Free Freewalker by Dennis Foon

both.
    The voracious plants, however, do not disperse despite hours of Roan’s soulful playing. In fact, quite the opposite.
    â€œThe good news is the numbness is gone in my hand,” says Lumpy. “The bad news is those plants really like your playing. Hey—they’re shifting position.”
    Roan looks up to see a mass of tendrils swooping toward them. “Lift your legs!” he shouts. The plants smash against the tree, and Roan senses a fine powder drift past his face.
    â€œDo you feel that?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSomething... I’m not sure.” Keeping all his senses attuned to the plants, Roan tries to shake off the sluggishness folding over him.
    â€œYou’re sure this isn’t a trap, right? No chance at all the Turned might have stuck the image of the boy in your mind to draw you here.”
    â€œNo. I’ve felt some of their tricks before. This is different.” Roan holds out the recorder. “Your turn. At least it kept them at bay.”
    â€œI’d try, only, well... you’ve heard me. I don’t want to make them angry.”
    â€œI need a break, my fingers are aching. Play Jaw’s song,” says Roan, pushing the instrument into Lumpy’s hand.
    Lumpy takes a breath and blows, picking out the notes of a tune he and Jaw wrote together. The only one he knows really well, the one he and his little friend played so often. Eyes closed, lost in thoughts of brighter days, he repeats the simple melody again and again. The attacks soon abate. The stalks weave and nod. Crimson tendrils wave in the wind, creating a hypnotic vista, the echo of a rhythm to sleep by, a rhythm to die by. Whenever Lumpy pauses, the stalks strike, surrounding them in a cloud of powder. In a short time, Lumpy too is played out and the worried look he shares with Roan speaks volumes. They know in a matter of hours they will succumb to exhaustion and the plants will have them.
    When dissonant thumps, not unlike the call of a wild bird, echo through the marshlands, the sound seems an eerie prelude to their demise.
    â€œWhat was that?”
    Roan signals Lumpy to be quiet. Breathing very slowly, he releases all fear, thought, and self-awareness. When his mind is completely clear, he reaches for his hook-sword.
    â€œRoan!” Lumpy whispers, but Roan’s feet are already on the ground.
    â€œGrab the packs and follow me.”
    Tendrils swoop down, but Roan can see a pattern, like a moving tapestry. He anticipates every assault, slicing the carnivorous plants off at the head, slowly clearing the way to the water.
    â€œThere!” Lumpy gasps, and Roan stops.
    The stalks are parting. A sleek, low boat is coming toward them. A box is fastened to the bow, thick smoke billowing out of it. The stalks edge away from the smoke. It’s oddly comforting to know that the sword is not the only way to manage this threat. The paddler draws in, close enough for Roan to see his face.
    â€œGet in,” the boy says.

PERFECT BODY AND MIND
    OH, TO BE A DOCTOR IN THE CITY
YOU’D BE RICH, WELL FED AND WITTY
BUT TO KEEP THE MASTERS PRETTY
IS A JOB SOME WOULD DEEM... GRITTY
AND THAT’S THE ENDING TO MY DITTY
    â€”LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS
    A MASS OF WIRES extends from every part of Stowe. Each wire connects to a machine where technicians hover anxiously over dials. Dr. Arcanthas has been testing her for hours, scanning, monitoring, probing.
    â€œI want to see Darius.” The imperiousness in Stowe’s voice causes the doctor’s tiny eyebrows to lift.
    â€œPardon me?”
    Stowe shoots him a rabid glare. “I want to speak with Darius.”
    His face tics nervously, his cheek lifting. “I relayed a message, as you requested, one hour ago, Our Stowe, and every hour before that.”
    â€œDo it again,” she snarls.
    Dr. Arcanthas freezes, as do the three technicians. They cannot leave their posts, but it is clear they wish they could be anywhere