5

Redwhiskers

WYNN SAT BENEATH THE SHADE of an overhanging rock, musing on her situation as the sun stubbornly clung to the sky above. Normally, the young swirl-ear would be fast asleep right now, nestled deep within the quilted covers of her bed. Swirl-ears were crepuscular creatures, preferring the cool dusk and cozy dawn.

Wynn yawned, feeling her shoulders sag with tiredness as she sat. She didn’t even want to think of sleep—not now, when her memories seemed to worm their way into her dreams, not when a brief shut of the eyes could drag her back to the night when everything went wrong.

Wynn gave her head a shake.

Haunted. That’s what I am.

It was like the performance she had watched from a traveling troop last fall. The Cruel Dawn of the Red-Whiskers, the play about the valiant mosshrew, Sir Aldenmire of Misten-thicket, and his journey up the perilous mountain to save his brother from the talons of the wicked king of the ravel-beaks.

Aldenmire, a young mosshrew—undeterred by the harsh weather or wild carnivorous beasts—was determined to bring his brother home or risk dying, Wynn reminisced. His thoughts were haunted too. Though to be fair, with the literal ghosts of his dead grandfather and best friend haunting him, how could he not have troubling thoughts?

Wynn glanced back at her partner, who munched rather loudly on a rectangular loaf of dried, hardened bread. He was also a crepuscular creature, but not one opposed to a midday snack. He swiftly finished one piece of tuff-tuff seed bread, only to pull out another. As odd and at times irritating as the mosshrew was, his presence was much welcomed. Thankfully I’m not as alone as Aldenmire… at least not yet.

She felt a breeze brush her and pulled her soft light blue cloak closer.

I’m no Redwhisker, she thought.

But perhaps she could be just as bold, just as daring.

Even if just a bit.

Wynn yawned again. She fought sleep and sleep fought back.

Before she knew it her eyes had shut and her mind drifted to a night not far from now.

“AND WHERE DO YOU THINK are you going?”

Wynn turned to see her sister eyeing her from across the dark, moss-covered grotto.

Beyond the small cave-like enclosure they were standing in, the tall outline of leafy stalks loomed in the distance. A gentle breeze moved their unmistakable curled tips in the dark of dusk.

She was home again.

Warm blue light trickled on her soft brown face as she held up a small metal lantern burning cellowood. Her olive green cloak ruffled as she stepped over the small moat of clear water that flowed around them in a small arc just outside of the cavern.

Wynn nervously met her sister’s gaze. “I drank a lot of water so I’m going to—uh, go,” she fibbed.

Her sister gave her a look. “Really?”

Wynn nodded, tugging on the end of her cloak. The thing about Mae was that she wasn’t just great at reading books; she was great at reading larks.

Her older sister grinned, amused. “You’re going to see that cute play, aren’t you? Poppies of the Cursed Prince of…something?”

“Poppies of the Fallen King,” Wynn corrected, “and it’s not cute! It’s a tragic war drama. Oh, and I’m not going to see it—I—uh—just wanted to correct you.”

Wynn felt a bead of sweat drip down her nose.

“Wynn,” her sister said.

“Okay, okay,” Wynn said, slumping, “but just a bit of the first act.”

“And what about your guardian duties?” Her sister put on a gruff voice that mimicked her Pa. “Being a Spindleseer means upholding your vow to protect the Spindlechest, and in doing so our village. To prevent forces of evil from even taking an itty-bitty glimpse of what’s inside.”

Her sister shook her head and tsked for extra effect. “I never would’ve expected this from you, Wynn. It’s very un-guardian-like behavior.”

“I know, but this play is different from the rest!” Wynn gushed. “These performers are from beyond the Agrestal lands! And did you see the costumes and the props, and ooh—the stage! I’ve never seen it so adorned!”

Her sister raised her paws, “I get it, I get it.”

It was rare to see a performance not by swirl-ears, mosshrew, or other inhabitants of the Tallstalks, and even rarer to see a production of such scale. It was all swirl-ears had been buzzing about for weeks, and now she would miss her only chance to see it.

In the dark, Wynn could make out the small stone pedestal behind her sister. It was surrounded by smooth stone walls carved centuries ago, and on top of it was a small silver chest.

The cause of all of Wynn’s woes.

The Spindlechest.

“They’re only here for two days!” Wynn went on. “And I missed the first one due to chores.” She hung her head. “And now I’ll miss the second because of that old dusty box.”

Her sister laughed. “I’m just messing with you,” she said. “Go see the play.”

Wynn looked up. “Are you serious, Mae? I can go?”

“Of course.” Mae turned, pulled a thick book from behind her, and waved it. “It gets boring around here. And plus, all of us skip a night or two.”

Wynn’s eyes widened. She’d been unaware that her older siblings had secret escapades. All this time I thought everyone just did their guardian duty. I still have so much to learn.

“Just be back before twilight,” Mae added.

Wynn glanced over her shoulder. “But what if Pa returns?”

“He never returns before dawn,” Mae sniffed. “Just go. It’s not fair that we all have to spend our eleventh birthday guarding some old dusty box. I’m still peeved I wasted mine doing that, meanwhile Willow Thicklemoor gets to have a whole soiree on hers.”

“Soiree?” Wynn said.

“Party,” Mae explained.

“Oh.”

Mae shook her head and went back to reading. “Geez Wynn, you’re supposed to be the cultured sibling,” she muttered.

Wynn was still processing her luck. “Thank you!” she yipped heartily and hopped to the other side of the moat, giddy.

Within seconds, she was racing down the glade, her paws nearly flying over the grassy hill.

If I hurry maybe I can get a good seat. Maybe I’ll even see Olive!

She knew her good friend was torn when Wynn had told her she couldn’t come. Both were play enthusiasts, or at least as much as newbies to the world of theatre could be.

Then, a dark shadow passed over her. Wynn yelped as pain rocketed through her head. For a few seconds the wind seemed to whip around her viciously. She closed her eyes to stop blades of grass from getting into them.

The wind gradually died down into a calm breeze.

Wynn looked around. Her fur still bristling.

What was that!? She glanced up, only to see the dark outlines of clouds drifting along the starry night sky.

A sleepy breeze carrying the scent of flowers drifted along the blades of grass, folding them into crisp waves of green.

Wynn realized that her head pain had subsided almost as quickly as it had appeared.

She glanced back at the grotto beneath her home, her eyes drifting upward to the warm lights of her grass-woven denning on the cliff above.

Maybe I should tell Mae, Wynn thought. She sneezed, trying to shake the smell of flowers from her nose. It must be pollen season or something.

But she turned away and trotted down the path to her village. I’ll just tell her after the play.

It’s not as if she’s going to vanish.

WYNN FURROWED HER BROW IN the present as she trekked after Trussel.

Despite her sleep, her dream had left her mind foggier and her paws heavier as she struggled to keep up with the swift-footed rodent. Wynn squinted as their long shadows trotted alongside them across the cliffs.

It suddenly felt odd to compare herself to Aldenmire Redwhisker. After all, would Aldenmire have left his brother as she’d left Mae? Could she really become such a lark, real or not?

Or maybe I’m just doomed to be me. A venture-smitten swirl-ear who picks plays over duty.

Even with large rock faces dotting their path, the wooden silhouette of an enormous fallen tree lay in the distance. It rested on its side, looming over the deep, dark chasm with a dark foaming river miles below.

Wynn blinked, surprised. The trunk seemed as high as three cottages and stretched far into the horizon. It sloped a little on the side, but was wedged firmly between the rock faces, still and sturdy like a large wooden bridge.

Then it clicked.

Wynn gaped and turned to Trussel. “We’re crossing that tree, aren’t we?”

Trussel laughed. “I told you you’d see when we got here. This is how we get to the Bloomrot Gully, and quick. We just need to climb over the Fallen Osier to the side where there’s a safer slope down into the Gully.”

As they neared the fallen tree, Wynn’s head spun with the memories of stories she grew up hearing. Tales of how the lands beyond the cliffs were riddled with foul beasts larger than towers, and of enchanted rivers that could show you your past, future, and eventual demise. Stories of endless stretches of forests where you could get lost for months, and where groups of dangerous blood-hungry robbers hid, waiting to swipe anything from coins to your boots.

As they approached the crossing, Wynn grew tense. The tree’s branches hardly scratched their side of the chasm. Ancient lichen and the moss-covered trunk curved downward till it reached its base, with long roots sprawling along the rocks on the other side.

“How did you know this is safe?” Wynn asked.

Trussel, who had already begun to cross the tree, glanced back at her.

“It looks worse than it is, but if you stay towards this end,” he said, pointing to the right, “you should be fine. That’s where the bark is sturdiest. Also, don’t touch the burning sap.”

Wynn blinked. “The burning sap?”

Trussel pointed to a small pool of amber balanced on a leaf from the Osier’s branches. It slowly slid down in a large droplet, till it severed and plopped into the chasm below.

“The sap burns,” he explained. You don’t want it on your fur. I got a dab behind my ear once, and it stung worse than a hive of specklesting wasps. Most of the fur grew back—but still…” He continued along the tree. Also, try not to look down into the giant gaping chasm beneath us!”

Wynn took a long breath. Eyes forward. As long as I keep my eyes forward, I’ll be fine.

She leapt onto the trunk, her claws making a clicking noise as she skittered on top of the tree’s slick, wooden surface.

“Okay,” she muttered as she walked, “good start.”

She darted after Trussel, trampling through damp moss, avoiding odd chips in the wood, and weaving past branches.

Trussel stopped, catching his breath, and looked back to see Wynn rush up to him, also panting.

“Not a single stumble! Great!” Trussel said. “Now get ready for the gap.”

“Gap?” Wynn asked.

Trussel pointed down the tree. Below it sat a break in the trunk. Past it was a clear, short stretch before hitting the roots.

They both took their time scrambling up to the break. Wynn glanced at Trussel, who smirked.

“Watch and learn.” He got on all fours, then took a running start. Just before he hit the break he leapt, his front then back paws making an audible thump as he landed on the other side.

He looked back and lifted his paws above his head. “Easy!”

Wynn took a breath and looked at where the mosshrew had jumped. His side of the break seemed to grow more distant with each passing second.

She closed her eyes. She imagined a crimson curtain rising for a dimly lit play, the audience’s voices growing to a hush. The swelling of music, the eyes watching with eager anticipation. She remembered leaning forward as the first lines of A Cruel Dawn for The Red Whiskers were read to her by a mosshrew carrying a gilded harp, with flakes of its paint peeling off. The mosshrew wore a tunic made of tattered gray cloth. With a voice loud and clear, it spoke the first line with urgency and confidence:

“This surly dawn, draped with dread—with bated breath, births of a wretched quest!”

Wynn’s eyes flew open and she raced toward the gap on all her paws.

Just before she reached the edge she leapt, soaring over the gap. With a similar thump, she landed on the other side.

Crack.

Wynn looked down. A thin line appeared below her paws.

Snap.

Before Wynn could react, she found herself clinging to the side of the splintered wood.

Panic flowed through her, her back paws kicking the air as bark crumbled around her.

“Hold on!” Trussel shouted, dashing toward her.

Before Wynn could yell about the absurdness of his request, she was interrupted by a gut-wrenching snap as the bark gave way. She yelped as she found herself plummeting into the darkness below.

EGGS.

More precisely, scrambled eggs.

These were the last things Wynn thought of as she hurtled towards the depths.

She pictured the scrambled eggs Mae would make every morning as her family woke, and she’d never taste them again. Nor any other egg-related meal—not egg soup nor boiled eggs. Not buttered and plopped onto freshly baked tuff-tuff bread, nor chopped up and wrapped in cabbage.

Before Wynn could reflect more, she realized she had stopped falling.

She opened her eyes and saw she had landed on a large cluster of dried lichen that lined the inside of the hollow trunk.

There was a rush of pain. Her tail felt like it was on fire.

Wynn sat up and turned to see a thin trail of sap dripping down from the top of the tree and landing on her curled tail. She quickly wiped it off in the dried lichen.

“Wynn?”

She looked up to see Trussel’s snout peeking out from over the rim of the gap.

“Are you all right?” he called from above.

Wynn nodded. “Just a bit sore, but at least I’m alive.”

She looked around. Pale patches of light poured in from splintered crevices within the hollow tree. Dried fragments of rotting bark and orange lichen covered the wooden floor and walls around her. In front of her the tree continued on, deep into darkness. Behind her lay a large knothole, revealing what her fate would’ve been had she been less lucky.

Wynn looked back up at Trussel. “I don’t see a way out from here. Maybe I find one further into the tree… I’ll go look.”

“Okay,” Trussel said wearily. For the first time Wynn noticed a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “I’ll wait down by the tree roots. Yowl when you get there.”

“All right,” Wynn said. She watched the mosshrew disappear, leaving her alone in the hollow trunk.

She turned and made her way down the trunk. Her eyes shifted left to right for any sign of a safe way out. She also lightly crept around any patch of wood that creaked below her or looked a bit off. If she fell again, she was certain there wouldn’t be anything to stop her descent.

As Wynn made her way through the enclosed space, the pungent scent of bark, mildew, and sap seemed to amplify with each passing minute. It was almost enough to make her gag.

All the more reason to get out of here.

But there was another smell here that unnerved her—a scent she thought she caught shortly after she fell, but that had blended with the tree’s odor too quickly to confirm.

It had to be a mistake.

But even now, as she crept past breaks in the wood and wove past puddles of sap, every now and again she caught the familiar scent. Faint and nearly undetectable beneath the bark and mildew, there was the smell of dead flowers mixed with ash from a roaring fire.

It was a scent that clung to her memory like a burr on a shoe, and one she now deemed to be the unmistakable scent of destruction.

The scent of magic.

Ridiculous, Wynn thought, she pushed the thought away.

But she quickened her pace anyway, the sound of her claws scratching the bark as she hurried down the tunnel. Within moments, she was met with a large pile of rocks and dirt jutting through the tree. As she paused to gather her breath, she realized she had reached the end of the trunk.

The swirl-ear felt nothing but relief.

Now to find a way out.

She looked around and saw crevices of different sizes around the wood. She scanned them until she finally found one that looked wide enough for her to escape through.

Just as she lay two paws on the rock pile to climb, she caught the glint of something small and round in the distance. She took her paws off the rock and curiously crept over to it.

As she grew nearer, she saw the glint was coming from multiple small, gray objects, nestled around a little dirt mound. She squatted close to the mound and blinked.

The objects were bugs.

More specifically, termite-like creatures with shield-like wings. Light from one of the tree’s crevices reflected off their small frames. The bugs were lined up like little army soldiers, leaving and entering the mound.

But as Wynn soon noticed, not one of them moved.

She poked at one at the top of the mound. No response. She nudged it again and it simply rolled down to the ground, resuming its stillness as it hit the bottom.

They were all dead.

Feeling her unease rise again, Wynn turned away and swiftly made her way back to the wall.

Within seconds Wynn was clambering up the wall and out of the opening she had spotted earlier. As she poked her head out and was greeted with fresh air, she took a large breath and pulled herself out, neatly balancing on a large root wedged near a rock.

“Wynn!”

Wynn turned to see Trussel waving at her from further down. He sat perched on a tall rock near the roots.

She waved back, crossing towards him and squeezing past the roots and rocks, till she met Trussel on the other side.

“I was starting to get a little worried,” he admitted, his whiskers twitching. “I thought maybe you got lost or stuck—or fell through again! I almost went back and scrambled in there.”

“Well, you’ll be glad you didn’t,” Wynn said. “It was awful in there, damp, creepy…and I never want to see another pool of sap again.”

She glanced up at the blue sky. The sun now hung well above them, bearing down the heat of midday. It was at that moment that she realized how exhausted she was. She turned to Trussel, who didn’t seem much better for the wear, his ears drooping as he stood.

“Let’s find somewhere to rest first,” Wynn said, “and then I’ll tell you all about it.”

Trussel eagerly nodded and the two set off once more.