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The three bups walked along the pathwood as quickly as they could without drawing unwanted attention. As they went, Barra shared the discovery of her father’s journal; there were too many similarities between the descriptions she’d read and the black sticky strands that plagued the Tricopterus for her to hold back any longer. Her friends listened intently while they tried to keep up with the Rush. Luckily, the little messenger was slowed by the weight of the bellflower and stopped frequently for nectar. Whenever they lost sight of him, Barra would raise her nose to the air to find the wyrmwood scent that marked his trail, and so they travelled deeper and deeper into the Umberwood Nest.
The oldest dens of the Nest were closest to the trunk. As families aged they often migrated into the homes of their lineage leaving the ever-shifting outer boundary of the Nest for the young. Barra had never met Doctor Fenroar but she could tell he was old; they were deeper into the Nest than she’d ever gone. There were no other bups in sight, no one even close to her age. The trio hurried along with affected purpose trying to look like they belonged.
Tory hung back from the others after hearing about the journal. He wanted to be happy for Barra—he was happy for her—but he was also frustrated. It wasn’t the first time she’d kept secrets. He wondered if she’d ever trust him. Sure, Barra hadn’t said anything to her own mother either, but Tory didn’t know what to make of that. He struggled with his feelings in silence.
The quiet blanket of Tory’s reticence went unnoticed though as Plicks kicked it off with his excitement. The Kolalabat asked question after question wanting to know every detail. He jumped at the opportunity to share and connect with Barra about her father, a topic he’d deliberately avoided in the past. His relief came out in a flood of words that Barra worked to stay above, pausing more often than necessary to find the Rush’s scent.
They were travelling slower than the messenger. Sometimes the Rush crossed paths with another, and choosing the right one to follow was tricky. There were distractions too; sights, sounds, and smells that were different from the rest of the Loft tugging at Barra’s nose. She found it difficult to keep up her part in the conversation and soon the trio was walking in silence. No one spoke a word again until Barra noticed Tory lagging.
She bound over to him and asked, “What? What is it?”
“The bindings used here are so different from anything I know,” Tory said. All the experimental bindings in the Coppice and he’d never seen anything quite like these.
Barra rolled her eyes. “Come on, we gotta keep moving.”
Tory didn’t budge. “Look at that,” he pointed at a den with intricate fountains on either side of its entrance. The bases were each made from a single branch which grew in consecutively smaller circles, the end rising up in a flourish from the center. The fountain on the left was a spiraling tower of rings, while the other was dominated by sharp angles with steps and platforms. Colorful cup-shaped flowers and jagged protective thorns grew all over both. Tory recognized the flowers and he explained, “Those spillpetals fill with water every measure, and tip over when they’re full. The way they’re growing the cascade must be beautiful. It took a lot of care and time to bind them like that.”
As engrossing as his description was, Barra didn’t have the knowledge of bindings to even guess at the mastery on display. She understood it was important to Tory, but didn’t think they could stay any longer. She urged him, “Come on, the Rush is getting away.”
Tory stared for another moment trying to absorb it all, and then he started moving again.
Plicks matched his pace and asked, “Think you’ll bind like that someday?”
Tory shrugged.
Reminding Plicks of his older siblings when they just wanted to be left alone Plicks took the hint even though he thought the behavior was unusual for Tory. He tried not to worry about it.
Barra pushed them to keep moving, but that didn’t stop Tory from taking a look back at the fountains before they passed out of view. An old squat Nectarbadger came outside to prune. He squeezed the claws that grew between his fingers together several times rapidly to sharpen them. Thwick thwick thwwwiiick. He clipped at the fountains like he’d done it a thousand times. The jagged thorns didn’t bother the Nectarbadger. He just kept trimming without a care.
They rounded a corner, and Tory tuned back into Barra, who was explaining the importance of being sneaky-quiet to Plicks. “It’s the only way. We don’t want to get caught, right?” She dashed away.
Plicks squinted at Barra’s back as she sniffed the air. He tried to bolster himself, saying, “I can be sneaky. Even if I can’t stealth.”
Tory leaned in toward Plicks and whispered, “Just do your thing. You’ll be fine.” The Kolalabat’s stride perked right up.
Slyly, Barra popped up between the two and startled them. Through gritted teeth she whispered, “We’re here.” She pointed ahead, and the boys looked just in time to see a downy grey Leghund open his den to the Rush.
There were a few Arboreals meandering about, but none were paying any attention to the bups. Barra thought they could act without being noticed. “Okay,” she said with a hushed voice as she leaned in toward her friends. “I’m going to the roof to see if I can find a way inside. You two wanna go around to the windows and see if you can find a good place to listen?”
The boys nodded. Tory was confident, Plicks apprehensive. Then all three ran and jumped from the pathwood.
Barra went lithely from branch to branch until she was positioned above the Fenroar den. Lowering herself down to the roof with her tail, she stealthed, camouflaging her fur to match her surroundings.
Plicks couldn’t jump very far with his short legs, but he scurried pretty fast, regardless. He dove around and down to the claw-marked, unkempt underside of the pathwood. Soon he was hugging the bottom support bough of the Fenroar home. He found a ventilation hole and listened in.
Tory could have cleared the distance to the den in two jumps, but he had to move slowly to avoid drawing attention. He found the closest branch large enough to hold him and ran out onto it. The bough flexed down toward one of the Doctor’s windows, and Tory swung himself underneath. Hand-over-hand, he moved right up to the window and hoped he hadn’t been seen.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Inside the living room of the Fenroar’s cultivated den grew many elegant displays of lighting and watering flowers. Elaborate watershelves lined the walls, and a silky exotic moss covered the floor; rich brown accented by sprouts of bright blue.
Darby Fenroar called out, “Yorg? Yorg!” The Leghund eyed the Rush he’d just let in with suspicion, his marbled nose twitching. Darby’s great size and strength made him an imposing figure despite the downy softness of his light grey coat.
A Muskkat responded to the call, entering through one of the curtains of braided vines that separated the rooms. “Yes, Darby?” Doctor Yorg Fenroar asked. The average-sized Muskkat was slinky-slender and short, so he was dwarfed by Darby. He was covered in glossy, dark brown fur, and had a long snout topped with two large blue eyes, and the wrinkles on his face accentuated his beguiling smile.
Darby explained, “From Vallor. It’s for you.”
Yorg stepped toward the hovering messenger and accepted the delivery.
“Thank you, thank you,” the Rush said, releasing the bellflower. Having lost his ballast, he shot up toward the ceiling, bobbed for a bit, adjusted, and then floated back down. He spotted the wyrmwood across the room and dashed toward it.
Darby cut him off. “Whoa, what about the message?” he demanded. He didn’t think the Rush had earned his keep yet.
“Right! Test the sample. That’s what she said,” the Rush answered, zipping side to side.
Darby moved away from the wyrmwood, and the Rush flashed by. He landed, buried his claws, folded his wings, and simple as that became almost indistinguishable from any other pod growing on the stump.
Yorg inspected the contents of the bellflower. He raised a single eyebrow, perplexed. “What do you think it is?”
Darby’s response was dry enough to wilt a waterfull. “It’s a bellflower containing a female specimen of Aridifolia Tricopterus,” he said.
Yorg looked sideways at Darby, switched his raised eyebrow, and said, “Quite.”
Darby rolled his eyes. “Well, you asked didn’t you?” He shrugged and added with sincerity, “I don’t know anything more about it than you do.”
Yorg examined the sluggish insect and asked, “Are you still growing fuzzberries?”
“Sure I am. I know how much you like them,” Darby said. “Wait. You mean for the bug.”
“Yes. It looks hungry doesn’t it?” Yorg held the bellflower up to emphasize the point. Ari dragged herself around in obvious strain.
“Right. I’ll grab some seeds,” Darby said, acquiescing.
Yorg peered in at the Tricopterus. She was drooping, and the tiny hook of her tongue was lolling out of her mouth. Yorg thought maybe she was thirsty, so he crossed over to the waterfull located on the other side of the denroom.
Arriving at the waterfull, a sudden sound of crashing of leaves whooshed in through the window located above it. The noise ended as abruptly as it started. Yorg examined the treescape, but didn’t see anything other than a few swaying branches. Whatever it was, it was gone. The Doctor shrugged, and returned his attention to the Tricopterus. He dunked one hand into the waterfull, and then held it dripping over the bellflower which he pursed open with a gentle squeeze. Droplets fell inside and Ari walked over to one and drank. Pleased, Yorg placed the bottom stem of the bellflower into the waterfull to keep it from drying out as well.
Darby swept back into the room, one paw cupped by the other. Yorg nodded, and tipped the open end of the bellflower toward Darby. The Leghund cast the seeds out over the opening, as many falling out as in. Yorg glared at Darby and sighed. Darby just shrugged and smiled, head cocked comically to one side.
Both of the aged Arboreals watched and waited. The insect’s burning orange color had paled since she was captured, but the Fenroars didn’t know that. She stretched up toward the seeds, and the black strands that gummed her arms to her body were revealed.
Darby stepped back, befuddled.
“That’s... not... good,” Yorg said haltingly as he inspected the insect. She tried to fly, but her wings couldn’t get free from her body, and even more black threads were revealed.
Darby recovered from his initial shock, and said, “That’s Creepervine fungus, isn’t it?”
From where Barra was perched eavesdropping, she heard the word as clearly as if Darby had whispered it directly into her ear. The blood ran from her face as she recognized the newly familiar word.
Yorg hesitated, but then he responded gravely, “Vallor was right to send this to us. I’ll have to do some tests.”
There was another crash through the branches outside, drawing the attention of both Fenroars. They stretched their heads out the window, and although several branches were still swinging, there was nothing to see.
“What was…?” Yorg began, but hushed when he saw Darby holding a finger to his mouth.
Darby rose up and unfurled his ears into two large saucers. He walked softly around the living room, tuned into something that Yorg couldn’t hear. Around the middle of the room Darby pointed down as though he found something. Then he looked up, incredulous. Domed like most dens, the ceiling at its center was high, twice as tall as the Leghund. With no warning, Darby leapt into the air. He punched his hands through the ceiling and grabbed onto something from the other side. He pulled it down with him as he fell in a burst of leaves and debris.
Yorg seemed amused.
“Hey, let me go!” Barra demanded. Even as she wriggled in Darby’s huge hands, the ceiling was growing back together. There would be a thin spot for a few days, but no permanent damage.
“Calm down,” Darby said, exasperated. He placed the tense Listlespur down on the floor gingerly, wrinkling his nose.
Barra eyed the window, the entrance, and the braided curtain separating the living room from the next.
Darby read her face and advised forcefully, “Don’t get any ideas. You’re not going anywhere.”
Unflappable, Yorg asked, “I’m Doctor Yorg Fenroar. You’ve met Darby. And you are?”
Barra had trouble calming down, but she managed after a moment. She resented being a captive, but seeing no way out of it, she said bitingly, “Barra.”
There was a knock on the door frame that sounded like it was apologizing for itself: Hel-lo, hel-lo? Darby looked in the direction of the knock in total disbelief. He scowled at Yorg, but the old Muskkat disarmed him with an innocent look. He said, “You can’t seriously believe I had anything to do with all this,” but his tone suggested he maybe wished he had.
Turning to Barra, Yorg asked, “Friends of yours?” He drew out the words slow and sweet like pouring honey.
Barra winced as she spoke, “Probably?”
Darby answered the door.
“Hi,” Tory said. He was standing there with Plicks unsure how much trouble they might be in. “I’m Tory. This is Plicks. We’re sorry for the disturbance, but,” he spotted Barra and pointed, “we’re looking for her.”
“Right. Of course. Why else would you be here?” Darby said, breathing in and out of his nose exaggeratedly. Once he’d soothed his mounting frustration, he instructed Tory, “Please explain what exactly is going on.”
Tory and Barra responded at once, but Plicks only clicked his talons while chewing his lower lip. The resulting explanation was a jumbled mess of noise. The Fenroars waited for it to be over; Yorg patiently, Darby rolling his eyes in exasperation.
When they stopped to breathe, Yorg asked, “Whose idea was it to spy instead of simply knocking?” Barra looked around the room for a place to hide. Yorg shook his head at her, but he was clearly entertained.
“So, did I gather correctly that you’re all here for the Tricopterus?” Yorg tried to tie the threads together.
Barra spoke up, “We found her in the Coppice. There’s something wrong with her. We just wanted to find out more, that’s all.”
Plicks wanted to jump in with his thoughts on the insect and the black strands that bound it, but he was unsure of himself. Agitated, he shifted his weight from side to side. Tory noticed, and tapped him on the shoulder to tell him to knock it off.
“Uh, huh,” Yorg said, “Wait. Are you Brace’s little girl?”
Barra stood up straight and tall, and poofed herself up. “I’m not little.” She wasn’t surprised they knew her mother, but she immediately felt the impulse to avoid conversations that could lead to a discussion about the journal.
Her father’s journal. Her journal.
“Forgive me, not at all little,” Yorg said acting impressed and even apologetic. “So, which Coppice was it?”
For a reason Tory couldn’t figure, Barra didn’t answer. Plicks shrank away as well, so Tory stepped up, “Evergreen. We were near the bottom, Loft-side. More Loft than Nest anyway.”
Yorg nodded. “If I remember correctly, the bottom of Evergreen is practically in the Middens, right?” The three bups had never really thought about it, but it was true. The Coppice didn’t cross into the ruins proper, but it was close. Yorg thought for a moment and then continued, “Have you seen the sticky stuff on her wings?”
“Yes,” Plicks spoke, startling himself a bit.
“Any ideas what it might be?” Yorg was testing them. He wanted to know how much they knew before he gave anything away. Darby stood by him, watching their reactions.
Plicks said in a rush, “I don’t know what it is. But she’s already lost more color in her wings and abdomen. I think the stuff is keeping her from capturing food, from eating and drinking.” He added, somewhat embarrassed, “I like insects.”
Darby chuckled, warming for the first time since the bups had disturbed his den. Yorg smiled broadly and then knelt beside the timid Kolalabat, and said, “Excellent observations.” Very seriously, he went on, “You can infer then, that the sticky stuff might be dangerous?”
Darby snorted in disapproval, but Yorg continued regardless, “Darby and I have an idea of what it could be.” Yorg consulted Darby with a look, giving him a chance to stop the conversation. Darby consented with a shrug, paws open to the sky. Yorg then asked, “Can you keep a secret? Each of you?”
“Yes!” they responded in unison.
“Good,” Yorg said, convinced. “Well, the sticky stuff may be a very dangerous fungus. But, but, it could also be a variety of innocuous ergot, or something new. We simply don’t know by looking at it. So you have to keep what you know about it to yourselves until we know for sure. Okay?”
Tory shrugged. More secrets. He understood the reasons this time at least.
Plicks, as squished a Kolalabat as ever there was, managed to shrink from the weight of the request, but he nodded at Yorg anyway.
Barra nodded too, but her mind was already far away, an idea taking root.
“Excellent. Now, run along, interlopers!” Yorg directed. “Come back in a few days. We’ll have results by then.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The trio left the den with their new secret, unsure if they really knew anything more than they did before busting in on the Fenroars. They travelled in relative silence back to the outer rings of the Nest.
Tory broached the silence as he said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you both tomorrow?”
“For sure.” Plicks thought it felt like a normal, everyday goodbye, and he found comfort in that until Barra said, “I’ll bring some leaves from my father’s journal to the Coppice tomorrow, and we can...” she trailed off.
“Ahem, ‘we can’ what, Barra?” Plicks asked.
“Oh? You can help me read through them. Find out what we can about the Creepervine.” Her tail snapped the bark once with playful impatience. “Okay, I’m off. See you tomorrow,” she said before bounding away and out of sight.
Tory turned to Plicks. “Why’s she in such a hurry?”
“Probably needs to get home,” Plicks offered. Hands open, he added, “She’s been in trouble a lot lately.”
“Yeah. I guess so…” Tory said, unconvinced. He looked as if he was going to say something more about it, but then shook it off, and instead he said, “Right. Well, see you tomorrow, bud.”
Plicks’ whole body sagged. Wishing their dens were closer he waved goodbye and headed off on his own. It suddenly occurred to him that Barra could have walked with him at least a little farther. He stopped and scratched his head, and twitched his nose. She’d gone in an odd direction to go home.