Fillafonro Branchercamp's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The ground bucked under Fillafonro's feet. Trees whipped in a windless air. Roots tore loose from the soil and clawed at nothing. The spirits were awake now, all of them, and every one screamed. He ran, one hand holding his mushroom hat down. He needed shelter before a falling limb crushed him. He spotted a hut ahead, tucked in the hollow of a huge ironwood stump. Its timber walls shook, but they held. He threw himself at the little door and shoved it open. Inside, the floor still jerked, and dust rained from the roof. It was no true refuge. The whole forest heaved. But it slowed the wind, and he could think. A small shape darted across the table. A black jumping spider, striped with bright aqua, watched him with round eyes. It did not flee. It turned toward the wall, then back to him, as if pointing. On the wall hung a shelf. On the shelf sat one more glowing mushroom, its cap dusted with starlight. Fillafonro understood at once. The cure had spread through the roots and woken the spirits in fury. The roots carried whatever he fed them. If a healing brew traveled that far, so could a calming one. He had to reach the roots again and pour in something to soothe, not just to heal. He grabbed the mushroom and his iron cup. His hands shook with the floor. He crushed the cap into rainwater, but this time he did not stir it hot and sharp. He held the cup low, close to the earth, and let it steep slow and cool. The brew turned deep and quiet, more gray than blue. The spider crouched at the cup's rim and stayed still. The hut groaned. A root punched up through the floorboards beside his knee. He did not run. He poured the cup straight onto that root and pressed his palm flat over the wet wood. The root stopped fighting. It softened under his hand. The calm ran down into the soil, root to root, the same way the fury had. Outside, the screaming thinned. One by one the spirits quieted. The trees settled. The wind died. The floor grew still beneath him. Fillafonro sat back and breathed. His moss sleeves were torn. His hat hung crooked. But the forest no longer raged. The spirits slept again, calmed, not choked. Then he felt it. Below the quiet, one breath did not fade with the rest. It rose slow and vast, deeper than any root, older than the whole wood. His calming brew had settled the others. It had not settled this one. The ancient spirit he came to wake was rising still, alone now, and awake. The spider leapt to his shoulder. Fillafonro stood. The small crisis was over. The real one had only begun.