Ibryen [A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  'Tree-scented mountain air, fine walking, and the subtle blending of nature's gifts. What more could one want?’ the Traveller said, lifting a small spoonful to his lips with relish. ‘Here's to refined and discerning appetites.'

  Rachyl gave him a puzzled look, then delved into her pack and produced a small loaf of bread. She tore it up and thrust the mutilated portions at her companions. ‘Here's to greed,’ she said, holding a plate out impatiently. The Traveller gave a little sigh and looked sorrowfully at the stew before giving it a final stir and ladling it out.

  'I'm sorry,’ Ibryen said, as they ate. ‘I don't know what happened to me just then. Something seemed to take hold of me. It demanded ...’ He paused.

  'Demanded what?’ the Traveller asked.

  'I'm not sure,’ Ibryen said vaguely. ‘That I go to it ... listen to it ...’ He shrugged.

  'Is it still there?'

  'Yes. But I seem to have more control over it—or over what I feel about it. While I have you two to hold me here.'

  'You don't sound too sure,’ Rachyl said, wiping out her dish with the remains of her bread. She crammed it into her mouth.

  'Did you enjoy that, my dear?’ the Traveller asked caustically.

  Rachyl smacked her stomach. ‘Excellent,’ she declared, leaning back against a tree. She peered into the pan. ‘All gone, has it? Pity. We must take some of these herbs back to the camp. In fact, I think I'll suggest we make you duty cook when we get back.'

  'I've rarely been so honoured,’ the Traveller replied in the same acid vein.

  Rachyl grinned, then looked at Ibryen, still eating thoughtfully. ‘What's the matter, Cousin?’ she asked, her heartiness turned to concern. ‘Explain. What do you mean, we hold you here?'

  Ibryen replied to the Traveller. ‘It's almost as if there are two parts to me. One, here, now. The other, wandering somewhere, lost.’ He held up a cautionary hand to Rachyl. ‘It's all right. I'm neither crazy, nor sick. I've thought perhaps I might be over the last few days but it's like when you're wandering the ridges in the mist and you see a vague light, in the sky, as you think. And as you get closer to it, it gets clearer until, without you noticing the change, it's not a light in the sky any more, it's a lake shining in the valley below. Now I'm closer, things are clearer, less disorienting.'

  It was an analogy that Rachyl appreciated. Ibryen's brow furrowed. ‘Not as clear as a mountain lake, unfortunately. It's still a strange light in the sky but it is there. It isn't my eyes or my imagination playing tricks.'

  The Traveller leaned forward earnestly, the firelight deepening the lines on his face and throwing his eyes into deep shadow. ‘Tell us what you can of this other place you're in.'

  Ibryen smiled broadly. ‘Still misty,’ he said. ‘And that's the best I can do.’ The Traveller looked inclined to pursue the matter but decided against it. ‘But we must leave early and press on urgently,’ Ibryen added. ‘Something is slipping away. Moving from here and disappearing now into the mist. And it mustn't. We must find it. And soon.'

  * * * *

  Ibryen was troubled with strange visions again that night. He was alone in the mist, greyness all about him. And the Gevethen were there too, somewhere, as lost as he was. He looked around, but nothing was to be seen. Yet there were voices all about him. Briefly, two of them became Rachyl and the Traveller talking soft and low—tenderly? The campfire was in front of him, glowing through the haze. Then a haunting music floated out of nowhere and swept up the orange glow of the fire and, wrapping it all about him, carried him into places beyond. Places between the pulse of all things, where he debated with learned men, and where great truths were revealed to him, from the Great Heat at the Beginning of All Things to the dancing creation of the mountains and the seas, and all the life that dwelt in them, some seen, some not.

  It was so simple, so clear.

  And flawed!

  He was suddenly wide awake. And the thoughts that were not his were going ... were gone. They slithered from his memory and vanished like smoke in a breeze as he strove to grasp them.

  He was merely himself again: Ibryen, deposed Count of Nesdiryn, with his Cousin Rachyl and the strange Traveller trekking through long-untrodden mountains.

  And too old to be sleeping out like this, he mused ruefully as his shoulder told him he had rolled on to a stone during the night. Gingerly he levered himself up on one elbow and cast a pained eye at the sky. It was dull, but clear. Not yet sunrise, but the fine weather looked as though it might still be with them. That was good. At the moment, he didn't want to think too closely about the consequences of continuing this journey if the weather turned bad. They must make as much progress as they could today.

  Even as the thought formed, the call was about him again, urging him forward.

  'We are coming,’ he replied inwardly, not knowing how he did it.

  The call quivered and a rush of familiar emotions ran through him.

  'We are coming,’ he said again. Then he drew himself back to the cold dawn mountainside and stood up, shivering. Stretching himself elaborately to ease the stiffness out of his limbs, he glanced around the little camp. He was alone. Rachyl's blanket was draped across a branch, but neither she nor the Traveller were to be seen. He reached down and checked the fire. The grey ashes had been carefully raked and it was still hot underneath. He was touched by the thought that they had awoken early and once again left him undisturbed while they went about preparing breakfast. However, the Commander in him determined not to let it happen again. He was not the invalid of the party; he must pull his weight.

  'Ah, you're awake.'

  It was Rachyl. She was smiling and looked very happy. She held up two partly plucked birds. ‘Caught these myself,’ she said proudly, brushing feathers off her tunic. ‘Still got the knack. Can't have him doing everything for us, can we?’ She winked. ‘Finish these and draw them, will you?'

  Taken aback by both her demeanour and the two still-warm birds thrust into his hands, Ibryen answered the questions the wrong way round. ‘Yes. No.’ Then he managed to gather a little authority into his voice. ‘And by the same token, you must stop letting me lie asleep after wake-up.'

  'Yes, sir!’ Rachyl replied with the heavy respect of complete insincerity.

  A jaunty whistling speared into the little clearing before Ibryen could assert himself further.

  'A fine day ahead of us,’ the Traveller said, clapping his hands together and smiling.

  'Everyone's extremely cheerful this morning,’ Ibryen said, almost churlishly.

  'A good night's sleep, Count, that's all. An appreciation of ... simple pleasures.’ The Traveller patted him on the back and chuckled to himself. When he saw Ibryen fumbling with the birds his manner became quieter. ‘How does he cook?’ he asked Rachyl.

  'Badly,’ Rachyl replied without giving the question any thought. ‘Don't worry, I'll do them. You brighten that fire up.'

  'You'll have to make the most of this meal,’ the Traveller said as he bent over the ashes. ‘I've picked a few more roots and bits and pieces, but once we get above the trees you'll have to start using your supplies.'

  'We?’ queried Ibryen. ‘You too, I presume.'

  The Traveller was dismissive. ‘Yes, but I need a lot less than you. And I can live on grasses and mosses if I have to. I belong here, don't forget, just like those birds and the rabbit.'

  Rachyl shot him a glance. ‘I thanked the birds,’ she said.

  The fire blazed up and the Traveller nodded with genuine appreciation. ‘I know you did,’ he said. ‘I heard you.’ Then, imitating the fire, mischief flared into his eyes. ‘As I heard you catching them. Thought it was another avalanche.'

  Rachyl contented herself with a scowl as she snatched the birds back from Ibryen's unhappy fingers.

  * * * *

  Though the breakfast was relaxed and pleasant, there was an undertow of restlessness and they did not linger unduly. The sun was just beginning to strike the tops of some of the higher pe
aks when they broke camp and they were soon moving steadily uphill. For most of the way they kept to the edge of the forest to avoid the chaotic disturbance that marked the passage of the avalanche. Ibryen however, found himself increasingly drawn towards the lower shoulder of the mountain and as they drew nearer to the treeline, he directed them across the damaged swathe. It was slow, unpleasant walking, across loose mildewed rocks and over rotting tree trunks and dead undergrowth tangled about with creepers and new foliage. Progress was not helped by a series of fast-moving but wide and shallow streams still uncertain about the route they should be taking through this new landscape.

  Eventually reaching the other side they began moving up the rocky shoulder without pause. It was steep and craggy but still negotiable with care. For the first time, Ibryen gained a small insight into the Traveller's climbing abilities as the little man clambered effortlessly from rock to rock while he and Rachyl laboured along behind. Further, he had an uncanny eye for routes which made the climb much easier than it might have been. Nevertheless, despite the guidance he was giving, he was constantly having to stop and wait for them although he showed no impatience at their relative sluggishness. The sun was high when they reached the top of the shoulder and the view of the surrounding peaks and valleys was breathtaking. Despite the cold wind that was blowing over the ridge, they stood for some time gazing around before taking a brief rest in the lee of a small outcrop.

  Ibryen took the opportunity to examine the record that Rachyl had been keeping of the route they had followed so far, then they went over it together verbally, to ensure that it was clear in their minds.

  'We're moving generally south-east,’ Rachyl announced. Then, with a hint of irony, ‘How much longer before we reach this Girnlant of yours, Traveller?'

  'Quite a time,’ the Traveller replied, tilting his head back as though he were scenting the air. ‘It's more south, south-west from here. If we carry on long enough in this direction we'll come to the ocean.'

  Rachyl looked impressed. ‘I've never seen the ocean. Have you?'

  'Yes.'

  'What's it like?'

  The Traveller raised an eyebrow. ‘Very flat,’ he replied. ‘And wet.'

  Rachyl's eyebrows came together. ‘Very droll. What's it really like?'

  The Traveller thought for a moment. ‘It's not my place,’ he said. ‘I find it beautiful but very frightening. It's like and unlike the mountains. Where the mountains are sheer and immobile, the ocean's flat and full of movement. But they're both powerful and indifferent, full of grim chances that can sweep you aside like ...’ He pulled a stray feather clinging to his sleeve and released it into the wind; it leapt away from him, flying high, twisting and turning, then it was gone. ‘... like the merest feather. And too, if you don't pay heed, forget who and where you are ...’ He drew a finger across his throat. Then he became agitated. ‘And not a foothold to be found anywhere. How people can get into boats and go wobbling across it defies me. The merest thickness of timber between them and those dark cold depths.’ He concluded with a violent shudder.

  Rachyl, who could swim and who had rafted on mountain lakes, was about to allow herself a touch of disdain but the Traveller forestalled her. ‘It's not like the puddles you find round here. Even the largest are as nothing. I've stood high above where the mountains and the sea meet. Eavesdropped on their mighty discourse. Heard the rumbling belly of the water and the creaking roots of the mountains. Listened to the whispering chatter of the air and the spuming spray. Watched waves many times the height of your Council Hall storming in like crazed horses and smashing into cliffs, time after time, then fuming up them as if they were trying to bring the peaks themselves down.'

  Both Rachyl and Ibryen were listening enthralled by the Traveller's passionate description. ‘Will we see it?’ Rachyl asked.

  The Traveller smiled and shook his head. ‘Wherever we're going, it's much nearer here than the ocean.’ When Rachyl looked disappointed, he raised a hand for silence, and tilted his head to one side. ‘Close your eyes and listen. Both of you. There's enough material here for me to bring the sea to you.'

  Ibryen was reluctant. ‘We should be pressing on,’ he said, making to stand up.

  'The merest moment, Count,’ the Traveller protested. ‘Close your eyes. Listen.'

  Seeing Rachyl's eyes already closed. Ibryen gave the Traveller a reproachful look then closed his own.

  For a few seconds there was only the sound of the wind buffeting around their shelter, then, changing almost imperceptibly, it became the sound of pounding breakers and the hiss of swirling spray. At its height, the din of the waves was counterpointed by the high-pitched cries of squabbling gulls. Neither Ibryen nor Rachyl could have said how long they listened to the Traveller's strange creation, but, as mysteriously as it came, so it faded, until there was only the sound of the wind again.

  When they opened their eyes, the Traveller was looking at them expectantly. ‘Only a quick sketch,’ he said.

  Ibryen smiled appreciatively and Rachyl applauded. ‘How did you do that?’ she asked.

  The Traveller stood up, laughing. ‘Not an answerable question,’ he replied. Then, to Ibryen, ‘Which way now?'

  Ibryen levered himself to his feet and cast about briefly before pointing. ‘Clearer now by far, and still urgent,’ he said.

  'You're sure it's that way?’ Rachyl asked.

  'Yes.'

  'Pity,’ Rachyl muttered. For Ibryen was pointing away from the peak they were standing on, and towards its neighbour which was higher by far and snow-capped. ‘We can't get up there,’ she said. ‘There's too few of us and we've not enough equipment.'

  'Oh, I don't know ...’ the Traveller began.

  'I do,’ Rachyl said unequivocally. ‘There are limits to this venture, and going to the top of that is one of them. Perhaps you can make it on your own, I don't know. If you crossed the Hummock, then I suppose it's possible. Maybe I could make it, with a team.’ She flicked a thumb at Ibryen. ‘But he couldn't.'

  Ibryen had too accurate a knowledge of his own climbing skills to be offended by this seemingly casual judgement. He stepped away from his companions and stared up at the mountain. Rachyl and the Traveller watched him in silence.

  The need of whatever was calling, filled him.

  'You're right,’ he said eventually. ‘It is too dangerous. But this is the way we have to go.’ He Looked at the Traveller. ‘What do you hear?’ he asked.

  'Precious little,’ the Traveller replied. ‘It's been fading steadily since we set out.'

  'But this way?'

  The Traveller nodded. Ibryen turned to Rachyl. ‘We'll go as far as we can,’ he said. ‘If the conditions become too difficult ...’ He pulled a sour face and shrugged. ‘We'll just have to turn back.'

  'Go back with nothing?'

  More reproach came through in her voice than she had intended. Ibryen felt the weight of his responsibilities return redoubled. ‘Go back with nothing,’ he confirmed coldly, straightening up. ‘At the worst, that's what it'll have to be. This has always been little more than a scouting trip.'

  'I think we left higher expectations than that behind us,’ Rachyl said, the reproach continuing.

  Ibryen scowled. ‘This isn't the time for this debate,’ he said. ‘More than ever I know there's something very strange out there.’ He pointed. ‘Something powerful and something that needs help. If we can't reach it, or if we reach it and it's of no value to us against the Gevethen, then so be it. I can't leave its ... call ... unanswered. We take back to the village what we take back, and deal with what we find there as we find it. Now we continue until circumstances bring about a conclusion. All else is needless speculation.'

  He swung his pack on to his back and strode off. Rachyl hesitated for a moment as if she had something further to say, then she set off after him in silence. The Traveller watched them both for a while then extended his hands into the air. ‘Go now, be free again. And take my thanks with you,’ he said soft
ly, and once more the air was filled with the sound of breaking waves and screeching gulls. It soared high above its creator, twisting and turning, until it was gone—dispersed into the myriad other tiny sounds from which it had been woven.

  The three travellers walked on in silence for a considerable time, Ibryen carrying his dark mood like a shield. Though the call that was drawing him onward was clearer than it had ever been, so the call of his duty to his people seemed to grow relentlessly as he moved steadily away from them. It brought doubt and anxiety with it, weighing him down. Rachyl too was withdrawn. It troubled her that she had aired her concerns and thus burdened her cousin when she had intended only to support him. But many things had changed for her since the arrival of the Traveller, and the prospect of returning to life in the embattled village with its grim, albeit necessary routines, disturbed her in ways she could not define. Even the Traveller was quieter than usual, walking at the rear, head lowered, perhaps regretting the fact that he could not give freedom to his companions as easily as he had to the nebulous components of his seascape.

  And the mountain they were approaching seemed to mock them all with its cold and hulking indifference. As the day passed, it took on an element of their darkness, clouds beginning to form about its summit, and though the weather about them remained fine and sunny, the three walkers found themselves moving steadily further underneath this grey canopy.

  Ironically, and despite the mountain's dark welcome, once they started to climb again their various moods began to lighten. The Traveller's nimbler gait carried him back into the lead as he sought out the easiest ways forward while Rachyl and Ibryen came together to share a common bond of mild envy at the little man's agility and seemingly boundless energy.

  After a while, the sunnier regions of the mountains moving further away from them, and their height up the mountain having increased considerably, the wind became both stronger and colder and they were obliged to stop and change into warmer clothes. Nothing was said of the sullen silence they had spent much of the day sharing.