by B C Penling
“Normally?” Barator question. “Brown. But they can explode prematurely. If they explode when they’re gray or black, the seeds won’t be viable. And, it’ll smell horrible.”
Lana reached out and touched a bright yellow fruit. It was the size of her palm, slightly elongated, and surprisingly fuzzy like a peach. “What’s it called?”
“Poppinfruit, most commonly,” Barator replied. “It’s also called marsh berry, or marsh kiwi.” He plucked one that was dark purple and the bush shuddered. Lana took a step back. A vine that spread toward the lake quivered. It lifted slightly as a small berry appeared with a sharp crack.
“They replace their berries whenever one is picked. That’s why they’re called poppinfruits. They pop up again with a new berry that’ll be the same color but a different flavor as its predecessor,” Barator said motioning to the fruit in his hand.
“I thought it was because they explode,” Zen said.
Barator laughed then turned his attention to the berry. Deep purple juice squirted out as his teeth sank into it. He nodded his head. “This one is exceptionally sweet and tastes like macadamia nut pie.” He finished the fruit in a couple mouthfuls and picked a bright red one. A shudder, a quiver, and a crack later and another bright red fruit appeared on a different vine.
Lana suddenly realized how hungry she was. She forgot when the last she ate but that didn’t matter. She had a plant in front of her that would supply all the food she wanted. She picked the yellow one and promptly sank her teeth in it.
Shudder. Quiver. Crack! Another appeared elsewhere.
It had a mellow banana-apple flavor and was twice as sweet as sugar cane stalk. She finished it quickly and picked another one, this time light blue that tasted like peach cobbler.
Shudder. Quiver. Crack! A light blue popped up beside Barator and made him jump. He, of course, laughed, picked it, ate it, and said it tasted like blueberry.
She moved from color to color, sampling each unique flavor and savoring the produce from the bush of plenty. She plucked a magenta one from a vine, another replaced it elsewhere. She took a bite and grimaced. It wasn’t sweet and fruity like she expected. Instead it tasted like turkey.
Barator laughed. “Not all of them taste like fruit. Forgot to mention I meant it literally when I said they’d be different flavors.”
“It doesn’t taste bad. It just surprised me,” Lana said. “It tastes like supper.” She finished her turkey fruit and picked a bright green one that tasted like sweet potatoes.
“While you two are feasting,” Zen said. “I think I’ll bathe. I’m tired of feeling gritty from the sand.”
Barator chortled. “By all means, friend, just don’t try drowning again.”
“Hey, that wasn’t my fault entirely,” Zen retorted with a playful frown. “See how well you swim with berry seeds all over you!”
Barator shook his head, chuckled, and said to Lana. “He was fortunate enough to see a poppinfruit explode. But he was unfortunate enough to have the seeds stick to him afterwards. He jumped in the water and tried washing them off.” He laughed again, and then added. “They form a protective layer of mucous when they get wet. It helps to keep the seed hydrated so it can take root. It sticks like pine pitch. They swelled so much he was a giant blob when I fished him out of the lake.”
Lana snorted a laughed and smiled at Zen then at Barator, “Well, I’m glad you saved him.”
“I am too,” Zen said. “If only he’d stop reminding me about it. One day I’ll repay the favor and then I’ll never let him live it down!” He winked at Lana.
He leapt over the top of them and flapped his wings a couple times until he was well past the shallows. He glided until his hind leg met the surface then he dove into the water. Lana watched him splash around; spinning and flopping like a crocodile’s death roll. She took a bite of a dark green poppinfruit. Lingle berry pie, in her opinion, was the worst dessert. And that one tasted very close to lingle berry pie. She took another bite, thankful the texture wasn’t the same as the thick skinned, stringy, chalky lingle berries. Not to mention there weren’t seeds everywhere to get stuck in your teeth.
She grew up hating anything to do with them, unlike all the other elves in Arbortown whom felt the opposite. She swallowed a mouthful and choked back sorrowful memories that constricted her throat. Of all the elves, her mother made the best lingle berry pie. As much as she hated lingle berries, she wished she could have one last slice of her mother’s pie; seeds and all. A tear ran down her cheek. She turned away before Barator could notice and walked along a pair of vines that wove around one another.
Lana wiped her eyes, sat down on the moss and watch Zen as he swam circles. Beside her was a silver poppinfruit. She eyed it, wondering if it would bring back memories of how home used to be. While growing up she planned her own future that always included her family. Now that she didn’t have them the dreams of her future were irrelevant.
She sighed and picked the silver poppinfruit from the vine. She stared at it, turned it over in her hands a few times, and then took a bite. The juicy flesh on the inside was bright red and smelled like strawberries but the taste was far greater. She ate it slowly, savoring every nibble. Flavors of passion fruit, pineapple, guava, sugar cane, and clover, mingled in a juicy harmony.
Lana looked around hopefully. The silver one was the best she had thus far. Her gaze followed a vine’s path into a tall bush. She gasped when she saw a face staring back at her. Its canine features were notably feminine. Her amber eyes were piercingly fierce. Lana leapt up and took a few ungraceful steps backwards, smashing a poppinfruit in the act. Shudder. Quiver. Crack!
“Lana, it’s all right,” Barator said. “She may look a bit sadistic, but be assured she’s a friend." He walked up to Lana. “This is my soulhound, Flaxen. I’ve had her since I was eight. She chose me…”
Barator didn’t finish his sentence; instead he leapt nearly into Lana's arms when a high pitched screech came from under his right boot. From his bootprint sprang a moss colored lizard-like animal. It fled toward Flaxen, protesting over its shoulder as it went.
“Oh, that poor gragon. I suppose I didn’t frighten everything,” Barator mumbled. “I should’ve watched my step. They’re quite prevalent around here.”
Its hind legs propelled it forward with astonishing speed. And a thin membrane binding its forelegs to its body allowed it to glide between leaps, covering more ground. The moss color it had been was melting away and becoming lighter like the ferns. It was a leap away from its intended goal and would have succeeded if it had not been for the large golden paw that sprang from the bush and fell across its back.
"Easy now," Barator said cautiously.
Flaxen lifted her paw with the wriggling gragon held tight between her toes. It tried biting her toes and with each snap of its jaws it changed its color to crimson. "I present to you, Lana, this young gragon as a gift and a welcome to our kingdom."
“You can talk?” Lana stared at Barator’s soulhound.
“Of course,” Flaxen replied. “I’m a diredog.”
No pets in Arbortown spoke and Lana never heard of anything but wyverns, icyphs, and the great birds speaking. Actually, it was even rare to get a friendly mimicked greeting from a pet bird.
Flaxen released the gragon and it flopped onto the mossy ground. Lana expected the small creature to run away but it sat there and stared up at her. Its small crested head cocked from side to side as the red faded to green. It leisurely walked to Lana's feet and began to climb her leg. Unsure of what exactly to do, she stood still and looked to Barator for help; who just stood and smiled.
"You have a kind soul, Lana," Flaxen said. “She’s accepted you as her owner.” The gragon perched itself on Lana's shoulder and was opening and closing its mouth.
"It won't bite me, will it?" Lana asked nervously, while glancing at it from the corner of her eye.
"No. You are her master now. She will protect you, guide you and help you," Barator said. �
��The yawning you see is just their way of telling you that they’re submissive to you.”
Lana relaxed a little and gave her thanks to Flaxen for her unusual gift.
"It'll need a name, I guess," Lana commented.
"She has one already, can you not hear her?" Flaxen said gently.
"Um, no, I can’t," Lana replied, puzzled. It was a lizard. Lizards don't speak. Or do they? The dog in front of her could talk. Would it be any more unusual if a small lizard could, too?
"Listen, not with your ears, but with your mind," Flaxen said.
"I don't think I understand," Lana said.
“Gragons can talk to you in your thoughts. She’s now a part of you, an extension of yourself,” Flaxen said. “So, when she has something to say, you’ll hear her as you do your own thoughts.”
“Can she hear my thoughts? Or do I have to speak to her aloud?” Lana asked.
“She can hear and understand both now that she’s been bonded to you,” Barator said. “Let’s get going, shall we? We have a lot of ground to cover and I have business waiting.”
He whistled loudly for Zen after swinging his leg over Flaxen’s back. His trill welcomed the explosion of animal songs all around them and they were serenaded by a myriad of tunes.
“I love it when mards do that,” Barator said with a smile.
“Those are mards?” Lana half asked, half stated. “I didn’t think they would sound so beautiful.”
“They don’t sound as beautiful when they’re eating your toes,” Zen said, wrinkling his nostrils into a mocked snarl.
Lana put her hand on his wet shoulder and walked with him along the path deeper into the forest. It would eventually bring them to Barator's city, Meridsani. After seeing Zen bathe, Lana suddenly realized how filthy she was. She bit her lip and furrowed her brow. Changing her clothing only got rid of her soiled clothes. Sudden embarrassment swept over her and she felt herself turning red. She found herself incapable of remember when was the last time she had bathed.
I could’ve washed my face, at least, Lana worried.
She was thankful the forest had grown darker. It would save her the embarrassment for a little while longer. The vegetation was thicker and larger and the air was heavier with more humidity. It smelled of dank moss, of earth wet with rain, of sweet flowers, and of crisp, pungent redwoods. The scent was intoxicatingly different than the pines and oaks around Arbortown but it wasn’t good enough to help her forget her awkward realization.
The suns had not yet set but it was as dark as twilight in the woods. No one spoke as they passed tree after tree. Lana was busy worrying about her appearance when she saw a flicker of light. She thought she had imagined it and kept walking. Another flicker came from a bush at the foot of a great redwood. Almost like dancing fire, the light moved around from leaf to leaf. It would appear through the gaps and then disappear. A calming peace swept over her at the sight of them and she forgot her vanity. It entranced her and pulled her into its careless, dancing world.
What are they? She wondered.
Devas. A small voice answered.
She looked over her shoulder and startled. Two round emerald green eyes stared at her alertly. Her gragon clung to the deerskin tunic with her petite talons and stared intently at her.
"Sorry," she mumbled sheepishly. She had been sitting upon her shoulder so quietly that she nearly forgot about her. Lana slowly reached up and stroked its little round head.
"What exactly are devas?" she whispered.
Faerifolk, said the voice. But Flaxen's mouth did not open, the only other female there was her.
Lana looked to her gragon. It waved to her from her shoulder.
Mistress, you can hear me now.
Lana made an inaudible sound and wondered if she was going crazy. A lizard was sitting on her shoulder and talking to her. She silently gazed at the gragon.
Well, maybe you cannot, Mistress, the gragon said.
Lana looked to Zen for answers but remembered what Flaxen had mentioned hours ago about listening, not only with ears, but with her mind.
My name is Caeda, Mistress, the gragon’s voice drifted happily into Lana’s thoughts.
"You don't mind being a pet?" Lana asked softly.
No, Mistress, Caeda replied. It is the way it is. I was given as a gift after being caught, and it is now my duty to serve you.
"I don't understand why you would want to stay," Lana said.
"It’s their nature, Lana,” Flaxen said. “If their soul can match yours, they stay. Gragons aren’t vicious creatures so if she didn’t see any good in you, she would have fled. In giving her to you, I bound her to you. She saw that you have a good soul. Now she is yours for life. Take good care of her."
Lana frowned at the thought of not having a choice and scratched the gragon on the head. It closed its eyes and pushed against her finger with a smile of content. Lana decided she would ask nothing from Caeda except for maybe a simple and small task, every now and again, to make her feel useful.
Mistress, you don't have to pity me, Caeda said when Lana stopped petting her. I choose to be with you because you have a strong soul and a kind heart. They are great qualities to have in a master.
“Caeda,” Lana said softly. “Please don't call me Mistress. You need not to. You can call me Lana or Miss Lana if you prefer. Please not anything with mistress or any other commanding title. I’d rather be your friend.”
Caeda nodded her petite head and obliged. Yes, Miss Lana, I can do that.
“Let's pick up the pace, shall we? Although I do enjoy my saunters homeward, I have business to tend to shortly,” Barator said somnolently.
Lana climbed onto Zen’s back and was surprised when she discovered, the unpleasant way, that the leather saddle was still wet. She frowned. It soaked her leather pants, and certainly they wouldn’t dry any quicker than the saddle had. She sighed. Now she was going to Barator’s kingdom not only with a dirty face and hair, but with a very wet bottom.
They went at a quickened pace, past curious devas and annoyed mards, toward Meridsani. They passed beneath enormously thick trees whose canopies sprawled high above them, their ropy, red bark twisting to the utmost top and contrasting beautifully with the pleasantly dark green leaves. Sporadically spaced flowers blossomed in the sunniest yellows, deepest reds, and brightest oranges. The trees were so close together that their boughs touched and intertwined, creating a woven tapestry as they invaded each other’s space.
Lana loved how tall the trees were and how each one contributed its uniqueness to the grandness of the forest. For nearly an hour she rode in silent awestruck, yearning for the forest to continue forever and watching animals, that she suspected to be mards and gragons, scurry and fly from tree to tree in their daily escapade of foraging for food. She daydreamed of the emergent layer above the canopy, how it would look from flight’s eye, and relished the thought of sitting on the topmost bough at suns’ set.
All too soon the colossuses began to thin and the canopy decreased in density. Burgeoning on the forest floor were ferns, poppinfruit vines, palms and other plants that competed brutishly for the prime real estate the fertile earth offered. They soon found themselves out of the forest after it ended abruptly at the boundary of sprawling farmland. On the other side of the planted field of rice, a quaint city with thatched roof cottages surrounded a modest castle built of tan stones.
“Here we are, Meridsani, our home,” Barator said, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back.
Zen breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. “I wonder how many people will remember my Poison Lake incident.”
Barator chuckled. “Every one of them,” he said quietly, grinning from ear to ear.
CHAPTER 7
FAILED OFFENSIVE
Darkness was soon consumed with pale golden lamplight after a shadowy figure entered the chamber and hung a tiny lantern on a peg by the doorway. He withdrew a matchstick from his tattered coat pocket and lit it aflame with a thin wisp
of fiery breath. He reached for a lantern hanging off a thick rusted nail on the wall closest to him. His clawed fingers gently lifted the misshapen glass and ignited the oil soaked wick. The flame danced and smoked as it breathed its new life, casting shadows that distorted and elongated everything in the drab, stone room.
After replacing the glass, he hung the lantern from a hook in the ceiling. He let his hand drop to his side. A silvery shimmer exploded from within the dimness. A finely forged dirk, elvin in origin, embedded into his hand with a sickening thump. He half groaned, half growled as he cradled his hand with the other. His orange blood oozed down the blade and dripped heavily to the cavern floor. A splattering pat echoed around the quietness. His bright yellow eyes flashed to a corner of the room. He barred his teeth, his lips recoiling far enough to show his black gums that cradled his yellow, putrid teeth.
"That was entirely unnecessary!" he bellowed deeply.
"I said not to disturb me!" another hissed in reply.
"That may be so! But may I remind you, Brute Commander Donovan, that you did instruct me to wake you whenever the messengers returned!" he replied callously, hiding his pain.
"Ah, I suppose a valid reason,” he said in a dismissive tone. “Go on, then. Did they succeed?" Interest was rising in his voice.
"The troops succeeded in laying waste to the town. Most, if not all, of the elves were slaughtered and will be arriving here in a few days." His scorn didn’t dissipate from his voice and his eyes remained loathingly upon his commander who was now sitting up on his bed.
Donovan’s yellow-green eyes flickered with excitement and a deep hunger. He had elf only once before and had craved it ever since but it was nothing compared to his ultimate prize. He desired something greater, something less dead. Coming to his senses, his eyes unglazed and focused on Dooley once more.
"And what of the girl?" he said, licking his upper lip with a sneer and glancing over at a painting of a young elf.
"The first messenger said nothing of the girl whether she was living or dead. The second messenger just informed us gravely that the phoenix failed to grab her, injuring itself in the process. The elf hid and, rather than forcing her out of hiding, they allowed her to emerge on her own accord. They used her as bait in hopes of harvesting more elves but no elf came for her. Instead, quite surprisingly, a dragon did. They attempted to ensnare and enslave or slay the dragon but they failed," Dooley reported.
