A Fire in the North

by David Bilsborough

  Well, if he gets something out of it, Bolldhe thought, good on the old sod. It’s about time he loosened up a bit.

  ‘First, I’m going to send you on a journey,’ Wodeman proclaimed. ‘You possess goodness in your soul, whatever you may think. Except you bury that soul so deep inside your self, it’s cut off from the cosmos by your hard shell.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Your scepticism – you wear it around you like a suit of iron, and I’m not very good against iron. It’d be useless for me to try and delve into your soul from without. Maybe no man could get past armour such as yours.’

  ‘What is the plan, then?’

  ‘Only you yourself stand any chance of discovering what lies within you, but perhaps I can guide you some of the way along that path. But remember: I can only show you the doors; it is you who must open them.’

  Bolldhe felt he should be smirking at this. But today he just could not manage it. Maybe the thin air was making him all emotional. But, even so, it was Wodeman who had saved his life back in Eotunlandt. After reaching the safety of the tunnel Wodeman had ridden back out, right under the shadow of a giant’s foot. And that took some doing. Yet all he asked for in return was this brief opportunity to perform a divination. Bolldhe wondered if it was right his humouring Wodeman like this. This dream-giving was the Torca’s sole reason for joining the quest, his divine mission from Erca the Earth Spirit to guide Bolldhe by means of visions and thus allow him to discover for himself how to defeat Drauglir, the potential despoiler of all the land.

  Well, it was true Bolldhe hated all the gods – their false promises, their machinations and especially their mindless followers. One of the reasons he had decided to become a false fortune-teller in the first place was as a way of getting back at all that stuff, laughing at his gullible customers while simultaneously sticking two fingers up at their ridiculous gods. And though Wodeman may have earned at least some of Bolldhe’s respect along the way – even to the extent that he sometimes wondered if there might be some validity in the shaman’s beliefs – he nevertheless found it hard to credit the power of dreams.

  But, despite Bolldhe’s disbelief, he had to acknowledge Wodeman’s selflessness in the matter: he wanted nothing for himself, just the chance to help Bolldhe yet further. Surely Bolldhe owed the strange man this much at least.

  He nodded assent, and Wodeman commenced.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he purred, ‘and relax.’

  ‘Wodeman, it’s cold enough here to freeze the tears in my eyes. I won’t be doing any relaxing.’

  ‘You will,’ Wodeman insisted calmly. ‘Just still your brain, loosen your muscles and absorb the cold into yourself. It is a part of this land, its very spiritual essence, as natural as the forests around Nordwas. Do not fight it; do not think of it as the enemy; it was here long before the Rawgr, and will be here long after he’s gone. So welcome it into yourself. Breathe deeply, think of nothing, just listen to my voice . . .’

  As the sorcerer droned on, Bolldhe’s thoughts drifted – as per usual in these situations. He could not focus on anything else but the cold. Despite his promise to go along with this ritual, Wodeman’s words went unheeded. Again the shaman had become just a disembodied lispy mouth floating before Bolldhe’s face. Soon, though, even that image began to fade, and when Bolldhe finally tried to concentrate on the words, he found it impossible. They mingled with the sound of the wind that buffeted his face, became one with it, in a moaning, whistling reverberation like the rushing of an underground stream.

  Not once did he feel the urge to walk around fast or urinate.

  Yet after a while Bolldhe noticed that the cold did indeed seem less of a discomfort, and instead more like the refreshing touch of clean white sheets on a hot summer’s night. He began to loosen up.

  Funny, really, he thought, how extremes of temperature can feel so alike: ice against the skin can burn like fire. Hot or cold, it’s just a state of mind –

  (“ – your mind: I direct you, give you the keys to open your mind – ’)

  In fact, the more he thought about that, the warmer it seemed to get. Stifling, really. He broke out into a sweat. Maybe I should loosen my clothes, peel them off layer by layer . . .

  (“ – unclasp your suit of iron. Throw it off – ’)

  . . . expose myself to the elements . . .

  Melhus receded, and Bolldhe found himself standing in the middle of a courtyard. It was a vast empty courtyard of hard grey flagstones that stretched away on all sides, and was encircled by great walls that towered to inconceivable heights. No windows breached this barrier, nor were there any gates or doors, not even the tiniest wicket gate. And not a crack could be seen between the brickwork. Wind howled about the courtyard and shook the ground beneath his feet.

  In all of this desolate place only one thing stood: a single building dwarfed by the dimensions of the courtyard but of such striking appearance—

  What’s that smell? he thought suddenly.

  Turning, he saw a gaggle of tumbril drivers standing there just watching him, waiting.

  Even here? Bolldhe thought in exasperation. He shook his head and walked on quickly.

  Towards the building he headed, and as he drew closer to it the bizarreness of its design grew so apparent that it began to make his eyes hurt. It incorporated walls topped with an array of stupas, statues and gargoyles, punctuated with web-spun stained-glass windows, and buttressed with rickety lean-tos and even a little shack that was probably a lavatory. Intersecting it were aqueducts engraved with arcane symbols, trailing growths of ivy and henbane, external staircases that seemed to lead to nowhere, and the whole was topped by two mismatching rooftops: a small stone cupola half crumbled like a broken eggshell, and a spiral tower of tarnished bronze. Atop each of these stood a weathervane and between them was slung a grubby clothes line.

  The general impression was of a temple built in collusion by every cult in the world, from every era in history, using every design, material and colour known to man: a jumbled collection of all Bolldhe’s memories, thrown together into one untidy edifice.

  As he approached, his feet snagged in the overgrown weed patch surrounding it. He proceeded more slowly and perceived an unusually solid-looking gatehouse flanking the building with a rickety, wooden summer house to one side of it and a barrel of stinking oil on the other. Bolldhe walked right up to the gate and could see that it was heavily barred by a great portcullis of black iron. He looked for a keyhole or lever but found none. A single lantern burnt with a fierce red flame above this iron gate, and above that was arrayed a collection of gargoyles. As he looked closer Bolldhe realized that each bore an unsettlingly disfigured likeness to one or other of his travelling companions.

  The wind was getting colder and sang with a lonely voice, and it was beginning to get dark. Bolldhe approached the portcullis. Having no better plan, he grasped the bars and shook them hard. But the gate remained stubbornly shut, and would not move an inch –

  (“ – not until you can think of a good reason why it should allow you in – ’)

  He took a step back and thought hard.

  ‘Because it’s the only thing to be seen in this place,’ he said aloud, speaking easily once more now that he was using his native tongue. He looked up, and still the lantern burnt red. This time, however, the gargoyles were smirking at him, especially the one with the wide-brimmed hat, and even the thwarted tumbril drivers had gathered around to watch the entertaining spectacle of this mad bloody foreigner who talked to gates.

  Bolldhe thought again.

  ‘Because it’s cold, and I’m feeling lonely,’ he admitted, hoping this mawkish display of candour would unlock the gate.

  Still the lantern burnt defiantly red, and by now the gargoyles were laughing so hard that phlegmy water began to spit out of their mouths. The tumbril drivers were beaming like a line of horse skulls, settling down comfortably in their carts to make the most of the performance.

  Bolldhe clicked
his tongue in frustration. After a moment of pondering, he tried again: ‘Because it’s my temple, and I really want to go inside.’

  Red.

  ‘Because if I don’t, this whole thing is a waste of time!’

  Red, still.

  He tried a totally different approach. ‘I’m going in because I’m the best there is, the very best. So open up now!’ He strode forward with his chest thrust out confidently and did not slow until he smacked his forehead hard against the metal bars and landed on his backside.

  Bellows of mirth echoed around the courtyard. It sounded as if the entire world was laughing at him. He shook his head then stood up groggily. Water was splashing down upon his face, and when he looked up he saw that it came from the gargoyles.

  No normal man would have been able to show similar restraint under such provocation, but Bolldhe was no normal man: he had been mocked and laughed at in every far corner of Lindormyn, and if anyone could handle it, he could. Nonetheless, this was becoming more than a little frustrating. Just how many good reasons are there in the world to pass through a simple gate? He was also rather dismayed to see that the lantern was now burning an even brighter red than ever.

  Then his head began to clear.

  ‘I need to find out exactly what is inside my place here, not for my own sake but for the quest.’

  At last the lantern softened to a pale amber. And even the laughter subsided. There was resentment evident in the tumbril drivers now and, for the first time in his life, Bolldhe began to feel actually intimidated by their sort. The stench of their unwashed bodies was becoming quite overpowering, reaching towards him like hot gusts of pestilence, till he found himself fighting for breath.

  ‘For the sake of the world, then?’ he tried.

  Back to red.

  ‘No, no, you’re right, flame. I’m not doing this for any noble cause; I’m doing it for myself. Right?’

  Finally the lantern flame shimmered then changed to a ghostly green. There was a mechanical snap from somewhere inside, and the gate was hauled up in a jarring clamour of turning machinery that drowned the last titterings from both gargoyles and tumbril drivers.

  Bolldhe now found himself inside the temple. He stood in some kind of hall or anteroom, with a fountain set in the middle of the floor and several closed doors leading off it. It reminded him somewhat of those cloistered quadrangles found in the private homes of the enormously hospitable residents of Bisq’ra Oasis he had visited several years ago. Pleasantly cool with its blue and white tiles it contained an abundance of green-leafed plants in pots. But it was all a little worn and slightly musty.

  Disturbing the dust and dead leaves lying on the floor, he walked over to the fountain and sat on the marble ledge that surrounded it.

  ‘What now, then?’ he asked, his voice echoing softly around the hall.

  He shivered. This place looked so pleasant and yet also so old and . . . lonely. The fountain rooms he had been in when he had travelled through the desert had always been so full of kind, friendly faces, all of them interested in him, Bolldhe. Here, though, he was alone, and had no one to show him around the house. He could do it himself, of course, but that was bad manners in these homes. He needed someone. Needed help –

  (“ – not enough that you need help, but that you admit you need help, and ask for it – ’)

  Bolldhe cleared his throat and called out, ‘Is anyone there? Is anyone at home?’

  This time the echoes came back to him embarrassingly loudly. Bolldhe coughed and called out again. ‘I say, I could do with a little help here.’

  As if by magic, a man appeared.

  Dressed in the long pink-and-gold robes of a monk, he beamed at Bolldhe so widely that his face seemed fitted with special cheek extensions just to accommodate such a smile.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ piped the monk.

  Bolldhe leapt to his feet, startled, and found himself bowing low, both arms extended before him, his right wrist clasped in his left hand in the manner of the people of Bisq’ra.

  ‘In your house I am reborn,’ Bolldhe stammered, hoping he had remembered the correct way to address the monk. It was a long time since he had made use of such customs, but he was glad of the opportunity to relive memories of a gentler, more hospitable land.

  The monk merely nodded, but his smile softened in genuine warmth. He came over to stand before Bolldhe. They smiled at each other, though Bolldhe was aware of how strained his must have appeared compared with the monk’s open, natural expression. Bolldhe waited for him to say something to begin proceedings, but the monk seemed quite content to stand there nodding and smiling.

  Bolldhe coughed uneasily. ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing here,’ he confessed awkwardly. ‘I mean, what happens now? Aren’t you going to show me around your house?’

  The monk chuckled softly with a shake of his head. ‘But this is your house. I am just your servant.’

  Bolldhe felt confused. He suddenly realized that he had absolutely no idea where he was, how he had got here or even who he was. His memories extended only as far as the courtyard’s perimeter wall. He thought harder, and gradually certain memories did begin to occur to him.

  ‘Everyone was so kind in Bisq’ra,’ he reminisced fondly, ‘despite the harshness of their lives. I just felt comfortable there, and welcome . . . at home.’

  ‘You feel that way here?’

  ‘Well yes, I suppose I do. To be honest, I’ve never felt more comfortable in a strange house.’

  ‘Well, then,’ the monk turned to pick up a pewter jug and a cup, ‘perhaps you’d like a drink now.’

  He leant over to hold the jug beneath the sparkling gush of the fountain. The sound of the water hitting the pewter was like the sprinkle of tiny ice-shards upon crystal. He then poured the water into the cup, proffering it to Bolldhe, who stared at it dubiously.

  ‘But you fully trust your own home?’ the monk enquired. ‘Do you truly feel safe here? You cannot proceed further until you are completely comfortable with it. Ah, Bolldhe, it has been so long since you were last here.’

  Bolldhe, as innately cautious as they came, had never been one to indulge in leaps of faith. And besides, the monk’s incessant smile was becoming a tad irritating. Nevertheless, he carefully reached out to accept the cup and, pausing only to take one last look at his companion, drank deeply.

  As the crystal-clear water flowed down his throat, memories of his early childhood came flooding back to him. He gasped in ecstasy, and now, when he opened his eyes again, all the doors around the hall stood wide open.

  ‘If you no longer fear what is inside yourself,’ the monk proclaimed happily, ‘then half the battle is won.’

  Hearing the changed voice, Bolldhe looked up sharply. The monk, he saw was now a woman. He peered at her rounded face then said, ‘You’re Yorda, aren’t you?’

  Yorda beamed joyfully and winked at him.

  But Bolldhe was not so sure. ‘You weren’t a monk,’ he said, ‘and you didn’t even come from Bisq’ra.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter about that. I’m your spiritwalker now.’

  ‘But when I knew you, didn’t we . . . You know? That is . . .’ Bolldhe went red and scratched the back of his neck.

  ‘This temple holds many secrets,’ Yorda went on, ignoring his comment. ‘Some of its rooms are light, some dark. I shall guide you certainly, but you must tell me where you wish to go.’

  ‘Fine, let’s try climbing that tower,’ Bolldhe suggested. ‘To get a good view of this world I’m in.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Yorda turned and led him through one of the doors.

  Up the spiral steps they climbed, up and up, round and round, higher and higher, until they finally emerged onto a viewing platform. The wind was howling up here, bringing with it voices from Bolldhe’s past and present, and ever it snatched at his clothes as if trying to pull him this way and that. Bolldhe ignored it and pressed on towards the parapet; he wanted to see how everything looked from up he
re.

  There were only clouds however, a thick brown fog that clung to his skin and smelt of snow. Bolldhe began to feel strangely disturbed but continued to peer through the fog, trying to see through to the world beyond –

  (“ – look for a sign. A rune or symbol, engraved in the stone about you. Note its form. It will tell you much – ’)

  But Bolldhe, being Bolldhe, would not listen to any who would persuade him. Still he tried to pierce the mist with his gaze –

  (“ – the rune! If you cannot see out, then – ’)

  Bolldhe abruptly pushed himself away from the parapet and returned to Yorda without even looking round at the walls or floor of the viewing platform. Together they descended the stairwell. He would not be told.

  ‘If you find you don’t like it here, you can leave any time,’ Yorda said. ‘Just ring any of these bells, and that will be that.’

  She was guiding Bolldhe around the upper rooms of the temple, holding him by the hand. They had left the tower and its platform, and now wandered in plusher surroundings. Down corridors with vaulted ceilings hung with bright silver lanterns they proceeded, treading upon carpets of finext Adt-T’man wool between ornately carved marble pillars that adorned the walls. The intervening spaces were hung with numerous oil paintings depicting scenes from Bolldhe’s life, interspersed with trophies of his travels mounted upon cornelian pedestals, and shelf upon shelf of books.

  ‘What do you mean, “that will be that”?’ he asked.

  ‘Just what I say. If you feel disturbed, ring one of these little bells you see on each windowsill, and you’ll be out of this temple. That is, if you really do wish to keep wandering around that empty courtyard in the fog, going round and round the perimeter wall without any hope of escape. Now that would be a journey of epic proportions.’ She squeezed his hand and gazed up into his eyes.

  ‘But what is it, that great yard?’ Bolldhe asked, studying it through one of the windows. It was not just foggy out there; it was also getting dark, getting late.