***

Second Stitch

Unveil the machinery of life. Weave it as you see fit. Unite the creatures of its domains, and greater beings will be born by your hand.

***

The gates of the Cocoon open, allowing access to the gardens outside. Sunlight replaces the torchvines’ glow. I bask in its rays, feeling warmth against my fur. My tail expresses gratitude for this sensation by wagging left and right. The white tendrils of silkroot plants twist and turn in their attempt to collect daylight. Some stems manage to arch out of the cobalt lattice on which we tread, and yank at the Parents’ feet. Emilia, with the rest of her Risen kin, calculate each step as to not tumble from the plants’ grasp. Acolytes such as I, on the other hand, traverse the treacherous vines of the Garden with ease. Mother stops our pilgrimage for a moment, and comments on the scenery.

“Look around you, Sages of the Four Strands! Gain a first taste of the Unification’s glory! Silkroot is the flawless fusion of vegetal patience with animal tenacity; a crop to surpass all others! Feel the fuzziness of the leaves between your fingers, which shield your bodies from the cold of the night! Touch the rigidity of the stems with your claws, from which we build ladders and bridges! Taste the bark at its center with your tongue, and dispel hunger and thirst for seven days!”

I cannot suppress a soft growl as the bitter aroma of silkroot emerges from my memory. I will not miss the husky, rough texture accompanying its loathsome sourness.

We pass by the final branches, and press onwards beyond the frontiers of the Cocoon. I run past a ram with a broken horn, and an elderly male Risen holding a cage filled with butterflies. Emilia greets me at the head of the group. I pant while Mother strokes the fur behind my ears. Her mouth opens to recite another sermon to the crowd. A buzzing sound coming from above interrupts her. I raise my head to investigate.

Up in the air, swarms of dragonfly-like creatures fly in synchrony. Cobalt beams trail their path, wrapped in delicate yet sturdy silken strands produced by the insects. Constellations of metal, lit by the Sun, ignite the sky in a dazzling light show.

One by one, each cobalt pole enters the hands of Risen. Thick climbing rope woven from silkroot fibers wraps around their waist. The abyss of the Iron Sea far below waits for a cable to snap, and for yet another soul to be claimed in its black waters.

In one gesture, the workers sever each strand of silk with cobalt-forged scissors. They grasp the metal beams within their palm, push it against several others of its kind, and bind them together with a high-temperature welder. I count at least fifty pairs of hands, stuck in a dance of shining blades and blazing flames. A repeating pattern of triangles expands with each cycle.

Emilia seizes this opportunity to continue passing on her teachings.

“Brave Artisans of Silk, look how the Forge-dwellers shamelessly use our technology! Notice how fortunate they are to be held airborne by our indestructible harnesses! Observe how our silkfly drones serve them so zealously! And for what, you ask? Heed my words! They believe that their so-called Spindle will soon float away from the Iron Sea, and suffocate us all in the skies far above. They build this dome to prevent this fairytale from happening, as if a divine force could be opposed so easily! If the Spindle existed, not even the greatest silkroot net could withstand its strength. This is why we march to the Nectar Pool, for we know it is pointless to revolt against the fate of the Four Strands.”

The structure resembles those found in the Primate Playground, where Risen children and simian Acolytes mingled. They wrapped their fingers around tangled domes of metal, cheering one another as they raced for the summit. I would watch their climb, look down at my paws, and growl in disappointment at their lack of dexterity.