161. Stone Fruit

  Serac Edin found herself in a stranger’s garden.

  Did she just wake? Or had she always been? It was hard to tell with these things (what things?). All she knew in the moment was that she was in a garden—and that the garden didn’t belong to her.

  It was the smell that grabbed her first. Fruity, musky, sickly sweet. Not unlike the wine they sometimes served in the Kronvakt mess hall. Serac personally wasn’t a fan of wine, yet this particular variety contained a familiar and enticing note.

  The garden was vast, rows upon neat rows of fruit-bearing trees. A sign of significant manpower, yet this was in stark contrast with the overgrown grass, buzzing flies, and a ground littered with fallen, overripe fruit.

  Serac fanned away the flies that had gathered upon one such specimen and picked it up. Reddish in color yet so badly bruised as to be almost brown. It all but fell apart in her hand, leaking trails of pungent juice. She brought it closer to her face and sniffed. The sickly sweetness was overpowering, enough to nearly make her gag. At the same time, that familiar, enticing note came through clearer than ever. She was sure she’d had this fruit before, but when? How?

  Who?

  Serac was caught between two minds. Chuck the confounded thing as far away as possible… or take a big bite? Somehow, both possibilities revolted and tempted in equal measure. In the end, she simply let it roll off her hand and back onto the ground, to be lost among the overgrown grass.

  What exactly was this place, why was she here, and where was she meant to go next? The questions rang so loudly and emphatically in her mind that she soon became aware of a prominent absence.

  “Trippy?”

  She called aloud. No answer. Whatever this place was, it’d severed her connection to the ever-present voice in her head. Something similar had happened twice before, but on both such occasions, the owners of the voice had stayed close by her side, all the while talking her through the situation.

  Here, she was alone.

  Is this the Interstitium? Did I ‘die’ at the end of the Rathor fight? A rational enough guess, but Serac’s instincts told her it was way off the mark. For one thing, both herself and the garden around her were palpably and undeniably solid. For another, she needed only to scan Pathsight to see her status remained unchanged since she’d last been tucked inside a spherical boat tumbling down the Sanzu:

  [Designation: SERAC EDIN]

  [Wayfarer Race: RAKSHASA]

  [Karmic Level: 52]

  [Liminal Karma: 62,139 ?]

  [DEIFIC Instrument: REVOLVER]

  [Auxiliary: PULVERIZER]

  [HP: 207/1176]

  [MP: 0/114]

  But then… even Pathsight’s numerical certitude soon deserted her, as the texts lost their legible shape and morphed into something unrecognizable.

  [██████ion: SE██████N]

  [Wa██████ce: R██████]

  [██████ic Leve██████]

  [L██████Ka██████13██████]

  The distorted texts flashed once or twice, then faded entirely. Try as Serac might, she could no longer pull up her own status. Pathsight had forgotten who she was… or perhaps it’d forsaken her altogether.

  Ominous. Unsettling. But Serac had certainly survived worse. She put Pathsight and its dysfunction out of her mind, as she forged ahead into the vast, untended garden.

  Soon—or perhaps a long time after; it was hard to tell—Serac came upon the first aberration in an otherwise constant scenery. Thick fog rose from somewhere in the unfathomable distance, obscuring everything within its cloud. As far as Serac could tell, the rows of fruit trees continued on as they were, so she too followed them into the fog.

  Another short (or long?) while later, she became aware of a strange sound. Up to now, she’d heard only buzzing flies and the soft rustle of her own footsteps. Naturally, the new sound intrigued her. Faint and indescribable, but it was also the only ‘clue’ within this foggy, uniform maze. What could Serac do but follow it?

  Closer and closer to the source, the sound took on a somewhat identifiable rhythm and quality. Squelch—munch, munch, munch. Serac pictured a rather ill-mannered soul taking a sloppy bite of something (presumably the very fruit growing on these trees) before chewing with their mouth open. The image didn’t exactly fill her with confidence, but again, it was the only lead she had. She followed it, ever deeper into the fog.

  Another indeterminate amount of time later, the figure in question came into view. Then and only then did Serac stop. She couldn’t explain why, other than to say she was convinced. Convinced that stepping any closer would spell the end of Serac Edin and the beginning of something she’d have no part of.

  The silhouette was too blurry to guess who or what it might represent. Serac did see the stranger was roughly her own size, back markedly slouched as they sat atop an uneven mound—a pile of fruits. The stranger soon reached down and grabbed a new one to bite into.

  Squelch—munch, munch, munch… buurrppp!!

  Serac didn’t think herself a squeamish type, but something about the stranger’s manners made her grimace. Whoever this was, they were the rudest, sloppiest soul she’d met in a hot minute.

  “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  Serac stared at the fruit-munching silhouette, too stunned to say anything in return. The stranger’s voice was shrill, nasally, and impish—almost like a very young child’s. Yet it somehow carried an effortless authority that made you shut up and listen. How was that even possible?

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Serac’s mind raced to find an answer—an excuse—that would appease the stranger and deflect their accusation. They were right, of course. She’d muddled deep into the garden without a clue as to its purpose or ownership. Of course this munching, slurping, burping imp had every right to question—

  “But that’s okay!” the stranger went on, as bright as a summer sunbeam. They took another squelching bite of the fruit. “I’m not supposed to be here either. I won’t tell if you won’t!”

  Serac waited for the stranger to volunteer more information, but the latter munched on happily, as if they’d already forgotten they had company.

  “This… isn’t your garden?” she asked tentatively. “Whose is it then? And what’re you doing here? … What am I doing here?”

  Munch, munch… burp!

  “Does that ever work for you?”

  “What?”

  “Asking four questions at once? How does that usually go?”

  “I…” Serac blushed, embarrassment made worse by the illusion of being lectured by a child. “Okay, I’ll ask them one by one, then! Is this not your garden?”

  “Nope.”

  “Whose is it?”

  The silhouette merely shrugged.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Eating.”

  Serac stifled a sigh. Did she have it wrong? Was she wasting her breath on an actual brat?

  “Okay… would you know what I’m doing here?”

  “Talking to me, presumably,” the stranger said with another shrug. “But why’re you asking me that? You’re the expert on your own life. Or at least you should be.”

  Infuriating. Serac suddenly broke out in cold sweats as she recalled her long trek across Naraka’s Badlands, saddled with a whole army of lawless, bickering children. And yet…

  “Who are you?”

  Munch… munch…

  The stranger didn’t answer right away. In that slight delay, just for one Ksana, the silhouette’s blurry edges took solid form. Serac might’ve even had a chance to inspect the fresh clues… had they not been covered over by a Pathsighted label:

  [Designa██████U██████ge Eq██████n]

  [██████farer R██████y]

  [K██████e██████0]

  [██████nal ██████1,1██████?]

  [BE██████ume██████B██████]

  [██████iary██████NS██████S]

  Infuriating! For this label was already distorted before Serac had a chance to read it! And sure enough, it flickered once or twice before disappearing altogether, leaving only the blurry silhouette in its place.

  “Wait,” Serac blurted, now utterly invested in the mystery, “you’re a Wayfarer? Which race? Not a Yaksha—so we’re not in Pretjord, then? Did I somehow get transported to another Realm?”

  “Again with the multiple questions!” ██████U██████ge Eq██████n exclaimed, clearly amused. “Don’t bother rephrasing them, though. I heard what the questions were, and I won’t answer them. I’m trying to keep a low profile at the minute, as you can obviously tell. And while I do like you, but I won’t go so far as to trust you just yet.”

  “What?” Serac exclaimed, clearly annoyed. “What kind of conveniently mysterious logic is that? Nope, that’s it. I’m gonna get a good look at your mug if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Serac took a step forward, ignoring her own premonitions from earlier. She didn’t, however, get to suffer the consequences of her own action. For she was halted in her tracks, pushed back by an invisible barrier.

  “That’s close enough,” the stranger announced, a note of real warning creeping into their impish voice. They then took a moment to sniff the air. “Hm. I know that scent. Not you specifically but some of the folks you’ve been rubbing shoulders with of late. How is the Great Leveler lately? Haven’t seen that guy in literal ages! Still an absolute riot at the banquet table, I’ll bet? And is his Queen still the same uptight prig?”

  “The Great ‘Leveler’?” Serac murmured, needing a Ksana or two to catch up. “Don’t you mean the Great Pacifier? Tyr Djofulsen is… well, I don’t know how to say this, but uh… he’s passed on. I’m… I’m sorry for your loss?”

  The silhouette went still for a moment. Then: squelch—munch, munch, munch… burrrp!

  “Your scent might be familiar, little lamb,” they spoke again, apparently unbothered by the news of his old friend’s passing, “but your words are straight nonsense. I fear you may be more lost than you realize.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Serac huffed, choosing to ignore being called ‘little lamb’ by a little imp. “Maybe I don’t need to know how I ended up here, but I do need to leave this place and get back to my friends. You wouldn’t know how, would you? Like, which way do I even go? Everywhere I turn, it’s just fog, trees, and more fog!”

  Squelch—munch…

  “Maybe you could start by calming down a little.”

  “How? You try being calm when you’re alone, lost, confused, and—”

  Grrrruuuhh…

  And [Hungry] as all hell.

  Serac grabbed her tummy, blushing all over for a second time. Across the fog, the silhouette rocked with mirth, as its voice howled with impish laughter.

  “I think we’ve hit upon the crux of your problem, little lamb! If you were so hungry, why didn’t you say so?”

  With that, the stranger threw something at Serac. It was the fruit in their hand, diverted from its original trajectory after only one ‘munch’.

  Serac caught it, bracing for a splatter of oversweet juice. To her pleasant surprise, this specimen was much firmer than the one she’d picked up earlier. In fact, it was at just the right degree of ripeness, perfect for an afternoon snack… were it not for the bite marks and missing chunks.

  [Designation: Half-Eaten Peach]

  Serac did a double-take.

  Is this thing a consumable? And wait… these were all peaches this whole time? Well, of course they’re peaches! I can see that now. But then the question is… why didn’t I recognize them until now?

  Her tummy chose this moment to rumble again, rendering void any energy she could spare toward solving mysteries. No, first things first. She had to eat and fill this empty stomach of hers!

  Crunch! Nibble, nibble, nibble…

  Serac didn’t consider herself a particularly well-mannered individual, but she now understood there were levels to this thing. At the very least, she would chew with her mouth closed, thanks very much. Yet, so desperate was her [Hunger] (and so shockingly yummy the fruit in her hand) that she demolished the [Half-Eaten Peach] in a matter of seconds. She then tried and failed to stifle a modest burp. And as soon as the [Peach] became a part of her, it showed its Pathsighted effects.

  [Satiety: 0 -> 5]

  A measly five points. A smidgen against her cap of 127 and nowhere near enough to [Sate] her [Hunger]. But these five points made all the difference. The difference between finding herself again or an eternity of oblivion.

  “Run along now, little lamb,” the stranger said, impish voice taking on an unexpected note of tenderness. “You’ve got somewhere to be, and it’s certainly not here counting peach pits with me. Say hi to my friends for me if you get the chance. Oh and in the future, might I suggest a little more sticking to your Path and a little less straying from it?”

  The fog deepened, masking the silhouette in its entirety. Soon—or perhaps a long time after—Serac found herself drifting in an endless space of pure nothingness.

  But she wasn’t alone. Of that, she was sure—as sure as she was of her sense of self.

  shhh! If anyone wants to try and guess, I will mention that the size of the ██████ bar is not indicative of the number of letters that have been redacted, so don't let that confuse you.

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