7

Gully

WYNN’S MIND WHIRLED AS TRUSSEL rambled on about the origins of mulchbread, all the way back to two years ago, when he’d gotten an earful for polishing off a platter of pastries before a family gathering started.

Wynn nodded, only half listening. Ever since they had started crunching through the spiny bristles near Bloomrot Gully, it had dawned on her that she’d be alone again soon. It was this and the minor ache in her tail tip that occupied her thoughts.

I should ask him to keep going with me. Would it really be so weird? I mean we traveled together this far. How far is Belchthicket from the Dark Agrestal?

They stopped near a small creek where orange insects hummed along the droopy black and green reeds. It was then that Wynn began her question. “Trussel, I have to ask…”

Trussel’s small ears perked, and he looked at her. “Yeah?”

“Well, I’m surprised your folks let you go so far,” Wynn said, avoiding the question.

Trussel cocked his head. “Well, so do yours.”

That caught Wynn off guard. She stuttered for a cover. “Well, not till recently, and just this once,” she fibbed. “Otherwise I’d get an earful from them. See, I like to keep my journeys short.”

Trussel nodded. “I see. Well, last bloom or two gazes ago, I got a litter of seven siblings, so now our denning is packed, with my folks working nonstop.” He let out a strained laugh. “You’ve never seen a more tired pair of droopy whiskers, so I nagged and nudged, and they let me help pick up things for our family in Dimrest. Eventually I joined the scouts and well, the rest is history.”

He paused to stare into the trees that towered above them, and for a moment Wynn felt a stillness in the air.

In that moment, Wynn considered spilling everything that welled in her mind—the real reason for her journey—or that, unlike him, she had failed her family. Even now, as she traveled to make things right, there was the nagging self-doubt that her journey was futile.

Wynn sighed. No, I can’t.

She couldn’t even tell the powerful Ears of Dim what that caster had stolen. Not only would it be pursued by larks around the Agrestal lands, but it would reveal how vulnerable her village was, putting them in further danger.

So instead, she stood in silence with Trussel, listening to the hum of wattle-reed flies as they hovered over the creek reeds.

Finally, Wynn spoke.

“This is it, isn’t it?”

Trussel whiskers twitched. “So you’ve noticed.”

“Well, when you kept glancing back like we passed something, I took that as a sign we’ve hit Bloomrot Gully.”

Trussel sighed. “We were having so much fun, and I didn’t want to be rude,” he admitted. “Tis true. If I went any further, I’d be closer to Knotrest than Belchthicket. Then I’d get an earful from my folks and the Ears of Dim.”

Wynn stuck out her paw to the mosshrew, and they shook.

“Thank you, Trussel,” she said, “it means a lot.”

“Ah, it was nothing,” Trussel said. “You withstood my rambling, so I’d say we’re even. Well, that and—”

Wynn took out two biscuits carefully wrapped in parchment paper. “Keep the extra,” she said, handing them to the mosshrew.

Trussel beamed.

As Wynn walked on, he called, “Oh, and if you’re ever in Dimrest again and need a travel partner, just ask the Ears of Dim for me.”

Wynn turned and waved. “Okay.”

“Oh, and good luck on your errand! And don’t forget what I said about thorn-flour! It makes a difference!”

“I won’t!” Wynn called back.

She watched as the mosshrew turned and skittered off, becoming a dot in the distance before vanishing entirely.

“MAE?”

It was night when Wynn was called into the grotto beneath her home.

As she stood at its entrance, the tall grass around her swayed in the gentle breeze gliding through the field, carrying the sweet scent of poses and poppies. Wynn stared into the darkness of the stone enclosure and listened for a reply.

None came.

“Mae, I’m back from the play,” Wynn called. “I left during Act 1. I just had this odd feeling and started getting worried…why did you put out your lantern?”

Wynn listened. She heard the breeze gently rustle the tall grass behind her. Somewhere in Tallstalks, a cricket began to chirp its nightly tune.

Wynn’s ears flicked.

Nothing from her sister.

The swirl-ear stepped in cautiously, feeling a prickle of unease. She pictured her sister crouched in the dark, holding back laughter before leaping out to startle her.

“Don’t try to scare me, Mae!” Wynn huffed. “I only came back because—”

Wynn nearly slipped and looked down to see pages tattered and strewn in the dirt.

She froze. Her eyes followed the pages to the facedown book, and near it, its owner. There lay her sister. Mae’s olive-green cloak was disheveled and torn as she lay on her side.

Her eyes were closed.

She didn’t stir.

“Mae…” The words nearly caught in Wynn’s throat.

Then Wynn felt them.

Eyes.

She turned to see a looming figure in the shadows. A large, cloaked lark, its harrowing black eyes burning into her.

The cloaked figure stepped forward. Clutched within his hands was a long silver chest that gleamed in the moonlight.

The Spindlechest.

Through his scraggly beard he scowled and raised his long leathery wings above his head, nearly engulfing the room in a swirling shadow.

The whole time, he watched her.

Waiting for her next move.

That night, it was to run.

WYNN WOKE WITH A START. She sat up and looked around.

She was alone again.

Around her, large plants drooped and curled, their colors muted and muddled as if they were seconds away from wilting entirely. The flaking branches of gaunt gray trees twisted above her head, upwards towards a cloudy midday sky.

Wynn suppressed a shudder as she pushed images of her daymare away. She had never dreamt so vividly before the night the chest was taken. Now, it was lucky to sleep without a replay of that memory.

So much for quick rest, she thought drowsily.

The sap-scorched tip of her tail began to ache from the swift movement of sitting up. I might as well take care of that now.

She yawned as she dug through her pack. From it, she pulled a strip of cloth and a small wooden jar of sticky green pulp. Pouring some pulp onto the fabric, she bonded it together, tying it around the singed tip of her tail to make a crude bandage.

Should do for now.

As she packed away the jar, she noticed something that couldn’t escape a swirl-ear’s perceptive eyes: A small tear in the strap of her bag.

Immediately, she dug into a bag pocket and pulled thread and needle, two tools she was taught never to be without. She threaded the string through her small silver needle and swiftly got to work.

By nature, swirl-ears were skilled in all things related to weaving and sewing. It was near instinct to pull two thin stalks together and create something: a makeshift nest or bed, a basket to hold food, a patch for a hole in their burrow, or something just to keep their paws busy. And almost as naturally, this habit pushed them to create beautiful things—to weave brilliant tapestries, knit cozy quilts, and create bright cloaks.

As Wynn finished sewing, she gave the pack’s strap a yank.

Perfect. At least something had a simple fix.

As she put away her tools, her eyes caught the dangly roots of a tree further up the slope. A possible shelter if she could weave it just right.

She needed a proper place to rest even if she couldn’t sleep. At least till dusk, when she’d set off again.

OW.

Wynn winced, her head hitting a bent root of the tree she’d crawled under. She crept out from the makeshift burrow and gave her fur a shake, flinging some dirt away.

Even swirl-ears had their challenges. And after an hour of trial and error, Wynn called it quits on her project.

I supposed I could find some other shelter, Wynn thought. The roots are too stiff anyway.

She sheepishly shuffled away from the now-crooked roots of the tree and back out into the Gully.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of another issue.

To eat.

But the thought of stale bread or biscuits made her grimace. She felt they’d start pouring from her ears if she ate another. Plus, she was getting a tad low—it was time to ration.

And time to hunt.

She looked around, stepping carefully. Listen, stalk, lunge, then rattle.

Wynn scouted the branches around here—nothing.

She pressed her ears to the ground and against logs for scuttling and digging noises. Silence.

In fact, it was strangely silent, as if every small wilder had gone into hiding. Wynn sniffed, looking at the dark clouds gathered overhead. How’d she missed the tingling in her fur, the smell of moisture in the air, the slight pressure on her eardrums? It was going to rain.

Anything that could be considered prey was probably nestled up in their burrows. And there they would likely sit until the clouds cleared.

Just my luck.

Then she heard it.

The very faintest…crooooaaaaaak.

Within seconds, Wynn had rattled the little web-tailed toad to its demise.

THREE TOADS LATER, WYNN WAS in no better mood to sleep. Still, her memories nagged at her, threatening to bubble up and over the moment she rested her head.

The vow she’d broken. The fear she’d felt. And the havoc that ensued.

But she could change things.

She would change things.

But she couldn’t if she continued to sit at the bottom of a muddy Gully hunting toads.

Wynn stood up, fishing out her cloak from her bag. She whipped up the small, knitted hood, her ears poking through holes in the sides.

The sky above rumbled.

And despite the steady downpour of rain, she ventured on.