Guardians by Design - Land

Voices

Reblex ascended the ridgeline he had chosen at a steady pace. Once high above the valley to his right, the path widened, providing more comfortable footing. He glanced over the edge occasionally to see if he could still spot Dahj along the river bank or Brenloru in the valley. Neither were seen though the night’s air, even with the illumination of the nearly-full moon. Intrusive thoughts of negativity penetrated his conscience. Was this some elaborate plan to ditch him? Spread out and then ‘accidentally’ lose him on the ridge line? He wondered if he had been contributing enough to the cause, or if he had become a worthless commodity.

***

Reblex awoke on his side. He couldn’t remember falling asleep the night before. It must have happened under a cloud of negativity that still loomed over his head. A new day, he thought. No excuse not to keep moving. I either return to the only group I have left or resume my lifestyle of a mountain goat. He rose with a groan and dusted himself off. The night’s chill was still leaving the ridgeline he had awoken on, and a shiver was sent down his spine as he suppressed a rattle through his teeth.

Sunlight broke above the distant eastern horizon as Reblex’s stomach growled. Leaves and berries weren’t cutting it anymore. He remembered grazing and foraging heavily the night before, but it hadn’t been satiating… the meal had passed right through him. His cheeks turned red and his face skewed into an ugly frown. He pondered the possibility of this trip being a work of trickery and mind games – complete waste of time. He slowed himself to a walk, quickly losing motivation to stick to his route.

Hands placed on his knees, he leaned over. Steadily panting deep breaths, thoughts of the biodome raced through his mind. Images of the tortoise, the pitiful plants, and the woodpecker. He lamented the failed Guardians, and other unsatisfactory projects exiled to a destiny of living in a crater for eternity, never to see the ever-aging planet again. The thoughts only accelerated his stress. He feared being deemed a failed Guardian as well. Should he displease the Designer, he may be forced to live in a bowl with other odd experiments.

A strong breeze rustled the branches of scarce trees surrounding him. He considered staying here to search for members of his original species and start a new life – leaving this stupid mission and ill-informed group behind. He could never be sent to the mountain-bowl if he didn’t return to the Homestead in the first place.

A small squirrel squeaked. It clung to the bark of a thick tree, hanging upside down as it carefully searched the ground surrounding the trunk for grabbable food or predators. Releasing its grip dropped the animal to the dirt with a light crunch, displacing small, fallen branches and dried needles. The squirrel perked its head to meet eyes with Reblex, but didn’t consider the ram a threat.

Resuming its search for food, the squirrel hopped over rocks with a flick of its bushy tail and rummaged through grasses. A deep rumble passed through the bottom of Reblex’s stomach, reminding him of its emptiness.

The lack of acknowledgement angered Reblex. “That little thing should show some respect,” he grumbled. His cheeks turned a deeper red.

He considered injuring the small animal. Images of pinning the squirrel against a rock with a thick, sturdy horns passed through his mind. They felt relieving – invigorating. One swift charge would do it, he thought, eyes locked on the scavenging mammal. After the charge, he would hold it there; smashed up against the solid stone wall until its last breath left the squirrel’s tiny body.

Once limp, he would use his back molars to rip the prey’s head off, slowly crunching its tiny skull between his teeth. The thought of warm blood running down his own cheek before dripping off his chin reminded him of the red paint that ran down his arm after Festelda had painted him. He lifted his arm to inspect the red mark. It burned with speed and power, flared by hunger.

The tense ram advanced towards the animal. Veins protruded through the skin of his slim, toned arms. He stared intently at the squirrel as it collected a small tree nut from the soil. Turning the meal in its hands, the squirrel nibbled on various areas of the surface with its long front teeth. Reblex let out loud huffs of air through tight lips, cheeks puffed.

He prepared to grab the squirrel by the scruff of the neck to shake it into unconsciousness. Show some respect to a dominant species! he screamed silently at the rodent. I will assert my place on the food chain…

The squirrel stared at him with its dark, beady eyes, detecting aggression. It stopped chewing as Reblex took another step closer. The squirrel no longer trusted the distance separating the two, and dropped the nut it had been eating before retreating to the safety of the tree with a sharp squeal.

Reblex let out a loud gasp, followed by a hacking cough before dropping to his knees. Eyes widened, he squeezed the sides of his head between his hands. It felt as if someone else’s thoughts had occupied his mind. Intrusive and powerful, they commanded his body. The volume and power of the thoughts terrified him. In that moment, his body had become a mere vessel. A manipulated husk of a ram carrying out the brutal agenda of a savage controller. The ground before him spun to the right. His eyes rotated with it, causing him to tip his head to follow the tilting horizon before his body leaned.

He had felt it – it was here, and now, that he knew what it was like to have the carnivore’s grasp squeeze one’s mind. He felt powerless, as if the only thing to loosen the grip would be the act of consuming flesh. A wave of pity overcame his feeble mind – he understood the transition many others had suffered. He stared up at the massive sky above him. Clouds had been pulled into long, thin streaks, stretched to their limit. He hoped dearly that the maddening whispers would never again infiltrate his mind again.

Reblex approached the nearest cliff face to gaze at the canopy of the forest Festelda had chosen to travel through. Is it worth bothering her with this? he wondered. No. Because it will never come up again. It is here, and now, that I vow never to be tempted by flesh again.

***

About a thousand feet lower in elevation, Festelda scurried across the forest floor as quietly as possible. The density of the forest had cast shadows throughout, reducing vision greatly; a feature she considered a welcome advantage. Her dark fur blended-in greatly, complimented by her pouches made of grasses and vines.

Keeping the white noise of the river barely within earshot on her left side reassured she was heading in the right direction. Snapping branches or the caw of a crow reminded that she was completely alone in a territory heavily patrolled by predators. Clutching the handles of her daggers provided confidence to proceed; she reserved great trust in her personal concoctions and tiny armaments to protect her, should she meet a predator.

Rounding a boulder nearly covered in vines, Festelda leapt to the side – narrowly dodging a cluster of poison ivy on her left. The temptation to utilize, then kill the network of vines distracted her from path north. She had to act with haste. Crouching above the venomous plant, she carefully severed leaf after leaf before dropping them into her mortar. Strength was shifted to her right arm to grind oil out of the sheened leaves before carefully dripping it into her waterproof pouches.

As she sprinkled the roots of the ivy with a death sentence, a loud squeal rang through the forest. It didn’t sound far away – further to the north. It was guttural, yet shrill, like that of a boar. Sounds like a chance to get my daggers wet, she thought. Though she pitied the animal, she knew she couldn’t help it. There simply wasn’t time to rescue every creature in the forest. Wrapping up her task at hand, she tucked away her valuables. Sticking close to the base of trees, she continued her journey north shrouded in shadows, river noise still to her left side.

Using exposed roots as handles, Festelda scaled an eroded hill face. Loose dirt and rocks were kicked downwards, tumbling to the base as she utilized various objects as brief foot and handholds. The smell of fresh soil filled her nostrils as she expedited the inevitable erosion of the hill. Grasping for the final root she needed to reach the top, another squeal rang out through the forest, causing her to flinch. Squeezing the root tighter, she paused briefly.

The roots she held to were slowly being pulled from the soil as she remained hidden on the cliff face. Whatever was on the other side of that ridge would not be able to see her here. This time the squeal was closer, and to her right. It seemed to be coming from the same spot. The boar hadn’t been able to move.

Curiosity overtook her. Pulling herself up to the top of the ridgeline, she lightly patted her sides to ensure her gear was still in possession. The thought of the helpless boar crossed her mind once more as she stood upright to dust herself off. With a frustrated scoff, she took a sharp right towards the commotion. I better not regret this.

***

Festelda flanked around a tree line before pausing briefly. Deep shrieks ringing through the forest broke her train of thought. She was raised above the squealing by the hill she had climbed, but still didn’t have vision on the animal creating the ruckus in the forest. Two new voices speaking in low growls told that she was growing closer. Threatening barks and snarls were followed by high pitched whimpering as she finally laid eyes on the trapped boar. It was Kemble.

The troubled pig had clearly taken his route to the Cedar Homestead too far west, and was now cornered by two grey wolves identical in size, with matching bushy grey tails featuring black bars that almost touched the ground. Their eyes were framed in black ovals, resembling a partial band of their own. A single dark line ran down the center of the wolves faces and over their snouts.

The only recognizable difference, however, was an injury on the right wolf’s back leg. It was a puncture wound between the victim’s leg bone and tendon, causing it to limp. Festelda grinned in commendation of the capabilities of her own invention.

“Where are they?” growled the wolf with the trap wound.

“I told you all I know!” Kemble cried. “There were four of them. They resembled various local species, but they were… different.”

“Four,” the wolf pressed. “Count again, to be sure.”

Kemble stuttered as he began to doubt himself. “Bison, moose, ram… and… and.”

The wolf snapped at Kemble’s nose, scratching it just enough to draw blood.

“Raccoon!” Kemble let out shrilly, retreating against the rocks behind him, eyes scrunched.

“Anyone else? A fifth. There must have been. A creature you would have never seen before,” the wolf grilled.

“I… what? No. If I didn’t recognize the creature, I definitely would have remembered,” Kemble said slowly as tears ran down his plump cheek.

Festelda had to act quickly. She clutched the hilt of a dagger, identifying the best place on the wolf to sink it into. Intimidation held her back. The wolves would have towered over her, mouths big enough to fit her entire head. She approached the wolves from behind, keeping to trunks of trees for cover and solely stepping on wet grasses and moss to silence her advance.

“What did they carry with them… anything unique? Alive?” the wolf continued.

“Alive?” Kemble was dumbfounded by the question. “No, nothing living other than the individuals themselves. They carried pouches for rations and a couple small weapons. The raccoon possessed daggers, the bison a bludgeon. I told you, I was only with them for a very limited time,” he whimpered.

“Your home was further south, pig… What brings you all the way up here? Did they give you a… tip? Coordinates of somewhere to go?” the other, injured wolf asked as his back leg shook slightly with pain. He shifted his weight to relieve it.

Festelda froze as the wolf asked the question, awaiting the dreaded answer from the squealer.

Kemble froze for a moment, looking back and forth between the wolves as his bottom jaw quivered. “They advised me to head north. Warned me of the dangers of the area I was in. Hot water jets. Mud that bubbled from extreme heat. Ponds of boiling water. It is not a safe place. They said that’s what brought them to the area; to persuade animals to head north for their own safety… that’s all.”

“Well, you’ve convinced me. I believe that you truly know nothing, pig,” the wolf sneered.

Kemble let out a sigh of relief.

“Your worth is merely that of a full stomach,” the injured wolf said, taking a step back.

The fitter wolf took a leap forward with a growl, teeth bared. Kemble let out a loud squeal as the wolf became airborne. The frightened boar stood sideways, pressed against the rock behind him with nowhere to go. As the wolf sank his teeth into Kemble’s shoulder, he let out a horrified howl. Festelda had mounted the wolf, sinking both daggers into its back between his shoulder blades. The wolf released Kemble immediately and attempted to shake Festelda from his pelt.

Inspired and angry, Kemble charged the wolf with a bum leg, who was already hobbling away in fear. He caught the wolf’s old injury with his gnarled tusk, reopening the spike wound. The wolf yelped in pain and fell to his side. Festelda was thrown from the wolf, losing grip on her daggers. Backing away from the assaulter now featuring two teeth-daggers prominently displayed in his back, she reached for a small pouch on her left side and emptied the contents into the palm of her hand. The oil burned greatly, but she had no other choice.

The wolf charged, hindered by the teeth wrenching between his shoulder blades. The movement only opened the wound further. Just before he reached her, Festelda took a flying leap above his head, narrowly dodging snapping jaws. Firmly gripping the scruff of his neck with one hand, she mounted him for just enough time to retrieve her daggers, and slap his open wounds with the palm of her opposite hand. From his back she leapt to the nearest tree, desperately sinking her claws into the jagged bark. The wolf barked viciously in frustration at the base of the tree she had retreated to, watching her scurry to the lowest branch.

Unable to replicate the physical feat, the wolf instead turned on Kemble to commence yet another charge, teeth bared. Before he could reach the boar, his legs went rigid. Taking his last few awkward steps on straight legs, he fell to his side, body overcome by a similar paralysis. The poison had made it through his bloodstream quickly due to increased heart rate. The wolf frothed and panted desperately until he choked on his own saliva. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he became still as the soil he laid in.

Leg wound reopened and hemorrhaging blood, the familiar wolf laid in the dirt and pine needles, whimpering after watching his friend fall. Lacking confidence in his battered limb, he denied himself an attempt to flee. Festelda dropped from the tree with a low thud and joined Kemble in his advance on the pathetic dog. Blood lightly ran from two puncture wounds on Kemble’s shoulder as he advanced, eyes locked on the wolf.

Lying in place, the wolf snarled and snapped, barking vicious threats and promises at the boar. Kemble shoved his pronged hoof into the leg wound, causing the wolf to whip his head back, releasing a painful howl. Festelda took the opportunity to grab the scruff of his neck.

“If our last message didn’t make it to your Designer…” she said. The wolf looked into her eyes, mouth wide open in a pant. “...maybe this one will.” Holding both daggers in her free hand, she dragged them simultaneously across the dog’s neck. His throat opened instantly. Blood poured, soaking the fur of his chest and dripped to the ground below, beading onto dried leaves and dirt. The wolf’s eyes lost focus and he let out one final, wet gurgle before going limp. Festelda dropped his lifeless head to the forest floor.

“You’re alright, Kemble?” Her hand trembled from the lingering pain of the oil she had poured into her bare palm.

“I got thick hide, miss. I’ll be just fine,” he replied, still shaking with adrenaline.

“I’m proud of you for not spilling too much information. It was admirable of you, for an omnivore,” she said, patting his thick, bristly skin with her good hand.

“I noticed you long before they did, miss. To be honest, I was more afraid of the repercussions of telling the truth. Sure am glad I followed my gut!” he said with a chuckle as he moved back and forth, causing his belly to sway. “It never lets me down!”

Festelda smiled and wiped blood from her face using the back of her wrist.

“Come on, let’s get you to Brenloru before we put you back on the right track from Cedar Homestead. We’ll see what he can do to seal that wound.”

***

The valley Brenloru traveled through was almost as vast as the sky above him. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, and the wind was low. Silence rang in his ears as they tweaked back and forth, on high alert for any advancing carnivores. Occasionally he would stop to harvest plants he suspected to have medicinal properties. Picking the fragrant herbs, he paused to appreciate the sustenance produced organically from the ground, and pondered the ingenuity of the Designer. A single individual that was able to populate and decorate a once barren rock floating through space, while simultaneously providing his creatures everything they needed to live off; growing directly out of the ground.

The thoughts countered Brenloru’s fatigue sufficiently. It re-instilled the importance of protecting this land. As a leader of a species that had been historically strict herbivores, he believed that plants and animals were to live in harmony. Plants were intended to grow for the purpose of consumption, and herbivores were to respect their cycle. Exercise control over where, and how often they consume those plants, allowing them time to spread and repopulate.

Herbivores were meant to help the spread of plant species by carrying seeds in their fur or stool. Carnivores had no place in this cycle. Rage and lust for blood drives their diet, and causes them to not only kill for sustenance, but for sport.

Brenloru had accepted that the answer was not to kill the carnivores, however. To do that would demonstrate stooping to their level, making them one in the same. The only way to rebalance the natural cycle would be through their designer. Gaining access to her lair could end her influence and ideals from within.

His mind wandered with doubts regarding the Designer. Brenloru wondered if he was on track to develop superb physical capabilities in his species, or if he was merely developing temporary defense mechanisms until he thought of something better. His train of thought was abruptly derailed from nearly stepping on an injured porcupine. The porcupine whimpered as it saw Brenloru’s large, leathery foot pass directly over its head in its peripheral vision.

Brenloru whipped around, noticing blood staining the ground around her. The porcupine was missing a small patch of her quills.

“What happened to you, creature?” he asked, reaching for a pouch of herbs from his waist.

“Please. If you’re here to finish me, just do it. Watch the quills, though,” she replied pathetically.

“I will not finish you. Your flesh is not in my current diet plan,” he teased.

Delicately rolling the animal over revealed a bite wound on her side. The porcupine squeaked in protest. “Hush, careful now. Let me see. I may have something to help with that.”

Brenloru thoughtfully filled the palm of his hand with a combination of dandelion pollen, pine sap, and juniper root. Avoiding quills, he carefully patted the blend onto the teeth marks. They fused to her skin and filled the wounds instantly. Soaking up the remaining blood, it dulled the pain.

The ground shook gently.

“It was a coyote… I… I ran as fast as I could, for as long as I could. I think he was just toying with me or trying to find a precise spot to bite. Finally, he got me on the side, but was mostly rewarded with a face full of quills,” she groaned, awaiting relief.

Brenloru hardly heard her statement through beaming at the results of his practice. “Understood. I think you’re going to be just fine,” he replied.

The ground rumbled with slightly more intensity, but Brenloru didn’t mind it, he needed to make sure the animal was going to be okay. The event angered him. This was a perfect example of hunting a non-threatening, inedible animal merely for sport. The coyote was playing a game; seeing how much damage he could do without getting hurt himself. Probably just adding ‘porcupine’ to the list of animals he was confident in killing.

Pollen, sap, root. Pollen, sap, root, he thought frantically, listing the successful combination while segregating them to an empty pouch. Applicable for puncture wounds.

“Just keep the salve on. The bite was not deep. I think you are rattled more than injured, porcupine,” Brenloru said with a smile. “Be sure to eat foods high in nutrients and drink lots of wa–”

The ground shook violently at his feet. The valley split, opening a thin crag almost exactly where he was standing. Brenloru grabbed the injured animal and stepped to the side as the land opened. Dirt and small rocks fell into the fissure. Clumps of grasses clung by their roots to the exposed, moist soil now hanging over the edge of the seemingly endless drop. The ground’s wound was barely wide or long enough for Brenloru squeeze through – not that he wanted to try.

Brenloru placed the porcupine down and slowly walked over to the crack. Before he was standing at the edge, a deep voice rang through the tight entrance. “Oooohmlur,” said the voice. It sounded as if it was coming from deep beneath the earth’s crust, muffled by layers of dirt and rocks.

He paused, unsure if the voice was calling a name or just a strange geological feature.

“Ohmlur. Please, I feel your presence.”

“My… name is Brenloru?” he called back awkwardly into the crag.

Silence briefly followed until the voice replied. “No, Ohmlur. I feel your power, your design. I know it is you. Please. She has me trapped, beneath the surface,” the gravelly voice called back slowly. It was booming, yet inhibited by fatigue.

“Are… you the Soul of the Land? I am a creation of the Designer. Modified from an existing species on this planet. Created with the intention of resistance towards his foe’s appetite,” Brenloru stated as if providing an official title.

“You need to… release me,” the voice called back, causing the soil around the opened crag to rumble. “To the north, there is a lake. A cave beneath the surface of the water will lead you to me. You must hurry…”

Brenloru took another step back. The ground continued to shake.

“An underwater cave?” he called back. Was this an elaborate trap? “Are you sure it will lead me to your prison?”

“I know my land.” The voice faded, sounding tired.

Brenloru scanned the valley around him. Paranoia set in as the fissures calmed. He denied himself from calling through the valley to summon the others. Although he desperately wanted a second opinion on how to proceed with the voice, it would be inefficient to have the others abandon their original path only to meet him in the valley. Quickly gathering his possessions, he provided the pathetic porcupine with directions to the Cedar Homestead and oriented himself the opposite, towards the lake.