by Trevor Pryce
“Lord Marmoo.” Queen Jarrah had crept up beside him. “I hope you approve of the view?”
Marmoo bent his forelegs slightly and peered into the distance. “Breathtaking. Wouldn’t you agree, commander?”
“Useful for spotting enemies,” Pigo said, rubbing his chin with his pincers. “As they approach.”
“You don’t find it beautiful?” Queen Jarrah asked, a little sharply.
“Very much so, my lady.” But Pigo didn’t care about beauty; he only cared about the upcoming invasion. “And from here, your nightcasting will tear down the Veil protecting the Amphibilands?”
“If she is successful,” Lord Marmoo said.
“I will succeed,” she told him, “if you have brought me what I need. And if you guarantee my payment.”
“We’re allies now, Queen Jarrah. United with a single purpose.”
“United with a double purpose,” she corrected. “For you wish to conquer the Amphibilands, but I have a different goal.”
“You want the turtle king dead.”
“The dreamcaster.” She spat the word like a curse. “He thinks he’s more powerful than I am? He beat me once, but I’ll show him what power is. He uses visions to change the world. I use webs and poison. He’ll soon discover which is stronger.”
“Once you destroy the Veil, Queen Jarrah, my army will slaughter the frogs in their wetland home. And even though the turtle king is old and weak, there’s no doubt that he’ll come forward to protect them.”
“Yes,” she said, with a sharp nod. “He’s coddled those pathetic frogs for a hundred years. That’s the only reason they’ve survived.”
“Well, soon King Sergu will leave his Turtle Coves to try to save them. And you will ensnare him.”
“If,” Queen Jarrah repeated, “you have brought me what I need.”
She prowled toward a small boulder standing beside the enormous crate the scorpions warriors had brought. She drew a single strand of silk from her abdomen, smeared it with poison, then draped it across the boulder.
The flimsy thread fell gently across the rough rock and—
Crack! The boulder split apart with a loud report.
The noise faded, and Pigo gaped. The boulder looked as if a giant blade had cleaved it cleanly in two: Both halves were facing skyward, the cut surfaces perfectly smooth.
A moment later, spider warriors scaled the castle walls, climbing onto the platform. They lifted the crate and poured the contents—dirt and rock—onto the two halves of the divided boulder.
“Imprints of everything that ever happened still mark the earth,” Queen Jarrah said. “Imprints of a mouse running from an owl. Imprints of a crocodile killing a kangaroo. Even imprints of a dreamcasting remain in the dirt and soil. And those imprints teach lessons.”
“Do you understand, Pigo?” Lord Marmoo asked, his segmented tail cocked inquisitively.
Pigo nodded slowly. “She’s going to use this dirt to study the imprints of the turtle king’s dreamcasting? To learn how he did it?”
“Very good,” the queen said. “You’re smarter than you look. The turtle king protected the Amphibilands well, but if I can catch the imprints of his casting in my web, then I can undo it.”
“She needed the soil from the place where he stood while casting his magic,” Lord Marmoo explained. “From that very spot on the battlefield. And finally …” He gestured to the dirt-heaped boulder with one battered claw. “I found it.”
The spider queen raised her thin arms, and a hush fell. “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “This will do nicely.”
As she tapped her poison for nightcasting power, shiny dark spots bloomed in her eyes until they were completely black. She started circling the boulder halves, drawing strand after strand of silk from her spinnerets.
She stroked the dirt, shuttling around and around until a web took form. Then she smiled, and her fangs extended, glistening with poison.
A droplet fell onto the web, and the silk shimmered and swirled.
Pigo saw shapes form on the churning web, toxic patterns that spread, twisted, and withered. And finally, the nightcasting was over.
The queen’s eyes returned to normal. Weak from the effort, she collapsed onto a webbed stool her ladies-in-waiting had spun. She sank her fangs into a wriggling silken bundle—some unfortunate wasp caught earlier—and drank her fill.
Then she raised her venomous gaze to Lord Marmoo and smiled icily. “The turtle king will soon writhe in my web.”
“You learned how to destroy his dreamcasting?”
“I learned how to weaken it. The Veil has many layers, Lord Marmoo. I can tear down the outermost ones now, but I need one more thing before I destroy it completely. I need something from inside the Amphibilands, something alive and rooted to the froglands: a waratah tree in bloom.”
“But that’s impossible.” Marmoo’s mouthparts clicked in frustration. “I’ve marched a thousand regiments toward the Amphibilands, but we can’t enter.”
“Starting tomorrow, you can. Just the edges, at first, where I’ve frayed the Veil.”
Lord Marmoo’s tail quivered in anticipation. “Then you shall have your tree. And after you do, my queen, how long until you destroy the turtle king’s magic completely?”
“Not long at all, after I’m in position at the Veil,” she told him. “I must get close if I am to tear it down.”
Lord Marmoo turned to Pigo. “Gather my armies. Hire every mercenary, from the desert to the sea. We meet at the site of the last battle.”
“And then, my lord?”
“And then, little brother—we march.”
EE’S RAMBLING, LEAFY HOME stood at the top of a lawn that sloped to the bank of the river. He lived with his parents and grandparents, seven brothers and sisters, and assorted cousins, aunts, and uncles. His family were builders, so whenever a relative needed space, they just built a new addition.
Which was nice, because it gave Darel plenty of hiding spots to use if he wanted to approach unnoticed. As he did now.
He crept through the bushes, then crossed a bark-lined path behind the most recently added wing of the house. The raspy calls of pink-and-white cockatoos rummaging for seeds on the lawn filled the air, and a shout sounded from the riverbank.
Darel froze, afraid he’d been spotted. Then he exhaled in relief—the shout had come from a couple of Gee’s cousins splashing in the shallows. A moment later he crouched low, spread his toes, and sprang upward.
He flashed through the air and landed on top of the house, clinging tightly to the overlapping leaf shingles. He tiptoed across three sloping roofs to the main house, then dangled headfirst off the side, his toe pads gripping the reed gutter above him.
Leaning closer to a window, he softly croaked, “Wake up, you web-toed wombat.”
“Darel!” Gee said, from inside. “What are you doing?”
Darel swung into Gee’s bedroom, a messy nook with firefly lamps and a lily-pad bed.
“Visiting you,” Darel said, flopping onto the bed.
“You know I’m ponded,” Gee said. “If my dad hears you, he’ll shout the warts off me.”
“Nah,” Darel told him. “He’ll shout the warts off me. Like that time he caught us sneaking into the beetle barn.”
Gee grinned. “You jumped a mile when he slammed those barn doors open.”
“Yeah,” Darel said, lying back on the bed. “I don’t know why he always blames me.”
“Because everything’s always your fault?”
Darel chuckled. “That explains it.”
Then he closed his eyes and let himself relax. Sometimes he thought that Gee’s room was the only place he ever really felt peaceful. Just lazing around, chatting about nothing. Even listening to the distant croaking of Gee’s extended family calmed him—the bickering and yelling and aimless ribbeting.
He smiled to himself and said, “I need to get Coorah those wattleflowers.”
“What does she want with them?”
“They’re for
a medicine she’s making. She found the recipe in her grandmother’s stuff. You know how she gets.”
“Yeah, she gets crazy ideas,” Gee said. “Like you.”
Darel threw a pillow at Gee, but what he said was kind of true. Coorah’s grandmother had treated injured frogs on the battlefield, and she’d begged her granddaughter not to let the knowledge die out. Coorah had taken the request to heart, often neglecting the other healing arts her father hoped to teach her, like treating bellyaches and sprained tongues and scraped warts. He thought there wasn’t any use for battlefield medicine anymore and that Coorah should stick to everyday ailments. But she kept studying her grandmother’s books.
“Not crazy,” Darel told Gee. “Determined.”
“Goofier than a duck-billed platypus.”
“Anyway,” Darel said, “I need wattleflowers. Have you seen any?”
“The only flowers I like,” Gee informed him, “are the edible kind.”
“Maybe I’ll try over by the billabong.” A billabong was a little lake that had split off from a river. “Or the beach.”
“You just want an excuse to go hopping around all over creation.”
“You know it.” Darel grinned. “So are you coming?”
“I can’t! I’m ponded.”
“Sneak out.”
Gee sighed. “My parents are making me work in the shop.”
“Putting together twig tents again?”
“Yeah,” Gee said, frowning. “I wish they’d let me work on the bungalows.”
Darel nodded but didn’t say anything. Part of him wanted to push Gee to join him, but sometimes he thought the only reason Gee was still making twig tents instead of cooler buildings was because he spent so much time sparring with Darel.
On the other hand, Gee hated making twig tents. So encouraging him to sneak off would be doing him a favor.
Still, Darel didn’t mention wattleflowers again. The truth was, Gee had gotten ponded because of Darel. If he wanted to do his friend a favor, Darel would have to think of a way not to get him into more trouble. Something cooler than hopping around the billabong or the beach.
AREL KNEW HOW TO SNEAK INTO Gee’s house but not his own. The bell over the front door jingled as he stepped inside. The front room of the house doubled as his mother’s small, tidy shop.
“How’d things go at the market today?” his mother asked from her seat in the corner.
She greeted customers from her sitting nook and offered them twig tea and conversation as she took their orders. Her shop sold “flies for all occasions”—snack platters and wedding bouquets and children’s games.
“Pretty good,” Darel said. “I’m getting the hang of making furniture from bulrushes, and I like decorating the water toys. Making all those wart creams is tough, though.”
“I thought you were sweeping and carrying.”
Darel sat beside her. “Well, I got curious and started asking questions …”
His mother croaked a soft laugh. “You’ve always been as curious as an emu. A few of the crafters are wondering if you’re interested in an apprenticeship.”
Darel saw that his mother was making flysicles for a kid’s birthday party. He began to help. “Really? That’s kind of cool.”
“Are you interested?”
“Nah. If I was going to apprentice to anyone, I’d apprentice to you.” He jabbed his thumb pad on a stick. “Ow.”
“I’m not sure I’d hire you,” his mother teased.
“Yeah.” He grinned. “Maybe I should stick to party platters.”
They worked quietly for a time, exchanging the occasional word but mostly just enjoying each other’s company. His mom moved to work on a pin-gñat-a, a leaf-box filled with gnats that kids broke open for the snacks inside. Darel finished the flysicles and started making a butterfly bouquet. He sometimes forgot how his mother seemed to slow everything down. As if, no matter how busy things got, there was plenty of time and no need to run around like an emu in a thunderstorm.
Except the thought reminded Darel that he actually did need to run around. “Oh!” he said.
“Jab yourself again?”
“No, I just remembered something I need to do.”
She finished the pin-gñat-a. “Do I want to know?”
“It’s nothing bad. I just need to get Coorah a wattleflower.”
“Oh, really? Well, she is a very pretty young frog.”
“Mom! Not like that! I owe her a flower, that’s all.”
“Charming, too. And she’s already quite a skilled healer, like her father—even if she is as busy preparing for an imaginary war as you are.” His mother shooed him away. “Now run along and collect that flower, if you must.”
Darel looked at the stack of work. “You don’t mind?”
“I’m perfectly capable of managing the shop alone.”
“Well, the thing is … I looked in all the regular spots today and couldn’t find the kind she wants—the yellow ones with the red tips. She needs them for a medicine she’s working on.”
His mother’s inner eyelids flicked. “You’re talking about going to the Outback Hills?”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “But just the first hill. That’s completely inside the Amphibilands. It’s totally safe.”
“The Veil runs through the third hill, Darel.”
“Yeah, two hills over. I’m just going to pick some flowers.” He thought for a second. “Well, plus Gee is ponded because of me, so I’m going to try to take him along.”
His mother flicked her eyelids again. “I thought you were doing this for Coorah.”
“Well, I’m catching two flies with one lick,” Darel said.
“Have his parents agreed?” she asked, dubiously.
“Not yet.”
“You take care of Gee, Darel,” she said. “You know he looks up to you.”
He nodded. “I will.”
“All the way to the Hills, huh?”
“I know I messed up with the white-lipped frogs,” he told her. “But I’m not going to mess with the Veil. I promise.”
“Come here.” She set aside her work and kissed him on the forehead. “I trust you. I always have.”
“So I can go?”
“Well, it is the weekend. You can go tomorrow morning. I’ll pack you lunch.”
ARLY THE NEXT MORNING, DAREL hopped across town and knocked on Gee’s front door.
He was eager to start the trip—and he wanted to catch Gee’s mom at home. She always said that he was a bad influence, but she said it as if it was a good thing.
Gee’s dad, on the other hand, just didn’t like him. So of course he was the one who opened the door.
He took one look at Darel, then narrowed his nostrils and said, “No.”
Darel gulped. “Good morning, sir—”
“No.”
“Um, I’m just wondering—”
“No.”
From inside the house, Gee’s mom called, “Is that Darel? Are you going to stand there like a koala in a cactus, or are you going to invite him in?”
“Going to stand here,” Gee’s dad said.
Gee’s mom appeared in the doorway and said, “You know he’s ponded, Darel.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Only I’m hopping to the eucalyptus forest today, and, um, it’s pretty good exercise.”
Which he said because he knew Gee’s parents worried about his weight. But when he told them he was hiking through the eucalyptus forest to the Outback Hills, Gee’s father grumbled.
“If you take one step too far,” he said, “every scorpion and spider in a hundred miles will see you.”
“I know, sir. I won’t go too far.”
“You always go too far. You act like a sandpaper frog half the time.”
Darel wanted to croak a denial, but before he could say anything, Gee’s mom spoke.
“That’s not fair,” she said, a little sharply. “You name one time he got Gurnugan in real trouble.”
“
The day will come,” Gee’s father said. “Mark my words.”
“We’ll be extra careful,” Darel assured him. “Just the first hill and no farther.”
“I don’t know …,” Gee’s mother said. “He’s still ponded.”
“How about this?” Darel asked, taking a breath. “You let Gee come along, and once I’m done at the marketplace, I’ll work for you for a week.”
“Hmm,” Gee’s mother said, eyeing him with interest. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“Oh, no …,” Gee’s father muttered.
“Bringing Darel to work will be the best way to get Gurnugun excited about the family business,” Gee’s mom told her husband, “and you know it.”
“True enough,” Gee’s father croaked.
Gee’s mother touched Darel’s arm. “Work for us for a month,” she said, “and it’s a deal.”
Darel hesitated. He didn’t want to waste a month working for the construction company. But he thought of all the times Gee sparred with him even though he didn’t really enjoy it.
So he said, “Can we work on bungalows and cottages instead of twig tents?”
Gee’s mom bulged her throat. “After the first week.”
“Then you’ve got a deal,” Darel said, with a sudden grin.
Three seconds later, Gee bounded down the curving staircase, a bulging pack slung over one shoulder. “Thanks, Mom! Thanks, Dad! See you tonight!”
Gee bustled through the front door, dragging Darel toward the street. “Quick, before they make us take Miro.”
“Were you listening the whole time?”
“And packing. I brought sweets!”
“Cool.”
“Well, you got me out of a day of being ponded. Plus, we get to work on bungalows!”
Darel chuckled.
Gee chattered excitedly as they hopped past the marketplace. A few of the vendors called greetings as they left the village.
They jumped toward the cool air flowing from the waterfall above the village, and Darel told Gee just how terrible he’d been at making reed chairs, the first six tries. “The seventh time, though,” he said, while they crossed the river, “the chair I made was so good, she’s going to sell it.”
