by J. J. Faulks
Out of the distance flowed the sound of water, of waves lapping against a shore. The noise grew louder and louder, finally reaching its crescendo as the tunnel ended and opened out into an expansive cavern.
A scattering of torches mounted on the walls gave the cavern a dim glow, but it burned with aching brightness compared to the bleak confines of the passageway. Scorlan blinked and shielded his watering eyes from the new light. When he dared to open them again, he found himself stood on a beach of silty sand, which was separated from another, identical in appearance, by a large lake of inky black water.
In front of him, tethered to a wooden pole driven into the sand, lay a small wooden boat. A length of rope, one end tied to the pole, stretched out across the water and anchored to an identical pole on the opposite shore. The boat was the only way to cross.
Scorlan’s stomach somersaulted as he climbed into the boat and it teetered beneath him, testing his balance. The planks of wood were damp and mottled with a greenish tinge, and the hull contained an unhealthy amount of water which, upon closer inspection, appeared thick and gelatinous—the same consistency as congealed blood. He shuddered and took hold of the fraying rope. Feeding it through his hands, he pulled himself across the water.
The gods had blessed him with the mind of a thinker, not with the body of an athlete. Barely a few boat-lengths into his crossing and already his arms were aching, his shoulders tensing up. Midway across the lake and his hands were on fire. Each haul of the rope rubbed his hands raw and hot blisters were threatening to erupt. Everything hurt and his mind was consumed by the desire to stop, to let go of the rope and let the boat drift. Only the fear gnawing at his stomach kept him going. Fear that the boat might sink. Fear of what the water might contain.
Little bubbles floated to the surface, surrounding the boat as they burst with swampy gulps. There was something living down there, moving beneath him. With his every hair standing on end, prickling over his skin, he could sense it.
“You’re nearly there,” he told himself through gritted teeth, “Don’t stop now.”
He ploughed on, one hand over the other and repeat, pushing the pain to the back of his mind, edging ever closer to the opposite shore.
The base of the boat dragged through the sand with a blunt roar, sediment grating against the wood. Scorlan jumped out, splashing through the shallows, and tied the boat to the wooden post. He tugged hard on the rope, testing the knot.
A lightness blossomed in his chest—he was on land again!—but the feeling soon faded. He looked up and down the beach in search of a passageway, a gap in the rock that would carry him to the Seer, but found only that he had reached a dead end.
The beach was bound by the lake on one side and the curving rear wall of the cave on the other. Aside from a prominent crack that extended the entire height of the rockface, the wall was bare. Scorlan slipped his fingers into the crack, attempting to pry the wall apart, but it relinquished nothing.
Clenching his jaw, he turned back to face the cavern. His eyes swept around the walls, looking for what he had missed. But there was nothing, no passageway except for the one that he had entered by. The dark waters of the lake gave no clue either, but as his gaze wandered back to the ripples of the shallows, he caught sight of the reflection of the rear wall. The wall in the reflection was not bare. The wall in the reflection bore a clear inscription.
‘KNOCK’
He spun round, his eyes darting up and down the real wall, but the inscription was not there. It only existed in the reflection. He hesitated before closing his hand into a fist and rapping his knuckles against the rock. The knock was met by silence. In the hush, he shook his head and chuckled at himself. What had he expected to happen?
But then the knock began to echo around the cavern, and his laughter died. The sound rang out like the clang of a bell, reverberating off the walls. With each repetition it grew louder and louder until it reached a deafening boom. He fell to his knees in the sand, his head spinning as he cradled his ears.
Just as suddenly as the sound had started, it stopped. The lull that filled its void was so peaceful that Scorlan wondered if he was still alive, or if he would shortly receive his summons to the Afterworld. Only the ringing in his ears convinced him that the former must be true.
He eased to his feet, steadying himself against the rock.
A command shook out in a rumbling voice. “Enter!” It came from above and below all at once, causing a tremor to ripple through the whole cave. A whoosh of air swirled around him, whipping at his skin. The gust carried a hundred voices all repeating, entreating, “Enter!”
Their numbers died away in twos and threes, until only one was left. A soft voice filled with menace whispered into the curve of his ear, “Enter.”
The rear wall of the cave began to shift. The crack widened as the two slabs of rock inched apart, unveiling the room hidden behind. As soon as the gap was wide enough, Scorlan slipped through, quick on his feet just in case the walls snapped shut with him trapped in-between. He stood a step beyond the entranceway and gawped at the room.
The cave glowed like polished amber, and the long coils of incense that spiralled from the ceiling filled it with the sweet smokiness of a bonfire. Knowledge thickened the air, and every breath that Scorlan took was imbued with a hidden fact.
The shelves that lined the walls of the cave left no space unfilled and they were bursting with all manner of objects, so much so that the wood creaked at the brink of collapse. Stuffed animals, boiled skulls, jars filled with things that had once lived, miniature contraptions animated by pulleys and levers, all jumbled together. Rusting nails jutted from the wood, and from them hung lengths of twine tied to shrunken heads that gyred and swayed.
But for every shelved object there were at least three books, clunky tomes and thin volumes stacked in towers that teetered towards the ceiling. The books were ancient, their pages puffed from repetitive thumbing and their spines cracked. Many were inscribed with symbols and characters that Scorlan did not recognise, their languages and their people long forgotten.
Between the shelves were staircases, more staircases than was fit for any room. They branched off from the cave in every direction, leading anywhere and everywhere. Some of the flights appeared impossible to tread.
Trunks and cabinets covered the floor, leaving only a narrow, winding path on which to walk. Scorlan traced the path with his eyes, his gaze drawn to the back of the room. There, sat behind a low stone altar, was the Seer.
The Seer held himself with the stillness of a predator ensnaring its prey. Beneath his papery skin, dusked with dirt, his body owned the gauntness of old age. The frayed ropes of his hair hung down past his waist and disappeared to the floor.
Scorlan was unable to look away. He navigated the gorge between the mountains of clutter, and when he reached the far side of the cave, he could see that a fog of creamy white obscured the Seer’s eyes, just like the clouds that cloaked the mountaintop.
“You took your time,” the Seer said. His voice was dry, as if neglected for years, and behind his words glimmered a wicked smile. He paused. His eyes flickered back and forth, but their opacity masked the direction of his gaze. “You come to me for advice. Advice about a curse.”
“Yes,” Scorlan said, “How did—”
The Seer tilted his head to one side.
Of course the Seer knew; he was the Seer.
“My village used to be prosperous,” Scorlan said, “But now it is failing, even though the land is not arid and our neighbouring villages continue to thrive.”
The Seer’s head remained tilted, his eyes fixed like someone entranced.
“We’ve seen seven poor harvests now, ever since the daughter of our leader was born. People say that she is cursed, that it is her presence that brings us such bad fortune. Her name is—”
“Orleigh,” the Seer finished the sentence before Scorlan cou
ld. He drew the name out, savouring it like a piece of meat.
“The girl is cursed,” the Seer told Scorlan in a tone so authoritative that he had no choice but to nod in agreement. “If you wish for your village to thrive again, you must do something to appease the gods.”
Scorlan leant in closer to the Seer. “What must we do?”
“Only the gods can answer that,” the Seer said. He pushed himself back from the altar and rose from his seat.
A large terracotta bowl sat on one of the shelves, bookended by two skulls, one of which Scorlan strongly suspected was human. The Seer lifted the bowl down and, cradling it in his hands, he carried it to the fountain behind the altar. He filled the bowl and set it down on the altar, a little of the water sloshing over the brim onto the grey stone.
The Seer touched the surface of the water with the tip of his index finger. Ripples radiated from the centre, spreading to the edge of the bowl and bouncing back to mingle with later waves. One by one they died out. Then, as slow as the sunrise, an orange glow emerged from the water. At first it was pale, bathing the Seer’s face in an apricot light, but it grew stronger and deeper, turning through a terracotta hue as rich as the bowl itself, and then darker still until the Seer’s opal eyes reflected raging embers.
Scorlan recoiled as though licked by fire. He peeked out from beneath the shield of his arm, watching the Seer from the corner of one eye. The orange light dwindled and extinguished, leaving the Seer’s skin dull and drained in comparison to its lustre just moments before. His vague and vacant eyes sought out Scorlan.
Scorlan lowered his arm and waited in timid silence. An age passed between them before the Seer spoke.
“The Earth God, Teymos, will return your village to prosperity in exchange for the girl,” he announced. “You shall take her to the border between the Land of Mortals and the Land of Gods. Only once Teymos has received this offering will your village thrive once more.”
“So,” Scorlan said. “If we give Orleigh to Teymos, the curse will be gone and our village will be saved?” His voice lifted, expressing both his question and his hope.
The Seer’s eyes shone like sunlight through the clouds. “The question is: Are you willing to make the sacrifice?”
*
People were puppets, bound by the strings of desperation. In Scorlan’s desperation to save his village, he had agreed to carry out the Seer’s plan, to deliver Orleigh to the Land of Gods.
Alone once more, the Seer ascended the staircase to the water cave. All the water from the mountain source flowed through this cave, funnelled into a labyrinth of channels, waterwheels and cogs that he had constructed, before trickling down into the rivers and streams that fed the villages below. With one tweak he could change the whole water system.
He plucked a vial from the rack mounted on the wall and poured the contents into one particular vein of water. The indigo drops diluted and faded, and they were whisked away downstream. The potion would reach the village before Scorlan’s return. He smiled. It was not Orleigh’s curse that had brought seven failed harvests. It was his own.
Another staircase, a sharp descent followed by a winding ascent, led him back to the cave that contained the map-covered plinth. As always, his eyes were drawn to the hourglass first. Even when he closed his eyes he could see the grains of sands tumbling down, counting out the seconds and opportunities lost.
He studied the map, taking in the position of each player. His hand quivered as he selected one of the pieces and pushed it closer to the Land of Gods. The figurine was a miniature of a sunflower, each petal delineated by the tip of his blade. It was the piece about which all the others turned. It was Orleigh.
Chapter Ten
There was a knock on the door. Tap, tap, tap. Pause. Tap, tap. It was Piprin’s knock. Orleigh dropped the chalk and slate onto her bed and ran down the corridor, bare feet pummelling the floor. She wrenched open the door, and sunlight flooded in.
Piprin was stooped forward, panting for breath. “We’re all gathering under the oak tree to listen to a myth,” he said. “Are you coming?”
“Of course!” She grabbed her sandals and plonked herself down in the dust, lacing them up as quick as her fingers would allow. Then they were off, half-walking half-running down the path that snaked away from her house. In the distance, their classmates were already congregating under the tree.
“Look!” Piprin whispered and he pointed to the path coming from the centre of the village. “It’s Scorlan! He’s back! I heard Mother tell Father that someone said that he went to see the Seer.”
“The Seer?” she echoed. Excitement hummed in her chest. “Do you think he spoke to the gods?”
Scorlan had reached Orleigh’s house and was hammering like a woodpecker on the door.
“Maybe.” Piprin shrugged, but then his eyes lit up. “Maybe the gods are going to watch over the village and bring us better fortunes.”
“It worked!” Scorlan announced as soon as Ormoss dragged the door open. “My visit with the Seer worked!” He jostled past Ormoss and straight into the living room, helping himself to a seat.
When Ormoss drifted into the room, he looked confused, his eyes blank, his brow furrowed. He lowered himself into his armchair, his fingers massaging the deep grooves of his forehead.
“I spoke to the Seer and he confirmed that there is a curse,” Scorlan said. The words spilled from his mouth like a waterfall. “And, at my request, the Seer spoke to Teymos and Teymos has agreed to bless our village, to make it thrive once more!”
Though Scorlan was unable to suppress his grin, Ormoss did not move. His shoulders remained slumped forward, his eyes dull and red.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you,” Ormoss muttered. “But these deals don’t come for free. What must we give Teymos in return? Our horses? Our cattle? Our sheep? What good are fertile lands if we do not have the beasts to till them, or no animals left to pasture?”
“We give him nothing of the sort, not horses, nor cattle, nor sheep. All that he asks for in return is a single sacrifice. Just one person, just one child. Just—” But Orleigh’s name died on his lips.
“There will be no sacrifice!” Ormoss raged, and his arm struck the suggestion from the air. “We have given more than enough already! The gods can do what they will!”
“But, Ormoss!” Scorlan said. “This is our chance to save the village! If we do nothing, we are destined to fail!”
“Then so be it,” Ormoss murmured. His eyes had glassed over again and he stared at the wall as if it were as distant as the horizon. “The gods took Alea from me. I shall not send them another. I suggest that you find a different solution.”
“But—”
“Go!” Ormoss commanded.
Scorlan hesitated. His gaze darted between the doorway and Ormoss before he retreated in sullen silence.
The brightness outside stung his eyes, and he stumbled back towards the village. All around him, village life went on as normal. People were busy working and tending to chores, chattering away as they did so. They fell silent as he passed, cold eyes snatching at him. The school was quiet, the classroom empty. Spirited cries drifted on the breeze, luring his attention to the field. A throng of children were playing under the oak tree, like bees buzzing around their hive. Orleigh stood out, the queen amidst the swarm.
Eyes fixed on Orleigh, he diverted onto a path that led out to the fields. The other children faded to a blur, only Orleigh’s image remained sharp. She was the solution, whether Ormoss liked it or not. But he couldn’t just take her. Or could he?
Meila was perched on a low wooden stool, the children settled around her feet. The chitter-chatter of young voices came together like birdsong. An impatient ‘shhhh’ spread through the group, admonishing those whose voices kept them waiting.
“This is the myth of the wood nymph and the fores
t fire,” Meila began.
The summer was hot; hotter than any of the animals could remember. Even the most elderly of the creatures could not recall such a summer in their lifetime. The sun beat down upon them so hard that the animals were forced to hide in the forest, where the shade of the trees offered them protection. Not only was it hot, but it was dry too, and one day the sun shone so hard on the parched grass that a spark was born. The spark took hold and grew to a flame. The flame breathed in the dry air and it grew and grew, until it was no longer a flame but a fire. The fire was unfeeling and it did not care for the homes or lives that it would destroy. It spread into the forest, embarking on a devastating and deadly course.
The cries of the animals and the roar of the flames awoke the wood nymph, who—weary from the heat—had been sleeping in her tree. The wood nymph looked out across the forest and saw to her dismay that the fire was set to kill the large group of animals that had taken refuge at the heart of the forest. If she acted now, the wood nymph could divert the flames and save the animals. However, by doing so she would send the fire directly towards the home of the lonely old bear.
The wood nymph had to decide: do nothing and let many creatures die, or divert the fire and sacrifice one creature. The wood nymph took a moment to pause and to weigh up the options. Both options were undesirable, she thought, but she had to make a decision. She asked herself, what was the right thing to do, what would the gods want?
The wood nymph knew that she had to take the action that would save the most lives, so she diverted the fire towards the lonely old bear, thus saving all the other creatures.
“This myth reminds us,” Meila told the children, who were starting to chatter and fidget again, “That sometimes we face difficult choices and, although it is hard, we must act for the greater good.”
“Ow!” Orleigh rubbed her arm, which had just received a jab from Piprin’s elbow. When she scowled at him, he jerked his head towards the back of the group. Scorlan was standing on the outskirts, nodding to himself with a grim smile. Their eyes met for the briefest of flashes, and then he turned away and walked back to the village.
