The Land of Broken Roads

Dirt recoiled reflexively, then felt guilty. Something about that wooden person was deeply unnerving, even though he suspected he knew who it was.

“Home?” he said aloud, hoping he would be able to talk aloud from now on.

The wooden person didn’t respond. Its smooth, dry, glassy eyes couldn’t turn on their own, and he wasn’t even sure it could see. It took another unsteady step forward and raised its arms toward him. Was it trying to grab him? It didn’t even have hands, so probably not.

Dirt looked at Home’s mind, wondering how different it would look now. It was mostly the same, immense and inscrutable, but a new part had grown that saw the world with real, actual eyes. It was a success!

He jumped in celebration, watching himself in Home’s confused mind. But it wasn’t just for show—he meant it. He sent Home as much of his excitement as he could muster, and made it clear that what the doll was looking at was indeed him.

The doll—Home—watched him, its immense mind roiling to make sense of its new perceptions. Dirt watched eagerly, anxiously, as Home turned slowly this way and that, witnessing the real world for the first time. Although, that might not be the right thing to call it, since Dirt was learning that reality was a lot deeper than he thought.

Home’s mind was large enough to start on new tasks, and a part began to focus on improving its body. Dirt got the sense that everything was deliberate. It already had a plan, and he supposed it must have learned everything there was to know when it was putting him together in the dream. The hard part for Home was the hard part for Dirt—namely, how to translate ideas between worlds. But Home was much, much smarter. It had understood him in the dream, and bit by bit it made progress.

“Can you hear me yet?” he asked, watching Home’s thoughts to see if it registered. It didn’t.

Home’s hands grew fingers, which flexed and bent. Its round torso flattened and became almost supple. The head developed from a ball into something that looked more like a head. A split opened along the front where a mouth should go, and bumps appeared on the sides that almost looked like ears.

“How about now?” he asked again.

This time, a flicker of awareness crossed the tree’s mind. Dirt opened his mouth wide and went, “Aaaaaah! Hello, Home. Can you hear me? Have you figured out what sound is yet?”

Dirt kept saying random nonsense and watching Home’s mind while the tree worked on its ears. He had no way to tell if it was making any progress, but the tree seemed intent on the task.

Finally, Home opened its mouth to reveal a pale wood interior. Its chest expanded to draw in air, and then it made the most horrible sound Dirt had ever heard.

The tree’s mind framed a simple question, sharing the idea of the sound it had made. Dirt decided it was asking if it was right, and answered “No.”

Then he demonstrated, not saying anything in particular but just drawing out the sound of his voice like singing. Dirt startled himself; he’d completely forgotten about music. He realized he’d been close to remembering a couple times, but it hadn’t quite clicked. But how could he forget about music? He wished he knew any songs. He’d have to invent one later.

Home’s voice cracked and popped, changing each time the tree made an adjustment. It grew more tolerable bit by bit as Dirt watched the shape of the mouth and throat making slight change after change.

But the tree was working on other parts at the same time. The shape of the face became closer and closer to a human’s, and Dirt wondered if it looked like him or not. He’d only seen himself in the minds of Socks and Home, and that was never perfectly clear.

Home’s bark never became flesh, but it did soften as flexible and supple as flesh, allowing a full range of movement. The hands were detailed, with fingernails and everything. The toes less so, and most of the rest was left a bit rougher than that, giving Home the appearance of wearing bark from chest to ankles. No penis, either, although Dirt supposed trees didn’t have to pee, so why bother?

Finally, Home got its voice to settle around the same pitch as Dirt’s, and it sounded almost as smooth. Still a little rough and crackly, but not as bad as a goblin, so it was fine. Satisfied, it asked again if it was right, and this time Dirt said, “Yes.”

What truly made Dirt realize just how impressive Home’s doll was, was when it cracked a smile at him. How did it know what that even meant? Maybe it had seen him smile in a dream and stored it away. But regardless, it was done—the thing was complete, and Home now had a window into the world of up and down, left and right.

One thought repeated loudly in Home’s mind until Dirt noticed and figured it out: Show me myself.

Dirt pointed at the closest tree. “That’s you,” he said aloud.

The doll turned and looked, its mind quieting. Home’s thoughts grew incomprehensible again and it spoke again with the other trees. Its head tilted farther and farther back as it looked higher and higher.

It began to sink in just how incredible this was. For this forest, this would be a day that divided ‘before’ from ‘after’ forever, and Dirt was here to see it. No, not just to see it—he’d helped it happen. If trees had good memory, they’d remember him for years uncountable after he was gone.

A brand new thing, something marvelous and precious, had grown and come into being because of him. A grin of pride broke out on his face, pride that he was living up to his name Dirt, but it quickly faltered into something like sadness as the beauty of the moment sank in and touched his heart.

Little Home turned back to face him and made a wordless noise with its mouth.

Dirt got the impression that the tree didn’t understand what words were yet, so he sent the image that he’d been using to identify himself, the tree’s perception of him laying on the roots, and said, “Dirt,” pointing at himself.

Then he pointed at Little Home, sent the tree’s name, and said, “Home.”

After a bit more back and forth, saying each over and over, it clicked. Home raised its own hand in Dirt’s direction and moaned, “Irrrrrrrrrr…,” while holding an image of him in its mind.

“Yes! Dirt! That’s it! Dirt, Dirt, Dirt! You can do it.”

“Dirrrrrrrr,” said Home. It dragged it out, using the whole breath. All the while, its immense mind processed the task with massive swells of effort. Its thoughts still felt slow, but it could do so much at once!

“Dirt! Dirt, Dirt, Dirt-t-t-t!” he said.

“Dirrrrrrrrrrrrrg. Dirrrrrrrrrrrk. Dirrrrrrrrrrd.”

“Close. Dirt, t, t, t. Dirt.” He made a point of opening his mouth to show his tongue.

Home opened its mouth the same way, revealing a dry, pale tongue of wood, flexible and soft. “Dirrrrrrrrrrr-tuh. Dirrrrrrrrrrrt.”

“Yes! Dirt! Just shorter now, just say Dirt!”

“Dirt,” said Home.

Dirt couldn’t contain himself and gave an excited cheer, raising both fists in the air. He sent his emotions, hoping the tree could understand that much since it probably didn’t know what a cheer was yet.

Home placed its own excitement in his mind where he could see it, and awkwardly, slowly, raised its own arms up.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the confused Little Home, then squeezed for a hug. The doll’s body just felt like soft plant, not scratchy like bark. Soft and spongy on the outside, but solid and unyielding underneath. Dirt sent his genuine affection, all the warmth he felt. He really did love this tree. He’d been leaning that way before, but now it was certain.

Home felt it too. It shared that much in its mind. Little Home raised its own arms to encircled Dirt, and squeezed. Too hard.

Both of Dirt’s arms broke with audible snaps, halfway between shoulder and elbow.

He screamed in shock. Home didn’t let go. It didn’t understand. It squeezed a little tighter, and Dirt felt his right arm break a little more.

For a brief moment, there was no pain, but when it appeared, it was agony.

“Let go!” he whimpered between clenched teeth. “Let go, please!” He sent an image of Little Home spreading its arms again to release him. He tried to communicate that his arms were broken, but focus grew more difficult the more Home squeezed him.

He couldn’t inhale. Home was going to kill him and wouldn’t even know what had happened. He frantically sent the image of open arms over and over and finally Home released him.

Tears of pain dripped down his face. His breath came in racking gasps. Without Home holding his arms, they drooped a little lower and dangled, agonizing with every tiny motion, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

He tried to use his left arm to hold the right one together, but couldn’t. It wouldn’t move like it was supposed to. He wouldn’t be able to eat. He couldn’t feed himself. He was going to starve to death. He was going to wither and die right here, over days of pain, and Home would watch and be unable to do anything about it.

It was the despair more than the pain that started him sobbing. He gently lay down, shrieking as he tried and failed to rest his arms without making anything worse. His left arm was cracked but wobbly, but his right was snapped clean in two and didn’t lie straight. The pain never relented, not even for an instant.

He tried to tell Home what had happened, trying to explain in pictures and feelings of pain that he was damaged now, broken, and it was serious.

Little Home gazed down at him passively, with hints of what might have been concern on its wooden face. The tree’s mind registered confusion but no sympathy, not that he could detect. It simply waited and watched, uncomprehending.

That made him feel terribly alone somehow, and his sobbing grew worse when he realized this meant he could never ride Socks again. Their adventures and friendship were at an end, just like that. One instant of ignorance on Dirt and Home’s part, and it was over.

Dirt had been so distracted that he hadn’t drank any dew yet this morning, and now he wished he had. The ache in his throat from crying was turning into thirst, and water was dripping down his face without being replaced. He was going to suffer the whole time. Hopefully death would come soon.

“Dirt,” said Little Home. “Home.” In its mind, it seemed to be asking what was happening.

Maybe he should get the tree to put him out of his misery. It would be easy enough, he knew. If he sent Home directions to stomp his head in, it would. He could say it would help and not even be lying. Let Home figure out the rest over the thousands of years it would live on after him.

He tried to picture a branch or root snapping and send that, then his arms. When that didn’t seem to work, he sent an image of his arms moving, then breaking and falling still.

Little Home knelt beside his legs and started prodding them, exploring what they were made of. Dream legs weren’t the same, after all. Dirt just left the tree to it and tried to will away the pain in his arms and face.

Home picked up one calf, squeezing hard enough to cause deep bruises with its wooden fingers. It bent Dirt’s knee, rotated it and considered how it worked. It prodded deep into the flesh to feel the bone there, which hurt enough to make him groan.

With both hands, it flexed Dirt’s shin bone, and before Dirt could scream “Stop!” it pushed too far and cracked the bone.

The doll quickly dropped his leg, as if surprised or embarrassed.

Dirt howled, unable to get back control of his voice. It was all too much. His mind had no room for anything but pain.

Home lifted Dirt’s loose right arm and the shock of pain was worse than anything he could have imagined. He screamed so hard it became a struggling, taut gasp.

Dirt’s mind retreated from his body. It seemed to split into parts, one still suffering in blinding excruciation, and another aloof, relieved, watching.

The tree-minds around him buzzed with furious communication. The forest worked together to make sense of the problem, all of them together trying to figure out what to do about little Dirt lying there under the ferns. The sheer size and power of their thoughts made it impossible for him to understand much, but bits and pieces contained pictures he recognized. His arm, swollen and bulging wide with blood; his leg bending and cracking, every nerve in his body sparking with pain.

The night vibrations started, even though it was still foggy morning. The slow pulse came out of everywhere to shake the ground louder than he had ever heard it. His chest thumped from the pressure as it passed through him. It increased in speed from a gentle rise and fall as slow as his breath to a powerful, unrelenting drumbeat that rocked the earth. The trembling ground agitated his injuries, multiplying his suffering.

Dirt felt power gather like a second source of gravity, right at his side. He managed to get one eye open and saw Little Home peering down at him with an intense gaze, implacable, unyielding, eternal.

“Please help me,” he rasped. It was hopeless desperation, though, because what could Home even do? He wouldn’t starve. He was going to die long before that. He was bleeding too much inside his arm.

Then a hundred energies suffused him, fire and sparks and motion and everything else. Dirt’s whole body hummed and buzzed so loudly that he forgot the pain, losing it in a sea of white energy.

But it wasn’t his physical body the trees were infusing. It was a different part of his being. Not the dream-self, either, but something else. Some part that lay closer to the surface, all torn like Mother had shown him.

Dirt felt it growing together with senses that had no names. It expanded and grew and fused and became strong, solid.

It went on and on, long enough for Dirt to get used to the feeling and the pain to start coming back. Finally the sea of energy withdrew from him, leaving behind a sense of wholeness that quickly faded and vanished.

They’d healed the wrong part of him. Some useless, unseen part, not his physical body. The pain returned in full and he moaned, wishing he could turn his body one way or other and find even a hint of relief.

The trees watched expectantly, every mind he could see. They had done their part and waited for him to do his. But there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t a tree and whatever they’d fixed did him no good.

Their patience was unmatched, but even they grew anxious when nothing happened. The space in their minds they left open for him implored him to act, begging, almost desperate.

An answer came for them, but not from him. A wolf-mind approached, drawing near before Dirt noticed it. It wasn’t Socks, nor any other he recognized. It could speak to the trees in a way they understood, and whatever it told them spread in ripples and waves across the sea of mind-lights.

They seemed surprised—shocked—by what the wolf told them, and it wasn’t much longer before he was sure they understood he was dying. They must not know how it was possible over something so minor.

Home even pictured the image of the big root nearby coming apart, then growing back together, hoping he would understand and fix himself. Dirt might have grinned then, if his teeth weren’t already bare from pain. That must be why he’d never seen a single branch down here, why they never broke off and fell. They could simply heal themselves.

The wolf reached him before he was ready and startled him by lifting him off the ground with its tongue. Dirt howled when his right arm dangled and twisted, but he kept his wits.

The great beast lifted Dirt into its mouth and closed it to hold him tightly in place. Socks was big, but not this big. Not big enough to put him in his mouth with room to spare.

Death had finally come. He was being eaten. “Thank you for ending this. Please tell Socks that I regret nothing and I love him. And tell Home it’s not her fault.”

-I AM NOT EATING YOU, FOOL. MOTHER MADE ME COME GET YOU BECAUSE MY LITTLE BROTHER IS FRANTIC AND WILL NOT REST.-

The wolf’s thoughts were vicious and strong, a young predator approaching his prime. He held Dirt firmly in his mouth, wet and hot and reeking, with just enough air to keep him alive. There was no sense in which it was comfortable.

But he was going to live. He was going to live! “Then please tell Home I’ll be back, and—” Before he could finish the thought, the wolf’s mind pressured him unconscious.