In the Company of Stones

Chapter 1: The Long Walker, part 1.3

He watched as the sun lowered into the horizon, his tail fused with his queen’s, tasting her work.

He struggled to understand as Ljót’s hyphae slid into the open mouth of the offspring.  Through their union, he felt her filaments branch and grow ever finer, extending into the air sacs within the small being.

The queen produced her own liquids; dark and aromatic. She trickled them into the body cavity of the little offspring.

At first, no response.  It lay in her hands, struggling to breathe. Then it paled. And gasped. And shuddered, its tiny legs kicking.

The yellow queen trembled, reaching out toward them.  The old one held her back.

::They are conjoined to their young:: he said. Surprised, he leaned forward to touch its warm head as the little creature squirmed in Ljót’s grasp.  It was covered with fuzz so soft he could scarcely feel it, like duck feathers, or rabbit fur.

The creature twitched at his touch. Its face screwed up, its eyes opened, blinking. Its face reddened. ::It was a terrible thing to be separate from one’s mother, one’s queen:: he thought.

::Peace, Little Brother:: he said, dropping just the tiniest bit of moisture onto its lips.

The small creature flinched, and wailed, a terrible sharp sound.

He jerked away. ::Is it dying?:: he asked.

 ::No:: Ljót tasted of satisfaction.

She placed the creature back in the younger queen’s arms. ::I have poisoned the invader-spores. The small male returns to health::

The yellow queen rocked back and forth, humming to her offspring in its wrappings. A curious sound, a sound between the humming of bees and the song of a marsh warbler. It tumbled over her lips, spilling contentment into the air.

The foul taste of invasion was gone.  The sun had slipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows. It was time for each to return to its nature; the brjálaður to their solitary isolation, Ljót to tending the forest.

But first he would feed on their gift.   He would feed, and he would grow strong to serve his beloved queen. He wriggled in Ljót’s arms, his hyphae flaring toward the savory meal the fierce male had spilled on the forest floor.

The silvered queen had not yet finished.  She pointed from him to Ljót and back. “Huldu,” she rasped.  

Ljót halted, her tail arced around him, protectively. ::I have dealt with this old one many times. Always well. Yet now she presses for more. Is this the madness? What more does she seek?::

The old one circled her hand toward herself and the younger queen, the one holding the offspring. Again, she rasped.  “People.”

Ljót wanted--needed--to know what it was they sought. The ritual of the old one’s movements formed a pattern his queen could not taste, no matter how she tried.  Frustration seeped into her thoughts--and the thinnest trickle of fear.

He pushed against Ljót’s grasp, seeking to see better, straining to understand the old one’s actions; the way her hands circled and pointed, the sounds she made. ::Why do the tailless ones make mouth noises?:: he said.

::I cannot ask, they cannot taste our thoughts:: Ljót replied. ::And they do not share theirs, if they have them:: She took a step into the shadows, away from the brjálaður, away from confusion and back toward the familiar forest.

The old one pointed to the yellow queen, and made a strange sound. “Thorrrra,” a sound that rolled in the middle.  Then she pointed to herself and made a harsh clatter. “Jukksakka.”

Ljót took another step.  ::Those sounds mean nothing::

Overhead, ravens clattered, noises not unlike the tailless one’s mouthings. The old one pointed upwards, to the pair of black birds wheeling overhead.  

::Those ravens are like the tailless, disconnected from the earth:: he thought.

Still, each lonely raven remained a part of something larger, part of a pair that wheeled and danced as one with the sky, together.  Could the same also be true of the brjálaður?

The taste of Ljót’s wish to flee filled his senses.

But even stronger was his need to know, to learn. ::Birds do not conjoin like us, and they do not taste:: he said. ::Yet they can move as one.  How?::

He watched the old one’s mouth make a sound, noted the deliberateness of it, the way her strange eyes with their black dot in the middle bored into him, conveying intent.

::They call to each other, make sounds which might bring a mate or signify danger:: Ljót replied.

“Rafn,” the silvered queen rasped, her hands reaching up to the sky. They circled, turning like a bird in flight, reaching, never touching.  

::Ravens?:: A thrill ran through him. He looked up at the old one’s hands, hooked at the thumbs, the fingers flapping like wings of the birds above.

He sent the taste of his thoughts tohis mother, his queen. ::That raspy noise means ravens to the old one:: He was sure of it.

He tightened his grip on Ljót’s tail, deepening their connection.

::They share thoughts with their mouths:: he said, his hyphae rising.  

Ljót stopped her slow retreat. She turned to regard the two queens in the clearing.

He leaned forward, pulling nearly out of his mother’s grasp, and pointed up into the sky, his small hand reaching as if he could touch what flew there. Sound struggled from his own mouth,  a sound more like the clicks used to call the Little-Brothers-Under-the-Soil than the noise these tailless ones used.  

“Rafn,” he rasped. And circled his hand to indicate the black birds that mocked them. “Rafn.”

A chorus of cries flew from the mouths of the two queens. The yellow one touched her hand to the old one as if to brace her.

::Those mouth sounds are their names:: he insisted to Ljót. ::Like solitary Long-Walkers on their way to ending::

He pointed to the old one. “Jukksakka,” he rasped, then pointed to the other.  “Thorrra.”

Their head bobbed up and down as they each pointed to themselves, making mouth sounds once again.  Thorrra.  Jukksakka.

The yellow one, the younger of the pair held up the offspring in her arms. “Harald,” she uttered.  

Then she pointed at him.

::She asks your name:: Ljót said, the thick red forest of her hyphae rising.

::But I have none to give her:: he said.

His queen’s thoughts flooded with pride.  She tasted of victory and resolution. Surprised, he looked up into her eyes, eyes of glorious opalescent blue.

::You are more than a nameless Little-Brother-Under-the-Soil now:: she said, caressing him. ::Much more.  I chose well in you::

And she tasted of assent.

Like a Long-Walker on his path toward ending, he’d grown into his own distinct flavor. A change, he now understood, of his queen’s making. He, too, could now take a name.

But what name could convey his nature, or describe who he was through mouth sounds?

He pointed to the bundled offspring. “Harald” he rasped, the clicks of his voice rough like the clicks of a beetle, yet the essential sound remained the same.

Then he pointed to himself.

Like the brjálaður, he’d tasted isolation and its terrors. But like those black birds that wheeled and danced as one so far from the soil, he still remained a part of something larger.

“Rafn,” he uttered, and tapped his chest.

“Rafn.”