River Into Darkness

by Sean Russell

  “What are you finding?” Hayes called out.

  “Rock,” Erasmus answered.

  “The same,” Rose said quietly.

  “I think we are in a giant stomach,” Erasmus said. “We have been swallowed up by the world.”

  Erasmus tripped and fell hard to the stone, laying there for a moment, too exhausted to get up.

  “Erasmus? Deacon Rose? Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I stumbled,” Erasmus said. “But I’m unhurt. Just need to rest a moment.”

  He lay there wondering if he would bother to struggle up again, his sudden energy gone, but then he imagined a passage just ahead. A flat, easy passage, dry, tall. And down it came the sweet scent of pine.

  “I have something!” Rose called out.

  “What? What is it?” Hayes called, his voice echoing from everywhere at once.

  “An opening. Not large, though not so small.” A pause. “I can fit into it easily, though I think I must rest before I attempt it.”

  Erasmus forced himself up, going carefully back into the water.

  “Keep talking, Deacon, though quietly,” Erasmus said, “and I will cross to you.”

  Out of the darkness came a sweet song, a hymn of sad beauty, and Erasmus stopped for a moment, so surprised was he to hear something so lovely in this harsh world. He followed the air, which echoed around the chamber so that it sounded like an entire choir, a choir singing in a great cathedral.

  “Here you are,” Erasmus said as he found the man, and the singing stopped, much to his disappointment. “Where is this opening?”

  Rose led him to it, and Erasmus explored it with his hands, like a blind man would.

  “It is not so small,” he said. “Let me try it now. If I wait, I think I will grow weaker, not stronger.”

  Not waiting for Rose to agree, Erasmus pushed himself into the opening on hands and battered knees, ignoring the pain, and the humming in his ears. He stumbled down the passage, feeling before him as he went. It sloped up, not steeply but unquestionably up.

  For a moment he stopped to rest, odd lights swimming before his closed eyes. This is it, he thought. This is all the effort I can make. I’m too cold. Too exhausted. Flames, I am tired.

  He lay still, feeling sleep reach out for him. Warm sleep. He imagined a soft breeze caressing his face, the smell of fallen leaves. A smile touched his lips.

  “Mr. Flattery,” came a voice.

  Erasmus shook his head. “Yes.”

  “What have you found?”

  “Nothing yet,” he called, forcing himself up on his elbows. He shook his head. “Ten feet,” he whispered. “You can go ten feet.”

  He struggled on, not even rising to his knees, his head swimming now, a terrible ringing in his ears, like the body’s own dirge for its passing. Even crawling, he lurched to one side, losing his balance in the dark. He collapsed again. And lay shivering, gasping for breath from his effort. His empty stomach heaved, and there was a hot burning in his throat. He heaved again and spat out bile, letting it dribble down his chin, uncaring.

  “Flames,” he muttered. “Flames. . . .” Then, “Ten feet, man. Any weakling can crawl ten feet. Percy would have managed it.”

  A murmuring seemed to fill the passage, and he stopped to listen, not sure what it was, then picking out the sound of voices. The others had gathered about the opening. Perhaps they came after him.

  He forced himself to move his limbs, crawling through his own bile. He shook his head, trying to clear it, for he was dizzy and nauseated. Strange lights moved before his eyes now, even when they were open.

  But he crawled a few feet. Rested a moment, his back spasming, and when that let up a little, he made himself go on. Five feet this time. Just five feet.

  He saw a strange pinpoint of light that wavered and blurred, but at least it had the decency to disappear when he pressed his eyes shut. Five feet more.

  There was some rubble of rocks on the floor of the passage now, and he crawled across this, the scream of pain from his poor battered knees and elbows seeming so distant.

  “Mr. Flattery?”

  Go away, he thought. Can’t you see I haven’t the energy to spare to answer.

  He forced himself on, ignoring the calls of the others, though they seemed closer, now.

  I’m delirious, he thought. I’m half out of my wits. Is this what you feel before you die?

  He went another few feet, before being overcome by nausea again. When he opened his eyes, the point of light returned.

  What if it is the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel? he thought. But it is so small. . . . It would have to be a mile away. He couldn’t possible crawl a mile.

  He squinted. Could it be sunlight infinitely far off? Or worse, could it be a tiny hole allowing light in but not large enough for any man to pass? Would he die with a view of the outside world?

  He crawled a little farther, banging his head hard. He lay stunned for a moment, and then reached out with his hand, but it was not such hard stone. He put his cheek against it.

  “Flames,” he whispered. Is this delirium? He ran his hand over the surface, then rolled onto his back looking up.

  The world seemed to spin and he shut his eyes. But it was a tree! And those were stars overhead, and that was the scent of pines. He had crawled out into the world. The world of light and air and trees and grass.

  Erasmus tried to call out, but only a faint whisper emerged. A mumbling came to him, like someone chanting. A voice spoke his name a few feet away. Hayes. The others were near, crawling out into the delirious warmth of a spring night.

  He felt himself convulse oddly, and sob. And then he lay, curled up like a child, hot tears running down his cheek, collecting on a fallen leaf. A breeze moved the branches overhead, whispering in a soft, green voice, welcoming him back to the world, to the brief life of men.

  The Compass of the Soul

  A man may move either westward through life, following the light, or eastward toward the gathering darkness. It is a kind of orientation of temperament that is set in our earliest years; an emotional compass. One either pursues one’s dreams or one’s memories, and it is an exceptional man who, once his compass has been set, can alter it even a point or two.

  —Halden: Essays

  One

  She was reborn from the earth, emerging from a dark womb of stone into the ancient light of a new morning. A shaft of diffuse light lanced through the trees to caress her skin. Warmth . . .

  Let it sink into my very bones, Anna thought, almost certain she would be cold to her center for the rest of her days.

  A bird lighted on a branch not a yard away, regarding her with a darkly glittering eye. “Chuff,” it said, the single syllable floating up like a bubble of sound.

  “Shoo,” she responded. There was something about its bill—blood-red and decurving, like a scimitar.

  “Chuff,” it said again, though less surely this time, and took two steps closer, shuffling its red legs along the branch.

  “I am not food for you yet,” she whispered, and managed to wave a hand, driving the bird from its perch. It settled a few yards away, staring back at her with its head cocked, an eerily intelligent look in its glittering eye. And then it fell to flight and sped off into the heart of the forest.

  Anna closed her eyes. Sleep. She must sleep. Sleep for years, she was sure. And thinking that she drifted into a nightmare: swept helplessly along the course of an underground river, fighting for air . . . struggling to live.

  Something bounced off her temple, and Anna opened her eyes to find the sun higher, providing a coverlet of delicious warmth. She had stopped shivering.

  “Chuff. . . .”

  The bird perched above her. “Whose pet are you?” she asked, then realized an acorn lay but an inch away. Had it dropped that for her?

  Sh
e turned her gaze back to the bird, and then sat up, suddenly filled with wonder. “But you are no one’s pet, are you?” she whispered. “Flames!” She patted a pocket in her waistcoat and removed a square of wet linen, then glanced back at the bird.

  “Farrelle’s ghost, but it must have begun already.” Tentatively she reached out a hand to the dark-feathered bird—crowlike with a red bill and legs of the same hue. But the bird hopped away, only a foot; and there it stayed.

  “Chuff,” it said again.

  Anna laughed. “‘Chuff’ yourself.” Gingerly, she unfolded the linen and spread it out on the ground in the sun. She separated each precious seed, blowing on them gently. The seed had been her salvation; without it she would never have found the resources to survive the trip out of the cavern, even though eating it raw produced only a fraction of its power.

  The bird began to hop about excitedly, and she turned a warning gaze upon it. “This is not for you,” she said.

  Overwhelmed by sudden weariness, she leaned back against the bole of a tree, but kept her eyes open, afraid the bird might make free with her seed. Where were the others? Certainly they must be some hours ahead. She had waited as long as she possibly could before following them out.

  Anna had arrived at the pool and collapsed, too exhausted to start back up the tunnel in search of another passage. There her candles had burned to darkness. Not knowing what to do when she heard the others approaching, she had crawled into a crevice and lay still, sure anyone could hear the pounding of her heart. By the poor candle light, Erasmus and the others had not seen her nor had they the energy or inclination to search. She had watched them go into the watery passage. Heard them shouting back and forth between the chambers. And when she thought she could wait no longer and still have strength, she had followed.

  The thought of that water-filled passage caused her to pull her limbs close. She trembled.

  “Do not think of it,” she warned. “Do not.”

  She had survived! And here she was . . . on the surface of the world once more. Reborn to the light. Reborn—for certainly she had been in the netherworld these last days. Days! Could it have been only days?

  “But what to do?” she whispered. Deacon Rose had been with the others, and she knew that he would soon be hunting her. Hunting her even now, perhaps. Did he think she had escaped ahead of them?

  “What to do?” she whispered again, feeling her eyes ease closed. She forced them open. Up. She must press on. As soon as the seeds were dry, for she could not let mold touch them. They were more precious than diamonds. Almost more precious than life.

  Had Halsey escaped, she wondered? Did Eldrich think they had all died in the cavern? Difficult to answer. She no longer presumed to have even the slightest knowledge of the mage’s mind. He had deceived them—trapped them with disturbing ease—and only she had escaped, and that only by a near-miracle.

  The Entonne border was nearby, and Anna could almost feel it offering haven. If only her resources were not so depleted! Food and rest were utterly imperative, for she had endured beyond her limits. Food and rest and clothing. And money. Anna had not a coin in her possession. But where? Where could she go that Eldrich would not suspect?

  Perhaps Halsey had escaped unnoticed. He was wary and meticulous in his precautions. Eldrich might well have missed him. Flames, if she had only paid heed!

  No use flogging herself with this. Survive. That was her task now. Her obligation.

  Carefully she rolled the seed around on the linen, which lured the bird nearer, extending its neck to watch.

  “What bird are you?” she asked. “Not a rook, I think, but some distant cousin. Cousin to the carrion crow. Dark-eyed and cunning. Cold-hearted, too, I’ll wager. Perhaps you are the perfect familiar for me, then. For all those who were close to my heart are gone, and they will never be replaced. Not if I am to succeed in what I must do.” Saying this she wrapped the seed up again and buttoned it carefully into her pocket before rising stiffly.

  Her mind was made up. It might be dangerous, but she could not proceed without knowing what had befallen Halsey. If he had fled, he would leave signs. Things so subtle that even a mage might miss them. And if he had been discovered . . . Well, if he’d been able, he would have left signs of that, too.

  * * *

  * * *

  A waning moon sailed west until cast up on a shoal of cloud: stuck fast in the heavens.

  Anna crouched in the midst of a stand of shrubs, watching. The house that Halsey had leased was just visible through the branches. At intervals she could see the old man pass before the window, pacing, his stooped carriage unmistakable. It was his habit to pace when problems beset him. Maybe the pain clarified his mind somehow, or perhaps it was penance.

  But still she watched, and had been doing so for several hours. He was alone, she was sure of that. Some time earlier, a local woman had arrived with his dinner, stayed to clean the rooms a little, and then departed, carrying away the tray of dishes she’d brought. No others had come or gone, or even strayed nearby. Still she waited. Impatience had been her undoing once. Their undoing.

  When Halsey began to blow out the lamps, she moved from her place, still stiff and weakened by her ordeal. A woodsman had fed her the previous night; fed her and set her on the path to Castlebough. She had made a slow journey through the woods, accompanied by her chough, for that is what the woodsman called the bird—the obvious appellation.

  She had hidden herself here earlier in the day, and had she the resources, would have watched another day yet, but her exhaustion was too complete. Knowing that warmth, food, and company in her sorrow lay so near weakened her resolve.

  Before the last lamp was doused she tapped on the window. Silence from within. She tapped again.

  “Chuff,” said her familiar, somewhere in the darkness.

  Halsey appeared, standing well back from the glass, looking very unsure.

  “Halsey . . .’Tis I. Anna. Can you not let me in?”

  She saw him reach out to support himself, and then he hurried toward the door. A moment later she was inside where the old man took both her hands in his own and kissed them, as though she were a daughter returned from the dead.

  “My dear girl. My dear Anna . . .” He looked at her, words clearly failing him. “What of the others?” he said, his voice almost disappearing.

  She began to speak, but her own voice failed, and she merely shook her head and looked down, expecting tears to come—but they didn’t. She was too exhausted to mourn. Farrelle’s oath, but she felt empty.

  He kissed her hands again. “Come inside, child. You look like you have survived the ordeal of Helspereth. Come in and I will bank the fire.”

  She left Halsey bending awkwardly before the hearth while she found clean clothing. Returning a few moments later, she wrapped herself in a thick blanket and curled into a chair before the flames.

  “I am warming some soup,” he said solicitously, “and there is bread and cheese. Not much, I’m afraid.”

  “Anything will be welcome. Only two days past I thought I should starve to death. . . . A crust would have seemed a cake then.”

  A blackened pot was suspended over the flames, and a board of cheese and bread produced. Again, Anna was surprised at how quickly her appetite was slaked. For a few moments they sat, saying nothing. Each time she looked up, Halsey was staring at her, the unspoken questions held in check only by compassion and concern for her.

  She took a long draught of wine, and then resettled herself in the chair. “It was a long journey . . .” She swallowed the last word, and continued in a near-whisper, “down into the cavern.” For a moment she closed her eyes, thinking of Banks drowned and the others buried alive. But she forced herself to go on. Forced some substance into her voice. “Long, arduous, and filled with wonders, though we had little time to stop and marvel. As we traveled, I sensed a vision, and
despite our haste, we stopped so that I might search for it. None of us believed what I saw. Not even me. . . .”

  The story took some long time to tell, and Halsey nodded in wonder again and again. When she spoke of the collapse of the cave and the murder of their companions, he rose from his chair and paced off across the room, shaking his head and raising his hand to stop her when she started to admit that he had been right. And then he came and settled painfully back into his chair and motioned for her to continue.

  When the tale was finally told, they sat watching the flames inexorably consume the logs, turning them first to glowing coals and then to ash.

  “He is a monster,” Halsey said at last. “He . . .” But the old man did not finish.

  “So he is,” Anna whispered.

  “Have you the seed still? Did you preserve it?”

  She produced the small bundle, unwrapping it with extreme care, and held it out to him. In all the years that she had known Halsey, Anna had never seen him react so. His always stiff, unreadable countenance seemed to dissolve, and his eyes glistened suddenly. For a moment he sat unmoving, not even breathing, she thought, and then he reached out slowly. But just as his hand was about to close over the seed, he drew it back, and placed it tight to his heart.

  “No. You keep it,” he said. “You risked everything to possess it. And the others . . . they made the sacrifice so that you might have it. No, it is meant to be yours.”

  “But you have talent, as well. Talent and far more knowledge. Certainly we should cultivate it and both attempt the transformation.”