THE RIVER THAT TOOK MY SISTER

Chapter 3

The Parasitic Orchard

The faint violet thread of the Bleeding Current narrowed, forcing Clara’s battered canoe into a dense, flooded thicket. Here, the open black water of the mire gave way to an impossible grove: an orchard of gnarled, twisted apple trees growing directly out of the deep, suffocating muck.

The trees were grotesque. Their bark was a bruised, iridescent purple-gray, and their branches coiled like arthritic fingers, drooping under the weight of heavy, translucent white fruit. The apples glowed with a faint, sickly bioluminescence, casting a milk-colored fog across the water.

Clara winced as her canoe scraped against a submerged root. The stench of sulfur from her dead-reed necklace was fading, replaced by a sudden, overpowering perfume—the scent of overripe fruit, honey, and damp earth. It was intoxicatingly sweet, making her head spin.

Don't touch the fruit, and don't breathe the mist, Martha’s voice whispered in her memory. The Orchard feeds on what’s soft. It turns a man's hunger into his anchor.

As the canoe glided deeper into the grove, Clara looked beneath the surface. The violet light revealed the horrifying truth of the orchard’s soil. The roots of the purple trees weren't buried in mud; they were wrapped tightly around the ribs, limbs, and skulls of drowned loggers. White, fibrous taproots burrowed directly into the open mouths and chests of the preserved corpses, drawing nutrients from their marrow to feed the glowing fruit above.

A soft plop shattered the silence.

An apple had dropped from a low-hanging branch, bobbing in the water just inches from Clara’s hull. It split open upon impact, releasing a thick, powdery cloud of white spores.

Clara clamped her hand over her mouth and nose, but it was too late. She inhaled a sharp, sweet lungful of the dust. Instantly, her vision blurred. The edges of the swamp began to bleed into a warm, golden haze. The cold ache in her shoulders vanished, replaced by a profound, heavy lethargy. Her paddle slipped from her numb fingers, clattering against the bottom of the boat.

"Clara..."

The voice was small, high-pitched, and entirely real.

Sitting on a massive, weeping root just ahead was a little boy. He couldn't have been older than seven, wearing a patched wool coat too large for him. Clara recognized him instantly: it was Billy Miller, the blacksmith’s son who had gone missing in the low-meadows three winters ago.

"Billy?" Clara mumbled, her tongue thick and uncooperative.

The boy looked up. His face was perfectly preserved, but his eyes were wide, milky-white, and empty. He didn't speak with his mouth; instead, a hollow, clicking sound echoed from his chest. Clara saw with horror that a thick, pale root had grown up through his throat, anchoring his tiny body to the tree behind him. He was a marionette, his limbs twitching as the root system flexed.

Suddenly, the branches above her groaned. The translucent apples began to drop in rapid succession, pelting the water like hail. White, blinding clouds of spores erupted around the canoe, completely obscuring the channel.

Billy’s body lunged forward, jerked by the root. His webbed, gray hands clawed at the air, trying to drag Clara out of the boat and into the parasitic embrace of the root system.

Clara’s mind raced through the golden fog of the spores. She couldn't fight the boy; he was already gone, a physical extension of the grove. She reached into the bilge, her fingers fumbling blindly until they wrapped around the cold iron spike.

Instead of striking the boy, Clara lunged sideways, driving the iron spike deep into the main, pulsing taproot of the tree Billy was anchored to.

The iron bit into the wood with a sharp, sizzling crack. The tree shrieked—a sound like tearing metal—and a thick, tar-like black sap began to pour from the wound, coating the iron spike. The white apples withered instantly, turning to black dust on the water. The golden fog cleared from Clara’s mind as the toxic magic collapsed.

Billy’s body went completely limp, the tension leaving his limbs as the root in his throat shriveled into ash. For a brief second, his milky eyes seemed to clear, reflecting the faint violet light of the current. Then, his spirit dissolved, leaving only white silt that drifted away in the stream.

Clara pulled the iron spike from the wood. It was now permanently stained with the toxic, black sap of the orchard—a weapon of stagnant rot. Gripping her paddle with shaking hands, she steered her canoe away from the weeping grove and back into the dark, open current.