Unfortunately, it appeared that things weren't going to be as simple as they had hoped.
Anton Papadonkus lived in a small suburb located in the southern part of town. As they'd driven up, Truman had been dismayed to see that there weren't any trees visible in either the teacher's yard, or in the yards of his neighbors. The closest tree was planted near the house across from Mr. Papadonkus' neighbor on the right side. That Tulip tree, a skinny little ornamental thing, had curtly informed them that they had not seen anything unusual in the past couple of months, and had had little interest in talking to Truman.
I've got my own problems, the Tulip tree said, an undercurrent of irritation in their tone. I don't care to be a part of this, so if you could just move along now, I'd really appreciate it.
A quick look at the Tulip Tree's trunk revealed just what their trouble was. Small round holes dotted their trunk here and there, indicating the presence of termites. Truman expressed his sympathies to the poor tree and took his leave.
Sasha, waiting for him by the parked Buick, instantly gleaned that Truman had learned nothing from the Tulip Tree. They stood there for a moment, the two of them considering Mr. Papadonkus' bungalow across the street. The most noticeable thing about the teacher's home, Truman thought, was that the front lawn was green. Very green, a shade deeper and more verdant than the lawns next door, despite the cool autumn weather. A short white fence- the only fence in this neighborhood- separated Mr. Papadonkus' yard from the lesser lawns on either side. Sasha followed his gaze and then, after a few seconds of thought, asked if Truman was able to speak to grass.
"I can..." Truman answered.
"But you do not like to," Sasha remarked, tipped off to this fact by the reluctance in Truman's voice.
Truman sighed as they started across the street. "Grass is…hard to talk to," he said as they made their way over to Mr. Papadonkus' yard. From this distance, he could tell that it was definitely turf grass, which was just great. "I don't think they can see or hear as well as trees can."
"You're going to attempt communication anyway," Sasha said. It wasn't an order, merely a statement of fact.
"Might as well give it a shot," Truman said as they stopped in front of Mr. Papadonkus' house. "Since we're here and all."
Well-maintained lawns like the one before him always gave Truman the creeps. There was just something so unnatural about them, and this one seemed especially lifeless, despite its brilliant green color. There were no 'pest plants' growing amongst the grass, no dandelions, no ground ivy or buttercups. There weren't any insects here either, as the butterflies had nothing to perch upon, the bees had no flowers to pollinate, and Truman honestly would not have been surprised to find that ants could not settle here either. The only thing that thrived here were the sharp blades of over-fertilized, chemically sustained grass.
Sasha stopped him before he could step onto the lawn. "Do you taste that?" he asked, his lips curled in distaste. Truman had looked at him, confused, until he realized that yes, the taste was back. It wasn't as strong as it had been at the Sealofts, and it was a mere sickly hint of what it had been back at the school, but it was there, even if it was only noticeable if Truman concentrated on it.
"Our U.P.E. might've passed through here," Truman guessed.
Sasha had a different theory. "It's not a strong enough sensation for it to have physically been here," he speculated, looking at Mr. Papadonkus' empty driveway. "But if Papadonkus has been regularly interacting with it, some of its energy might be sticking to him." He switched his gaze from the driveway to the house. "And that is what we're sensing right now."
"That would mean that if he's meeting with our U.P.E., he isn't doing it here," Truman pointed out.
Sasha nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Ask the grass if they've seen him leaving his home at strange times," he said. He spoke as though talking to grass was a completely normal thing to do during a psychic investigation. Even Truman could admit that such a thing sounded insane out loud, and he was the one doing the interviewing.
The best location to speak with the grass would be over by the driveway. Grass weren't like trees. The range of what they could perceive was much shorter, and the grass that grew near the driveway would be the most likely to know of Mr. Papadonkus' comings and goings. He walked along the sidewalk, careful not to step on any stray blades, bracing himself for what he knew would probably be an ordeal.
Standing where he was, in the middle edge of the driveway, Truman could barely pick up on anything. In his mind, he heard them as incoherent whispers, their scraps of talk too low and too rapid for him to understand. He knelt onto the asphalt, putting two fingers to his forehead to focus his herbaphony. The grass' whispering did get louder, but what they were saying was still unintelligible. They were all speaking at once, their murmurs panicked and hushed. Occasionally, he could make the name 'Jonathan' out over the anxious cacophony, but that was about it.
Truman had spoken to a lawn like this many years ago, at a function that his father had dragged him to. Too shy to talk to any of the strangers at the party, Truman had turned to the grass outside for company, and had come away from their conversation feeling incredibly depressed about their pitiful, dependent existence. Hence why he wasn't exactly eager to speak to this lawn now. He knew that he'd undoubtedly wind up feeling sorry for them, regardless of whether or not they had anything useful to tell him. Hi everybody! he greeted, his telepathic voice louder and deeper than the voices of the grass.
The voices ceased all at once. If the grass blades had had eyes, they would have all been staring up at him in wide-eyed fear and uncertainty. As it was, there was only a few seconds of silence, before one tiny voice spoke up. It's not Jonathan?
The question had opened a floodgate, and the grass began talking all at once again. This time, Truman could actually make out what they were saying. The phrase 'not Jonathan' was repeated over and over again, the volume rising as the news spread throughout the entirety of the lawn. Hearing all of these voices in his head at once was quite uncomfortable, and Truman winced as he tried to focus his herbaphony on the grass nearest to him. I'm Truman, he thought over the din. Who's Jonathan?
He really should not have asked that question. Jonathan! They'd all spoken simultaneously, but their tones varied between terrified and contemptuous.
It's the Six-Limbed Slicer of Linden Ave, most of them said.
Two sets that roll and one that stomps, another group added.
Crushes us said three of them from somewhere on Truman's left.
But that's not the worst part.
Oh, no. Not the worst.
Not the worst!
It's not the worst!
I'm tall! I'm tall! I'm going to be cut because I'm tall!
Are you here to cut us, Truman?
Here to slice us?
Of course not! Truman thought as reassuringly as he could. Their panicked voices were becoming overwhelming, and Truman looked away, towards the neighboring house. An old lady was staring at him through her window, her expression baffled. They made eye contact for one second before she hurriedly drew the curtains closed.
Sasha had also seen her. "She's calling the Sheriff," he said, thankfully out loud. There were enough voices in his head as it was.
"Can you blame her?" Truman asked, rubbing his temples. He probably would've done the same thing if he had been in her shoes.
"Should we be concerned?"
"Nah, I'm sure the Sheriff will explain everything to her," Truman said. Although that meant that he would eventually have to tell the Sheriff why he was kneeling in the middle of Mr. Papadonkus' driveway for no discernible reason. That would be a fun conversation to look forward to. "I should probably wrap this up," he said, before focusing his herbaphony on the grass again.
They were still chatting nervously amongst themselves, speculating on whatever horrible fate Truman had in mind for them. Guys, he thought over their prattling. I'm not here to cut anybody. I just want to ask some questions-
Questions? they said, interrupting him.
Ask a question? Ask us a question?
Why do you want to ask us questions?
We're just grass.
Is this about our water intake?
They had gone from fearful to paranoid in a split second. I just want to ask about the man who lives here, Truman thought, trying to quell their suspicions.
No man lives here.
Only grass lives in this lawn.
Only grass, only us.
No crawlers or fliers, either.
Only grass grows in this soil.
This was turning out to be a huge pain in the neck. I meant the man who lives in the house nearby, Truman thought, exasperated. He walks down this driveway every day?
Again, they stopped talking, a confused silenced settling over them, until one clever blade (the same one that had broken the first silence?) piped up. Oh! You mean The Provider!
The Provider! They shouted joyously, their exclamations ringing in his head. He grimaced.
The Provider gives us nourishment! proclaimed one group.
Gives us the Good Stuff!
Yeah, the Good Stuff!
Keeps us green, even in the cold season!
Better than water.
Why are you asking questions about The Provider? that one clever blade asked.
Yeah…why do you want to know about Our Provider?
Do…do you want to cut The Provider?
You're going to cut him down?
No! Truman said, taken aback by their sudden suspicion of him. He couldn't recall the other lawn he'd spoken to being so prone to mood swings. I just…uh-
Why else would you be asking about The Provider?
Did the other lawns send you?
They're jealous of us!
Jealous of our Green!
Oh great, they were really working themselves up over this. He looked up at Sasha, uncertainty in his features. Sasha shrugged back helplessly, unable to aid Truman in this endeavor. But what would Sasha have done in this situation, had their roles been reversed? He would have thought of some slick story to explain his presence, one that would have instantly gotten the grass to cooperate. Truman wasn't good at thinking up lies on the spot, but surely fooling a bunch of grass wasn't outside the realm of his abilities.
I don't want to hurt The Provider! Truman blurted out. I…I want to save him!
Save him? the grass said in shock.
Yeah! He's um…Truman scrambled to think of a scenario that would make the grass more amiable to his questions. Jonathan's kidnapped him!
Jonathan! They spat the name hatefully. That rootless bastard!
He's going to slice The Provider in half!
Is this why The Provider has been gone?
Yes, Truman answered. I'm with the Psychonauts, and my partner and I are trying to save him from…Jonathan.
Jonathan! they echoed, with just as much hatred as before.
Yeah! Jonathan! Truman thought, mirroring their attitude. But, in order to find him and uh, bring him to Justice, I'll need your guy's help.
Anything, they said.
We'll do anything for The Provider!
Ask us your question, Truman.
Okay. You guys know The Provider's schedule pretty well, right? Truman asked.
Oh yes, they answered as one. It's vital that we keep track of The Provider's comings and goings.
During the growing seasons and the cold seasons, he leaves us for five days in a row.
Leaves us in the morning, comes back before dusk.
Then for two days, he remains here, with us.
In the hot months, he stays and keeps us Nourished and Hydrated.
The Provider is Good, they sighed dreamily.
So when he leaves, it's normally when the sun is out, right? Truman said before they could start gushing again.
Yes.
Only when the sun is out.
The majority of the lawn appeared to agree with that assessment, but there was one blade who dissented. That's not how it has been lately,the blade of grass that Truman had dubbed 'The Smart One' said. The Provider has been leaving at night, too.
A stunned pause, as though the lawn was realizing that what the Smart One had said was true. He does leave at night!
He does!
The Provider leaves at night!
Do you know how often? Truman asked, directing his question at the Smart One.
Every other day or so? I'm not really sure, but it has been often, the Smart One replied, their voice louder than the excited mutters of their peers. He'd leave when the moon was high in the sky and would come back before dawn.
And when he does come back, Truman said, unsure of how to phrase this next part in a way that the grass would be able to understand, does he come back… normal? Like does the air around him seem different?
The air around here has been strange lately, the Smart One admitted.
It's nastier, remarked their friend.
Not tasty at all!
It's not like the Good Stuff!
It's Jonathan, isn't it? the Smart One said. It's that beast's evil influence.
Er, yes, Truman lied. That's exactly what it is. There was definitely something toxic here in this neighborhood, but it wasn't some kid with a lawnmower. Thanks for your help, guys. That's all I wanted to know.
You'll return The Provider to us, won't you? The Smart one said before Truman could sever the telepathic link.
You'll return him safely, won't you Truman?
You'll give us Our Provider back?
We'll wilt without Him.
Uh…Truman glanced around the lawn, feeling guilty for deceiving them. We will definitely find him, you can count on that. He rose abruptly, their thanks reverberating in his mind as he quickly returned to Sasha.
"My theory was correct," Sasha said the moment Truman was back on the sidewalk. He wasn't smug, simply matter-of-fact.
Truman pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. There was a light pressure on the right side of his temple, not quite painful, but similar to the sensation that often preceded a migraine. It would likely pass as he put more distance between himself and the lawn. "I think so, yeah. Were you listening?"
"Here and there. Listening to all of them speaking at once was nigh unbearable," Sasha said, giving Truman a quick once over. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Truman said, brushing the dust off of his khaki slacks. Patches of dirt stained his knees.
Sasha raised an eyebrow. "You aren't feeling psychically drained at all?"
"No? Should I be?"
Sasha glanced at the lawn, and then back at Truman. "There must be tens of thousands of blades of grass in this yard. You just had a telepathic connection with at least half of them."
Truman shrugged, not really sure of why that mattered.
"If I tried to read one-thousand minds at once, I would probably have a stroke," Sasha continued.
"It's just grass, man. It's not the same thing."
"You've still expended quite a bit of psychic energy," Sasha said. "I'm merely surprised that your nose isn't spurting blood over the place."
Truman rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly spouting some half-chuckled remark about having good stamina before starting across the street. Had that been a compliment? Compliments –genuine ones, anyway- were not something he knew how to take well, being better acquainted with criticisms. He changed the subject when Sasha caught up with him. "I think we've got enough circumstantial evidence to get a search warrant," he said, keeping his eyes focused on the Buick. "But it might take a few hours to get one."
"If he's careful enough to meet with the U.P.E. away from his home, chances are he's not leaving evidence around there either," Sasha said as they approached their car. "Why waste the time? We should focus on finding the U.P.E."
That was a good point. But how were they going to find it? Were they just going to continue asking the local foliage if they'd seen any weird bug-things lurking around town lately?
Truman said as much to Sasha once they were back in the car. "Why not?" Sasha replied. "It's worked for us so far."
The next few hours were spent running around town, talking to the local trees.
Ailanthus' were abundant within Sutton, many of them growing along the roads, between buildings, and in parking lots. These trees dominated the town, due in part to their aggressive spouting and their ability to grow in most soil types. Changying had gotten the word of Truman and Sasha's presence out and there had been little need for him to introduce himself over and over again to the trees around town. They, much like Changying, were friendly and easy to talk to, and one sapling had even been bold enough to initiate contact (which Truman had found endearing, even if the sapling hadn't had anything really worthwhile to say).
The first tree that they had spoken with had had some decent information. This Ailanthus, an older tree named Linhua, reported sensing the strange, poisonous energy throughout the past two months. They also mentioned that that they had, in fact, seen a large butterfly crawling around on top of the roof of the building that they grew in front of.
The stench was just awful, Linhua had recalled. It was stronger on that night than it had ever been before, or since.
Do you remember what time it was when you saw it? Truman had asked.
Time? Linhua had sounded confused.
Truman had forgotten that plants didn't keep track of the hours the way that humans did. Uh, never mind. This did happen at night though, right?
Oh yes, most definitely.
Do you remember any other strange events happening around you?
Linhua hadn't even hesitated before giving their answer. That's about it for me. You should talk to my cousin up the street. Their name's Hualing!
Hualing did indeed live up the street, but they really hadn't had much to add. They too had sensed the toxic energy, and they even claimed to have felt the U.P.E. flying above their branches one night. None of this testimony was useful, as Truman and Sasha already knew that the creature was hanging around the town, and that it was most active at night. Truman thanked the tree anyway, and Hualing recommended that they speak to yet another Ailanthus who conveniently lived close by.
From there, a pattern emerged. Truman and Sasha would park near an Ailanthus, the Ailanthus would pretty much repeat the things that their cousins had said, and then they would refer Truman to another cousin who grew 'just up the way.' Truman didn't think that these trees were lying about what they had witnessed, but there did seem to be some embellishment of the truth going on. It wasn't being done maliciously- these trees clearly were just caught up in the excitement of talking to actual human being.
Sasha had had enough by the eighth fruitless interview. "This isn't getting us anywhere", he said as they drove up the street, on their way to visit the next cousin. "These- what are they called? Ailanthus'?"
"Yeah," Truman answered.
"These Ailanthus' are all telling us things we already know. We are going to end up running around in circles if we continue to interview them like this."
Truman frowned, knowing that Sasha was right. But what could they do? There were plants other than trees growing in this town, but most of them were shrubs, grasses and flowers. There were too many of them to interview individually, and it was unlikely that they would have anything useful to tell them. Those plants grew low to the ground and were most active during the day, and all of the evidence they had collected pointed to the U.P.E. being nocturnal and mostly airborne. "Maybe I'm not talking to the right trees," Truman said as he slowed down, the Ailanthus that he was supposed to talk to next visible along the side of the road. It was growing dangerously close to a telephone pole, the outer edges of its skinny branches almost touching the wires. "If this U.P.E. was in town right now, we would have sensed it," he continued as he parked the car not far from the tree. "It's probably hiding outside of town, in the woods."
"Sutton is surrounded on all sides by woods," Sasha pointed out. "If we're going to attempt to search the forest, we'd need an exact starting point." The car was parked, but neither man made any move to exit the vehicle, both of them thinking over their next course of action. "These trees are communicating to each other, correct?" Sasha said, after a minute of contemplative silence.
"Yeah, they do it through pheromone signals," Truman replied.
"Is it possible that different species of trees could communicate with each other?"
"I don't know," Truman said, thoughtfully scratching his beard. "I think they can. I don't know how well they would be able to understand each other, but they should at least be able to pick up on it." He looked out the passenger window, his gaze on the tree outside. "It would be like overhearing a conversation in a language that you didn't understand."
"You should ask that tree about what it's heard, instead of what it's seen," Sasha suggested as he opened his door.
Truman had allowed the tree (named Lizzy) to excitedly tell him about the time that a weird butterfly had done a barrel roll right in front of them before asking if they had overheard anything interesting from the other trees.
I heard that my cousin Linhua saw that same butterfly on a roof a few weeks ago. Have you talked to them yet? Lizzy replied, misunderstanding Truman's question. You should stop by their plot; they don't live too far from here.
No, I meant from the other trees, Truman clarified. Like, from the birches and the maples.
Birches? Maples? Lizzy sounded shocked that Truman would ask them about other tree species when they had so many great cousins around town to talk to. Their eagerness to help won out over their confusion, however, and they answered the question honestly. The other trees don't talk much to the likes of us, Lizzy said, a hint of disdain laced in their friendly tone, but the Sugar Maples have been awfully fussy as of late. Well, fussier than they usually are, anyway.
What are they fussing about? Are they afraid of something? Truman had a hard time imaging something that could cause a strong hardwood like a Sugar Maple to 'fuss'.
Oh, I don't know. But they've been sending distress signals back and forth for some time now. A breeze blew, causing Lizzy's branches to sway, the movements of the limbs almost seeming like an affectation of a shrug. Between you and me, the Sugar Maples are kind of sensitive. They could be sending those signals over any little ol' thing.
Are there any Sugar Maples around here?
Lizzy hesitated. Are you going to talk to them? Really, you shouldn't waste your time. My cousin Linhua is much closer, you know.
Truman did know that, because he had already spoken to them. I just…I just want to check up on them. They're probably not feeling too well, given all the crazy stuff that's been happening lately.
They do have a weaker constitution than my kind does, that's for sure, Lizzy conceded. Alright. There's a Maple living in the center of town. I'll tell you where they live so you can make sure they aren't rotting or anything. But afterwards, you should go see my cousin. They've got quite a story to tell, I bet you'll enjoy hearing it!
I'm sure I will, Truman thought before Lizzy gave him directions to the Sugar Maple's plot.
Finding the Sugar Maple would not have been difficult, even without Lizzy's instructions. For one thing, it was huge. At a glance, Truman estimated that the tree stood about eighty feet tall. Their many branches spread upwards and outwards, the longer limbs reaching out ten feet away from their thick, dark trunk. The tree was large, massive compared to the shorter and more slender Ailanthus', but they would have stuck out regardless, due to the brilliance of the their foliage. Their wide leaves, still mostly on the branches, were a deep orange-red, a bright contrast to the less eye-catching yellow-green of the Ailanthus.
The tree's plot was located not far from the western bank of the Elk River. They grew alone, their siblings having long been cut down for one reason or another. As he and Sasha advanced towards the tree, Truman had an inkling that the Sugar Maple he was about to speak to was old, older than many of the buildings in this town, and certainly older than the shorter lived Ailanthus' he'd spoken to previously. The inkling did not make him nervous- the clumsiness he had when dealing with humans was absent during his conversations with plants- but it did let him know that this Sugar Maple needed to be addressed with a certain amount of respect.
That was why, when he had gotten close enough to the tree for it to notice his presence, he didn't immediately attempt to initiate a conversation. He merely reached out psychically, non-verbally letting the Sugar Maple know that the two of them could communicate with each other if they were inclined to do so. He then pulled back a little, allowing the tree to mull it over. Truman did not know what this Sugar Maple's experiences with humans were-at the very least, it had witnessed its friends get chopped down- and he thought it would be best if he allowed the Sugar Maple to speak first.
He felt Sasha's telepathic presence in his mind for a brief second. His partner withdrew upon realizing there was no conversation for him to eavesdrop on, frowning as he looked at the tree, then at Truman, then back at the tree again. "I'm just giving them a moment," Truman said, unsure of how to better explain why he hadn't just walked up and started talking to this tree like he had with the others. Sasha nodded, not questioning Truman's approach, despite his words on the matter not really being all that enlightening. He just stood there, his hands in his jacket pockets; patiently allowing Truman to do what he felt was best in this situation. It was actually pretty surprising, if only because Truman was so used to having to defend the effectiveness of his more passive strategies to those he had worked with in the past.
Finally, after what had probably been two minutes of careful consideration on the Sugar Maple's part, the tree spoke. You're that fellow whose been running around chattin' up the Stinktrees.
The tree's 'voice' sounded similar to that of an old lady's, the no-nonsense drawl of a grandmother who was wise to every sort of foolishness any youngster could come up with. Yes, that's me, Truman admitted, hoping that the Sugar Maple would not hold his interactions with the Ailanthus' against him.
The Sugar Maple hmphed, annoyed. You've gone and gotten them all excited, you know that? They've done nothing but chatter, chatter, and chatter about some magical human that can actually talk to us. They've been louder than my sparrows, all in a titter over you. Truman didn't reply, knowing that interrupting at this point would only further irritate the Sugar Maple. Well, let me tell you this: I've seen and known a lot of humans, and I don't find you the least bit impressive just because you can understand my words.
Although the Sugar Maple's words weren't exactly kind, Truman found himself smiling. He wasn't offended, as someone being unimpressed with him wasn't exactly new. The tree's manner of speaking was vaguely reminiscent of Ford Cruller's own southern accent and blunt attitude. I'm sorry that I bothered you, he thought. This town has been having some trouble lately, and my partner and I are just trying to get to the bottom of it.
You ain't need to tell me that this town's in trouble, the Sugar Maple said sharply. I already know. Those Stinktrees might think this whole situation is fine entertainment, but me and mine are under attack! A pause. And I suppose your kind is too, they added as an afterthought.
You're under attack? What do you mean?
Come closer and have a look at my trunk, the Sugar Maple said. Truman did so, examining the grooves and ridges of the tree's dark grey-brown bark for signs of damage. Not there, the tree huffed impatiently. You've got to come up here.
Oh. The tree's trunk was about twenty feet tall, so he'd have to levitate in order to get a look at whatever it was this Sugar Maple wanted him to see. He rose, quickly and competently- Truman was a passable levitator, even if he did not possess the finesse or grace of some of his more confident colleagues. He put one hand on the tree to steady himself and observed the trunk from above.
There was, at the very top of the trunk, right in the middle of where the Sugar Maple's many branches split off, a small, round hole, roughly the size of a half-dollar coin. You see that hole? the Sugar Maple asked. It don't look too bad from the outside, but it's from when that drat bug sucked the sap right out of me!
It…what?
Truman pulled himself closer as the Sugar Maple ranted on, highly offended. I ain't been tapped for a good one-hundred years, and that lousy little insect just perched right on me and stuck its nasty feeding drill right into me! The nerve!
Oh my God! He peered down and motioned for Sasha to follow him up. Sasha hesitated, and then rose- somewhat shakily- up to Truman's level. "They're saying that the U.P.E. was feeding off of them," Truman said, pointing at the wound.
Sasha leaned forward, careful not to allow the surrounding branches to poke his jacket. "It's a shallow hole," he observed, "possibly from some sort of proboscis?"
"I guess so," Truman said, examining the trunk and branches for similar wounds as Sasha removed one of his gloves. He found none. "I'm gonna go back down, okay?"
"Fine. I will see if I can pick anything up from this," Sasha reached out, and then paused, his gloveless hand hovering over the hole. "This tree won't be offended if I touch its injury, will it?"
Truman didn't think that the Sugar Maple would care, but asked anyway. Your pal there can do whatever he wants, if it'll help you nab the thing that did this to me, they responded. Truman gave Sasha the go-ahead and descended back down to the ground.
When did this happen? Truman asked the second he landed. It must have been a while ago, as neither he nor Sasha had tasted that strange, poisonously sweet energy that normal lingered after the creature's presence.
The moon was half-full that night, the Sugar Maple said. So I'd say that it was about a month ago.
And it hasn't been back?
No. I've felt it around, every once in a while, but it only fed on me once. Do you have good aim?
Good aim?
Yeah. You're gonna shoot it, aren't you?
Um…Did the tree mean with a gun or with a psi-blast? Neither of them had any sort of firearm, and Truman's aim with his psi-blasts was just okay. He couldn't speak for Sasha, although word around the agency was that he was pretty good. I do alright, I guess. But I don't know if we're actually going to shoot this thing.
Hmph! What kind of answer is that? the Sugar Maple said, annoyed. I thought you humans loved shooting things!
We'll see what happens. In all honesty, Truman hoped that it wouldn't come to that, at least not until the U.P.E.'s hold on the students was broken.
Oh, you'll see, huh? Well you should know that the butterfly is small and fast, so you better have good aim. Otherwise, you'll end up like those other humans, and my friends in the woods will keep getting attacked!
Sasha glided down next to him, his trip down appearing easier than his trip up had been. He looked as though he had just drunk something that had disagreed with him. He swallowed, then asked if Truman was finished talking to the Sugar Maple.
"Almost. You alright?"
Sasha waved his concern away. "What I've seen corroborates with what the tree has said. Ach, sap is disgusting." He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, shaking one out into his hand. "Do you mind? I need to get this taste out of my mouth."
"No, go ahead. I'll be done soon."
Hey! Is that a cigarette? the Sugar Maple yelled. He better not put that out near me!
He won't, Truman reassured. He hoped that Truman wouldn't, anyway. Uh, you said that the butterfly was small and fast. But the other trees claimed that the butterfly was big.
It's big for a butterfly, the Sugar Maple clarified, but smaller than you and that other guy.
Can you give me a size estimate?
Hmm, I've got a little girl who likes to climb on me. Quicker than a squirrel she is. Felt like they were about the same weight, but I can't be too sure. It has been a month.
So he and Sasha were dealing with a butterfly-like creature that was roughly the size of a small child. The U.P.E. didn't sound that threatening when described in that manner, but it must've had some kind of power if it had hypnotized twenty-seven people. The Sugar Maple probably wouldn't know what that power was, as it was unlikely that it would have used it on a tree. Do you have any idea where this thing might be right now?
It's in the forests northwest of here. Most of my friends who live there have been fed on, they said. That's where the bug lives when it isn't stinking up my town.
That made sense. It was obvious that it wasn't in town now, and though the tree's directions weren't precise, they were good enough to give them a starting point. It was better than having to search through all of Braxton County, in any case. Have you heard anything else from your friends?
I have actually, the Sugar Maple said, sounding more worried than it had before. I don't have all of the details but…apparently the bug was attacked while feeding on one of the other Sugar Maples.
Attacked? By what?
Nobody knows. But fire was involved.
"Eyespots," Sasha said suddenly as they once again found themselves driving down Sutton Ln.
"Eyespots?" Truman repeated. He wasn't exactly sure of where they were going, only that they were currently headed north and that they needed to, at some point, go west, if they wanted to reach the section of the forest that the Sugar Maple had claimed the U.P.E. was currently hiding out in. Sasha had the map unfolded onto his lap, his finger tracing the red line that represented the road they were driving on.
His finger paused. "Turn left onto Exchange Rd," he said. "It should be right up ahead." He was correct, and as Truman turned onto the lone, back-country road, he noticed that Sasha's finger had begun following a thinner black line that had split off from the red line.
Tall trees lined both sides of the road, each of them morphing into an orange-brown blur as they passed them by. The road itself stretched out before them, curving slightly against the forest. Truman didn't bother asking where next to turn or if he should prepare to stop. Sasha seemed to have a location in mind, and would no doubt let Truman know what to do when the time came. Instead they drove in silence for about a minute, before Truman said "Eyespots."
Sasha nodded. "Yes. Eyespots."
"What about eyespots?
"Butterflies have them," Sasha answered thoughtfully.
Truman was no entomologist, but he was indeed aware that many butterfly species did, in fact, have eyespots on their wings. Perhaps the U.P.E. had them on its wings? If so, than why did it matter? Truman figured that he and Sasha would be able to identify their U.P.E. regardless of the creature's wing pattern, because it was a butterfly the size of a child.
"Do you remember that pattern we saw at the school?" Sasha asked upon realizing that Truman would be puzzling over his statement until he elaborated further.
Truman had only caught a brief glimpse of it himself, but he remembered Sasha's more vivid description.
"I'm thinking," Sasha continued, "that the pattern that we saw is similar to that of the eyespots on a butterfly's wings. Or a moth's, I suppose."
"Oh," Truman said, finally catching on.
"If that is the case, than it's reasonable to assume that the U.P.E. is using its wings as a hypnotic catalyst." He peered down at his map. "The road will curve soon. You need to pull over before that."
The tune of his cell-phone's ringtone interrupted Truman before he could inquire about Sasha's plan. Huffing in annoyance, he fished around his jacket pocket for his phone, one hand still on the wheel. Keeping his eyes on the road, he answered the phone without checking the caller id, hoping that it wasn't his mother- he loved her, of course, and he wouldn't have ignored her call, but he was already seen as a mama's boy around headquarters, and he knew that taking a call from her while in the middle of a mission would only further cement that reputation.
Luckily for him, the caller was actually Sheriff Walls, who was not happy at all with him. "Just what in the Sam Hill do you two think you're doing?" he asked sharply, cutting off Truman's 'hello'.
"Uh…" The Sheriff's ire had caught him off guard, and his mind drew a blank.
"You should pull over now," Sasha suggested.
"I said, what in the hell are you fellas doing?" the Sheriff demanded to know as Truman came to a stop along the side of the road.
"Is that the Sheriff?" Sasha asked.
"Answer the question!" the Sheriff shouted.
"I'm…uh," Truman glanced uneasily at Sasha. "I just pulled over…"
"Pulled over? Pulled over where?"
"That's the Sheriff, isn't it?" Sasha asked again. "What does he want?"
"He wants to know what the hell we're doing," Truman answered.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sheriff Walls yelled, upset by Truman's lack of answers.
"What does he think we're doing?" Sasha asked, irritated.
"Are you trying to run up the clock?" the Sheriff accused, unwittingly providing an answer to Sasha's question. "You wastin' time so that you can make an extra dollar?"
"No! That's not it at all!" Truman denied vehemently. "We aren't paid by the hour!"
"Do you think this is a joke? Are you not takin' this situation seriously?" Frustration had exaggerated the Sheriff's West Virginian accent. "Do you think you can get away with it just cuz we're a small town?"
"Just hang up on him," Sasha said, frowning.
Truman would have loved to. Unfortunately, he had been raised to be polite, and for that reason, could not just hang up on somebody without at least saying goodbye, even when that somebody was unfairly accusing him of trying to cheat his employers.
"Sheriff Walls," Truman said, cutting into the man's tirade. "We are taking this situation seriously. We're actually following a lead right now-"
"Following a lead!" the Sheriff bellowed incredulously. "What lead could you possibly have?"
"W-we-" Truman stammered.
"You haven't spoken to any of the witnesses that you said you going to speak to!" the Sheriff ranted on. "I got a call from Mrs. Robert Hutchins saying that you two were loitering around her neighbor's yard? Why? What the hell were you doing?"
Oh God. Here it was. The part where Truman had to explain himself. "Her neighbor is Anton Papadonkus," he began. "We have reason to believe that he has something-
"Mrs. Robert Hutchins said that you were sitting in his driveway, staring at the grass!"
"I was talking to his lawn!" Truman blurted out.
A pause. Truman could imagine what Sheriff Walls must look like now. His expression was likely one of confusion, his brows drawn together, and his eyes squinting, probably staring at the phone. "His-what? What did you say? I must've misheard you."
"I was talking to the grass," Truman repeated feebly. "I can…I can talk to plants."
Silence on the other end. Truman shifted, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel anxiously. "I…that is, Agent Nein and I, have been interviewing your trees. That's how we got our lead."
No response. Sasha unbuckled his seatbelt and reached out, his gloved palm facing upward. "Give me the phone," he said.
Truman glanced at him, but didn't hand the phone over, wanting to see if he could restore the Sheriff's trust in them by being honest. "Their testimony and the evidence that we've gathered suggests that a large, insect-like U.P.E. is attacking the class of 2000 with some sort of hypnotic agent."
"Let me speak with the Sheriff," Sasha requested.
"We believe that this creature is attacking the students on behalf of somebody, and a lot of the circumstantial evidence points that person being Anton Papadonkus."
"Do you think I'm an idiot?" Sheriff Walls asked furiously.
Truman sighed. "No, I don't think that you're an idiot."
"You expect me to believe that a goddamn bug is what's terrorizing my town? And that you found that out because the goddamn trees told you so?"
Sasha nudged him, and Truman, his patience nearly at its limits, pushed his hand away unthinkingly. "Sheriff Walls, please calm down," he said. "I understand that this sounds strange-"
"Strange? Strange?" the Sheriff roared into the phone. "It sounds like something a complete madman would say!"
Truman was really sick and tired of people interrupting him all of the time. "I know that it sounds crazy," he gritted out, "but it's the sort of crazy that my partner and I have been trained to handle."
"Your boss told me that the Psychonauts were sending their best," Walls complained. "Instead they give me a German and a tree hugger."
That insult, one that had been lobbed at him before, pressed a switch in his brain that was not often touched. He felt his anger bubble up inside of him, but instead of swallowing it meekly like he normally did, he let it out. "What the fuck, man," he snapped, clutching the phone so hard that it's black plastic was on the verge of cracking. "I wasn't hugging those trees!"
A telekinetic tug wrenched the phone from his grip, the Sheriff's offended response becoming less intelligible the further it got from his ear. Truman let it go into Sasha's hand, having had enough of dealing with someone who had no interest in listening to what he had to say. He didn't regret his outburst, though perhaps he would later after he had some time to cool down. As it was, he was seething, furious with the Sheriff for being so willing to disregard all of the work that he and Sasha had been doing just because he didn't understand it.
"I do not appreciate the way that you've been speaking to my partner," Sasha said the moment he had the phone up to his ear. The statement surprised Truman- he hadn't expected Sasha to apologize for his behavior, but he also hadn't thought that Sasha would come to his defense right off the bat like that either.
The Sheriff said something, sounding pissed, though Truman couldn't understand what from where he was sitting. He could have listened in, if had wanted to, by using clairvoyance, but at this point he had no desire to hear anything else.
"I'm well aware that he cussed at you," Sasha said as Truman slumped in his seat. "But you have not been showing him the proper respect an agent of his standing deserves."
Truman looked away, watching as a red pick-up truck passed them by, his anger already starting to ebb. "Agent Zanotto's herbaphonic powers have been a crucial part of our investigation," Sasha continued, "and we would not have this lead without them."
Truman personally thought that Sasha, being as clever as he was, probably would have managed fine had he been assigned to this mission alone. But for once in his life, he allowed himself to take pride in the ability that was so often pushed aside as impractical and useless back at headquarters.
"We've gotten further in mere hours than any of the preceding organizations have in the days that they were here," Sasha said. "And it's all due to Agent Zanotto's tireless efforts." He paused and met Truman's eyes for a split second. Truman looked away first, blushing as he stared down at his shoes.
"Efforts that may one day kill him."
Wait, what? Truman's head snapped up, his eyes widening. "Sasha," he said, "what are you talking about?"
Sasha replied to him by holding up a finger, and Truman shut his mouth. "Herbaphony is a very complex skill that produces a great strain on the brain. The exact processes involved are too complicated to elaborate on at this moment, but you should be aware that the next blade of grass that he speaks with could be his last."
He said that last sentence with such exaggerated graveness that it was comical, and Truman struggled to keep himself laughing aloud. Sasha peered at him, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Agent Zanotto perseveres despite death lurking underneath every tree. Because he loves Small Town America that much."
How could Sasha spout such blatant and ridiculous lies with a straight face? Truman was only listening and he had to muffle his laughter into his sleeve. It appeared, however, that Sheriff Walls had bought it hook, line, and sinker. "No, you cannot speak to him. He has a terrible headache. Yes, you should feel bad. You can make it up to us by putting an A.P.B. out for Anton Papadonkus' vehicle, and by not bothering us again unless you have more information, or there is an emergency." And with that, Sasha hung up and tossed the phone back to Truman.
Truman fumbled with the phone as he caught it, laughing, once again amazed by how effortlessly Sasha was able to come up with such convincing nonsense on the spot. "I can't believe," he said snickering as he put the phone back into his pocket, "that you said all that. And the Sheriff just…bought it. Holy shit."
"It's not funny, Truman. You could die at any minute," Sasha said grimly. Then he chuckled, his laughter deep and sophisticated.
"How do you do it?" Truman asked. "You make it look so easy."
"It is easy," Sasha said, flicking a stray bang off of his forehead. "No offense, but you Americans will believe anything if it's delivered in a serious enough manner."
"Is this sort of thing harder in Germany?"
"In a way," Sasha replied, opening the passenger door. "We can talk about it later."
The Sugar Maple had been right. The U.P.E. had made its home here, in the forests northwest of Sutton. They could taste it- the creature's energy was everywhere, tainting every tree, just as foul-tasting as it had been back at the school. Truman wished that they had brought some water along. He also wished that he was wearing different shoes, the ones he had on were not optimal at all for a trek through the woods.
Still, despite the discomfort in his feet and the bad taste in his mouth, he could honestly say that walking through this forest was pretty pleasant. Surrounded on all sides by slender birches, broad-leafed mountain maples, fragrant green pines and vivid sugar maples, Truman could easily see himself enjoying a walk through here, had the circumstances been different. In better times, the atmosphere would have likely been one of peaceful contemplation, a quiet, slow ambiance. As it was, however, there was an aura of fear and concern, reasonable considering that the sugar maples (and only the sugar maples- it seemed that the U.P.E. had a preference) had been under constant threat for the past two months. Even in their worry, though, these trees were patient. They were more than happy to provide answers to Truman's questions, and hopeful that he and Sasha could get rid of the monster that had been leeching off of them. But if it turned out that they couldn't, the trees would have been able to accept that too. They knew from experience that, as troublesome as times were at this moment, it would eventually pass, and they would still be here, standing as they had been for centuries.
He had informed them that Darlene (the lone Sugar Maple back in Sutton) had sent him to inquire about an attack involving fire. They knew instantly what he was speaking of, and they directed him to head up north. It's not far from here, they had all insisted. You'll smell it, probably. Humans are good at smelling, aren't they?
About ten minutes into their walk, a frantic shrub flagged them down. Its issue was spotted immediately. A plastic tube about a foot-long was tangled within its leaves. Truman plucked the otter-pop wrapper off of the shrub and handed it off to Sasha. Thanks! the little shrub said with relief. That thing blew into me days ago, and I just couldn't get it out!
Did you happen to see who dropped it? Truman asked. Had one of the zombie teens discarded it here? But what would they be doing out in the woods? They all had a pretty set schedule that didn't leave room for aimless wandering, and besides, otter-pops hadn't been readily available in Sutton for quite some time.
The shrub hadn't spotted the litterer, but Sasha was able to discover the culprit using psychometry. "It was the U.P.E," he said, handing the trash back to Truman.
"The U.P.E.?" Truman crumpled the wrapper and stuffed it into his pocket.
Sasha nodded. "It was drinking the liquid inside."
"It was drinking an otter-pop?" Truman had never heard of a butterfly, or any insect for that matter, eating a popsicle. "Is that why the first victims were so obsessed with them?"
"Possibly," Sasha said, tapping his chin. "It may also be this creature's actual motivation for hypnotizing the students. It may be doing so in exchange for these popsicles."
"Papadonkus maybe the one arranging these trades," Truman concluded, glancing around the forest. "There are probably more of them around. We should keep an eye out for them."
"Perhaps I will be able to trace back to when the initial trade occur, if we get lucky," Sasha agreed.
"Er, yeah." Truman hadn't actually been thinking of that at all. He had only wanted to clean up the mess, as these plants were having a rough enough time without a literal litterbug flying around and dropping its garbage everywhere.
It began drizzling a short time later, the light rain a soft mummer on the multi-colored leaves above. The dense forest canopy protected them from the worst of it, and Truman was content to pull up the hood of his jacket as he continued walking, stopping here and there to pick up otter-pop wrappers when he found them. Sasha was not faring nearly as well as he was. His jacket had no hood, its designer valuing style over substance, and he was rolling through the forest on his levitation ball, in order to avoid getting his shoes dirty. Sasha kept his balance easily as the green sphere rolled over leaves and twigs. Truman thought that using the levitation ball in that manner was a bit excessive, but he had no intention of commenting on it, as it was really none of his business.
"You think I'm being excessive," Sasha said.
"I wasn't going to say anything, but yeah, a little bit," Truman replied honestly. "Watch out for roots."
They continued their trek northward, guided by the occasional plant, and the scent of wet ash being carried by the breeze. As they walked, they felt a light touch of psychic energy, a touch that was nearly overwhelmed the U.P.E.'s heavier presence.
"Feels like the energy we sensed in Randy's store," Truman observed.
"Not surprising," Sasha said as he rolled forward. "Eddie Bodkin's home isn't far from here."
That must have been why Sasha had been so certain of where to look first. "Do you think he's okay?"
"We'll find out soon enough."
The two of progressed onward, the traces of Eddie's supposed energy getting stronger. And then, about an hour after their hike had begun, they found what they were looking for.
The sugar maple's leaves and branches on its south-facing side were completely burnt away, leaving bare, short stubs in place of long, leafy limbs. Half of their trunk was blackened, and had there not been a recent rain, it would probably still be smoldering. Muddy ash and charred sticks lay upon the damp ground surrounding the tree. Truman tapped one of the sooty branches with his foot and part of it disintegrated.
If a hunter or hiker had stumbled upon this scene, they would have assumed that the tree had been stuck by lightning. Truman and Sasha knew better. The two energies that they had been sensing clashed here, and there was no doubt that the U.P.E. and the unknown psychic (who was more than likely Eddie Bodkin) had fought, though there was no way to know at first glance who the victor had been, or which one of them had started the fire.
A can of spray paint lying abandoned near the tree provided a clue. Sasha, recalling his levitation ball, floated the can into his waiting hand. "If Eddie Bodkin has pyrokinetic abilities," he said, examining the can of black paint, "they must be weak, if he needed to use this."
Truman nodded absently, distracted. The burnt Sugar Maple was reaching out, sending out distress signals. Trees could not feel pain the way that humans could, they lacked the nervous system necessary to do so. They were, however, aware of when they had suffered damage, and given that this tree had suffered a good deal of it sometime in the last day or so, it would be logical to guess that that they were giving these signals off as a warning to the trees around them.
Wordlessly, Truman approached the tree, leaving Sasha to investigate the can. Sticky, wet ash clung to his shoes and stained the hem of his pants. He stopped in front of the Sugar Maple, concern etched into his features. The Sugar Maple spoke first. I know that I'm gorgeous, they said lightheartedly, but it's rude to stare.
Their tone belied their chastising words. Sorry, he thought, smiling. I just couldn't help myself.
Ha. If you think that this part of me looks good, you should check out my north side.
There was a subtle request in that statement, so Truman walked a few steps to the left. From this angle, none of the fire damage could be seen, their leaves varying in color from burnt orange to deep red, darkened by the rain. Consider me blown away.
Ha. Well, that's enough flirting, I think. My name's Stella, and I'm haven't had the best day, if you couldn't tell.
I'm Truman. And yeah, I've heard about…your condition.
If Stella had had a nose, they would have snorted. 'My condition?' You're a polite one aren't you? Let's be frank here, my condition is that I've been both drained and burnt up, and you and your friend there are here to find the thing that did this to me.
That about sums it up.
I won't waste your time then. Here's what happened. That freak butterfly that's been eating up my friends finally found that it could no longer resist my charms, and decided that I should be its next meal. And so, it did its thing- you do know what its thing is, right?
I've got an idea.
Then I won't go into detail. It was unpleasant, of course, but it wasn't anything I wouldn't bounce back from. So I just waited for it to finish up and move on- did I mention that its stench was terrible? I've been infested by stinkbugs more fragrant. Anyway, this person came up. Kinda felt similar to you, but not as strong.
Similar to Truman? They must've been talking about Eddie.
Next thing I know, everything's all hot and half of my branches are on fire. The bug shrieked and flew off of me, or maybe it fell?
You aren't sure?
At the time, I was more concerned with fire that was rapidly consuming my limbs and heading towards my trunk.
Oh, right, Truman thought sheepishly. Sorry.
I don't know what ended up happening to them. I assume their gone now, because otherwise you wouldn't be standing here talking to me. So that's my story. Does any of it help?
It certainly did. Stella had just confirmed that not only was Eddie Bodkin involved, he probably wasn't being blackmailed by Papadonkus, if he was out here trying to kill the U.P.E. They had also let Truman know just how vital it was that he and Sasha locate him quickly. There wasn't any blood, and the signs of violence were limited to what the fire had left behind, so the fight had clearly ended elsewhere. Eddie may have been the winner, or he may be a hypnotized zombie wandering aimlessly around the forest, while the U.P.E was off licking its wounds. And there was still Papadonkus to deal with…
You've been really helpful, Truman thought, grateful. He drew a deep breath, a muddy, smoky scent filling his nostrils. Is there anything I can do for you?
No, Stella replied bluntly. But don't you worry about me. It won't take more than decade for me to be back to my beautiful self. Now go, you got a bug to catch.
Truman said his goodbyes then, wishing Stella a speedy recovery. He turned to find Sasha half-kneeling in the mud, one ungloved hand touching the ground. He looked up, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. "The U.P.E. is with Eddie," he said as he stood up.