The Shadow of Malabron

by Thomas Wharton

  As night fell they found meagre shelter beneath the tangled branches of a low clump of thorn trees and debated what to do next. Pendrake suggested they make for the city of Skald, on the far side of the bog.

  “That’s the city of the Northmen,” Finn said with a frown. “The Errantry is not welcome there.”

  “Theirs was a great story once, but it was swallowed up by Malabron long ago,” Pendrake said. “Those who survived fled south in search of refuge. It is true they are wary of strangers and quick to anger, but they live in a wild land surrounded by enemies. I have spent some time in Skald. I know they seldom turn away travellers who seek the shelter of their walls.”

  The next day was spent toiling slowly through the seemingly endless bog. Led by Shade they moved from one patch of more or less solid ground to another, but often Will would take a step that plunged his foot or entire leg deep into the bog, and then he would pitch forward and fall. The same happened to the others, with the exception of Shade, who seemed to have an uncanny sense for finding the most solid ground.

  The sun remained hidden behind the pale shroud of mist. There was nothing to relieve the eyes from the monotonous landscape of mossy hummocks, pools of brown water and withered trees. To make matters worse they were accompanied every step of the way by swarms of mosquitoes. Finn brought out a sharp-smelling ointment and they all rubbed it on their faces and arms. All except for Shade, who refused to have the stuff on his fur. The ointment kept away most but not all of the whining, relentless insects, and before long Will was itching from numerous bites. Every now and then he would stop, ready to topple from weariness and annoyance, and have to summon every ounce of effort and willpower to keep going. He even felt as though his very thoughts had become sodden and heavy, so that he was having difficulty thinking of anything other than his next step. There seemed to be nothing in his mind but this unending trudge, as if he had never done anything else. He looked at Rowen toiling near him, and for a frightening moment he couldn’t even remember her name.

  Finally, when he was ready to give up and sink down in defeat, Shade called out.

  In the distance stood an unusual shape. It seemed to be a large upright stone, but when they drew closer they saw that it was the remains of a tower. They all stared at it as if this forlorn ruin was a beacon of hope, after hours of flat grey nothingness. There was no roof, and on one side the wall had fallen in completely, so that the stones that remained standing formed a jagged half-circle. Shade ran ahead, nosed around the base of the tower and came trotting back.

  “No scent,” he said in a disappointed tone. “No life. No one has been here for a long time.”

  “Who would build a tower out here?” Will said. “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Something’s wrong,” Rowen said. Her face was pale, and her brow had broken out in beads of sweat.

  “Are you all right?” Will asked.

  Rowen shook her head.

  “I don’t know. Can’t you feel it? This place is strange. Wrong somehow. It’s as if everything is closing in on us.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. But we shouldn’t be here.”

  A brief inspection of the tower revealed nothing but chunks and fragments of stone that were half buried in the boggy ground. The tower remained a silent mystery.

  The travellers kept on, and Will began to lose his sense that any time was passing at all. The sun still could not be seen through the mist, so there was no telling the time of day from its place in the sky. They had to trust solely in Shade’s sense of direction.

  A tall shape appeared in the murk, and when they got closer they saw that it was the remains of a tower. They all stared at it as if this forlorn ruin was a beacon of hope, after hours of flat grey nothingness. There was no roof, and on one side the wall had fallen in completely, so that the stones that remained standing formed a jagged half-circle. Shade ran ahead, nosed around the base of the tower and came trotting back.

  “Still no scent,” he said in a disappointed tone. “No life. No one has been here for a long time.”

  “Who would build a tower out here?” Will said, and his own voice sounded thick and sleepy to him. “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Something’s … wrong,” Rowen said haltingly, as if she was struggling to speak.

  She looked at Will. Her face was pale, and her brow had broken out in beads of sweat.

  “Are you all right?” Will asked.

  Rowen shook her head.

  “We saw this already,” she said. “And we said the same things the last time…”

  “Did we? I don’t think so…”

  “Rowen is right,” Pendrake said slowly, his brow knitting. “And it may be worse than that.”

  “What’s happening to us?” Finn asked. He too spoke as if he was half asleep and having trouble forming the words.

  The toymaker did not answer. Instead he started off again, and after exchanging puzzled looks, the others shook off their weariness and followed.

  After some time a tall shape appeared in the murk, and when they got closer they saw that it was the remains of a tower. They all stared at it as if this forlorn ruin was a beacon of hope, after hours of flat grey nothingness. There was no roof, and on one side the wall had fallen in completely, so that the stones that remained standing formed a jagged half-circle. Shade ran ahead, nosed around the base of the tower and came trotting back.

  “Not again,” he grumbled.

  “Who would build a tower out here?” Will said drowsily. “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Something’s wrong—” Rowen began, and then she broke off and looked at Will.

  “I’m about to tell you that we saw this already,” she said. “And then you’ll ask me if I’m all right…”

  “What? What do you…”

  The toymaker took a few slow steps away from the group, gazed around for a long moment and then came back, stroking his beard. He looked grim, and Will’s heart sank.

  “What’s happening to us?” Finn asked.

  “We’ve stumbled into a storyshard,” Pendrake said wearily. “A fragment of a longer story torn loose from its place in the Kantar. The same broken-off bit of story, over and over. I can’t even say how many times we’ve repeated it already. But I know that if we walk away from the tower we’ll return to it again and do everything we did before.”

  They were all silent.

  “We should walk away in another direction,” Finn said at last. “Try something different.”

  “But how will we be sure it’s different?” Will asked.

  “I’ll find the way out,” Shade growled, tense and ready to run. He seemed to be the least affected by the lethargy and slowness of speech that had fallen over everyone else.

  “You can’t, Shade,” Pendrake said to him. “Nor will walking a different way make any difference. The storyshard is sealed off from the world surrounding it, like a bubble. When you reach the edge of the bubble you don’t pass through it. You find yourself back where you started, doing it all over again.”

  “For how long?” Will asked.

  Pendrake did not answer. He closed his eyes and appeared to be deep in thought.

  “But now we know what’s happened,” Rowen said with a new trace of life in her voice. “The first time we came here we didn’t know. At least I don’t think we did. But that means we’ve changed the story, doesn’t it? It’s not the same, it’s not repeating exactly. So maybe we can get out.”

  Pendrake shook his head.

  “If only it were that easy. We’ve changed the story, yes. But it is changing us. Haven’t you noticed? It’s getting harder to remember things.”

  Rowen nodded.

  “I forgot just now why we came here, to the bog,” she said. “And where we were before this. It’s all getting hazy.”

  “I fear that the longer we stay here the more woven into the shard we will be. We’ll lose our own stories. Forget we ever did anything other tha
n what happens here. Or knew of any place other than this. It’s already happening. If we stay here too long we’ll forget our past, our loved ones outside the shard, the purpose of our journey. We won’t even know or care about escaping.”

  “There’s nothing we can do?” Finn asked.

  “It can’t end like this,” Rowen said, her eyes blazing. “There must be some way out.”

  “We still have a chance, perhaps,” Pendrake said, turning in a slow circle, his eyes searching the distance. “There may be others trapped here with us, characters from the story the shard was once part of. Sometimes the broken tales repeat because storyfolk are unable or unwilling to move on. They can no longer see that there might be more to their story. It’s their own will, grown hardened and powerful over the years, that has made the shard a trap and a prison.”

  “If we can find someone like that,” Rowen said, “we can tell them what’s happened…”

  “And set them free,” Will finished.

  “It may be our only hope.” Pendrake nodded.

  “How do we find them, if they’re here?” Finn said. “If we set off from the tower again, won’t we just come back to it?”

  Pendrake turned to the wolf.

  “Shade, you don’t seem to be as tired as the rest of us. That tells me you’ve been least affected by the shard as yet. I think this has to do with how old your own story is. It’s the most resistant to forgetfulness.”

  “Thank you,” Shade said. “But how can that help?”

  “The rest of us must stay here, while you go off to search. That may be enough of a change in what we’ve done before to gain us a little more time.”

  “I’ll do it,” Shade said eagerly. “What am I looking for?”

  “Anyone,” the toymaker said. “Man, woman, or child. Bird or beast. Anything different from what we’ve seen before. And hurry.”

  The wolf bounded off without another word. They watched him until he was lost in the mist. For a long time no one spoke. Will was afraid he would say something that he had said before, and he guessed that the others were thinking the same thing.

  Then Pendrake spoke, and he seemed to be struggling to form the words.

  “Tell us … Will … about your life before you came to the Realm. Tell us about that. If we tell our own stories, we may be able to … slow down the forgetting.”

  “What story should I tell?” Will said.

  “Whatever comes to mind,” Pendrake said. “Tell us the happiest thing you can remember.”

  At that Will’s thoughts fled to that summer holiday at the lake. The last one before he found out his mother was sick. His memories came in bits and pieces that he had to clutch at before they faded away. The log cabin they had stayed in. With a loft and a real fireplace. Toasting marshmallows and telling jokes. Rain drumming on the roof.

  On the last night of their stay he hadn’t been able to sleep. He got up, found his mother sitting on the front porch swing. She said she hadn’t been able to sleep either. What did they do then? They looked at the stars together. Then she told him something. It was so hard to remember… A story. A story from her childhood. Her family went to a cabin like this when she was a girl. She had wondered what life would be like when she grew up, whether she would have any children of her own. She used to imagine what they would be like, the children she didn’t have yet.

  What had he asked her then…?

  He had asked her what they were like. Her imaginary children.

  They were perfect, she’d answered. Always smiling, never fighting, always listening to their parents. The best kids in the whole world.

  You must be disappointed, he’d said.

  She’d smiled and held him close. Then she’d said… She said…

  I couldn’t be happier, she’d said. Because I didn’t get those imaginary kids. I really did get the best kids in the whole world.

  As Will began the story he felt the bleakness of the bog sink into him. In this lifeless landscape, what he had lost was that much clearer and more painful. He groped for words, and found it hard to keep the memories clear in the fog that clouded his mind. When he came to that last night in the cabin, his voice trailed off.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t … I don’t…”

  He saw that Rowen had moved away from the others and was gazing up at the tower.

  “Who would build a tower out here,” he said, and it was no longer even a question moved by the slightest curiosity. “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Something’s—” Rowen began, but Pendrake interrupted her with a raised hand.

  “We’re starting it all over again,” he said. “We need … another story. I’ll tell one this time.”

  He had begun the first slow, hesitant words of a tale when Shade came loping back.

  “I found someone, I think,” he said doubtfully. “Follow me.”

  Will and the others needed no further encouragement. They set off doggedly after Shade, who ran slower than before, to allow them to keep up. After some time they saw the same looming shape before them once more, and Will’s renewed hope began to fade, but before the tower was close enough to solidify out of the murk, Shade halted.

  At first Will saw nothing, and then he realized that someone was crouched in front of them. Someone the same grey lifeless colour as the bog.

  It appeared to be a large, bald, muscular man covered completely in wet clay. His thick arms were plunged into the bog and he seemed to be straining to pull something out of the muck. He made no sound as he laboured, and seemed oblivious to the approach of Will and the others. His face was grey and expressionless.

  “Who is he?” Rowen whispered.

  “He does not speak,” Shade said. “He must be deaf. Or very unfriendly.”

  “I think it must be a golem,” Pendrake said. “A man-shape made of clay and brought to life with sorcery.”

  The creature gave a soundless heave. Its arms came up out of the earth with a wet, squelching sound. Between his hands was a huge, dark brown stone. Slowly the golem straightened up and then, even more slowly, as if he too was made of stone, he began to turn in the direction of the tower.

  “What’s he doing with that?” Rowen said.

  “The tower isn’t a ruin,” Will said, as the truth struck him. “The golem is building it.”

  “I believe you’re right, Will,” Pendrake said. “But he can’t finish. He moves so slowly that the tower sinks into the bog faster than he can build it up. It’s a hopeless, endless task. That’s why he’s trapped here, and us with him.”

  The golem began walking now, towards the tower. If his sluggish plod, slower than a snail’s creep, could be called walking. It was like watching a mountain come to life and take its first ponderous steps. As the creature moved there was a sound like gravel grinding between wet stones.

  “Can we stop him from doing this?” Finn asked. “He doesn’t seem to know we’re here.”

  “I don’t think he does,” Pendrake said. “Or we simply don’t matter to him. He was made for one purpose only. To build this tower. If he could finish it, this part of his story might stop repeating. But we can’t wait for that to happen. Let me think. There must be some way…”

  He went close to the golem, who towered over him by at least a head, and peered up at his grey, impassive face.

  “Just as I thought,” he said. “That’s it. Someone lend me a knife.”

  Quickly Rowen handed hers over. The toymaker dug the blade’s tip into the golem’s forehead as if he was trying to prise something loose. The creature kept on without paying this intrusion the slightest notice. Suddenly something popped from the golem’s forehead and Pendrake caught it in his other hand.

  The golem came to a stop and stood frozen, with the stone in its hands.

  Pendrake opened his palm to show the others what he had found. It was a small, thick, yellow disc, like a piece of wax about the size of a shirt button. There was a letter or figure carved into its surface that va
guely resembled a bird with a long tail. They all turned to the motionless golem and saw the shallow hole in his forehead where the disc had been.

  “Ord,” Pendrake said, his eyebrows furrowing. “The letter is Ord.”

  “That’s his name?” Will asked.

  “You could say that. The disc is the seal that gave him life, and his purpose. Without it he does nothing. He is nothing.”

  “Then his story’s over now,” Finn said. “So we can leave the shard, right?”

  Pendrake looked past Finn and pointed. Everyone turned. The tower was still there.

  “No, no, I was wrong,” Pendrake growled, shaking his head. “Old fool. Shard dulled my wits. His story isn’t over, just stopped. We’ll stop too, probably in a few moments.”

  He raised the disc to the golem’s forehead but his motions were slow and clumsy and the disc slipped from his fingers.

  “Where is it?” Rowen cried.

  “I can’t see it,” Will said.

  With weary urgency they searched the mud at their feet.

  “Never mind,” Pendrake said. He fished in one of his many pockets and brought out a handful of small objects: beads, buttons, marbles and other tiny trinkets.

  “There must be something…” the toymaker muttered to himself as he sifted through the items in his hand. “Yes. This might do it.”

  He held up an object that looked to Will like a small draughts piece made of pale wood, and pressed it into the hole in the golem’s forehead. Everyone else stepped back.

  Nothing happened.

  Pendrake tried another object, a blue-green marble. Again nothing happened to the golem. Then he popped one of the buttons off his coat and raised it to the golem’s forehead. By now his movements had become so agonizingly slow that Will had to suppress an angry shout. The button, like the draughts piece and the marble, had no apparent effect on the golem. And as the toymaker took the button away, his arm slowed until it stopped moving and stayed held out.

  “Grandfather?” Rowen said.

  “It’s already happening…” the toymaker said in a faltering voice, and to his horror Will could feel it in himself, too. As in those bad dreams he sometimes had where he could not move, his limbs were stiffening, refusing to obey his will. It was like being plunged into swiftly hardening concrete.