by Obert Skye
“I am a rather gorgeous-looking sycophant,” he observed smugly.
The swelling continued. Clover’s eyes turned into puffy slits as his face bulged, making it difficult for him to see clearly. Clover felt some sadness over not being able to better look at himself. His body expanded, growing ever larger and filling up every inch of the dream sack he was hanging in.
His head was reaching beanbag-chair proportions.
His feet had grown to the size of watermelons.
The dream sack Clover was in was stretched to capacity, and it began to creak under the stress. Clover’s ego was too big to hold. The sound of the dream sack stretching alarmed the other sycophants, and they yelped and moaned as they thrashed about in their sacks.
Clover swaggered in his bag. “Any football team would be pleased to have me,” he bragged aloud.
Suddenly, there was a loud pop as Clover’s dream sack burst, dropping him to the floor of the cavern. He bounced like a giant rubber ball. Freed from the sack, his ego and body continued to swell until he formed an almost perfect sphere.
“I must look quite spectacular,” Clover said as he rocked back and forth. “Pity you’re not able to see me,” he yelled to the other bags still hanging.
“Get us out,” the other sycophants yelled.
Clover would have replied, but a number of tharms who had been up on the surface had heard the popping of the sack. They now stood in the tunnel, staring with slack jaws, vigorously scratching their foreheads with the fingers on their third hands.
There was no time to lose. Clover rocked until he began rolling down the tunnel.
“Look at me!” he cheered for himself.
He bowled over three tharms and bounced and rolled down a side tunnel that had a steep decline.
Clover was finally able to pick up some real speed.
Tharms popped out from side tunnels and small caves along the way, all of them trying desperately to stop Clover. Their efforts were in vain. Clover plowed over all of them until he came to a long straightaway that leveled out, leading to a light at the end of the tunnel.
Clover smirked arrogantly as he shot out of the opening and rolled into the Swollen Forest. Hundreds of tharms burst from the tunnel behind him like an explosion of gangly rats hot on his tail. Despite wanting to allow everyone the pleasure of looking at him, Clover turned invisible. Thankfully there was still a little humble voice inside him that had its wits about it. Even though he was invisible, it was not hard for the tharms to follow the mangled trail of growth Clover was creating.
Gradually, the I-Chews began to wear off. After a few more positive thoughts and a number of spectacular tumbles, Clover’s feet were back to normal. Moments later he was thin enough to maneuver easily through the thick growth of trees.
A few tharms were still pursuing him, but most had given up. Glancing behind him, Clover quickly pulled himself up into a fantrum tree and held his breath as those tharms still following ran right underneath him.
Clover congratulated himself as his body continued to contract. He wanted to rest and catch his breath, but he knew there was no time. If Leven had been buried, there wouldn’t be a moment to spare.
Even so, with the effects of the candy still lingering, Clover had an urge to pull a mirror out of his void and admire himself.
“No,” Clover said, fighting off his inner ego.
He dropped out of the tree and began running.
Leven was not far. He could feel it.
Chapter Twelve
The Weight of Fate
Sometimes it isn’t easy to know what to think. Sometimes people experience or see things, and they have no idea what to make of them. Your friend tells you that you have to see a movie because it is the greatest thing ever filmed. So you get dragged to the theater, and it turns out to be a story about a girl who writes things in a journal and the journal becomes her friend. And there is even a scene where the actress dances with the journal, and the journal sings back. And when you walk out of the theater you not only doubt your friend’s taste in movies, but you are beginning to doubt your choice of friends.
Sometimes it just isn’t easy to know what to think.
Leven was experiencing one of those moments.
He was lying on his back, buried in the dark hole dug for him by the tharms, fighting desperately to manipulate fate enough to keep a protective suit of wind around him and maintain some breathing room. But the weight of the soil above him was growing too great, and the dirt was becoming increasingly aggressive. Particles of soil were pushing into the air bubble he had formed and filling his eyes and mouth. Even more concerning were the tree roots he could feel wrapping themselves around the outside of the bubble, acting as if they were preparing to get a grip and squeeze.
Leven rolled over inside the protective air and lay on his stomach. Sweat sprang from his skin and burst like tiny, wet fireworks in the confined space. The weight of the dirt at his feet had him pinned down and was compressing the air up toward his thighs, kneading and pinching his legs. Leven pushed up onto his elbows and focused his vision, concentrating his thoughts, straining to manipulate the wind he had drawn in.
More dirt closed in around his waist.
Leven didn’t know how deep he was, but he strained upward. Each time he moved, more dirt filled in behind him, causing the wind wrapped around him to shrink and compress. Leven thought of Reality and the smothering he had often felt living with Addy and Terry. There had been more times than he could count when he had felt he was going to suffocate from their cruelty and neglect. Now, however, Addy and Terry were nowhere near, and Leven’s fate was up to him. He took a deep breath, using up a big chunk of the precious wind. Leven refused to give up, tired of being acted upon. He pushed up with his palms. What little air remained was hot and stifling. It reminded him of being in the giant dirt snake that had swallowed him and Winter in Oklahoma.
By straining as hard as he could, he moved up slightly, but more dirt beat down on his back. His head was pounding from the strain of manipulating the air around him and trying to resist the weight of the dirt holding him down.
Leven gritted his teeth and pushed up again, but it was no use. The weight of the soil was too much. The only air remaining was just that around his head and face.
Sweat was pouring off his forehead into his eyes. The air was diminishing, and his chest ached from trying to breathe. He could see no solution in his eyes, and his lungs were on fire. His thoughts began to go fuzzy, and resisting the blackness seemed pointless.
It’s too hard, he thought to himself. It would be easier to just go to sleep.
Visions from his recent life flickered through his mind: Geth. Winter. Sabine. Amelia. Clover. Then his throat constricted as he felt his lungs begin to burst.
ii
Clover’s heart was thumping so hard that it hurt his chest. He searched around frantically. There was no sign of Leven, but the little sycophant felt that he was in the right spot.
He looked down. The ground beneath him was dark and soft, as though it had been recently tilled, and there was a tall fantrum tree bedded in the loose soil. Clover could see the tops of its roots wriggling.
Clover knelt down and began digging. He thrust his tiny hands into the dirt and threw handfuls back over his head. He could sense Leven beneath, and the fear he felt caused him to dig even faster. Despite feelings of confidence left over from the I-Chews, Clover knew that he alone was not enough to get Leven out.
He looked around, desperate for some help. There was nothing but trees and darkness. Clover dug some more, but the tharms had dug too deep a hole. Clover sighed, wiped his brow, and did the one thing he could think of.
He began whistling.
Sycophants have remarkable powers and the skills to do many things. They are loyal beyond measure, and their ability to make themselves invisible is as coveted as any gift in Foo.
On top of all that, the sycophants occupy the only uncharted bit of land in Foo—Sycophant
Run—a place so mysterious and unknown that no one other than sycophants has ever been there. If an individual or creature were to attempt to reach Sycophant Run, they would be bombarded by the sycophant pawns, who guard its location zealously. Many have tried to reach their lands and learn of their ways and mysteries, but in a realm otherwise full of endless possibilities, invading Sycophant Run remains impossible.
But for all the wonderful and fantastical things that sycophants can do, there is one thing sycophants are sorry at.
They can’t whistle.
Oh, they can make a whistling sound, but it is not pleasing in any way. Something about the lips they are blessed with produces a most horrible and discordant screech whenever they pucker up and blow.
Clover knew this and was counting on his whistle being more awful than ever before. As he blew through his lips forcefully, he rotated his head so as to throw the sound all around him, and the forest was filled with the awful screech and echo of Clover’s whistling wail. It sounded like the desperate call of some poor creature suffering a violent death.
Clover’s plan began to work almost immediately. As he whistled, he spotted a pair of tiny eyes flashing in the darkness between two distant trees. The eyes were filled with a look of concern.
Clover whistled louder.
More eyes, more concern.
Clover blew as though Leven’s life depended on it. All around him more eyes appeared. The eyes moved tentatively toward Clover, curious about the suffering they were hearing.
There are a lot of mysterious and scary things about the Swollen Forest; it is not, for instance, a great place to picnic. But as in all of Foo, there are some wonderful things there as well. And some of the nicest things about the Swollen Forest are the Sympathetic Twill who live there. The timid creatures hide all day, but at night they busy themselves cleaning up leaves and mending tree branches that travelers might have broken. They also free sheep or animals caught in tall brush or thick bushes. The whole while they sniffle softly and reassure each other, patting one another sympathetically on the back. They are about knee-high and have large, lumpy heads and oversized feet. Their big heads are covered with wild, silver hair and house familiar faces with deep eyes and thick smile lines.
They aren’t particularly brave, so they avoid threatening creatures, but the sound of a lone sycophant suffering by himself in an open field was impossible for them to ignore.
Dozens of sad-faced Twill shuffled out of the trees and cautiously surrounded Clover. One with an orange, knitted vest patted Clover lightly on the back and looked at him with great empathy. Another rubbed Clover’s knee.
Clover pretended to cry. “My friend,” he sniffled, pointing to the ground.
As if they understood, the Sympathetic Twill all began to dig. They plunged their hands deep into the writhing dirt, and in a matter of moments had excavated a good two feet.
Clover hopped down into the cleared area and continued digging. Dozens of hands made light work, and in a couple of minutes Clover’s hands struck a small root. He pulled at it to clear the dirt away.
The root wiggled.
Clover stopped digging and clapped with excitement. All of the Sympathetic Twill began to sing for joy. It was only a finger, but Clover had a pretty good idea who was on the other end of it.
The finger moved slightly as Clover and the Twill continued to work. In a few seconds Leven’s entire right arm was uncovered. Knowing that Leven desperately needed air, Clover dug as one possessed, hurling dirt out of the hole, heedless of the Sympathetic Twill he was peppering with soil. As Clover worked to clear the top of Leven’s head, Leven used his own free arm to help.
“Don’t die,” Clover pleaded.
There was a muffled reply that became more audible as Clover uncovered Leven’s face. As he cleared the dirt away, Clover could see Leven blinking his eyes.
Bawling with relief, Clover continued digging.
iii
Leven had felt the tug on his finger and figured it was some dead relative on the other side, trying to pull him into the next life. The thought made even more sense as a small circle of light began to show through. As the light became greater, Leven saw a face, and he had a different thought—either angels were hairy, or Clover was here to save him.
Leven’s lungs burned so horribly he couldn’t properly register what was going on. He blinked as the world opened back up to him. His head was now completely exposed in the round hole Clover and the Twill had dug. He instinctively gasped, desperately sucking in a breath of air. Leven scratched at the dirt with his free hand and was able to pull his other arm out and use it to help as well. Dozens of short, worried-looking Twill were digging like mad. Clover would dig with his hands and feet for a few moments, jump onto Leven’s head, pat Leven, and then jump down and dig some more. A couple of Sympathetic Twill began to comb and smooth Leven’s hair.
In a few minutes Leven was able to twist his waist. He threw his hands forward and tried to pull himself out of the hole. Everyone tugged and cheered him on.
“Almost there!” Clover yelled.
Leven pulled one more time and freed his lower body. For those looking on, it appeared that the soil was giving birth. Leven crawled out of the hole to level ground and collapsed on the soil. Clover let him cough and moan for about twelve seconds.
“Are you okay?” Clover asked, jumping on Leven’s back.
“I think so,” Leven spat, looking around. “Who are these guys?”
“Sympathetic Twill,” Clover answered. “I couldn’t dig you out fast enough, and they came to your rescue.”
The Twill were gathered around Leven and Clover. Some were crying joyfully, and a few had their hands clasped above their hearts. All of them looked concerned but happy. A thin one with few teeth offered Leven a warm mug of what tasted like thick chocolate and two hot, buttery rolls dripping with jam.
“Thank you,” Leven said, wiping dirt away from his mouth.
Leven ate every wonderful crumb and drank every delicious drop of chocolate. He handed the mug back and thanked them again.
The Sympathetic Twill all lined up, and one by one they hugged Leven or kissed him on the cheek. Then they slipped off into the woods and out of view.
“Where are they going?” Leven asked after the last one had patted his knee.
“Back into hiding,” Clover answered.
Leven continued to breathe deeply, still trying to take in enough air to regain his strength.
“We really should go,” Clover said, pulling on Leven’s arm. “We have a goal to achieve.”
“Just one second,” Leven gasped, his chest still heaving. “I was buried. Remember?”
“You humans and the past,” Clover said. “We need to keep moving.”
Leven brushed his face, feeling the dirt on his skin. He knew that it was different from the dirt in Reality and that he was a long way from any home he had ever known, but he was alive.
“Where’d you disappear to?” Leven asked.
“The tharms bagged me. But I got away,” Clover said, as if Leven might not have noticed. “It looks like I arrived just in time.”
“I was working my way up,” Leven said, brushing dirt from his hair.
“If you breathed through your fingers like the Waves you might have had a chance.”
“Waves?”
“Of the Lime Sea,” Clover answered. “But that’s not important. The important thing is that I saved you, and you are lucky to know me.”
The effects of the I-Chews hadn’t completely worn off.
Leven smiled at Clover. “That’s true. Are you okay?”
“I ate too much candy,” Clover admitted.
Leven got to his feet, then reached down and scratched Clover on the head. He took another deep breath. “So where are we?”
“This is the Swollen Forest,” Clover answered. “We were entering here when the tharms got you.”
Leven looked around at the forest. “The trees are all bent,” he s
aid. “They almost seem angry.”
The trees grew in odd directions. Some grew straight, but an equal number grew sideways or diagonally. Some were twisted into spirals, and some were bent into shapes or had grown into large knots. Most had branches that grew low on their trunks and stuck out like warped, greedy little hands and arms. Their bark was thick and deeply furrowed, and the tops grew together, the leaves forming a thick canopy that blocked out most of the light, shrouding the floor of the forest in even greater darkness.
The gnarled trees made Leven uneasy. He had always liked trees. Geth as a tree had been one of Leven’s few comforts in life. But these trees were different—almost menacing.
“Why is it called the Swollen Forest?” Leven asked.
“The trees are constantly swelling and shifting,” Clover explained. “At the heart of the forest, the trees are as big around as a building. I’ve seen one swell so big it burst. It’s a lot more disgusting than you might think. All that sap and tree ligaments and . . . well, it’s not pretty. As they swell, those around shift to give them more room. The forest reaches from the Guarded Border down to the Veil Sea.”
Clover bent over and brushed some dirt out of the hair on his ankles. As he straightened, his ears twitched. “It’s an exciting place,” he added. “Most people avoid it, but I’ve always liked it.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, for starters, there are many secrets buried in here. So don’t go digging up things that you don’t know what they are. I let out a secret years ago, and it’s still haunting me. Luckily, it never really recognized me, and I’ve been able to keep it confused. I’ll bet my trip to Reality really messed it up.”
“You can bury secrets?”
“Of course,” Clover answered. “People try to bury secrets in Reality, but here the secrets are literally buried. Weird things happen under the crust of our surface. There are also some amazing animals here.”
