The Garden Of Arcadia: Where God Rots at the Root

Rain had passed through the forest sometime before dawn. It remained everywhere afterward. Caught in the enormous folds of leaves overhead. Beaded along mushroom caps broad enough to shelter beneath. Gathered inside curled flowers until the weight became too much and sent water spilling suddenly onto the road below.

The road itself had surrendered entirely. Mud swallowed the edges of wagon tracks. Roots gleamed darkly beneath the wet. Every few moments another heavy drop fell from somewhere high in the canopy, striking a leaf with a hollow pat before disappearing into the undergrowth.

Near the roadside, a man crouched in the mud. He had been there long enough to attract an audience. Five children watched him unpack. Then seven. Then nine. He paid none of them any attention. A small wooden chest sat open beside his knee. Far too much seemed to have come out of it already. Thin painted boards. Four narrow poles. A bundle of red fabric. Strings. A folding wooden frame. Several tiny figures rolled together inside a cloth pouch. The man unfolded one piece.

Click.

Another.

Click.

He attached a painted panel, pulled a curtain across the top, adjusted one corner, frowned somewhere unseen beneath his mask and adjusted it again.

A little Faylan  girl crept closer. She couldn’t have been more than six or seven, bundled in a tiny wool vest over a loose shirt. From the waist up she looked almost entirely human—round cheeks, small hands, curious eyes and messy hair curling around her face. A pair of soft lamb ears poked through it, twitching toward every click of wood from the stage. Below her waist, her body gave way naturally to the woolly legs of a young sheep, ending in two neat little hooves that pressed shallow prints into the damp soil.

She crept one step closer. He moved the entire stage six inches away from her without looking. Her little hooves followed. He moved it again. She followed. His hand stopped. Both lamb ears perked straight toward him. Slowly, the pale mask turned toward her. There was no glimpse of the man beneath it. No painted cheek, no mouth, not even the bridge of a nose. The pale face of the mask sat completely over his own, its narrow eye openings giving her the only suggestion that someone was staring back. The girl stared. One ear flicked. The mask turned away. The stage remained where it was. A victory. She grinned.

The jester wore red in nearly every direction. A long hood fell around his head and shoulders in uneven points, its ends hung with little brass bells that chimed whenever he moved too quickly. Layered cloth disappeared beneath leather straps and dark gloves, all of it looking somewhere between a traveling performer, wandering fool and someone who had dressed specifically to make being forgotten impossible.

The pale mask revealed nothing. Its features were almost human, but simplified strangely enough to make the expression difficult to read. Narrow eyes. High cheeks. A long, faintly amused mouth carved where his own remained completely hidden beneath.

He reached into the chest. One of the children immediately stood on his toes.

“What’re those?”

A handful of finger puppets emerged. He took his time examining them.

“Trouble.”

The child frowned.

“They’re dolls.”

“Trouble often is, before it grows.”

The child frowned harder. A quiet giggle escaped from somewhere behind the mask as began sorting them. The first four laid on the main stage.

Flame red.

Honey gold.

Moonmilk white.

Fungi fawn-pink.

He pulled so many more. Some wore tiny crowns. Others had little stitched dresses, armor made from painted scraps, beads no larger than seeds sewn around their necks. Their faces were crudely expressive but their clothing surprisingly intricate, every little scrap deliberately chosen to distinguish one ancient figure from another. A young Brute pointed.

“Who’s that?”

The stranger looked down at the puppet in question. Then at the boy. The bells on his hood jostled as he looked back at the puppet.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Who wins.”

That made absolutely no sense to him. The boy sat down anyway. More children gathered. The stranger slipped two puppets over the fingers of his left hand, tested their movement, removed one and replaced it with another. Then again. Apparently dissatisfied, he rummaged through the chest.

“Lost a Goddess,” he murmured.

A child immediately pointed beneath his knee.

“There!”

He lifted his leg. A tiny woman stared upward from the mud, honey gold fabric still shimmering beneath the splatter.

“Ah.”

He plucked her free.

“Found a Goddess.”

He wiped her face against his sleeve.

“Dignity remains missing.”

Someone giggled. His head snapped toward the sound. Silence. Then another child snorted. His shoulders began to shake with his own quiet, jittery laughter. Within seconds the whole little gathering was laughing without any of them seeming entirely sure why. The stranger settled onto his heels.

His instrument rested nearby, its long wooden neck worn smooth where hands had held it countless times. Its body bore scratches, repaired seams and faded little markings that suggested it had traveled nearly as far as its owner. He lifted it into his lap and plucked one string.

Twannng.

Several children winced. His face tugged scomedically, the side of his neck flexing with is beneath the mask. More giggled. He twisted a peg with nimble fingers. Plucked again. Better. Another. Then another. The clearing slowly filled with a soft, wandering melody. His fingers stopped.

Nine little faces stared back. He counted them. Once. Twice.

“Only nine?”

A Faylan child looked around.

“Yeah.”

“How humiliating.”

Another pluck.

“I was promised thousands.”

“By who?”

The mask tipped toward them.

“Someone terribly dishonest.”

“Who?”

He leaned forward.

“Me.”

A few of them laughed. The stranger raised one finger. The bells on his hood whispered.

“Now.”

A tiny puppet appeared over the stage.

“Once grew a Garden where nothing had name…”

Another joined it.

“Where mountains stood naked—”

A third.

“—and oceans untamed. Created by four gods without name.”

A fourth. His fingers spread.

“Four opened eyes where no eyes had been…”

He plucked a string.

“Four makers.”

Another.

“Four tempers.”

His voice lifted pleasantly.

“And absolutely no supervision.”

The children laughed. The puppets bowed. His fingers moved with extraordinary precision. Two fingers became a body and legs; another curled beneath to make a tiny figure kneel. His hands crossed, separated, vanished behind the stage and returned with different characters before the children could quite understand when the exchange happened.

The song followed them. The Gods made their Garden. The Underworld within its core. Mountains. Forests. Oceans. Creatures beneath them. Then people. Many kinds. Too many, perhaps, according to the Jester.

“And what happens when one little Garden grows crowded?”

“They make houses!”

“Sometimes.”

“Cities!”

“Occasionally.”

“Friends!”

The Jester went still. His mask tilted.

“…optimist.”

The child beamed, apparently accepting this as praise. A different puppet struck another. The Jester plucked a sharp note.

“Neighbor found neighbor and coveted his ground.”

Another strike.

“King looked at kingdom and fancied a crown.”

More puppets appeared.

“Old insult met anger.”

Pluck.

“Old anger met pride.”

Pluck.

“And everyone agreed—”

He paused. The children leaned closer.

“—it was somebody else’s fault.”

The puppets attacked each other. The children erupted. The battle was ridiculous at first. Tiny bodies of different races slapped together. A tiny human in knights armor fighting a terrifying brute. A fairy and elf fighting off an evil sorcerer. One puppet kicked another directly off the stage. The Jester gasped.

“Unsportsmanlike!”

Another appeared behind the first.

“REVENGE!”

The children shrieked, but the song continued. And slowly, the joke changed.

“A season made years…”

The puppets fought.

“And years became more…”

One fell.

“Children inherited somebody’s war.”

Another disappeared.

“Ten became fifty…”

The melody slowed.

“Then fifty a score…”

The last two struck each other.

“Until one hundred years……were eaten by war.”

All four puppets lay still above the rest strewn on the stage like limp fabric. Nobody laughed. A little Brute boy stared at them.

“Where were the Gods?”

The stranger’s fingers rested against the strings. His head lifted slightly.

“Ah.”

A tiny breath of laughter escaped him.

“Now you’ve found the story.”

Four taller figures slowly rose behind the fallen ones. The children stared. The Jester’s voice became light again, almost sweet.

“The Garden looked upward.”

A single note.

“And cried to its keepers—Oh makers above us, Oh makers below, look what has grown from the seeds that you sow. Our rivers run bitter, our fields have gone red, come quiet the living before all are dead.”

The four Gods looked down upon the fallen puppets.

“And did they help?” someone whispered.

The Jester considered this. One finger tapped thoughtfully against the body of his instrument.

“They helped enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the story continues.”

“But—”

“Fourteen thousand years is a terribly long interruption. Do keep up.”

The child’s mouth fell open. The Jester giggled. His fingers danced again. Years became a melody. Kingdoms rose in gestures. Generations disappeared behind the little stage. The puppets changed.

Again. Again. Again.

Faces replaced faces. Crowns vanished and returned differently shaped. Tiny banners rose behind the painted boards and disappeared just as quickly. Entire generations lived only long enough to cross the width of his little stage before his fingers swept them aside for those who came after. The children watched civilizations pass without knowing their names, then the music slowed.

“People found peace.”

A puppet bowed to another.

“Or something wearing its clothes.”

The four Gods returned.

“But peace below…”

His fingers climbed the strings.

“…does not promise peace above.”

Three small lights appeared. Not puppets this time. Beads. Tiny glittering things held between painted fingers, catching what little morning light broke through the wet canopy until they seemed to shine on their own. The children leaned closer.

“And the Gods began plucking children from stars.”

The story darkened from there. Three daughters for Madona. A son born to Taylece A son born to Suma. A tiny bundled puppet appeared between his fingers. The Jester rocked it once. Twice. Then another hand swept down. Gone. A child gasped.

“SHE STOLE A BABY!”

The music stopped, the mask turned toward her.

“Stole is such an ugly word.”

“But she DID!”

He considered.

“Then ugly words occasionally fit.”

“Why’d she take him?”

The mask dipped toward the little puppet hidden behind the stage.

“A child hidden…”

His voice softened.

“…is a child still breathing.”

The girl frowned.

“But that was Suma’s baby!”

A giggle hid somewhere in his next breath.

“Now there’s the riddle.”

He played on. 

Suma searched. Suma learned. Suma raged. Another infant appeared. Elios. Suma unleashed wrath on her sisters. The rest of the gods and their children tried to stop her. Then the Valkyries. Tiny warriors lined his fingers. A child recognized them instantly.

“VALKYRIES!”

The Jester struck a delighted chord.

“Gold star.”

“I don’t have a star.”

“Neither do they anymore.”

His hand swept sideways. The Valkyries vanished. The child gasped.

“--HEY!”

The Jester was already laughing.

“History is terribly rude.”

Then Madona fell. Adelia stood. The Mother of Magic fought on and on. The instrument shrieked beneath the violence of his fingers. Until Adelia fell too. The Jester wrapped red thread around Suma, like a spider with prey. Then pulled it tight.

“Wrath met Mother.”

His voice softened.

“Mother met death.”

The Suma puppet disappeared into his fist.

“And Death locked Wrath where the Garden could finally…”

He inhaled.

“…breathe.”

The children were silent. Madona lay dead. Her daughters stood separated across the little stage. One high. One low. One somewhere between. Unable to reach one another. Then another figure rose. Dark. Crowned. The Jester plucked a low note.

“And while forgotten daughters mourned…”

Another.

“…Hell crowned itself a King.”

“King Elios,” the Brute boy whispered.

The mask turned toward him.

“Clever little thing.”

The boy smiled.

“But bindings fray.”

The melody became playful again.

“And dead things wait.”

The children shifted.

“And locked doors…”

The Jester’s fingers curled beneath the stage.

“…make such wonderful invitations.”

The Suma puppet exploded upward. Children screamed. The Jester cackled. Suma grabbed one puppet. Gone. Then another.

“WHEN THE SUPREME RETURNS—”

“NO!”

A child launched herself at the stage. The Jester recoiled.

“Madam!”

“GET HER!”

“Wait your turn! She hasn’t eaten everyone yet!”

Another child grabbed Suma.

“Unhand the apocalypse!”

A second child seized Madona and began beating Suma with her. The Jester stared.

“Oh.”

WHACK.

“Oh, that’s efficient.”

WHACK.

“That could have saved several chapters—”

Someone jumped on him.

“History repeats—!”

He went backward. His instrument released one catastrophic—

BWAAAAANG.

The Jester landed hard on his elbows. His mask knocked slanted. For the first time since he had begun assembling the little stage, the face beneath it existed at all. One fastening had slipped loose beneath his hood, leaving the mask hanging crooked across his features. White paint covered every inch of exposed skin, continuing beneath the mask rather than ending neatly around it. Muted red makeup stretched outward from his eyes in theatrical shapes, smudged slightly at one edge from the damp morning. Against all that white and black, his irises burned an unnatural red. A few strands of damp hair had escaped around his temples.

The shifted mask exposed one cheek, the line of his nose and part of his mouth. He looked considerably less alarmed by being tackled than anyone reasonably should have. Then he started laughing, not politely. His entire body folded with it. One child sat directly on his leg while another attempted to steal Elios.

“Thieves!”

Nobody cared.

“Heretics!”

Suma disappeared beneath three tiny bodies.

“Anarchists!”

Someone pulled one of his bells. He gasped.

“Not the bells!”

A wagon creaked somewhere behind them. The children barely noticed.

Heavy paws sank into the rain-softened road with each lumbering step. Three thick, hooflike claws pressed into the mud, their blunt, dark tips spreading slightly beneath his weight. The ground yielded around them, leaving deep, three-pronged impressions with raised ridges of wet soil between each mark. When he lifted a foot, the mud clung stubbornly to its underside before releasing with a thick, sucking squelch. Behind him, the road bore a trail of peculiar tracks, each broad enough to hold a little pool of rainwater.

Thump.

Thump.

Mud pressed outward beneath the enormous feet of the shaggy beast pulling the wagon past the clearing, leaving prints deep enough for rainwater to begin gathering inside them. Dark fur hung heavily from its body, still damp in places from the morning rain, its harness nearly disappearing beneath the thick coat around its shoulders. It moved with the unhurried certainty of something enormous enough that very little along the road had ever convinced it to hurry.

The wagon followed behind. Wooden wheels rolled through the old ruts with a low, wet grind. Its exterior was weathered by travel without looking neglected—dark wood, brass fittings, small bundles secured beneath the eaves, charms and trinkets shifting faintly with each roll of the wheels. It looked like the sort of caravan that had spent far more years on roads than beneath any permanent roof.

The woman seated at the front glanced toward the commotion. Long dark hair fell loose around white and blue clothing, the pale fabric broken by darker layers and the intermittent glint of jewelry whenever the canopy allowed sunlight through. She sat comfortably despite the ruined road, one hand resting near the reins while the other loosely held the bowl of a jade pipe.

She caught the scene at precisely the wrong moment. A red-clad stranger sprawled backward on his elbows. Half his little stage had been conquered. One child was sitting on his leg. Another appeared to be stealing a God. Three more were enthusiastically correcting ancient history by force. She watched Madona strike Suma directly in the face. Her mouth twitched around the stem of the pipe. Then she laughed, her shoulders lifted once as she shook her head.

“Fixed that problem.”

The words barely left the space around her own wagon. She made no effort to be heard. The caravan bustle never slowed as she passed. She drew again from the pipe. The packed Dragonsbeard brightened orange within the bowl, illuminating its carved edge for a fleeting second before dimming beneath a curl of ash.

When she exhaled, however, the smoke didn’t simply disperse. A pale ribbon slipped from her nose and drifted beside the wagon. It curled, caught upon itself. Twisted once through the damp air. Four tiny legs separated from the haze. Then a narrow body. A neck. A tossing head no larger than her thumb. A little smoke-stallion struck the air, running. Another formed behind it. Then another.

The tiny herd galloped alongside the moving wagon, translucent hooves never quite touching the mud. Wisps of their manes streamed behind them as they raced one another between the enormous footprints left by the beast ahead. One reared soundlessly over a puddle. Another broke through its companion in a burst of smoke before reforming two strides later.

The woman seemed hardly conscious of having made them. She rested the pipe between her teeth again and faced the road ahead. Behind her, the stallions began unraveling from the tail forward. Legs became ribbons. Ribs became mist. Tiny heads stretched into pale curls until the last little horse dissolved completely into the damp morning air.

The Jester had stopped laughing. Not abruptly enough for the children to notice. His body still shook once with the remnants of it as he remained propped on one elbow, crooked mask exposing that painted sliver of his face. His eyes had found the road. Found the wagon. Found her, this stranger.

The red irises followed the stranger as she passed. One child yanked the Suma puppet from his hand. His arm followed automatically. His eyes did not. The woman never looked back. The wagon rolled farther between the trees, wheels sinking briefly into mud before climbing free again. The great shaggy beast became a dark moving shape beneath the enormous leaves. White and blue faded between trunks and curtains of wet green.

The Jester tilted his head. The bells hanging from his hood gave a delicate little jingle. His exposed mouth still held the faintest curl of a smile.

“Children are terribly fond of revisions.”

Whether the words were meant for the departing woman, the children, or no one at all was impossible to tell. She was already too far away to hear them. The road curved. The wagon vanished behind the forest. Still he watched the place where it had disappeared. For only a moment longer.  Then his gaze finally dropped. His fingers were empty. Several feet away, one of the children was sprinting triumphantly through the mud with his Taleyce puppet clenched overhead. A tiny giggle escaped him.

“Thief.”

A little girl tugged violently on his sleeve. His attention snapped back down.

“SHE’S DEAD!”

She proudly presented the tattered Suma puppet in both hands. The Jester looked at Suma. Then at the girl before back to the decrepitly mangled doll.

“Again?”

“YEAH!”

He sighed.

“How repetitive.”

The children laughed. He reached up at last and pushed his crooked mask toward its proper place, bells whispering around his head as the pale face swallowed his own once more. Beyond the bend, the wagon was gone. The forest carried their laughter farther than the children ever could. It slipped between wet trunks and beneath the broad leaves overhead, thinning with distance until shrieks became echoes, echoes became little more than bells, and even those were eventually swallowed by the steady drip of rainwater.

The road continued without them. It wound deeper into the forest beneath roots that rose like old walls from the land, past flowers heavy with collected rain and mushrooms opening broad caps toward what little light reached the ground. Small things stirred in the undergrowth as the morning warmed. Wings flashed between branches. Somewhere unseen, something called once from high in the canopy and received an answer from much farther away.

The wagon tracks remained. Two deep grooves pressed into the mud, accompanied by the enormous prints of whatever had made them. Water slowly gathered inside each hollow. For a time, they were the only evidence that anyone had passed at all. Then the day moved on. Rainwater slipped from leaves. Mist lifted from the lowest parts of the forest.

Thin shafts of afternoon light found their way through breaks in the canopy, wandered across the forest floor, and vanished again as the sun continued west. The tracks grew fresher. A broken fern still trembled where something enormous had brushed against it. Mud displaced by a wheel had not yet settled. Then, somewhere ahead—

Creak.

Wood complained beneath its own weight. A faint chiming answered it. Not the little bells of the performer left miles behind, but charms hanging beneath the eaves of a traveling wagon, knocking gently together whenever one wheel found another root.

Creak.

Thump.

Creak.

Thump.

The great shaggy beast from that morning lumbered between the trees, broad back rolling beneath his damp coat. Behind him followed the same dark wooden wagon, brass fittings occasionally catching the dying light. And at its front sat the same woman. The pipe was gone now. One elbow rested lazily against her knee while she watched the forest ahead, reins held loosely enough to suggest the enormous creature pulling her required very little instruction. Hours had passed since the puppet show. The forest had changed with them.

Morning silver had deepened into green, then gold, and now the first violet shadows of evening stretched between the roots. The road had narrowed steadily along the way, branches reaching farther across it as though the forest were reconsidering whether travelers had ever been invited through at all. 

Eventually, even the wagon tracks disappeared. By evening, the road had stopped pretending to be a road. It narrowed beneath the forest until wagon ruts became little more than shallow grooves between roots, then disappeared altogether beneath ferns and creeping flowers. Lorraine didn’t seem particularly concerned. Pludo did. The great shaggy beast stopped.

Lorraine looked down from the wagon seat. Pludo looked ahead. A fallen tree lay across what remained of the path. Lorraine looked at the thick trunk, then to Puldo. Pludo stared at her. She deadpanned, hands on her hips as she called out to him.

“No.”

One enormous ear twitched.

“You can go around.”

Pludo blinked slowly. Lorraine stared back. Rainwater dripped from a leaf somewhere between them.

“You’re not making me move it.”

Pludo lowered his head.

“Oh, don’t start.”

His shoulders sagged. Lorraine narrowed her eyes.

“You’re several times my size.”

A low sound rolled out of him.

“Manipulative.”

Another.

“Fine.”

Lorraine climbed down. By the time she’d walked around to his front, Pludo was already stepping neatly over the smaller end of the fallen trunk. She stopped, but he certainly didn’t. Lorraine watched him clear it without difficulty.

“You little shit.”

His shaggy tail swayed. The wagon creaked after him. Lorraine followed, gathering firewood along their path. They only traveled a few ways further before they made camp, the forest about to swallow the last of the light. Not because Lorraine needed much of one but Pludo did. She guided him into a wide break between the enormous roots of an old tree where the land rose slightly above the surrounding mud. The canopy opened just enough there to reveal strips of deepening violet sky.

“That’s us.”

Pludo apparently agreed. The moment Lorraine began loosening the harness, he leaned.

“Don’t.”

More weight.

“Pludo.”

He leaned harder. Lorraine braced both hands against his side.

“You are going to crush me.”

The enormous beast made absolutely no effort to correct this. Lorraine shoved. He shifted perhaps half an inch.

“Thank you. Very generous.”

Once the harness came free, Pludo shook himself from head to tail. Lorraine barely had time to turn away. Water exploded from his coat.

“Oh, you—”

She threw an arm over her face. Pludo continued shaking with tremendous enthusiasm, sending droplets scattering through the clearing.

“Finished?”

His fur settled. Lorraine lowered her arm. A final glob of water dropped from his ear directly onto her boot. She stared at him. Pludo blinked.

“I’m going to sell you.”

He wandered toward the grass.

“Tomorrow.”

He kept walking.

“Cheaply!”

Not even an ear twitch. Lorraine sighed.

“Everyone’s a critic.”

The wagon waited beneath the trees behind her. Small from the outside. Weathered wood. Brass fittings. Bundles secured beneath the eaves. A few charms swaying beneath one corner. Its little windows had gone dark as evening settled around them. Lorraine approached one. She tapped the glass. Nothing. Tapped again. A pair of enormous luminous eyes appeared on the other side. Lorraine smiled.

“There you are.”

She undid the latch. The window swung outward. For a moment, nothing emerged. Then Sahbean’s head appeared. The owl regarded Lorraine through eyes that contained far too much sky. Not one seen by day, or by city light that fogs the true depths of the star gazed void, in her eyes. Color seemed suspended inside them—deep violet bleeding into red, distant flecks of light shifting within glossy darkness like stars seen through colored glass. Lorraine’s own reflection sat tiny within them. Sahbean blinked once, slowly.

“Good evening to you too.”

The owl stepped onto the sill. Her wings opened. One powerful beat stirred Lorraine’s hair as she ascended. Sahbean caught a branch overlooking the clearing and settled without sound. Her talons closed around wet bark. Her body became another dark shape among leaves and shadow. Her eyes did not. Those remained luminous overhead. Lorraine looked up. Sahbean looked down. Lorraine stepped left. The owl’s head followed. Lorraine stepped right. It followed again.

“Stop.”

Sahbean’s head rotated slightly. Lorraine chuckled,

“You’re creepy.”

A low, almost musical hum descended from the branch.

“I know you know.”

Lorraine turned away. The enormous eyes remained fixed upon her back. She could feel it.

“Still creepy.”

A soft chirrup. Lorraine snorted. She was gathering fallen wood when something struck the inside of the wagon.

Thump.

Lorraine stopped.

Thump.

She slowly looked toward the open window. Nothing, until two enormous paws appeared on the sill. Lorraine immediately grinned.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Claws carefully hooked over the wood. A striped forehead rose between them. Then two ears. Then two deeply unimpressed eyes. Miora stared down at her. Lorraine put both hands on her hips.

“No.”

Miora’s nose appeared.

“No.”

One enormous shoulder followed. Lorraine’s grin widened.

“You have a door.”

Miora pushed farther. The window frame gave a deeply concerning creak.

“Miora.”

The Tigress stopped. Half inside. Half outside. Her forelegs dangled toward the ground while the rest of her remained somewhere inside the wagon. Lorraine stared. Miora stared back. Sahbean stared at both of them from above. Lorraine pointed toward the rear of the wagon.

“Door.”

Miora’s ears turned forward. Lorraine raised her eyebrows. Miora’s eyes narrowed. Lorraine raised them higher. There it was. That look. The one that had survived kingdoms, wars, funerals, centuries, bad decisions and more roads than Lorraine cared to count. Miora’s eyes narrowed further. Lorraine’s mouth twitched. Then the great tigress’ brow lifted. Lorraine’s eyebrows bounced once in answer. Miora’s did it again. The tigress tried to argue her case with chuffs and rumbles. Lorraine lost it.

“Oh, don’t you fucking—”

Miora jumped. The window protested. Lorraine doubled over laughing.

“Miora!”

One enormous foreleg found the outside wall. Then another. The rest of her followed with none of the celestial dignity one might have expected from a creature born beneath stars. Shoulders. Ribs. Hips—Miora stopped. Lorraine made a noise somewhere between a choke and a laugh.The tigress’ front half hung outside the wagon. Her back half did not. She looked at Lorraine. Lorraine covered her mouth. Miora’s ears flattened.

“No, no. Keep going.”

A low growl rolled from the window.

“You chose this.”

Miora pushed, with no progress. The great tigress braced her front paws on the wooden side of the wagon and pulled herself with a wiggle. The wagon rocked slightly. Lorraine was openly crying now. Above them, Sahbean gave one soft descending whistle. Lorraine pointed upward without looking.

“Don’t encourage her.”

Miora finally twisted one hip. Something gave. Not the wagon, thankfully. The enormous tigress spilled from the window. Lorraine jumped backward. Miora landed heavily in the wet grass, immediately gathering herself as though absolutely none of that had happened. She shook once. Straightened. Lifted her head. Perfectly dignified. Lorraine stared at her. Miora stared into the forest.

“You got stuck.”

One ear turned backward.

“You did.”

The ear flattened. Lorraine grinned. Miora finally looked at her. There was something strange about seeing the whole creature beneath the open sky. Tiger first. Something else second. Familiar stripes crossed powerful shoulders and flanks, but farther along her body darkness seeped between them—not shadow cast by the forest, but something deeper. Portions of her coat seemed to shimmer the night itself, points of cold light scattered within as though someone had taken a piece of the heavens and taught it to breathe. Lorraine’s grin softened.

“Hi.”

Miora’s great head dipped. Lorraine barely had time to brace before it struck her chest.

“Oof—”

She staggered backward laughing, both arms automatically wrapping around the tigress’ face. Miora pushed harder.

“Yes, yes. Horrible imprisonment. Terrible woman. Cruel window.”

A deep rolling chuff vibrated against Lorraine’s ribs. She buried one hand into the fur behind Miora’s ear.

“There she is.”

For a little while, the forest was allowed to be quiet around them. Then Pludo made a demanding noise from across the clearing. Lorraine’s eyes closed.

“I know.”

Another.

“I know.”

Miora lifted her head. Lorraine sighed and released her.

“Apparently someone will perish if I don’t build his fire immediately.”

Pludo called again.

“Yes, I’m talking about you!”

She crouched beside the wood she’d gathered. Two fingers lifted. A tiny flame awakened between them. Lorraine flicked it into the waiting kindling. Fire crawled eagerly through the dry inner bark, caught a twig, then another. Warm orange light slowly pushed against the blue-green dark beneath the trees. Pludo lumbered closer almost immediately. Lorraine looked up.

“Oh, now we’re friends.”

He lowered himself beside the growing fire with an enormous sigh. Miora settled nearby. Above them, Sahbean remained perched beneath the leaves, those impossible eyes reflecting firelight without losing the stars beneath it. Lorraine sat back on her heels. The wagon waited behind her. Pludo warmed himself. Miora began cleaning one paw as though the window incident had never occurred. Lorraine watched her. Miora continued licking.

“You got stuck.”

The paw stopped. Lorraine smiled. Miora slowly looked at her. Lorraine’s eyebrows bounced as she began giggling. Miora’s eyes merely narrowed back.