The Medusa Plague tdom-2

by Mary Kirchoff

  Bram's face lit with sudden understanding. "I've wondered some mornings about finding gleaming pitchforks and shovels when I left dirty ones in the garden the night before," he breathed. Bram leaned back from the fire. "So how long have you been helping me?"

  Thistledown leaned toward Burdock. "Time has no meaning for us," he announced at length. "We have aided you longer ago than yesterday, but less than we will have tomorrow. This is the first time Burdock, Milkweed and I have been sent as a troop to aid you."

  Bram blinked. "How many tuatha are there?"

  Thistledown turned again to his companions before speaking. "1 daresay we tuatha outnumber you humans."

  "I'm surprised, then, that I never saw even one of you before," observed Bram.

  "We did not want you to see us until now," Thistledown said simply. "We live in the faerie realm, beyond human sight. In this place where earthly magic once flourished, your thoughts were particularly resonant in our realm. That is why King Weador sent us to give you aid."

  Bram used the toe of a new boot to nudge the un- burned ends of a log into the flames. "Unless you have a ship and a full crew," he said, "I can't see that you can do anything to help me get to Wayreth."

  "You could be there in no time if you took the faerie road," suggested Thistledown.

  Bram waited for the tuatha man to explain, but as usual, Thistledown stared at him expectantly "What's a faerie road?" the nobleman asked at length.

  Once again, Thistledown conferred with his colleagues. "Burdock reminds me that the faerie road is like time. It looks different to every human who traverses it, and decidedly different to you than it does to us tuatha. It will magically allow you to travel great distances in a matter of heartbeats."

  Thistledown turned to Milkweed, who dug into a pouch and extracted a small object she then pressed into the speaker's waiting palm.

  "Here's your coin," said Thistledown. A gold coin of unfamiliar design glinted brightly in the light of the white moon.

  Bram stared at the gold piece in Thistledown's palm. "I don't understand. Why are you paying me?"

  The tuatha man flipped the coin in his small, pale hand. 'This is milled faerie gold, the coin of our realm," he explained. "Only those invited to Wayreth may find its twin towers; the coin will serve as invitation. In addition, it will offer you protection in the faerie land, but only if you keep the coin with you and never stray from the main road."

  "What happens if I step from that path or lose the coin?"

  "You'll either be struck dead or kept hostage in some horrible fashion," Thistledown responded promptly.

  "What if I meet up with bandits along the way and it's stolen from me?"

  "The bandit who touches it without your leave will be struck dead."

  "Hmmm." Bram stroked his chin thoughtfully. "What if I choose to spend it along the way for food, or I simply lose it, or I give it up to save my life?"

  "Dead, dead, and dead."

  Bram pursed his lips in dismay. "1 should risk my life on this road?"

  Thistledown looked east toward the cliff that overlooked Hillfort. "Only you can decide which of your options is the greater risk to you or the villagers for whom you feel a duty. I can assure you that you will be perfectly safe on the faerie road //you bide my warn- ings."

  Bram looked toward Hillfort and knew the answer he must give. "How do I get to this faerie road?" he asked. "Is it far?"

  "As near as here." Thistledown reached over to touch a finger, light as a feather, cool as running water, to Bram's right temple. "You have but to take the coin and speak aloud the name of your destination. A road will appear before you."

  Bram stood, collected his belt and small pouch, then reached for the golden coin in Thistledown's hand. To his surprise, the tuatha man drew his own hand back.

  "Remember," he admonished, "neither stray from the main road, nor give away the coin while in the faerie realm. Only the third fork to the left will take you to Wayreth."

  Milkweed abruptly pulled Thistledown's ear to her lips again. "We have been advised to also tell you that when you reach Wayreth, you're to give the coin to a man named Par-Salian, and Par-Salian only. It will prove you took the faerie road, for the only humans to possess such a coin in your world are those who have safely traveled that road in ours."

  That said, Thistledown placed the coin in Bram's waiting palm. The minted gold felt unexpectedly warm and heavy and bore the symbol of a disk that was half sun, half moon. On the other side was an image that Bram assumed was that of King Weador. Bram clasped the coin tightly as he gave a warm smile that took in all three tuatha, even the ones who'd never spoken to him. "Will I see you again after I return from Wayreth?"

  Bram saw Thistledown's lips move frantically for one brief second, but he could hear no sound coming from them. He blinked once, twice, before realizing he'd unwittingly uttered the name of his destination. In the third blink of the nobleman's eye, the chilly hillside in Northern Ergoth gave way to a lush, green forest.

  Bram had entered the realm of the tuatha.

  Bram's first thought was to keep the faerie coin safe, so he slipped it into a small inner pocket just beneath the drawstring that held up his brown trousers. Only then did he let himself look at his surroundings.

  The road beneath his feet, crafted of interlocking blocks of stone worn or carved flat, was the smoothest he'd ever felt. This was no Ergothian dirt path riddled with wagon ruts and potholes of frozen water. His eyes followed its flat, gently curving ways around broad, gnarled trees and protruding boulders.

  Above the road the green canopy was thick and close on all sides, making the path resemble a dark tunnel. The trees were a variety he didn't recognize, with broad, flat, oval leaves, some variegated with whorls of white, the rest a solid, blackish green. The bark was smooth and gray like that of a young maple, broken only by huge gnarls where once branches had grown. The underbrush was thick with thorny holly and rosy barberry bushes and a host of common roadside weeds, though how any of them received enough light through the canopy was a puzzle to Bram. Occasional thin slivers of bright blue limned the uppermost leaves, suggesting that somewhere above a sky and a sun existed. Unlike Stonecliff, the air was as warm as Ergoth in the month of Corij.

  Strangely, it was a cheery forest in a dark, well- manicured sort of way. It looked neither magical nor foreboding as Thistledown's description of a death- dealing place would suggest.

  Bram's fingertips traveled to the hidden pocket in his trousers for reassurance. Through the fabric he could feel the small, round outline of the faerie coin. Bram flung the heavy lapels of his winter cloak over his shoulders, looped the strap of his pack from waist to opposite collar bone, then set off down the road at a brisk pace.

  He had not walked very far before he noticed that the forest was strangely silent, so silent he began to hear only his own footsteps. No birds sang, no squirrels chittered or shook the underbrush at the sound of his approach. Bram found himself self-consciously stepping so lightly that his heels made no noise to break the unnatural silence.

  The road cut through a copse of draping, willowlike trees when the strange whispering began. Bram spun around, looking for the source of a vague, distant mumbling.

  "Hello?" There was no one in sight behind or ahead of him on the road, nor could he see anyone among the denseness of the trees. He thought it odd that while no breeze lifted his hair, the thin, golden vines of the surrounding trees wafted in some mysterious wind.

  "Is anyone here?" he called again. His voice echoed back at him three times, but there came no answering call. Just the odd whispering. He looked more closely at the unfamiliar variety of tree that surrounded him. The leaves were long, pink-tinged, and slightly humped in the middle. Though they looked vaguely like willow leaves, what each resembled more aptly was a delicate pair of lips.

  The strange muttering began to grate on Bram's nerves, and he hastened down the road, hoping to escape the irritating noise. He left the odd copse of trees
behind, and the whispering gradually receded. Bram began to relax.

  It was only a matter of moments, however, before he spotted a flock of flamingo-sized birds perched on a single, bowed branch to the right of the path. With bodies of pink feathers and heads of orange fur, they watched him pass as one, five sets of yellow eyes glowing like small suns. They seemed more disturbing than dangerous, yet Bram picked up his pace to pass them quickly.

  He had not walked very much farther when he heard a child's voice, thin and reedy, up ahead. The child sounded frantic and in need of help, so Bram broke into a run. His eyes searched the shrubs, looking for the owner of the plaintive voice.

  The road curved gently to the right, and a narrow fork, obscured by tall brush, abruptly appeared on his left. Bram stopped at the turn and peered down the smaller path for the source of the voice. Several paces away was a small child, no more than ten years of age. The child wore a grubby, ripped, pink tunic that hung past its knobby knees and brushed the tops of the rags that wrapped its feet. Pale yellow hair dangled in limp, tangled ropes to the shoulders. Bram could not be certain if the child was a boy or a girl.

  "Please!" the child cried. "You must help me. My mother is trapped beneath a log near our home, and I haven't the strength with my girlish arms to move it off her. She's been there for some time and near to blue, sir."

  Bram hesitated, peering down the path behind the girl, then back to the main road Thistledown had instructed him to take.

  Seeing his reluctance, the young girl dropped to her knees. "Please, sir," she begged, holding up clenched hands, "with your muscles, it will take but moments to move the log that traps my mother."

  Bram squinted again over her shoulder, looking for a cottage or any other sign of life behind the girl, but all he saw was a path much narrower than the one on which he stood, as dark and confining as a tomb. "Where's your father?" he asked her.

  "He's in the forest, beyond the sound of my voice," she said. "The forest is thick and dark near our cottage. He left to chop some holes to the sky."

  Bram could make no sense of any of this. "How did your mother come to fall beneath a log?"

  The girl had begun to wring her hands. "She wanted to help my father by trimming some trees near our cabin. I warned her not to, for fear a log would strike our little home, but she wouldn't listen." She looked frantically over her shoulder yet again. "It's not very far to our cabin, just around that first bend."

  Torn with indecision, Bram ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the road beneath her feet, a path of sorts. He'd been warned to take the third fork to the left, not the first. Somehow he knew the reason Thistledown had not mentioned any exceptions to the rule was because there were none.

  "Please, sir," the girl beseeched him, palms pressed together. "I fear this hesitation may have already made it too late to save her. We could not survive without my mother."

  Bram looked into her pale golden eyes and found them strangely unmoved, considering her desperate words. "Have you any rope?" he asked suddenly.

  The question surprised her. "I suppose that we do."

  "You'll need a long piece, more than twice the length of the thickest branch nearest your mother," he said quickly. "Throw one end of the rope over the branch, then tie both ends around the log that pins her. Establish a good foothold, then tug the rope sideways with all your might. The log should lift enough for your mother to roll to safety."

  "But I told you I'm not strong enough to lift the log!" Her eyes were narrowing in anger.

  "The pulley will supply enough strength," Bram reassured her, "but if you still have trouble, hitch the rope to a farm animal and let it help you lift the log." Bram watched her closely. "It is all that I would be able to do, I'm afraid." He thought for a moment. "I could give you some herbs that would ease the soreness your mother will feel, if you'd like."

  The young girl stomped a rag-covered foot peevishly, her helpless demeanor gone. "What I'd like is for you to come and help me!"

  Startled by the change, Bram backed away. "I'm sorry, but I'm in a great hurry," he said. Hastily wishing her luck, he nodded his head politely. When he looked up again, he saw something that nearly froze his feet to the stone path.

  On the dark and narrow branch to the left was an enormous, buglike creature with six legs that ended in razor-sharp hooks. Above its fearsome facial mandibles were eyes the color of shiny amber. The thing was at least twice Bram's size. Beneath its yellow shell, its belly was incongruously pink and soft-looking.

  Bram turned and ran down the main path. He couldn't be sure if the pounding steps he heard in his head came from the monster in pursuit or his own pulse pumping in his ears. He wanted to look back but dared not. Rounding a curve around a thick tree, he stole a half glance over his right shoulder. The fork was again obscured by shrubs, and the enormous thing was no longer in sight.

  Bram bent at the waist, grabbed his knees, and drew in great gulps of air to catch his breath and slow his heart. He had a stitch in his side, and beads of sweat ran from his forehead and puddled above his lip. He quickly reached for the coin in the pocket at his waist and sighed in relief to find it still in place.

  Bram continued on for some time. The road seemed to go on forever. The next bend was always just a few dozen paces ahead, holding out the promise of a destination. But around each bend was another bend, in a pattern that soon became monotonous, then tedious, and finally, downright irksome.

  Hunger began to rumble in Bram's stomach, then slice clean through to his backbone. Without stopping, he pushed up the flap on his pouch and withdrew a rubbery carrot. Using his trousers like a strop, he wiped the root to remove the fine gritty dirt that hid under bumps and defied even a water washing. Bram wrenched off a too-soft bite of the root. It was tasteless and did nothing to ease the gnawing pain in his gut.

  He spit the mouthful into the shrubbery and tossed the rest of the carrot after it.

  Rounding another gentle bend, he scrubbed a finger to his teeth, wishing he had even a swallow of water to wash the grit and small, tasteless pieces from between his teeth.

  "Yoo-hoo!"

  Bram's head snapped up, and he was instantly on his guard. He followed the voice to his right and blinked in surprise at the sight. A stout, apple-cheeked elderly couple sat on the stoop of a quaint little cottage. Their wrinkled and pleasantly weathered faces were ringed by long yellow hair that showed no signs of gray. Both wore simple but colorful homespun clothes, adorned with beautifully embroidered suspenders, waist belts, aprons, and stockings. The man appeared to be carving faces on the handle of a large serving spoon while the woman shelled peas.

  Bram stood in stoop-shouldered weariness and could not keep a jealous sigh from escaping his lips as he looked upon the food and the handsome cottage of neatly tuck-pointed stone and plaster. The thatch atop it was clean and yellow-new, with gentle arches above curved, stained-glass dormers. Before it, the shrubs had been cleared away to make room for beautifully tended raised beds of vegetables and flowers, with all the variety of Nahamkin's garden and none of the chaos. Yellow and white moths fluttered above flowering sweet peas, lush, ripe tomatoes, and minty-green cabbages the size of small boulders. Climbing roses of every color scaled the walls to encircle the second-floor dormers. The air smelled strongly of sweet-burning cherry wood and meaty stew.

  "Hello, stranger," said the couple in unison.

  "You look near to dropping," the woman observed kindly. "We have plenty of stew, fresh-baked bread, and dark-brewed ale, though we are not blessed with children to share it. You would be most welcome to join us for a moment or an hour to ease your journey, wherever you may be headed."

  'That's very kind," Bram said, "but-"

  "They say I'm a pretty fair cook," the woman coaxed, a modest smile lifting her fleshy cheeks and crinkling shut her eyes.

  "Fair?" boomed her husband, patting his round stomach. "There isn't a better one for leagues, I'll wager. Actually, there isn't another cook for leagues,"
he confided with a chuckle. "This is a lonely stretch of road, but my Gorsha would be the best cook even if the path was littered with a dozen cottages."

  Bram suddenly felt as if he'd been traveling without food for days. He shook his head sadly. "I can't tell you how much you tempt me, but to be honest, I was told not to leave the path for any reason, and-"

  The man waved his hand as if to dismiss the notion. "That's just a myth the brownies spread to frighten folks and make themselves laugh," he said. "People leave the trail all the time. Unlike the brownies, who are always taking a person's food, my wife and I ask for nothing but the pleasure of giving sustenance to weary travelers like yourself."

  Bram was jarred by the man's use of the dreaded 'brownie" word. Suspicious, he looked back to where he'd come from, remembering the bug creature. "Perhaps," he said slowly, so as not to offend the couple, "but I've had a close call myself, without even leaving the path."

  That's unfortunate," the husband said sympathetically, "but the world's a dangerous place wherever you are."

  "Why do you stay here, so far from everyone, if you're lonely?" asked Bram.

  The man raised his shoulders and spread his hands to take in his homestead. "Who could leave such beauty as this, and why would we want to? We've made it everything we've ever dreamed. It suits us, and if the price is a little loneliness, it is a small enough fee." The woman nodded silently by his side.

  Bram was sorely tempted, and it took every ounce of discipline he had to recall Thistledown's words once more. He bit his bottom lip until it hurt, then forced the words from his throat, "Thank you again, but I must be moving on."

  "As you will," said the man. He and his wife regarded Bram with pity, lifted their shoulders in resignation, and stepped back into their homey and inviting cottage.

  No doubt to have some delicious stew, Bram thought, gritting his teeth as he continued down the path. They'd made no untoward move, neither mentioned his coin, nor turned into vile creatures when he refused them.

  Bram spun around and looked at the beautiful cottage, his eyes seeking some sign of the couple. His orbs were drawn, instead, to a bright whiteness in the yard behind the small building, previously screened from his view by the cottage itself. He blinked and focused again. The whiteness came from a pile of bones-legs, arms, and skulls-piled as high as the cottage itself, and picked clean. Bram broke into a run again, thankful he had withstood another deadly temptation.