The luminous cavern! They were almost there. And just in time, too. One by one, the butterfly wings on Braiden’s shoeswere beginning to slough off, disintegrating into colorful puffs of glitter as the flutterbutter’s magic faded.
Elder Bahul stood with his hands on his hips as he surveyed the luminous cavern, taking great big breaths of the balmy underground air.
“Quite cozy,” he remarked. “Perfect place for a pit stop.”
Braiden could scarcely disagree. Several of the local plants were good for eating, and the pool, while not as tasty as Augustin’s Effervescent Elixirs, still offered a novel taste of something different to drink.
“I’ll need to get rid of all of the traps,” Warren muttered sulkily. “And my Pulverizers, too.”
Braiden remembered the giant swinging ball of brambles that had nearly turned Augustin’s head into a thorny pincushion.
“The what, now?” Elder Bahul asked.
“It’s nothing,” Warren grumbled.
Instead of resting in the cavern, the party decided to push all the way through to the Underborough. Even without the flutterbutter, Braiden could feel his legs carrying him faster toward their destination.
The crystal passage to the Underborough grew brighter and brighter with every step, each crystal absorbing and reflecting a portion of sunlight from far up above.
When they emerged in the village’s great cavern, even Elder Bahul stopped to gasp and take it all in. And Braiden knew he shouldn’t be surprised to see it happen anymore, but Grandest Mother Magda was already standing at the village entrance waiting to greet them, as if somehow sensing that friends were on the way.
Ever the professional, Grandest Mother Magda approached the elder first, but not without throwing Warren and his friendsa subtle wink. They needed to get the business of business out of the way, first.
Elder Bahul greeted Mother Magda with all the energy one might expect out of a traveling merchant, that same cheerful persona he’d donned when he’d sold the party their flutterbutter.
He receded to his normal self just as soon as Magda finished shaking his hand. Mother Magda didn’t notice or didn’t care, rushing to greet the rest of the party, but not before embracing her grandson tight. And then she finally came to Braiden.
“You’re finally back,” said Mother Magda. “The moongrass! Tell us everything.”
Flanked by Warren and Mother Magda, Braiden found himself ushered back to the weaving room, the place where the many grandmothers of the Underborough worked their wicker magic.
He welcomed the warmth of their greetings, the comforting fuzz of so many motherly paws brushing against his cheek. He told them of how he’d woven all sorts of enchantment with singular strings of moongrass, making magical garments with so little of the stuff.
The grandmothers listened intently, curious to learn how to put their homegrown resource to good use. One produced a quill and ink, taking feverish notes.
Warren nudged Braiden after his explanation, nodding at the bulge in his rucksack and waggling his eyebrows.
“Oh. Right! You’ve all helped me so much already, but I was wondering if you might help us with another matter.” He unwrapped the wooden device to a chorus of curious, excitable chirps from all around the room. “What would you make of this contraption? It’s supposed to be from my grandmother. She called it an Heirloom.”
“An Heirloom? Or a hare loom?” one of the burrowfolk women joked. “A loom for hares, he brings us.”
The grandmothers laughed, Mother Magda included. Good to know that the burrowfolk had a healthy sense of humor about these things.
Warren and Braiden took turns struggling to explain the concept of string instruments to a puzzled room full of grandmothers. Braiden even gave the Heirloom a halfhearted twang to demonstrate.
“That’s no music,” said one of the grandmothers with a sniff.
She drummed an energetic tattoo with her feet, which the other grandmothers soon took up, an orchestra of stomps shaking the room and coming together to make a merry burrowfolk jig. One final stomp, and the grandmothers cheered, drumming one last time in self-congratulatory applause.
“But it doesn’t strike me as a loom, either,” Mother Magda said. “Do you see, sisters? Why so many weights of string? And why so few of them to work with? You can hardly weave a strip of something with this, much less a tapestry.”
Braiden plucked another note on the Heirloom, more confused than ever about its actual function. He twanged a second thread, thinking of how Bones could probably play a mean tune on this thing even with strings that weren’t meant for making music.
Bones. They needed to keep moving. With a whisper to Warren and an apologetic explanation to the grandmothers, Braiden excused himself from the weaving room, only too delighted to endure another gauntlet of adoring burrowfolk paws.
Grandest Mother Magda walked with Braiden arm in arm back to the great tree’s veranda, where they found the rest of the party tucking into a hearty meal of rooty tooty stew.
Elder Bahul had apparently finished eating — and so had Elyssandra, which was far harder to believe. The two were engaged in a portraiture session.
