I. Plumule

The young Datura stood amongst their elders, ears low in suspicion. The soft fur covering their face stood stiff against the still air, large eyes cast into the corner, hiding a confusion that they could not yet resolve. They had been warned of this the night before, as the Nursetrees sang them the stories of old, told to eat their fill for dinner and be prepared to meet with the elders in the morning. This had never once happened to the young Datura, and this is the first time their belly had skipped First Meal. Beyond the entryway of this small room - a room they have passed hundreds of times in their clay campus, but have never stepped foot inside - they could hear the joyous yelps and ravenous bites of mealtime. Their stomach, confused and anxious, bubbled in protest.

The Nursetrees in the room - one an elder! - offered no immediate clues to the purpose of this meeting. This elder was named Ironwood, eldest of all and representative of the council. Ironwood had been a constant in the young Datura’s life - the gray fur of their temples offering comfort and discipline in equal measures. Ironwood had the sweetest, most quiet voice, perfect for slowly drifting off to sleep. This voice would rarely - but powerfully - erupt into a shrill bark, only heard at the harshest of indiscretions. As Ironwood grew older, both bark and song grew less frequent, though their wisdom - and fury - remained plentiful. The young Datura admired Ironwood the way a new bud might admire the brutal, life-giving sun.

Across from the seated Ironwood was Calathea, their Rootwarden interpreter, hands folded politely in front of them. Calathea had only arrived within the last cycle, with the new crop of crechemates. The young Datura had never met a Rootwarden, but was excited to see the quick and steady movement of their hands. Many rumors circle around the creche of the adults and their castes, and tt was said that with a simple flip of the wrist, Rootwardens could produce shape, creating dazzling light shows, summon different smells and tastes and, so it is said, reach deep into the hearts of the Datura nearby and inform them of something that simple words failed to.

Calathea’s hands and fingers danced, but the young Datura saw no such rumored amazement, and felt nothing reach deeply into their hearts. They noticed that Calathea was seated to the side of the room, nearest the Elder Ironwood, the two somewhat awkwardly facing each other. Calathea offered a polite, reassuring smile to the young Datura, but otherwise remained silent.

“Greetings, Friends.” a voice came from the entrance, and Calathea’s hands began quickly moving. The younger Datura turned, their brain desperately trying not to place the familiar new voice. It could not have possibly been Torti, Moonflower, but Torti continued to speak anyway: “How has the dew gathered?”

One of the Nursetrees - Pop, recently moved to this particular creche at the same time as Calathea - and Calathea attempted to lower their stance in deference before Moonflower (an easy task, given Torti’s size). Ironwood made no such gesture, their sharpened eyes staring past their interpreter and into the back of the late-coming Moonflower’s head. The young Datura had seen this look before, and if it was shot at anyone other than the symbolic leader of their entire clan, they might have let out a giggle. As it was, they were stunned to be sharing sunlight with the towering Torti.

“Your new role has not changed you, Moonflower.” Ironwood huffed, a low, annoyed yelp escaping at the end of their pronunciation. “So late to bloom.”

Moonflower’s smile reached wide, showing their impressive row of back canines. “Neither has yours, elder Nursetree.” Moonflower’s towering form leaned down, eye to eye with the younger Datura. “Ironwood was one of my nursetree’s as well, little spout.”

The younger Datura was stunned into silence. This was supposed to be a day like any other. There was no precedence for this, no preparatory story. And now they stood amongst elders and Moonflower, who stood towering above them. And what did they mean, ‘One of my Nursetrees’? The young Datura was adrift in confusion. What was Torti, Moonflower doing here? With them?

Moonflower’s powerful voice interrupted the racing thoughts.

“Little one, we have all been asking ourselves a question.” A large, warm hand rested on the little one’s shoulder, their body stilled by the connection to ground. “We are elder, wise and strong. But still, we are unsure of the answer to our question. We can not agree. It has troubled us for some time.” The younger one broke eye contact with Tortil only briefly, to scan the room. The rest of the adults in the room nodded slowly, most with eyes closed in some manner of reverence, or deep thought. Ironwood, eldest among them, kept their eyes locked on the young one, in the way the young one found oddly comforting. Moonflower continued. “So, we wondered, little one, if you might help us find an answer.”

The young one locked eyes again with Moonflower. They were a mere sprout, who knew only the labors of work, the sweet fruits of play. They had taken up hobbies, yes, but the young one was struck dumb to think of how they could possibly contribute. Still, they nodded their head.

“Good. Perhaps we’ll find an answer yet.”

Ironwood quickly interjected. “Youngling, do you know how many times the sun and moon have raced across the sky since you have opened your eyes?”

The room hung thick with silence.

“This isn’t the real question.”

“No, Elder nursetree.” The young Datura quickly responded. To be called a “youngling” by a Nursetree demanded subservience, a tone that implied punishment but did not necessarily promise it. The young Datura was kind and wise, and would go out of their way to avoid ever having to worry about the intended tone of a Nursetree.

“Well, It’s no matter.” Ironwood threw their wrinkled mandibles up in the air. Informality didn’t match their tone, a half-step louder than the voices around them. “Go along, Moonflower.”

“Thank you, Nurstree.” Torti showed deference and submission to the Elder Nurstree. This bizarre break in hierarchy - Moonflower, a leader of the entire Datura people, and Torti, Largest Datura That Anyone Has Ever Seen, showing deference to and submission to the Elder Nursetree.

“Little one, we have all spent many days and nights beneath Sun and Moon, and we have all seen these twins hang high in the sky, each to their own domain. But we remain uncertain, we remain unsure; where do Sun and Moon go when they are not in the sky?”

The youngling’s mind - and their better sense - broke, like a dried twig under a boar’s hoof.

“Wh...I don’t…. that’s...Stupid! What?” they said, eyes wild and confused, ears flipped back. Moonflower let out a quick laugh, followed by the adults in the room joining in a chorus. Ironwood stayed silent, eyes thin at the youngling.

“Ah, little one, I know this is confusing. You must be hungry, having skipped your first meal, and now adults have crowded you in a room to ask you questions of the sun and moon.” Moonflower shook their head, reaching into their pouch and revealing a small red berry. “Enjoy this sweet berry, child. You have a large day ahead of you, and the elders are too stuck on tradition to admit that the work might tire your feet.” Ironwood let out another huff.

“Moonflow”- The young Datura was interrupted.

“Torti, Child.”

“...Yes, Torti Moonflower, I don’t… understand?”

Ironwood spoke up, out of turn. “No, child. You do not understand.” Their voice was warm and comforting, with a hint of glee. “Not at all.”

Though there were many murmurs, many more pieces of advice offered from the elders, the young Datura heard none of it. In only a few moments, the young Datura would be standing with their face to the open horizon, meters from the edge of the creche that had been their home, furred hands clutching a single berry, standing in for the day’s meal. In the distance, they could hear the first play session going on amongst their crechemates. How soon would they note their absence, they wondered. How long had it taken themselves to notice the disappearances of the past?

Their small stomach growled, just as confused as the rest of the young Datura. With a determined sigh, the young one swallowed the sweet berry, feeling their hunger subside for the moment, stomach far fuller than they expected. The desert stretched out in front of them, buildings in the distance hazy amongst the dust in the air. The young Datura knew not what awaited them on this day, which they would forever know as the Day of their Naming, and ventured into the haze.