by Garth Nix
In fact, the whole room smelt of fish, thought Paul, after taking a few tentative sniffs. It was obviously some sort of fisherman’s store—a single-roomed hut, constructed from driftwood, with only a single door that doubled as a window. Around the straw pallet, there were piles of nets and ropes, and odd-looking tools—mostly of sea-rusted iron.
“Where are we?” asked Paul, and then, suddenly feeling the absence of his pouch, “And where’s my pouch? Is the Breath safe?”
“Oh, everything’s here,” said Quigin, holding up a loosely tied bag of sailcloth, with pieces of Paul’s clothing trailing out of it.
“We even got your boots back,” he added, holding up a salt-encrusted pair. “That is, one of the shell-fishers did. They’re the best swimmers, because they dive for shells, and everyone else fishes from boats…”
“But where are we?” interrupted Paul.
“A village,” answered Quigin, as if stating the obvious. “Somewhere on the eastern coast. The people here are Trazel-fishers, and dive for Raunshells. I think the place is called Domebreye.”
“That’s Donbreye,” said a voice from the door, a slow, bass voice, that cast a pall of tobacco smoke over the fish smell.
Coughing, Paul sat up higher, to get a good look at the man in the door, and was surprised by the size of him. He could barely stand within the door, and that only by bending his head. And he was as thin as an oar, with a sea-worn face that somehow seemed even thinner, probably because the rest of him was encased in a heavy wool coat, trousers of a sort of dull tartan, and what looked like sharkskin boots.
“I am Deamus,” said the man (pronouncing it Day-mouse), folding himself over a little more, so he could fit into the hut. “And you are Paul.”
“Yes,” said Paul, almost adding a “sir.” Except for his height, Deamus looked just like the Headmaster at Paul’s school—though he was perhaps a little younger.
“Your friend Quigin has told us you are searching for your sister,” said Deamus, ponderously. “And he had tales of great enchantment and ancient evil. Many of our folk will not believe it…but I wonder…there have been creatures in the sky these past nights, and…”
He paused for a moment to take a puff on a long, loose-rolled cigar of green tobacco that shed half-burnt flakes every time it went from hand to mouth. Through the cloud of smoke, Deamus fixed Paul with a thoughtful gaze.
“Is it true,” he asked, “that you have seen the Ragwitch? And that She really is the North-Queen, who once despoiled the Kingdom?”
“I haven’t seen Her here,” said Paul, hesitantly. “But I did see Her in my own…country, and Tanboule the Wise said She was the North-Queen in a different form, and that She was already…fighting in the north.”
“Slaying more than fighting, I’ll warrant,” said Deamus. “But if the Wise know She is back…has word been sent to the King at Yendre?”
“Yes, I think so,” answered Paul. “Aleyne…that is, Sir Aleyne was sent by the Wise. But that was only yesterday—when I first met Quigin…”
“Four days ago, you mean,” interrupted Quigin, who had been absently stroking Leasel. “You’ve been lying here like a stunned fish for the last three days.”
“Four days,” muttered Deamus. “I was worried why we had not heard. But four days is not enough for the message to go to Yendre, and for the Storm Boy to come from there to us.”
“The Storm Boy?” asked Paul, wondering at the way Deamus had said it—as if it were something dread, but somehow expected.
“It is a statue,” replied Deamus, somberly. “The mark of our fealty to the King. A prime Trazel-fish we send at Midsummer, to the Court, and the King sends back a brandy pudding of the same weight as the fish. But the Storm Boy, now he’s an older thing altogether. For the Storm Boy is the call to War, and that we have not seen since my far ancestors’ time.”
Silence followed Deamus’ explanation, until the fisherman blew another cloud of smoke, making Paul cough.
“Ah, I’m sorry lad,” said Deamus, making some attempt to clear the smoke with his hand. “We all puff away here—it’s good for the lungs, to clear the sea damp from them.”
Paul nodded, biting back a comment about cancer and all the other diseases associated with smoking. Still, maybe they didn’t have those here—and it was marginally better than the smell of fish…
“We’ve some nice Trazel cooking down at home,” said Deamus, mistaking Paul’s expression for one of hunger. “Why don’t you come down and have some? It’ll do you better than that fish oil this lad’s been feeding you.”
“Fish oil?” asked Paul, glaring at Quigin as he felt the gorge rising in his throat.
“Fish oil, molasses and some herbs,” replied Quigin, holding up an earthenware bottle. “Do you want some more?”
Paul didn’t answer; he just struggled to his feet and weakly made his way to the door. Deamus stepped back out, steadying Paul as his legs buckled under him.
“Easy, lad,” he murmured, as Paul gulped at the fresh sea air. “You were nearly drowned, and your strength is all watered down.”
Paul didn’t reply, thankful to be out of the fish and tobacco smell, and away from the helpful Quigin and his fish oil cocktail.
After a few deep gulps of air, Paul looked around and saw that the hut lay on a rocky ridge. To the north, he could just see the beach where they’d crashed. To the south, and much closer, there was a harbor, crowded with small boats sheltering behind the breakwater. Around the harbor, and climbing up to the ridge, there were forty or fifty wooden houses, with roofs of greyish slate, and yellow-brick chimneys shining in the sun.
There were lots of people about too, small figures, all clustered around the harbor wall, intent on some great business. From a distance, Paul could hear shouts and laughter, and the faintest touch of some cheery song.
“It is a Festival day,” said Deamus behind him. “A day for the sea, when we give thanks for its bounty. I’ll not tell them your news today, young Paul. Tomorrow will be soon enough to prepare ourselves for the Storm Boy.”
“Will many of you have to go?” asked Quigin, who had come up behind. Turning back, Paul noticed that even while talking, Quigin was watching an albatross cruise effortlessly above, and other birds as they dived about the rocks.
“All who can bear pike and sword, and march five leagues,” replied Deamus, still watching the festive preparations below. “Perhaps thirty of the men, and a score of the women.”
“The women too?” asked Paul. “Is that normal?”
Deamus looked back at him, puzzled, and said, “We have never answered the Storm Boy before. But the women practice on King’s Days, as do the men. I do not think the North-Creatures are particular as to their prey—so it is best if all can fight, if they must.”
“You’ve never fought against other people, then?” asked Paul, rather doubtfully.
“Other people!” said Deamus, shocked. “We could not!”
“Not even if you were attacked?” asked Paul. “If others wanted your land or something?”
“We have our place,” replied Deamus sternly. “We are bound here to earth and sea—it would not answer to others. And their places would not answer to us. Only the North-Creatures know no home, and so seek to take ours from us, even if it will avail them nothing.”
“I see,” said Paul, for the first time really understanding what the Ragwitch meant to this peaceful Kingdom. She brought war and destruction, and many people would die to stop Her—if they could. He suddenly remembered Malgar the Shepherd in his village to the northwest. Maybe, even now, his people were fighting the Ragwitch—and from what Tanboule had said, probably losing. Instinctively, he reached for the blue feather in his pouch, the Breath—and realized he was dressed in nothing but a wool undershirt that hung down to his knees.
“I’ll just get dressed,” said Paul, tottering back inside.
“Aye, and then we’ll join the festival,” said Deamus. “Though I don’t think Paul will be d
ancing.”
Quigin nodded absently, watching Leasel bound off into the dune grass that grew a little way up from the beach. There were sand lizards there, and he wanted to learn how they spoke.
“I’ll come down to the village later,” he said, poking his head into the door, before heading off after Leasel, making lizard calls deep in his throat.
The transition through the globe was different with Lyssa leading the way: slow, and gentle, with none of the numbing loss of senses that normally accompanied Julia’s passage. But the light was very bright, and Julia was forced to close her eyes.
When she opened them, it was to gentle sunlight, and she breathed cool, clean air. Lyssa stood at her side, silver hair flowing in the breeze.
To Julia, it seemed that every aspect of the land about them was like some long-forgotten pleasure. They stood on a green hill which overlooked a small, but very blue, lake. From its shores, broad-leafed trees marched up to the bottom of the hill. Birds flew in the distance, and there was no hint of any cloud.
“Remember, Julia,” said Lyssa. “None of this is real. It is a memory of the Ragwitch—an early one, for the land is clean, and not despoiled. But Her memories shift, and overlap; you must be prepared for any change…”
Lyssa’s voice faltered, and her body shimmered for an instant, like a fleeting mirage. Then, she firmed again, and continued, “Quickly—I am called to my tree! You must look for Anhyvar, a woman, with long red hair, who wears a silver star upon her breast. She will be near the sea…”
“But what do I do when I find her?” asked Julia, clutching Lyssa’s hand. “Oh, please don’t go!”
Lyssa wavered again, and her hand became insubstantial, passing through Julia’s like mist. Then Lyssa plucked something from her hair, thrust it into Julia’s other hand—and vanished, her voice drifting across the hill.
“Send it to the wind when you find Anhyvar…and I will come…”
Julia listened carefully, and looked at the small russet leaf she held in her palm, before tucking it neatly into her shirt pocket.
“Near the sea…” she muttered to herself, looking down at the lake. A kilometer or two away, on the other side of the lake, she could just make out a river. And rivers flowed into the sea.
Drawing the yellow-gold wand, she held it before her and strode boldly down the hill.
An hour later, Julia began to notice changes to the north. A great mass of black cloud was rolling in—a solid wall of darkness, with lightning striking before it, and thunder rolling behind.
Julia eyed it suspiciously and quickened her pace. She had no desire to be caught out in the open.
Then, without warning, the whole sky was black—though the cloud wall couldn’t possibly have reached the river. Lightning danced a jagged dance down the hill behind Julia, and thunder crashed against her ears, dry, booming thunder, without any hint of rain.
She started to run, the lightning following her, forking down in great strokes, flashes of light making the landscape flicker and move as if lit by a gigantic strobe. Amidst the shrieking storm, Julia ran blindly, her hands pressed to her ears, and her feet stumbling over the madly lit ground.
Then the clouds were gone, and the sky was blue and silent, as if the thunder and lightning had never been.
But the land around Julia was not the same. The river was gone: a dry ravine wound where the water had once run deep. There were no broad-leafed trees, and the grassy hills were yellow and cracked like overbaked scones.
A memory change, thought Julia, looking around at the wasteland. Lyssa had said that at the height of Her power, the Ragwitch had turned much of the kingdom into a desert. Obviously, the land about Julia was a memory from this time—so Her North-Creatures were bound to be about.
Julia looked back at the hills again, before continuing along the path of the dried-up river…not noticing the dark silhouette of something crouched just behind the crest of one of the closer hills.
11
The Sea Festival
THE SOUNDS OF happy preparations grew stronger as Paul walked slowly down towards the harbor, with Deamus half supporting him. It was a rather slow and frustrating progress for Paul, as his legs kept going rubbery and giving way. And there always seemed to be just one more house to walk around before they reached the sea.
Then there were no more houses, and they stood on the slate-tiled harborside, a broad expanse that stretched from the breakwater to the boatsheds a hundred meters away. Because of the Festival, trestle tables lined the quay, covered with food, ranging from fish to lobster, with all kinds of shellfish and edible seaweed in between. Only the barrels of wine and beer (of which there seemed an awful lot) hadn’t come from the sea.
Around these tables, scores of cheerful men, women and children, were all fearfully busy (or pretending to be), either putting out food, rearranging it, tuning musical instruments, practicing dances or just getting in the way.
No one paid any attention to Paul and Deamus, so Paul sat down on an upturned keg on the fringe of all the activity, and waited for Deamus to decide what to do next.
“This is the Sea Festival,” explained Deamus, waving his long arms about like a sort of daddy-longlegs. “A holiday for us, and a time to give our thanks to the sea.”
Paul nodded, his attention wandering to the water’s edge, where a woman stood staring out at the sea. Unlike the rest of the revellers, she wore no bright colors or jewelry—just a simple black dress. As Paul watched, she cast something into the sea at her feet and turned away, disappearing into the crowd.
Deamus followed Paul’s gaze, and added quietly, “We thank the sea for our livelihoods, but it knows cruelty as well as kindness. Avelle’s husband and only son were lost in a great storm just a few weeks gone. Today is also a time to grieve for those who have been taken by the sea. But come—I would like you to meet my own wife and children. I have a daughter much the same age as you.”
“Couldn’t I just rest here for a bit longer?” asked Paul anxiously. He was always nervous about meeting people—especially girls. Julia’s friends often made fun of him when she wasn’t around to protect him. And who knows where Julia is now, thought Paul, miserably. And his parents had probably given them both up for dead—if they’d taken the time to notice.
“Rest all you like,” said Deamus, noticing Paul’s eyes begin to go a little teary at the corners. “Come across when you’re ready. No one will disturb you till then.”
Paul watched him walk across to one of the farther tables, towards a tall, black-haired woman who was almost as thin as Deamus. No one else could be Deamus’ wife, thought Paul. A few seconds later Deamus kissed her on the forehead, confirming Paul’s opinion. Next to the woman was a small, dark-haired shadow of herself, again, obviously their daughter. She saw him looking, and returned his gaze with a calm disinterest that made him quickly look away—straight at Quigin, who had just appeared, red-faced and panting, with Leasel close at his heels. The Friend of Beasts staggered, and bent over, his mulberry-colored hat falling at his feet.
“What is it?” asked Paul. He got up himself, with the vague expectation of having to run somewhere too.
“Ran…all the way…from the dunes…” puffed Quigin. “Couldn’t find…sand lizards…but there are creatures…gathering behind the dunes.”
“Creatures?” snapped a voice behind him. “What sort of creatures?”
Paul looked up from Quigin, and saw a tough-looking man clutching a still-writhing lobster with considerable dexterity. Paul thought the lobster was very unlucky to be held by such a hard-faced person—anyone else would have let go. Quigin gasped out, “Gwarulch! I think they’re Gwarulch! And coming this way!”
The hard-faced man looked carefully at Quigin, as if the possibility of encountering Gwarulch in the sand dunes was as unlikely as finding a ring around the sun. Then, in a voice that cracked through the festive chatter like a slamming door, he bellowed, “Deamus!”
Deamus looked up at once, and hurried
over. So did most of the other fisherfolk, leaving their tasks, music and chatter behind.
“Deamus,” said the man, passing his lobster to a woman at the front of the crowd (who passed it on when it snapped at her). “This boy says there are Gwarulch beyond the dunes. You brought the boys here. What do you know of this?”
“I know nothing of Gwarulch,” replied Deamus slowly. “But Paul, here, brings tidings of a great and ancient evil. I had hoped we need not speak of it till the morrow. But it seems we must…”
Around him, the fisherfolk muttered and fidgeted, many making the sign against evil with their thumb and forefinger. Deamus cleared his throat, and said bluntly, “Paul has told me that the Ragwitch has come to the North. And She is no tale for the children, but the North-Queen come again, in a different shape and form.”
No one spoke for a moment, but Paul felt everyone looking at him, and saw in their eyes a kind of dread, reserved only for bearers of evil news.
“Is this true?” asked the hard-faced man, looking from Deamus to Paul, who shivered under his gaze.
“Yes,” said Paul, slowly getting to his feet. “I have been to see the Wise, and Tanboule said She had returned. And Gwarulch chased me and Aleyne through the forest…”
Paul’s voice trailed off as he remembered that night in the forest, running through the blackness between the trees, the Gwarulch howling a few steps behind…and then the one that had trapped him, standing over him and licking its lips. He shivered at the memory, and then shivered again as a chilling scream sounded far off in the dunes. A Gwarulch had found Quigin’s trail—and was summoning the hunt.
Only the hard-faced man seemed unaffected by the scream. The rest of the villagers had gone as still as an old, brown-toned photograph, the color fading from their ruddy cheeks. Paul watched their throats moving, as they compulsively swallowed to keep from crying out. And they all seemed to be looking at him.
Then the hard-faced man spoke, and Paul realized that it was he the villagers were really looking at. “I am Sir Rellen,” said the man to Paul. “And I have fought Gwarulch far to the north. They can be killed.”
