Free The Last Stand of Daronwy by Clint Talbert Page A

eyes skyward. The gun lay across his lap. A wild hurricane of thoughts circled his seed-sized mind.
    Daronwy coaxed a breeze to rustle its scent through the air, herding it beneath the boughs of the brethren. Jeremiah inhaled the wind all the way into the bottom of his lungs, letting it out slowly, letting his mind dip into the unending conversation of air and breath and life, as naturally as though he had been born one of the brethren.
    A ragged scream abraded the edge of the tree’s energy. He recognized Travis’ unique blend of self-hatred and anger and could see him. Travis’ stepmother held him fast by the arm and hit him twice on the head with a belt. He twisted and stumbled out of her grip. She yelled at him, brandishing the belt overhead. He edged toward the door. Looking from it to her, he pushed through and sprinted across the street toward the line of shadows where she could not follow. Poor boy , Daronwy thought. Unlike Jeremiah, Travis could not hear the songs of the trees, and only the greatest desperation would allow him to touch this plane.
    Travis bolted to the dawn side of the pond, climbing the sadistic charade of a ladder that the last generation of saplings had nailed to one of the slender pines. Sitting on a platform, holding his throbbing head in his hands, the wild, desperate magic evaporated from him. Daronwy redoubled his tranquil breeze, pushing it up to Travis on his high perch. Though he could not understand it, he could feel it as a comforting breath against his tears. Perhaps it would be enough.
    â€œThe only mercy the human animal has from the Creator is the ephemeral flicker of its own life. Would you dare imagine what the Earth would be like if they lived a thousand seasons?” That dour meditation was offered into Daronwy’s spiral of thought by a nearby pine that stood nearly as ancient as the oak.
    â€œBest not to think of it now,” Daronwy admonished. “Best to maintain the peace of this energy and give solace where solace is due.”
    Yet, the question’s subtle disruption was enough. Jeremiah left the oak, wandering aimlessly through the forest, troubled by a thought he could not define or translate—the thought from the pine, tickling the edges of his mind. He walked to the pine grove and found himself standing beneath the very tree where Travis sat, high above.
    Jeremiah stared at the pond, rallying his mind to discern the thought, trying to ascertain what the question was. The two trees both bent their trunks toward him, interested to see how much this sapling could translate, how much he could understand of the Song. Travis watched him as well, holding a green pinecone in his fist. Travis released the cone. The trees watched it fall, choosing to let these things take their course; they gave the wind its power, allowing it to do what it willed. But it also chose not to act.
    The unopened cone cracked into Jeremiah’s skull. He swooned for a second, bracing his hand against the Club Tree, as he called it. Travis slithered back to the center of his platform, hand clapped over his mouth to contain his exclamation. Jeremiah stared up at the canopy a long moment, then, holding his head, staggered toward home.

    Eyes filling with unwanted, unnecessary tears, Jeremy careened through the trails he had mapped. His vision swam. Blood ran down his cheek and into his shirt collar. His feet crashed into one another. He righted himself for a few steps, then they tangled like puppet strings and he stumbled into the dirt. He kept thinking about putting one hand on his head, but he kept finding that hand swinging next to his side. Surprised, he’d clamp it back atop his head where he felt the blood oozing through his hair. Something moved to his right, breaking sticks with its weight. Jeremy swiveled around, swinging the gun into his sticky hands. The world swam with that swift movement and fresh blood tickled his right ear.
    â€œWhoa! Don’t