The Shadow of Malabron

by Thomas Wharton

  Calmly Finn bent, picked the first man’s knife out of the grass and tucked it into his belt. He broke the cudgels against one of the stones and tossed them on the remains of the fire.

  “You can have your camping spot back now,” he said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “There were reports of thieves in this district,” Finn said as they left the hollow. “I hope they’ll consider taking up a new trade.”

  As they returned to the road Shade trotted up. He seemed to be in high spirits, and came bounding to meet them.

  “Where were you?” Finn asked.

  “Running,” the wolf said with a wild happiness in his voice. Finn eyed him uneasily, but said nothing more.

  The road continued much as it had the day before, through farmlands and wooded stretches, but there were fewer travellers, and soon the companions found themselves alone. In the afternoon the road began to roll up and down across a line of steeper hills, and at each crest the eaves of the forest grew closer. From time to time they would pass a road leading north or south, to other inhabited parts of the Bourne. Still Shade headed west, although it was clear that he had little sense of a straight line. As they walked down the middle of the road the wolf’s path wove from one side to the other. He chased after birds, nosed around in stands of tall grass, and once frightened a rabbit out of its concealment in a willow thicket. He seemed to be having a great deal of fun, which was more than Will could say for himself.

  On the second evening they found another hidden spot not far from the road, in a grove of tall pines. Rain fell in the night, but they were sheltered by the trees and were able to keep dry, for the most part, despite what turned into a heavy downpour. Will woke up once to find that the rain had stopped. Shade sat beside him, wide awake, his ears cocked as though he was listening to something Will could not hear.

  “What is it, Shade?” Will whispered.

  “Listen,” the wolf said. Will held his breath. He could hear the soft, steady drip of raindrops falling from the needles of the pines.

  “I have not heard that song for a very long time,” Shade said.

  Will listened with him. He wondered if it was raining where Jess and his father were. He wondered if by now they had given up hope and gone on to their new home. That thought became a cold, hollow feeling that settled in his stomach and refused to fade.

  “When I told my story,” Shade said after a long silence, “you said you already knew it. How can that be?”

  “I don’t understand it either,” Will said. “Master Pendrake says that all the stories in my world come from here. But your story was … different when I heard it.”

  “How was it different?”

  “Well, you were different. You were … well, bad. You ate the little girl’s grandmother, and tried to eat the girl, too. If it was you.”

  “I see. And what happened to me in that story?”

  Will looked away from Shade’s calm, steady gaze.

  “It was not a happy ending. For the wolf. So it couldn’t have been you.”

  Shade nodded slowly.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said quietly. “Although my story isn’t over yet.”

  At dawn the next morning the travellers set out reluctantly into a cold and damp fog that took its time drawing off. Eventually the sun won through and warmed them as they walked. Birds sang and the road wove its way through low hills dotted with sweet-smelling flowers. They passed another road with a signpost that read MOLLY’S ARM, 4 MILES, and Pendrake told a funny tale about the people who lived there. They were exiled storyfolk who had once lived in houseboats on the Eastern Sea, and even now they insisted on living in boats, on dry land. Their village was on a hill overlooking the forest, and the treetops rippling in the wind had become their seascape. When they went hunting in the forest they called it fishing. Will and Rowen smiled at the story, and even Finn seemed to be enjoying the day. Will had almost forgotten where they were making for when all at once they came round a rocky hillock and there before them was the forest of Eldark.

  Will halted and stared in stunned silence. He had glimpsed the forest from a distance, but hadn’t realized how big the trees really were. Their huge trunks, some straight and smooth and others crooked and gnarled, towered far over his head, rising to vast canopies of leaves like green clouds. The fog of early morning seemed to have lingered under the trees after the sun had burned it away everywhere else. The vaults of the forest were hazy and full of shifting shadows.

  Will looked to see if there might be a more inviting way in, but the closely gathered trees made a high, dark wall running north and south as far as the eye could see.

  He suddenly felt very small.

  “That’s a forest,” he said.

  The other thing that made him go still was the hush that had fallen over the land. There was no birdsong, only a faint stirring of wind through the leaves and now and then the creak of a tree limb that only served to make the eerie quiet even more unsettling.

  “The Deep Dark Forest,” Pendrake said. “It holds as many tales as it does trees, they say.”

  Shade did not hesitate. He loped eagerly onward, and with less enthusiasm they followed him in under the gloom of the mighty trees.

  The road they had been on narrowed to a winding track. The paths of the Wood had been enticing and mysterious, but here Will had the feeling that he and his companions were being watched, and not by eyes that wished them well. There was no breeze under the dark green canopy of leaves. It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath. In places the great mossy roots of the trees reached over the path like archways, and overhead their branches seemed almost knotted together, forming a leafy vault through which the sunlight pierced in thin slanting columns.

  After they had gone a short distance they heard the shrill cry of a bird. Finn halted, put his fingers to his lips and made an answering sound. Not long after, a man appeared before them out of the shadows. He was cloaked in dappled green, with a deep hood shadowing his face. Will stepped back in alarm, but Finn raised a hand in greeting. He went to the man and they spoke together in low voices. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, the hooded man turned and melted back into the trees.

  “Fox Company reports the eaves of the forest are quiet,” said Finn. “Nothing unusual under their watch.”

  After a while the path began to wind steadily upwards, through stands of towering pine and fir. Squirrels chattered at them as they passed. The sun here was brighter, and the steep climb was hot work. Will sipped often from his water flask and quickly emptied it. Finn saw this and shared his flask with Will.

  “You have to be careful with the water,” he said. “It could be a while before we find more.”

  Dad always said the same thing whenever they went hiking, Will remembered with a pang of regret. He’d always thought it was useless advice, since they never went very far on their walks.

  At the top of the highest rise, which was open to the sky, they halted briefly to catch their breath. From this height Will was surprised to see only forest, a great rolling carpet of treetops, stretching away to the horizon in every direction. He had not imagined they had come so far into the forest already.

  They descended under the trees, and after another hour’s walk came to a narrow stone bridge over a stream. Here they refilled their flasks and rested. Shade lapped thirstily at the water, then flopped down on the bank with a contented sigh. The surface of the stream was as still and silent as glass, except where it spilled over a rock ledge. Even here the water uttered only the faintest musical trickle.

  Will turned from the stream and saw Finn near by, sitting cross-legged on a flat stone with his sword lying across his legs. The young man was so still that Will was intrigued. He came closer.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Sitting,” Finn said matter-of-factly, without looking at Will. “It’s part of our training.”

  Will grinned.

  “They teach you to just sit t
here?”

  “Sitting teaches us to be still and calm, no matter what’s happening. Then even in the thick of battle you can be like this, inside.”

  He took a deep breath and fell silent. Will stood there a moment longer, then turned abruptly and walked away along the stream. He thought he might be able to like Finn, if the young man wasn’t so… If he liked me, Will said to himself. But Finn didn’t seem to like anyone.

  Will came to a cool, shady spot where two large willow trees grew side by side. They were bowed so that the space between them, curtained with drooping catkins, looked like the mouth of a small cave. Will drew closer. He felt a sensation in his stomach like the butterflies he always got on a fairground ride. A kind of excitement and fear mixed together, with a disturbing feeling that what he did next mattered, though he didn’t know why.

  Cautiously he peered into the dim space between the trees. There didn’t seem to be any danger. And in fact he could see a leafy flicker of sunlight in the depths of the shadows. A few steps and he would be on the other side of this little cave of branches. It would only take a moment.

  He ducked under the twined arms of the willows and down into a damp, dark hollow, brushing thick bunches of drooping leaves out of his way. When he looked back, he could still see the mouth of the cave, although it seemed much further away than he would have expected. The walls of the hollow grew closer, and as he placed his hands against them to steady himself in the dark, he was surprised to feel not leaves and branches but something cold and smooth.

  He had no time to wonder about it, because just then he stepped out into the light.

  He was in a meadow of tall grass, dotted with white flowers and alive with the hum of bees. There was a hill just ahead of him, a long rolling, sandy-coloured hill that was somehow very odd, though he couldn’t put his finger on what bothered him about it. From somewhere came a deep, low rumbling.

  For an instant he had the wild hope that he had found it, the clearing with the cloven tree. The tunnel under the willows must be one of those farholds, the wishing portals that Pendrake had talked about. Then he looked closer at the hill, and saw that it looked very much like a gigantic human form, stretched out upon the ground and dressed in tanned, cracked leather. There were things that looked just like feet, far off at one end, with enormous toes, and at the other end, nearer to Will, was a huge bare lump of smooth pink stone, very much like a head, half hidden by a clump of bushes.

  Then the hill moved.

  Moments later Will was back through the tunnel under the willows and among his friends, gasping out the tale of what he had seen.

  “It’s just over there, on the other side of those trees,” he said breathlessly, gesturing back the way he had come. “It’s someone big. Someone sleeping who’s big. Very big. Huge.”

  He would not say the word. No. It could not be true, and saying the word would make it true.

  “You mean a giant?” Rowen asked.

  “I’ll have a look,” Finn said.

  “I’m coming too,” Rowen said eagerly, but Finn shook his head. Drawing his sword, he walked over to the willows, ducked into the tunnel and vanished. A very short time later he was back.

  “All that’s on the other side of these trees is more trees,” he said with a shrug. “I saw nothing bigger than a squirrel.”

  “I don’t understand,” Will said. “It was just on the other side.”

  Pendrake placed a hand on Will’s shoulder.

  “Show me what you found,” he said, and followed Will into the tunnel under the trees. As they neared the far end, Will stopped.

  “It’s just out there,” he whispered. “It could be waiting for us.”

  “Then let’s not keep it waiting any longer,” Pendrake said, and he led the way out into the meadow, Will trailing behind the toymaker and ready to run.

  There he was. A reclining figure the size of a hill, clothed in a hide of wrinkled tan leather, with its bald head under the leafy shade of a stand of trees. That giant’s breath was the low rumbling Will had heard.

  “We don’t need to be afraid,” Pendrake said. “I’ve met him before. A gentle soul. Never squashed a peasant’s hut or stole a golden harp, that I’ve heard of. Prefers sleep to just about anything.”

  “You’re sure it’s that one, not some other…” Will whispered, still poised to bolt at the slightest movement other than the slow rise and fall of the giant’s breathing.

  In answer Pendrake pointed into the distance.

  “That sharp-peaked hill over there is called the Targe. It is the northernmost of a range of hills known as the Winden Tors. This is where he lives. This is where his story takes place.”

  Will nodded, too disappointed about not finding a farhold to care very much about the name of a hill.

  “These hills are three days’ journey from where we left Rowen and the others,” Pendrake added.

  “What do you mean?” Will asked impatiently. “They’re just on the other side of those trees.”

  “They are, and they aren’t,” Pendrake said. “That tunnel under the willows is a knot-path. Although they may seem very short, knot-paths cross great distances. That is how they get their name. It’s like tying a knot in a piece of string. The knot makes the string of your journey shorter. They were once paths between the various storylands, but now most of them simply lead from one part of the wild to another.”

  “Then where are we?”

  “About twenty leagues south-west, as Morrigan would fly, from where our friends are waiting for us. Tell me why you decided to go through the tunnel.”

  “I felt there was … something for me to do here. As if everything was waiting for what I chose next. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “No need to try. Pay attention to that sense, Will. It will serve you well.”

  “Why didn’t Finn find the knot-path?”

  “Because he is not you,” Pendrake said, and just then there issued a louder rumble from the sleeping figure, and a thunderous snort, and then the vast form turned over with a sound like a landslide, and they saw, through a screen of leaves, his hairy face and his huge eyes blinking, sleepily regarding them.

  Pendrake raised a hand in greeting. The giant’s eye widened a moment and then slowly closed.

  “Let’s go,” Pendrake said quietly, and they turned back to the tunnel, and now Will saw that it was a huge leather boot.

  “I thought I’d found the clearing,” Will said as they came out the other end, where the boot had become a willow bower again. “The place where I came into the Realm.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Pendrake said, “but you have discovered something important, nonetheless.”

  When they reappeared, Rowen and the others were there, waiting. The toymaker quickly explained what Will had found.

  “It’s a good thing the path led back to the place you came from,” Finn said. “I’ve heard it said that not all of them do.”

  “Where would they take you then?” Rowen asked, but not even the toymaker had an answer to this question.

  They set off again and, as the shadows lengthened in the evening, the path began to descend into thicker, gloomier woods, where it seemed to Will that night was suddenly much closer. Finally Finn led them off the path and in among the trees, where Pendrake lit his waylight, and soon brought them to a snug.

  Will was surprised and relieved. He had thought that snugs were only found in the Wood. This one looked almost exactly like the snug he and Rowen had taken refuge in, right down to the pot bubbling on the hearth. After they had all eaten, Rowen gave a great yawn that brought tears to her eyes. She said good night and climbed up to one of the feather beds in the loft. After a short time they heard her soft snoring, and smiled at one another. Shade curled up at Will’s feet and seemed to sleep, too, although as always Will wondered about that. He had the sense the wolf could and would rouse himself instantly at the slightest disturbance. Finn, however, did not even take off his boots. He sat down near the do
or, took a small book with a dark brown cover out of his coat pocket, read a few lines and put the book away again. Then he wrapped himself in his cloak and sat, slowly turning the green ring upon his finger.

  Will was so glad to be out of the cold and dark that his weariness vanished, and he sat for a long time by the fire and talked with Pendrake. The old man told him tales of the ancient realms of Story. As he spoke Will felt himself falling under a kind of enchantment, but not like that of the mirrors. Instead it seemed to him that everything in the snug was listening along with him: the crackling fire, the chairs, the bobbing shadows on the walls. Everything around them had become woven into the stories the old man told.

  Pendrake spoke of how, in the long struggle of the Stewards against the Night King, the snugs and other secrets of the Realm first appeared, to give refuge and help to those who found themselves far from light and home.

  “You said the Stewards aren’t here any more,” Will said, when Pendrake had finished. “Did Malabron kill them?”

  “The sun shines,” Pendrake said, raising his hand. “The rain falls.”

  Slowly he lowered his hand.

  “The trees put forth leaves each spring and the bird’s nest among them. Can you say how this all happens, or why?”

  “Well … no.”

  “It is that way with this snug, and the others like it. It is not magic. There is much magic in this world, to be sure. Many different kinds, in fact. Much of it works only in some stories and not in others. There are quite a few out-of-work wizards wandering the Realm, looking for somewhere to weave their spells. But the power of the Stewards runs deeper than any spellcraft. If it can be called magic, then everything around us is magic. And so are we.”

  Pendrake nodded towards Shade.