2

Thorn-Flour

ANXIETY GNAWED AT WYNN AS she emerged from the tunnel.

She stood and took deep breaths as if the air around her were thin.

Of course, the caster would flee to the one place that swirl-ear most dreaded.

The Great Orator’s words rang in her mind: “…past the Gully, toward the very heart of the Dark Agrestal. That is where he was last seen before our scouts lost track of him. He hasn’t been sighted since, but if there’s any chance of finding him…”

Wynn shuddered. The Dark Agrestal…of all places.

It was the last thing the young swirl ear had expected to hear.

Quickly, Wynn mentally compiled a list of all she’d heard growing up regarding the Dark Agrestal:

One, the Dark Agrestal was full of wily and wayward folk. No one from there could ever be fully trusted.

Two, many swirl-ears had entered the Dark Agrestal…but few ever returned.

Three, it was overrun with dangerous wild beasts or wilders, as they were often called. They were said to roam the land in terrifying numbers and did not take kindly to larks.

And last, but worst of all:

The Dark Agrestal was where magic roamed free.

Wynn bristled.

Swirl-ear and magic didn’t mix. Any swirl-ear with sense knew that. Bundle that in with growing up hearing tale upon tale of how dangerous magic could be, and it seemed all the more foolish to Wynn to even consider stepping paw into the Dark Agrestal.

Wynn sighed.

Her stomach rumbled and she frowned. Usually, by this time of day it’d be supper. She’d be pushing past her siblings to the round wooden table where dinner sat. If she were lucky it would be her favorite: a steaming bowl of mushroom soup, topped with a cracked egg—shell, yolk, and all. It would be hot and freshly ladled by her ma, and sitting alongside seven other small clay bowls.

Frustrated, Wynn kicked a rock and sat. It was as if she was being pulled between two different forces. She couldn’t move forward, as the Dark Agrestal would surely mean her demise. But to return home empty-pawed? Just the thought made her gut lurch more than her hunger had.

She was stuck.

I feel like Aspen-ears, she thought. She recalled the bard from the play her sister had taken her to see about a dozen times. At this point, she could perfectly picture the foolish character from The Flight of a Thousand Greenmoths. The swirl-ear actor who played him was always loud, laughing, and playing a lute at the worst of times. He wore a large, goofy grin on his snout, his purple-feathered cap bouncing whenever he spoke.

Arrogant, fool-hearty, and about to walk off into doom, Wynn sighed. Sounds just like me, only with less music.

“Hey, there you are!”

Wynn looked up to see the young mosshrew walk up, munching on an apple.

“For a second I worried you left already,” he said. “You sure shuffled out of there in a rush.” He scratched his ear as he finished off the fruit, core and all. “But then again,” he said with a mouth full, “the council gets so talky this time of day I’d be in a rush to get out of there too.”

Wynn sheepishly peered at him. “Why were you worried about me leaving?”

“I wanted to see you off,” he said. “It’s not every day you meet a fellow young traveler.”

Wynn couldn’t contain her disbelief. “Really, you’re a traveler?”

The mosshrew cocked his head. “Yeah, why do you sound surprised?”

“Sorry,” Wynn apologized. “It’s just you’re so…” She couldn’t find the word.

“Small?” he suggested. “Naive? A young pup that could probably be plucked and eaten by a ravenous wilder?”

“Well, sort of,” Wynn admitted.

The mosshrew shook his head. “I’ve heard that one before, but my journeys aren’t too difficult. It’s just a hop and skip away.” He smiled cheerfully. “A tail twitch and a half. I’ve been to Knotrest thrice now—twice this spring alone.”

Wynn hopped to her paws in disbelief.

“Is that true?” she asked. For a moment, the mosshrew seemed like a character straight out of a play to her. Wynn tried to picture him navigating treacherous forests of prickly vines and laughing in the face of dangerous wild beasts.

The young mosshrew raised a paw to his chest. “It’s nothing much because I am Trussel,” he proclaimed. “Trussel Gableroot, eighth son of the mighty Sir Rampart and High-ranked-Scout Moatwhiskers. Also, rumored half-cousin to Archmoor the Second, and descendant of Babblerut the Great.”

“And bumbling fool!” added a passing mosshrew.

Trussel glared over his shoulder. “Ignore Vaultsoot over there. Always the sourness with him.” He continued, “You know, I was going to Belchthicket in a week, but I could help you on your journey. Well, anywhere up to the Bloomrot Gully. I’ll take only two—no, wait—four biscuits.”

Wynn blinked, bewildered. “How’d you know I had biscuits in my bag?”

“Never underestimate a mosshrew’s nose,” he said. “I smell swirled-butternut, piked-almond, and if my nose doesn’t deceive me…double-baked hazel bread with red tuff-tuff seeds.”

Wynn studied him. The young mosshrew was odd, but if it meant not being alone for a stretch of the journey.

“All right,” Wynn said. “So for four biscuits, you’ll take me up to Bloomrot Gully?”

“Actually, for four and a half biscuits and five pence,” Trussel corrected, his eyes gleaming.

“Fine,” Wynn agreed.

“Actually, for eight pences, and some bread,” Trussel said, increasing the price.

“Eight? I only have five!” Wynn said. Truthfully, she had nine, but she couldn’t just spend it all in one place. I may need them, she thought nervously.

“Okay, okay, four pences,” Trussel relented. “But I still want five biscuits and some bread!”

“Fair,” Wynn said.

He extended his paw and Wynn hesitated, now skeptical of their deal.

Well, think of it this way, she told herself, maybe you can learn more about journeying from him on the way. Then, you can get a clearer idea of what’s ahead—maybe he even knows things about the Dark Agrestal.

They shook paws.

Trussel turned, then glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, and try not to move at a tree’s pace like earlier. I need to be back in time for my next scout mission.” He said before setting off.

Wynn blinked. That was a tree’s pace to him? I could hardly keep up.

She shook her head and followed.

What have I just agreed to?

“AND HERE WE ARE,” TRUSSEL announced as they emerged from the tunnel. “The cliffs of Tallstalks, or in other words, the fastest route to Bloomrot Gully.”

As Wynn followed, she squinted her eyes to adjust to the light of evening. In the distance lay miles and miles of jagged rocks and boulders that lined their path.

She watched as Trussel scampered ahead. He stopped a few feet shy of a large break in the ground. It stretched far into the beyond, its outline hazy.

Clutching the pale yellow biscuit with white swirls that she’d given him, he gnawed and spoke:

“You know, thorn-flour is quite better than tangle-wheat.” He glanced back at her as he crunched into the biscuit, its small crumbs clinging to his whiskers and scruffy chin. “It makes treats less dry and crumbly.”

Wynn tried not to look at his open snout as he talked. “Well, my family only grows tangle-wheat and a few others,” she muttered. She scanned their surroundings. The path they stood on only split left and right. The Ears of Dim said to cross the trail northward, she recalled.

She glanced at Trussel, who was still chattering about the biscuit.

“It’s just too bad,” Trussel continued, “because flour makes a difference, like my ma would point out…”

Ugh, still with the flour. Wynn had hardly known him for more than a few hours, and already she was rethinking her deal. How many biscuit opinions could one mosshrew have?

“Trussel,” she said, “do you think you could help me figure out the Ears of Dim’s directions? They said to start northward, but…”

She looked back at Trussel, who now had finished his second biscuit.

“Don’t worry, I know the route by heart,” he squeaked, rubbing his paws on his sides to free them of crumbs.

“All right, which way?” she asked.

Trussel walked over to the edge of the cliff face, and pointed down.

Wynn followed his and glanced over.

Big mistake.

She stumbled back. It was a steep drop with a large river at the bottom, its dark waters stretched out into the horizon like a small sea. The very sight quickened her heart.

She looked at Trussel as if he’d gone mad.

“You’re not expecting us to really climb down there?” She could hardly manage the small drop on her way to the city. And with that stretch of water, a swim would be impossible.

Trussel shook his head. “Nope, there’s nowhere safe to cross, and the rock face is far too crumbly. It’ll collapse under your paws faster than that tuff-tuff bread you gave me earlier.”

Wynn glowered at the jab. “Did you want the biscuits or not?” she snapped.

“All right, all right,” Trussel huffed. “We’ll trek along the cliffs till we can cross over to Bloomrot Gully.”

“And where is the route?” Wynn asked.

“Well, less of where, and more of what,” Trussel said.

“What?” Wynn asked.

The mosshrew grinned. “You’ll see what I’m talking about.”