An enormous gate yawned at the foot of the Eddrealms, tall enough that even the largest spirits Root had ever seen could’ve come and gone as they pleased while giving a piggyback ride to another spirit of equal stature. At around the sixth or seventh story mark, it arched, reaching a point. A figurehead sat above it like a masthead—a great stone anteater-like thing.
Above the doorway rose the sheer cliffside of the first proper Eddrealm slope. The mountain loomed so high overhead it made Root dizzy.
She stood at the crest of the last hill before the door, looking down across the rocky terrain towards the entrance. Azriah stood on her left, and Beel on her right.
“We’re really sure about this?” said Beel. “Look—there’s even a scary face over the door.”
“Are you an ant?” asked Root.
“No.”
“Termite?” asked Azriah.
“No.”
Root rolled her eyes. “Then what’s the issue? That thing doesn’t even have teeth.”
“But look at it.”
“Come on, we’re wasting time.”
The three of them made their way down the hill towards the door with varied degrees of haste and confidence.
“You remember what to do?” Azriah asked Root in a hushed tone as they approached.
“We only ran through it like fifty times.”
“So yes?”
“Could’ve used a fifty-first.”
“Root…”
“I’m kidding. Yeesh, lighten up. Nervous for your interview or something? You’ve got Beel. And Orne Tyn.”
Azriah’s sword, Root noticed, had been remarkably quiet. He generally kept to himself—and if he did bother to open his tiny metal mouth, it was to offer some empty threat towards one of them more often than not. But the random croaking that typically floated around as background noise like a day spent by a pond had slowed over the course of their walk, and he’d been utterly silent all morning.
“Yeah, well, just be careful.”
“Same to you.”
As they crossed the final stretch of ground towards the door, movement stirred around the base. Several spirits perked up, watching them.
On the left was a big lizard-like thing that Root had thought was a log, long and brown and rough like rotting bark. Their silver eyes watched them, their flicking tongue the only thing that moved.
On the right were two spirits stacked one on top of the other. The one on the bottom was a big, round, shaggy thing with beige curls, like something that might’ve been unearthed from under a hairdresser’s cabinet during a deep clean. His fur covered his eyes—if he had any. Four thick legs pawed the ground, and two smaller arms fidgeted just above them, surprisingly close to the beast’s short neck.
The spirit on top was black and feline, the size of a house cat but twice as angular. White markings on his limbs looked like bones protruding from the short fur, and around his elongated neck hung something purple and frilly. As they got closer, Root realized it was an old doll’s skirt. The smaller spirit perched atop the larger one’s head and swiveled his huge, sharp ears this way and that. His eyes never left the three of them, never blinked.
“State your names and business,” said the small spirit in a voice like a nasally chew toy.
“My name is Azriah Kaiyn.”
“Root Hashells.”
“B-Beel.”
“We’re here with some information pertaining to one of the spirits on your wanted list. We’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge.”
“We can take your report.”
They’d prepared for that answer.
Azriah cleared his throat. “Well, she’s a very powerful spirit, and her current whereabouts are a little…” Azriah wobbled his hand. “It’s hard to explain. Not the typical circumstances, I’m sure.”
“Name of the spirit concerned in your report?”
“Halwlau the Gorger.”
The spirit lowered his head and spoke quietly into the ear region of the larger spirit’s head fluff. The larger spirit shook his head.
“We’ll take your report here. The foreman is a busy man.”
“Well, see…”
The big lizard spirit huffed. Beel nearly bolted.
“… There’s another thing,” continued Azriah. “We also wanted to speak to him about recruitment. We ran into some of your, uh, field operatives. A spirit named Krete. We helped stall a spirit she and her team were pursuing—Lam, the Miracle Eater. She suggested we inquire about joining your organization. We can come back later, of course, if the foreman would prefer we make an appointment.”
The small spirit flicked his ears. “Mandy, can you see if Ron is free?”
No one moved, and no one responded. Root looked around.
“Horeman Ron wil seeyu,” said the big stone head above the door, her long and skinny tongue flicking out from the small mouth hole like a snake trying to escape the grabbing hands of a child.
Something vibrated against Root’s leg. She didn’t even have to look down to know it was the frightful quivering of Beel.
“All right,” said the small spirit. “We can escort them in. Mandy? Can you send for Hankle to relieve us?”
Another silence. Then the stone anteater spirit—Mandy—spoke again. “Hankl shondaway.” She talked like—well, like she had a tongue made of stone in a mouth made of stone and no teeth and no jaw. Really, she was doing remarkably well given the extrabiological circumstances.
“Thank you.”
They didn’t have to wait long. A blue spirit, icy and dripping as she walked, emerged from the dark corridor and took up the stacked spirits’ post. The small one waved from atop the larger one’s head as the pair began to lead the way. Root, Azriah, and Beel followed.
There were no lights in the hallway, and soon Enyn’s light from outside faded to nothing. Root opened her mouth to say something when two beams flashed into existence. The smaller spirit’s eyes were alight and shining like captured sun rays into the darkness ahead.
“Sorry, forgot you all probably can’t see in the dark,” said the spirit. “Mandy, can we get floor lights, please?”
“Uh, I don’t think she can hear you way back there…” said Root.
“Heeya goh,” said a stony voice somewhere in the darkness. Underfoot, the bricks came alight wherever they stepped, casting a fading glow across the floor ahead and up the walls.
“Got to save energy,” said the bigger spirit. His voice huffed like distant thunder. “Big place.”
“I noticed,” said Root. She squinted and peered ahead down the tunnel, but she couldn’t make out even a speck of light.
“We didn’t catch your names,” said Azriah to their escorts.
“I’m Kanchitt,” said the small one, flicking his neck skirt with a paw to fluff it up a bit. A badge was pinned to one side.
“I’m Tumb,” said the larger one. If he also wore an identifying badge, it was lost somewhere in his fur.
“Nice to meet you both. So, you’re door guards with Capsoul?”
“Clinkers,” said Kanchitt. “The division of our organization that remains here at the facility. Guard the inmates, watch the door and the halls, defend against any intrusions. There are also tenders—they help out around the facility, mostly as extra hands for filing reports, janitorial duties, those sorts of things.”
“Krete is a brickmason,” said Tumb, “a leader of a field team. Pursues and traps spirits. Then each brickmason travels with a team of blockmasons. They assist the brickmason with tracking and possession.”
“And of course, the foreman,” said Kanchitt. “Who you will meet shortly.”
They kept walking, and they walked some more. Periodically, they passed pairs of guards on either side of the tunnel. In the dim lighting, Root lost track of time, but after a half hour she was starting to wonder.
“How long is this tunnel?”
“Eleven miles,” said Kanchitt matter-of-factly.
“Miles?”
“It’s a unit of measurement. One mile is equal to—”
“Why is it so long?”
“This is a prison,” said Kanchitt. He flicked his tail in irritation, coiling it around Tumb’s ear. “We’re progressing faster than we’re walking. Because we’re welcome.”
“Well, than some of us are walking,” said Root, eyeing the pair.
Azriah studied the floor. “How does that work?”
“Magic.”
It must’ve been true, because after what Root guessed to be not quite an hour of walking, they reached the end of the hall. Nevertheless, her legs felt like she’d walked eleven miles.
The space beyond was larger, the ceiling even higher. A glow illuminated the expansive hall, a chamber of beautiful stonework columns and floors so polished they shined like gemstones. A fountain spurted in the center—a statue of a fishlike thing sending up a spray that rained down into a wide, shallow pool. Doors lined the side walls, some with flights of stairs going up or down. On the opposite side of the hall, a larger door descended down a staircase. A heavy metal grate obstructed all but the bottom ten feet of the entrance.
A few spirits crossed the room, but the facility was largely quiet and empty. If, that is, largely was a large enough word. Enormously quiet and empty might’ve been more accurate. The ceiling hung far, far out of sight in the darkness.
Kanchitt and Tumb led them down the first side hall on the left. The hall—smaller by comparison, but still impressively tall and wide—continued off ahead as they stopped at a big door. Tumb knocked with one of his arms.
“Come in,” said a muffled voice.
The room inside was a fascinating blend of office and workshop. Pallets of stone blocks and tiles filled the sides. An imposing stone desk filled the center of the room, carved as one from the same rock as the floor and walls and ceiling—something from the nightmares of an interior designer or indecisive occupant. Atop it in equal attendance were stacks of papers and pails of mortar which looked, in several cases, to have been shuffled together in a manner that couldn’t have been good for the functionality of either component.
The spirit at the desk stood. “Ah, Kanchitt and Tumb—thank you for escorting them in. Hello there—I’m Roniscus, but please call me Ron. I’m the foreman and founder of Capsoul.”
He held out a hand, of which he had two. He was mostly built like a human, and built he might’ve been. He looked like something that someone had once fashioned from orangey clay, now lumpy and jagged, worn and chipped away by time like an old terracotta pot. Already taller than most humans, he had a bit of a hunch, a notable gut, and a head and neck that was all one even appendage. If someone had made him from clay, it seemed they’d run out of material by the time they reached the legs. A good portion of that material had been misallocated to the arms. Root worried he might tip over—or that his thin, short legs might crack and give out under the weight of the rest of him.
Tufts of yellowy dried grass stuck out from behind his ears, under his armpits, and out the front of his low-drooping shirt. A matching patch formed a thick line across his upper lip.
They each shook his hand as they went through introductions. Ron waved them to seats at the desk.
“This is an impressive fortress you have here,” said Azriah. “Really marvelous stonework.”
“Oh, thank you! Yes.” Ron beamed—clearly a point of pride. “Yes, I used to be a mason back in the days before Capsoul. That’s why I founded the organization, really—always cleaning up after rampaging spirits, patching up buildings and such. I got tired of pairing and repairing and rerepairing the same walls over and over, so I thought, you know what, someone ought to do something about all this! The design work is secondary, but if you’re going to build something, you might as well build something to be admired, that’s what I say.”
A familiar voice chirped up behind them. “Ron—Aonsh team hashreturned, sheed liga meeding.”
Root turned. Over the office door was a smaller bust of the same anteater-like face.
“Thank you, Tamandua—tell her I’m in a meeting but will debrief with them when I’m finished.” He turned his attention back to the three of them—obsidian eyes, black and unmarked. “So—I heard you have information about the Gorger. And that you spoke with Krete and assisted with an attempt to take down the Miracle Eater. Impressive! Lam is one of our most elusive quarries at the moment, and a force to be reckoned with.”
“Yes,” said Azriah with a nod. “Thank you for agreeing to see us directly. The situation with Halwlau is… well, it’s tricky. I’m no expert in these matters, but when we encountered Halwlau she claimed to be a possession—that’s how you trap spirits here, yes? But your wanted list seemed to indicate this was not her status when last she was spotted.”
Ron raised his brow. “No, that’s true. Let me see here…” He rifled around through his papers and pulled out one with only a bit of mortar on one side. “Already a possession, you say? How can you be sure? What form was she bound to? Not that I doubt you—only that this news comes as quite a surprise.”
“Well, that’s the part that pushes our knowledge a bit. Though, I’m starting to see… It seemed like a similar case to—Mandy, was it?” Azriah indicated the head above the door.
“Yes,” said Ron, “Tamandua—or Mandy—is a spirit possessing a large section of portioned rock that runs all around this facility. She’s one of our wards, actually, but those who exhibit some self-reflection and a desire to change their ways are granted parole to aid us in our mission. Ah, like Orbaub here! Sorry, I should’ve introduced him, how rude of me.”
From a cabinet behind him, Ron grabbed and held up a big, flat mason’s tool with a handle on one side. He shoveled some mortar onto the flat bit.
The mortar swelled, ballooning like a bubble in mud. It grew a bulbous fishlike mouth and two wide, staring eyes that roved around before settling on the three of them.
“Bau-wau-wau. Buh,” it said, opening its huge mouth to reveal the gritty cavern within. Beel whimpered.
“Orbaub was the first spirit I caught as a possession—wouldn’t stop breaking the dam we were working on, and I’d had enough. Killed him and put his will into my finishing trowel, since it was right there. Now he helps finish off the spirits we catch. Ha-ha!”
“Baub is fine,” said Orbaub, who looked like he’d heard this story quite a good number of times and hadn’t enjoyed it any more thoroughly as time seasoned it.
“Oh, yes,” said Azriah. “Reminds me a lot of—” A startled look passed over his face for the briefest of seconds, replaced by confusion, and then level composure retook its throne. “In any case. Uh—”
“Right—Halwlau.”
“Yes. So, she was also inhabiting—is that the right word?—a stone-carved face as part of a greater structure.”
“And you’re sure it was this spirit—Halwlau the Gorger?”
“That’s how she introduced herself,” said Root. “Three eyes, big tusks.”
“Her own visage…” said Ron, seemingly to himself. He jotted down some notes. “And I presume she is immobile?”
“Seemed to be,” answered Azriah. “Just the face, no limbs.”
“Where is this? And when did you encounter her?”
“When…” started Azriah. He looked to Root. “That’s a great question… the days have really been running together. We’ve done quite a bit. Two and a half, three months ago, perhaps?”
“Give or take,” said Root.
“My—that’s fresh, given the circumstances.”
“As for where—there were no landmarks. Southeastern Atnaterra, a cave in the Shundrens.”
“Not an unusual case, though we always appreciate when our quarries steer clear of the urban centers,” said Ron. “How about this: we have a room of maps which we use to track leads like this. If you’ll join me, we can try to pinpoint where this sighting occurred.”
“That sounds perfect,” said Azriah.
Ron stood with a sound like breaking pottery. “Ah,” he said. “Excuse the old joints. Harden up if I sit around too long.”
He led them out of the room and farther down the hall.
“If it wouldn’t be any trouble,” started Root, “could I pop into your bathroom for a minute?”
“Oh, sure.” Ron paused at a door. “It’s that one, just back that way—we passed it there on the right. Yep, sign above it, can’t miss it. We’ll just be in here.”
“Great, thank you,” said Root and started off. She shared a parting glance with Azriah as he and Beel followed Ron into the room and closed the door.
Root entered the bathroom. It was the most gorgeous bathroom she’d ever been in, with basins she would’ve called ornate fountains through a door bearing any other sign. She pushed open the door to a stall and latched it behind her.
Movement stirred her bag even before she tugged it open. Skittering limbs crawled out onto her arm and made her skin crawl. She itched her arm casually, disguising the motion as best she could.
In spider form, Vit dropped to the floor. A moment later, they stood beside her in the stall, the two of them pressed together in the cramped space.
“You need to clean out your bag.”
“That must’ve been Beel’s half,” Root lied. “Now come on.”
Bradan climbed back up onto the deck toting a basket heavy with fruit from his small orchard. The harvest would make a nice addition to their dessert. He stepped through the door and onto an unswept floor.
“Vit?”
“Mm?” said the child looking up from something on the table. They were growing fast—now six—and taking on more responsibilities around the home. Like sweeping.
Or, they were supposed to be.
Bradan pointed a finger at the floor and raised an eyebrow.
Vit sighed. “I will.”
“No, I asked you to do it while I was out so you wouldn’t be trying to sweep in the kitchen while I’m preparing our supper.”
“I’ll do it after we eat.”
“You’ve been shirking your chores too much lately. Chores are important; it’s good to keep a tidy living space.”
“The floor isn’t that dirty.”
“But we have to respect our home.”
Vit sighed again and slumped their top half across the table.
“No dessert tonight, you hear? And next time I want you to do your chores punctually and efficiently.”
“What! That’s not fair!”
Bradan shook his head as he set the basket of fruits on the counter. “I still expect you to sweep after we eat. That will be your dessert!” He said it with a cheeriness that Vit didn’t echo. They stormed out to the deck.
Taking the harvest two pieces at a time, Bradan stowed the fruits where they’d keep, careful to protect them from bruising. He hummed as he worked.
With the basket empty, he gathered up ingredients for their supper and got a fire burning.
Back at the countertop, he grabbed a knife—and felt something small fall onto his arm. He looked down. Crumbs on the floor, and now crumbs in the air!
He looked up.
Vit hung horizontally from one of the rafters by a few strands of web. Another string looped down and back up, running from the child’s hand to a small, fresh cake, swiped from the countertop and now held safely between their teeth. When Bradan looked up, they froze, eyes wide with the look of a child trying to concoct a very, very elaborate lie in a very, very short amount of time.
“Vit—!”
Vit smiled around the cake in their mouth. They let out a muffled, uncertain laugh.
Bradan’s frustration melted quickly. “Oh—oh, Vit, you’ll be the death of me! I’m too old for this!” he said with a laugh. He shook his head. “Too quick—and too sneaky! What am I going to do with you?”