Many an otherwise peaceful night’s sleep had been disturbed by the incessant chewchewchew of the various crawlers that ate their way through wood. They didn’t appear to care if they were snacking on a living rastis or the floor of a house, though the Yena certainly minded the distinction. Hunting them out after the rains was a task for all.
Having wept herself to sleep, Aryl woke to that familiar annoyance. It took her a befuddled moment to realize she wasn’t home, had slept standing up, and the sound came from something in front of her face.
She was being chewed? “Help! Hel—”
Light burst against her eyes. Squinting through the tiniest slit of her eyelids, Aryl saw it came through a steadily enlarging hole. A hole in . . . she squinted harder, eyes tearing . . . wood?
It was so ordinary a material that she sagged in relief. She hadn’t wanted to admit, even to herself, that she’d harbored a nightmare of being inside one of the Tikitik’s great beasts.
More light, but her eyes were quickly adapting. She was inside something, Aryl grasped with amazement. But not a beast.
She was inside a rastis.
“Hello?”
Whatever widened the gap didn’t reply. Aryl fell silent, wondering what was next. Should she open her mouth? She was in favor of eating; just not the hooks.
The opening grew larger than before, its edges falling away. Release? Rescue? Aryl’s entire body throbbed with hope.
Then, what was opening the hole came into view.
“Help!!!!! Help!!!!” she screamed. “Please! Help me!”
It was a creeper, its eyes gleaming at her as it used its sharp mouthparts to bite away her protection. Another appeared overhead, upside down, long black feelers tapping at the wood as if assessing its partner’s progress. Together, they kept at their task. Soon, the hole would be wide enough for their bodies.
After that, she’d start to die. Creepers cut into living flesh with those terrible jaws, making an entryway for the hordes of hungry offspring who rode their parent’s back. Trapped like this, she was a banquet.
An Adept could have pushed them away.
Aryl didn’t know how.
She only knew she wanted those things gone. She sobbed, so terrified she could hardly breathe. A feeler brushed her forehead . . . another tapped her right eyelid closed.
Self-preservation won. Aryl tried to concentrate . . . to send them to the other place. She’d seen them attack a nesting aspird, knew how quickly they moved, she could hear their now-frantic chewing to reach her. She couldn’t think through her fear, not even to send herself away.
A loud hiss sent the creepers scurrying. A shadow crossed the hole as something, someone, outside looked in. “Are you damaged, Om’ray?”
Aryl blurted, “No thanks to you!” Which made, she decided in the next instant, no sense at all, since obviously the Tikitik had saved her. “I’m not hurt,” she told it, not quite ready to be grateful either. “Please. Let me out.”
“You leave tomorrow. Tonight you must remain where you are safe from all danger.”
Had it forgotten the creepers? Maybe Tikitik didn’t consider being eaten alive as posing danger to an Om’ray. Her head, already throbbing, hurt even more. “I don’t like being in here.”
“You leave tomorrow. Tonight you must remain—”
She leaned her forehead against the crumbling edge. “’Where I am safe from all danger,”’ she finished numbly. The creatures were predictable—if impossible.
“To ensure your safety, I must restore this chamber. Do you wish nourishment first?”
More dresel? She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Yes, please.”
Once its shadow left the opening, Aryl’s right eye could see outside. She blinked, eager for any clue to where she was, beyond a simple grove of young rastis.
But this was no simple grove. She blinked again and tilted her head from side to side to try and see more.
Within her narrow arc of vision were the lower stalks of six rastis, rising on slender buttress roots. At this stage, they had no spools of great leafy fronds, but bore all their green growth atop the crown. The rest of the stalk was normally smooth and sleek, no wider than four Chosen Om’ray would surround with their joined hands and arms.
Except these stalks were different. Costa would have loved to see this, Aryl thought, studying what she could. The lower part of each expanded outward, like a round gall on a damaged branch, but this growth was smooth and regular, its dimensions matched to the Tikitik who moved between the plants. The surface of each bulge bore intricate designs, either carved or painted with ink, Aryl couldn’t tell.
What had the Tikitik called it? A chamber.
Each chamber had a door. Or rather, wood had been removed from a tall, narrow oval on the outside of each bulge and replaced with a blue material. Aryl rolled her eye around to check the edges of the small hole the creepers had left. She could make out small bits of wood, mixed with some dull blue substance. She could testify it was hard.
The chamber directly across from her wasn’t fully sealed, having a large round opening near the middle of its “door.” She watched, puzzled at first, as a Tikitik approached with a large bowl. Then a cluster of familiar gray protuberances appeared in the opening, wriggling like eager fingers.
They imprisoned their own kind? She shuddered.
The outside Tikitik scooped its fingers into the bowl’s contents and proceeded to offer the one inside what looked like mouthfuls of fresh dresel. Aryl licked her lips. After three such offerings, it put the bowl aside and began to use its own mouth protuberances to pat new material into the opening in the rastis. It worked quickly and efficiently. She could have sworn she heard it hissing contentedly to itself. In short order, the opening was completely sealed. The Tikitik collected its bowl and moved to the next rastis.
An eye filled Aryl’s view, then pulled away. She stifled a shriek, somehow managing words instead. “What do you want with me?” She thought that came out remarkably well, under the circumstances.
“I’ve brought you nourishment.”
She tilted her head back in panic. “Wait! I can umphf—” The hooks, which turned out to be Tikitik fingers, ended any discussion. Aryl let herself be fed, receiving two chokingly large—and utterly delicious—mouthfuls for her trouble.
As expected, the Tikitik began resealing her hole, spitting blue and bits of wood, its gray mouth-fingers working quickly to pat those in place. Too quickly, for the number of questions Aryl had. “Wait,” she begged. “I need to know—”
To her surprise, it stopped and drew back. “What do you need to know?”
Everything, she wanted to wail, including what to say to be freed. Instead, she asked the first thing she thought it might answer. “Who are in the other chambers? Why are they imprisoned like this?”
A small eye filled what remained of the hole, as if the question made the Tikitik curious about her. “Only the Sacred Mothers are worthy of the rastis’ life gift. They await birth under our care.” A pause and the eye retreated again. She could see it shift uncertainly on its cone. “You are not worthy, of course, nor one of ours, nor in any way I can tell pregnant. I don’t know why you deserve this gift.”
Most of this meant nothing to Aryl, but she grasped the last part. “I don’t. Deserve it. You could,” she suggested, “let me out.”
“I will keep you safe until they come for you tomorrow. A chamber is the only way I know. Om’ray are,” another pause, “as tender-fleshed as newborns. You will rest. I will watch.”
With a series of spits and soft busy pats, it sealed Aryl and her questions in the dark.