The Savior-Actress

Chapter 6The Green Caterpillar Kid

Yunshu’s boots pounded the moss in a straight, terrified line: girl, spider, caterpillar—three dots on an emerald map. The caterpillar’s belly scraped the ground like a living steamroller, every segment rippling with eager speed. Dou Erdun darted ahead, then skidded, then spun back to nip at Yunshu’s ankle as if to shout, Faster!

She almost obeyed. Then memory pricked: Wait. I’m the one with the invisible blade.

She stopped so suddenly Dou Erdun collided with her calf. The caterpillar shuddered to a halt five metres away, whiskers trembling.

“No more running,” Yunshu muttered. She rolled her shoulders, feeling the thread-edge coil inside her like a cat stretching in sunlight.

But the caterpillar did not charge. Instead it lowered its head—more like a bow than a threat—and spat something onto the ground. A bright plastic cylinder bounced, rolled, stopped at Yunshu’s toes. Her orange-juice bottle. Scuffed, dented, unmistakable.

Yunshu stared. Dou Erdun stared. The caterpillar’s rear half wagged like an overexcited puppy.

“You… fetched this?” she asked, half to herself.

The caterpillar rolled sideways, flopped on its back, and began writhing in slow circles. The gesture was comically familiar: Dou Erdun’s signature tantrum whenever Yunshu refused to play fetch again. Only this time the performer weighed a quarter of a ton and had the texture of velvet lawn.

Yunshu pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m being out-cuted by a larva.”

Dou Erdun gave a warning hiss, fangs half-unsheathed. The caterpillar answered with a series of soft huffs—huh-huh-huh—that sounded suspiciously like giggles.

A suspicion crawled up Yunshu’s spine. She had seen this routine before, day after day, in miniature: Dou Erdun rolling upside-down until she relented and scratched his belly. The caterpillar must have watched from the understory, memorising every flourish.

“Please tell me you’re not asking to join the party,” she said aloud.

The caterpillar righted itself with surprising grace and waddled closer, stopping just beyond arm’s reach. Its eyes—glossy black domes the size of teacups—fixed on her with hopeful intensity.

Yunshu weighed options. Killing it would take one flick of thread. Leaving it risked attracting predators drawn to its bulk. Yet the thought of turning the creature into a living vehicle sparked like a match in her mind.

“Transport,” she said slowly, shaping the word so her audience could read lips. “You carry us, we keep you. Deal?”

The caterpillar tilted its head, antennae flicking.

Yunshu demonstrated. She patted the broad ridge between its false horns, then vaulted up, legs astride. The caterpillar stiffened, every bristle standing on end—then rippled forward in a gentle glide. The motion was oddly soothing, like sitting on a slow-moving wave.

Wind tugged Yunshu’s hair. She laughed, startled by the speed. “Hey! Not bad for a worm!”

Dou Erdun, offended at being left behind, sprang after them. Two bounces and he had scrambled up the caterpillar’s flank, settling between Yunshu and the creature’s neck, legs hooked into bristles like a sailor in rigging.

Thus began the strangest cavalry charge in any universe: a girl, a spider, and a caterpillar the colour of fresh limes, thundering across the jungle floor at a pace that flattened ferns and sent birds shrieking into the canopy.

For the first hour the caterpillar steered like a drunk shopping trolley. Yunshu shouted directions; the caterpillar interpreted them as suggestions for scenic detours. Roots became ramps, creeper vines became swings. When she finally persuaded it to follow a straight line, she discovered another problem: every few kilometres the creature would simply stop, roll over, and demand playtime. Dou Erdun, affronted by the competition for attention, threatened to puncture its hide with a raised spike. Yunshu mediated treaties, bribed with dried mango, and eventually instituted a schedule: five minutes of rolling, twenty minutes of riding, repeat.

By the third day the caterpillar had grown another metre and learned the difference between forward and backwards. They covered ground that would have taken Yunshu a week on foot. She named it Verde—Spanish for green, easy to shout, impossible to forget.

They reached the forest’s edge at dusk. Beyond the last line of trees lay a wide savanna, ochre grass rippling like the sea. And on the horizon—smoke, wheel ruts, the tiny silhouettes of people.

Yunshu’s pulse quickened. Humans. The tug behind her ribs gave a sharp yank, pointing straight at the distant camp. Verde stopped, sensing her hesitation. Dou Erdun pressed against her calf, uneasy.

She dismounted, boots sinking in soft earth. “Time to say goodbye,” she told them, voice softer than the wind. “I can’t parade you through town. You’d scare the milk out of everyone.”

Dou Erdun wrapped two forelegs around her waist, grip fierce. Verde lowered its head, nosing the empty juice bottle she had tucked into her belt like a talisman. The message was clear: We stay.

Yunshu swallowed. She had carried her sister’s photograph across worlds; now she carried two new heartbeats. But the rules were the rules. She knelt, scratched the spider’s chin, then pressed her forehead to Verde’s warm brow. “Wait for me,” she whispered. “Find a safe place. I’ll come back.”

Dou Erdun released her slowly, joints creaking with reluctance. Verde rolled once, a slow, sorrowful barrel-roll, then turned and lumbered back toward the trees. The spider followed, pausing every few steps to look back. Finally both vanished into green shadow.

Yunshu straightened. The savanna stretched wide before her, sun melting into gold. Somewhere beyond those distant fires lay the fragment she had been sent to find. She adjusted the straps of her now-empty pack, squared her shoulders, and started walking.

Halfway across the plain she heard shouting—panic, steel on steel. She broke into a run. Cresting a low rise she saw them: thirty-odd travellers ringed by five tiger-sized rats, tawny fur striped black, teeth like ivory sickles. Swords flashed, a single rifle cracked, but the line wavered.

A bound, two bounds—gravity felt thinner now. She soared higher than she ever had on Earth. Mid-leap she flicked her wrist. A thread of pure intention sliced the nearest rat across the ribs; the creature shrieked, reeled, fell. She landed inside the circle, breath steady, eyes bright.

One minute later the rats fled, leaving the travellers staring at a girl no taller than a spear, clothes splashed with someone else’s blood, a faint silver glimmer fading around her fingertips.

The leader, a broad-shouldered man with a beard like burnt wire, lowered his blade. “Who in the seven hells are you?”

Yunshu wiped her brow, offered a tired smile, and answered with the first honest name that came to mind.

“Delivery girl,” she said. “I believe you’ve been expecting a miracle.”