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  2 Spores

  Lumin Cycle 10152, a little more than 650 cycles later

  Mia Jayne was pale as a ghost birch and dressed in the tropics’ garb of gauzy layers. Her wavy auburn hair was plaited down her back, and her bright blue-green eyes reflected the quiet light of the gourds in their gold flecks. She stood outside her hearthwood, the tree house she had called home these past cycles, and stared up at the roiling, colored glow that lit up the night sky. The purples, reds, greens, and oranges showed through the dense forest and formed a vibrant background to the clouds and moon.

  A soft woof floated up from the vicinity of her feet. She looked down. Her dog, Hamish, stared intently up at her. His small, foxy face quirked, and a rumble percolated in his barrel chest and through the ruff of his thick neck fur.

  “What is it, Hammy? Barking at nothing as usual, are we?”

  Thinking about the long hike ahead of her on the morrow, she sighed and opened the door. Hamish scrambled over the threshold ahead of her, almost tripping her. Cursing absently under her breath, Mia entered the warmth of her tree home. The hearthwood was silent inside. She inhaled deeply. How odd. No supper cooking. Concerned, she set her foraging basket on the bench by the door.

  “Father?” she called. “I know I’m delayed. It was Old Parniff. You know how she gets when she can’t steep tea. There was nothing to be done. It took me forever to locate the proper conduit root.” The roots of Parniff’s hearthwood were damaged badly, and they had sounded like a swarm of bees. It was a tricky job to repair, and Mia’s collection of joints, shunts, and conduits had proved inadequate, necessitating a lengthy foraging expedition midday. She was exhausted.

  No response. Hamish headed straight for the kitchen at a stubby gallop, his bushy tail down. He made a low keening noise, and the hairs on the back of Mia’s arms rose.

  “Father!” she called again.

  When she turned the corner into the nook that contained the cooking hearth, his crumpled form lay prone on the floor as Hamish whined and pawed at his leg. The makings for a nice vegetable stew were spread out on the counter in various stages of preparation.

  “Father!”

  Mia skidded onto her knees at his side. She turned him onto his back and felt his chest and mouth. Is he breathing? Please let him be breathing. She placed her ear to his broad chest. It emitted a garbled wheeze coupled with a very shallow rise and fall. Father, what have you done? Why didn’t you say something?

  Mia’s limbs felt wooden from the shock, but she stood facing the counter and picked through the piles of roots and vegetables. She dropped chopped ginger into a bowl and added boiling water from the cook pot. While it steeped, she managed to heave Father up into a sitting position. This will have to do. She set the pungent, steaming bowl below his nose and watched him inhale and exhale shallowly. The strong odor tickled Mia’s eyes and chest, but she waved it into his nostrils, hoping it would make its way into his struggling lungs. Hamish whined again then sneezed and panted. He lay down by Father and licked his hand.

  Approximately ten minutes later, with a hacking cough, Father regained consciousness. A glob of phosphorescent purple phlegm shot out of his mouth and landed with a splat on the floor. His deep-gray eyes rolled back in his head, and he heaved a long, ragged breath. His olive skin was ashen and clammy, and damp black hairs curled around his ears. Mia mopped his brow with a cloth and waved more of the steam under his nose.

  “How long have the spores been polluting your lungs, Father?” she asked quietly.

  His eyes were still closed, but his face tightened at the sound of her words. Then it softened. He took the cloth from her hand and blotted his mouth. “A month, perhaps longer. I didn’t wish to worry you.”

  “They’re purple,” she said. Her throat thickened, and the emotions forgotten in the tense moments of ministration once again surfaced as tears formed at the corners of her eyes and clung to her lashes. “You know what that means.”

  “I do,” he said. His eyes opened, and he looked up at her. He looked so frail and tired and sad. “And so do you.” Father took her hand and squeezed it with a strength that reassured her. He wouldn’t be dying today at least.

  “You have nothing to worry about, daughter.” He reached up and rubbed her cheek with his thumb, brushing away the tears. He must have seen the fear in her eyes.

  “Come,” she said. “Let’s get you up and somewhere warm.”

  Almost plaintive, he tugged the sleeve of her arm. “I’m not long for this world, and I need you to take a message for me.”

  These weren’t the words she’d expected. “To whom? Where?”

  Father wasn’t a sociable person, and they had no other family than each other.

  “We’ll talk more on the morrow. It’ll be a journey, so you’d best get some rest as well.”

  Later that night, Mia sat in the branches of their hearthwood and once again looked out at the night lights as the trees gently hummed around her. Now, however, neither the lights nor sounds comforted her, and fear and sadness usurped her usual awe. Not even the glittering colors in the sky could alleviate the thoughts swirling up from within. She knew no other family. Now, at three and twenty, not a day had passed where the sun didn’t rise and set again without her seeing Father’s face. Theirs was a simple, solitary, relatively nomadic life. They had inhabited their current hearthwood for the longest period Mia could recall, which she hazarded was about four cycles. And now the life they had built here was crumbling to dust. How fragile their happiness was. Mia hadn’t even realized its frailty. And now Father wanted her to leave him and go on a journey. How could she?

  She felt the arms of despair drag her down and swallow her whole. Father was all she had. There was no one else. The thought of being set adrift in the world was hard to bear. She stifled a sniffle against the back of her hand. But I will not cry. I will not cry.

  When she was about eight, she and Father had been traveling between hammocks. He became, as he occasionally did, restless and decided abruptly that it was time for them to move on. Every move they made took them farther into the outer hammocks. Mia rather liked traveling and likewise didn’t mind the dearth of people that resulted.

  In this instance, their travels had taken them across a channel narrow enough to accommodate an arboreal bridge. These bridges were and remained wondrous marvels to Mia. Even when she was a child, even this short bridge had been nothing less than a spectacular sight that had caused her to suck in her breath sharply, her eyes growing round and full. Large, thick roots wove themselves in an intricate pattern over the channel, knitting together a solid bridge. In the center of the channel, a structure sat solidly on a platform of roots.

  “What is that, Father?” Mia had asked.

  Partially open to the channel, the structure had an angled roof of planks and fronds. This tiny shack was the first man-made building Mia ever had seen constructed from boards and other finished materials, rather than naturally grown or carved from living plants. Only the clump of heavy roots growing upward in a large lump and carved into a hearth saved the structure from seeming completely alien.

  “It’s a lodge,” Father replied. “The hammocks on either side of this channel are stalker territory.” He looked over his shoulder at Mia. “You do remember what I said about stalkers, right?”

  She nodded but kept looking forward to the off-kilter little box on the bridge. “Who owns the lodge?”

  Father smiled. “No one. It’s customary that if we stay a night, we maintain her as payment for her service to us.”

  Mia looked appraisingly at the lodge and considered his words. “How do we do that?”

  “We repair a broken plant, fix the floor, or mend some roots,” he replied, and they picked their way through the forest toward the bridge.

  Even when Mia was a young child, the trees had hummed around her. One of the root channels that led from the nearby arboreals to the bridge was buzzing strangely. She stopped to listen. Father pulled her along by th
e rope tied around her waist. It kept her from wandering, as she was wont to do.

  “But,” she asked, “what about maintaining the other stuff?”

  “What other stuff?”

  “The stuff that leads to the lodge.” She pointed at the buzzing root. “That one needs help.”

  Father shrugged and continued walking. “Sometimes roots get damaged or broken, and the current is interrupted,” he said thoughtfully. “It eventually will grow along another path.”

  “But what if you need current now?”

  “Well, sometimes you just have to abide.”

  Pushing her bright-red hair from her eyes, Mia frowned at that answer. Her cheeks scrunched up as she thought about the silliness of that statement and followed Father onto the bridge.

  When they arrived at the entry to the lodge, Father announced them as the Jaynes. The only other travelers were an old couple setting up camp on the left. They nodded and went on about their preparations with slow, deliberate movements. It would soon be dark, and they were cooking the evening meal.

  The hearth in the corner was small for the size of the lodge. It must have taken a very long time for a root to grow large enough to support a hearth at all. Mia walked over to it and put out her hands to warm them. The hearth was pleasant, but the heat that emanated from the alcove was weak. By the hearth, she heard the buzzing again.

  “Can you hear that?” she asked the others.

  The old couple shook their heads.

  “Stop playing around,” said Father.

  Mia was used to people not understanding. No one seemed to hear broken plants the way she did.

  As night fell, the forest and channel dimmed, and the only light around the small group emanated from the hearth, flickery and weak, spilling from gourds growing on vines twined around the ceiling planks and scattered through the forest, and the subtle, pale colors of the night lights of a dark night. Mia and Father ate a meal of dried meat, fruits, and some old crackers. It was meager fare, but she was hungry and tired from the hiking. It wasn’t long before she drifted off to sleep to the sound of Father conversing in hushed tones with the elderly couple. Their discussion of the old days failed to hold Mia’s attention.

  She woke to the buzzing noise. The others were now sleeping soundly. Father snored softly, and the sound of the old man’s regular, wheezy breathing carried to her ears. The buzzing remained steady, though. She climbed from her blankets and crept quietly over to the hearth. She touched it, and a buzz vibrated into her fingers. She moved her hand around until the sensations grew strong. She chased the vibration with her hand down the length of the root toward the floor then out of the lodge. Her conscious mind receded, and her thoughts grew indistinct as she followed the vibration along the root in the direction of the shore. At the shore, she continued to walk along the ground where the root partially protruded. About two feet from a large tree, she still heard the buzzing, but it was faint, and the vibration stopped. When she backtracked, the vibration returned, and the buzzing intensified. She looked down at the root where her hands rested. She realized then that she should have brought a gourd from the camp. Unable to see the root, she felt around for it and found a crack in it.

  “Here is where you’re broken, my friend,” Mia said softly.

  Maybe I can fix it, she thought. Patch it with some root paste.

  Overcome with excitement, she turned back toward the lodge when a twig snapped faintly behind her. Mia realized it too late. The owls that were hooting moments before, the insects that were singing, and the rodents that scuttled along the branches all disappeared into the darkness. The forest about her was silent. Her heart stopped momentarily then quickened in her chest as she gasped for a breath. She slowly turned her head to look behind her. The path to the forest was pitch-black. It was there. She knew it was there but couldn’t see it. Where is it? I’m going to die. I can’t see it.

  Although her eyes had failed her, her ears didn’t. Another subtle snap of a twig and a slight rustle. She threw herself to the ground and screamed as loudly as she could. She rolled onto her side, slightly dazed. Silver fur in silhouette glinted as a black shape sailed over her, momentarily inky against the barely visible night lights. Despite the cat’s massive size, it landed with deft grace and circled back on her immediately, claws raking the dirt. It was huge, steely silver with glowing yellow eyes—the largest animal Mia had ever seen. The stories had failed to mention the malice and hunger in those glowing eyes. They spoke to her, mostly saying that she had made a terrible mistake venturing from the safety of the lodge and was about to be dinner. She screamed again, a long, drawn-out howl that tore through her body. Her high voice echoed through the forest, a cacophony of children.

  The standoff lasted mere ticks, but Mia felt every moment freeze and then shudder through her. The stalker hissed—a sound deep in its thick neck—and swayed slightly from side to side. A roar and a crash sounded from the direction of the lodge, followed by heavy footfalls. A bright light emerged from the darkness, and the stalker hissed again, this time adding an unearthly yowl, and turned its head toward the oncoming light. It was Father carrying a flaming club. He screamed as he charged the stalker. It hesitated for just a moment at losing its easy prey then crouched and leapt at Father’s advancing form.

  The mass of the cat drove him back onto the ground. He swung the torch up into the stalker’s face, and it roared, digging its claws into his shoulder. Its open mouth displayed an array of large, glistening teeth. The beast snapped its jaws at the flaming stick, breaking it in half. Father whipped the stick’s remnants at the cat, aiming for the muzzle, but the beast moved like the wind, and the stick glanced off its temple. The cat shrugged off the blow then raked at Father again, trying to get its face-size paws around his head.

  The sounds of struggle ceased suddenly with a howl and a squish. The forest quiet again, Mia looked to see the massive cat slumped over Father, inert. She remained paralyzed with fear as Father, bloody and battered, struggled out from under the cat. When he finally pushed the stalker off himself, Mia saw a thin, supple knife protruding from where the cat’s left eye once was. A stream of blood ran down its large head and pooled in the soft dirt floor of the forest. The other yellow eye stared vacantly into the night sky. She whimpered, curled in on herself, and lay there shaking. Bleeding from his shoulder and face, Father rushed to her and wrapped her in his arms. At that moment, Mia felt so very small.

  “Are you hurt?” he yelled, then released her from a hug to poke and prod her limbs for injuries. Tongue-tied, she managed to shake her head. He scooped her up and carried her back to the lodge, where the old man was waiting at the entrance. He held a knife, sister to the one lodged in the stalker’s eye socket, and was poised to loose it into the darkness. Where he had moved slowly and deliberately before, his movements with the knife were smooth and steady. How had he even been able to see where to throw it? Mia shivered again and buried her face into Father’s blood-soaked shirt.

  “What were you doing out there? Didn’t you hear me earlier? We came here for safety, and you wander out into the night alone! Blast it all!” Father yelled.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just wanted to help the tree.”

  “What in the blazes are you talking about? It’s as if there isn’t a sensible bone in your whole body.”

  Father set her on the floor and shook her shoulders. But the rage left his body as quickly as it had come upon him, and he sank onto his bedroll in a heap.

  The old woman clucked at him. “Now there, Jayne, ser. We should see to those gashes.”

  Father nodded sullenly. Mia watched the old woman tend to Father’s shoulder and face. He winced but remained silent as she packed his shoulder wounds with ground herbs she had mixed with a thick milky liquid and formed into a paste. Mia didn’t recognize it and wanted to ask her what the stuff was and how it worked, but she was still scared, and her timidity won out. Father no longer seemed cross, but his face look haggard and ash
y, whereas hours ago it was fierce and tanned.

  She’d been so scared that the stalker was going to eat her. And then she was scared it was going to eat Father. It may have too, if the old man hadn’t been quick with the knife.

  “Can you teach me to use that?” she asked the old man later, after Father had fallen asleep.

  “My child,” the old man said in his raspy voice, “I can show you how to throw a knife, but this one is much too large for you. You’ll have to find a craftsman who can make you a set of your own, balanced just for you. Then you’ll never want for food or protection.”

  The old man was right, and she convinced Father of the idea after they’d settled into their new home. I should have asked the old woman how to heal people instead, she thought.

  The next morning, Father was up and about as if he hadn’t collapsed at all. Mia wanted to believe it had all been a dream, but she knew otherwise. He whistled softly to himself as he prepared some eggs. She smelled roasting sweet onions, lard, and some of the tangy cheese acquired two days before.

  “Father, that cheese cost me a rare shunt. Rare indeed.” Might have even been able to use that at Parniff’s, she thought. Still dressed in her rumpled home clothes, she approached the hearthroot quietly and sat at the table.

  Father, on the other hand, was dressed as if he were about to go ranging.

  “I rather hoped to save it for a special occasion.”

  “Every dawn faced with vigor is a special occasion for me just now,” he said, giving her a pointed look.

  “Indeed you have the right of it,” Mia replied, her body sagging slightly. They settled into an awkward silence, uncomfortable thoughts boiling inside her head, each clamoring for her anxious attention.

  Her eyes slid around the great room of their hearthwood. She recalled their careful selection of the tree, the effort it took to hollow out the center to form their home, and the cycles of living that made it such. Her eyes moved to the lounge, where Father had slept last night. She stood up and walked over to his makeshift bed.