The Dark Crystal: Plague of Light

by James Comins

  "Whoohoooo!" Aughra whooped as she slid, whirr, down Loora's rope.

  "Cory, get your hands slick so you don't get ropeburn, then I'll guide you to the exact spot. I can fly down myself. I'll try to catch you if you miss, but let's not count on it. Pretend you've only got one shot. And whoever else is in there with you, come down before the whole tree does!"

  With a series of "rights" and "lefts," Cory followed Loora's voice. "Jump about six trors forward to the rope. Overshoot it and it'll snag you right in the belly--quick, the tree's moving. Not too quick! Take enough time to get it right."

  On impulse, Cory took his shoes off and threw them. His bare feet hung over the edge of the tree, its surface not a clean window ledge but splintery and torn. Finding the area he had to work with, almost glad he couldn't see the ground, he swung his arms, cursed the blindness, and leapt.

  * * *

  "There's no food," Lemny murmured. He'd gotten used to the pinpricks, which didn't go through anything vital, and it didn't feel too bad if he didn't move his arms. Any attempt to struggle made his clumsy body swing back and forth, cracking his shell a little at a time, prying it open.

  Lemny was staying very, very still.

  "Gobber's on his way," he breathed to himself. "Be a few days and I'll be a little worse for wear, and then they'll let us go--"

  A door opened.

  "Heard you talking," snapped a harsh voice. It was not a Skeksi.

  Footsteps. Lemny didn't turn his head; he'd tried it earlier, and it made his shell creak.

  "Both of us here against our wills. Bet you've got a name," the harsh voice said.

  "Yeah, er, I have one at that. Care to let me down?" Lemny asked.

  "Go against the wishes of skekTek? Be like taking my life in my hands. I'm Rian. Some people consider me a friend."

  "Do the Skeksis?" Lemny asked.

  "No."

  The Crabbit risked a look over his shoulder and found a scarred Gelfling face. Rian's cheeks had been torn in ripples down one side, the cuts too regular to be an animal scratch. His hair wasn't quite black. Down one side of his ragged hair was tied a series of short ponytails; on the other side his locks hung loose and wild. He was dressed in animal leather, layers upon layers stitched into a hardened scale-like surface. Rian was not well-fed, and his cheeks were sunken and concave, but his hands were steady and moved with precision.

  "A friend," said Lemny, "might call me Lemny. An emmeny might not. Although they might. Haven't had any emmenies before, so I don't know what they call people. Maybe emmenies call everyone 'chumbly' or somesuch, I wouldn't know."

  "Enemies strike. They don't talk," said Rian.

  "Rightly, rightly. You're talking," Lemny added, squirming slightly as his shell squeaked.

  "I am. I haven't got salvation to offer you, but I'll listen to your story."

  "My story?" Lemny sighed. "Not so much to tell, Rian, my friend. Me an' my mate Gobber are merchants. Here an' there, y'know? He's the talker, mostly--quick on his toes. But me, obviously I'm not much for talking my way out of things. Not my talent. Cause you see, I'm not so much a salescrabbit as I am an artist. I've got a gift. I can turn anythin' into somethin' else, given enough time and the right tools." He took a moment. "I--I have this idea, d'y'see--not to say a dream--"

  Lemny waited, but Rian did not interrupt.

  "There's a cathedral, sort of thing, that I can see in my mind. Doors shaped like faces, windows circled by rings of color an' laid out like the wings of dancerflies, a roof of tiles shaped like the wings of littels, each one perfect an' unique. Faces an' wings. And I've conceived this one great spiral balcony like a whirlpool, made of carved-up wood rails, and in the right light, in the right time of day, as the three suns come up in the morning, the light passes through the balcony banisters in just such a way that it comes off as there's a thousand autumn leaves falling through the window, only, if you plan it right, as the day goes on, the leaves look like they're returning to the tree, falling up in a spiral, as if nuffing really ends, but only returns to where it started. It'd be, wosstheword, symbolic, y'see? And all down the inside of the walls is these pillars, there is, each of them with motifs of sky an' clouds an' such, as if you're living in the clouds, knowwhatImean? An'--"

  Again, Rian seemed content to listen. There were no other sounds in the laboratory but Lemny's own voice and a low everpresent hum from a long shut door.

  "An' everything in my cathedral reminds you that life is precious, and that the world is beautiful, and that there's a place inside of us where the true world lives, a world without lies an' such, a place where you can trust every livin' thing to keep you safe an' not eat you or nuffing. I can see it so clearly, when I close my eyes, and if you could see the carvings I make on the road--well, if I had the land an' the materials an' enough time, I could make my cathedral real. You could walk up an' down it and see just a little of the perfect world you've got inside you, which, I hasten to believe, doesn't look so diffrink from the perfect world I've got inside me. Maybe it's even the same world, a world on the other side of us, and we all share it, like we share this one."

  Lemny coughed and felt his shell crack just a little more.

  "Anyway, that's my story, friend Rian." His shell suddenly scratched its way down one pinhead, and he clenched his shoulder as best as he could to keep it from moving any more. He possessed no tear ducts, but he heard his voice become more plaintive. "Tell me yours."

  * * *

  "BRING ME SKEKTEK'S CRYSTAL!"

  The Chamberlain turned and nudged the Slavemaster. "You've done it, you've done it. We've got him now. I'll probably even get my gift back."

  "Your majesty, I will bring you skekTek's crystal," the Slavemaster said and departed.

  Such a simple creature, the Slavemaster. How strange to do what you're told. The Chamberlain sidled up to the magnificent arched robe of the Emperor and placed a hand on his majesty's shoulder.

  "Hmmmmmm! Aren't you glad you followed us, your greatness? Some might say you have as much wisdom as you have luck. Clearly you recognize loyalty, yes. But may I speak to you of our little friend, skekTek?"

  The Emperor reached out and pulled the Chamberlain closer. So simple to manipulate, those who only understand brute force. The Emperor lowered his voice: "You think skekTek knew about this." It wasn't a question.

  "Indeed, your gloriousness, how could he not? The only explanation is that he wished to give you the slaves while he kept the real power for himself! He betrayed you and humiliated the Slavemaster and now he has the secret to eternal life."

  "He knows the secret. But it will be easy to reproduce. I will entrust you with the crystal. Learn to use it and deliver the liquid to me."

  "Yes, your majesty, yes."

  It always went the Chamberlain's way. Planning ahead. His brilliance was obvious.

  * * *

  "It has armssss and legssss like usss."

  "It breathesssss."

  "It wears clothessss . . . though they are ssssullied and untidy."

  Gobber opened his eyes. The darkness was not absolute; as his pupils adapted to the dimness, he found himself in an enclosed space. An arched brick ceiling dripping with evaporation. A hard floor of stone and puddles. A trio of faces. Far down a corridor was a flick of blue-burning light, and there was no other illumination, other than the reflection off the water.

  "Is--is this the Nethercroft?" Gobber gibbered. Unable to stand, he pressed his back to the algae-draped wall and curled his knees to his chest. His body ached, limbs and rump and head, from the hard landing.

  "It talkssss . . ."

  "Nethercroft, yess. Netherlingsss, one name we are given," one of the faces told him. "Under-Gelfss, say othersss. We are Grottan, amongssst ourssselves."

  "What," another face asked, "are you?"

  "Er, Gobber. Podling. Come from Nander, left home under extenuating circumstances I'd prefer not to repeat. Traveling salesman. Skeksis stole my wares, or I'd sell you sumfin'. Stol
e my best friend, too. Crabbit, name of Lemny. Got to rescue 'im. Need refracting lenses. Flying suns, but I don't want to move."

  "Fell through the grrrrinder, you did."

  Gobber exhaled, nodded, coughed wetly, and plunged into weeping, weeping as long and as hard as he ever had wept. He buried his broad nose in his hands and swept water from his eyes again and again. Three faces stared at him as he slid onto his side and hid, embarrassed, though he wasn't sure what he had to be embarrassed about. His face hurt, and his tears made ripples in the greenish puddles that covered the uneven floor.

  "Stop staring!" he shouted as the Grottans crowded around him.

  "Water from itssss eyessss . . ."

  "Yes water from my eyes! Fieves stole my cart an' kidnapped my best friend and I fell frough a grinder like a piece of trash and I've lost everyfin' and I've still got to walk all the way frough the Swamp of Sog to the Observatory an' back in a WEEK an' get refracting lenses to trade for Lem an' I have a single yenti to pay for it an' I've got no time to spend feelin' 'cause Lem's dependin' on me an'--" His voice got louder and more piercing to his own ears as he went on.

  A faint blue glow became newly visible, reflected in the water. Gobber put his hands to his chest and found the glow shining off his palms.

  "Wot's this?" he murmured, and found himself asleep.

  * * *

  Despite having wiped some sort of gooey sap on his hands, Cory found his palms heating up as he slid almost a centror down the sturdy rope. He got a leg up, trying to take the pressure off his burning hands, but with his feet bare (and how stupid was he to kick his shoes off?) he merely got fiber-burns on his toes as well.

  Lacking any way to tell how far away the ground was, Cory didn't have a chance to slow down before he hit, and his legs seemed to shoot a tror up into his belly. Hopefully nothing was broken, but he was instantly sore, and he said some nasty things about Mystics and crawly-infested sap and camouflaged vines and about not being able to see ever again . . .

  "There they are! They've invaded the Sacred Tree!" shrieked a narrow, pin-shaped sort of voice.

  "Don't even think about it!" roared Loora from just over Cory's head.

  On the leafstrewn grass he gripped the taut rope in his hand, needing a signpost, a sense of where he was, but the long peg that held up the rope (and why was the rope there, anyway? Was it really to hold up the tree?) tore out of the turf, straining diagonally, until with a pop it ejected completely. A hellish groan was the unmistakable sound of the tree tearing its roots out and falling.

  It went gradually, a slow devastation, turning the ground to shivering jelly, and it was completely, completely, completely his fault.

  It was Cory's fault.

  "They've destroyed it!" a small but heartsick voice cried out. A chorus joined in, followed by, "High Priestess Brin! You said the tree couldn't be defeated. But--but the tree--they--"

  "My fault, my fault, terribly sorry," the Mystic called out from somewhere above. "All a misunderstanding, really."

  "Don't tell them that!" Pafaul moaned from somewhere behind Cory. "Can't you see they're pointing bows at you?"

  "You've been so negative recently, Pafaul," the Mystic said, a little nearer. He must be climbing down the top side of the falling trunk. "I really think you should try to keep on the brighter side. I mean, look at all the new friends we get to meet." The Mystic's voice called out to the gathered crowd of Worshippers: "Hello, friends!"

  The tree, so long in bending, finally struck the ground and shattered remorselessly.

  Cory heard an angry susurrus from all around him. Then Pafaul's voice:

  "You fool Mystic! You gullible, naïve, childish Mystic. That was my home! There was none of this weaponry and anger and hatred in there. We were safe. We were free from warfare, from hunters. There were no knives in the tree. No bows. There was no one waiting to stab us in the dark of the wood. I was alone, you fool Mystic, without a family, and I found a home, and friends, and I was safe from the knives! And now they'll come. They'll skin me. They'll cut me apart."

  "Pafaul . . ." said Cory, turning toward the nearby voice.

  "My mothers. Palauna and Piruna, my sisters. They're--they're all--it'll start again, it'll happen to me next--"

  His irritability became undercut by sympathy, and Cory reached out a hand toward Pafaul's voice and rested it on thick fur.

  "Don't you try to share your big heart with me!" Pafaul screamed and pushed Cory away. "You did this. You did this to me. You tore down my home. You and that old fool."

  The chirping sound of the flouse nearby.

  "You choose, Keirkat. You're my only friend. Will you stay with me or go with that bumbling herbalist?" shouted Pafaul.

  The sound of the disheartened flouse departing. The blue creature wept.

  "You--you chose the Mystic . . ." said Pafaul faintly.

  Now Loora's hand was in Cory's. Cory stood, surrounded by his blindness. The hand led him forward. The smell of wet garden dirt was raw in the air.

  "Who are they?" Loora whispered as they stepped forward together. "Those three?"

  "I thought they were my friends," said Cory. "Maybe they were. Maybe they thought I was their friend. They had a herbalism lab. They asked me to taste some kind of rare sap, and it gave me the Light Sickness."

  "The blue one must really have loved the tree," Loora said.

  "I think he really did. Or she? And it was my fault. I just--I had to get out. I felt so trapped in there. They told me the tree couldn't be opened for a week, and I--"

  "You wouldn't have survived," Loora told him. "Aughra's son told me you'd have two weeks with the right seashells and stuff, but you wouldn't have had any seashells inside a tree."

  Cory stopped walking. Loora tugged on his hand. "You do have the right seashells and stuff to cure me, right?" Cory said.

  "We'll get them. First let's get to Aughra and figure out a way out of the circle."

  "Circle?" he replied, walking forward.

  The point of a spearbolt touched his shoulder.

  "You really are blind," Loora murmured, and squeezed his hand.

  * * *

  "If anyone asks, I'm telling them you pulled them out."

  Lucky thing Crabbits don't have nerves in their shells--oo, well, almost no nerves. A four-fingered hand held him just off the floor of the cage as pins slid out and dropped to the floor.

  "This one's in tight. I can't get it."

  One pin was loose from the cage but was stuck into his shell. Lemny, now released from the top of the cage, bent the pin irritably with his pincer and squashed the point firmly under his carapace where it wouldn't snag on anything. Fancied it looked rebellious, pin in your shell.

  "Where's skekTek?" bellowed a dark voice from the stairwell.

  Rian spun and pressed himself over the cage. "Nothing!" he called out.

  "Where's skekTek?"

  "It's the Slavemaster," Rian hissed to Lemny.

  "Slavemaster? Since when do Skeksis have slaves?"

  "He's thick and simple. Pretend you're stupid. Dumb, I mean. Don't talk."

  A Skeksi in a brutish-looking square robe framed in steel marched into the laboratory. In his hand was a hook-bladed weapon on a pole. His black marble eyes searched side to side for the scientist. Avian nostrils flared.

  "He's not here," Rian said.

  This statement notwithstanding, the Slavemaster continued steadily forward into the low-ceilinged chamber. He eyed Rian. "You're mine. Son of Reuel. Where's skekTek?"

  "He's--oop," said Lemny.

  "Haven't seen him since breakfast, sir." Folded behind Rian, Gelfling fingers squeezed the titanroot branches until one of them snapped.

  "Find skekTek. Bring him to the kennels."

  "Right away," said Rian. "Last seen him near the roof. I'll look there first."

  The Gelfling hustled out of the room, leaving Lemny alone with this blunt, thuggish Skek.

  Keep quiet. That's the trick. Wise people don't tangle t
heir mouf with too many words, that's what Gobber says. Pretend you're stupid, or wise. Silence, that was the way out. Just keep your mouth shut, wait until this galump trots off, pretend you're just a mindless bug, then you've got room to wiggle out and make your way out of the castle. Wait at the shady trailtree, Gobber'll catch up. Or at the entrance, in case he comes in the back way. He'd want to hurry, he would, just keep your mouth shut Lemny you tamtail-brained Crabbit--

  "So strange," the Slavemaster said aloud, continuing to pace forward through the sandstone laboratory. "This is where he lives." The Skek was talking to nobody, to himself. Pointed hands turned a capstan wheel shaped like a white mushroom with kindling spokes and a long door began to slide open. "Here he can look out on the central point of the whole world." The long door made its scratchy way into the wall, revealing a purple light that made Lemny distinctly queasy. "His alone. We who are great and powerful stand in halls far above, while he, who is weak, dwells beside its light."

  The Skeksis didn't usually seem to be this philoflossical, did they? Not thinkers, surely. The opening door stopped short, and the Slavemaster gave the capstan wheel a savage twist. The door resumed its slow progress opening.

  "Always underground, always hidden. What right does he have to keep the Crystal to himself? What are his purposes?"

  Just keep quiet, he's a fruit basket, a looniac, a crazy Skek who wouldn't know a bit of sunshine if it shrivelled his mangy face all up, just stay silent there's nuffing to say to him don't give in he'll put those pins back in, or worse--

  "Such a, a purple thing it is, to shine such light on a weakling like him. What's the word for things that look nice?" the Slavemaster said to himself. "Rrrm. Pretty? Nice-looking? A pretty nice-looking purple light."

  The Skek seemed to be trying to think, and it visibly bothered him. Ha. They're certainly thick, Lemny thought, but it was all a bit poetical for a Slavemaster. Ignorant buzzards. Slimy, ignorant, hairy--

  "I think I'd like some of its light for myself. Yes, where's that glass eye he had? More of the light for myself." The Slavemaster, walking very oddly, traversed the room and took the lens and its strap from a workbench and returned to the light. Pulling the lens over his bald head, he stared into the wide doorway.

  Lemny couldn't see exactly what the Skek was staring at, but he certainly seemed transfixed. Seemed far less wosscallit, enthusiastic, about locating skekTek, now that he'd found this pretty nice-looking purple light. More like he'd got hisself a new hobby.