Once Gaven had determined that there was nothing of any further interest in the hole, they turned around, braced themselves for whatever might lay below, and began the descent, Gaven taking the lead.
At first, fearing everything except their own shadows, and that only because it hadn’t occurred to them yet, their progress was slow. When it became evident that nothing immediately untoward was going to occur, their pace quickened. Until, of course, they reached the mist.
It was extremely unsettling for Andaris to be so close to what he hoped he had merely imagined. What would he do if a mistship, or a dragonsnake burst from the surface? What could he do? To be sure, it was not a pleasant thought, the dire implications of which served only to reinforce his natural reticence, rendering him temporarily immobile. In other words, he found himself incapacitated, unable to take another step, to see his boot disappear beneath the shifting surface into the unknowable, mysterial substratum.
As usual, Gaven broke the spell with action, stepping down with nary a pause. When his legs were covered to the knees, he turned and said, “It’s kinda weird feelin’, sorta cool and tingly, but not unpleasant. Not half bad, really. The only thing that’s gonna bother me is not being able to see. Wonder how far down it goes?”
Not in the least bit comforted by the big man’s words, Andaris had to will himself to speak. “I…don’t know, but if we’re going to go, and I don’t see that we have any choice, let’s just go, before I lose what little nerve I have.”
Noting the perspiration that had popped out on his friend’s brow, Gaven nodded and walked down into the mist. Andaris followed, pleased when his legs chose to do his bidding with only the slightest hesitation.
“Don’t get too far ahead!” he yelled. “It would be easy for us to lose each other in this.”
“I’m only a few feet down,” came the big man’s booming, surprisingly close, reply. “Waiting.”
Andaris continued counting steps as he went, reaching thirty-five upon total immersion. As Gaven had said, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The mist was cool and tingly against his face, a thousand bluish-green fingertips caressing his frayed nerves with the utmost care, almost as if someone, or something, was aware of their intrusion, was in fact grateful for it, welcoming them like dear friends after a long absence.
Trumpet’s Dawn
“Keep talking so I don’t bump into you,” said Andaris. “I’m holding onto the left hand railing. Where are you?”
No reply. Just the bluish-green mist swirling about him, luminous and strangely beautiful.
“Come on, Gaven. Stop fooling around. It’s not funny.”
In the far distance, somewhere below, he heard the echoing caw of what sounded like an enormous bird, the same caw they had all heard shortly after opening the door.
“Gaven!”
Still no reply.
“Okay, fine. It is funny. Whatever—just say something. I don’t like the sound of that thing. I think it would be best if we got moving.” Arms outstretched, Andaris began to feel around for his roguish friend. Nothing.
A shiver ran up his back. What if he’s not responding because he can’t? Because he’s hurt or…not here at all.
The bird cawed again, this time sounding much closer. In fact, Andaris now thought he could hear the flapping of great leathery wings, and the whoosh of displaced air.
Maybe that’s why he isn’t responding. Maybe my voice is drawing the bird. But if that’s the case, then why didn’t he find me while I was talking? Andaris stayed very quiet and very still, trying to not even breathe. As long as I stay in the mist, I’m safe, he reasoned. It can’t see me in here.
But could it smell him or sense him in some other fashion? He knew it would be foolish to assume something about a creature with which he had no previous experience, especially one that lives in a place like this.
Andaris waited for close to half an hour, muscles taut, mouth closed, ears perked. In that time he heard no sign of the bird, if indeed that’s what it was, or of Gaven. Assailed by roughly an even measure of relief and disappointment, he climbed back up the steps and out of the mist—praying he had waited long enough. Everything was as he remembered.
After a few more minutes had passed, he once again began to call out for his friend. And once again, there was no reply. He’s really gone, he thought. But gone where? And how?
Andaris sat down on one of the steps and put his head in his hands, concentrating on taking deep, steadying breaths, fending off panic by only the narrowest of margins.
What to do? he thought. Think. The thing is, if Gaven was taken by something, he would have fought and I would have heard. If he fell or was pushed over the side, he would have cried out, and I would have heard. So, the only logical conclusion is that he went through to…another place, or that I did, even though it looks the same.
Either way, he’s probably okay. And now it’s just a matter of us finding each other again. He heard Gaven’s voice in his head: Well, if that’s all, then what are ya worried about? Gettin’ all worked up over a little thing like that, and you a man grown. Hey, I know. Mayhap if ya cry loud enough, yer mommy will hear and come a runnin’!
He decided, for the time being, the best thing to do was to stay put. Let Gaven try to find his way back first. If, after a few hours, there was no sign, he would walk to the landing and try to contact Gramps. Failing that, there was only one thing he could do—go back down into the mist.
Time passed slowly, seeming to resent the delay, being shoved in the back by past and tugged in the front by future. At first, Andaris distracted himself by wrestling with matters that required serious contemplation. Important stuff like: why were some people left-handed instead of right? Why did fire turn blue when it got really really hot? Where did the hawk-billed onochra nest in the Spring? What was the average weight and height of your average macradon? Just how hot was really really hot, anyway? As well as a number of other questions of lesser, greater, and equal importance.
When he grew weary of these little diversions, he opened his new pack—his enchanted pack—and pulled out a block of cheese and some linberries. After nearly starving to death during his last adventure, the first thing he had done before heading east was buy a Pack of Everholding. It was three times bigger on the inside than the outside, and weighed half as much as a pack half its size. He smiled, feeling sure that it would be well worth the ten gold he’d given in trade. Such items were rare, and typically went for much more. But, of course, Gaven knew a guy who knew a guy.
After cutting a couple of slices off one end of the cheese block, he put the food back, examined his spread, and then at the last moment decided he needed some crackers, as well. Once he had the cheese, linberries, and crackers situated to his satisfaction, he leaned back and began to eat. He wondered if he shouldn’t add a swallow or two of mead to his meal. He had just taken his second bite, and was reopening his pack to retrieve the mead, when he heard something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It sounded like the distant call of a trumpet, except higher pitched and, seemingly, as time wore on…perpetual, as if the trumpeter’s lungs never emptied of air.
The lonely call of a trumpet’s dawn, he thought, immediately regretting it. Bestial roars from the bowels of hell. Stop it! he told himself. But it wasn’t a trumpet. It was something lighter and more…melodic, wavering just above and below the same high note.
The mist is changing, he realized. It was going from bluish-green to pale orange. Food forgotten, he stood, making ready to fight or flight.
As it happened, neither turned out to be necessary. The note softened, becoming quieter and quieter until, at long last, it stopped altogether. Andaris sat back down, wondering what, if anything, the change of color meant. Did it signify something, like the transition from day to night? Was it on a timer, put in place by a conscious will, left behind to count down the eons? Or was it something that occurred naturally, like the changing of the seasons?
Hours
later, after three naps and two in-between-meal snacks, Andaris finally admitted to himself that Gaven was not coming back. Which meant it was now time to implement the second part of his plan. He found the vertigo caused by the swaying of the stairs to be stronger going up than going down. Once, after a particularly billowing gust, he had to hang on to the railing and cease his ascent until it calmed.
When he reached the landing, he was not surprised to discover that there was still no sign of the door in the wall of earth. He was surprised, however, as he drew his fist near to knock, that the hole Gaven had made with his sword was now blocked by cobwebs. And beyond the webs, he could make out some sort of…cocoon.
Not wanting to disturb whatever nested inside anymore than absolutely necessary, he completed the secret knock as fast as he could, and then stepped all the way to the far end of the landing. When, as expected, nothing happened, he stepped forward to try again.
Movement from the hole caught his eye. The cocoon had cracked open! Something was wriggling inside, struggling to break free. It’s evil, Andaris suddenly thought. After it emerges it will grow to twice my size. It will follow my trail. Hunt me. Drink my blood before I die, warm and gushing from my veins. It exists because of me, so it is I who must kill it! He didn’t know how he knew this, only that he did, and for now that was enough.
It took several tries to relight the torch, but eventually he managed it. When it was burning bright, he touched the flame to the cobwebs and, as though in a trance, watched as they were consumed. The thing inside had almost freed itself by the time it was wreathed in fire. It shrieked in unholy rage, shooting from the hole like a cannonball. Andaris just barely managed to avoid being struck, watching with wide eyes as it arced over the railing and dropped, still shrieking, into the mist.
As soon as Andaris had recovered his faculties, he tried the secret knock again, and again was not surprised when there was no response. Only one option left, he thought, dread rising in the back of his throat and lowering in the pit of his stomach. He would have to do as the shrieking cocooned beast and, in all likelihood, Gaven, had done before. He would have to go not only into the mist, but through to the other side—presuming there was another side.
Now that his mind was made up, it was only a matter of moments before he found himself standing on the brink, ready, like so many times before, to take that next fateful step into the unknown. And so it was, after several deep breaths, that Andaris Rocaren of Fairhaven descended into the pale orange luminescence, the stuff, apparently, of which dreams are made.
Puzzle Door
Eli had been sitting in front of the puzzle door for at least two hours now, and was still no closer to an answer. Each tile had a picture on it, and beneath each tile was either a number or a letter. There was no pattern that he could discern, just a bunch of random nonsense apparently designed to drive him insane.
Sarilla probably put this here for her own amusement, he reasoned. In order to discourage unwanted visitors. Confusticate and be damned the woman! There probably isn’t even an answer to be had. Why, I’ll wager she’s watching me right now, having a good laugh at my expense.
Feeling his ire beginning to rise, Eli glared up at the wooden eye. He heard a sharp click. Was that the sound of the lid snapping shut? Surely not. He shook his head and, with a low curse, got to his feet, relishing the feel of his lower limbs tingling back to life.
Having decided to knock the infernal puzzle door down with his biggest sledgehammer, the one with the extra-long handle and twenty pound head, he turned and began walking back to the wagon. Halfway there, Mandie sat bolt upright.
Eli stopped in mid-stride.
Without opening her eyes, Mandie’s mouth began to move. At first no sound came out. Then, very softly, she began to speak. “The alphabet has twenty-six letters, you know. A is for apple, but C is for crunchy. A knight is brave. Frogs likes to leap. Flowers are pretty. Rainbows are colorful, and a tower is a tower.”
“Mandie, honey,” Eli called. “Can you hear me?”
She cocked her head to the side as though listening, but not to him, rather to some distant voice that she was straining to understand. “Time draws short,” she went on. “Sometimes it is better to be swift than to be right. And sometimes it is better to be clever than to be swift. But it is always better to be wise. Hurry father. The water is rising and the heavens continue to weep. Few can be lucky and brave and smart, but you must be all three and more to stem the tide. Hurry!”
By the time he reached her, she had lain back down, and was once again breathing like one who is fast asleep. Eli wiped tears from his ruddy, wind-burned cheeks and, feeling like an ogre in the presence of a princess, wrapped Mandie in his arms, comforted by the feel of her chest rising and falling, and by the steady beating of her heart.
He was so astonished by what had just occurred that he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He felt like dancing a jig and collapsing into a heap on the ground all at the same time. Admittedly, what she’d said was a bit on the…troubling side, but she’d said it to him and that’s all that seemed to matter right now. Indeed, she could scream curses at him all day and call him a ham-fisted fool without the sense the Almighty gave a mule and he would still be elated.
She actually spoke to me! he thought. For the first time since this all started! Not to Andaris, not to Gaven, or to any other made-up person for that matter—me!
He might have stayed by her side like that for hours, in the hopes that she would speak again. In fact, if time wasn’t of the essence, that’s precisely what he would have done. But she had told him to hurry, so hurry he would. Anything for his Mandie. He released her with a brief sob, kissed her forehead, and wrapped her up in her blankets, warm and snug, a woolen cocoon from which she would one day emerge, far more beautiful than any mere butterfly.
When he was once again master of his emotions, he returned to the door, replaying part of what Mandie had said in his mind: ‘The alphabet has twenty-six letters, you know.’ Why say that, he wondered? Could she be trying to tell me something about the puzzle? Twenty-six letters. Twenty-six. Why does that seem so—
And then he had it. Unless he had miscounted, there were twenty-six tiles, as well. Eli kneeled before the door, looking like a man preparing to pay homage to The Watcher, and began to count. Yep, no doubt about it, there are twenty-six of ‘em. Which means…what? Come on, Eli. You big dullard. Think!
Understanding, as ofttimes was the case with him, came in a trickle rather than a torrent. Following his initial epiphany in regards to the number twenty-six, it took him an embarrassingly long time to even begin to suspect that Mandie might have been referring to the pictures on the tiles when she’d said things like: ‘A is for apple, but C is for crunchy.’ He reached up and ran a grimy finger across the surface of the tile with the engraved apple on it. He felt a wave of relief, followed by self-reproach.
It’s so simple, and I didn’t see it!
Marnie used to say that his head was made for bashing stones, not for thinking. Said that she’d leave the stone-bashing to him if he’d leave the thinking to her. How he wished he could.
So, all I have to do is put the apple tile on the A. The rainbow tile on the R. The flower tile on the F. The faerie tile on the…. But that can’t be right! Can’t put two tiles in the same spot.
Eli’s heart sank. For a moment there, he actually thought he’d figured it out. But of course, many of the letters repeated. F for frog, faerie, and flower. R for ring and rainbow. S for star and sword. Not all repeated, like T for tower, but enough to make his head hurt.
And what about the numbers? How do they fit in?
He again thought back to what Mandie had said, going over each letter with a fine-toothed comb. ‘A is for apple, but C is for crunchy. A knight is brave. Frogs like to leap. Flowers are pretty. Rainbows are colorful, and a tower is a tower.’ If anyone had been walking past, they would have wondered why the man kneeling before the door looked like he’d just b
een clonked over the head with the business end of a shovel.
So….when it comes to the tiles that don’t repeat, I put them on their letter. Like tower on T. But when it comes to the tiles that do repeat, maybe I should try putting the ones whose descriptive word starts with a letter that comes before the others in the alphabet on their letter and the rest on the first letter of their descriptive words.
This was ridiculous! He’d never had such an unbearably complicated thought in his life, and never wanted to again. He felt like his poor brain was being sucked through a straw. Eli was a simple farmer. His mind wasn’t meant for these acrobatics. If he weren’t careful, he would pull something. Unfortunately for him, there was far too much at stake to just give up, so he had no choice but to keep plodding forward.
Descriptive. Descriptive….. A is for apple and anchor, he thought. An apple is crunchy and an anchor drops. C comes before D, so I put apple on A and anchor on D, D for drops, because crunchy comes before drops in the dictionary. He shook his head. But even if I’m figurin’ true, it’s all for naught if I can’t come up with the right words. An anchor is also heavy. Course, in that case, it would still work since H comes after C, same as D.
Deciding to take a break, Eli went to the wagon and, from his leather pack, withdrew a flask of self-distilled cinnamon whiskey. He took only a single swallow to clear his head, intimately aware that, when it came to whiskey, especially spirits crafted in the Johansen still with recipes passed down from his great-great-grandfather, the line between focused and foggy was dangerously thin. When he was once again seated before the puzzle door, he scratched his head, sighed, and got back to work.
Hours later, Eli found that his brain had turned entirely to pudding, or perhaps to jelly, or mayhap even mush, and not a high quality mush, mind you—the extra mushy mush that is served in peasant shacks across the land. In essence, he was spent, and had been for a while now, moving the tiles around and around and around—where they stopped no one knows—searching for a way to make them fit where they were supposed to. The problem was, sliding one over its correct letter invariably slid another off, each mistake leaving him more disheartened than the last.
The Stair Of Time (Book 2) Page 14
