a carefully chosen path through South London’s graffiti-tagged streets.  After humiliating Nigel and his mates the day before, caution was the day’s watchword.  And, like any good Brixtonite, he hoped his instincts were working overtime.  Sure enough, rounding the last set of shops before facing his school proper, he discovered they were.

Max ducked into a biscuit shop.  Through its front window he spied Nigel, Rodney, and Sal, each taking a corner to the entrance of their school.  Had he taken his usual route, that of walking the other side of the street, he surely would have been spotted.  Smiling, he slipped out the shop’s rear door and into the safety of an empty alleyway.

Yes, like every good Brixtonite, Maxwell Darius Webster had his dreams and, like every one of his south o’ London brothers and sisters, all of them were about survival.

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Dragonflown

Insects utilize a compound eye consisting of as many as thirty thousand lenses, which create a mosaic-like image.  While most insects have relatively simple eyes that recognize only form and movement, those of the dragonfly provide a detailed view of its surroundings—imperative for an insect that catches its prey in mid-flight.

—The Seventh Korus of the Sapphire Tree

NightFire opened her eyes to hurts she hadn’t believed possible.  Blood oozed from scratches covering her long, bronze arms and legs.  She blinked out the remaining ash and wiped away lingering tears.  She ran her fingers through knots of tangled, black hair, pulling out muck, mud, and a host of worms, leeches, and burrs.

Every muscle in her body ached but that was part of the bargain.  Every Keeper knew the cost of Granting.

I’m back, she thought.  But where?  As if on cue, the Skaarsgard’s screams echoed on the horizon.

Alone.  Now I remember.  I am completely alone.

She examined the tips of her fingers to be sure…no fingerprints, no telltale signs of who she was.  Where a normal person’s ears would be, she had only diminutive ear holes.  Upon the canvas of humanity, where everyone else possessed a personal physical signature, NightFire displayed nothing.  She was a blank slate.  The Netherchild.

After tying her hair in a double-eight knot and dressing in her traditional hunting layers—a feathered lichen tunic belted with a Change Master’s rainbow burak, a chameleon-skin poncho, leggings, and moccasins—she gathered up her par fleche and unwrapped her weapons for inspection.  A long bow made from polished dinosaur bone dominated her arsenal, its quiver filled with shark tooth arrows dipped in the paralyzing venom of the Digger Wasp.  Jim Bowie’s long knife was tied along the bow’s upper limb, its razor-sharp blade gleaming in the moonlight.  A bola strung with two thunder eggs lay next to her precious word spear, its six-foot long black javelin still empty of message.

Satisfied they’d made the journey safely thus far, she repacked her weapons, ensuring that they would remain silent as she ran.

Quickly, NightFire’s doubts returned.  What if she couldn’t make it back to her father?  It seemed impossible that TerraTopia’s salvation lay only with her, but what if StormWing truly had such an edge?  What if he had so successfully masterminded the splintering of TerraTopia’s people that few, if any, would help her?

Her chest tightened and her breathing grew shallow.  There was another option, but dare she try?  Though she was the last of her kind, and only an apprentice at that, the possibility did exist.

Tick.  Tick.  Ticking.

Trust your ticking. Again, Sequoia’s words took root.  A sense of resolve worked its way through her chest, down her arms, and into her fingers.  She had to do something.

“So it is so…”

Closing her eyes, she wetted her lips and began humming the Heartsong of the Dragonfly, the haunting summons of the Guard’s emissaries known only to the Koru.  She hadn’t had much practice but soon the hum gave way to unrecognizable words and sounds.  She likened it to syllables sung through a woodwind and blended with the flutter of tiny wings.  She kept the call to a whisper for fear the Skaarsgard might hear.

Over and over she sang.  Her legs began to grow heavy and her shoulders slumped.  Perhaps they’d lost their way.  Perhaps they couldn’t find her.  Perhaps she didn’t have the Heartsong right…

Please, she begged silently as she continued to sing.  Please hear me.  She waited in the darkness, leaning against the cold, mossy bark of an oak, afraid to sit lest she never rise again.

Suddenly, NightFire felt a change in the air and opened her eyes.  Four distinctive lights appeared before her, their bright colors dancing on the evening’s wind.  The emerald of the earth, the sapphire of the sea, both ivory and ebony, to strive as these shall we. Tears of relief welled in her eyes.  The dragonflies had heard her.  Her father’s messengers had come.

“I have a very important request of you,” she whispered.

She opened her fist, spreading her fingers wide.  The tiny sparks of light flashed in response.  One by one, the dragonflies alighted on her fingertips.

She steadied her hand.  So much was at stake.  She couldn’t afford to waver, inside or out.  Raising her index finger, she whispered to the first dragonfly.  “You, my emerald friend, must cross the boundary and travel north, left of the rising sun.”  With her other hand, she placed a small piece of folded paper in her palm.  “Seek out one with purpose who will commit to our cause, one who can endure our enemies and inspire both worlds from Falling.”

She studied the transparent forewings and hind wings, which were pointed down and forward.  The insect held still for a moment, then began to hover.  Deftly, it moved over to the note and retrieved her message.

NightFire gently blew the insect away.  It took flight, circling her once, twice, then made for the sky.  She watched it heading toward the clouds and the Clock of Stars beyond, until finally it disappeared.

Needing no invitation, the second dragonfly shifted over one finger, landing where the first had departed.  NightFire folded another note and passed it to the sapphire colored insect.  “Fly to the west, little blue one, where the setting sun sends the world into night.  We must remember that only when we understand the darkness can we truly appreciate the light.  Return with one filled with compassion who will see to it that our deeds are selfless, that they’re aimed at giving to others.”

The insect darted away.  A third dragonfly, this one ivory, moved into place.  “To the east you shall go, right and toward the dawn of knowledge, where life reawakens after the night’s sleep.  There you must find one filled with wisdom.  One who not only looks within, but never loses perspective without.”

She drew in a long breath before giving instructions to the last of the four—ebony.  There was no turning back.  Only time would tell if all were for naught.  NightFire gave the final note to the jet-black insect before her.  “You, my messenger, will travel south and left of the setting sun, to the place where peace and plenty reigns.  There you will find a worthy apprentice possessing not only agility and speed, but also the ability to endure hardship with a sense of character.  One who understands that strength is something you share, not own.”

NightFire ushered the last insect off, and with it her hopes.  “Go.  Find our champions, my friends.  Without them, all will be lost.”

As if on cue, as if giving voice to the futility of her efforts, the Skaarsgard’s cry crescendoed in a distant, deafening knell, swallowing her prayer in the night.

SCROLL 13

I Grant You Change

Scientists have named and classified more than one million animals thus far—over half of which are insects—and thousands of new species are discovered each year.  Experts believe there may be as many as fifty million different kinds of animals alive today—and that’s just here on Earth.  Now multiply that number by the four hundred and eighty stars that have been identified with Earth-like planets and you’ll see just how much life might potentially exist throughout the Universe.

—The Fourth Korus of the Emerald Tree

Sitting back on her haunches, NightFire lifted her muzzle and relaxed her breathing.  It took a moment—the stretching of one muscle, the relaxing of another follicle—but in time she became absolutely still.  Her brilliant green lynx-eyes took in the forest a final time, marking its boundaries, noting its activity, all part of a necessary ritual she practiced while traveling between forms.  It was then that she was at her most vulnerable.  Given her paralytic state during transformation, if an attack came before she had assumed a new skin, she would be defenseless.

The boreal was quiet.  Even the rain had dissipated, escaping into the night after the Skaarsgard’s exit.  With a final, satisfied flick of her whiskers, NightFire closed her eyes and repeated the Ticking’s liturgy:  The rain gives birth to rivers, that gives birth to oceans, that gives birth to land, that gives birth to sky, that gives birth to rain…

NightFire focused her mind’s eye inward as she continued her mental journey.  Inward, toward the center of her being, the home of her spirit.  Inward, where visions of the long grass of Life grew waist deep in starlight.  Inward, where all the creatures of the skies, seas, and fields gathered.  Inward, where as one, the world’s Tokas—the spirits of all animalia—gathered together in one joyous, thunderous migration towards the center of Creation.

The rain gives birth to rivers, that gives birth to oceans, that gives birth to land, that gives birth to sky, that gives birth to rain…

In her mind, NightFire launched herself and took flight.  From the air, she searched the massive migration.  Elk, Buffalo, and Polar Bear were spread out beneath her.  Albatross, Peregrine, and Bat joined her on the wing.  From the rushing silver waters woven through the long, green grass, Marlin, Dolphin, and Ray leaped in competition.  She searched amongst them for a solitary animal, a single Toka among millions, one that only she could connect with.

It didn’t take long.

Running across the open plain, keeping pace with the Antelope and the Mustang, NightFire saw a vision of herself, her human form, leaping with joy.  From her aerial perspective, she could see how happy she was to be free among this vision of creation.  To run with the spirits of all wildlife, to be one and belong to all…

It wasn’t hard to imagine her Lynx-self smiling.

Rarely had she known this kind of release, this sense of belonging.  But she knew it couldn’t last.  The allure to remain in this spiritual form would become too strong, as would the desire to remain Toka animalia in the real world.  She had to return to what she was—human—or she wouldn’t come back.  She had to exchange spirits with her Lynx-self or her human skin would be lost to her forever.

In her mind’s eye, she swept down on her Toka, calling her human form by name.  NightFire’s human spirit turned.  Extending her Lynx-self paw, she offered a furry invitation.  As her human Toka accepted the offer with an outstretched hand, NightFire announced to the universe:

Earth and Water, Fire and Air.

Breath life into these skins I share.

When I change, may I still learn,

To care, protect, and always yearn.

In the time it takes a molecule to breathe or an eon to pass, NightFire’s Lynx-self changed places with her Human-self.  And as her mind’s eye once again took flight, she left behind the Toka of a beautiful wildcat, now hurrying to catch up with the throngs of other animals, each trying to keep pace with the migration of renewal that would only end when the stars ceased to shine.

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Scroll 12

A Tree By Any Other Name

An ancient superstition calls for knocking on wood to thank the tree’s spirit for granting a favor.

—The Fifth Korus of the White Tree [/leftcol]

[rightcol]I must be floating… Am I…?  Ughhh!! Pain pierced NightFire’s head, yanking her back to the present.  She sat upright on singed forepaws, only to find herself engulfed in a smoky haze.

Beneath her, sinewy branches cradled her bloody and bruised body.  Long, pliable pine needles pricked the fur around her muzzle.  Through squinted eyes, she made out a Ponderosa pine, silhouetted against the storm.

“Do not worry,” leafed the tree.  “I have you.”

NightFire placed a paw against the tree’s trunk, struggling to convey what her scorched voice could not.  Thank you.  Blurred memories continued to bounce around in her head.

As if sensing her confusion, the Ponderosa attempted to explain.  “You were struck by the Skaarsgard and tossed skyward in the explosion.  I caught you before you… well, see for yourself.”  As if upon command, a gentle wind caressed the forest, momentarily pushing away the smoke. [/rightcol]

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NightFire peered over her cradle of pine boughs, and there, several hundred feet below, was a crater.  Dark and black, it scarred not only the forest floor but also the trunk of the tree that held her.

“Had you fallen back…” The Ponderosa pine left it at that.

She thought for a moment.  Of course.  How stupid could she have been?  What had Sequoia taught her?  Speak only in the tongues of your Toka. No wonder the Skaarsgard had found her.  In sudden fear, she searched the clouds.

“It’s gone,” declared the Ponderosa.  “For now.”

As relief slowly soothed her panic, she opened her mouth to speak.  Only the rasping whine of a lynx’s growl emerged.

“You are NightFire, I know.  I am Peycos.  Please, give my regards to your father.” [/leftcol]

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NightFire squeezed her eyes shut, searching for the human words.  She licked her lips and tried again.

This time, her words found their whispered voice.  “I will, m’lord.  I was on my way to him.  To stop this.”  She faltered, her burnt whiskers flicking back to life.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Peycos asked.  “I mean, you, alone, against all of this?  Speaking on behalf of the Standing People, we’re more or less forced to stay out of things.  After all, we can’t be of much help, but you…”  The tree bowed toward her, enveloping her within what appeared to be a mix of protective confidence and fear.  “You know you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

“I appreciate the offer, m’lord, but…” NightFire nodded toward the distant fires still raging.  “It’s probably not the best idea,” she said.  “At least for you.” [/rightcol]

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“True,” the tree sighed.  “You know what they say…Born to breathe, but bred to burn.”  With that, the Ponderosa Pine gently lowered NightFire to the ground, branch by branch.  “But find help,” the tree added as she leapt the final few feet.  “This is not a battle that can be waged alone, much less won.”

“Thank you, Peycos.  I’ll try.”  She couldn’t bring herself to commit.  What if no one was there to help?

As if reading her mind—which the Standing People did on a regular basis—the pine responded:  “Good luck, child.  And like I said, this isn’t just your war.  It belongs to every living thing.  Never forget that.”  As NightFire stretched her tired limbs, the pine retreated, standing tall in the night sky once more.

After gathering her bearings at the foot of the Ponderosa, NightFire pondered her next move.  She couldn’t risk remaining in one animal skin forever.  The granting was strong but it had its limits.  Never had she assumed so many forms in so short a time.  Even now she felt the resistance in her limbs to change.  [/leftcol]

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A part of her longed to continue racing through the forest, to experience life with a lynx’s heightened sensations of sight, hearing, and smell, but in her heart she knew her greatest value to Sequoia and the Emerald Guard was as a human—a human who could make complex choices.

Reluctantly, NightFire decided it was time she returned to what she was.

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Scroll 11

To Kill For

The venom of the sea wasp is the deadliest in the world and has caused over 5,500 deaths since 1954—more than those caused by sharks and grizzly bears combined.

—The Thirteenth Korus of the Sapphire Tree

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Curled within the poisoned tip of his telson—the business end of his eight-foot-long scorpion tail—the fire agate didn’t look all that big to StormWing.  True, it would’ve been of record size had it been mined on Earth, but here in TerraTopia, where he literally tripped over them, the bulbous rock that glowed with such iridescent light actually seemed small.  It was probably a trick of the light.  Or, given what was holding it, more like a trick of his tail.

StormWing extended a cloaked arm.  Grasping the agate in the lethal tips of his single pedipalp—the scorpion claw that used to be his right hand—he held the rock to the light.  It shimmered against his insectoid armor, the rock taking its cues from the reflected flames that licked a nearby brazier.

He had to admit the fire agate’s flame was mesmerizing.  “How easy it must be for you to change color,” StormWing rasped, envying the stone’s unique ability.  “To go from red to green to blue…”  [/rightcol]

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He dropped the rock into his left hand, his human hand, then licked it, tasting it for its subtle colloidal silica signature.  With his tongue he sought the fine silica particles suspended within the stone that ultimately determined a fire agate’s worth.  The more silica, the more fire, the greater the fire, the greater the agate’s value.  StormWing taste-tested the rock a second time, trying to decide whether it was silica he detected or more iron oxide.  Decisions, decisions…

It took but a moment before his mouth curved into a smile.  “Not bad,” he declared, spitting out the aftertaste.  He held the stone up to the light once more.  A fire agate was more rare than a diamond, and one couldn’t help but be impressed when staring into the quiet inferno of a gem-quality stone.  Especially when it was the size of your fist.

“Change comes so easily to you doesn’t it, Stone?  Like changing one’s mind.  You wake up one morning and decide you don’t want to be a worthless blue anymore, so you change.

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You summon the difference and you change.  You become red or purple, go from yellow to green.  How fortunate.”

He turned and spat again, the saliva splattering the hundreds of other stones beneath his feet.  Not only fire agates but also silver ore, diamond-encrusted coal, raw emeralds and rubies, sapphires, morganite, amber…The stones seemed as numerous as grains of sand along a beach and formed a dune-studded shoreline from which he could see an infinite ocean of possibility.

How poetic.

He chuckled at his cleverness.  Indeed, piles of precious stones rising twenty feet into the air edged a sea of slick, black liquid—a sea of alkanes, cycloalkanes, and aromatic hydrocarbons that after spending, oh, about a million years getting to know one another, created one simple thing:

Oil.[/rightcol] [leftcol]

Miles of it.  Miles and miles of crude oil, all locked within a labyrinth of gigantic limestone caves hidden deep beneath the surface of the land he now ruled.

“Tell me, Stone, what color would you pick if you never had any color to begin with?”  StormWing stared at the agate.  “That should be easy—.”  Flicking his wrist, StormWing tossed the agate in the air.  Then, with a lightning fast strike of his tail—THWACK!—he swatted the stone into the ebon lake.  “You’d choose black, of course.  Deep, dark, rich black.  You know why?” He smiled as the agate skipped across the inky surface.  “Because every color looks absolutely stunning against it, and yet no one realizes it’s all about the darkness.”

After several hops, the agate disappeared into the oil.

“There.  What’d I tell you?  Darkness takes the ribbon.  Again.”

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Wrapping himself in his worn crimson robe, hiding the transformation that was slowly consuming him, StormWing pulled the black hood low, turned from his private sea of crude, and strode up his precious beach.

“Is it over?” he called into the nothingness.  Half crawling, half walking—he did everything in halves now—StormWing made his way to a flat limestone ledge bordering his priceless strand.

Hidden within the recesses of a looming cascade of stalactites forty feet tall, three dagger-like amethyst crystals stood as if stabbed into a round table of obsidian.  They were laid out like points on a compass or directions on a Native American medicine wheel.  An empty fourth hole suggested a missing crystal or, more important, a missing direction.

Of the crystals before him, each was over three feet high and nearly half as wide—and on fire.  On purple fire. As StormWing approached, he could feel their heat, their flames not only dancing within

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their centers but also lashing out at the corpse chained to the table.

StormWing swallowed the urge to vomit.

Before him, on the obsidian, lay the charred body of a woman.  Well, perhaps woman was an exaggeration.  That suggested she was human, and she hadn’t been that for a very long time.  The warring Tokas of the Sea Wasp, Alligator, and Locust had seen to that when they began battling each other for dominance over her body years ago.  Gauging from the translucent tentacles that spilled from her mouth and the gelatinous membrane that exploded from her chest—a membrane containing twenty-four eyes, no less—it appeared the Sea Wasp had finally won.  Still, add the mutation of round locust eyes and antennae, her protruding, scaled snout, and a whip-like reptilian tail…there was no doubt as to its current identity:  Skaarsgard.

It’s overrrrrrr, the crystals flared, speaking in silky, feminine unison.  Then again, one didn’t exactly hear the Burning Stones, StormWing reminded

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himself.  If they wanted to communicate with you, you simply became aware of their message.

“Funny.  I would’ve bet on the alligator.”  He tried to control the tremor in his voice.  “How long did she last?  After splintering, I mean.”

Three cyclessssss, returned the Stones.

StormWing massaged the back of his head where he heard the Stones most clearly.

“Three months?  And none of the bleeding worked?  The cauterizing?  Removing the excess appendages?  Did you try–?”

StormWing blinked.  For a moment, he blanked.  He struggled to recapture his thoughts.  “Wait! Did you–?”

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The unfinished question hung in the air.  With strained effort, he dug through his mind, dragging himself back into the moment he’d temporarily lost.  The Burning Stones had the ability to shuttle forward in time in order to avoid certain subjects, often taking their inquisitors along for the ride.

“Stop it!”  StormWing screamed.

She’s gonnnnne.  Purple flame filled the cavern.  Isn’t that enoughffffff?

“Not for me,” he declared.  “Not for me.”

StormWing turned and stared toward the horizon of his endless sea.  “It’s Wicket that’s the problem.  He’s about to splinter.  With Anvilla and the rest, I’ve got time.  They granted long after Wicket and I, but Wicket…”

StormWing cast a disgusted glance at the disc of obsidian, the Stones, and the failed experiment atop the table. “Her problem was she was too greedy.  She wanted too much power, too quickly.  She should’ve listened, but she wouldn’t.  She had to find the child…the answer…”[/leftcol] [rightcol]We are throughhhh.  The Stones’ flames waned.

StormWing zeroed back in on the Stones.  “You’re through when I say so,” he hissed.  “That’s how slavery works.”

No morrrrrre!! This time the Stones’ flaming awareness came with needle sharp pain.  StormWing grimaced, clutching his skull.

“Fine.  Then consider your sister destroyed.”

Must have liffffe.

“Noo-o-o.”  The needles of pain in his head began to recede.

Must tickkkkk.

“No.”

The voices in his head grew faint.

Must have lifffe.  Must tickkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk.[/rightcol] [leftcol]

The cavern surrounding the circle of obsidian grew dark and quiet.  “I thought so.” StormWing exhaled with a satisfied nod.  Taking a deep breath, he again retreated into his thoughts.  For how long, he didn’t know.  When he resumed his place at the table, he looked at the corpse a final time.

“Destroy it.”

Destroy your wiffffffe?

“My wife has been dead for a long, long time.”  StormWing swallowed the burning words even as he said them.  “Destroy it.  Now.”

Without looking back, StormWing left the Burning Stones to finish their work.

Three months after splintering?  Damn! The end had come so quickly.  A pity it had to be her.  With Sequoia and his Keepers running loose, time was not on his side.  He must find new recruits, and soon.  He was running out of Skaarsgard.[/leftcol] [rightcol]

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