Obloe's Arc

Chapter 1 of 8

The heartwood seed was gone, and Obloe could smell the grove dying without it. He was an old black dragon, big as a fallen tower, and he had guarded this grove for three hundred years. The seed anchored the grove's deepest magic. Now gray rot climbed the ancient oak, one branch at a time. Obloe wanted only to sleep. Instead he lifted his heavy head and stared at the empty hollow where the seed had rested. Someone had stolen it. He did not know who. He did not know where. So a search meant stumbling blind through the whole forest while the rot ate faster than he could crawl. He was too tired to guess. He needed a witness. Two blind mice lived in the roots of the oak. They could not see, but they felt every step through the ground. Obloe pressed his snout close and rumbled a question. The brown mouse squeaked and traced a shape in the dirt with one paw: small feet, hopping, a heavy weight dragged behind. The gray mouse tapped twice toward the north path. A hopper. Something that jumped. That narrowed the world, but not enough. Obloe growled and hauled himself up. His joints cracked like breaking ice. A voice cut across the clearing. "You are slow. The rot is not." Obloe turned. A jackalope stood at the edge of the roots, antlers high, a tidy suit buttoned to the throat. Woga Dimples. The posh little creature came here sometimes, always watching, always writing nothing down that Obloe could see. Obloe had never trusted anyone who dressed better than the forest around them. "You saw the thief," Obloe said. It was not a question. "I see everything," Woga said. "I keep records. A hopper crossed the north path three nights back. It carried a seed wrapped in cloth. It went toward the old theatre." Obloe's tail stilled. The dark red theatre stood empty at the forest's north edge, near where the decay pushed in. "Why tell me?" "Because if the grove dies, my name still is not in the book," Woga said. "You need a witness. I need something worth recording. We are useful to each other." Obloe hated the bargain the moment he understood it. But the mice had pointed north. Woga pointed north. The rot pointed north. Three arrows, one direction. "North theatre," Obloe said. "You lead. I follow." Woga's ears twitched. He hopped onto the north path without another word. Obloe dragged his great body after him. The blind search was over. He knew where the seed had gone now, and he knew who took it. But the theatre sat inside the reach of the decay, on ground the rot had already claimed. To take back his seed, the sleepy old dragon would have to walk straight into the poison.