Chapter 40. Tinsilytine Bush.

  “My sword. It’s very sharp. Try mine!” Sid screamed. Pointing for his blade. Laying calmly in gap between them and the wagon.

  Fenrir stepped out from under the wagon while Abram reached into the bed. Noticing the shadow. Fenrir it was—howling? He thought the pup was howling—however there wasn’t a single sound being made. In that moment he could only watch—how odd. He pushed the clumpy hair from his face gazing with wonder. How was did it howl silently like that? Why would the pup even do that at a time like this? Sid too had seen this motion. He was watching the voyager the entire time. Fenrir only continued to perform that invisible howling—or whatever it was he was doing.

  “Abram!” he shouted.

  “Oh right. Sorry Sid. It’s yer shadow though he be—”

  “Abram!” Sid screamed again.

  A deep pulse from the thread pulled Sid away from Abram pointing at whatever Fenrir was doing. Confused, he watched with a cocked stare. Again, that thread pulsed or vibrated. It was a gentle thumping. Like it had a heartbeat. He didn’t like it, and he fumbled for the webbing at his legs. Fighting to pull the thin hair like strands from his fingers. Unaware he was communicating through that thread with those damp fingers. Those bleeding fingers stopped. The vibrations had become hard. He thought he heard a twang—and not a pretty one like that too a harp. It was taunting. Low. It rattled shallowly. Almost hollow.

  “Me can’t finds yer blade big guy.” Abram said looking into the bed of the wagon.

  “I had it. It’s just there. Out of my reach.” The mustache wiggled while a crimson sausage pointed.

  “How bout yer axe Sid?”

  Why was he so calm? Nonchalant? Does the voyager not understand the intensity of his situation? Did he enjoy lollygagging while he suffered? Sure wasn’t much help when that bird took his eye. Sid’s face tightened while the flushing color in his cheeks deepened.

  “Abram!” Sid roared.

  Staring at those gross legs tap-tap-tapping. Hooking into the webs, pulling against them. It tugged again. Then again. Strong sharp yanks. Twisting the round man just that much more with each tug.

  His chest thrashed. Heart racing faster, mind spinning quicker. That thread of webbing might as well have been the pull-cord ripping against a top of delusion. One that could twirl on end. Almost motionless.

  “Here ye go Sid.” Abram held the charred broad sword for him to grab. “Sid here.”

  Sid was frozen. Watching while massive sharp brown legs emerged completely from the underbrush. Carefully tapping the thread. Feeling for shakes. Testing for trembles. It was enough. Another hard yank.

  He already wished it was more vampires—Sid like many others, absolutely hated spiders. And this big fuzzy sucker would traumatize his dreams for moons on end. “GAAAAHHHHHH!!” Sid, panicked, leaping to his feet.

  “Hot damn Sid!” Abram was impressed with how a man of such a stature got up so quickly. Even laughed when he fell again.

  Arieo was now on board with the big guy. He understood the panic now. He swished a nervous tail. Blinking handsome brown eyes, watching while his master positioned himself.

  In that rash panic Sid tried again. Barely lifting a foot for a step. Instantly crashing back down. He looked at his legs forgetting about the snare. Looking back at the underbrush. Three more legs precisely emerged. Pulling that big fat butt out from the bush. Careful tap taping steps. They were no longer thin legs like he thought. They were gross and wriggly with hair. Same with that giant bulbous butt. Covered in moving hair. Like waves of brickle brown. Why is every giant spider covered in that eerie hair—why was the hair moving so much?

  “Abram cut me free!” That bold mustache barked at the massive Widowmaker. “Abram!” It was a plea thick with desperation.

  Sid trembled. Sending those appetizing messages across the web. He might as well have been ringing a dinner bell. Widowmaker crept with rapid tap-tap-tapping. Testing the menu. Placing an order. This Widowmaker would be having the special ‘fat man with a side of jackalope boot.’

  “Abram! Hurry!” Sid could practically see himself sitting in the dirt in the reflection of those great black eyes. He could see his panic watching those moist fangs. The way they would clack was skin tightening. The way they drip was shivering.

  “Oh, me would never use another mans blade Sid that be disgusting. Here, cut yerself outs quickly. Me sees if Maybel cares for a dance.” He replied dropping the charred blade at Sid’s side. Again, there was that name—Maybel. Was he referring to his weapon? Did Abram name his saber Maybel. It wasn’t the strangest thing in the world—he just didn’t mark him as a man who named inanimate objects.

  “Abram!” He shouted.

  That Widowmaker was so close now. Completely stepping from that shrubbery. Tap-tap-taping the webbing with each step. Abram’s entirety flickered. Sid's face twisted. Weary of magic but also liking it. He tried to follow that blurred dashing motion.

  Abram appeared behind the spider, slashing its hind legs. He performed the quick blur of movement again, just as the creature turned for him—or where he was only previously standing. Confused with what attacked, the Widowmaker jabbed at its own dismembered legs. Two of which twitched, slowly closing with dying contracting nerves.

  Reaching down Abram grabbed Sid’s sword. “Sid me be having yer tongue if ye evers tells anyones bouts this.” Abram lifted that charred sword. Cursing under his breath, then slicing the air. Cutting right through that silver snare—maybe Maybel could use for a good whetstone. He didn’t use her much, perhaps he will let a blacksmith look at her when they arrive to the castle.

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  Curved fangs, easily a finger long. Both formed a bead of oily dew. Dripping those taunting droplets with wet clacks. Those nasty beads of moisture fell along Sid’s toes. It was cool. Numbing. Not even realizing the stuff was melting the proteins of his flesh. Then opening a fresh wound. His skin began to sizzle while the toxins from the Widowmaker clashed with whatever in the hell was so vile in Sid’s blood. The smoky fumes were dull and stunk so bad.

  “Sid what ye be waiting fer, get yer ass up. It ain’t goin to chase ye me cut its legs away.”

  He heard Abram shout. It was true. The Widowmaker only had increments of its legs. Grabbing his sword, a fat missing a finger hand pushed against the pommel. The cobwebbing still clinging to his legs burned horribly while he came to a stand. Stretching across blistered and ripped skin, that thread burned while claiming fresh areas. The tip of that charred broad sword came high.

  “Haw” Arieo tried to warn. Abram turned to see what his pal was talking about.

  “Sid no don’t be doin that!” He tried to warn him as well.

  -Ka-Chunk-

  Sid hacked into the exoskeleton with a single slice. He also watched with the widest swelling eye to date. That look would have been one for the books. Panic and horror just simply weren’t enough. He couldn’t even breathe anymore. Body completely stiff with phobia. It was more than possible that he just developed a new set of stars in Distress. I’m sure a few in Trepidation even popped up like a fresh zit. He held the handle of his sword while a shadowy wave of that fine spider hair washed over the blade. Rushing over the handle over his fingers and along his wrist. Brushing madly at his arm and chest as hundreds if not, then thousands of little tiny baby Widowmakers made their way. Bridging that gap between a curled mother, and a fat naked man.

  "GAAAAAHHHHHH!"

  “Gods damned it Sid, why’d ye do that?” Abram scowled. He really wasn’t sure what to do now. One big Widowmaker is one problem. Thousands of tiny ones are a completely different category. This was no longer a monster fight, but a swarm. Contamination. If only he could set Sid on fire—he set this whole forest ablaze—he was sure that would solve their problem.

  Sid scrambled slapping at his arms and legs. He could feel hundreds of tiny hair like fangs break skin. Those eight-legged babies were still hungry. Little freaks still needing to feed. Pushing to his feet. He didn’t even remember falling over. It didn’t matter he needed to get the hell out of there. He crashed through a bush and slammed down against the forest floor. Like a cloud of dust from a fallen bag of flour. Those tiny Widowmakers erupted from that heavy man with a cloud of their own. Shocked he looked for his feet and legs. He somehow managed to snare up in another threading of web. The stuff was everywhere—how was Abram and the donkey not getting caught in it?

  “Oh, gods damned it Sid, ye justs has to go and fall into that bush.” That raspy voice called out.

  Sid could hear his blade bite into the dirt. He could also hear that donkey making that gods awful sound again—was Arieo laughing at him? He could also feel the threaded tension along his legs loosen.

  “C’mon Sid gets up outta theres. Carefuls not’n touch those leaves.”

  He could still feel those little babies crawling and nipping at his entirety. The cool toxin flowing through his veins. The first thing he grabbed was of course that branch with those slick green looking leaves. Long, thin, deep green leaves with silver veins. Leaves that seemed to leak with a dewy substance. A substance that burned like hell. The branches of such were mighty thorny, tearing his hand as he grabbed. The dew burned worse now his skin was broken.

  “Really Sid, wow. It be the first things ye do. Alright it be yer problem now.” The voyager had a taste of irritation. Sid knew. He was rather familiar with the taste. Could one really blame Abram though he literally just told Sid not to touch the plant.

  It was a Tinsilytine bush. Many folks would grow small patches of the plant for the benefits of the root. The leaves themselves were very poisonous, not deadly poison—the plant oozed with a skin irritating toxin. The dewy stuff was a micro bacterium. A flesh-eating bacterium. It was something the plant produced to ward off larger mammals. During the approaching season of frost, the leaves will produce that oily secretion. Upon touching such, it will cause a painful rash worsening while the bacterium feeds. Scaring the host with a trail of porous sores. Leaving the skin blistered with boils. Allowing the victim a lifelong lesson, and a nasty reminder to study. However, if one was careful and uprooted the plant. Only milking the smallest tips from the largest roots, one could extract the concentrated oil, thus in which making a superb anti-venoms.

  Sid grabbed for the sword. Digging the tip of the blade, he lifted himself from out of the plant. Slick shimmering green leaves dragged along his fat shoulders while the bush birthed a fleshy man.

  -Pop-

  -Pop-pop-pop-

  -pop-pop-

  Those swelling babies that continued to feed started popping. The vile rot that flow in Sid was far too much for the infants. Each popped while that overpowering infection burst from within. It freaked him out. Sid swiped at the remaining babies. Slapping his chest and shoulders. “Abram help me!” He panicked.

  “There be no way in hell me be touching those, Sid. I don’t want that shit all over me hands.” He raised a hand, like Sid cared.

  -pop-pop-

  “Abram!” The mustache barked. While infants exploded.

  “Sid, no. Ye already gots me with whatever the fuck this.” He held his hand with a ‘do you see this shit’ motion. “How do ye expects me to explains this to anybodys. Do yas knows what kinds of trade me is going to haves to give justs for an alchemist to suggests what cans be done—just waits it out Sid they seems to be popping anyways.”

  -pop-pop-

  “Abram!” The mustache could only howl. Thick hand slap and swipe.

  What Abram said was true. The tiny Widowmakers were popping, but Sid was not paying attention to that. In his mind he was only covered with spiders. Little things he just couldn’t shake free of.

  Arieo loved watching the big guy panic. Something about seeing the big boys squirm like. It that really brought him joy. The whimpers that fat man produced—pure satisfaction. Serves him right though, taking that beautiful ear of his—squirm you jerk. Dance you animal.

  “Haw-Haw.”

  “Oh-ho-ho ye be a ruthless one Arieo.” Abram laughed with his pal. Watching while Sid worry and slap himself. “Look out Sid there be a big one behinds yas!” Abram laughed. Arieo did too, hollering something as well.

  Smashing the last fat baby against the back of his neck, Sid did not laugh. That was not a funny joke. If there had been a Widowmaker he would have simply run. Letting Abram and his donkey deal with it. He could only look over himself, then above. The treetops were dimly glowing. Like a faint and wispy cloud that blocks the sky. Shadows could be seen scurrying this way and that way. He watched one with particularity. That shadow grew with texture and shape as it emerged from a spot in the webbing above.

  “Come on Abram, lets hurry up and get out of these woods.” The mustache wiggled. Still watching the monster while it maneuvered through the branches above.

  Abram seen what Sid did. He pulled at Arieo, who got that wagon moving. Fenrir too found his spot under the wagon in the depths of the shadow. Sid led the group through the forest. Directing anew when the cobwebs were to thick. Winding through the trees like a snake. Charred blade acting as the head snapping through any webbing that would pose problems—even the fresh dewy ones, never sticking to his blade either. Abram in the middle watching above, only a reach behind, senses sharp—well maybe not sharp, but he was attentive enough for any other threats. Then there was Arieo, slowly pacing behind like the tail. His wagon wheel even squeaked with warning. Fenrir was unseen in the shadows underneath. Still though, he was another set of eyes watching the back.