The second week proved worse. Physically, the men improved, their blisters turning to calluses and their skin tanning a deep brown. But boredom pressed in upon them. Each day became nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other in a countless procession that seemed to accomplish nothing in the never-changing landscape. The wasteland remained physically trying, but its demands multiplied when their hearts went out of the journey. Even Del had tired of this adventure. He had run out of fantasies to explore and now found only tedium. They trudged on, though, having nowhere else to go.
In the third week the tops of dark mountains reappeared far in the north and the men’s packs grew noticeably lighter. They prayed this meant that their travels were nearing an end, but with the eastern horizon before them still an unbroken line of scorched brown, they feared otherwise.
Near the end of that week, they passed a few scrawny bushes widely scattered and nearly as scarred as the broken earth. The desperate men welcomed even this small change as a blessing, though their hopes sank quickly as several more miles of nothingness slowly rolled by.
Then, so suddenly that it took their dust-reddened eyes a few moments to adjust, they breached the top of a sandy slope and found themselves on the edge of a green field with rich blue skies overhead. Birds fluttered excitedly about at the approach of strangers, and small coneys lifted their twitching noses high to examine the unfamiliar scent.
Del fell to his knees and muttered a sincere thank-you to the heavens above. More than once Billy wiped tears from his eyes, explaining it as sweat, though the others shared his feelings and knew better. Only Doc Brady remained sullen. For some unknown reason, the change in scenery did little to lift his spirits.
The green carpet spread wide before them, rising and falling gently in a series of rolling hills. The tall northern mountains seemed much closer now, and the men could also discern a low, rocky range off to the south. These majestic peaks looked markedly different from the foreboding mountains they had left far behind in the west. Curling streams of mica crisscrossed the mountainsides like icicles on a Christmas tree, sparkling brilliantly in countless reflections of the sun.
The great range stretched eastward for many miles and then swung south, so that ahead of them, still a day’s journey or more, the men could see the towering landscape that they somehow knew held the refuge of Illuma. Perhaps Calae had ingrained this image in their minds as a guide. They picked up their pace considerably, for their hearts pounded with excitement at the prospect of finding their goal, and finding some answers.
Hours and miles later, the northern mountains loomed even closer and the narrowing vale sloped gradually down. The spirited men could have gone on a few hours more, but soon the light began to wane.
Crimson splayed across the western sky, marking the end of the day, igniting a thousand red fires on the mica rivers of the mighty northern mountains. Even Mitchell gaped in awe at the overwhelming beauty of the Crystal Mountain sunset.
And then, freed from their trance as the sky turned a deep blue and the mountains became dark and cold, the men set up camp under the sheltering branches on the western edge of a small, thick wood.
Chapter 9
Blackemara
ANXIOUS TO FINISH the trek, they broke camp long before the yellow ball of the sun peeked over the lower summits of the Crystal Mountains. The forest proved rough going, though, with undergrowth piled upon undergrowth, plants bent over by the sheer weight of the tangle, crisscrossing under their feet at every step and vines hanging all about in impassible clusters. Few paths snaked through the thin and tightly packed trees—so tight together that there was simply no room for large trees to grow. It seemed to the men that all the life stripped from the soil of the Brown Wastes had taken root here in a jumble of living chaos, an upraised pillar of defiance against the perversion of the lifeless desert. The men pushed in anyway, seeking the most direct route and hoping to find some sort of path.
The hours passed more quickly than the miles, and the tangled mass of life did not relent even a bit. Exhaustion became a factor, for the men constantly had to tear themselves free from shrubs or vines that seemed to grasp at them as they passed. Sheer stubbornness kept them going, and each step brought them deeper in and lessened their desire to admit their mistake and turn back to find a route circumventing the wood. Noon was fast approaching when Billy, who was once again up in front, gave a welcomed call.
“There’s a break up ahead,” he yelled as he surged forward. The others, too, picked up their pace when they came in sight of the open area, but their hopes fell away when they came again in sight of Billy.
A dimming mist rose before him as he leaned with his back to a tree and his head down in frustration.
The others couldn’t understand until they stood beside him.
Beside him on the ledge of a deep gorge.
The cliff fell almost perfectly straight for hundreds of feet. At its base a river, swollen by the spring thaw, thrashed southward about its rocky course, sending up the fine spray. Barely a hundred yards away, the other side seemed no more than a reflection in a foggy mirror, with a cliff just as sheer and the thick forest continuing undisturbed atop it.
“Damn!” Mitchell moaned.
“We’re having one hell of a day.” Billy chuckled with lighthearted sarcasm. He looked despondently at the ravine and sighed. “No way we’re climbing down that.”
“Can’t find something you don’t look for,” the undaunted Del muttered to himself, and he determinedly disappeared into the mist northward along the ledge.
“This river obviously flows from the northern mountains,” Reinheiser said, the physicist, like Del, seeming more interested in finding a solution to the problem than in grumbling about it. But while Reinheiser based his hope on logical structure, Del was playing on a hunch, an eerie, overpowering feeling that something was needed to complete this hauntingly familiar scene.
“So?” Mitchell quipped at the unremarkable revelation.
“So,” Reinheiser continued, perturbed at the sharp reply, “judging from the line the river takes, it must intersect with the lower mountain range to the south of us.” Mitchell’s expression remained impassive, almost oblivious to Reinheiser’s attempt to right their course. The physicist’s eyes narrowed to dart-throwing slits as he went on. “Our eye level is well above the base of those mountains. So”—he emphasized the word with contempt—“the land obviously slopes down to them. A slight grade, no doubt, but sufficient to bring us down to the level of the river.”
Surprised at such an easy answer, and a bit embarrassed by his pouting, Mitchell quieted to consider the logic, when “Yeah!” came Del’s shriek.
The four startled men spun toward the sound, crouching defensively, as if expecting some approaching danger. Mitchell began to draw his sword, but Del’s subsequent shouts dispelled his fear.
“I knew it!” Del yelled in delight. “It had to be here. Hey!” he called to the others, but they were already on their way.
They came upon him suddenly in the mist, his arms folded triumphantly across his chest and a smug look on his face as he leaned on an anchor post for a railing to an old rope bridge. It stretched out, just a silhouette in the heavy spray until it disappeared altogether about halfway across the span. Even in the misty veil, the men could see that several planks were missing, and the remaining wood sounded precarious at best, creaking and groaning like an old man’s bones as the bridge swayed and rolled gently on the updrafts and swirling currents of air.
They were thrilled at the discovery anyway, for the bridge was the first sign of civilization they had encountered since the Halls of the Colonnae. Still, Mitchell had no intention of crossing the aged and rickety thing.
“How far to where the land gets low enough to cross the river?” he asked Reinheiser.
“A couple of miles, no more,” Reinheiser answered, his expression showing that he shared the captain’s apprehensions about the bridge.
“Wh
y?” Del asked incredulously. “What are you talking about?” For Del was as certain of the bridge’s safety as he had been in knowing it would be here in the first place. Somehow it all fit together for him, like pieces of a puzzle to which he had learned the key.
“You think we’re going to cross that?” Mitchell snapped. Del shrugged as if he didn’t even understand the problem. “Well, be my guest,” Mitchell chided, then he turned to the others and added, “we can fish out his body downstream.” His grin turned sadistic as he motioned to the bridge, inviting Del to lead the way.
Del swung around the post onto the first planks, meaning to march straight across. He hesitated, though, as his senses gripped him in spinning, vertiginous fear. He snapped his eyes shut, swallowed the terror, and demanding of himself that he trust his new insight, started out.
Gaining confidence with every step, he soon passed from the other’s sight. About two-thirds of the way across, he came to a gap several feet wide where the boards had broken away. Somehow assured that he simply wasn’t meant to die now, he casually hopped onto one of the rope supports and grasped the cord rail in both hands.
But the support was slick with spray, and just as Del moved from the safety of the boards, a blast of air rushed into his face and sent the bridge on a wide swing. He leaned into the wind, using it to secure his balance, moving as if the gust was but a minor inconvenience. Unafraid, he didn’t pay complete attention to what he was doing and overcompensated for his lean. When the bridge reached the limit of its sway, it jerked back violently and Del’s feet fell free. He dangled there, stunned and terrified for several long seconds as the bridge continued to roll about and the cord railing bit mercilessly into his straining fingers. The river seemed to get louder as his senses attuned to the grim fate laid out before him.
Was I wrong? he asked himself as his grip weakened. He grimaced in anger at the thought of missing the adventure, and growled defiantly, “Not going to die now!” Swinging his legs in time to the bridge’s sway, he was able to heave one up over the rope support, and he managed to pull himself up to straddle it. Then he inched his way to the far side and rolled onto the boards. Looking over the edge at the rocks below, he repeated, “Not going to die,” less convincingly, and quickly added, “unless I get stupid!” Humbled, he continued on much more carefully, taking shorter steps and gingerly testing each board in front of him before he put his full weight on it. Soon he reached the other side and called back to his companions that it was indeed safe to cross—but with all due caution!
Fearing that the scowling captain would order them to go around the chasm despite Del’s crossing, Billy immediately sprang onto the bridge and rushed to join his friend. Mitchell shook his head and huffed angrily as Billy disappeared from sight, but with two of his crewmen going over, the captain had to relent.
“I’ll go last,” he volunteered to Reinheiser and Brady. “I’m the heaviest.”
Doc Brady was of a different opinion.
“Let me go last,” he insisted. And he finished his thought silently, Today I die anyway, and if it’s to be here, then let the rest of you all be across before the bridge falls.
Disgusted at being upstaged by Del, Mitchell didn’t care enough to argue with Brady. The doctor was relieved that he wouldn’t be endangering the others and at the temporary stay of his expected fate, but all too soon Reinheiser and the captain were across the gorge, calling for him. For many minutes Brady stood frozen in fear, unable to take that step.
“Hurry up!” came Mitchell’s snarl. “Or we’ll go on without you!”
On the planks now, his breathing coming in short puffs, and beads of sweat cold on his forehead, Brady forced himself ahead. It didn’t get any easier, his terror heightening with every step to the point that he almost wanted to just throw himself off and get it over with. And yet, before he knew it he was on the solid ground of the other side, surprised, but nearly faint with relief.
With the gorge behind them, they continued on in even greater anticipation. Shortly after noon they emerged from the wood to a disheartening sight.
They had come to a meadow of tall swaying grass. The land before them sloped down a long grade as it continued to narrow, and at the bottom was a second wood, this one dark and gloomy. North and east the great mountains towered over the low ground, and to the south a high ridge of gray stone, as if the land had split apart, blocked their way. The ridge ran eastward, curved north for a short distance, and then turned back toward them again along the base of the northern mountains, forming a horseshoelike ring around the dark wood.
“A box canyon,” Mitchell groaned over a chorus of sighs.
“Just a minor delay, Captain,” Reinheiser said. “All we need do is double to the southwest and find where the ridge starts. It can’t be far. We should be up on that plateau in a few hours.” But Mitchell had once again grown angry and frustrated at this whole business, and his stubbornness overruled reason. His retort startled Reinheiser and all the others.
“We’re not doubling back,” the captain fumed. “Not yet. There might be a way through that wall ahead, a tunnel or something. Or maybe it’s climbable. I want to know for sure before we waste the rest of the day going backward!”
“But Captain—” Reinheiser began.
“No arguments!” Mitchell yelled. “You don’t even know if we can get back across the damn river without using that rope bridge again. You want to do that? That thing in the hall said go east. We go east!”
“I don’t know,” Del said. “I don’t like the look of that forest.” But Del’s disagreement only strengthened Mitchell’s resolve and he started off down the slope, ripping aside the tall grass as he went. Del wanted to argue further—somehow the mere sight of the wood below them offended his senses and promised danger—but the thought of facing Mitchell again made his jaw and nose throb with the acute memory of pain. He shrugged his shoulders, sighed, and followed with Brady and Billy.
Reinheiser hesitated, though. He stood for a few moments petting his goatee and considering the captain’s tirade, amazed that Mitchell had turned on him with such anger. “You should not have spoken to me like that,” he muttered under his breath. And with a wicked chuckle that warned of retaliation, he started after the others.
The sun all but went away when they entered the dark forest, with huge black trees bent nearly in two by thick strands of gray-green moss forming an unbroken roof above them. Though it was springtime in Aielle, no vibrant colors of fresh-blossomed petals decorated this landscape. Perhaps it was due to the dim light, but Del sensed that even in full sunshine this wood would remain dreary with decay. It seemed to him that the life about them had gained dominance in a past age and refused to relinquish it to new growth. There was no rebirth here, no seasonal cleansing. Even the scent of the few flowers had long ago gone stale.
Though there was little undergrowth and no tall grass, the path remained difficult. Knotted roots crossed every course, twisted from the ground as the ancient trees leaned wearily, and many were too large to step across, forcing the men to climb over or crawl under them.
Eventually the group came to a wide expanse of towering ferns, as tall as a man and taller, with stems nearly an inch thick. Still not daring to argue with the determined captain, they reluctantly drew their swords and hacked their way through.
Out of the corner of his eye Del saw a squirrel the size of a small dog leaping across high branches. It didn’t seem out of place, not here in this grandfather of woods, so Del brushed it off with a shrug and made no mention of it. He understood now the nightmarish fears of the romantic poets so far removed from the bricks and highways of his world, for all about him the trees and plants, and all the life of the wood, seemed to close in, scowling with passive yet stifling hostility. This was a place where a man could be completely overwhelmed by the vast dimensions and sheer power of nature; a place where a man could realize his own insignificance.
But unlike Del, Mitchell had no time nor heart for s
uch reflections. The dismal surroundings and the fern barrier only made him grit his teeth and push on harder. He hacked mightily with his sword, leveling fern after fern, driving the men ever deeper into the black shadows of the decrepit wood.
Then the insects came. Mosquitoes mostly, biting them and buzzing in their eyes and ears and flying up their noses, making this leg of the journey even more miserable.
The ground was getting softer under their feet.
Reinheiser and Billy understood the signs and they both fully expected what lay ahead when, finally, Mitchell cut through the last line of ferns and found himself on the muddy bank of a swamp. It meandered lazily about the trees ahead, great pools of black water sweating wispy vapors into the already rank air. Stillness surrounded the men, but it was an uneasy, anticipating silence, like a predator’s hushed crouch before its spring.
Following Mitchell, they labored on as best they could, but every path ended at one of the stagnant pools, and the obstructing roots were slick with slime and nearly impassable. The ground oozed mud now, threatening to swallow them up with every step.
Every time Del wiped the sweat from his forehead, he left behind a streak of mud and slime. “This is crazy,” he cried, feeling thoroughly wretched. “We should’ve turned back hours ago.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion!” Mitchell retorted, though he, too, had to realize the folly of continuing through the swamp. It wasn’t a hard puzzle for Del and the others to put together, though: stubborn Mitchell would simply never allow Del to point out his error. Sword in hand, the captain puffed out his chest and glared, daring Del to defy him.
Shaken by the threat, but determined that he was right, Del continued cautiously. “I’m just trying to point out that this place … if we get lost in here, we’re dead.” A mosquito buzzed in his eye. “And these bugs!” he added, slapping futilely at the pest.
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