They trekked back to their camp, Senta-eh went hunting, Versa-eh led the horses to the creek two at a time, and Alex and Harta-ak gathered vines they could twist into more rope.
“How much do we need to make?” Harta-ak asked.
“I don’t really know,” Alex answered, then explained his idea for getting close enough to burn the wasta-ta out.
Harta-ak shook his head. “You know that’s crazy, right?”
“All my ideas are crazy,” Alex said. “Until they work.”
Senta-eh returned with the Kragdon-ah version of a porcupine. It weighed more than fifty pounds and she had bound its feet so it dangled off a short limb she carried over her shoulder. All the better to avoid the sharp quills.
She stripped the fur and quills off and butchered the animal while Versa-eh pulled the best quills off for later use.
While Senta-eh divided the meat up, Harta-ak told her what Alex’s plan was to burn the tree.
She kept her face neutral, but said, “I will go gather more of the medicinal leaves and turn them into a paste. We will need it.”
The five of them ate porcupine meat—there was plenty to share with Monda-ak—until they were stuffed. As soon as supper was done, they sat around the fire twisting more and more rope together.
While they worked, Versa-eh and Harta-ak sang a wordless song with a haunting melody. Harta-ak said it was a sailing song his father had taught him many seasons earlier.
By the next morning, they finally had enough rope.
They put Alex’s crazy idea—to essentially build a bee suit out of rope—into action.
Alex stood with his legs apart and his arms out while the three of them wound rope around every part of his body, doing their best to not leave a single inch of his flesh exposed.
“Is this rope thick enough to stop their stingers?” Senta-eh asked.
Alex grinned. It was a sick, nervous little smile. He could still remember the impact of the stings he had absorbed. “There’s only one way to find out.”
When they had him wrapped, he found his mobility was extremely limited. Also, he looked a bit like the Michelin Man, using ropes made out of vines instead of tires.
Harta-ak watched him take several stiff steps and held his head in his hand. “This is not going to work. We have to think of something else.”
“Hand me the bag of pitch and the torch,” was Alex’s only answer. “For all we know, I might be able to just walk up and drop the burning bag with no problems.”
Senta-eh stared at him. She closed her eyes. She did not think that was among the likely outcomes.
Versa-eh picked up the water bag that they had converted into a fire bag. They had split it partway open and dropped as much pine pitch inside as they could. Once Alex touched it to the torch, it should burn hot and fast. If he could make it to the base of the tree without being attacked, and set the torch to the bag, the tree should go up like a matchstick.
Senta-eh hooked the strap of the bag over his left hand and Harta-ak tried to hand him the torch. The rope bindings made it so he couldn’t grip the torch, though.
“Unwrap my hand,” Alex’s muffled voice said through the wrapping around his mouth.
Reluctantly, Harta-ak partially unwrapped his right hand and gave him the torch.
“Monda-ak. Stay with Senta-eh. Stay!” He looked at his friends and mumbled, “Wish me luck.”
Monda-ak whined, but stayed behind, his eyes never leaving Alex.
Alex waddled awkwardly into the bowl, squinting through the narrow slit in the ropes they had left him.
Harta-ak, as a former sailor, was excellent with knots, so he had been responsible for tying off each end of rope. As Alex walked across the field, the knots stayed tied, but they did start to loosen a bit. These were ropes that had actually been vines just a few days before, after all.
As Alex drew closer to the home of the wasta-ta, they sensed him coming and flew toward him. They did not act as though he was a threat, but an advance patrol definitely showed interest in him, buzzing loudly over his head. A few even landed on the ropes, their abdomen throbbing as though they were about to plunge their stinger into him.
Alex did not panic and kept his eyes on the prize. Every step drew him closer to the tree. Every step also attracted more and more attention from the wasta-ta.
Finally, he was at the base of the hollowed-out tree. The buzzing of the wasta-ta was so loud that it blocked out all other sound. He was now nearly covered in two layers: rope and wasta-ta.
He felt a tickle in his lower calf. The ropes had separated and the wasta-ta had found his skin. For the moment, they were simply crawling along it, but their legs and wings beat against his bare flesh, thoroughly creeping him out.
Alex turned his left side toward the tree and attempted to drop the bag inside the hollow. It fell outside. He kicked the bag inside the tree and as he did, two of the wasta-ta on his leg stabbed him with their stingers.
Alex screamed, his vision blurred, and he nearly dropped his torch.
He managed to focus for another moment and dipped the torch deep into the pitch bag. It went up in an instant blaze, just like it was supposed to.
In the same instant, Alex turned and tried to sprint away. It felt like the fire from the tree had managed to get inside his leg and was spreading up toward his knee.
He could not run effectively with the ropes restricting him, but he focused on simply putting one foot in front of the other. As he did, the ropes separated in more and more spots. Every time a new gap appeared, the wasta-ta zeroed in with ruthless efficiency.
Now, the threat was real, and the
