Elfland

by Freda Warrington

“Lawrence . . . We were going to start a new life.”

  “Unfortunately, the old is still here.” He spoke grimly, unable to look at her chiding, disappointed face. Her frustration was a powerful force, but it left him unmoved. “I must bear this burden alone. However hard I try to explain, you will never truly understand. You can’t.”

  “Well, you told me a human wife was what you needed. If you now consider it a problem, you should have married another Aetherial.” He felt her withdraw, quietly hurt and matching his chilliness. “No, I can’t understand, Lawrence. Not unless you learn to trust me.”

  Coolly she slipped away and left him alone on the lip of the Abyss.

  Rosie approached her father’s study with the sensation that the oak-paneled corridor was lengthening as she walked. Lucas was at her side. It was the day after the party, and all morning they’d been gathering courage to ask their questions. Echoing from another part of the house came the clear sweet notes of her mother’s harp, an eerie lament. Light shone from the half-open door and she could hear her father moving about, humming to himself.

  As she pushed open the door to his sanctuary, the noises stopped. There was no one there. Only an empty desk, a large black book lying in the spotlight of a desk lamp.

  Lucas walked to the desk and touched the book’s leather binding. “The Book of Sepheron. I’ve seen this before.”

  Rosie looked over his shoulder and realized that she’d seen it, too. There was a five-pointed star embossed in silver on the cover, a pentagram superimposed on a spiral. At the top point was the word Asru. Moving clockwise, the word at the next point was Elysion. Sibeyla and Naamon labeled the two points of the base. Moving up again, the word at the left-hand point was Melusiel. And back up to Asru again. The words were also interconnected by the straight lines of the pentagram.

  She noticed that the spiral was double. As the line reached the center, it turned on itself and came out again; and at the outside, it curved to recommence its inward journey.

  “Oh, this book!” she gasped. As Luc opened the cover, she saw the diagram repeated in black ink on the frontispiece, and below it the words in curling script, A translation by Auberon Fox. The paper was handmade, thick and untrimmed. “When did we see it before?”

  “We sneaked in here when we were small,” said Lucas. “It was on the desk. Then Dad came and told us off and took it away. I don’t know why, I couldn’t understand a word of it anyway.”

  Remembering, she felt a guilty thrill. “Does it make sense now?”

  He began to read out loud. “ ‘First there was the Cauldron, the void at the beginning and end of time. As if the void brooded upon its own emptiness, a spark appeared like a thought in the blackness. That spark was the Source. For the first time or the ten millionth time—we can never know—the Source exploded in an outrush of starfire.

  “ ‘As the star-streams cooled they divided and took on qualities each according to its own nature: stone and wind, fire and water and ether. From those primal energies, all worlds were formed.

  “ ‘On that outrush came Estel the Eternal, also called Lady of Stars, who created herself with that first spark of thought. Her face is the night sky, her hair a milky river of stars. For eons Estel presided over the birth of the sun and planets and hidden realms. She watched as the Earth roiled with liquid rock and white-hot fires, until the molten torrents birthed Qesoth: a vast elemental of fire and lava. Qesoth brought with her a dark twin, Brawth, a giant shadow that breathed ice. These two fought battles that shook the planet until Estel, to make them cease, took a great rock and smashed Qesoth into pieces. Her shadow twin Brawth dissipated with her, scattering fragments of fire and ice that rained into the boiling oceans. Those fragments seethed with wild energy and rose to become the first Aetherials, who were called Estalyr; forged in fire, washed in rain and infused with the breath of life.

  “ ‘At first, Earth had only its Estalyr name: Vaeth. Woven of star and sun, ocean and storm, those primal Estalyr were the first sentient manifestations of pure energy unable to contain its urge for life. Curious and watchful, they bestrode the infant Vaeth like divinities. They were the color of night, darkest indigo, with sun-golden eyes that saw into other layers of reality.

  “ ‘The primal Estalyr shaped the Spiral. Like spiders spinning silk they wove new realities from the raw materials. That is how the Otherworld came to be a reflection of Earth, for they were woven of the same substance. Siblings.’ ”

  Rosie was spellbound by Luc’s light, gentle voice. Closing her eyes, she thought, I know this. In the spaces when Luc paused, a strong pure voice began to sing the story in counterpoint; her mother’s voice, far away but clear.

  The blackest point of heaven,

  The swirling cup of blood

  Poured forth its life,

  Poured forth its fire

  Blinded angels with its force,

  The womb of us,

  The source of us,

  The Source.

  “ ‘The Estalyr freely wandered all the realms. As life evolved upon Earth, the Estalyr changed too, tasting the new life of vegetation and animals, taking the qualities that enriched us. We became the fully living yet semidivine other-race; Aetherials. We became proud, ruling all the realms like angels walking in Eden or gods in Valhalla. We answered to no authority except our own—why worship divinities when we are divine?’ ”

  The shifting enchantments of song and prose turned her dizzy. When her father’s voice broke in, she and Lucas nearly hit the ceiling in shock.

  “Hardly the best-written translation of our origins, but I was aiming for clarity.”

  Auberon was sitting on the leather couch behind the door as if he’d been there all the time. As they turned to him, the room transformed into a dazzling space without boundaries. A great tree stood where wall and door should have been; the couch was one of its thick roots. Rosie clearly saw her father in a different shape, robed in crimson, green and brown, a proud and powerful fox deity enthroned on the Tree of Life.

  Oakholme was never predictable.

  “That’s a book you’re meant to read when you turn sixteen,” he said. “Don’t try now, it goes on and on.”

  As he spoke, he became their father again. The other-form remained visible, a translucent cloak, but she could see the kind eyes behind his glasses, the unruly black hair and beard, the rosy apples of his cheeks. She let her breath go in relief. He’d been waiting for them. “Dad, we came to ask you something.”

  “I know. Sit down. You want to know about last night.”

  They obeyed, sitting cross-legged on the satiny roots, Luc cradling the book. Rosie hesitated. Matthew’s dire warning made her nervous, as much as it had spurred her into action. “The secret meeting of Aetherials—we didn’t imagine it, did we?”

  Auberon looked amused and disapproving. “No, you didn’t.”

  “We weren’t supposed to be there, were we?”

  “Not strictly speaking, but never mind, it’s done now.”

  “So what’s going on?” Rosie asked simply. “We’re not children anymore.”

  Auberon inclined his head. He was more bear than fox, she thought, solid and protective. “We normally keep the full story until you’re sixteen. It’s a delicate matter, when we live in the mortal world, knowing how much to tell our children.”

  Rosie smiled. “So we don’t gossip at school and get labeled as weird? I think it’s too late for me, Dad.”

  She loved the way his eyes twinkled when she made him laugh. “Well, that’s part of it. Tell me what you know, then I’ll know how best to answer.”

  Rosie sat up straight. She hadn’t expected to be put on the spot. “Only what you and Mum have told us. We’re of an older race . . . we look human so that we can live among them . . . we can step into the Dusklands . . . and I thought I knew everything, but obviously I don’t.”

  Auberon smiled. “Some humans know or suspect we dwell among them, but most have no idea.”

  “If t
hey knew, they might be jealous or afraid of us?” Rosie put in.

  “True, and good reason for being discreet about our nature. The inhabitants of Cloudcroft view us as the locals who’ve been here the longest, still clinging to ancient festivals that exclude outsiders. We gather in Cloudcroft because the Ancients sited the Great Gates here—and that happened because the borders were thin here.”

  “But we can go into the Dusklands anytime,” said Luc. “What do we need Gates for?”

  “The Great Gates guard the deeper realms, which we call the Spiral, where curious Vaethyr fledglings have been known to vanish.” There was a grave note in his voice. “The inner realms are not safe, not for the uninitiated.”

  Rosie and Lucas exchanged a look that burned with questions. Every word their father said seemed to stir a lost memory, unraveling everything she’d been certain of. She murmured, “And the Dusklands are separate from the Spiral, how?”

  “Think of the Dusklands as part of the Earth,” said Auberon. “It’s like a veil over reality, or an extra dimension that only Aetherials can perceive—and a few sensitive humans, who might call it the land of Faerie. It’s a warping of perception, a mirage over the landscape on burning hot days or at dawn or dusk; transitional times. It’s usually benign, but occasionally, when it becomes deeper and darker and less friendly, we call it Dumannios.”

  “Like the difference between dreams and nightmares?” said Lucas.

  “That’s a fair comparison. It is somewhat like the realm of the subconscious—only, to us, it’s real. If you approached an Aetheric portal while in the surface world, it would look like a natural feature, say a rock, a hollow tree or a spring. Only if you entered the Dusklands would you see the way through.”

  “To the Otherworld?” Rosie asked softly.

  “One distinguishing feature of our ancestors, the Estalyr, was that they could perceive dimensions of which humans aren’t aware. It’s said that, although they didn’t actually create the Spiral, they shaped it from the raw material of those hidden layers.” Auberon’s voice was low, his eyes introspective. He was talking to them as equals, as true Aetherials, at last. “Pass through the Great Gates and you find yourself in Elysion, the first inner realm. The realms are easy to remember; think of the five-pointed star, and the five elements; Elysion is associated with earth, Sibeyla with air, Naamon with fire, Melusiel with water and Asru, with ether or spirit. Asru is the innermost realm, the most elusive and mysterious. It’s Asru we’re drawn to as we grow older. It contains mysteries such as the Spiral Court, the Mirror Pool, and the Abyss itself.”

  Rosie felt a chill roll down her spine like black ice. Although she didn’t understand all he was telling her, she felt she’d grown up very suddenly. “Have you been there, Dad?”

  “Not yet.” He smiled slightly. “To the other realms, yes, and many times to Elysion; the Fox clan originates from Elysion, the realm of earth and rock. But . . .”

  Rosie saw that he was struggling with how much to tell them. Lucas broke in and gave him a way to continue. “So, do any Aetherials live in the Spiral? Or do we just go there to die?”

  “What made you think that?” He gave Luc a half-amused, admonishing look. “No, it’s a real, living place. The Aetherials who live on that side are called Aelyr, but they’re quite remote from us now. They’re scattered in city-states, like the network of ghostly spired cities that they once built across prehistoric Earth. Others live in rural or nomadic fashion . . . Aetherials were never much for central authority or laws, although there was a time when Naamon, the realm of fire, rose up to conquer the inner realms. The great Queen Malikala of Naamon ruled for centuries until one Lady Jeleel of Melusiel led a rebellion against her. The story is that Jeleel’s son, Sepheron, became Malikala’s lover, and betrayed her. He kept her from the battlefield, thus giving his mother, Jeleel, a chance.”

  “Wow, he must have been persuasive,” said Rosie, imagining Sepheron with long flowing hair, like Jon. All at once, she heard Jessica singing:

  Fingers blue as sea or dew

  He wound into her fiery hair

  And moist as rain his comely face

  And fair moist lips he placed near hers,

  And whispered, “Maliket of Fire,

  The golden rivers of the sun

  Cannot compare, cannot compare

  With richer glories of your hair—

  And thus the time has fled that we

  Have idled on your fiery couch.

  My mother’s armies—oh, the clock

  Betrayed us—oh, your face turns cold—

  Her armies on the desert gold

  Face yours, and there she lifts her staff

  To strike the stone, to strike the rock . . .

  She became dizzy, trying to capture both her mother’s voice and her father’s at the same time. The room whirled with flowers of light.

  “After Naamon’s empire ended, the realms fell into their usual chaotic state of self-rule. On Vaeth, Earth itself, different Aetherial branches such as the Felynx had established civilizations while mankind was still evolving. They must have appeared godlike to humans; you can see their footprint in legends about angels, elves, vanished races. Sadly they lacked divine foresight to predict how humans would swell in numbers and aggression. They simply weren’t prepared. Eventually, human tribes overwhelmed Aetherial civilization and it fell. Driven out, they flooded back to the Spiral. Unfortunately, they’d grown too used to dominating Vaeth. Their leader, one Jharag the Red, last of the Felynx, decided he would conquer the Otherworld instead. The Aelyr formed a hurried alliance to defend their freedom, led by the extraordinary Lady Violis, an archmanipulator of the fabric of the Spiral. The legends say that battle raged on the borders of Vaeth and Elysion—not with weapons, but with the raw matter of creation itself. Earthquakes and volcanoes, ice, storms and floods. The war went on until it seemed the fabric of the Spiral would be torn apart.”

  Auberon sat forward, folding his hands. “Finally, the elder Aetherials who had long ago passed into Asru stirred themselves to intervene. They formed the Spiral Court to keep watch and curb such conflict. They decreed that the damage would be limited by forming a seal between Earth and the Otherworld. The barrier was porous, with many portals which were to be controlled by one great master portal, the Great Gates. All sides were so shaken by the war that they agreed. Lady Violis and many other adepts labored for years before the work was complete; there were objectors, of course, but in the end the Spiral Court had its way. And there the Great Gates stand, much weathered by time; a guard against conflict, and a statement of will to peace. Also, it’s quite hard to mount an invasion when your army can only squeeze through one at a time.”

  Lucas grinned at the image. “But Aetherials were still allowed to cross over?”

  “No one was forbidden to move either way, but many had ‘gone native,’ as it were, and preferred the human world. We’re all Aetherial, but those who live on Earth are called Vaethyr and those who dwell in the Spiral are called Aelyr. Since we tend to absorb the qualities of the life around us as camouflage, we have taken on humanoid bodies and lives. After our early civilization fell we went into hiding, but if you know how to look you can see Aetheric hands all through history . . . Aetherials have been there all the time, adepts at manipulation and secrecy. When we enter the Dusklands, or the Spiral itself, our true selves begin to be revealed . . . but that really is a talk for another time.”

  “And Lawrence controls the Gates.” Lucas frowned as if trying to remember something.

  “Twenty years in the post,” said Auberon. “He succeeded his grandmother Liliana, who was a hard act to follow, as it were. He’s always seemed troubled in the role . . . concerned about doing a good job, perhaps, but where she was easygoing, Lawrence has been controlling and has alienated many. The term gate is misleading. The structure is really more of a labyrinth, a configuration of different passageways. Usually, most of it is kept closed, with only a tiny way called the Lych
gate left open for us to come and go as we please.”

  “Oh, that’s why you kept it secret.” Rosie’s eyes widened. “So that we didn’t try to sneak through!”

  “And you won’t be sneaking through anytime soon.” Auberon had that dark, troubled look again. “There’s a festival that falls every seven years, the Night of the Summer Stars, at which the Gatekeeper flings the Great Gates wide open. Five years ago, without warning, Lawrence stopped the ritual and refused to open the Gates. He drove us off in a regrettably aggressive fashion that many can’t forgive. We found that he’d closed even the Lychgate against us. Sealing the Great Gates like that locks all portals, everywhere. No one can go in or out.”

  “He kept saying it was too dangerous,” Rosie murmured, recalling the meeting. “People didn’t seem to believe him.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” her father said quietly.

  “Can’t you appoint a new Gatekeeper?” asked Lucas.

  “It’s not a job you can apply for.” Auberon chuckled. “It’s a power granted in higher realms. Also, he is a guardian who must be trusted. He can’t be forcibly removed. Celebrating the Night of the Summer Stars is an incredibly important tradition. Losing it is painful, but the prospect of losing contact with the Spiral altogether is devastating. Many Vaethyr are angry but Lawrence refuses to back down; and here we are; stalemate.”

  Rosie felt a cold, pale pressure in her solar plexus, as if she might faint. Eyes closed, she felt herself swooping over an unknown landscape, the Abyss yawning beneath her as she curved in flight and plunged downwards. Her whole body jerked and her eyes flew open. In the same moment, Lucas uttered a cry.

  “What did you see?” their father asked gently.

  “I don’t know,” she gasped. “I feel I already know everything you’ve told us, but I can’t quite grab the memory. Like a nightmare where you’re in an exam and can’t answer a single question.”

  “The hill beside Stonegate,” said Lucas. “The rocks called Freya’s Crown. They’re the Gates.”