Tristan Strong Punches a Hole in the Sky: Chapters 8–17

“...Seems like discussing them brings them around faster.”
With that cryptic comment, we started off.

Something in the leaves grabbed her attention, and she seemed transfixed by it.

“Fetterlings.”
“Fetter what?” I shouted back.
“A type of iron monster.”

The bigger ones had the collar, much thicker chains, and chain-like arms that ended in open manacles.

“See those pincer hands?” Brer Fox said as the fetterlings’ appendages clacked together. “They use those to drag off their victims.”

There were just too many adversaries.

Fox’s attack took them by surprise, so he was able to dispatch several bigger monsters before they knew what had hit them.

The treetops rustled and branches snapped as more of the fiendish creatures raced to join the fight.

The wondrous display had them riveted, like cats watching a laser pointer.

I couldn’t see the giant or any fetterlings now, but I could still hear the rustling, rattling skirmish.

As the shadows and whispers faded, everything seemed fuzzy and distant, like a dream dissipating in the morning, but a throbbing pain in my knuckles quickly brought me back to reality.

She hopped down from the bed and bounded through the small round door, her voice fading as she disappeared into the shadows.

I gingerly sank down to one knee, keeping a close eye on a thorn at butt level, and said, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Forget I said that, all right? I’m new here, and everything’s kind of freaking me out right now.”

“He said we can’t hide from our fears. We have to be able to talk about them, or else they’ll fester like poison, eating us from the inside.”

Above the humongous oval-shaped room, thorny branches arched like the roof of a dome, with creeper vines and yellow seed pods hanging down like streamers from rafters.

The other side of the amphitheater was set against what looked like a giant, wrinkled brown wall. Thick knobby whorls of the same brown extended from the wall’s base.

In the stories, the Thicket is where Brer Rabbit tricked Brer Fox into releasing him. But it was just a prickly bush thing….This...this was a whole city of vines and thorns. A citadel. A fortress.

By the time the offending piece of thicket had been removed from my posterior and Gum Baby had stopped laughing, a trio of adults stood over me with their arms crossed and serious expressions on their faces.

In the early years after slavery, when Black people were struggling to find their way, John Henry was a rock to his small community. When he accepted a sadistic railroad magnate’s challenge and raced a steam-powered drill through a mountain and emerged victorious on the other side, he became a source of pride, even after the effort stopped his heart and he collapsed dead.

In the early years after slavery, when Black people were struggling to find their way, John Henry was a rock to his small community. When he accepted a sadistic railroad magnate’s challenge and raced a steam-powered drill through a mountain and emerged victorious on the other side, he became a source of pride, even after the effort stopped his heart and he collapsed dead.

I meant to say something profound. Something along the lines of how much his story meant to me, and how it had inspired me. Something deep and intelligent.

“Spy!” he snarled. “How did he follow us? Is the Warren compromised? Who told you where to find us?”

Let’s say the greatest storyteller to ever entertain had infused it with magic somehow.

Brer would occasionally drop a disappointed sigh or a snide comment here or there, and John Henry lectured everyone.

Brer hopped back a step with a smug expression on his face.

Her voice was softer and less brash.

Something savory wafted up the hallway and my stomach rumbled.

Children sat in groups, some wolfing down their food and others listlessly picking at it.

Get me Anansi’s power, boy, or this journal of yours and everything else is kindling.

Slivers of sunlight squeezed through the cracks in the branches, and I caught a glance of cloudless blue skies more than once.

The Ma—their leader is devious in ways we never could’ve imagined.

“This is the Warren,” John Henry whispered as we watched Brer work. “Them little holes are tunnels that lead all over MidPass, and even beyond. Somebody once said a few of ’em go clear over to the mainland. Brer’s friends gather information and bring it back here, where he organizes and files it away for future reference.”

“Some of us, boy, actually contribute around here. Some of us believe that helping everyone survive is important. I solve problems—problems that you created—so spare me the insolent sarcasm and start pulling your weight.”

“Provided we figure out a way past them, which I’m working on, there are two people I know who can make it through that fire unscathed, but only one of them can fix the rip in the sky and perhaps rid us of our unwelcome guest.”

I waited for an explanation, and from their looks, so were Miss Sarah and Miss Rose, but John Henry and Brer just glowered at each other.

“Story Box. A treasure vault for tales and ballads. A repository for lullabies and fables older than the sun, some familiar, some no one has ever heard before.”

He always had to prove himself the smartest, the trickiest, and above all, the most renowned.

“There’s some wood over on the Alkean continent,” John Henry mused.

“So, any stories told in its vicinity would be drawn to it. And vice versa.”

John Henry looked thoughtful again, while Miss Sarah and Miss Rose seemed skeptical.