Beyond the Falling Sky

Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake.

And maybe you wouldn’t have blamed them. I made a terrible song and dance last Autumn, flapping around like a headless…you know…prattling on about the sky. I know that was ridiculous. I’ve learnt about gravity and changing seasons but at the time I really believed the sky was falling.

And I convinced them to believe it too. Henny Penny. Goosey Lucy. Ducky Wucky. All of them. They denied it later, said they were just humouring a stupid chook, but they believed. They believed right into Foxy’s den and if it wasn’t for you arriving, it might have been the last thing they did.

Their deaths would have been my fault and wouldn’t that have been fun on my conscience. What happened today…that’s on them. Because I tried to warn them, I did.

I’m a big hen now, but I was big enough back then to accept I got hoodwinked by an acorn that couldn’t hang on to its branch. I apologised. But would they understand? Give me a break?

Flock, no. They held a grudge because I made them look stupid. Chose to believe I pranked them, because who could think a nut falling from a tree was a portent of doom? Nobody trusted me after that. Everyone snubbed me, even my friends, always teasing if I’d shaken down any more acorns.

They wrote me off as a jackass and that was a big mistake. Because while I may have been wrong about the sky falling, I wasn’t wrong about it breaking. And that’s what happened.

It was the rift. Over the pig sty. Thin as a clawmark on the surface of the sky like a crack on an egg. And nobody could see it. Not Henny, nor Goosey, not Wiggly Pig or Tobe Goat or Jack Horse. Couldn’t see it or wouldn’t because it was me pointing it out.

I was practicing flying when I noticed, had fallen into the pig trough for the zillionth time and saw it as I was clambering out. To a chorus of piggy laughter. Those brutes were too, well, pig-headed to hear what I was saying so I tried showing the others instead but yhey refused to see. ‘Little’s at it again,’ they said. ‘Crying wolf, trying to fool us. She’s outstayed her welcome for sure.’

Outstayed my welcome. That’s funny, because I’m the last one standing! Maybe I should have left. I’d still have my golden feathers and wouldn’t look like a sewer rat, but…this is my home. They were my family. And the crack was right there. I had to make them see.

So up I went, on to the shed. To the weather vane. Barely managed to stay airborne but I made it. Onto the shingles then the rusty head of Mr. Brass Rooster. I had an audience then alright, they wanted to see what I was doing. Desperate Chicken Little, seeking attention. Thinks she’s sooo smart. I heard them yucking it up. And they still didn’t notice the rift!

If they’d seen it, that might have been the end of it. They would have believed me, maybe helped me get you out to take a look. Maybe none of the rest would have happened.

But they had to know I wasn’t making it up, so I flapped off the vane and flew at the crack.

“Look!” I remember shouting. “It’s right here, in front of my beak, can’t you…”

But that was as far as I got. The next thing they knew, I was falling, wings flailing, covered in gunk. Taking their attention off the rift, which they must have seen but ignored because ha! Chicken Little was falling!

They must have seen the gunk too, but then I was in the pig trough and they were laughing. They wouldn’t have laughed if they knew what I’d been through, because the next thing I knew after pecking at the crack was…a nightmare.

A world of darkness and ash.

Of tentacled creatures, slime-skinned monsters and…

Flaarge.

But I’m flapping ahead.

When my beak touched the crack I slipped into this horrible place. Dark clouds over barren rock. Swamps and marshes, pits of bubbling ooze. I landed in one and it started to suck me down. That’s when Flaarge pulled me out. I was terrified of him at first. A splodgy lump of tar with beady, black eyes. He didn’t have arms or legs, just tentacles dangling from his body and face.

I’m telling the truth, I swear!

It’s just so hard to explain, but when we made contact, we bonded. I could feel his pain and he could feel mine. We were the same. Abandoned. Mocked. For different reasons. His family wanted him to be like them, toxic and destructive, but he wasn’t.

He would have devoured me if he was.

Flaarge sensed in me what I sensed in him, that we were kindred spirits seeking acceptance. The others just wanted to eat things. When they caught him with me, they wanted to know where he got me so they could come here. He wouldn’t say. I know he wanted to help me and protect our world. So they bullied him and took me by force. That’s when things got bad.

Luckily, I can’t remember much. I was put in a pit of thick mucus that held me in place. They poked me with tentacles, invaded my mind, tried to see where I'd come from. I shut them out as best I could until my strength started to fade. If I hadn’t fainted the last time the big one probed me, I may have given up the secret. But while I was unconscious, Flaarge rescued me. I don’t know how, because his brothers were so big and mean, but when I finally came to we were running.

He was running, with me in his grasp, back to where he found me. He carried me to the top of a ridge and out onto a ledge until we overlooked the swamps and found the crack. He wanted me to get home. I told him to come, we could be friends, good for each other. If not there on his world, here on mine. I think he understood and maybe he’d have come. If not for them.

His family followed us up the mountain. Made it impossible to leave together. They would have seen the rift. And Flaarge knew that would be bad. He chose to stay, to draw them away, and threw me from the ledge into the crack.

I’m sure his plan was to come after me when he’d given them the slip.

But it didn’t work.

Because it wasn’t Flaarge who came through. It was them. Not long after I fell into the sty. I don’t want to think what they might have done to him...

And I took no pleasure in seeing the shock on everyone’s faces when they noticed the rift. When they heard that horrible slithering and looked up to see black tentacles poking out of the sky. When the owners of those tentacles crashed to the ground and started eating. Tobe Goat, Jack Horse, Wiggly Pig and his friends. Dog, Cat, Mouse. Goosey Lucy and her kids! Wrapped them in their tentacles and devoured them!

And there was I, running around in the middle of it all and they couldn’t see me. I guess because of this black crap on my feathers. It won’t come off. It makes me smell like their world and hides my scent. I figured that out and tried to help Henny and Ducky. Figured if they stayed close, the stench might mask them too. But guess what? They wouldn’t listen. Blamed me, said I summoned the monsters to spite them. Can you believe it?

I didn’t want to see my friends eaten so I hopped on the fence and flew, straight up, over the sty. I was going to go back through the rift, look for Flaarge, but just as I reached it…it popped. Like a balloon. Popped with a bang and was gone. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t lie. It scared an egg out of me. I have to tell you because that’s what happened the monsters. They couldn’t see me but they did see my egg. They were in a frenzy, must have thought it was something more to eat so they all reached to grab it and it broke. Then…

I don't know, they’re allergic to eggs? It splattered them and they just kind of shrivelled up and melted. Turned into those black puddles. Yeah, that’s them, and our poor friends mixed up inside.

I’m sorry, Farmer Brown. I tried to warn them. Now I guess it’s just you and...

Wait.

Where are you going?

Why are you leaving?

Haven’t you understood a single squawk?

Aw, cluck.

I really did save the world this time.

And nobody is ever going to know!

*

Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake.

As the runt of the Glordix pack, I’d given them cause. I hadn’t grown strong. My tentacles were stubby. My hunger and savagery were lacking in comparison to my brethren and my killing instinct was weak. Chaos at feeding grounds confused me. The sounds of slaughter made me sick. Three hunts they took me on and three times I froze, letting good prey escape.

It wasn’t my intention.

I wanted to eat and get big, mate and propagate my species. These are things I aspired to, but the stimulation of hunting overwhelmed me.

On my third expedition I got close. They’d starved me, hoping the gnawing emptiness would make me strike. It nearly did. But again, at the moment of truth…hesitation.

And they deemed that my last chance.

Blacklisted from raids. Denied access to Ryps. Left to slurp sludge while they feasted. In a multitude of fertile terrains. They indulged while I cursed my fear of my nature and begged them to give me another chance.

They wouldn’t, believing I was a wastrel that wouldn’t change.

So when they went again through a Ryp at K’thock, I stole a vial of Y’shak to open a Ryp of my own at the marshes of Ghol.

I had studied how my brother performed the ritual. The aerial inscription of runes using Y’Shak on the tip of a tentacle. The guttural uttering of spells from the Undaarck Scrolls.

I was successful on my first try. The mist above the marshes fractured and a Ryp soon opened. So I had an aptitude for something. But where did the unsanctioned Ryp lead? I had intended to traverse, to practice feasting without being judged, but again I suffered chronic hesitation. I don’t know if I ould have overcome it. Because it appeared before I had the chance.

The invader from another world.

Frail, winged body covered in feathers. Brightly coloured, until it fell into the mire. It shrieked and thrashed but that chaos was pleasing. The morsel intrigued me. I wanted to know more. What it was, what its world was, could I eat it.

So I slithered into the marsh to retrieve it.

And then the second miracle, when my tentacle closed around it and I mind-melded. It wasn’t what I expected. My brothers spoke of an experience where fear fueled their hunger, made their juices flow. In me, it inspired something different.

Familiarity. Recognition. Contempt.

Not for the winged thing spluttering and quivering in my grasp but for those who looked down on it and deemed it worthless. Those like my brothers.

No plan materialised, no conscious thought of how I might utilise this gift. I simply operated on instinct and instinct told me to take the creature, its golden plumage matted with marsh-slime, its eyes overflowing with fear, to the caves of K’thok.

I had no desire to eat it, no hunger stirred in me, which was disappointing. Until I realised it wasn’t my fault. What may have been a tasty morsel was contaminated by the marsh, swamp-stench obscuring its aroma, rendering it unappetising.

It was unfortunate, or not, that Mizizzak and the others had returned by the time I got back. They were fed but not sated. Never that. Running into them in the cavern, instinct told me to hide my cargo. They wouldn’t have eaten it, not in the state it was in, wouldn’t even have seen it as food. But their desire to subjugate me would have spoken.

When they mocked me, however, before retiring to the nest, chittering about their feast and how I’d never know the thrill of a hunt because I was a failure, that instinct changed.

Just that once, I had a way to counter their disdain. I had value and wanted them to know it. It was childish. But I showed them what I had and told them how I’d got it, not expecting respect but hopeful for acknowledgement of my crimes. Thievery, surreptiousness, unsanctioned Rypping.

They laughed and patted me on the head. ‘Cute little Flaarge,’ Mizizzak said, ‘He make Ryp by self! Anyone can make Ryp, but did you enter to catch gut-snack? Or it slide out to you?’

Bravado crumbled. Hesitation, that debilitating disease for which I had no cure, betrayed me. And they laughed more. ‘Give,’ Mizizzak said, tentacles swinging. ‘Why keep? It covered in marsh dung. Ah, but others of its kind might be tasty. You wish to terrorise this one, find courage to enter them’s world? Pathetic! Where is Ryp? Tell. We will devour for you!”

Was that why I kept the morsel? I didn’t know. Just…instinct. I didn’t want to give it, but they took. I didn’t want to tell them where the Ryp was, not unless I could go too. They laughed again and beat me.

They would not negotiate with a wastrel. They would find the Ryp themselves. Probe the morsel’s mind, extract its location. I could not stop them. They took my find to the depths of the lair and placed it in a pool of Y’Shak, to make it receptive to probing. I could only slink back to the nest to nurse my pride. Defeated again.

They didn’t glean the location of the Ryp on day one. Terrified and tormented, subdued by Y’Shak, the little morsel held firm, shielding its thoughts from my brothers. Again on day two and three. Such a fragile, speck of a thing with that much resilience. I was shamed.

On day four, I determined to free it. Why did they deserve the world I found? If they would not include me, they would not have it. I would return Little Morsel to its home and close the Ryp.

When I entered the chamber, having confirmed my other brothers still slept, Mizizzak was in the throes of deep mind-meld. Little Morsel was spasming in the oil, frightening movements and sounds. ‘Give!’ Mizizzak was saying. ‘Tell!’ I feared I had acted too late. Little Morsel was going to break. And it did. But not as expected.

I saw, from the crevasse, something erupt from its body. An oval shape, the antithesis of black, rising to the surface and bobbing as drops of Y’Shak slid from its surface. Mizizzak, surprised, ceased melding. Secured the object and lifted it close to his eyes. He tightened his grip, then…

What I saw both shocked and inspired me. The oval cracked. Insidious substances leaked from within, coating Mizizzak’s tentacle. Making his body collapse. It happened quickly. Once he was there, then he was shriveling up, shrinking and melting. In an instant he was transformed, from domineering Graveling to steaming puddle of Glordix on the ground.

Little Morsel was more than it appeared.

Any doubts I had left me. It had to be gone, and not just to spite my brothers. I didn’t cry over Mizizzak, didn’t give his fate a second thought. That would come later.

First, I needed to rid myself of this threat.

It was with extreme care that I removed the invader from the viscous Y’Shak. It was with great speed that I hastened from K’thok to the marshes of Ghol. My passenger awakened en route and stared at me in a way I could not comprehend. It seemed as though Little Morsel was grateful. Did I require gratitude? No. I do what I want, for me.

Was this being a Warrior in its land? Was its species destructive? I did not wish to discover, I just wanted it gone, but as I slithered to a halt at the edge of the ravine, preparing to fling it into the Ryp…commotion down the mountain drew my attention and I looked to see my family approach. They had noticed me leave, perhaps.

It was only then trusting my instincts bore fruition. Mizizzak was gone. Without him the others would flounder. We could bury the past. But why settle for that. When I could bury them too?

It didn’t require further thought. I threw Morsel into the Ryp and it vanished. I let my brethren approach. I did, in an act of kinship, attempt to warn them. ‘Don’t go,’ I said. ‘The creature is a biological threat, it killed our brother.’

They laughed. They pushed. Told me to go back to the lair.

Then they leapt from the cliff and dove through the crack.

I retrieved the vial of stolen Y’Shak I’d left in a cleft in the rock. A splash, on the tip of a tentacle, the appropriate air engravings, the recitation of a spell of Underaak.

Yes. I was a natural at this.

The Ryp disappeared.

My brothers were gone, and if Little Morsel and her kind were as deadly as I thought, perhaps they would never return.

Underestimating me was their mistake.

Believing in myself was my salvation.