Quilla’s Rootway First Step — Under the rootway, where the dirt smelled like rain and old wood, Quilla tugged a dry leaf twice her size between her jaws. Read the full story →
Under the rootway, where the dirt smelled like rain and old wood, Quilla tugged a dry leaf twice her size between her jaws. She wanted to mark the first turn of the new tunnel before the morning beetles tramped over the trail. Pebbles clicked under her feet. Root shadows curved ahead like doorways. Her antennae tapped-tapped the air, and for the first time she stepped past the familiar bark chip without anyone beside her.
The path widened near a fallen log with a round, ringed end. Quilla set her leaf down to listen. A humming tremble came through the wood—not heavy footsteps, not wind, but a slow, fizzy song. “Who’s there?” she called, trying to keep her voice steady. From the hollow under the tree root slid a tiny snail with a shell striped like polished bark, singing into the tunnel so every root carried the tune.
“I’m mapping the empty places,” the snail said. Quilla looked at her leaf, then at the wide root arch, and suddenly her marker felt like more than a sign for termites. She propped it where the snail’s song buzzed brightest, and the rootway became a meeting path. Next time you see that leaf in Quilla’s jaws, listen for the tap-tap of her first step.
