Prelude

MOTHERS SCREAMED.

Tikitik listened for the sound, harkened to it, drew pleasure from it. None other could be mistaken for the wondrous mo ment of birth.

When the screams died, echoes fleeing through the dark mists of the Lay Swamp, Tikitik would press their necks against the trunk of the great, fertile rastis and strain to be first to hear the soft sizzle and pop of its tissues bursting within, proof of life unleashed.

That the rastis die too was only fitting.

When the newborn Tikitik exhausted their food supply, they would drum the empty husk of the rastis with feet and hands, begging for release. Others listened, too. Outside, creepers tapped their antennae, searching for weakness in the wood, a way into the bounty. Inside, somgelt erupted, lacy white tendrils racing down the ruined vessels of the rastis to seek the defenseless flesh. Only the strongest—and loudest—young would be freed in time.

All Tikitik understood the Balance. That which lived must be consumed by that which would live.

And that which would live must be strong.