Because he’s a rat? Or…because he’s frightened of it? But she was scared of spores too, wasn’t she?
Except this little vine wasn’t dangerous. So…no, she didn’t feel afraid. Not at the moment.
When she’d used the midnight spores, she’d been attached to the creation. Curiously, she felt something similar at that moment with the vine. A Connection. She thought she could feel it searching. It was empty, but looking. Wanting.
I understand, she thought to the vine, letting it touch her finger and coil softly around it. Fort had his trades, and Ann her guns. But what did Tress have? She wanted to save Charlie, but that wasn’t her purpose. That was her goal.
She glanced toward her cups. While she was still fond of them, she had to acknowledge that she really only looked at them these days because they reminded her of Charlie. The cups themselves didn’t hold the charm they once had for her. She had seen too much of the world now. Not merely the places either.
The vine ran out of water and stilled, leaving her finger wrapped—but not with a menacing grip. A light touch. Curious, not dangerous.
She found it remarkable. How could this be? The entire world interacted with spores—at least dead ones—every day. People feared them with just cause. Yet this one felt more like a puppy than a deadly force of destruction.
Could the entire world have misjudged something so common? Though it seemed unlikely to Tress, it was true—and not that surprising. People consistently misjudge common things in their lives. （Other people come to mind.）
Tress wasn’t discovering something completely unknown. Indeed she was realizing why spores and aethers fascinated sprouters. It all had to do with fear.
While a healthy measure of foolhardiness drove our ancestors toward discovery, fear kept them alive. If bravery is the wind that makes us soar like kites, fear is the string that keeps us from going too far. We need it, but the thing is, our heritage taught us to fear some of the wrong things.
For example, to our ancient ancestors, strange and new people often meant new diseases and the occasional spear tossed at our softer bits. Today, the only things new people are likely to toss our way are some interesting curse words we can use to impress our friends.
Fear of something like the aethers? Well, it’s as natural as nipples, but nearly as vestigial as the male variety. And when one abandons certain fears and assumptions, an entire world opens up.
THE GUIDE
I love memories. They are our ballads, our personal foundation myths. But I must acknowledge that memory can be cruel if left unchallenged.
Memory is often our only connection to who we used to be. Memories are fossils, the bones left by dead versions of ourselves. More potently, our minds are a hungry audience, craving only the peaks and valleys of experience. The bland erodes, leaving behind the distinctive bits to be remembered again and again.
Painful or passionate, surreal or sublime, we cherish those little rocks of peak experience, polishing them with the ever-smoothing touch of recycled proxy living. In so doing—like pagans praying to a sculpted mud figure—we make of our memories the gods which judge our current lives.
I love this. Memory may not be the heart of what makes us human, but it’s at least a vital organ. Nevertheless, we must take care not to let the bliss of the present fade when compared to supposedly better days. We’re happy, sure, but were we more happy then? If we let it, memory can make shadows of the now, as nothing can match the buttressed legends of our past.
I think about this a great deal, for it is my job to sell legends. Package them, commodify them. For a small price, I’ll let you share my memories—which I solemnly promise are real, or will be as long as you agree not to cut them too deeply.
Do not let memory chase you. Take the advice of one who has dissected the beast, then rebuilt it with a more fearsome face—which I then used to charm a few extra coins out of an inebriated audience. Enjoy memories, yes, but don’t be a slave to who you wish you once had been.
Those memories aren’t alive. You are.
Personally, I don’t think I gave proper attention to just how beautiful Tress’s world was. To me, it was a backwater planet drowning in the dross of the aethers, which are more useful in other incarnations—and far easier to harvest on the moons themselves anyway.
And yet, nowhere else in my travels have I witnessed anything like those spores. As we sailed the Crimson, I felt like a leaf floating on the blood of a fallen giant. The farther we went, the higher the Crimson Moon soared—dark and ominous in the day, often haloed by sunlight. A clot upon the light.
At night, it burst aflame with its own unblinking, preternatural glow. At first we were too far away to see the sporefall, but as we closed the distance, the lunagree appeared. A fountain from the sky, pouring down into the center of the sea. The verdant spores had always looked like pollen in the air, but this felt like a lava flow. Erupting from the heavens to melt away the planet.
I wasn’t in my right mind during the trip, but I could still see. And the polished bits of that land in my memory are always striking images. Surreal, spellbinding pictures of magic so dominant it literally fell from the sky.
I believe Tress might have been more pleased if the view hadn’t been so stunning. She’d have had a better chance of keeping my attention.
“Would you please focus, Hoid?” the girl asked.
I pointed at the distant red moon, the spores streaming down to fill the sea. “It looks like the moon is throwing up.”
Tress sighed.
“Imagine that the sea is the toilet,” I said, “and the moon is the face of a god, heaving onto us after a long night of getting spun around and around on a bar stool.”
I actually composed a poem about a vomiting god. I’ll spare you, though it’s the only time I’ve had an excuse to make a really good rhyme for “scarf.”
Finally, after some prodding, I turned from my newfound muse and settled down on the deck near Tress. She would have preferred to work with me belowdecks, out of sight, but I had been stubborn. I’d wanted to watch the moon barf. As one does.
“We need to break the curse,” she said.
“Ah yes,” I said. Then I leaned in close, speaking conspiratorially. “You know, I have one of those.”
“A curse?”
“Indeed.”
“I know, Hoid.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It’s why we can talk about it. If I didn’t know, you couldn’t tell me.”
“I can’t tell you something you don’t know, but only things you already know?”
“Yes, because of the curse.”
“Oh! A curse! I—”
“—have one of those. I know. I need to break yours so you can lead me to the Sorceress. Nobody knows where in the Midnight Sea she can be found.”
I fell silent.
“Hoid?” she asked. “Do you understand?”
“I think I understand. But, see, it’s hard.” I leaned in closer. “I can tell you…”
“Yes?”
“Something important…”
“Yes?”
“Socks with sandals,” I whispered. “The new fashion movement. Trust me. It will be all the rage.”
She sighed with increasing exasperation.