Gaven and Gramps got to their feet, moving with choreographed precision, swords half-drawn.
Andaris scrambled away, then came to a halt as the air filled with a high, melodic warbling, plaintive and…pleading. There was definitely something inside of there, and whatever it was, it wanted out.
“But how?” Andaris asked, giving voice to what they’d all been thinking.
Gaven shook his head. “The hasp is latched and—”
“What about the papers!” Gramps exclaimed, taking a step forward and drawing his sword the rest of the way out. “If them maps get eaten up or…torn apart, we’re in trouble.”
Gaven put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Let me. I think I may know what this is. Ashel loves a good joke, despite his supposed piety.”
Gramps nodded, allowing with equal parts reluctance and relief, his young doppelganger to take charge.
“So…if it’s a trick,” said Andaris, “then the papers are in no danger. Right?”
“Right,” answered Gaven, “but we can’t take that chance. As unlikely as it seems, and as much as I don’t want to give that preening peacock the satisfaction, we have to assume that it’s not, and that somehow somethin’ got inside of there.”
The thing in the box had gone eerily quiet since they’d begun talking, as though listening to them, hoping to discern its fate.
“Either of you know what kind of animal makes a cooing noise like that?” asked Gramps. “I mean, it kinda sounds like a dove, but more like the purrin’ of a cat. Except—”
“Except,” Gaven interrupted, “it’s musical, like a cat’s got a harp stuck in its guts.”
Leave it to Gaven, Andaris thought, to perfectly describe the indescribable.
In apparent understanding, and obviously pleased to be recognized, whatever it was again began to warble, at first faintly and then louder, beginning around B flat, rising fluidly to F sharp, and back again.
“Well,” said Gramps, the derisive shake of his head evident in his tone, “now it’s just showin’ off!”
There was instant silence. The three men stood very still, muscles taught, looking from the box, to each other, to the box, mouths not quite agape.
“Maybe…you shouldn’t say stuff like that,” Andaris said, “until we know what it is, what it might be capable of. I think maybe you…hurt its feelings.”
A very faint, muffled, forlorn warble seemed to confirm this.
“Humph, how dangerous can it be, if it can’t even get out of a little box? How—”
“It might be sealed magically,” Andaris suggested, “but once out…who knows? And we have to let it out, don’t we?”
Gramps stood there a moment, chewing on this, then with a sigh and self-deprecating grimace said, “Sorry young’n’, my brain must be goin’ soft. I didn’ think of it.” Lowering his sword, he cleared his throat of the remainder of its pride and added, “Uh…and sorry to you, too, if’n ya can understand me. Whatever ya is, I meant no disrespect.”
At first there was no reply, as if the thing was considering the pros and cons of accepting the apology. Then at last, even more faintly than before, it purred, or cooed, or strummed, or whatever, a response. Every time Andaris thought it sounded more like one thing than another, it changed.
“That’s okay,” it seemed to say. “I forgive you…even though you are sort of mean.”
Andaris didn’t know about the others, but realized he was seeing images flash in front of his mind’s eye when it spoke. And when there weren’t images, there were impressions, emotions that didn’t seem to be his own, implanted into his consciousness like signposts leading him down a dark and circuitous path to understanding. Just now, for instance, he saw a little boy holding his hand out to his grandfather after being unfairly punished, big, plaintive eyes shimmering with tears. Andaris felt sorry for the little boy—wanted to help.
Could the creature within the box really be putting these images into his mind? Was this its way of attempting to communicate?
With an air that said, “Enough is enough,” Gaven strode forward and picked up the box, the look on his face that of someone about to shake a package in order to determine its contents.
“Wait!” Andaris shouted, surprising not only Gaven and Gramps, but also himself. “It’s very sensitive, I think. I should do it. I mean, Ashel did give it to me.”
Gaven stared at his friend for a long moment, considering the expression of quiet determination in his eyes. The big man had known Andaris long enough to know that when he got that look, there was no changing his mind. It was either give in, or endure his sulky reproach for a week.
“Oh, all right,” Gaven said. “Here. I suppose Ashel did give it to you, not me, and certainly not Gramps. Mayhap he had a reason. Just…be careful!”
Not really hearing Gaven’s words, Andaris took the box, handling it as gently as he would an injured bird. He had a dreamy, disconnected sort of feeling, the kind one gets before something especially profound occurs. Andaris traced his forefinger the length of the lid, following the wavy grain of the wood, listening to the soft cooing from within, an inquisitive, almost paternal smile growing on his lips.
“Well, what ya waitin’ for?” Gramps asked, gravelly voice providing practical counterpoint to the profundity. “Open it.”
Andaris reached for the hasp with a slightly trembling hand.
Gaven and Gramps moved closer, swords at the ready.
Feeling suddenly giddy, Andaris laughed and swung open the lid.
A Bit of Levity
Sitting there before him, head cocked to the side, was one of the oddest creatures Andaris had ever beheld. Big green eyes glistened in the firelight, peering up at him from within the confines of a downy face. It was this beakless, birdlike countenance that had popped out the moment the lid had opened, startling him despite the fact that he’d been braced for anything.
And it was this face that had been staring at him with unabashed adoration ever since. The white feathers on its elongated skull turned to iridescent scales halfway down its neck. The scales turned to feathers again by the time they reached its rear paws, paws not unlike those of a dog’s, webbed and downy betwixt the claws.
The scaled torso was similar to that of a dragon’s. According to the various depictions he’d seen, anyway. And like a dragon, it had wings. These wings, however, did not sprout majestically from the back of broad, muscular shoulders. No. Nor did they, when extended, span over twenty feet, the mere sight of which would be enough to strike terror into the hearts of the most stalwart of men—more like eight to nine inches, if it was lucky.
The creature was an unlikely amalgamation, to say the least. And to Andaris’ eye, its creator had left out some of the best parts. Jack-of-all-trades, but master of none sort of situation. Indeed, it appeared to be a blend of no less than three different animals, and probably four. Dog, bird, and dragon for sure. And perhaps, thrown in for good measure, just in case the previous combination didn’t achieve the desired jauntiness, a bit o’ monkey.
The first three were obvious. To find the fourth, one had to look a little harder. And the harder Andaris looked, the more convinced he became. There was something in the general roundness of its face, in the way it was sitting, in the awareness in its eyes and, most convincingly, the shape and functionality of its hands. It had the most extraordinary hands. They were not attached to its wings like a dragon’s, and the claws were not webbed like a dog’s, after all. But they had been. Hadn’t they? One thing seemed clear; they were much more like hands than paws or talons combined.
Yes, definitely monkey, he thought. Definitely, because it was either monkey or person, and monkey was much less offensive to his, at times, still delicate sensibilities.
It cooed to him lovingly, and with a sudden flapping of leathery wings, wings which he now realized had multiple layers, rose into the sky. It did not go far, ascending only three feet or so, flapping furiously to even sustain this modest altitude, creating a
sound not unlike cards being continuously, and indeed frantically, shuffled. The air stirred by its ascent was actually quite pleasant, fanning the three men with a fragrant, jasmine-scented breeze.
“It’s wonderful!” Andaris cried, finding himself utterly enamored of this fluttering, warbling creature with its merry eyes and ridiculous dangling paws. “Don’t you think so, Gaven?”
“Yeah, it’s wonderful all right,” came Gaven’s dubious reply, his resonant voice low enough to vibrate the cheer right out of the air. “Question is, where’s the map?”
The map! Andaris thought. He’d been so distracted by the creature that he’d forgotten all about the map. It was no longer in the box—that was certain. So, where was it? Could this thing hovering before them have eaten it? It seemed a preposterous idea.
Yet everything about what was happening seemed preposterous. Such a creature even existing seemed preposterous. The map being eaten by said creature was, by comparison, quite reasonable. It was either that or the pages had scattered when the thing had lifted into the air, displaced by its frantic flapping. Yes, that had to be it. Had to be because, otherwise, as Gramps had so succinctly put it, they were in trouble.
“They’ve got to be here somewhere,” Gaven grumbled, his broadening search suggesting he’d come to the same conclusion. Andaris was about to join in the hunt when the dog-bird-dragon-monkey thing touched down in front of him. It cocked its head in a questioning manner, and then, cooing ever so softly, stretched out its wings—four to a side.
“Well…I’ll be,” said Gramps, voice thick with awe. “Would ya look at that.”
But he wasn’t referring to the fact that it had eight wings instead of two, or that said wings didn’t look large enough to even lift a small kitten into the air, or even that they were attached to a creature of such questionable origin, appearance, and intent. He was referring to the fact that its wings weren’t just wings—they were also the missing pages.
With the same mix of disbelief and awe he’d heard in Gramps voice, Andaris said, “You can stop searching, Gaven. We found them.”
Sleeping Beauty
Eli was up before dawn, anxious, for the first time in weeks, to get the day started before it got away. First thing to do was tend to Mandie. That was always the first thing to do after waking, and the last thing to do before sleep. He spoon-fed her cinnamon porridge steaming from a metal cup. It was her favorite, or at least used to be.
Her mother had been a miracle worker in the kitchen, able to combine almost anything into a tasty meal. Why, one time when things got a might lean—one of the many times—Eli remembered her taking a cup of flour, some grease, four eggs and a potato, and somehow producing a casserole that not only fed everyone from bow to aft, but was also delicious. Indeed, with the right combination of spices, fire, and prayer, he had no doubt that she could turn rocks and mud into a gourmet meal. Could have, he reminded himself sadly.
Eli had followed the recipe to the letter, written down in palsied script by Mandie’s great-great-grandmamma all those years ago. Yet for some reason, in spite of his attention to every detail, it didn’t taste the same, nothing more than a shabby imitation of the original.
“I know, I’m sorry, honey,” he said as he spooned an errant dab of porridge from Mandie’s chin back into her mouth. “I know it’s not as good as your mother’s.”
It had been like this with everything he’d tried to make. No matter how he struggled, from pork chops to porridge, he fell pathetically short, leaving him with not only a dull ache in his gut for something passing edible, but also a hole in his heart for the miracle cook—his wife, his darling Marnie.
Who knows, mayhap one begat the other. Mayhap the magic came from Marnie’s kind nature and loving heart, and that’s why everything tasted so good. Mayhap he continued to fail in his domestic duties because his heart was broken, because his soul had soured, rotting on the vine of life. Mayhap the cook infused, knowingly or otherwise, the food with a part of him or herself.
God, he missed her. He would do anything to have her back. And lacking that, he would put all his energy into saving all that was left of her—his darling daughter, Mandie.
After feeding, washing, and dressing Mandie in her Sunday finest, Eli emptied the cottage of every blanket and pillow it contained, even the one with the green and gold patches made by his long-deceased mother, and loaded them into the back of the wagon, situating them best he could for optimum comfort. It wouldn’t do to have his Mandie jostled and bruised during the trip up Hooktooth Hill, not when he could so easily prevent it.
When he was confident the wagon had been sufficiently transformed into a plush carriage fit for a princess, he went back into her palace and carried Her Highness out. She released a small, pathetic moan as he lifted her from her bed into his arms. Already, she was thinner, frailer, draped across him like a doll, features carved with loving care, white lace dress billowing in the breeze.
As he was bending to put her in the back of the wagon-turned-carriage, she said, plain as day into his left ear, “I love you…” There was a pause, during which time Eli’s eyes took the opportunity to produce tears, long enough in fact for his lips to form the word “I”—as in “I love you, too”—before she finished, “…Andaris.”
Eli held her at arm’s length, no great feat for a man of his strength, so that he could get a good look at her, eyes wide with hope and fear. Naturally, it wasn’t the first time she had spoken. It was, however, the first time she had spoken with such clarity and conviction.
“Mandie, can you hear me, honey?” he asked, his voice set atremble. She surprised him again by opening her eyes—or more like shocked him.
He was held captive, unable to even breathe, lest he break whatever spell was making this possible. It was so good to see her eyes again—her mother’s eyes, as green as jade, as beautiful as springtime, as pure and innocent as the eyes of an infant. He realized with a deep pang in his gut that she was looking through him, past him, not at him.
Suddenly, those eyes he so adored widened, filling with an expression he’d never seen. It wasn’t terror, pain, or sadness, but all three combined.
“The hawk flies at night,” she whispered, her voice cracked, ancient, and full of sorrow. “The sky bleeds for the children of the damned. The earth rips asunder and spews forth shadow and flame. The all-seeing eye closes against the light, ever turning from the path of righteousness. In the halls of Kolera my kindred await. The ebony throne sits empty, unguarded even by the glory of its past. The time of His coming draws near. You must hurry if you are to save us from the roiling sea and endless fields of slaughter. Find and bring forth the sword that only you can wield across the worlds, the sword of lost voices that one day will speak again. Hold it high before the eternal night, and smite thine enemy to ruin! This I command of thee, in His holy name!”
Shortly following this impassioned proclamation, Mandie’s eyes fluttered shut. She went limp and began to shiver as if from fever. Eli continued holding her at arm’s length, staring at her with confusion and fear. Being a simple man, he understood little to nothing about the second sight, much less possession, prophecy, and the like.
When he’d recovered from the shock of what she’d said, and realized that his muscles were burning and sweat was dripping from his brow, he pulled Mandie towards him and held her close to his chest.
When her breathing slowed to something approaching normal, and the violent shivering subsided to the occasional innocuous twitch, he placed Mandie into the back of the wagon-turned-carriage and situated the pillows and blankets around her in what he hoped to be comfortable fashion.
Whatever doubts he’d had about making the trip to Sarilla’s were now gone. It was right and altogether fitting to take her to the witch. After all, his poor Mandie was possessed by something, wasn’t she? Must be.
But whether it be a demon spawned from The Lost One’s own loins, or merely a burgeoning propensity for precognition, the result was large
ly the same—she was lost and needed his help. And who better to call her back, and even perform, if need be, some manner of exorcism, than Sarilla, the greatest soothsayer to ever live?
Emboldened by a renewed sense of purpose, the likes of which he’d been sorely lacking of late, Eli hopped into the driver’s seat and clicked his tongue twice. Ever faithful, ol’ Bo began his steady, plodding way up the path towards Hooktooth Hill, towards salvation, knowing with no urging from his master to “Take ‘er slow.”
Aberrant Iterations
Andaris awoke with a start, heart galloping in his chest, forehead damp with perspiration. The camp was dark but for the faint, crimson light cast by the smoldering coals of the fire. Gramps and Gaven were curled in their bedrolls, snoring away like grizzly bears.
The box sat a few feet to Andaris’ left, as quiet and still as the surrounding forest. Watching. Waiting. Under the circumstances, the snoring seemed more than just disruptive. It seemed irreverent, taunting the inky blackness with reckless abandon, inviting all creatures of the night, large and small, to come and sample the cuisine.
Andaris sat up and drew his sword, struck by the sudden realization that it had all been a dream. There was never any thumping or scratching from inside the box. The pages of the map had not turned into a magical creature, part dragon, part dog, and least of all, part monkey. Mostly he was relieved, especially about that last bit. But the creature in his dream had been so wonderful and…ridiculous, wonderful in part because it was ridiculous, that it was difficult not to feel disappointed as well. He supposed the dream had been triggered by Gramps’ story. Although, at what point did he go to sleep? He didn’t remember actually getting up and walking to his bedroll, and yet here he lay, so…he must have done.
The Stair Of Time (Book 2) Page 8
