There were more pressing problems at the moment than trying to explain this world's magic, however, the first of which, that Golden had come to a complete halt, Golden's party of two eccentric women and one pretty fed up earthman, stopping behind him in a ragged, little line.
"This is exposed territory, Golden," John said as he plodded past the women to stand beside Golden, hoping that, by pointing out the obvious, he could pry a little more speed out of the not-too-likeable young man. Platinia, coming up to stand just behind John, said nothing. "If we can see for miles we can be seen for miles." John said this to exploit Golden's paranoia about the "dangerous animals" rumored to be loose in Malachite.
"I ... was just ... trying to remember ...."
"Remember?"
"The right way. I was ... a child."
"I know. You told me about that. But surely, there are some kind of markers, something to indicate which way to go."
"No one comes here." Golden's face was a perfect blank. A mask to hide his fear?
"Because it's the land of giants?" John considered laughing as a way of shaming Golden out of his paralysis until Golden's sober look warned John off.
"Yes." Again, John was struck with Golden's sincerity -- sincerity of belief having nothing to do with truth, of course.
"This isn't much of a place to camp out," John pointed out again.
Thinking about stopping for the night, John realized that part of the reason he was being short with Golden was because John blamed Golden for providing too little food to cover all eventualities, a criticism that wasn't fair, particularly since Golden was paying for everything. Though John didn't like to take advantage of anyone, he had no money; and no way to earn any. (Even what little American currency he had in his billfold when he came "through" -- much good that would do him here -- was in his pants back at Hero Castle.) The girl had nothing. Gave no indication of knowing what money was. All the aforementioned facts making it a matter of necessity that Golden be their source of revenue. Perhaps the Weird would eventually contribute something to the common larder, a faint hope, John knew. Her only talent lay in muttering; an art form which, like most avocations, was without monetary value.
John wrenched his mind back to ... the problem.
The reality of the moment was that the party was at a standstill, Golden seemingly rooted to the rocks beneath his booted feet.
Rocks. No longer a spike of desert grass to be seen.
For the better part of a day, they'd been trudging through this ... loose rock ... desert of crumbling stone, a monotonous gray and green and gray-green wilderness of decaying chunks that, in eons, would be sand. A desert by any definition, except that this desert lacked heat. And yet heat had been here once; scorching heat; an inferno of heat! The leather-armored plants they'd passed in more "lush" terrain had told him so.
No sun to be seen, of course. John had almost gotten used to that.
"I ... can't ... go on." In addition to his legs, Golden's voice seemed also to have taken root.
"What?" Realizing what Golden had said, John was alarmed. "What do you mean you can't go on?"
"I do not remember the way."
"You said that all we had to do was angle to the up-light side of the band."
"It is that I do not remember where the giant's rocks fall."
"That again." John was at a loss for a way to exorcise Golden's ghostly behemoths. "Tell me about that once more."
After a long pause, Golden cleared his throat, nervously, his hands fumbling at the dusty seams of his robe.
"It is said ...," he began in a too-quiet voice, "and I have seen for myself that it is true -- when I was a child -- that there are giants in this land, phantoms that no man can see. And that they drop boulders on men who travel here." Though John still didn't know how to break down this odd notion, he knew he had to find a way. As long as Golden held these views, it was obvious nothing that John might say could move him.
They couldn't stay here. Nor did John think they could return to Bice. On short rations for days, they didn't have enough food to back out of this wilderness, necessity demanding they move forward or starve.
"You're sure that The Gap is closed to us?" John knew that, in his soldier disguise, Golden had checked out that escape route. It was just that asking nonsense questions was the only way John could think of to keep the conversation going.
"Yes."
"Instead of crossing into Stil-de-grain here," John suggested, trying another tack, "how about following the band to the left, getting across into Stil-de-grain farther down?" Golden just shook his head.
"That way, there are impenetrable mountains."
"Then this is the only way."
"Yes."
"But is it reasonable to believe in diaphanous bogeyman?"
"No. .... It is just that I have seen their handiwork."
"When you were a child."
"Yes."
This was getting them nowhere. "Perhaps you could tell me in more detail, what you saw?"
"I was a child. Fleeing from Malachite for my life." Again, the far away look in Golden's dark eyes, that unfocused stare noticeable when Golden had first talked about this incident from his childhood. "There were adults ... leading me. All in a line. Starting here. I am sure this is the place. In my dreams, I see those rocks." Golden pointed to some purple rock formations ahead and to the right, a pile of rocks that was distinctive, a ridge of stone higher than any elevation for miles. "And, one by one, the line leaders, would be ... killed ... the unseen giants striking each one down in turn."
"Killed? How do you mean that?"
"Crushed."
"Knocked down?"
"Crushed. As if the greatest weight in all the world had fallen down upon them." John could see Golden began to tremble with that memory. "The next man would swing wide around the spot of the dead man -- who was not a man, now, but a wide film of skin and flesh and blood." John could see Golden shiver, as if racked by chills. The young man struggling to make himself stop shaking. "And the rest would follow. I was last in line. Presently, the next front man would be smashed. And we would go around that spot. And then the next. And then the next." Golden shook his head to clear away the dead men's ghosts. "Until .... only one servant remained.
"How he came through with me, I do not know. But he led me out of the land of giants, into the band of Stil-de-grain."
"And you thought that once you got back here, you could lead us through?"
"Yes."
"But you can't?"
"No. My dreams ... are not ... clear. One mistake ... in direction ....."
What Golden needed more than anything was confidence. John could see that. The story about Brobdingnagian spooks was absurd, of course. At the same time, caution forced John to admit that the sheer unbelievability of that tale did not mean that this forbidding terrain was entirely safe. In fact, John found himself looking around nervously. Not much of an example to be setting for Golden, he thought bitterly! It was just that, as an historian, John knew that legends like this sometimes contained the smallest grain of truth. In this instance, that some hidden danger might haunt this savage spot. On earth, for instance, solid looking terrain could disguise quick-sand; what looked like harmless plants and animals might be poisonous; seemingly friendly people could be back-stabbing bastards.
Considering the adage, "Desperate people do desperate things," was it time to "pull out all the stops?" Was it time to try ordering Golden to go forward? ..............
No.
With Golden so obviously frightened of something in this barren land, it was less than sensible to force the young man to continue against his "better" judgment. Surely, though, some way could be found to give Golden the confidence to continue of his own volition, at his own, prudent pace. "You say that, as a child, you knew the way?"
"I am sure of it."
"And that you see the way in dreams?"
"Yes. But dreams ... change. They are not entirely to be trusted."
John was getting a glimmer of an idea. Not much of one, maybe, still .......
Would Golden go along with what John was considering, even if such a thing were possible? "There may be a way of getting back to your childhood," John said, starting slowly, trying to "read" Golden as he spun out his idea. "A way of tapping your mind. ... Another way besides your dreams." Though Golden didn't look convinced, he was listening. Good. Even that was progress. "The Crystal. The Weird's Crystal? Don't I remember her saying that the Crystal showed not only the future, but also the present and the past?" Golden nodded. "If you can get her to show you the past -- your past -- if, by looking in the Crystal, you can focus on the time you were here before ...." Even as John spoke, he could see sweat break out on Golden's face, a profusion of sweat, Golden's features turning an even more sickly green than they usually looked under the verdant sky.
It was only then, a movement to the left causing John to glance around, that he noticed that the Weird had been listening to their conversation. "Out of it" most of the time, the old woman was easy to ignore.
John turned to her now, desperate for some way through this impasse. "Can you help Golden to see his childhood, when he was last in this place?"
"I will not look into the Crystal," Golden said flatly. For all his seeming self assurance, Golden had his limits. Looking in the Crystal was one of them. In that tone of voice, John believed him.
"Don' haf' look inna Cryst'l." The old women was shaking her head violently as she sometimes did when muttering to herself. Except that now, she seemed to be "tracking."
"There's another way to help Golden to relive his childhood?" John asked, trying his best to keep the Weird "with it."
"Don' haf' look inna Cryst'l. Look inna own head." John shrugged. What did she mean by that?
"I he'p. Comma me." She motioned for Golden to come closer to her, Golden standing there, sweating, a good ten feet from the Weird.
"What will you do?" Golden asked in a thin voice, Golden having difficulty maintaining the pose of his rigid self.
"Comma me."
After a long pause and a look to see if it was John's wish, Golden took hesitating steps in the Weird's direction, stopping well away from her.
"Jes watch," said the Weird, raising her hands, passing them before Golden's eyes like she waved them over the Crystal at the beginning of what John had come to think of as her "Crystal-bouts."
Next, the old woman began muttering, rhythmically, timing her nonsense sounds with the motions of her hands.
It was then that John knew what she was doing! She was hypnotizing Golden. Nothing magical about that. Although ... hypnosis had certainly seemed to be "magical" back on earth before people understood the process by which one person could gain control of the thoughts and feelings of another.
"Y'u go ba'k whenna y'u a chil'," said the Weird, speaking in cadence. "Y'u go ba'k whenna y'u here befo'." She kept up her circular hand-passes.
As for Golden, he looked more calm, his eyes following the Weird's hands, a sure sign, John thought, that the hypnosis was "taking."
John had to admire the Weird's skill. At the same time, knew that hypnosis wasn't much of a trick. You could even mesmerize a chicken or a rabbit. All it took was knowing how. No reason to credit the Weird with special powers just because she knew the "trick."
The Weird continued. "Y'u a chil', now. Y'u a chil' in this place. Men lead y'u. In a lin'." So, the Weird had been following Golden's explanation about the line of adults leading him out of the land of the "testy" giants.
Strange, but Golden now ... looked ... different. Seemed to be shriveling into a child-like version of himself, something "childish" in the way he stood, in the way he held his head. Something ...
"Y'u go now," said the Weird, waving her hand as a way of turning Golden about. "Go now."
And Golden .... went.
So they were off again toward the Stil-de-grain border. Through the land of unnoticeable Goliaths. Slowly.
Golden in the lead, John fell back to his "rear guard" position, Golden's movements (from what John could see of them) like those of a ... youngster, Golden leading them on a twisting path over the rock-strewn gray-green steppe. Until ... John began to notice ... little ... gusts of wind on that airless plain. Not gusts, actually, but puffs, as if there were whirlpools of moving air that dotted the wasteland they were crossing. It was difficult to be more precise than that because the land was so flinty there was not enough dust to make it possible to "see" the wind. "Whirlpools?" To say that the wind was twisting like what John had called "dust devils" as a child -- was also inaccurate. It was more correct just to say that, abruptly, John would feel a breeze ruffling the hair on his calves. (He'd gotten used to wearing a tunic by now. But not to strange little blasts of air on his bare legs.)
And speaking of strange, there was the course Golden was setting, a curving, zigzag passage around what first seemed to John to be imaginary walls, "visible" only to Golden. After some time, though, John came to believe that Golden was "dodging" the "breaths" of air that John had been feeling on his calves, going around them, between them.
A question among other questions was, since no air gusts could be felt until you were passing them, how could Golden tell in advance where such disturbances might be?
In this odd, sinuous way, they snaked along for half an hour, when, again, Golden came to a complete and sudden stop.
"What's wrong, Golden?" John asked, coming up around the others. (As usual, Golden was leading, the Weird next in line, then Platinia, with John still bringing up the rear, the little line carefully undulating to follow Golden's precise footsteps.)
"I cannot go any farther," Golden said in a high, childish voice.
"Why not?"
"I have fainted." Amazingly, Golden looked like he might cry. What??? Oh ... yes. If any proof was needed, this was a confirmation that the Weird had regressed Golden to his childhood, that Golden really had been following a memory trail through the "giant's" territory. Golden had said he had no recollection of how he'd finally gotten through this land, because the last "servant" had carried the child Golden when Golden had lost consciousness.
Without warning, Golden threw himself to the ground and curled into a fetal ball, head tucked into his knees, eyes hidden, hands over his ears.
For a long moment, John thought about what he was witnessing here, the women (even the Weird) as silent as the arid wilderness. Assuming that Golden remembered his childhood accurately, after the adults (had he called them servants?) were each killed in turn, Golden had panicked and, as he said, fainted. Under those circumstances, he would have no memory of which way to go. Even hypnosis can't help someone "remember" what that person doesn't "know" in the first place.
So where were they? Besides out in the middle of nowhere.
Hovering over them like an unlaid ghost was the larger question. Was there something dangerous in this barbarous land?
John glanced at the sky to see the light was fading, the coming dark reminding him of the so called dangerous animals released by the night -- though he hadn't seen any of those, either.
Looking down at Golden who was still curled into an embarrassing ball on the ground, then all around at the featureless plain, it was then that John first saw the wind phenomena he'd been feeling. Down-light coming fast, John noticed the evening fog form on the ground. Nothing remarkable about that. It was just that, scanning the flats, John could see the fog ... move. Not swirl, but ... move. Here ... and there. Fan out in circular patterns like smoke rings blown straight down upon a table. Like someone pouring pancake batter that quickly flattens to a thin disk in a heated pan.
Thinking about the unexpected ... and strangely beautiful ... phenomena he was seeing, and about the course Golden had set for them across this desolation, it seemed to John that Golden's path had taken them around the places where the fog was being "poured."
If avoiding the "pour spots" had been Golden's purpose -- as John incr
easingly believed -- now that John could see those "pours," John could take the lead.
Reaching down to stand up the quietly weeping Golden, John conducted the young man to the back of the line where John thought Golden would feel most comfortable.
John returning to take the "point," setting out, he veered right to steer around a place of settling fog, feeling, as he did so, that odd wind on his legs (the breeze nothing more than the fog as it settled out from the base of the "pour.") Without being able to see it until now, this was the wind he'd been feeling as Golden ushered them around such places.
On the other side of the "vent," looking up quickly at the rapidly darkening sky, it appeared to John that they were almost out from under the sky band of Malachite. Scoping ahead, the plain seemed to end in a line of mist-enshrouded hills.
Though the fog was growing thicker by the moment, did John see greenery on those hills -- trees?? Stil-de-grain?
If they hurried, they could make it before the light gave out entirely!
Before them, there was only one more place where the fog was "dumping" from the sky.
Pushing faster now, shepherding his little band on a sharp cut around the last fog "pan cake," John had gone no further than fifty yards when he felt his mist shrouded feet step onto grass. The change was that sudden. That dramatic. As if he'd stepped from a cobblestone road onto a grassy curbing.
Stil-de-grain. The grass said so. The darkening gold of the rim of sky above him said so. Feeling suddenly lighter, stronger -- confirmed it. Stil-de-grain at last!
Time to get the Weird to "wake up" Golden, or, as these people would probably say, take the "spell" or the "curse" off him. Time for someone to "think" the cooking stones into heat so the four of them could eat the last remaining scraps of food. Time to locate a spot to camp out for the night. (Golden was good at finding such places, "forts" against the "dangerous" animals that "prowled" after dark.)
Under The Stairs Page 22
