Nanoo nanoo, yall! Holy crap I cant believe Im still doing this. Okay, this one is a two parter. Been wanting to do it for awhile, sorry for getting away from the brief stories! Will try to get back on track when this one is done. Anyway, heres part one. Remember all those memes talking about being grateful that spiders dont fly...? I give you part one of Glass Trees. Aeryn stepped with delicate precision through the sparse forest undergrowth, completing her circuit of the campsite. As Guide, it was her duty not only to escort the travelers along the best route, but to find and secure an optimum rest site every night. Illuminated by the small fire in their campsite clearing, the travelers were going about the business of settling down for the night. Sheltered by the low branches and darkness of the surrounding forest, Aeryn paused before rejoining them, checking the ground for signs of dangerous fauna. Within the circle of light, the Host was being cleansed by her handmaiden, the skin of her back carefully buffed with salted sugar balms and woven cloths of natural fibers. The Host’s handler was grumbling to himself as he sought a comfortable position on the hard ground, and the Seeker was performing some sort of nightly ritual involving incense, mumbling, and burning tokens representing the seven elements from the surrounding area. From what Aeryn understood of the religion, it was meant to ensure safety during the night, and to guard their dreams against invading forces. She stood from her crouch, finding nothing alarming in the tracks on the soil, fallen leaves, needles, and downy tree filaments along the ground. Just as she lifted a foot to step back into the campsite’s light, a blood-curdling scream burst forth from the handler’s mouth as the large man lurched to his feet, flailing at his body with shrieks that increased in speed and pitch with every breath. Aeryn strode into the camp, unconcerned, even as the others rose, stumbled or glided to their feet in alarm. The handler was swatting at his body. Aeryn caught one meaty upraised wrist, her grip solid as iron despite her slight and slender appearance. When the handler struck out at her, she caught his other hand, spread his arms wide, and slammed her head into his. The handler fell to his knees, stunned, but blessedly silent. A thousand shapes were fleeing his body and his sleeping blankets, scurrying on eight legs and flying away on six wings. “Spiderflys,” Aeryn addressed the group, “are harmless denizens of this forest. Harm them not, or find your own way.” She glanced down at the handler. “You were warned that to carry perfumed fabrics woven of tree down was to tempt those that live here. You did not heed these warnings. You will not harm others because you are obstinate.” A palm-sized spiderfly, body fuzzy, wings flickering iridescent in the firelight, landed on the handler’s nose. His eyes crossed, his lungs expanded for a shriek, and his hand rose to swat the eight-legged flying spider before his brain registered the fact that Aeryn, their Guide, had drawn her plasma disrupter and was aiming it at his chest. The handler dropped his arm and knelt frozen, save for an unconscious trembling, until the creature’s long fuzzy legs carried it to the top of his head, spread its translucent wings, and flew away with the rest of its brethren. Aeryn holstered the disrupter and, ignoring the others, sought out her own blanket roll and bedding. The Host waited for her handmaid to scrape free the ointment from her back before dressing and approaching Aeryn. Behind her, the Seeker added the tiny corpse of a spiderfly smacked during the handler’s frenzy to his small pot of offerings, a representation of the element of Death. “I had heard that Guides revered the lives of the forest above the lives of their charges, but I had not thought it true,” the Host said, staring down at Aeryn. “I dislike feeling less than safe on this journey.” Aeryn glanced up at her, expressionless. “It is the only appropriate way to feel, Host. This journey has never been anything but less than safe.” Something nearing disgust flickered across her face. “Especially for you.” The Host frowned, managing to appear beautiful even when fighting the sour taste of chagrin. “You disapprove of my livelihood.” “I disapprove of fools.” The Host’s mouth tightened and Aeryn lifted a hand, palm up, a gesture intended to calm. “Not you, Host. The fools who require this service of you. Any who would risk the life of another for a… novelty… is the worst sort of elitist cur. I regret the necessity for your livelihood, as you call it. I do not regret you.” With that, the Guide covered herself with a thin cotton blanket, rolled onto her side, and was asleep before the Host knew she had been dismissed. Puzzled, she returned to her side of the fire and her handmaiden to prepare for sleep herself. The Seeker dropped a pinch of dirt into his urn for the element of Earth, completing his gathering of all seven elements, and tossed the lot into the fire. When he began packing the urn away, the fifth and final member of their party spoke from where he had been sitting in the shadows, smoking a long-stemmed pipe of bliss-bark. “The Host,” he said to the Seeker, “what exactly is she?” The Seeker answered, going about the complicated process of aligning his bedroll with the proper constellations, blessing each corner of the compass, and anointing his pillow with ashes from last night’s fire, and elemental consecration. “She is what her title suggests,” the Seeker said, “a Host.” He smiled. “But I’m sure you figured that out, Merrin.” The least vaunted member of the party smiled at the Seeker. “A host for what, Seeker Frind?” “Well,” Frind used a small digital telescope to find the constellation he needed, squinting through the eyepiece as he answered, “to put it simply, she’s a host for salad.” Merrin blinked. “Salad.” “More or less.” Frind arranged seven rocks on the western corner of his blanket. “You haven’t heard of this? In all your travels?” There was a small smile playing about his mouth, a tone of friendly mocking in his voice. “No,” Merrin sighed, “I’ve no clue how someone could be a host to a…a salad.” “Allow me to enlighten you.” Seeker Frind sat cross-legged on his pallet to sew a folded leaf to the edge of his bedding. “Some daring soul discovered that here in the Dwelling, there exists a sort of grass. Or moss. Something of a combination of the two. That tastes so freaking fantastic, people will pay almost anything to have it. And just about the only way to eat it, is in, or as, a salad. But there’s a catch.” Frind put away his needle and faced Merrin. “This mossy grass won’t grow anywhere but here in the forest Dwelling. In fact, it won’t live anywhere but in the Dwelling. Removing it causes a fast withering, which, the further it progresses, causes a drastic drop in amazing flavor—and eventually death in those who eat it.” “It becomes poisonous if removed from the forest?” “If picked and removed from the forest, yes. But like most things in the Dwelling, it’s weirder than weird. This Grass, they call it that, grass but with a capital G, is parasitic. That’s right. It’s a parasitic plant. And some enterprising soul, I don’t want to know how, discovered that it survives the best when planted on a host, removed from the Dwelling, brought to the cities, and served within moments of being harvested from said host’s flesh.” The Seeker began putting away the many items that comprised his bed and sleep rituals. “So, for almost two years, those willing to brave the Dwelling, with or without a Guide, came here, found Grass, stuck it on living creatures, and sold it at cut-rate prices to the cityfolk.” “Then the Collective stepped in.” “You have heard this before!” “No,” Merrin smiled, “but most stories like this lead there eventually.” “Hmph. Well. Yes. So… the Collective steps in. Sets down the law. No one can be used as a host without permission. Millions of stray pets and unlicensed people heaved a sigh of relief, as they were no longer being kidnapped off the streets and forced to become hosts to parasitic plants. The Collective further refined the law. Now, being a Host is a vaunted and sought-after position. Connoisseurs of the Grass require blood-tests and specific diets, special bathing practices, etcetera, and to ensure all the desired guidelines are followed, Hosts now have handlers and handmaids and lots and lots of documentation. All so they can be paid oodles of money to suffer greatly for rich people’s uncommon pallets.” Merrin frowned. “Wait. What do you mean, suffer?” “It’s a parasitic plant. It doesn’t just hop on and merrily go wherever the host may take it. Once contact is made, the Grass sends probes deep into the skin, eventually branching out through fat, muscle, and—if it isn’t removed in time—into bone. It’s agonizing, excruciating pain from the moment the Grass makes contact with the Host.” He paused. “Followed, I am told, by mind-blowing hallucinations brought on by unrelenting agony and culminating in insanity.” “If the Grass isn’t removed in time.” Frind stared across the fire where the Host was being prepared for bed. Her skin was only allowed to touch certain fabrics. The handmaiden prepared a special pallet so that the Host’s tissues would not be bruised by rough ground. Frind frowned and shook his head. “If you say so, my friend. If you say so.”
Posted on: Sun, 17 Nov 2013 07:03:41 +0000
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