by Adrian Cole
“The reckoning is not one of my choosing, alas,” sighed the Voidal. “It is what the Dark Gods demand. I am simply their vessel.”
Grabulic’s face became grave. “Then what is the price?”
The Voidal tapped the gleaming sword. “The walls of this castle will split open before the power of the released Screamers. But the sound will deafen you. For always. You also, Songster, you who play so beautifully. Those who hear the fury of the Screamers will hear no more thereafter.”
Grabulic looked mortified. “Not hear—but, I cannot pay such a price!”
“Then you must remain here.”
Kulkurakk drew in a great breath and threw out his chest. “I will pay for my freedom with my hearing if I must! I have had my fill of this place. Take me with you!”
At this the manlings voiced their uniform agreement, and soon there was only Grabulic who had not acceded. Tears had welled in his eyes as he looked down at his instrument.
The Voidal came close to him. “The castle is safe now. You can remain and be in no danger. The choice is yours: your music or unimaginable loneliness.”
Grabulic gasped. “How can the gods so abuse me! They would take from me my only pleasure. If I sacrifice my hearing, I will lose so much more. Why can they not be content with what they have already done to me?”
“What do you mean?”
Grabulic slumped. “There was once a beautiful girl, and she sang sweetly. One of the gods, infatuated by her, bestowed upon her the gift of even greater sweetness of voice, so there was no other comparable to her. In exchange he made her promise never to love anyone but him. But she met a young musician, whose music married to her voice was the envy of the world. And they fell in love. Her name was Layola.”
The manlings gaped, all of them as silent as if the sword of the Voidal had touched them.
“The god was so incensed that he imprisoned Layola within the instrument, saying to me, for I was the young musician, that now I would be together with my love. We are together, yet apart. But if I am to be made deaf, then I will be truly alone. Those who mock the gods are punished, beyond enduring.”
“I called you friend for your guidance,” said the Voidal. “It seems the Dark Gods marked my words and thus punish you. I, too, have been cursed by them. I am to go my way alone, for those who pity me are made to pay. Yet still I call you friend, Grabulic. And I say, pay this toll! When we next meet, I will seek true justice for you, for know this, we shall meet again! I will swear it on the blackest powers of every hell if I must! Do your penance, but it will not be forever.”
Grabulic clutched his Layola lovingly and nodded glumly.
The Voidal then led them all through the winding tunnels to the remote boundary of the castle. Here he drew out the Sword of Silence in readiness for the blow that would free the Screamers and open the way. But the company asked Grabulic for a last song, one they would keep in their minds, and he obliged them.
Thereafter were the walls of the Spydron’s lair shattered and the cruel powers of that tyrant were maimed, leaving the Spydron confined within itself, never to meddle in the affairs of outside again. The last sound that Grabulic heard before silence clamped down on him was the whispered voice of the Voidal.
“We shall meet again.”
Chapter III
THE UNIVERSE OF ISLANDS
You will learn what became of Grabulic in due course, provided I have whetted your appetite sufficiently enough for you to pursue this dark history.
But I must complete other pieces of the elaborate Voidal mosaic first.
Not all of the realms through which the Voidal toiled were as steeped in nightmare and torment as the hellish empires of Sedooc and the Spydron’s lair, though even the brighter regions he was cast into had their shadows. Let me speak now of one such realm, one for which I confess a particular fondness, for I have visited it myself in the past and have luxuriated in its creative excesses.
On one such self-indulgent sabbatical I met one of its more loquacious denizens and I had from it this tale of the dark man and what befell him in the Universe of Islands.
—Salecco the Irrepressible
Throughout all the strange, interwoven dimensions of what I have called the omniverse, there is no realm so unique as the Universe of Islands. Dreamed, perhaps, by some sleep-tossed, delirious god, born of his meandering whim, the Universe of Islands lies in a far flung region of the omniverse, its character, its indigenes, its laws all peculiar to itself, its single link with other dimensions the forgotten god who formed it. In other places, such as Nyctath the All-Night, the Wendlewarren and maniacal Phaedrabile, the black and airless vault of space cements the numerous worlds, but it is not so in the Universe of Islands.
For here the tissue that unites all is the Ether, which is neither air nor sea, but which combines some of the favourable properties of both most propitious to life. In this Ether, this boundless, misty ocean of salubrious matter, life spawns ever anew, for here there is warmth and light, inherent in the very essence of the Ether: it is like some macroscopic womb-fluid, nurturing its insular offspring. No suns blaze in the Universe of Islands, and no spinning globes of dead moon-rock whirl about endlessly: there are no worlds, no stars, no comets such as there are in other realms. There are only the Islands.
These are innumerable. Their variety is unlimited and as myriad as the particles of dust in any other universe. Greatest of all the Islands is the Continent at the Heart of All Things, a titanic, immeasurable mass of floating organic matter that exists principally in the myths and legends of the beings of the Universe. Many are the speculative fables and superstitions passed among lesser Islands concerning the fabulous Continent. And like a gargantuan magnet, the Continent is said to be pulling to it slowly all the numberless particles of Island throughout its Universe, like a parent drawing in its spawn.
There is such a variety of Islands that no individual knows how far they extend: I suspect even the gods are vague. There are Gaperoots, omnivorous Islands that hunt in packs, drifting together for their mutual forays, snapping up and digesting smaller, less mobile Islands—often these Gaperoots turn upon themselves, slaughtering, rending themselves uselessly to fragments; there are Viscerals, huge stomach islands that move sluggishly through the Ether, scenting out hosts of small Islands that gather communally—the Viscerals, who then begin their dread revolutions that establish an irresistible gravity, drawing into their rapacious stomachs their unfortunate prey; there are also the Poisoners, execrable Islands that move about freely, having the external appearances of places of paradise, but whose exotic surfaces trap and destroy everything that touches them; there are so many other Islands, many of which are more conducive to life than those I have named above. But other dark shapes also slip through the Ether, always avid for sustenance.
Each Island, vast or minute, is a single, living organism, mobile, sensitive and sentient. Most have millions of roots that act as propellers, guiding the Islands through the sluggish drift of the Ether. Others have huge clusters of leaves that are as versatile as sails, sweeping their Islands on at speed, catching the enigmatic aerial tides of the Ether; still others have many orifices which draw in the Ether and expel it behind, thus insufflating and exhaling at an exaggerated rate, for all things breathe the Ether. While many of the smaller Islands exist solely on the microbiotic harvest of the Ether, the larger ones feed principally on one another: some are purely cannibalistic, others produce food for parasitic Islands, some dwell in symbiotic harmony, while others support degrees of animal life which is the common prey of many. The inhabitants of the Islands (the genetic variations of which are as boundless as the Islands themselves) remain for the most part insular, confined to the world that is their Island, but there are species who bridge the Islands in a constant search for richer knowledge about the Universe.
Not all life is confined to or dependent upon the Islands: flying constantly between them in the Ether are the Snapwings, colossal, ornithic saurians that
are never still, nor ever sleep. Their diet varies, though few of these winged monsters are carnivorous; they are cartilaginous and light, yet their size often allows the lesser creatures of this Universe to dwell upon their backs, as though they, too, were temporary Islands. Thus the Snapwings have come to play a vital role in the colonising of the Universe and the spreading of the smaller species. Because of this unique mode of travel, the commonest of all genera in the Universe of Islands is Man.
I’m thirsty!” the child said petulantly, squeezing its mother’s hand hard to emphasise its words, which were a demand, not a statement. The child was plump, green-eyed, succulent with bright health. Its mother shook it irritably, looking around at the group of people who were sitting quietly and patiently, hiding their anxieties. The flora here was sparse, bent low as if in conference as to whether these people should be allowed to wait without molestation.
“Quiet, Urgollo. What little water we have, we need for the remainder of the crossing. And we have little else to give to the Tallyman for our fare. Be silent!”
A few heads turned in the girl’s direction, but nothing was said. Each of them, Pilgrims they called themselves, had his or her own reasons for being here, crossing from Island to Island, their fates temporarily in the hands of the Tallyman, he who knew the whims and impulses of the Snapwing they rode, as though his mind were mysteriously linked with that of the huge aerial creature. He was their guide, their pilot, and for the duration of the crossing, their lives were his. For a moment he had left them, tending to his self-chosen, obscure duties; his absence left a void that the minds of the Pilgrims filled with colourful speculation and soaring wings of fantasy, for the men who spent their lives as pilots of the Snapwings were a breed as secretive and unknowable as the Gods.
Shebundra, the dark-skinned, olive-eyed girl who tended the excitable child Urgollo, seemed far too young to be more than its sister, or so thought some of the Pilgrims, though they did not say this.
Why are they here? mused Abal the Farmer. I am here to seek new pastures, new Islands to seed with crops for my enterprises, and of the Pilgrims here that I know (through but a brief encounter it is true) each has his reason for travel. Zoig there seeks men to pioneer a voyage to the fabled Island of Silver, Glimmerdale, while scurrilous Krasdo flees the barbed justice of the Lomixians (may they catch the oaf). Isc of Ydril is to join those of his clan who have made a new and promising home on the peaceful Island of Waterwillow and the sallow-faced triptych there, garbed so splendidly in bright green robes, they are Hysterics, members of that odious but remarkable cult who forever seek the Heart of All Things, their ineluctable god. But the girl—she is a rare beauty! Where, I wonder, is she bound? Fleeing her spouse for a lover, perhaps? O, fortunate man if he indeed awaits her at her destination; though if I were a companion to him I would warn him of the child’s boorishness. A firm hand is required there. Still, there may yet be an opportunity to open converse with her. Only the Tallyman knows when we shall reach the next Island.
And so the Pilgrims mused on their individual thoughts. The only sound was the gentle soughing of the hair-trees; above them the endless vault of misty green seemed motionless, though they knew the Snapwing never ceased its movement and thus must always feed (and glad they were that it found vegetable fare ample). One of the Pilgrims kept himself apart from the rest: it was true that each had his own course to pursue and that friendships forged on such crossings were rarely lasting, but it was not uncommon for Pilgrims to gather together and share the mutual strength of unity. This Pilgrim, however, had shown no inclination to bind himself to them in any way, no matter how superficial. He preferred to sit alone and brood deeply, for his eyes centred on a tuft of hair-grass before him as though in study of its vibrating cilia.
Abal the Farmer turned to look him over. He saw before him a man garbed outlandishly for this realm of light and warmth, for the stranger wore only black garments. His legs were clad in dark leather, his shirt woven of an unknown material, black as pitch and conceivably the webbing of an arachnid, while his hands were always hidden from the light by gloves of equally dark material. Beside him he had temporarily discarded a cloak, and by its lightless colour it suggested a cold embrace. Abal considered himself a jolly man, for all the hardships of his roving existence, and it would not have been out of character for him to have made subtle jest of the strange man’s morbid habiliment. Yet there was that about him, a force as dark and suggestive of the unnatural as his clothing that prompted no such taunt. Abal left the stranger to his thoughts, which seemed as dark, and turned his own once more to the delectable girl with the child. He winked at it.
Presently there came through the monadelphous hair-tree a short, stocky man whose arms and legs suggested that he had been seeded and grown more in the nature of a tree himself than a normal man. He was the Tallyman, whose entire life had been spent here on the undulating tracts of the Snapwing’s back. He screwed up his already wrinkled, comical face, spreading yet more lines like latticed bark and stood in the midst of the Pilgrims.
“Your journey will soon be at an end, for a group of Islands is barely visible on our forward horizon. If you will prepare your fares, I will receive them now.” Earlier, at embarkation, the Pilgrims had agreed their fares: water was the most precious commodity to the Tallyman, for though the Snapwing occasionally passed through the vapour clouds that drifted like the Islands through the Universe, their dew lingered only briefly on the growths here. The Tallyman was, however, able to procure enough sustenance from his unusual surroundings. As he gathered up the water pods and various trinkets and valuables that the Pilgrims paid over to him, he was thinking what a poor lot they were—and so few of them.
Abal the Farmer was again looking to the jet-clad stranger, who had not moved and who watched serenely. He had arrived here late, keeping aloof. The Tallyman had temporarily placed his fares in a small heap and now came before the silent figure. “I do not recall your embarking,” he growled.
The stranger looked up at his gnarled face, his own expression vaguely bemused. “No. Nothing of this place is familiar to me.”
“The Islands draw near. How will you pay me?”
The dark man sighed. “I have very little. What would you have?”
But the Tallyman had already cast a covetous glance at the jewelled ebon scabbard and the protruding sword haft that rested alongside the stranger’s thigh. The latter saw the greedy look and a subtle smile flickered for the briefest of instants on his gaunt features.
“Perhaps you desire this?” he said, unstrapping the weapon and then holding it out in its sinister black sheath. The eyes of the Tallyman gleamed and his trembling fingers stretched out tentatively. Every one of the Pilgrims watched in silence. Then one of the green-robed Hysterics leapt forward.
“Touch it not! Infamous, blasphemous thing! Leave it be, Tallyman, or your soul will bear its stigma until the very day the Heart claims you.”
At this shrieked outburst the Tallyman’s fingers curled back like scorched paper, as though the sword were a bar of red hot iron. Its darkness rippled, ominous.
“No need to fear,” said the stranger.
“Keep your sword,” grunted the Tallyman, reaching a brief decision.
The stranger nodded sardonically and strapped it back against his thigh. “What else will you have of me?”
Abal the farmer, intrigued by this most unusual of exchanges, had inadvertently shuffled closer. His burning curiosity prompted him to interject. “Pardon me, but I have heard it said of the Tallymen that they enjoy a good tale and that from a travelling Bard they crave no more than a finely rendered ballad for his passage. Perhaps you should ask of this wanderer a tale, a portion of his history, for he is certainly no ordinary man.” He made a bow to the dark man.
The Tallyman considered this with a grunt and a nod; he scowled at the stranger. “How do you answer that?”
“It is a small fee. Ask what you will, though you may be disappointed.”
“It is unwise to traffic with this lightless creature!” hissed the spokesman for the Hysterics, drawing back to his companions. But the Tallyman snorted, for they were indeed a hysterical sect, bowed under the weight of their dogma. He nodded to the man before him.
“Very well. Who are you, where are you from, and for what Island are you bound?” he asked.
Abal the Farmer remained close at hand, for he had no intention of forgoing the opportunity of hearing what must certainly be a bizarre story. Zoig, too, the adventurous fortune-seeker, kept well within earshot. Here, he thought, may be a man to join my cause. Others were not too anxious to know secrets that may be harmful. Krasdo quietly comforted himself with a sac of mead.
Now the man in black began his tale. “There is little to relate. You ask who I am: I have no name, no identity. You ask where I am from: I am from many places yet can recall them only vaguely. You ask where I go: I cannot tell you. Both my destiny and my soul have been stolen from me.”
At once the Hysterics, who had been slyly listening, began wailing and moaning in a most despondent manner, like feral treerunners, those wild cat-beings of the tropical Isles of Bubuji. The Tallyman shuddered, himself as nervous as a treerunner, while both Abal and Zoig exchanged glances of unease.
“Once,” continued the stranger, “I visited some grave mischief upon the Dark Gods, the shadows behind the walls of this bright Universe. My lot is to wander and sail the tides of their whim. I have eyes to see, but I stumble in darkness.”
The Hysterics had subsided, now drawn away into a secret conclave, muttering orisons and incantations to their supreme deity, the Continent at the Heart of All Things.
Abal the Farmer was greatly fascinated by the sorrowful words of the stranger. He leaned forward, speaking for the Tallyman, who nodded furiously to mask his puzzlement.
“You say you do not know where you have come from?” said Abal.
“I was dreaming. Tortured visions in which I saw many things, many places. Worlds and dimensions beyond this Universe. Perhaps some of them exist only in my mind. I have clung to shards of the dreams, for they are part of my past. When I awoke, I found myself here, among you good people.”
