by Ivory Autumn
A cold wind blew in through the opening in the tower, blowing snow and sleet into the corridor, tossing out his warm thoughts in one gust.
Gogindy’s eyes flew open. “Rude! I had though you, wind and I, had made a truce. But it seems you have broken your promise. That was outright disgraceful---blowing spit on me when I was trying to rest. I should have thought better of you nasty, rude wind. I shall not be agreeable anymore. No. We are friends no longer! I shall find a better place to rest my poor tired bones.” He stood up, placed his rock in his pack, and started up the dark stone steps, wondering if perhaps, further up, he might escape the wind. “I am the bell ringer of Conroy,” Gogindy told himself. “This, in a way, is my tower. So I shouldn’t be afraid of it. In fact, yes…this is my tower.” He liked the thought of that, and looked fearfully up the dark stairway, wondering what it held. “Hate stairs. They are too flighty, with many flights. And steppy, with too many steps. They are so square, and I hate squares. And let’s not forget stairs are steep, and tall. I don’t like tall things either, they make me feel small.”
He paused, twitching his whiskers as he looked around him, sure that some terrible creature might come down the steps and toss him away.
When nothing happened, he slowly crept onto the second step. He stood there waiting, twitching his nose and looking around with nervous apprehension. In the darkness he thought he saw a scrap of paper in the corner. He carefully bent down and picked it up.
“What is this?” he wondered, squinting at the soiled piece of paper. The paper was oily, and ripped in several places. It felt rough, like dragon’s skin. He held it up. For a moment he thought he could make out the outline of very poor handwriting scrawled across it. It was too dark in the room for him to read what the words said. So he rummaged around in his pack, and drew out a small glowing mushroom he had collected from the Mushroom Forest, and held it up to the paper. The words on the page were smudged and difficult to understand. It looked as if the writer had hurriedly dipped his ink and scribbled out letters so that one word could not be defined from another, just like soup that had boiled too long making all of its contents taste the same.
“Oh,” Gogindy breathed, glancing down at his footprint rock. “This person is very fluent in Scribbly. Good thing we Twiskers are excellent readers of such scrawl. Some teachers don’t like scribbly, but we Twiskers use it all the time so that our enemies cannot intercept our messages. It is an ancient art and only the most intelligent of creatures are able to learn it.”
He glanced at his footprint rock, and smiled. “You don’t believe me? Well, it’s true. Scribbles, are in fact, a code. A very important code only few can read. You should really learn how to do it sometime so that if we are ever separated you can send me a message.”
He lowered the paper so the rock poking out of his pack could see it. “See. Can you see what it says?”
When the rock did not answer. Gogindy jumped up and down, and growled. “No, no. NO! You’re doing it wrong. It says, ahem, I am a fat flumpkin, with flubjus fluzzily flat flair. “And then it says a bunch of other scribbly stuff. But then…wait…if you look harder, you can see that it really says…”
Gogindy paused, and stared at the page, perplexed. “It actually says…um…well…it says. The fluttering flapjacks are flying south for the winter…No…umm. Actually it says. Jumpering japsticks are jabbing the drums... No…never mind. This is really hard scribble, scribbly to read. Even I can’t write like that. This is hard-core stuff. Ah...oh now I see. It says…eating onions actually aggravates ostriches. Wait. Ah. Now I have it. Really, I do. This tall stower molds, take fare ants forks, ants spoons rutlings and turning backaches, befog you crying.” He looked up from the page, perplexed. That doesn’t make any sense. “There are a lot more words, but I can’t read anything in this horrible light. My scribbly is a bit rusty. Maybe I’ll read it again when I’m not so tired. Plus this mushroom isn’t the best thing to read by at night.” He carefully folded the note and put it in his pack. Then he crept further up the stairs until the draft from the doorway was far behind him. With each step he felt his legs grow heavier and his eyelids droop. Tired and breathless, he curled up on the stone steps falling into a troubled asleep.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Alone
Andrew awoke to the sound of hushed whispers. They were soft and gentle, like water washing onto the shore. The sounds whispered, and laughed, like far-off echoes of something familiar. He lay face up in the snow, staring at a hazy sky, unsure of where he was. The sun had risen over the Fractured Mountains, bathing the smoky land in a stilted, red horizon. The strange echoing noises continued. They collided with the words he had read in Croffin’s book, causing his head to throb and ache. They crashed together, bunting heads and clashing against his skull.
Darkness and light battled in his mind. The words pounded, cried out, shouted like bolts of lightning, rumbling with thunder, over and over. The words were prickly and jagged, pricking him with guilt and confusion. The Fallen is Good, the dark words echoed, over and over again in his mind.
No, soft, brilliant words shot through his head, The Fallen is evil. Pay the darkness no mind! Andrew lay there listening for a long time, wondering if he was still asleep or dreaming. The colliding words swirled through his mind hammering against his head, back and forth, louder and louder. Then, a voice rose louder than any other. It was the voice of Croffin. “I’m sorry, Andrew. I didn’t mean too hurt you. Please forgive me.” The words were desperate and pleading. “I fed you a lie. A dark, deceptive lie. It was an untruth. Do not believe what you read in my book. The Fallen is darkness. The Fallen is bad. He is death. Heed these words. Listen to them. LISTEN!” The last words fell on his ears, soft, and pleading, drowning out all other voices, until the darkened words grew faint then hushed.
Andrew quickly glanced to his side where several glowing, fluttery, unsaid words lingered on his shoulder, then faded. He rolled on his side, disturbing a host of unsaid words that fluttered around his head like butterflies. These words whispered truth his into ears, clearing his mind so all doubt instantly faded, and his headache vanished. Where the words came from, and whose voices they were, he did not know. They were kind, soft, tender words. Words of truth that reaffirmed his innermost thoughts and cast out all doubt that had been planted in his mind from the words he had read in the book. He had a vague unsettled memory of what had happened the previous night. He had cut his finger, and then accidentally rolled down the knoll and hit his head.
Andrew groaned and tried to push himself up, but his right arm felt paralyzed. It lay by his side, limp, unable to move at all. He tried to move his fingers, but they felt stiff and dead. He used his other hand and lifted his arm up inspecting the place where he had received the paper cut on his finger. Though it was just a scratch, dark lines ran from his finger all the way up his arm. His hands, his fingers, and his arm were stiff and useless like a sapless tree in winter, all the blood seemed to have gone from it.
All this caused from a paper cut, Andrew thought. What kind of powerful poison was in that ink?
Andrew cut a piece of his cape off and made a sling for his dead arm, tying the cloth around his neck to support his arm.
“Croffin,” he called, looking around him at the mounds of snow. But the coon was nowhere. “CROFFIN!”
Only silence answered his calls. Croffin was gone, along with the words he had heard him speak. “Oh Croffin,” Andrew breathed. “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?” He slowly made his way up the hill to the spot where he had last seen Croffin. The coon had vanished.
Andrew sighed wearily and walked on ahead, trudging through the frozen snow, feeling cold and forsaken. He couldn’t believe that he actually missed Croffin, missed his complaining. He missed him dreadfully, just as he missed his other companions. What he would give just to hear Croffin complain one more time. Just one word to break up his own lurking, weary thoughts. He did not trust himself as before. Doubt
had entered his mind. Though subdued, he was worried that if he was left alone for too long, the doubt would come back and weaken his resolve further. He was not as strong as he thought he was. Darkness and light both dwelt within him. Which one won was still something he was deciding, one action at a time. This thought frightened him. What actions were his to make in the future? Would he make the right ones?
He had thought that he knew who he was, and what was right. But when faced with darkness, everything fell into shadow, and the things he had once thought right now came into question.
Was he the problem? Had he caused this darkness? No, reason and light told him. He had not caused this darkness. Those who believed a lie and let it enter into their hearts, had. They had caused it to grow and expand in themselves. It was they who had given power to The Fallen. Not he. Only by giving in to the lie, giving in into selfishness and hate did he give power to it.
He shivered, and trudged on through the snow, well away from the main roads and obvious places of travel that buzzed with the never-ending activity of soldiers and men marching back and forth. The snow got deeper as he continued forward. He grew cold and weary with each step. He paused and leaned up against a large rock, listening to the heavy footfalls of The Fallen’s soldiers marching on the road below him. Somewhere within The Fallen’s city he thought he could hear the call of shrill horns, and the pounding of deep-throated drums. The sound brought back the memories of the lost battle. He covered his ears trying to shut out the images. But they would not leave. They were forever there to torment him. Andrew’s army was gone. No one else would dare rise against The Fallen’s power.
Only he. Yet, alone he could not cast out the darkness inside men’s hearts. He was just a vessel. The light---the sword he held---was just a reflection of the light inside their souls. He could not wake the people out of their deep slumber. They had to wake themselves. He would go and face the darkness, even if the light he held was just his own. Even if he was the last soul alive who still believed in freedom, in light, in truth, and justice. No, he told himself. There was no going back. No doubt too great, no obstacle that could stop him.
This is what he was supposed to do.
The Summoning had passed like a vapor of smoke, quickly disappearing so that no one knew that it had even existed. All those who had fought beside him were gone, their voices silenced. But they were not gone to him. Their faces, their strength and power they had, he felt vividly. He could still hear their stirring acclamations of freedom. Their voices were strong and filled his soul with a desire to continue onward. They spoke to him. They summoned him to action. Yes, this was the last summoning. He had to summon himself. He, alone, would stand. All his friends had fallen. He could not let his silence add to the unsaid words, the undone actions, the unfinished mission. His journey was not yet finished.
Andrew set his eyes on The Fallen’s castle, and continued forward. His legs and feet felt stiff from the short pause he had taken. But he moved with purpose and determination. He paid the coldness no mind. He did not let it slow him, though snow and ice and wind pounded on him, trying to grind him down. He moved his stiff legs up and down, over and over. Though his body screamed for him to stop, he did not listen to it. He pushed onward, hour after hour. The sun rose, and then quickly moved over the land as if it wanted nothing more than to get away from this dreary land. Then, as quickly as it came up, it made its way down as if it was all too eager to leave this realm where its light was not appreciated.
Andrew watched as the world held its breath one short second as the sun dipped below the horizon like a swimmer plunging into the water, immersing the smoke-filled sky in a hushed red night. Now that the sun was gone, everything seemed colder than before.
Andrew finally stopped to rest, hiding behind a large mound of coal where a dead tree stood. The tree looked like a black skeleton that had been burnt with hungry flames. It was as if the dead tree was reaching out to him in desperate silence. Andrew touched the tree. It felt cold and smooth as glass. There was something inside it, something dark and shadowy. He quickly withdrew his fingers, and peered around the mound of coal. He could see The Fallen’s castle looming out over the land like a nasty splinter sticking out of the fractured earth. The light from the castle did not appear as grand as it had looked from the top of the knoll. Here, the light it cast was distorted, as dazzling as it was confusing. Its subdued brilliance bathed the land in fathomless shadows and strange flickering lights.
Andrew squinted, trying to see through the shadows, but the shifting shadows, and uncertain lights made the path ahead feel as murky as the dark earth he now traversed. He leaned back against the mound of coal, feeling very weary and drained of all energy.
The temperature continued to drop. The land grew very cold and quiet. His breath seemed to sit in the air, lingering and shivering as if it too was cold. Andrew drew out the last apple Freddie had packed for him, and ate it slowly. The fruit tasted crisp and sweet, but the flesh was very cold, and nearly as frozen as he felt. His feet were wet, and his clothes were soggy from trudging through the huge drifts of snow. His clothes were frosted, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. He hugged his dead arm to his chest, worried that if it did not get feeling back in it soon, it might just freeze off.
A crunch of snow sounded behind the mound of coal. Then a hushed whisper. Then silence.
They started again: crunch, crunch hiss, crunch, crunch. Sounds of hushed whispers came nearer, like two shadows speaking to one another, their voices silken, velvety and dangerous.
Andrew pressed his back against the mound of coal. He held his breath, then peered carefully around the mound. He could see a thin shadow of some large creature, and another dark being holding an ice dagger to the creature’s throat.
“I told you to find the boy!” a thin, hollow voice whispered. “But you failed.”
There was a loud gurgled cry. In an instant, the thin, tall, creature fell forward, dead. The dark being drew the icy dagger from its victim. It dripped with blue blood.
The being laughed as he dropped the dagger, moving away from its victim. The being’s features were hidden under a silvery cloak, but its nose poked far out from its hood like a long, hooked spike. The being suddenly stopped and whirled around. It sniffed the air and let out a low hooting howl, like an angry owl. It hoo, hooted howled, taking a step in Andrew’s direction.
A burst of cold wind mixed with sleet swirled around the creature. The breeze shifted, drawing Andrew’s scent away from the creature. The being stopped, then let out a loud pig-like grunt. Then it paused, listening. It sniffed then whirled around and disappeared into the shadows.
When Andrew was sure that the creature had gone, he let out a sigh of relief and crept over to the dead creature with the hooked-nosed that the being had killed. He leaned over it, and shivered. Its weird eyes had turned hazy but they still gleamed with a freakish light. It was one of the Codes that had surrounded him in the coal pits.
Its body was covered in thin black, metal armor, etched with symbols that were hard-edged and laced with glowing images of fire.
Without warning, the Code grabbed Andrew’s leg and sat up, breathing in gurgled gusts of air, blue blood dripping from its mouth.
“It’s you, isn’t it? The Boy!” The Code wheezed, causing the wound in its chest to bubble with air.
Andrew jerked back, and jabbed his sword into the Code’s chest. The Code gasped, then released its grip on Andrew, falling back, motionless. The light from its linear eyes faded to an utterly discolored gray sheen.
Andrew backed away from the dead creature, in disgust and revulsion. He cast the dead creature one last glance, before moving on. He could have asked it where they had taken his friends. He shouldn’t have acted so hastily. Now he would never know.
Angry with himself, he walked on through the darkness, wary of every shadow, hardly daring to linger at any one spot for any amount of time. The closer he grew to the castle, the more heavy and sad his heart
became. The image of the Code gasping its last breath haunted him. His own rashness convicted him. Had he hesitated one moment, he might now know if his friends still lived. With each step he derided himself even more. It was as if a heavy smog was emanating off of The Fallen’s castle, zapping those nearest it of energy, causing shortness of breath and heaviness of step, weariness of thought. The Fallen’s abode was one of intricate design and vastness, full of illusions, reflections, and fractured light. Roads, fields, ditches and winding paths strewed the land with the confusion of a never-ending maze.
Open pits and fissures with fires belting from the earth’s core would suddenly spew up at random throughout the ground as if the earth, too, was angry and trying to hinder his way.
Andrew stood by one of these pits, trying to warm his freezing hands and feet, only to be blasted back as a discharge of fire suddenly shot up through a fissure in a deafening whoosh, only to vanish as if it had never been.
Andrew rubbed ash off his face, and wiped black soot out of his eyes. His hair and eyebrows were crunchy and singed. His face was red, and burned. He grimaced, and rubbed snow over his burns, then continued onward.
The land was hot and cold at the same time. Several times he found himself making his way through snow drifts, only to find himself walking on hot ground that smoldered with fires that mysteriously went out as quickly as they had been ignited.
