Part 2 — To Turningtree

Fwoosh. We dropped onto a patch of grass and moss as the glow from my necklace radiated around us and began to fade. As expected, Ian had tried to pull away from me mid-transport, which could have been really bad or at least extremely inconvenient, but I have excellent grip strength, so it was all good. As we arrived, I let him go because I could tell he really wanted some space. 

“How did you—” he yelled as he backed away from me. He was on the ground crab-walking backwards through the grass, looking in every direction except directly behind him, which was a bad move because there were all kinds of slippery, muddy, mushroomy things back there, and they were making it really hard for him to make good time. I followed him. 

“Stay back!” he cried. But I didn’t. Obviously. 

“Ian, if you’ll just let me—”

“Stay. Back.” This was more like a command than the first time he yelled, which felt more like a plea. Not that I didn’t want to honor a plea, but he was really getting into the thick of it with the mud and the mushrooms, and I was hoping I could shut that down. But I couldn’t, so I stopped.

“Okay.” I waited, staring at him. He kept moving backwards while not looking backwards. I kept watching, and at this point I was also starting to wonder if maybe I’d approached all of this the wrong way. Janet always says that you catch more flies with honey, and I know she has a point. The thing is, that’s kind of Janet’s thing, and I’ve always been much more of a catch flies with a giant fly trap kind of person, and that tends to work really well, too, which people just don’t talk about enough. Anyway, Ian was not a fly, and technically I was supposed to be his “mentor,” which I hadn’t quite gotten to telling him, and it felt like now was probably supposed to be the time, but it all just felt off. “But there are things we should discuss?”

“Gah!” he screamed as a bit of moss bunched itself together like a soft, fuzzy moss paw and patted him on the leg. He scrambled up, pulling his leg away and clutching it way too tightly. “It moved!” He pointed to the ground. “It—”

“Yeah, it does that.” I motioned for him to come closer to me, and as I did, the moss bed beneath him started moving him towards me like a conveyor belt. He didn’t like that. At all.

“Okay, okay, Ian? I’m going to need you to just stand there for a second. Don’t move. Yeah. Otherwise you’re gonna fall.” He was frozen on the moss like a big, sad tree covered in mud and bits of fungus. I pulled him off and over to the path I was standing on. 

“Okay, so lesson one: things are a little different here. Here being Turningtree.” I could tell this meant nothing to him even though I’d definitely told him this is where we were going. I’m awful with names, though, so I couldn’t blame him for forgetting. Always takes me at least three go-arounds to remember anything. “This—is Brigdale Forest.” At this, he actually looked around a bit, and I took a second to do the same, which, frankly, I should’ve done a bit sooner as it was already later than I’d hoped.

The sun was turning that pre-sunset orange, and it was hitting the trees just the right way. Brigdale’s an old, old forest. One of the best. It has all of the tree types—giant, small, bunched together, spread out, bushy, needly, sparkly. And most of the time the ground is mossy or grassy instead of brambly, which I hate. And the best part was the whole forest had already sided with us for the Great Rebellion, so everyone inside was pretty easy to deal with . . . which is something I guess I should’ve been telling Ian then, but I waited to tell him that for awhile because it just seemed like common sense. 

Once he’d taken it all in, I showed him the path. It was pretty large in this part of the forest. More of a big, windy dirt road. “This goes all the way through and into town. We’re headed there.” Ian nodded at me, now looking a bit dazed. 

“What town?” He was just phoning it in now. That’s a term Janet uses that I don’t totally understand, but it’s definitely what Ian was doing.

“Crestmeer. It’s where we’re supposed to meet everyone.” I leaned over and dusted him off a bit. The mud was beginning to dry. He stiffened, and I felt bad. “Ian, look. I know this is a big adjustment—”

“Adjustment!?” He looked less dazed. “You kidnapped me and brought me to this . . . this . . . I don’t kn—”

“Turningtree,” I reminded him. Maybe one more time, and it would stick. 

“Turningtree!” he glared at me, “And I am tired and gross and cold, and the ground moves, and I do not want—” I held up a hand.

“I get it. I get it. You don’t—” And I was going to try again to turn this thing around, but then a pinecone bounced off my head. As it hit the ground, I heard a familiar chuckle. Then several. “Oh, crap,” I said not nearly softly enough because that made them laugh even harder.

Ian whirled around, looking for the sounds, which did not help the situation. “What is that?” He was getting upset, with a bit more of an edge to him, and I liked this new, angry Ian a lot more. 

“Don’t encourage them,” I muttered. “Let’s just get going.” I started walking along the path away from the pine trees closest to us, tugging on Ian’s shirt to follow. 

“Who? Who’s up there?” was what he was probably trying to say, but what he got out what something more like, “Who? Whughf!” as a pinecone smacked him in the face, and the laughter got louder.

A chorus of hoots sounded all around us, some happy and upbeat, some mocking, all just a bit too loud, as Ian backed closer to me on the path. I sighed. 

“That’s about enough of that! Thanks!” They roared at that, and I could hear them up there shuffling their wings, probably doing a bit of a jig. I kept walking, pulling Ian with me, but I knew they’d follow, and they did. “Just ignore them, Ian, they’re drunk.” 

“Who!?” he practically screamed at me, and that’s when I realized I’d gotten a bit distracted in my mentor speech. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t really gotten into it much at all. 

“Hoo! Hoo!” they cackled around us, showering leaves and pinecones everywhere like an annoying, tipsy giant who vomits leaves and pinecones.

“Alright, lesson two: a lot of the animals in Turningtree—and in Brigdale especially—are pretty much the same as people. Some talk. Some don’t. But they’re all conscious, thinking, living their lives, okay? Those are the owls.” I pointed upwards, then gestured towards the sun, which was now a darker orange. “It’s happy hour. They’ve been drinking. Honestly, they’re really fun to be around most of the time, but when they get in this state, they’re just too much.” A larger branch fell in the path in front of me. “Hey!” I yelled, glancing up. That was crossing the line. 

“Sorry! It was an accident!” someone called from above, and I knew it was because owls tend to be very conscientious most of the time, especially when it comes to travel safety. 

“Apology accepted!” I called back, and I think that bought us some goodwill because the pinecones also stopped falling, and we had a bit more freedom to be on our way. “Anyway, you’ll figure it out as we go, but everything pretty much has a mind of its own here, so just pay attention.” Ian nodded, staring into the middle distance. He wasn’t looking great.

I raised a hand and motioned towards me, and one of the owls swooped down. He was a big one—about the length of my calf with brown feathers and large, yellow eyes that looked only slightly glazed over. He flapped along next to us. “You seen anyone else on the path this afternoon?” He shook his head, then hiccuped. 

“Excuse me.” 

“It’s alright,” I smiled. I had a soft spot for drunk owls. “You the one who dropped the branch?” He nodded a bit shyly. “Might I ask for a favor?” He nodded again, and I worried he’d forget this conversation later, but I figured I might as well try. “If you make it to Crestmeer tonight, can you tell Gideon that I’ve found him? He’ll know what I mean,” and the owl stared at me for a bit as if he might need to ask a follow-up question, but then he just nodded, so I figured he’d gotten it as well as he was going to. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” He flew back up to join the others, and I decided  this encounter might actually be a bit fortuitous. 

When I turned back to Ian, he was studying the doorknob and the vial Janet had given him. I felt a bit guilty then for confiscating his dagger, but I still wasn’t ready to give that back. He felt me staring and looked up. 

“Do you know what I’m supposed to do with these?” He asked a good question. I didn’t. 

“Yes,” I lied. “But I can’t tell you that yet.” 

He sighed, putting them back in his pockets. If you’ve never seen a doorknob sticking out of someone’s pocket, let me tell you, it’s weird. And then it got quiet because I wasn’t quite sure what to say next. So I just walked, and Ian walked with me, and that was that.

I was really mucking this up. 

We walked for a long time, and it got darker and darker, and it stayed quiet except for the flapping we could still hear above us. I’d hoped we’d make it closer to the edge of the forest or even to Crestmeer before sundown. Not because it was urgent—just because I knew Gideon would be able to make it all alright even if things didn’t go smoothly. Things don’t always go smoothly for me. I’d say it’s part of my charm, but it’s really not.

When Ian stumbled over a rock, I knew it was time to call it a night and build a camp. We were both pretty tired.

But then I realized it wasn’t a rock.

Ian flew high into the sky, pulled up into a large rope net. “Heugh!” he yelped, but before I could do anything, I felt myself being lifted as well, my feet thrown sideways as a net swallowed me up. 

It seemed someone else liked to catch flies with giant fly traps—and without even knowing, we were already caught.

What Happens Next?

• Option 1: Fi and Ian find themselves captured by a band of local thieves, and they must fight, bargain, or charm their way to freedom.

• Option 2: Fi and Ian find themselves captured by undercover soldiers from the Kingdom of Gert and must find a way to escape without revealing they’re part of the Rebellion.

• Option 3: It’s all a big mistake. The traps are owned by a friendly old couple who let them go. But how friendly are they really?

• Option 4: Something entirely different—what would you like to see?