#phylla rebellion

[towncalledkingdom]

The walnut in Merrick’s hand was crushed to dust before he realized what he’d done. He lifted the shattered pieces before his visor for a closer inspection before throwing them angrily to the ground, crunching the remains beneath a heavy boot. He stopped at the edge of a small clearing, squinting at the bright beam of direct sunlight boring down like some enormous laser pointer. His skin boiled beneath his heavy armor. Had it been a cooler day, however, Merrick would be boiling nevertheless.

The man approaching beneath the dazzling light set off alarms in Merrick’s head, moving his arm automatically to a heavy blunt object at his back. “The Weevil’s Head,” he’d named it. Mostly because it was, literally, the head of an enormous weevil. He didn’t wonder much about the science of that. He knew he wanted to hit things, and had been given just the weapon to do that with. Merrick’s fist curled instinctively, the other gripping hard at his weapon’s handle.

“I don’t want to fight you, son,” said the man as he passed from the light back into the forest shade. Cicadas cried out angrily from the trees. “I believe I know why you’re here, and I may be able to help you. But if you swing at me I promise it will not end well for you.”

Merrick did not move. “Berwald.“ He spat the name from his mouth. “Where is my father?”

Berwald eyed him coolly, hands clasped behind his back. “He is alive. Let’s talk somewhere more comfortable.”

“No. We’ll talk here,” Merrick snarled. Movement in the trees behind the defector Captain did little to ease the young man’s nerves. Rope ladders descended from high branches as men and women still wearing their uniforms climbed down to stand at attention behind their leader.

“We may no longer be Eleanor’s soldiers, boy, but that doesn’t make us your friends. You come here alone dressed for a fight and expect to leave with something? You’re at our mercy, not the other way around. You have no faction, you have no power. Come in. Sit down. Let’s talk.” Berwald stood relaxed and unarmed, eyes never leaving the dark space hiding Merrick’s eyes.

The armored boy’s face burned behind his helm. “Fine.”

Berwald motioned him forward, not bothering to step out of the way as Merrick approached and passed him. The defected Privateers parted as the pair passed through them toward a makeshift cabin beneath a towering tree trunk. A squat table had been arranged inside, two plates set with meat, garlic potatoes, and pints of water.

“I had a feeling you’d stop by,” said Berwald as he closed the door behind them. The two sat before the steaming plates. Merrick eyed his food suspiciously. He was starving and his skin crawled beneath pouring sweat. “I’m not going to poison you, son. And for God’s sake at least take your helmet off before you have a heat stroke.” The thought of hot food at this moment nearly made Merrick gag, but he was certainly hungry. He gave in and removed his helm, his hair now a soaking mess.

Berwald seated himself and took a long drink from his water. He considered Merrick for a long while before he spoke again. “Your father is alive,” he repeated. “Several of my people were escorting him to the Dungeon while your friend had me tied to a tree.”

“I don’t want to hear your story. I want to know how to get him back,” Merrick grunted. He shoveled a heap of potatoes into his mouth, holding them there for a moment as if checking for an unfamiliar flavor before swallowing them in a single gulp. “Where, exactly, is he and how, exactly, do I bring him out?”

The Captain clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. He pointed a slow finger at the armored boy. “You don’t get to make demands.”

The cabin door burst open and a middle-aged woman in a crisp grey uniform careened through it. “S-sir there’s trouble!”

Berwald was already on his feet, “Eleanor? The fanatics? Report, private!”

“N-neither, sir!” she stammered. “A mob is approaching through the trees to the East! Scouts said they saw Kestrel and Mako leading them.”

“Phylla?” Berwald puzzled. “I thought Mantis had them under control.”

“It seems you were wrong, sir.”

Berwald’s gaze bored into Merrick’s. “I’m going to trust you not to surprise me out there, son. Truthfully I don’t know what’s going on, but I would assume the boiling pot has finally tipped for Phylla. They never liked Mantis or any of Eleanor’s screwed-up family. I’ll give you a pass until you swing at me. You do that and you’ve made your choice. A stupid choice, but it’s yours to make.”

“Shut up, old man,” Merrick scoffed. “Let’s go hit some people.”

As they emerged from the makeshift cabin, Merrick surveyed the area closely for the first time. Above him, so high into the canopy he had to crane his neck, a network of rope bridges connected dozens of circular tree huts. Long rope ladders were being dropped from them left and right, making way for people in Privateer uniform to join them on the forest floor. Their feet hit the ground in a steady rhythm as the fell into formation behind their Captain. Berwald’s hands were clasped once again behind his back as he pulled his troops to him like a magnet to metal shavings.

In contrast to the synchronized bootfalls of the ex-Privateers came the soft, uneven pounding of running feet. Flashes of light tunics slid between the distant trees. The mob moved like a flood- some charging directly forward while others crept along at the fringes of Merrick’s vision. Two men easily outdistanced the rest of the fighters, one shooting forward so fast and light it seemed his legs weren’t even hitting the ground, the other shoving powerfully toward them in a loose, curving line.

"Darts at the ready!” called Berwald. “Only release on my word!” The two men leading the charge- Merrick assumed they were Mako and Kestrel- stopped abruptly at the edge of the clearing in the same space Merrick had been standing less than an hour before. Berwald’s hands remained firmly at his back as he took three steps toward them.

“I am not thrilled with a mob rushing our base without warning. Speak your business if you want to settle this civilly.” The Phylla fighters began filling the edges of the clearing like oil on water. Berwald’s squad stood in smart formation behind him, arms confidently at their tranquilizers.

One of the men lowered his head and flashed a deep grin, revealing narrow gaps between each tooth. Merrick knew it was Mako before he spoke. “Who wants to be civil?” asked Mako. Beside him his companion sifted through the soldiers, meeting each gaze in turn as if evaluating them for weakness. “You’ll remember it was your people who stabbed Caracal and whisked her body mysteriously away before anyone could actually see it. But please,” he stretched the word out along his tongue, “tell me more about Privateer civility.”

“We are no longer under Eleanor. We defected soon after the events at the King’s Council.” Berwald’s face grew uncharacteristically red.

“I see. So it wasn’t YOU and your people that shot all the Council members during the confusion? And it certainly couldn’t have been you at the front of a Privateer squad shouting 'for the Warden!' that day, could it?"

"Mako," Berwald cut in, "you have to listen to me now. The people you see are not your enemies until you make them so. We have decided to resist the Warden, and that makes us allies."

"You should have thought of that before declaring war on a hornet's nest like Phylla." smiled Mako.

Kestrel spoke for the first time. "And what, exactly, are you, little knight?" he called to Merrick, who had been standing at the head of the defector army just behind the Captain.

Merrick pulled Weevil's Head from its strap and bounced it in a hand. "I'm the man who's going to give you a real headache if you don't let me get back to what I was doing."

Kestrel took a long look at Merrick's weapon and began to laugh. "Is that- are you carrying one of HIS weapons? That disgraceful dropout couldn't do something right if he knew how!"

Merrick raised his eyebrows, remembering all of the items he had broken with Weevil's Head as he trekked through Kingdom. He had to disagree with the mocking Kestrel. It would do the job just fine. He glanced at Berwald and gave him a nod. The man returned a slight, sad smile.

"Captain Berwald," boomed Mako loud enough for both of the gathered crowds to hear, "seeing as there is no acting Council, Phylla stands accusing you of crimes against our leader and our people. We have determined you and all who wear the Privateer colors to be guilty and our enemies. Drop your weapons and come peacefully, or we will use be forced to resort to unpleasant means."

Berwald raised a fist in the air. Tranquilizers raised in unison. "You have no power to judge me and no right to attack my soldiers. Where is your acting Alpha? Where is Mantis?"

Mako and Kestrel exchanged a sly glance. Kestrel spoke. "As of this morning the Six Houses no longer recognize Mantis, defected Privateers, or any of Eleanor's compatriots as our own. They have been found guilty of conspiring against our Alpha and have made themselves our enemies."

"And such is the way of every war," sighed Berwald, "the commoner dies at the whim of the ignorant bastard."

"Lay down your weapons and come peacefully," demanded Kestrel, hands cupped over his mouth like a megaphone. Berwald rolled his eyes, drew his tranquilizer from his back and fired two shots directly into Mako and Kestrel in a single practiced motion.

In the seconds of confusion before the forest exploded Berwald turned to Merrick. "Son?" he called as the men's faces roiled in shock and outrage. "Hit anything without a uniform."

[towncalledkingdom]

My eyes have been glued to monitor number one for nearly an hour. Nothing is really happening on screen yet, but the King’s Council is not scheduled to meet until 9 A.M. A dozen empty chairs have been tucked in around a long table. Gram Hilda, overseer of the Apothequarium and Kingdom’s oldest living resident, has been sitting at the table since I sat down with my coffee this morning. She has not spoken. She has not eaten. I watched her go an entire five minutes without blinking.

Gram Hilda has been an integral piece of Kingdom’s history for nearly a century. She probably remembers my father as a child. She was there to see Eleanor as a terrified young woman pulling her three confused children into Town Square. She met my mother. I’ve read her records.

Gram Hilda’s family came from somewhere outside of America. They found their way into Tennessee from some distant country, and had the misfortune of trapping themselves in Kingdom when Gram was a teenager. Gram’s father viewed Kingdom’s fields and open land as an opportunity at a successful new life. He spoke endlessly of what a blessing it was to have found their way here. Gram’s mother, however, panicked at the sudden confinement. She mourned her inability to return home, knowing that she and her family would be dead to all who loved them. She hung herself in a barn when Gram was seventeen.

Goaded by the death of their mother, Gram and her sister spiraled into a life of violent rebellion. Together they gathered a group of unscrupulous denizens and formed the most notorious gang in Kingdom: The Lesovik. For four decades the Lesovik terrorized the wealthy citizens, plundering their storehouses and hiding out in nearly unreachable treetop outposts. When the Privateers finally rounded up the gang and arrested them en masse, Gram’s sister was nowhere to be found. Gram served twenty years in The Dungeon before my father announced that her sentence had been completed and released her.

During her stay in The Dungeon, Gram had become a sort of celebrity. Self-taught using rain water and cool man-made wells, Gram was well versed in the art of aquatic healing, and was given a temporary position at the Apothequarium. Gram’s skill, determination, and leadership ability eventually led her to take over as head of the institution when the previous head stepped down.

It’s as if Gram Hilda is replaying the years moment by moment in her head. The rest of the King’s Council has nearly arrived. Caracal, dressed in slacks and a sharp jacket with the sleeves pulled back to reveal bandaged fists, marches in to sit beside Gram. Drs. Elwick and Todrick Leifson, co-principals of Smoke University, carry a wide chair between them, pushing others aside to make room for theirs before dropping into it in unison. “Hello, ladies!” they say, smiling together as they greet Gram and Caracal. Caracal manages a short nod. Gram ignores them.

A young black man in glasses enters the room, a book open in his hand. He stops halfway toward his seat. “Did I sit here last time?” he wonders aloud.

“Over there!” reply Elwick and Todrick, pointing to the seat across from Caracal.

“And where will I sit today?” he asks, closing his book.

“Sit on floor if you have to, Esmur. Too many questions,” says Gram, speaking for the first time.

Esmur smiles. “Disdain for questions is a sure sign of secrets.”

“Talk to me again and I’ll take book from hands,” Gram grumbles. Her mouth scowls but her eyes smile.

Every inch of the conference room is visible on my screens. The Watchman old-guard had felt that if we were to only document one thing it should be the King’s Council. It’s where decisions were made, battles began, and technology was revealed. Fates were decided here and rulers were ousted in that very room.

Esmur sits down a couple of seats up from Caracal, tilting his head to the side and looking at her as he scoots forward. “New Alpha, unexpected Beta, eminent target of Eleanor’s rage,” he says. “You didn’t kill her, did you?”

Caracal scoffs, “I’m not sure that I could kill Mantis. Not while she’s awake, anyway.”

“A dangerous confession,” says Esmur, raising his eyebrows.

The remaining two leaders of the Church of M are in the midst of a heated debate as they walk through the door. Jericho, Grand Reformer of the Penitent and Dorcas O'Donahue, Defender of the Servants, end their argument abruptly as they take their seats. Jericho gives a sweeping wave to the gathered Council. O'Donahue greets everyone by name and asks them how they’ve been before sinking into a chair between Esmur and Caracal.

Morty, Dean of Morty’s Middlegarten, saunters in, hands deep in his pockets. Whispers of dark, bouncing curls wave from the side of his head as he walks. He chews on his bottom lip. His eyes are distant. “Hey everybody,” he says, clearing his throat several times.

“Need more coffee, boy,” says Gram.

Morty smiles. “Probably so, Gram. Probably so.”

Caracal���s eyes are fixed on Jericho, burning into him as he feigns ignorance. She grinds her teeth. Esmur murmurs quietly with O'Donahue as they wait for the last Council member to arrive. Morty peers into a camera hidden in the table edge. “Hey Watchman!” he whispers. “It doesn’t count if I talk through one of these, right?”

“Hey Morty,” I say, knowing that he can’t hear me.

I’ve noticed a strange sort of reverence in the people of Kingdom. Many of them gesture toward places they know the cameras are hiding. Some speak to me in secret, telling me their plans and dreams. Others are forever trying to hide from the cameras, covering them with clothing or standing at the edges of the frame. Such attempts are futile, of course, due to the sheer number of them hiding in every corner of the town. Whoever had installed them had foreseen this reaction. Children in the dorm at Morty’s Middlegarten have built little shrines in some places, booths to speak with me as if in prayer. But I can’t answer their prayers. Nothing pains me as much as the voice of a child yearning for a home they’ll never return to.

…

The Council waits for over an hour before Eleanor strides in. “Wait by the door, Matthew,” she orders, leaving a young Privateer stationed just outside the room.

Gram Hilda scowls. “No one outside door, woman.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes and calls, “Dismissed, private.” Matthew’s footsteps echo down the corridor.

The room is deathly silent as Eleanor walks toward the table. Caracal, Morty, and Gram do nothing to hide their hatred for her. Dorcas O'Donahue stares into her lap as Esmur’s hands fold into his. Even Elwick and Todrick stare into space, unwilling to meet Eleanor’s gaze. Only Jericho nods in greeting. Even he remains wary.

My chest tightens as I see her. Waves of exhaustion gather behind my eyes and at the base of my neck. A thousand terrifying memories begin playing themselves unbidden before my eyes. Eleanor shoving my brother’s head beneath the water of an aquarium. The crack of a belt across Madison’s exposed legs and back. A hole punched in Roland’s wall. Five shivering children huddling together outside one winter’s night. Thousands and thousands of holes dug by a child’s torn hands. I shudder and try to focus on the screen.

Eleanor’s smile would be winsome had any of the Council been meeting her for the first time. She moved with an air of authority, spoke with the expectation of obedience. “It seems we need to address a few things,” she says, still standing. She locks eyes with Caracal. “Let’s start with Phylla’s blatant disregard for Kingdom Law.”

[towncalledkingdom]

Junkheap Dojo is quiet this morning. Mantis sits with her head buried into her hands, palms pressed to her dark, burning eyes. Two men stand before her, hands clasped at their backs in respectful silence. The sound of cheerful birds only deepens her melancholy.

The days following Caracal’s apparent murder at the hands of the Privateers had not gone as Mercury had said they would. What was meant to spark enmity between Eleanor and the other factions had certainly succeeded, but they had all overlooked a crucial detail: the long-held distrust Phylla held for her children. Mantis had known this all along, but had trusted Mercury and the Watchman to look out for her in the aftermath. In that respect, they had failed her. Mantis had marched back to Junkheap Dojo believing that she would be leading a rebellion against her tyrant mother, only to be met with resentment and murder in the eyes of her new constituents.

“Our Alpha has been murdered at Eleanor’s hands!” she’d cried to the silent mob. “Phylla will not let this crime against us stand.” She’d raised her fist in the air, a signal of unity and defiance. It was in that moment that she realized who was being defied.

It was then that Kestrel and Mako had moved in like the predatory totems they emulated. Pulling on the accusatory glares of the crowd they had walked to the front of the Dojo where Mantis stood. “The day Mamba let you and your brother take our names was the day Phylla began to die,” Mako had said, jabbing a finger at Mantis. “We’ve been watching you slip away in the night. Where have you been going?”

Kestrel had spread his hands wide, then, and turned to the crowd. “Reporting to her mother! Reporting to Eleanor like the spy she is!” The fighters had roared in anger and confusion. Mako had shouted as if on signal, “We have no Alpha! We have no Alpha! Down with Eleanor! Down with her spies!”

Mantis met the men where they stood shouting, hands raised. The mob quieted but stood as if about to charge. Mako and Kestrel stood with crossed arms before her. “Everything I have done, I have done within the law.” Her voice was confident, even. “But I understand your fear.“ She paused, allowing the crowd to grow quiet. "I understand you fear! That very fear- the fear of being deceived. The fear of being unfairly ruled. The fear of becoming something you don’t want to become. That’s a fear every Privateer understands. That’s why my brother and I left, why we came to Phylla. That’s why we slipped out in the middle of the night and ran from Eleanor, not knowing whether you would even take us. It’s why we risked everything to throw ourselves at your leader’s feet. Some of you were kind to us and obeyed your Alpha’s wishes when she accepted us. Most of you were not. And now I stand before you- rightful leader by your own laws- pleading to your sense of reason. Where I go at night is my business, as is where you go yours, but I assure you I have not spoken with Eleanor since I fled from her.”

Mako scoffed. “Not a spy, then, but a coward? We will follow neither.”

Mantis stood directly in front of the man, meeting his gaze with a challenge. “Then don’t.” She spat the words, wheeling on the rest of the crowd. “I will force no one to remain, but Phylla is mine to rule by right. Whoever respects the law is welcome to stay. Investigate me if you must, but you will not find what you hope to. Whoever does not respect the law may leave in peace today, but you will not return here. Make your choice, warriors! Whoever remains at sunrise will be my people. Whoever leaves us will be their own.”

Kestrel sneered, shifting on his feet. “We do not obey orders from traitors.”

Mantis curled her hands into fists. “Speak to your Alpha like that again and I will make an example of you.”

The people began to whisper amongst themselves. Mako grinned. “It seems the people are not in favor of your proposal. What’s to stop us from throwing you from your little throne?”

“I will,” a voice called from the crowd. A grizzled man dressed head-to-toe in a dark scaled body-suit stepped forward.

Mako turned to the voice, all hints of his smile fading as he stared down at the speaker. “Gharial,” he wrinkled his brows. “Old master, I did not expect you to challenge our ways.”

Gharial’s eyes narrowed as he walked forward to stand beside the fuming Mantis. “It is you who ignore Phylla’s ways! The two of you. The lot of you! You act on suspicion and ignorance. You bring us no proof of your accusations and worst of all- you disrespect your Alpha. She should tear you both apart for this.”

“I, too, stand with the Alpha!” cried a woman from the back of the dojo. Others picked up the cry. Mamba led her sons to stand beside Mantis. Proteus appeared, a band pulled tightly over his eyes. To everyone’s surprise he, too, took a place among them.

Mako’s face grew a deep red as he shouted, “We’ve had enough of this. Traitors, all of you! All who will not allow this to stand, to us. We will leave, yes. But we will hunt Eleanor’s colors wherever they’re flown. You will no longer sleep without hearing one of us outside your window.”

And they had left. Without a single blow, without a showdown, Phylla was rent in two. The majority of the Fish and Bird Houses had followed their shoguns from their homes that night under the wary eyes of those who stayed. Mamba, Proteus, Waterdog, and Gharial volunteered to oversee the exodus while Mantis retired to a hidden room at the back of Junkheap Dojo. The Mammal and Creeping Things Houses had remained surprisingly loyal, honor-bound more by their lawfulness than by a love for their new Alpha. Mantis wondered what was happening with Caracal that night. Was she afraid? Had she understood the part she was to play in all of this? Beneath the concern for Caracal’s well-being lurked the fear that she would escape and return to wreak vengeance on the apparent traitors of Phylla.

Owl had surprised Mantis that night, slipping quietly into the room, unflinching at the startled Mantis. Whispers of her hair floated at the sides Owl’s head as she blinked. “I have completed a registry of those who remain,” she said.

“And you brought it to me now? Tonight?”

“Yes.”

Mantis sighed and took the list over to a desk where an oil lamp burned low. Many of the names were familiar to her- the kind people who had accepted and trained her when she and Roland had arrived. Others were more surprising- miscreants and long-time friends of Caracal's that Mantis had assumed would jump at the chance to oppose her. At the bottom of a page a name was written in capital letters with a heavy question mark, circles several times. “Rhino?” she read the word aloud.

Owl dipped her head. “Er, yes. He was technically banished from Phylla several years ago, but he still has a few friends should we want to reach out to him.”

“Who is he?” Mantis wondered. “I think we have enough troublemakers here already. Is there something I need to know about him?”

“Too much, I fear,” Owl harrumphed. “But I feel he would be a valuable asset to us should we get on his good side. As a fighter he was unmatched, but he could not keep his battles on the battlefield.”

“I see,” she answered. In the very corner of the page Owl had drawn a tiny insect with a long snout. “And what of this? Doodling?”

Owl actually smiled. “That’s our ticket to Rhino.”