Whichwood(36)

It was a while before they finally reached the forgotten road that led through hills and valleys of waist-deep snow to the small cottage that was Benyamin’s home. Oliver, who carried the heaviest load, did not complain, despite having to lift Laylee above his head in order to keep her from getting caught in the drift. The insects—who knew their guidance would be of no use if they were buried under the flurry—crawled back up Benyamin’s legs, where their cold, hard bodies took refuge against his skin. In their stead, the flies and bees and ditzy moths (who’d been sleeping behind his knees) took flight, buzzing forward to join the fourteen fireflies, leading the way with all the confidence of professional docents. Benyamin’s bug-friends knew the road home better than even he did, and Alice, who’d been watching closely all this time, was quietly awed by the gentle camaraderie that existed between this strange boy and these small creatures.

Finally, a distant light throbbed in the distance, its brilliance flashing like a beacon in the starless night. The moths fluttered forward with a greater eagerness than even before—dizzy with love for the yellow flame—while the flies and bees buzzed back into place behind Benyamin’s knees. The remaining army of bugs, now tucked safely inside Benyamin’s clothes, remained deathly still, watching for anything at all that might signal new danger. They would protect Benyamin above all else—and at great danger to themselves—remaining vigilant until dawn to make sure their human-friend came to no harm.





It was only when they walked into Benyamin’s humble home that Alice and Oliver realized exactly how humble his life was. His house consisted of only one large room informally divided into several smaller sections (eating, cooking, sleeping, sitting—and of course, a little closet for the toilet), but it was a snug, cozy space, its rustic interior warmed by beautiful wooden beams, whitewashed floors, chunky, roughly hewn rugs, a small stone fireplace (from which hung a large metal kettle), and the many happy lanterns that flooded the room with soft orange light. It smelled like hot chocolate and cardamom and the delicate perfume of saffron. And though the home was sparsely furnished, its few pieces were bright and very, very clean.

This, the cleanliness of it all, was the thing that struck Alice the most. It was a simple space, yes, but it was spectacularly tidy. And though it seemed tight quarters for a family to share, it was clear that capable hands kept it carefully maintained. Alice and Oliver were hugged by its welcoming walls and they settled in at once—perfectly at home in the house of a stranger.

That is—strangers.

Benyamin, who’d only ever known one parent, lived with his mother, who, at the moment, was propped up in bed, staring at them in fascination and understandable surprise.

Benyamin’s mother had been ill for two years, you see, and she’d never, not in all that time, seen Benyamin bring anyone home. But then, he’d never had occasion to. The thing no one knew (not even our unfriendly mordeshoor) was that Benyamin’s troubles had begun around the same time as Laylee’s. It was a matter of simple, unlucky luck.

One awful winter night, Benyamin’s home had been struck by lightning, and the thatched roof caught fire. He and his mother were soundly sleeping, and they would have died in their beds if it hadn’t been for Benyamin’s insects, who did not abandon their friend, but did their best to awaken the sleeping humans even at great harm to themselves. Still, Benyamin and his mother had awoken too late—they’d inhaled too much smoke and were slowly suffocating, eyes blind and burning in the raging fire. Delirious, they collapsed to the floor.

Many of Benyamin’s hard-shelled friends lost their lives that night as they came together to carry Benyamin’s and his mother’s bodies out of the home. It was through their love and sacrifice that he and his mother were spared, and when Benyamin opened his eyes, he was shocked to find himself warm and unhurt, facedown in the snow. He and his mother should’ve been devoured by frostbite in the deathly chill of the night, but his bugs had saved his family twice over by burrowing under them and around them, linking together arms and legs to cover their exposed, fragile human skin in their own armor.

Benyamin would never be the same.

His love for his many-legged friends, though always steady, had then become a solid, unshakable thing, and he was so moved by their kindness he wept for days at a time. Their great and unwavering affection for him was a support he hadn’t known he needed—and he held fast to their friendship more than ever, especially then, at a time he needed it most. You see, he and his mother had survived the fire, yes, but there was still devastation to contend with, and his biggest problems were two:

First: despite their best efforts, Benyamin’s mother had been badly burned, and her legs, which had suffered the worst, would need a steady supply of time—and magic—to heal.

And second: their once beautiful home (that his mother had built by hand) had been reduced to a pile of cinders, and from the ashes they would have to rebuild with what little they had left. It was now up to Benyamin to support them both.




So when Benyamin walked inside with his three friends, his mother, who’d been waiting up in bed for her son, was more than a little astounded. Benyamin had never done anything so odd before, and it took quite a lot of explaining in order to account not only for the presence of his new friends, but also the fact that two of them were from Ferenwood and that one of them was dying.