Sorrel

Sorrel had had enough. Enough lectures from his father about being more reverant, enough tearful pleas from his mother to just try to be like the others, to worship and dedicate himself as he ought. Enough of being told by his clan to sit down, be still, shape up. Enough of apologizing to flowers before he picked them, of being made to stand in line, say his prayers, do obeisance to the Gladekeeper - a being he was not entirely sure he actually believed in. Enough of humbling himself, laying his head on the earth, watching where he stepped lest he trample the Gladekeeper's precious plants. Enough of asking blessings from a tree, of all things. Zealots, all of them, his whole clan; trapped in their rote devotions and holy rites to a deity none of them had ever seen.

Well, this would show them. He surveyed his handiwork in smug satisfaction: the fouled spring, the torn-up garden, the trampled, broken alters and memorials to those who had taken service with the disciples of the Gladekeeper. The sacred tree - grown from a seed from the Behemoth itself - wept sap from the ring he had ripped and gouged around its trunk. It wouldn't last long, he knew. Within a few days, it would begin to wilt, unable to draw water from the earth into its boughs.

It was lucky that the clan's nesting grounds were far enough from the sacred grove not to hear him. He had gloried in the destruction; years of pent-up resentment released all at once in a storm of rage and devastation. Soon, he'd sneak back to the nests, and no one would ever be able to prove he had done it. Perhaps they'd even take it as a sign of the Gladekeeper's disfavor. He snickered quietly. Their faces would be priceless. He'd have to work to keep from laughing when they discovered what he'd done. He couldn't wait.

He was running his eyes over the ruin he had made one last time when a presence behind him made him flinch. His clan leader, no doubt, coming to morning worship early. Sorrel turned, excuses already on his lips - it wasn't me, I heard a noise and came to look, someone ran off into the brush as I got here - but the words died in his throat. It wasn't his clan leader.

At first he thought that the forest had moved, trees standing in his way where there had been none before. But slowly, disbelievingly, he realized that the trees were really legs, and they were attached to the body of an immense dragon. He looked up, and up, and up; past the rootlike claws, sunk deep into the earth, past the plants and vines growing up the length of her tree trunk legs, past the trees with their roots sunk deep into her shoulders, and into enormous eyes the deep, dark green of moss-shrouded pools, of shadowed copses, of the mix of decomposing vegetation and loam in which all things ended.

He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He could only stare. Until she shifted, tilting her head just the slightest bit. And then he threw himself to the ground, curling tight against himself, covering his eyes with claws and wings and tail. You weren't supposed to look, right? That was what they said. That the sight of her was not meant for mortal eyes.

He lay shaking, his lungs laboring for breath. A creak and a surging rustle of leaves made him crack open one eye, only to see a huge, woody claw descending toward him. He squeezed the eye shut again, fully expecting the Gladekeeper to strike him dead for what he had done.

Instead, her claws brushed over him, and he changed. He felt his bones and sinews twist and harden into wood, the leather of his wings shred and reform into leaves, his blood thicken into slow-moving sap. It hurt, worse than anything he could remember. But when it was over he was still there, his pained gasps causing his new-leafed wings to rustle and clatter like aspen leaves in a breeze.

Until you understand the worth of the green and growing things, the Gladekeeper said, her voice snaking into his mind, curling around his thoughts like clinging vines. Until you repent of the life you have destroyed, atone for what you have done, and find me again, this shall be your form.

By the time he dared to open his eyes again, she was gone, and he was left with a body that creaked when he moved - twisted and stiff, so unlike his former supple grace - and wings that fluttered and swished and refused to hold him up.

Some indeterminable time later, he became aware of the members of his clan crowding around where he lay in the growing morning light, still gently flexing his rigid claws and flapping his leafy wings in vacant disbelief. He looked up at them, at the way they looked over the destruction he had caused, then turned back to him, horror on their faces, anger and incredulity warring in their eyes.

"Sorrel?" his mother asked, her voice tentative, hoping it wasn't him, already knowing it was. When he turned toward her, slowly, labriously, her face crumpled and she fell, weeping, against his father's chest. His father only stared, wordless, his eyes icy, his face hard, and the hope that they would take him back died before it had fully formed. There was no going back.

He knew his clan leader's words before they ever left his mouth. "You are banished," he said. "From this moment. You must go, and never return to this place, on pain of death. The faithless are not welcome here."

For a moment, Sorrel wondered if it would be easier to let them tear him apart. He wasn't sure that he wanted to live. But he found suddenly that he didn't want to die, either. Especially, he thought, numb disbelief giving way to rage, especially if he ended up with the Gladekeeper in the afterlife.

He cast one pleading look at his parents, but his mother refused to look at him, her face still buried in his father's chest, and his father only watched, stone-faced.

So he fled, as well as he was able. His new body fought him, unresponsive and clumsy, tripping him up, slowing him down. But he kept on, stubbornly, desperately, getting back up every time he stumbled. He spent days blundering through the Viridian Labyrinth, slowly becoming accustomed to his new body, forcing it to work as best he could.

He was driven from any clan he happened near, sometimes with fearful politeness, more often with equally fearful anger. All the forest clans knew the touch of the Gladekeeper when they saw it and were unwilling to risk her wrath by sheltering one she had cursed.

At first he raged, cursing the Gladekeeper and his new, troublesome body. But the slow-running sap in his veins had cooled his anger, dampened his fury; he could no longer hold onto his passions as he once had. Then, his anger became a slow-simmering bitterness, reinforced by every clan that turned him away, every dragon that looked at him with fear or disgust. Finally, he sank into a black despair.

He left the forest far behind, wandering without hope or direction, moving on only because he could not find a reason to stop. He found that he no longer needed to eat, only to drink a little water and spread his leaves in the sun. He no longer slept as he had before either, only had periods of slow-breathed stillness, when his thoughts drifted sluggishly and his body stretched and stiffened to hold him upright. He never let these periods last long, terrified that he might take root and lose the ability to move at all. Days and nights blended together, and he couldn't say how long he had been traveling.

He noticed the dragon that flew above him from the west, brilliant white and deep indigo against the bright blue of the sky, but in a vague, detached way. It was there, but it really had nothing to do with him. The dragon circled, then banked away, flying quickly back the way it had come. Sorrel watched it go, then forgot it, returning his attention to his awkward progress across the plain.

But the dragon returned, leading two more, a fluffy blonde and green tundra, and a massive tan and rust-red guardian. Sorrel watched them, surprised and apprehensive, as they headed straight for him. Perhaps he was encroaching on their territory. They were probably here to chase him off. He sagged. He was tired, and didn't know if he could face another pursuit.

The three dragons landed before him, the tundra a little ahead of the other two. She looked him up and down, taking in his strange appearance, then stepped forward. Sorrel flinched back, afraid of her reaction, wary of an attack, but all she did was touch her nose to his in greeting.

"Hello," she said, her expression one of friendly interest. "Where are you headed?"

And that was it; no angry demands to leave their territory, no incredulous query - "what happened to you?" - no fearful glance around as if someone might be listening. Sorrel glanced nervously at her companions, but the guardian only stood silently, his face impassive, and the first dragon he'd seen, a skydancer, seemed to be inspecting his claws in disinterested preoccupation.

"Nowhere," Sorrel said finally, looking away. "Anywhere."

The tundra smiled. "Us too," she said. "Why don't you come along?"