Into the Second World

by Ellis Knox

  A Mighty Wave

  The storm reached us first through the water. The normally placid surface bulked up in swells that grew quickly from a foot or two in height, to eye level where we sat, to hills that towered over us. The Tykhe took this in stride, riding up and over each swell nimble as an otter, never once taking water across the beam. Despite our sturdy craft, I found myself clutching the bench.

  “At least we’re being driven in the right direction,” Nik said. The rosy light spread out directly in front of us. “If the storm doesn’t sink us,” he went on, “it’ll save us days of travel.”

  If the storm doesn’t sink us. This was not exactly the sort of encouragement I was wanting in that moment. I looked back at the arc of the advancing storm, the leading edges of which were nearly upon us. Sinking seemed by far the more likely outcome.

  Close behind the rising waves came the storm itself—whether a new one or just another convulsion, it was a monstrous thing that writhed in colors and shuddered with explosions.

  Nik shouted that we should secure ourselves, a command that was heeded even before he gave it. Nik crouched next to the useless tiller, which he had secured with a bit of rope so it did not swing about. Cosmas sat amidships, bracing himself crosswise, his trägersack secured across his chest. He placed Henrik at his right hip like luggage. Beso clutched one bench, I another. All such preparations seemed frail in the face of the storm.

  Wizard storm. I’d read about such things, events that belonged to the distant past, like dragons and giants. Although modern science explained carefully and in detail the physical forces that came together to produce such a storm, the old name had persisted. This was a storm conjured by wizards. In the stories, it was always two or more wizards engaged in some titanic battle, their command of the forces getting away from them, escaping into a world that cowered before them. My only visualizations of a wizard storm were a couple of steel engravings in a book, and one lurid painting I’d seen in a museum.

  Now I was about to be swallowed by one.

  The storm raged in a cacophonous riot of boom and crash, whine and whistle. We might have been trapped inside some gigantic battle of mighty armies. No odor of gunpowder rode the currents, but I smelled ozone and phlogiston and something foul like rotting flesh.

  The air, trapped by aethereal forces, swirled and streamed in a hundred directions. The sea churned, broken by waterspouts and whirlpools. Some of these were dainty things that glowed in the surrounding lights, all froth and spindles. Others dwarfed the Tykhe and could easily have capsized or sunk us.

  I could barely call forth my own name. I was a primitive trembling before a volcano. I shrieked. I fell to my knees. But the sound was lost in the terrible roaring; no one saw me collapse, for the others were cowering as well.

  Then came the wind, suddenly aligning the disparate currents, striking as a massive fist of wind that set our little boat skimming forward at twice its former speed. The wind added its voice to the thunder until I feared my skull might break apart.

  Rain followed hard upon the wind. This fell so thick it was as if the ocean far above was now falling down upon us. I raised my arm in a futile attempt to shield against it. I fought to find air to breathe. With the rain came complete darkness, taking away the glow on the horizon. We existed one moment in utter black, the next brilliantly lit up in ghastly colors that vanished again to leave us blinking at after-images. Water began to fill the bottom of the boat and we had to bail. Sheets of light turned to jagged spears that hissed like dragons where they struck the sea. We were about to die, I was sure of it. The thought came and sat next to me, and would not leave.

  Now we were in a full-throated gale amid a frenzy of waves. Rudderless, we ran before it.

  The storm drove us for two days. We were held in the fist of the wind, the horizon before us hidden by the writhing lights that never once diminished. We made a steady thirty knots or so, though this could be no more than a guess. The long swells grew so big they became their own geography, with sloping flanks and wide tops dappled with their own chopped waves and sea spray.

  We ate the dog-pig on the first day, with a few morsels for the second day. Cosmas fed his to the professor, who chewed but did not swallow. That gash on his arm was definitely infected. The flesh around the scratch had reddened, swelled, and began to turn to yellow and purple. No black, not yet, but a fever took hold, and nothing Cosmas pulled from his bag seemed to help. The ogre kept a damp rag—though we were all soaked by then—pressed to Henrik’s head, for all the good that did. His better service was to restrain the professor, who kept slipping into delirium and trying to get up to go somewhere.

  Later, the wind blew a fish into our boat. Beso clubbed it before anyone could react. By the end of that day, we were hungry enough to eat it.

  No one got sick, but none of this felt any better for having eaten. We sat in dejected huddles. No one talked much.

  The storm began to change on the third day. The voice of the wind shifted into a lower register. The swells grew more muscular, spreading into small mountains with deep valleys between. Despite the loss of the rudder, our boat seemed to know her heading. No wave took us abeam.

  “I don’t like these swells,” Nik said at one point. He sat next to the useless tiller, seeming to hope it might start to function again. This world was so strange, the hope that a stone boat might simply grow a new rudder did not seem entirely ridiculous.

  “I don’t like them either,” I said, “but any change is welcome. We can’t keep doing this for much longer.” I glanced forward at Professor Queller.

  “How is he?” Nik asked. His eyes were dull, without hope. I tried to manufacture some.

  “He’s been stable all morning. Maybe the fever is breaking.”

  “He would heal better then,” Nik said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes,” Nik said.

  We weren’t really discussing anything. We were just talking because talking helped. Otherwise, we’d only think about food.

  “Woah, this is a big one.”

  A new swell lifted us. Forty feet was my guess; Nik said it was closer to thirty. Tall enough. I looked behind us farther. The hills of water were becoming mountains.

  “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Listen," I said. How could he hear if he did not listen?

  His eyes widened. The sound arrived as a deep boom, transmitted as much through the water is other sound is through the air.

  “Thunder?” I asked, though I was sure it was not. Niklot shook his head, and we listened some more.

  “Surf,” Nik declared, his face pale. I had to agree. The amber light toward which we had been traveling so hopefully now took on the aspect of a fire that would consume us.

  The waves, already dreadfully high, rose to incredible proportions—thirty feet, forty feet—one does not estimate well when falling down cliffs. The sheets of light began to tear. Through the rents, highlighted in impossible colors, we saw land.

  It came into view swiftly, as if the land were rushing at us. Mountainous swells reared up into waves, and these began to break as they neared the land. Each new rise brought into view new details, all perilous. Our boat slid more than sailed down the face of these waves.

  The next several minutes I careened between ignorance and knowledge. In the trough of the waves I could see nothing save a slate-gray mountain rising to the fore and another mountain about to crash upon us from behind. Time and again, the mountain erupted into a chaos of yellowish foam and thunder like a fusillade of cannons. Time and again our little Tykhe danced ahead until a new swell lifted us.

  I felt the boat angle at the peak then tilt forward, causing my stomach to lurch. As the boat pitched downward, I was afforded a view of what lay ahead: cliffs, rocks, stony beaches, and waves that shot a hundred feet in the air as they crashed into the land.

  Each time, atop each wave, that violent doom came closer until I could count what remained:
four waves, then three, then two. We were as helpless as sparrows in a typhoon. I railed against nature. I just wanted it all to end.

  And then it did.

  The Tykhe rose atop another wave, and there were no others before it. I caught a glimpse of tall cliffs cut by deep declivities. I saw rocks like broken teeth below me. Incongruously, atop the cliffs, a gentle rise was covered with green grass, a thing so impossible I dismissed it as hallucination. We were in the center of the earth, not in Westphalia.

  The wave that carried us now swallowed us. Water struck with the force of a club. It ripped my arms from the bench and sent me tumbling. I had no sense of motion save one of being rolled over and over. I shut my eyes and closed my mouth to keep my air. Every shred of my consciousness was given over to holding tight to that one breath. To breathe was to die, and I refuse to give my life over to this wild, violent world.

  I tumbled for what seemed like hours. My lungs burned. My body screamed to inhale. I had only my will to resist that scream. Then something struck me with such force I seized up, like ungreased gears. That saved me, for in the next instant my body won its battle and I gasped, and air filled my lungs. I went again underwater but this time came out almost at once. I'd lost all control over breathing because pain seared my side and shoulder. Bright lights exploded around me like fireworks. I was rolled, rolled again, then stopped at last, lying face down on sharp rocks.

  For a time it was all I could do to keep my head out of the water, which still washed over me at intervals. A torrent of rain struck me, then passed, then struck again. It was the remnants of the waves as they spouted high into the air then fell again. My vision was little more than a red haze. I tried to move, but pain flared up and nearly caused me to pass out. I clung to consciousness, but not to hope. Soon, I knew, my strength would fail, my head would fall forward into the water and would not rise again. Every second that did not happen was a victory.

  My life did not pass in review before me. I did not think of loved ones, or lost dreams, or past regrets. I thought only Head up and, every so often, grimly paying the price every time, Move.

  The terrible light storm moved farther inland, coming apart like worn cloth. Despite pain and weakness, I made myself stand and call out the names of each of my companions, but the wind tore the words from my lips. Our lanterns were lost. Soon the mad lights of the storm would be gone and darkness would descend. If I was going to find anyone, it had to be now.

  In the violence I could just make out our boat. It lay, broken in half on the back of a sharp boulder, not twenty yards away. I started toward it, certain I went only to find bodies. Thunder boomed and the ground shook, and a wall of water shot up, rising like a gray and white giant. It fell upon me as if some titan were emptying a bucket, driving me to my knees. Long moments passed and it happened again before I managed to gain enough strength to stand again.

  Crimson lightning fell in a sheet that stretched right down to the ground. It stank of burned earth. The red curtain was rent by spears of blue-white that lit up the whole area as if by footlights. The air shook in a continuous thunder, but the light revealed four motionless figures—two on one side, two on the other.

  One shape moved, and it was Nik, getting to his feet and swaying like a reed in the wind. I ran to him, heedless of the javelins of light thrown down by the storm all around me. When I reached his side, I grabbed his arm. Speech was impossible. I pulled at him, pointing with my other hand. I don’t know if he agreed or understood, but he acquiesced and stumbled after me. We skirted the boulder and our poor Tykhe.

  Bessarion was up on one knee, bent over Henrik. Cosmas lay nearby, but he was stirring. I put a hand on Beso’s shoulder. He startled. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear a word. He pointed at Henrik. Wordlessly, I moved to one side and began to lift the professor. His eyes opened, but they were unfocused. Ignoring everything, I got him to his feet.

  Nik took the other side. Beso tried to help, but at the first step he fell inert on the ground. Another wave crashed upon us, throwing Henrik onto his side. I hauled him up again.

  “Stay here,” I said to Beso, pointlessly, then repeated with a gesture. His face was dull, but not quite without color. I thought he might have nodded.

  Another bucket drenched us. We had to get further inland. I could only hope the dwarf knew we would come back for him.

  I didn’t know where I was going, except to get away from the reach of the waves. After some little distance, I realized the rain was no longer falling—all the water had been from the sea itself. A strike of lightning ran parallel to the ground, and I caught a glimpse of a hillside with a shallow grotto. I pointed to encourage my comrades. Henrik did not appear to be hurt, at least he was not limping, but he seemed delirious. He talked non-stop, but he wasn’t trying to speak to anyone. The fever still had hold of him.

  Nik was limping, however. I tried to communicate to him that he should stop and I should go on ahead with Henrik, but all we managed was some futile waving of arms and some exaggerated facial expressions. I soon gave it up. Nik was an experienced explorer; he would make his own decisions about his injuries, and all I could do was hope he chose wisely.

  After what seemed hours, we reached a shallow valley with a rather steep hill on one side. In that hill, seen through intermittent light, was a little grotto. At its deepest, which was only a dozen feet, there was shelter from the wind. We set Henrik down as carefully as if he were a china doll. I signed to Nik that he should stay. I could use his help, but I was more worried that Henrik would wander off if left untended. Nik nodded, then grimaced as he rubbed at his ankle. One more injury for our little band. I frowned, but nodded in reply.

  With that, I set out to retrace my steps. Within the first minute I realized I had little idea which way to go. My only clue was the sound of the surf booming away in one direction. It had been all I could manage just to get Nik and the professor to safety. Taking note of the landscape along the way had been far from my mind. I tried navigating, but I could see the land only in lightning-lit glimpses, and the strikes would coming less frequently. I pressed on anyway.

  When lost, we are told a person should stay in one place, but when searching for others while lost, stumbling around blindly is the only option. So I stumbled blindly onward.

  The storm-driven sea-rain returned. I hadn’t realized how cold I was until the downpour drenched me again. I began to shiver. I lengthened my stride into a march, trying to keep warm, which was foolish, for the ground at any moment might twist an ankle, and I might wind up like Nik. I was fairly certain that, were I to sustain an injury, I’d just lie down and die. I was at the limit of my strength, and it was like being at the edge of a cliff.

  Another lightning strike lit up a figure. It was only for a moment, and I didn’t dare to hope, but I changed my course in that direction. Some several eternities later, the figure emerged like a ghost from shadow. It was Cosmas. He was carrying Bessarion.

  Somehow I led them. Somehow I found the grotto again. Nik and Henrik sat against one wall, the professor’s head on Nik’s shoulder, two dark shapes in darkness. Cosmas set Beso down delicately. To my astonishment, he still had his trägersack and now produced dry blankets to cover us all.

  I tried to thank him, but I could manage no more than a weak smile. My will was fleeing along with my remaining strength, and when the ogre gently pushed me until I was lying down, I did not resist. My last memory of the storm was of me shivering incessantly beneath a thin wool blanket, the smell of wet earth, distant and receding booms as of an army of giants marching away, and of Cosmas, appearing in silhouetted flashes like a figure in a zoetrope.

  Standing watch.

  Houses with Hats

  Cosmas was also the first thing I saw upon waking. The sudden appearance of the lopsided face of an ogre mere inches away from one’s face is enough to startle anyone into wakefulness. I let out a small yip.

  “Sorry, Gabrielle Lauten, not to let you sleep more,” Cosmas said. �
��There is a girl. You should come see.” He held out a hand and helped me to my feet. I wobbled a bit, and he steadied me.

  “The storm?” I said, then realized what he’d said. “A girl?”

  “You should come see,” he repeated. By way of explanation, he stepped aside and pointed. Across the way, at a distance of twenty yards or so, stood a small girl. She carried a staff with a lantern affixed to it and appeared to be tending a flock of geese. She was not moving.

  I blinked, unable to speak as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. The geese were not geese, for one thing. They had absurdly long necks, beaks rather than bills, and four legs each. And the girl was almost certainly a gnome.

  “She’s a little uncertain about me,” Cosmas said quietly. “Perhaps it is my size.”

  I took a few steps, emerging into the half light of Urland. The storm was well and truly past, leaving behind the smell of rain-cleansed air and earth. After weeks of stone tunnels, dead towns, and seas all too alive, seeing gentle hills covered with what could be taken for grass and bushes, with a goose girl tending her flock, I was willing to overlook a few minor differences.

  The countryside looked so close to normal, it felt like a trick. The ground cover might have been heather and wort; the low rolling hills reminded me of Vorpommern, lit by a dusty sunset. Our grotto sat in a declivity between two hills, and it was through here the goose girl was passing. She was part way up the rise, standing in the circle of white light cast by her lantern.

  Beso joined us at the front of the grotto.

  “Is that a gnome?” he said sleepily.

  The girl squeaked like a mouse and ran up and over the rise, leaving her outlandish wards to scramble after, clucking like hens.

  “Did I frighten her?” Beso asked.

  “I should think a small creature like her would be more likely to be frightened by an ogre than by a dwarf,” I said.

  “Truth,” Cosmas said.

  “Did she see something behind us?” As soon as I’d said it, my heart thudded, but a quick, worried check of our own hillside revealed no threat.