The Land of Broken Roads

He shrieked more from horror than pain as dozens of tiny threads wormed all throughout his body, deep inside, from guts to muscles and even bones. They caused tiny sharp pains everywhere they went, which disappeared almost instantly only to happen again in the next spot over. There was no tugging, but in some places he could feel them restricting the natural movement, like in his lungs. He made himself quit screaming, worried his air was going to run out.

For a moment he felt a dull squeezing in his chest that made him tired and nauseous, but slight fear entered Home’s mind and the squeezing vanished. He didn’t know why, though. She had no room set aside for words, or anything at all beyond the minimum needed to control her dryad. All the rest of her, all the immense bright glow of her mind, was focused on processing what she was doing.

He watched her mind, hoping to understand what was going on. He could not. Her thoughts, now that she was fully engaged, carried far, far more at once than he could comprehend. They pulsed at the same rhythm as the nightly hum beneath her roots, slow and deliberate, but each pulse was so complicated he couldn’t even tell if it was sensory information.

One thing he understood, however, was that she was dividing information up to send to the others. In part, she was directing all their efforts, acting as a sort of central organizer. The actual trees were too far away for him to see all their minds, but the handful he could see were engaged in the same task.

The sharp little pokes made their way up through his neck and into his face, and when thin, blurry bars started crossing his vision, he knew why. His eyes twitched involuntarily, as if wanting to move to look at something else, and he could feel the tugging that held them in place. That got a whimper out of him. He started panting, feeling like he had to flee.

But he couldn’t, so he closed his eyes and tried not to panic any more than he already had. It wouldn’t do him any good—they were holding him firmly on any joint he might have tried to bend to get away. He wasn’t going anywhere, but he might be able to squirm enough to break one of those tiny threads off, leaving it woven all throughout his innards. That would be worse.

A thread hit something in his thigh that made him twinge, and right after that, several more in other places. Whatever they hit stung a lot more than the rest and made his arm shake, or his finger curl, or his leg try and bend. All different muscles flexed by themselves, one here, one there. The sharp pains were bad enough, their fiery stings burning far longer than the earlier ones, but some of his muscles jumped so much the dryads bruised his skin holding him down. He felt like he was losing control of himself. Were they taking him over? Were they going to invade and make him a dryad? If so, there was nothing he could do, except groan and hiss in discomfort.

He wished Socks were here. Even just to sit nearby, nose to the ground, whimpering in sympathy. And when it was over, lift him out of their reach, lick him, and set him on his back. Then flee.

The process dragged on and on, long enough for him to start losing his terror and revulsion and start thinking about getting hungry instead. The dryads were holding him so firmly the sore spots from that were more painful than anything going on inside him. He’d have bruises from head to foot.

It finished without any sort of announcement. The threads simply withdrew, much more quickly than they went in. They unwound fast enough to fill him with little tugs, which felt disgusting in a way he couldn’t describe. When the dryads’ grip on him loosened, he fought the urge to twist away and run. Anywhere. To the house and shut them out and hide, until he felt better. Or just try and escape the forest altogether and hope Socks found him before too long.

But what good would any of that do? They could probably bring him back any time they wanted just by touching him with a root. And hide in the house? While they all stared at the door, waiting with the patience of eons for him to come out? He’d have to eventually, and that would be awkward.

As Home’s focus relented and more of her attention returned to her dryad, Dirt rose hastily to his feet and pulled himself away from any lingering hands. He pushed past the nearest dryads to a spot a few paces away where he could get some space. He needed room to breathe, to gather himself.

His spirit was shaken, leaving him feeling unwell and unbalanced. His body felt completely fine, though, which surprised him. He almost wished it still hurt, to match how he felt about what just happened. But no, just a few tiny spots of blood on his stomach where the threads had entered, and that was all. His vision was fine. He could breathe. Nothing hurt, except some bruising from their fingers.

“We were successful,” said Home, stepping toward him. “It will take additional time to completely process, but we have learned what we wished to learn.”

She held her arms forward as if expecting another hug, but Dirt grit his teeth, not ready to have dryad hands on him again just yet. They had a reason, he was sure. But right now, all he knew was how much he’d hated it.

He finally asked, “What did you do?”

“We analyzed your composition, as I said.”

“When did you say that?”

“Last evening, before you slept, I said we would analyze your composition and prepare a sap that contains the appropriate nutrients,” she replied.

“Why didn’t you explain what you meant first? Because I had no idea what you meant by that,” he said, trying to keep petulance out of his voice and not quite succeeding.

Home’s eyebrows furrowed in a perfect facsimile of concern. “The Mother of Wolves warned us you would be distressed and might resist, and in resisting, cause injury to yourself. But it was necessary. Remember that we are friends. I do not wish any improper distress upon you.”

All his leftover unease turned immediately to anger. It came so sudden that it was all he could do to keep from shouting. He said, “Improper distress? So there’s proper distress that it’s okay to cause me? Do you even know what friends are, Home?”

Dirt took a deep breath, embarrassed that after all this time keeping control of himself, he’d had an outburst like that.

“Wait!” he said, holding his hand up when she opened her mouth to talk. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t get mad like this. But what you did, I really, really hated it. It hurt me. I’m scared of you, Home. I’m trying not to be, because I know you mean well, but I am.”

“The Mother of Wolves warned us of this as well. We accomplish all we purpose, in all worlds of perception. We know nothing of pain and very little of fear. In our ignorance, will you forgive us, that we may continue to be friends?”

“Did Mother tell you to say that?”

“Only that she expected you to hasten to reconcile afterward, to preserve yourself.”

Dirt scowled, then softened his brows once he realized what he was doing. “What else did she say?”

Home’s look of concern appeared genuine, everything from the set of her chin to the little wrinkles between her eyebrows. Dirt glanced at her mind and found her body language to be deliberate but sincere. “She said that you are in the early stages of malnourishment because you cannot eat a wolf’s diet and thrive. She said your growth will be stunted, you risk deformity and disease, and are likely to die young as a result.”

Dirt felt himself go pale. He looked down at his body, which was thin but still fine. Wasn’t it? Suddenly, he wasn’t sure. He had no other children to compare with. Except the dryads, and he wasn’t sure how accurate their bodies were. None of them seemed to have stomachs that sank in quite as far as his, though, now that he took a closer look. Especially at the male one, who had no shirt of green fuzz covering his pale gray torso.

“Did Mother say to feed me, then?”

“She only said what would happen to you,” said the male. “We had to know what you are made of to understand what you should eat, of course. Friend Dirt, I would gladly share my meals with you if I could, but we eat air.” He stood a little easier than Home, head back, hint of a friendly grin on his face. He had the look of a boy eager to play, which Dirt found surprisingly effective at putting him at ease. The boy’s tree was nowhere nearby, so Dirt couldn’t tell from his thoughts if it was intentional.

“What else did she say?”

Home looked regretfully at the ground, then shyly lifted her eyes back up to meet his. “To answer would be to distress you further. First I would have your assurance that we are reconciled, lest we become alienated.”

Dirt said, “Well, in that case, I forgive you. I guess you thought if I refused to let you do that, I might die, right?”

“That was our calculation,” said Home.

“Well, you might have been right, but if you had told me first it would have been easier on me. You could have just held me down and done it regardless, right? At least then I would have understood. But it’s okay now. I won’t hold it against you. So what else did she say?”

“She said a threat has come among them and that if you want to see Socks again, you must be strong enough to hold your own. She does not think it likely,” said Home, gazing regretfully at the ground. “She said it is more likely you will never see him again.”

“Oh,” he said, his heart sinking. A sense of finality settled on him, which soon turned to grief. It had always been too good to be true, their friendship. He felt like he’d seen this coming, even though he hadn’t. He’d believed it would be years from now, but the truth was that he was just a little tiny human.

He couldn’t gather mana on his own. He couldn’t even run fast by himself. How was he ever going to keep up? Socks would feel just as bad as he did, which made it even worse. Dirt wasn’t just failing without knowing what he could have done differently; in doing so, he was breaking Socks’ heart too.

For a moment he just stared at the ground as it grew inside him. No more Socks. The big happy pup had been with him, protecting and comforting him his whole life, almost. It might not have been a long life yet, but it was a sincere one. Dirt would rather lose an arm. He’d thought the threads hurt, but that wasn’t real pain. Grief was real pain, enough to spill his guts out all over the ground and kill him, all by itself.

“Can you help me?” he asked, his chest too full of pain to keep his voice steady.

“Yes,” said Home.

“Yes,” said the male. Then others, dozens and hundreds, “Yes!”

He took Home’s hand, and the male’s, and squeezed them. He bowed his head and a tear dripped off his nose. “Then please help me! I can’t lose him. I just can’t!”

“Dear little Dirt, what do you think we have been doing?” said Home.