by T.A. Barron
“Wait.” Hallia’s round eyes peered at the distant swamp, whose contorted clouds lined the horizon. The sun, riding low in the sky, painted the entire vista gold, with a growing hint of scarlet. “It’s all so strange. Why would a bird do such a thing? Unless, perhaps, it was . . .” She shook her head, as if hoping to banish an unwanted thought.
“What?” I pressed.
“A way to lure you into the marsh.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A trap?”
“For you, young hawk.”
“Not likely. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I still need my sword.”
“There are other swords. You can let the marsh ghouls have that one.”
“No, I can’t. That sword is part of me. Part of my . . .
“Destiny?” She scowled at me. “It’s time you chose your own path, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I agreed, my voice firm. “And now I am sure. This is my path.”
Wincing, she closed her eyes for a moment. “So you’re going down there?”
“And wherever else I must. Hallia, what if the sword is somehow tied up with the rest of this evil business? I have to do something, whatever I can.” I studied her auburn hair, aglow in the light. “You should go back to your people. And Gwynnia. I’ll rejoin you after the marsh.”
As I spoke the final phrase, I felt the ballymag shudder against my ribs. His claws started clacking anxiously within the sling. Taking Hallia’s hand, I added quietly, “I’ll still be with you, you know. In one way, at least.”
Her hand trembling in my own, she declared, “No, that’s not enough.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m coming with you.”
“No, you shouldn’t—”
“But I will.” Her eyes darted skyward. “I only wish Gwynnia were here to come, too.”
“Notame!” shrieked the ballymag, thrusting his seal-like face out of the folds of cloth. “Thinkyou I sufferfled such terrorwoe, such crampymess, just backgo to certainous dangerscream?”
He thrust a pair of hefty claws at me, snapping them under my nose. “You horribulous manmonster! You’ll squealbring my endafinish—and mepoorme, just a barebaby.”
“Sorry,” I said, pushing away the claws. “I didn’t want to, didn’t know . . .”
“Excusemanure!” Tears gathered in the ballymag’s eyes. “I mustshall be bravelystrong. Mustshall. I foundcrawled my ownaway to watersweet before, and hopefulously againwill. Ifsad . . . ifsad I’m not swallowgulped by dragonbeasts or manmonsters firstous.”
Hallia reached her hand toward him. Lightly, she brushed one of his trembling whiskers. “We didn’t mean to bring you back here. Just to help you.”
The ballymag tried to growl, though it sounded more like a whimper. “Helpsave some otherbody nextatime.” He drew a shaky breath. “Now I mustshould sufferflee. Butafirst,” he added with a glance at my empty scabbard, “heedknow my warnsay: Unless you lusciouslove painodeath, staykeep away from terribulous marshplace.”
I gazed at the swirling vapors of the swamp. “Can you tell us something, anything, about what’s happening down there?”
“Please?” coaxed Hallia. “Anything at all?”
The ballymag, who was starting to climb out of the sling, shuddered. “The marshaghouls . . . they’ve started killattacking. Bodyevery, verilously bodyevery!” He looked anxiously toward the bog lands. “I knowanot reasonwhy. But their dreadfulous—”
A clamorous roar from up the slope cut him off. We turned to see one of the giants, standing taller than the trees behind him, at the top of the slope. The same one who had tried to eat me at the forest edge! Angrier than ever, he waved his massive fists in the air.
“There you are!” he bellowed. “Mmmmm, I can taste your mmmoldy little bones already.” One of the other giants, standing over Shim’s prone form, shouted something to him, but he waved the words away. “No mmmiserable mmmanling escapes from mmme, I say! I’ll mmmangle him and all his friends.”
With that, he started stomping toward us. The ballymag shrieked and plunged his head back into the sling. Hallia grabbed my arm, jerking me down the slope. Together we ran, with loping strides, as the ground rocked beneath us.
“Come back here, mmmanling!”
With all our speed we fled, leaping over rocks and gorse bushes. The rumbling grew steadily louder, as did the giant’s rasping breaths, while the turf shook ever more violently. Meanwhile the slope started to flatten, as the long grasses gave way to bare soil. Soon our feet were squelching over patches of mud and slapping through puddles. As mist swirled around us, the scent of things rotting fouled the air. Even over the giant’s thunderous steps, I could hear strange cries and howls—and a distant screech, almost a laugh, echoing over the marshes.
Abruptly, Hallia slowed her running. “His footsteps! They’ve stopped.”
Realizing she was right, I, too, slowed. Together, we came to a halt on a sagging mass of peat surrounded by a stretch of brownish-yellow bog grasses. Although the air reeked of decay, we stood panting, trying to catch our breath. I watched as thick vapors, tinted the color of rust by the setting sun, closed behind us, drawing together like a curtain that cut us off from the world that we knew. Those vapors offered us protection at this moment—and, I feared, imprisonment at another.
I took Hallia’s arm. “Come. We’ve got to find some sort of shelter before nightfall.”
“Ohwoe, ohwoe,” moaned the ballymag from his hiding place by my chest. “Terribulous fate, horribulous end.”
We plodded across the bog grasses, alert for any signs of snakes, or other creatures still more dangerous. Before long a continuous array of sounds—a loud bubbling from one side, a sharp whistling from another—rose all around us. We slogged onward, through a flooded plain where thorny vines clutched at our legs. Hallia, who had refused my offer to cover her bare feet with my boots, twisted her braid nervously as we walked.
As the mist darkened, the gloom deepened. Crossing a murky pool, I stepped on something hard—which suddenly moved. I pitched forward, falling face-first into the reeking slop. With help from Hallia, I righted myself, only to slip and fall backward with a splash. As I struggled to stand again, something slithered into the sleeve of my tunic.
“Yaaah!” I shouted, furiously slapping my sleeve. I rolled over in the pool, even as the creature—whatever it was—slid up my arm.
Finally I grasped it on my shoulder. With all my strength, I squeezed it through my tunic. Something popped—and the creature shrunk down like a collapsing bellows. I felt a sticky ooze dribble down my arm. When I shook the arm, a dark shape splatted into the pool. I turned away, having no desire to look any closer.
“Manmonster,” grumbled the voice in my mud-splattered sling, “you be a verilous clumsyfoot.”
“Ballymag,” I replied, “you be a verilous whineymouth.”
Hallia shook her head. “Quiet, you two.” She pulled a clump of reeds out of my hair. “It’s growing darker. And the—oh, listen.”
A thin, unsteady wailing rose in the distance. At the same time, a distinctly stronger smell, as putrid as rotting flesh, washed over us. The wailing voice went on, never pausing, pulsing with anguish. And with something else, something like despair. Even as Hallia and I cringed, it was joined by other voices—bleating, crying, groaning. The voices swelled, rising into a hideous chorus.
The ballymag’s head edged out of the sling. “It’s . . . it’s . . . the ma-ma-marshaghouls,” he sputtered. The rolls of fat around his neck quivered. “They’re comekilling.”
We stood, up to our knees in murky water, as the anguished dirge grew louder. At the same time, the last traces of daylight began to fade. Then, not far away, a single spot of light appeared, hovering eerily over the marsh. Faintly it pulsed, wavering like a wounded eye. Then another light appeared, and another, and another. Slowly, slowly, they started approaching, advancing on us.
“Ohwoe, ohwoe . . .” moaned the ballymag. “Quicklynow! Follow fastously!”
He jum
ped out of the sling and splashed into the bog. Instantly, he swam off, with his broad tail flapping and all his arms whirling. Hallia and I dashed after him, even as the eerie lights pressed closer.
Through the slimy pools we raced. Dead, twisted branches tore at our clothing; thick mud sucked at our feet. As we ran, the rancid air stung our throats and eyes. Yet we fought to stay close to the ballymag. And ahead of the marsh ghouls.
Suddenly the ground grew drier, though also less stable. Like a carpet overlaying a tarn, it seemed as much water as land, billowing and shivering with our every step. I tripped, and nearly fell, but kept running. Our feet, like the ballymag’s claws, slapped against the undulating turf. His heavy gasps kept time with our own.
All at once, the ballymag fell silent. He was nowhere to be found! We halted, panting, uncertain what had happened. Had he fainted? Been captured?
“Where are you?” I called.
No answer came.
I turned toward the floating lights, wavering unsteadily on all sides. Now they were almost upon us. The mournful wailing shifted into echoing peals of harsh, grating laughter. The voices rose, higher and higher, ready to drown us like an evil wave.
Hallia and I bolted, stumbling on the uneven ground. The lights were now so close that I could see my shadow, fleeing before me on the quaking turf. Just as the marsh ghouls seemed to grasp us, we reached a darkened pool. We dashed across—and instantly sank into deep, syrupy muck. We had no chance to cry out, no chance to swim. The ooze closed over my head before I could even take a final breath. I gasped, choking, as mud filled my nose and mouth.
My last thoughts burned with rage and regret. That Hallia, too, would drown. That my sword would never fulfill its destiny. That I, having come so far and sought so much, would lose everything down a forgotten pool in a forsaken marsh.
10: THE WORD
Mud—all around, everywhere. The harder I struggled, the tighter it pressed, eager to swallow me whole. Soon it was all I could feel, sliding over my skin, filling my ears, pushing into my nostrils. Mud, thicker than any blanket, suffocated me.
In the deepening darkness of my mind, I cried out to Hallia, knowing she could not hear. I wish you hadn ‘t come! I am sorry—so very sorry. And to the powers of the cosmos, to Dagda himself: Please, forget me if you must. But save her. Save her.
A jolt, a sucking sound—then silence. I dropped deeper, thudding into something. Though my head still whirled, my body, it seemed, had landed somewhere. At the bottom of a mountain of grime, no doubt. Too much to move. My arm lay twisted underneath me, crushing my hand, but I lacked the strength to straighten it. I lay still, as still as someone dead and buried. Buried by mud.
Breathe. I needed to breathe. I opened my mouth, more from habit than from hope. I knew that I would only taste mud again, for the very last time. And so I allowed myself to fill with . . . Air! I spat out some mud, forced myself to breathe, coughed, and breathed again. Slowly, slowly, my strength started to return.
In the darkness, I rolled over, freeing my arm. Cautiously, I felt around with my fingers. I was lying on my side, upon something soft. And flexible—bouncy to my touch. When I pressed against it with my hand, it pressed back. And when I pushed my nose into its contours, inhaling its rich aromas, it smelled wet, and lush, and alive.
Scanning with my second sight, I traced the flowing, curving slopes that surrounded me. This could be a cavern, a crystal cave of some kind. Yet the walls of this cavern were so moist, so supple, that its crystals, I sensed, would be different from any I had ever known. Looking closer, I noticed the thin, delicate hairs—each one with a plum-shaped fruit at the top—that covered every surface. Thousands upon thousands of them lined the walls, surrounding me, supporting me.
I realized, with a start, that the hairs were moving. Bending and swaying along numberless pathways, the hairs danced slowly to their own secret music. I felt as if I were inside a river, over whose surface flowed many smaller rivers—each one rippling, each one remarkable. And with their movement came warmth. A deep, soothing warmth that glowed without light, while welcoming the dark.
Feeling whole again, I propped myself up on my elbows. Suddenly, a powerful spasm shook the cavern. The floor supporting me arched, tilted, and sent me sliding downward.
I tumbled down a maze of dark passageways, gliding through countless turns, rolling over slippery flats, and sailing through twisting channels. The slick hairs lining every surface made it impossible to stop. And as my speed gathered, so did my fear. I bounced softly from these walls, as gently as a pebble rolling down a hillside of moss, but what lay at the end? I spread my arms and legs, trying to slow myself down. Yet my speed only increased.
All at once, I broke through an opening. And into light, subtle and shifting. I landed on a springy, resilient cushion, covered with more fruit-tipped hairs, and bounced almost to the ceiling of a high chamber. When I landed, I bounced up again, and again, only gradually slowing to a stop. At last, I managed to sit up.
Only an arm’s length away, a round face peered at me. Half of it lay in shadow, and half in the quivering green light that rippled through the chamber. But I could not mistake those whiskers. The ballymag! And behind him, I saw another face—one I had not expected to view again.
“Hallia! You’re safe.”
“Yes,” she said with relief. “As are you.”
The ballymag snorted. “Typical manmonster. Noteven a singlebitty kindolous wordothanks.”
I tore my gaze from Hallia. “Er, thank you, of course. If you hadn’t known about this place . . .” I stroked the moist carpet beneath us. “Where are we, anyway?”
“Questionsask, questionsask,” grumbled the ballymag, patting the cushioned floor with two of his unfurled tails. “Inawhile I answerspeak, maybesee. But nowalously, rightmoment for scrubamuck.”
My brow furrowed. “Scrubamuck?”
Hallia’s gentle laugh echoed among the glowing green walls. “I think I know what he means. And I’d love to.”
I shot her a puzzled look, but she only grinned in response.
Bracing himself with all six arms, the ballymag closed his eyes in concentration. He took a deep breath, then started to hum a high, lilting melody. A melody that lifted, curled, and twined, even as his several tails did the same. As the song expanded, so did the light within the chamber. Stronger and brighter it grew—yet without any obvious source.
Where could such light come from? The very air? The song itself? In a flash I understood. The tiny hairs themselves! Each one of them grew more radiant by the second, its fruited cap swelling with light. Meanwhile, the countless hairs continued to stream with motion. So as the walls grew more luminous, they also grew more textured. On every side, they sparkled and flowed, pulsed and danced.
This was, indeed, a crystal cave. Though very different from the one I sometimes dreamed of finding—yes, even inhabiting—one day, it held a marvelous magic of its own. And it was so completely hidden, a surprising secret of the marsh. Might there, I wondered, be others?
The ballymag opened his eyes. His song faded slowly away, the echoes encircling us for some time. As he watched the light play across our mud-streaked faces, he released a grunt that showed no hint at all of satisfaction. Still, while it might have been just a trick of the light, I thought his whiskers turned upward ever so slightly—the hint, perhaps, of a smile.
Then he set to work. Sliding close to one wall, he unfurled all his tails and spread them out like long, slender fingers. Holding them rigid, he brought them very close to the wall, but not so close as to touch it. He held them there, motionless, for a long moment. He seemed to be waiting for something, like a hawk poised to feel the slightest gust of wind on its feathers.
Without warning, the remotest tip of one of the tails quivered. Slowly, ever so slowly, the motion spread down its entire length. Another tail suddenly bent, quaking along its middle. The other tails soon came alive as well. In a few seconds all of them were vibrating, shimmering in t
he dancing light of the chamber.
In a single snap, the ballymag whipped all the tails into the air. He started whirling them around and around, faster and faster, until they were only a blur of motion. In the middle, a glowing green bowl, larger than the ballymag himself, began to form. The more rapidly the tails spun, the more solid the bowl appeared.
An instant later, the ballymag pulled back his tails. He deftly rolled to the side, just as the gleaming bowl dropped to the soft floor. Hallia and I leaned over its rim, and gasped in unison. For the deep bowl contained a radiant, green fluid, every bit as dazzling as the walls themselves.
“Liquid light,” I whispered in amazement. “A bowl of liquid light.”
The ballymag scowled. “Whatsomething else forado scrubamuck?” He heaved a sigh. “Oh, painawoe . . . It’s my cursafate alwaysever have intruderguests so stupidslow.”
With that, he bent his back and threw himself into the air. He landed with a splash in the bowl. Completely oblivious to us, he splattered and scrubbed himself, humming as he did so. At last, he lifted his head, grunted, and pulled himself over the rim. He sprawled on the floor, glitteringly clean.
Next came Hallia. I turned away so that she could undress and bathe with privacy. And I twisted the ballymag’s head around so that he did the same. For several delighted minutes, Hallia splashed around. When she finally emerged, she took a moment to wash her purple robe and the band of heather she wore around her wrist. And when she stood before us again, she fairly glowed.
Nevertheless, I hesitated before taking my turn. Unsure what to expect, I cautiously pulled off my boot and dipped my toes into the green liquid. My shadow, even more hesitant, dallied at the edge of the bowl. Suddenly I felt a delicate thrill, like warm rain falling inside my foot. As I pulled off my tunic and leggings and climbed fully inside, I couldn’t help but sigh with pleasure. Only then did my shadow finally follow suit, sliding itself into the bowl. By now, my whole body tingled. Not just my skin, but every particle underneath. My bones felt more sturdy, my muscles more responsive, my veins more pure. And the longer I stayed, the deeper the cleansing. Before long, every element of my being felt somehow renewed. Scrubbed, like never before.
