by S. E. Grove
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Theo said, yawning. “Even the canoe knows where we’re going. We’re the only ones who don’t, apparently.”
Sophia watched the figure and found that what Casanova had said was true. It remained always at the same distance, always to the west and a little ahead of them. She shook her head and turned back to her notebook, intent on continuing the map she was making. “Maybe it is one of the sisters,” she said, sketching the route through the stone.
“Could be,” Casanova replied. “It seems agile to me. More than I would have expected for an eighty-year-old woman.”
“Is that how old they are?”
“Around that. From what Bittersweet said about how long his mother and grandfather knew them.”
The sun began sinking into the horizon. All around them, the stone was bathed in orange light. Here and there, cliffs jutted up into the darkening sky, bright red and shaded purple. “Oh!” Sophia exclaimed. She pointed ahead. A cluster of fireflies had appeared in the air above the stream, and as the canoe approached they danced toward them, their lights glancing on and off.
Casanova observed them warily. “The three sisters must have sent them.”
To Sophia they seemed anything but ominous, and she smiled as the fireflies heralded them onward. “A retinue of fireflies,” she said. “I think it’s very welcoming.”
As the sun sank lower and the sky above them made a dome of fading indigo, the canoe began to slow down. The stony outcrops disappeared, leaving only a flat stone table stretching east and west. Abruptly, the stream widened. Sophia realized, as they floated forward, that it had opened into a lake: a wide body of water bordered entirely by stone. And now, as the fireflies flickered toward it, she saw the island that rose in the middle of the lake. Steep and thickly forested, it jutted from the still water like a craggy horn. At the hill’s peak was a great stone edifice that seemed carved from the island itself. Lights shone in the windows—amber lights that flickered like candle flames, or fireflies.
34
The Island
—August 1892: # Day, # Hour—
For the Elodeans (Eerie), fireflies have particular significance. They are also called “lightning fliers,” and they are admired for the blinking patterns made by their lights. The Elodeans contend that these patterns are not arbitrary but intentional, and that the blinking is a manner of communicating. I have not seen the lightning fliers talk in this way, but I believe it might be possible.
—From Sophia Tims’s Reflections on a Journey to the Eerie Sea
THE CANOE DRIFTED across the lake until it reached the island’s rocky shore. Casanova jumped out and pulled the canoe to ground, raking the birchbark against the stones, then helped Theo out of his seat. Sophia shouldered her pack.
The fireflies had moved and were waiting at the base of a trail that wound steeply upward. As Sophia watched, her eyes widened with surprise. “Look,” she whispered.
Theo and Casanova turned. The fireflies flickered and steadied. Their lights were no longer a meaningless cluster; they were letters.
“Up,” Sophia read aloud.
“Let us hope they are honest as well as literate,” Casanova said. “Do you have it in you to climb this hill, Theo?”
Theo planted his walking stick firmly in the ground. “Definitely.”
They followed the fireflies’ winking lights. Ash trees grew densely on either side of the uphill trail. Sage and borage filled the air with a scent that was both earthy and sweet.
After leading them up and around the island twice, going higher and higher still, the fireflies turned a sharp corner, and Sophia realized they had arrived at a stone archway. It opened onto a square courtyard. Theo stopped, leaning on his walking stick to catch his breath.
The granite castle loomed darkly above them. It was more fortress than castle, with high, solid walls and gated windows. Burning torches flanked its massive wooden door, which stood open.
And, in the doorway, someone was waiting for them.
A long laugh that ended in a cackle echoed through the courtyard. “I was right! I was right!”
The three travelers waited, poised, as the strange figure approached.
“I told Ash and Sage that you would never make it if you had to walk. And I was right. You’d be floating in the icy waters of the glacier by now, or lost in one of the tunnels.” It was an old woman’s voice, as surprisingly strong and nimble as her gait. She stood before them in the flickering torchlight. Her grin seemed genuine, but her eyes flashed with something sharp and malicious.
Casanova spoke first. “The canoe made our journey here much easier. Did you send it?”
“Of course we did,” she replied, suddenly serious. “How else would it have arrived?”
“Thank you,” Theo said. “You’re right. I would never have made it otherwise.”
The old woman grinned again, her eyes gleaming. “Well, come in, come in! I know why you’ve come, and we must get started. You’ve lost too much time already.” She turned toward the open doors and beckoned for them to follow. “I am Borage, in case you had not solved that puzzle.”
Glancing at one another, the travelers followed Borage toward the darkened doorway. They found themselves in a small anteroom, facing a spiral staircase made of stone. “More steps,” Borage announced. “Fifty-three of them,” she added cheerily. “And then you can rest, Lucky Theo. And you can ask me about the old one, Sophia. And you can get a poultice from Sage for the complaint you are hiding, Grant.”
Sophia and Theo turned to stare at Casanova. “It’s nothing,” he said. When they did not reply, he added, “I brushed up against a poisonous plant.”
“Ah!” Borage said, already climbing. “But it will grow worse if you do not get the poultice. And the scarring will add to your already impressive collection.” Her voice became muffled as she wound upward. “He was holding back the plant so it would not touch either of you, of course.”
“Cas,” Theo admonished.
“Come on,” said Sophia. “The sooner Sage attends to him, the better.”
At the top of the narrow staircase, they reached a room made entirely of stone, with pillars and a vaulted ceiling. A fire roared in a great fireplace, and the windowless walls on either side of it were hung with tapestries. Both the tapestries were maps: woven maps that showed every detail of the Eerie Sea and the region south of it. Before the fire was a long wooden table, where two other elderly women sat, waiting for them.
“Good evening,” one of them said as she stood. She had short white hair, cut unevenly in wayward tufts, and a broad smile that was unexpectedly warm. “I am Sage. Please forgive Borage her peculiar welcome. She insisted on meeting you alone.”
“Because they came to see me,” Borage pointed out.
“Yes, Borage, but we are all glad to see them. And they would not have arrived without Ash’s canoe, as you so rightly pointed out.”
The third woman, Ash, nodded with a timid smile. “I’m glad Birke carried you here safely,” she said, her voice barely audible.
Now that they stood together in the firelight, Sophia could see the resemblance among the three sisters. They all had rather pointed features, with sharp noses and wide mouths, and they carried themselves like women half their age. In contrast to Sage’s tufts of short hair, Ash had a long white braid that reached nearly to her waist, and Borage’s hair was an untidy cluster of pins and starflowers. The sisters wore long, simple tunics sashed at the waist, and Sophia suspected, having caught a glance of a loom in the corner, that they wove their own clothes—and perhaps their tapestries as well.
“Sit down, please,” Sage said. Theo sank at once into one of the wooden chairs. Taking a small basket, filled with what looked like moss, from the table, Sage turned to Casanova. “Shall I tend to your arm, Grant?”
“Thank you,” Casanova said. He put
down his pack and approached the table, folding back his sleeve to reveal his red, blistered forearm. Sophia winced.
“I’m afraid you will need to take that off so we can wash it,” Sage said. “The poison will have soaked into the fabric.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Casanova pulled off his cotton shirt. Sophia realized at once that he was not embarrassed to be shirtless, but rather reluctant to bare his scars. They covered most of his chest and much of his back. She stopped herself from gasping and turned away.
Borage met her horrified gaze with a smile. “Yes,” she said. “Grant wears it on his skin, the cost of war. Would that every man were forced to wear the cost so visibly.”
“Borage,” Ash said, her tone reprimanding.
“What?” Borage scowled. “If everyone were so marked by the idiocy of war, perhaps it would provoke greater prudence.”
“I agree with you,” Casanova said quietly, holding out his arm while Sage spread the green poultice over his forearm.
“I know you do,” said Borage. “That’s why I’m not biting my tongue. My sisters seem to think there is a place for delicacy where war is concerned.” She made a derisive noise. “Utter nonsense. There is nothing delicate about it.” She turned to Sophia. “You are here to stop a war, and I intend to help you. And though I know you are probably hungry, and Ash has promised to set out a banquet, we should begin. Time is very short.”
“Will what we have to do take so long?” Sophia asked apprehensively.
Borage gave another one of her piercing laughs. “I suppose you are under the impression that you left Oakring this morning.”
Sophia felt a sudden stab of dread. Have I lost track of time even more than I realized? But Theo and Casanova looked as perplexed as she felt. “Yes—we left this morning.”
Borage chuckled, and again her laughter made Sophia unsure. “Today is the nineteenth of August. You left Oakring five days ago.”
Sophia gasped. “No! How is that possible?”
“You are mistaken,” Casanova said at the same time.
“No mistake. It took you five days to reach us.” Borage seemed very pleased, as if observing the workings of a convincing magic trick.
“It is the glacier,” Ash told them in her quiet voice. “You are right that the distance is a day’s journey, but the glacier changes things. Time is unruly there. Unsteady and unpredictable. We have seen some travelers spend years in the tunnels, unawares.”
Sophia realized with sudden panic that the day of reckoning, the day upon which the armies would descend into Turtleback Valley, was only hours away. The time she’d counted on to make the Clime’s memory map was already gone. “But then we must leave right now!” she exclaimed.
“Why do you think I told you that time was short?” Borage asked, exasperated.
Sophia shook her head in despair. “I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.”
“Borage is alarming you unnecessarily,” Sage said, giving her sister a sharp look. “There is plenty of time. There,” she said, looking at Casanova’s arm, which she had wrapped in clean cloth. “You should leave that for two days, and the rash will slowly subside. Now,” she said, replacing her materials in the little basket, “Theo will rest by the fire; Ash and I will finish preparing the meal; and Sophia will make the map with Borage. Then we will eat together, for though it feels like only a day has passed, your bodies will soon start to realize that they are exhausted and hungry.”
Sophia felt calmer when Sage had finished speaking. She could see that Casanova and Theo, too, were ready to take her advice.
“Thank you,” Casanova said. “You have prepared for every circumstance.”
Sage smiled. “The consequence and benefit of knowing too much.”
“Fine. Good. Come along, then,” Borage said to Sophia unceremoniously, pointing toward a door at the back of the room. “We go to the workroom.”
• • •
BORAGE’S WORKROOM WAS in a turret. The walls were curved, lined with ash-wood shelves that were overloaded with books. Narrow windows looked out into the starry sky.
Disorder reigned. A round table in the center of the room formed an island, and the island was crowded with every manner of tool and implement. Sophia recognized tongs and a hammer, bellows and an awl, scissors and paintbrushes. The confusion reminded her of Shadrack’s work spaces—it was a disorder born of activity and enthusiasm, not neglect.
“I’ve already made my part of the map,” Borage announced, skirting piles of books, an empty cage, and what appeared to be a wasp’s nest.
“How did you know?” Sophia ventured, while Borage rummaged through the assorted contents of her workroom.
“Know what?”
“That we were coming. That we needed a map.”
Borage stopped to look at her with incredulity, as if astonished to hear so inane a question. “The same way we know anything. Through the old one. The one you call ‘New Occident.’”
“But my friends Goldenrod and Bittersweet also speak to the old one—and still they do not know everything everywhere.”
“We don’t know everything everywhere, either.” Borage scowled.
“But . . .”
Borage put her hands on her hips and let out a huff of impatience. “When you talk to Iron Theo, do you know everything he knows?”
“Iron Theo?” Sophia asked, confused.
Borage waved away the question. “That’s a joke of ours. Don’t get distracted—Theodore. Do you know everything he knows?”
“Of course not.”
“But can you ask him questions about things he knows that you don’t? Such as how Casanova got his scars, or what Theo did to Major Merret, or how he knows Wilkie Graves?”
Sophia blinked rapidly. “Yes,” she said. “I can ask him questions. And most of the time, he’ll tell me. Not always.”
“Exactly!” Borage exclaimed. “We ask the old one, and most of the time it tells us. Not always.” She turned away as if this concluded the matter, and reinvigorated her search. “Where is it, now?” she muttered, pushing aside the objects on the table. “Ah!” She triumphantly held up a long cylinder. “Here it is.” She handed it to Sophia. “See if you can figure it out,” she said, mischief in her voice.
Sophia took the cylinder in her hands. It was a metal tube covered with leather. One end had a removable lid made of glass. The other end had an eyepiece. “Is it a telescope?”
Borage rubbed her hands together and grinned. “Guess again.”
Sophia took off the lid. There was something inside—a roll of paper. She pulled it out carefully. A very crude map labeled “The Stone Age” showed a riverine route from a mound identified as “The Glacier.” The route ran directly north until it reached a pear-shaped body of water: “Moat,” and, within it, a small island: “Home.”
Mystified, Sophia rolled up the paper once more, returned it to the cylinder, and replaced the lid. She looked through the eyepiece. For a moment, she saw nothing. Then the cylinder shifted in her hand, and light moved through the tube, creating a sudden constellation of shapes. The route she had just taken to the island appeared before her: the misshapen stones, the slender river through the rock, the still pond, the towering island. As the cylinder turned slightly, the light winked and the angle of her passage changed. She caught her breath. “I don’t know what it is, but it is beautiful.” She put the instrument down. “Is it a map reader? It seems to show what the map describes.”
Borage was unexpectedly abashed by the compliment. She took her creation back and looked at it fondly. “Thank you. I call it a ‘mirrorscope.’ There are mirrors inside, and they combine with the light and the map to show its contents.”
The images were still behind Sophia’s eyes. “Can I put any map inside it?”
“Of course. That is the idea.”
She fumbled
in her satchel for her worn pocket map of upper New York. Rolling it carefully, she tucked it into the empty scope that Borage handed her and replaced the glass lid.
Falling leaves, a path through the woods, a bridge over a rushing river, a cluster of houses nestled in a valley at dusk, a mountain pass in the snow: as she turned the cylinder, one image after another appeared. These were not memories, for the map was not a memory map. It carried no sounds or smells, no sentiments; but it nonetheless conveyed a crystalline sense of how the paths rendered on the map would look to a traveler.
“So wonderful!” Sophia exclaimed, smiling with delight as she lowered the scope. Then she paused. “But how can we use it to make a memory map of the Clime?”
“I don’t know,” Borage said matter-of-factly. “That is your part.”
Sophia stared at her, aghast. “What do you mean?”
“Just that. I know my scope is the receptacle for the map, but the map itself has to be made by you.”
“‘From then on, the map you follow must be your own,’” murmured Sophia. She felt a sinking sensation.
For the first time, Borage looked puzzled. “I thought you would have the map that goes inside.”
“I don’t! I have no idea what it even looks like.”
The old woman was silent for a moment, and Sophia wondered if she would fly into a sudden rage. But instead she burst into laughter. “Well, well,” she said, grinning widely. “You’ll have to find the answer before tomorrow, then, won’t you?”
35
Birke’s Voyage
—1892, August 19: 18-Hour 01—
Most often the characters in Elodean (Eerie) stories are named after animals or plants that supposedly reflect the character’s qualities. But sometimes the associations with that plant or animal are surprising. For example, one story related to me about someone named Rose cast the character as a cunning and indefatigable warrior—not, perhaps, what we would imagine for such a name. But the Elodean explained to me that the wild rosebush is tenacious and tough, with a protective armor of tiny spines.
