by Andre Norton
“Yes—”
“Then what does the farmer do?” Twilla encouraged her.
“We make a dancer.” Wandi's breathing had slowed.
“Yes, you make a dancer—out of clothes no one wants any more, and you make a head with straw for hair.”
“And we paint eyes—big and black—and a mouth—” Wandi's hands came to her own face, linked fingers in the corners of her lips and pulled them in a wide stretch.
“Your dancer must be a very good one,” Twilla applauded. “Now I believe that this is a dancer, too—”
“No fields here,” Wandi was quick with the denial of that.
“True, but perhaps this dancer is put here for another kind of warning. Not for birds—”
“For us?” Once more Wandi reached out and caught Twilla's robe.
“It has been here for a very long time,” Twilla attempted to evade a direct answer to that. “There may have been those very long ago whom this dancer was set to warn. But we are not birds—and we know he is not real.”
“Lady,” Wandi looked straight up into Twilla's face, “how do we get out?”
“That,” Twilla could do nothing but share the truth, “we must discover. If there is a way in—there must be one to let us go. We have only to hunt for it.”
“I'm thirsty,” Wandi said.
“Yes, that too we must find—water. But oftentimes streams run underground and we may discover such.” To hearten another was one thing, to believe one's own self what might be vain prophecies was another.
They started on, leaving the boar mask on watch behind them. It was shortly after that that the passage they followed split into two. Each had an arched entrance, but the face of one of the arches had been smoothed and as Twilla held up the mirror she saw there a carving—lines which might be script of a sort she had never seen. The other way was bare of any such directions and she decided that perhaps that with the symbols was the most promising.
This one, after their first few paces in, did not run straight but wound about, though there were no side openings. After one such turning Twilla gave a gasp of relief. Ahead was light—not the brightness of day—but at least far greater illumination than the mirror offered. Catching Wandi's hand she urged the little girl on at a faster pace.
They could see now another opening through which speared that light. Then they came out onto a ledge. Before them spread a cavern so long and wide that Twilla could only faintly see the hint of walls. Those near were overgrown with lichen and it was that which provided the light.
The strangest thing of all was that immediately below there was another forest—stunted and crooked, but still a forest. Only these were not true trees or even large shrubs, but rather upstanding rows of what seemed to be giant gray fungi which had a velvety look.
There was something very unnatural about those lumpy growths. Twilla had no wish to approach them closer. Luckily they did not reach the wall of the ledge, there was a wide enough path there to follow. Surely at one end or other of this place there would be another way out. While from the ledge itself there descended a rude stairway, narrow steps cupped into the rock.
“Come—follow—me—watch each step,” Twilla warned as she started down that crude stairway.
15
THE AIR IN this place was oppressive, and there was a moldy underscent which was unpleasant. Though it did not carry the heavy stench which warned of monsters. Twilla was very careful as she went from step to step, having no desire to set hand to the wall over which sprawled the fuzzy, luminous growths. Luckily they did not have far to go.
Above all she knew that they must find water. The passage dust left them with flayed throats and an aching need to drink. Nor could they go without food either and how long they might have to wander there she had no guess.
“Lady—” Wandi pressed close to her again as they came out on the level flooring of the cavern. “I don't like this place—”
“No, but we shall find a way out,” Twilla tried to put to her answer an assurance she herself did not feel.
She had become more and more aware of a rustling sound, almost as if those lumpy, fungi growths were trees and there was a light breeze at play among their leaves. Now there was something else—a ripple of sound which she seized on with new hope for that could be a steady flow of water—and it lay still ahead.
They worked their way along the walls, keeping as much distance as they could from the growth. Then they sighted a narrow break in the barrier they followed. It was low but around it the stone was bare as if the wall growth did not like the moisture which arose here—for moisture it was. A stream came through a narrow crack to cross their path, flowing to the right out into the fungi forest, though those misshapen bulbous growths shunned its brink.
“Drink—” Wandi loosed her hold on Twilla's grimed and snagged skirt and was on her way until the older girl caught up and grabbed at her.
Who could tell what lurked in the water in such a place? They must take all care.
“It may not be good water,” she explained. “We must make sure before we drink.”
The stream was hardly more than a thread compared to the river she had fought. They could, both of them, she believed jump across it. Twilla went to her knees and scooped up a palmful of the water. It was icy cold against her hand and clear enough.
She had only one test she might make and whether that was a true one she did not know. But she lifted the mirror in her other hand and held it as steady as she could, dribbling what she still held of the water onto its surface.
The silver surface was clear under each drop. Could she be sure that that meant that this water on flow through such a place was indeed harmless?
Raising the mirror to her mouth she tipped it. Though most of the liquid on it dribbled down her cheeks and chin, enough got into her mouth and she could detect no taste at all.
“Give me!” Wandi clutched and tugged.
“Yes. But you must drink so—as I did,” Twilla explained. Once again she had cupped water onto the mirror and held it steady while the child half lapped at the very small portion. It took them some time to satisfy their raging thirsts and they were forced to do it in hardly more than sips, one at a time.
“Good!” Wandi squatted back on her heels at last. The dust had washed from the lower part of her face from her exertions and there were splotches in plenty down the front of her shift dress.
Twilla hoped the child was right. She turned up the hem of her dress striving to find a fairly clean portion and with that she polished the mirror dry. They had found water right enough but they had no means of carrying that bounty with them. And now that they had come to a halt she began to realize how tired she was.
There was no way of measuring how far they had come, nor even how long they had been traveling. But that they could keep on without any rest—of that she was not sure.
It was a temptation to remain here,, by the bounty of the water. She got up and went along the stream to its entrance in the wall. That was hardly more than a horizontal slit. She did not believe that even Wandi could squeeze through without having to duck under water. That was not their door to freedom.
However, the stream had an exit also and that might be better suited to their purpose. Right here and for a space of a number of paces its flow was straight. Then it curved in a manner to bring them closer perhaps to the end toward which they had been heading. Very well, they could keep to the source of water and still explore.
“Lady—” Wandi was trudging behind her. “I'm hungry—please, get us out of here.”
“I am trying,” Twilla returned wearily. “We shall go this way, beside the water—”
“My feet hurt—I want to sit down!” Wandi's voice had developed a distinct whine and Twilla could not fault her for that.
Yes, they must find a place where they could rest. Eat? There were certain fungi which were not only palatable but esteemed by the cooks over mountain. However, looking around her, Twilla c
ould sight none here which were familiar. She shrank from approaching those trees to break off a bit.
The curve in the stream continued and the flow of water itself widened. It was shallow but if they crossed it now they would have to wade. On either side the fungi kept their distance.
For the first time Twilla noted that they grew in distinct rows as if this was some monsterous garden which had been planned for a purpose.
Wandi gave a cry which deepened into exhausted sobbing. When Twilla turned the child was sitting on the ground, her hand clasping a bruised knee, rocking back and forth. Clearly they were close to the end of their strength.
But—not too far away was the rise of another wall, at right angles to the one which had guided them on their descent into this place. Between them and that wall were none of the fungi growths, except in one place where there was a mound of the stuff, not tree-shaped but with queer slender lengths protruding from it at different angles. And some of those showed small glints, even in this subdued light.
“Just a bit farther, Wandi.” Twilla helped the little girl to her feet. “We shall go across the water—to that wall. See?”
Lending support to her companion the girl did splash through the water and approached the strange heap of fungi. It was different from the “trees” in another sense. Whereas those were uniform dark brown, this had a shimmer of other colors, very muted but distinguishable enough to be sight as a glimmer of gray, a line of red, a rolling patch of blue.
As they made their way cautiously past it Twilla saw the true shape of one of those projections. Fuzzed as to outline it might be but that was the hilt of a sword.
The thought of a weapon was heartening. Telling Wandi to remain where she was, Twilla advanced to the side of that heap. Having sighted the sword hilt she now was sure she made out a pole ax, what might be parts of other weapons.
Gingerly she reached for the sword. As her fingers closed about that hilt the fuzzy covering of it sloughed away. The feel of it was greasy, highly unpleasant. But she kept fast her hold and pulled. She might have been trying to free a weapon embedded in stone.
Nor could she bring herself to touch or handle what else might be hidden there. Disheartened she returned to join Wandi. The little girl had again slipped to the ground and was crying, rubbing her hands over the eyes.
“We shall rest,” Twilla said. “And then we shall feel stronger. Come—” Once more she supported the child, drawing her along until the wall of the cavern was at their backs. Wandi curled up, her head on Twilla's lap, and was quickly asleep.
But Twilla, though she ached throughout her body, could not relax. She was surrounded by too much that she distrusted. At last she took the mirror in both hands.
The silver surface reflected her own face, the dust grimed skin, her eyes filled with weary shadows. Without knowing that she did so she thought of another face—Ylon—but not under the mist which so blinded him. Rather as she thought he might look were he totally free of all Lotis's bespelling.
Did she really see that face form in the mirror? She was not sure—But—Yes! And those blind eyes were turned upon her—seeing somehow through the mirror to her!
She found herself whispering—not the jingles which had released the mirror power before, but rather telling all which had happened since he had been drawn from her side before Lotis's door—
She had nearly done when that face, which had grown more and more alive and clear to her, flickered and was gone as if a finger on the mirror surface had wiped it away. But—there was another shadow form there, one which deepened, took on substance. Then she was looking to Oxyle for only a second before he, too, vanished. That sense of fatigue which overcame her whenever she used the mirror was back and she could not fight it. She was only aware that she laid on the rock of this place, Wandi curled beside her, and then she slept.
How long Twilla lay in the depth of an exhausted slumber so deep that no dreams could invade Twilla did not know. But she came groggily awake, to realize that someone was pulling at her, screaming out in her very ears. She struggled up balanced on one elbow.
Wandi shook her.
“They are coming—Lady. They will get us!”
They? Bemused, Twilla looked. She could see nothing at first except what had been there when she had fallen asleep. There was—movement!
The first row of the “tree” fungi were indeed so close to the stream bank on the opposite side that they might well topple in if they ventured farther. No longer were they standing in an ordered pattern but were moving, slowly but surely, toward the water—toward Wandi and her!
She swung up the mirror, but it was dulled again. If those—those things reached them—! The thought of being struck down by such was sickening. Twilla stumbled up and headed toward that pile of weapons. The sword would not yield to her, and anyway she knew nothing of defensive sword play—a healer did not war.
What else then? The pole ax took her eye, and she grabbed at the shaft of that. At least it was long enough to aim blows from some distance, and she had handled an ax enough in the land over mountain splitting firewood to have some idea of a proper swing.
Twilla braced her feet and put both hands to the shaft giving a mighty heave. It was fixed. Steadying herself Twilla tried again. As she leaned a little forward to get a better grip the mirror swung out.
There was a flash striking down into that fungi-cemented mass. Where that struck the cover curled away. Twilla staggered back, the pole ax free, the sudden release of the weapon nearly sending her against the wall as she fought for balance.
“They—Lady—they come!” Wandi's shriek sounded as Twilla swung around, the freed weapon at ready. But—how long could she stand up to this company? The mirror had blasted this weapon free for her use, could it turn now against the things splashing through the water of the stream?
Twilla did not have time to change weapons, she must make do with what she held. The fungi tree things plodded toward her—the first one in advance of its fellow by several strides.
Twilla waited until she could be sure she could reach it and then swung her weapon. The cutting blade of the ax jarred against the upper portion; it did not cut in and she knew a moment of horror at that failure.
Then—there was a hoarse scream, louder, deeper than any Wandi could utter. From where the ax had fallen without apparent harm there was a splitting now. Flacks of the brown fungi covering were falling, breaking free. The thing had stopped its advance. Its fellows, which had crossed the stream, closed behind it, wavering back and forth as if unable now to carry out whatever purpose had sent them at the girls.
More and more of the brownish stuff sloughed. However, there remained an inner core—a core which was different from the coating. A figure which was hardly more than a skeleton was left. Only this did not fall to earth. It raised two arms and made a beckoning gesture, urging on those which followed it.
For the second time Twilla used the ax. Not at that skeleton which was continuing to cry out frenziedly but at one of the newcomers. The touch of the metal began another transformation.
The girl drew a deep breath. That skeleton thing—and its fellow—made no move toward her, only beckoned on their companions. They might have been in some way urging her to give them release. Because there was nothing else that she could do, she used the ax again and again. Her arm was aching, and still they came and she could not stop. Until at last the very end of that company stood within reach of the ax blade and then she could lean on its pole panting and looking with wonder at those now ranged before her.
They were not true skeletons, but pitifully thin. All of them were smaller than she and they turned wizened, wrinkled faces in her direction. The first two that she had freed had fallen to hands and knees and were creeping toward her. When they saw her gaze turn in their direction they gave cries and groveled, head down. It was plain that they meant no harm.
Twilla was aware of a change in the scene about her even as the fungi forest had come to life.
To her right the edge of that pile of imprisoned weapons was now free. And, having paid homage, the first two figures lurched in that direction and pulled with more vigor at what had been piled there.
There were swords bared in the light as more and more of their fellows joined them. She saw one drawing on a mail shirt hardly bigger than Wandi might have worn with comfort. She and the child had backed away, Twilla leaning on the pole of the ax, watching in astonishment these small beings so busy around the weapon pile from which the last of the fungi had disappeared.
One of them broke from the crowd, so busy at claiming arms and armor, and approached her. A mail shirt hung on his thin frame, but he had belted on a sword and carried in one hand a plain helm. Facing Twilla he gave a low bow and then pointed to where the mirror hung on her breast.
It was no longer dimmed and the silver of its surface seemed to flash in answer to his gesture. He laid the helm on the rock at his feet and made gestures suggesting one holding and looking into the mirror.
Twilla slipped the cord from around her neck and looked into the surface herself. What she saw was not her own reflection, rather a small, wide shouldered, bearded man, a face of vigor and in its way distinction. Swiftly she reversed the disk and stooped a little so that this creature before her could also see. He gave a great cry in which she heard a note of joy. Those still busied at the weapon pile looked up, then spoke to each other in a hoarse guttural speech she could not understand before they surged forward again just as they had done to meet her ax.
The one who was now staring intently into the mirror was changing. This time he was not losing bulk as he had when he had shed the fungi covering, rather he was gaining. His body thickened, putting on flesh, and then he showed now to the world the same face Twilla had seen in the mirror.
There was a voice raised in what might well be a shouted command. It drew attention back to that place where the weapons and armor had been mounded. There was only trampled dust to be seen now—only that and something which was enough to rivet sight.
