Red Leaves and the Living Token - By Benjamin David Burrell Page 0,1

Botann had never experienced, easily overwhelming the handful of guards protecting the Red.

The Petra with their bodies hewn out of stone, rough cut and rugged, could inflict mortal harm by simply standing still, like a jagged stone wall, while others with softer bodies stampeded into them. They were virtually indestructible next to pale green limbs of the Botann or the soft fur covered Zo.

But this army hadn't simply stood still. They marched forward, filled with religiously fueled wrath that boiled them to the point of murder.

The Botann, grown from the earth, bodies of branches and leaves, did the only thing they could. They ran. Those who were cut off were forced to stand by helplessly and watch as the most sacred member of their society, their Red, was cut down, thrown to the earth and burned.

The Petra killed the last Red not because it was Botann; the Reds were unique creatures unto themselves, not Petra, Botann, or Zo. Nor did the Petra kill it because it belonged to the Botann. The Reds considered themselves to belong to all three people or rather that all three belonged to them.

No, the Petra killed the last Red because the Botann lay claim to it as if it were their own. They walled it off and hoarded it, allowing only Botann access to it. The Petra killed the last Red because the Botann used it to claim superiority, saying that it was a sign of their Divine privilege.

The Petra killed the last Red because their own, the Red whom they had laid their own claim too, had died, leaving them at a disadvantage. They killed the last Red because the Zoen Red had grown ill over the years and it too had died, leaving only the one.

One that fueled the arrogance of the Botann.

Before their Red passed away, it was the Zo, with their hunched over furry animal like bodies, who claimed a position of prominence over the other two. They, just as animals of the world, were the highest form of life, higher than the plants, higher than dirt and stone. The Red they claimed as their own echoed the same prominence over the other two Reds. It was animal in form while the second most closely resembled a large tree and the last, stone and soil.

They revered all three of the Reds. But like their brothers, they had chosen their favorite.

The school master understood all this. He'd studied it in extreme detail, year after year. What he could not understand, the question that burned unforgivably in his mind was this: Why after a thousand years had the Reds not come back?

They had died before, many times, in fact. For one reason or another, the world would become inhospitable for them, and they would perish as a result. But in every instance, given enough time, fifty, a hundred years maybe, the Reds came back, every time, except this.

A thousand years was long enough to wait. It was clear; this time was different!

If he could find the answer to that question, he thought, he might understand the dread that had come over him. He might understand what duty, with regard to the Token, that he had left unfulfilled.

Click! A metallic noise reverberating through the book filled room brought the School Master out of his thoughts. He lifted his long nose up from his book.

A heavy wooden door creaked behind him as it turned slowly on its rusty hinges. Footsteps clanked into the room.

"Yes, yes, what is it?" He shouted glaring over his shoulder towards the open door. Students, for some reason or another, had lost their respect for his private hours. This would have to be corrected.

Not hearing a response, he spun around. As soon as his eye caught sight of the intruder, he felt his heart stop. His body froze in horror. His jaw refused to open, choking off a cry for help.

In that moment, he realized that he had thoroughly misinterpreted the dread he had felt regarding the Token. It had nothing to do with the ancient disappearance of the Reds. It was a warning. A warning he had not headed.

-

Nemic sat at a rustic wooden table, his green cheek in his broad, leafy hand, his elbow propped up, and his face buried in a book. His light green skin was gnarled and twisted like a piece of drift wood. His hands were like mittens, two broad leaves forming a wide scoop and another to act as a thumb. Long stalks grew