...and the walls of the Lightwell flashed dizzily past his eyes. The obsidian from which the Lightwell had been fashioned wasn't seamless as he at first thought. The well looked as though made with bricks, except there was no mortar in the joins. However, the lines between the slabs were visible and gave him some idea of the rate of his fall—a speed that would have been alarming even if he wore a parachute.
He closed his eyes and concentrated with all his might on slowing down his descent. By the time he managed it he was nearly at the bottom of the well. His feet hit the ground with no more jarring than if he jumped off a table.
He opened his eyes—and found himself in a tunnel like those through which he had wandered with the others. He craned his neck just in time to see the end of the Lightwell close, like the shutter on a camera, leaving him in darkness.
Peter stood staring, unbelieving, at the place where the Lightwell had disappeared until a flash of green seen from the corner of his right eye made his heart jump. He looked down. Yes, it was the rock Judita threw into the Lightwell. Beside it lay the candle she tossed in, miraculously unbroken. He stumbled over to them and picked up the candle, pushed one end of it into the pocket in his robe and bent to pick up the rocklight.
Straightening up, he looked around. The tunnel was narrower than those leading to the Great Halls of Draining Light, and not as high. Its stifling atmosphere smelled none too sweet.
"Whew! It's awfully hot down here. Where are we now, Essence of Obsidian?"
"Deep in the bowels of the Earth. We've left the domain of the Earthlight. This is the territory of the Enemy."
"In that case I think I'd better have the crystal ball back again."
Before he finished speaking, Peter felt the Essence of Obsidian's strange throbbing power. Then he moved with as much ease as he would have on a carpeted floor as the invisible bubble surrounded him. Despite not having to worry about stumbling on the uneven surface, he soon found the oppressive atmosphere difficult to move in. Every step felt like battling up the side of an active volcano. His feet seemed to weigh a ton and the heat dried up his nose and throat.
"Can't you air-condition this thing—or something?"
"Sorry. It's not a Rolls Royce, you know.” The Power of Obsidian was obviously trying to be cheering.
"It's not even a Model T Ford! I'll be half-dead of heat and thirst before I find John."
"The remedy is in your hands, Peter. You can use some of your power to ward off the effects of the evil around us."
"Won't I need all the power I've got just to get John back?"
"It won't be much use to you if you're too exhausted to use it,” the Power of Obsidian replied dryly. Then, after a short pause: “It's what you earthlings might call a Catch 22 situation, really, because, on the other hand, if you use the power to make the journey easier you might have none left at the end of it."
Peter groaned. “In other words, I've got to make the right choice. And you can't help me make it. Right?"
"Yes, Peter,” the Spirit of Obsidian replied apologetically and mournfully.
Peter sighed. He thought briefly, trying to weigh both choices and guess the outcome of each. He might just as well choose by the “Eenie, meenie, miney, mo” method, he thought in despair. Then something stirred at the back of his mind and he heard, like a faint echo, the Voice of the Earthlight: “If you remember only one thing—that you will win the battle—all will be well. You must have complete faith in yourself..."
Peter drew a deep breath and made his decision. He closed his eyes and remembered another time when the fires of the Evil One had beset him, trapping him in a circle of blue flames. He focused his mind on his own concept of cool tranquility: the sacred grotto of the Earthlight with the statue of the white lady. He saw and heard the sparkling stream of water pouring from her hand to the dark depths of the pool at her feet. He visualized the silver ripples widening and stretching across the surface until they disappeared into nothing. Suddenly water poured over his face and into his mouth. It seemed to come from nowhere.
The water disappeared when he had drunk his fill. Much to his surprise, he found he was bone dry. He moved on, keeping the image of coolness firmly in his mind.
Peter's concentration was so intense he came to the end of his journey without warning. The bubble stopped moving at a yawning chasm at his feet. He looked down, and not even the rocklight could show him the bottom. The air was fetid. Hatred, despair, anger, vengeance—all the worst emotions that beset the human heart—rushed up at Peter, beating viciously at him. The power of the Evil One battered him down. His knees nearly buckled under the pressure. With considerable effort he stood firm and held the rocklight over the unseen depths.
"John?” His first call was tentative. Something stirred below. He called louder, his cry this time more like a summoning. “John?” The thing moving below now rose to his level—the cloud of the Evil One. Peter knew immediately its vile depths hid his friend.
He strained with both mind and eyes to see John's face. Why was the Evil One trying to keep John hidden? Was it, perhaps, an effort to make Peter use as much power as possible so he would be too weak to resist an assault upon himself?
John's image swam and out of focus and the cloud of the Evil One swallowed him up as fast as Peter could disperse it. When he saw John properly it was a very brief glimpse and the cold, sullen dislike in the other boy's face sent his heart plummeting in dismay.
"John, can you hear me?"
"Yes. Go away.” John's face had now disappeared and his voice was almost devoid of expression. “I have nothing to say to you."
"John, we're all worried about you. Jamie is sick with anxiety. He wanted to come after you, but according to the Voice of the Earthlight I'm the only one who can save you."
"To hell with the Earthlight. The Earthlight is cruel. What does it know about my wants? And I don't need saving. I'm fine as I am. Jamie doesn't care about me except as a foil for his cleverness. He's always upstaging me. He never lets me take the lead. He's full of himself because he can sing better than I can. He thinks he can talk for both of us and I never get to say what I think about things. It's always that way with twins. People treat us as though we're one identity instead of two separate people, each with his own needs and his own opinions.” The words tumbled out so fast Peter barely had time to grasp their meaning. The emotions behind the words were such a tangle his probing mind could make nothing of them.
"John, those words—those ideas—aren't yours. You're repeating what the Evil One told you. He's trying to poison your mind against your brother, and against the Earthlight. He's a liar! You mustn't believe anything he says.” Peter stopped, groping for words that would have the right effect on John. Why can't I be eloquent like Merlin? I have to think of the right thing to say—the thing that will make John see sense so I can get his co-operation.
"He's right,” John insisted. “Twinship is an impossible burden. There's always unhealthy competition between twins and one will always be stronger and dominate the other, who must eventually resent it and try to break away. He whom you unjustly call the Evil One knows what it's like. He knows twice over."
"That's nonsense, and you know it! The Evil One isn't even human so how can he know what it's like? Twins are always closer than ordinary brothers. And even ordinary brothers indulge in friendly competition at times. No one's any the worse for it."
"And you—with no brothers at all—would know all about that, wouldn't you?"
The quiet yet heavy, adult sarcasm struck Peter like a knife in the heart. It took him a moment to recover. “That sounds like something the Evil One would say. You're allowing him to destroy something very precious—the closeness of brothers who also happen to be twins. So what if Jamie is a better singer than you? There are other things that you're better at than he is."
"Name one.” The reply came back like a challenge.
"You're better at languages for a start. How many times have you helped him with
his German and Italian, which are so important if he's to be a singer? He's not as good at math either."
A brief silence followed. Then, “I'm happy here. I don't have to go to school. I can do what I like, and there are lots of exciting things to do here. I can do what I want to do—all the time."
"Don't be silly. You're not a small child. You're old enough to know having your own way all the time doesn't make you happy. How can you be happy without your mother and Jamie?"
"My mother?” John sounded puzzled. “But she's here."
That gave Peter another nasty shock. “You mean he's kidnapped her, too? Let me see her. Tell her I want to talk to her.” The Evil One's black cloud obligingly parted to show the unmistakable form of Sylvia Evans. “Mrs. Evans?” Peter said incredulously. John's mother smiled reassuringly. Peter didn't give her a chance to say anything. “Whoever you are, you're not Mrs. Evans. You're just an illusion.” As he spoke, the image of John's mother wavered and broke apart like mist in a breeze. “You saw that, John?” Peter sent his mind charging into the evil cloud.
He saw the face of his friend briefly again. Jamie's jaw had dropped in horror and his eyes were wide and accusing. Peter's mental assault on the cloud caused him to step back hastily and the cloud closed around him again.
"What have you done with her? Where is she?"
"I haven't done anything, John. It wasn't her, but an illusion created by the Evil One.” He hurried on before John could answer, “I know—she's spoken to you and you've even been able to touch her. You've laughed and talked together—exchanged confidences and advice—as you've never done in real life. In other words, the Evil One has placed you right in the middle of a TV sitcom where family problems are always solved by parents and children sitting down together and saying all the right things and everybody seeing everyone else's point of view. That isn't real life, John, and what you saw wasn't your real mother.” He took a quick breath and pushed harder. “You'd soon tire of a mother who always says the right things and doesn't have any faults. Perfect humans would be unbearable to live with, especially when you know you're far from perfect yourself."
Peter's desperate probing told him he had merely succeeded in thoroughly confusing the mind within the cloud that was all he could detect of John. Oh, John, what's he done to you? his own mind cried out. We all miss you and want you back the way you were.
"What was that? I can't quite hear you."
John's voice sounded lost and lonely. The words gave Peter a jolt—until it dawned on him his thoughts had unwittingly used telepathic wavelengths. He'd never been that careless before. He must make sure it didn't happen again.
"And I can't see you,” he cried. “How can I talk to you when I can't see you? Can't you show yourself?"
"I'm not trying to hide from you,” John replied in surprise.
Peter thought rapidly. There was no point asking John to come out of the cloud; he wouldn't be able to.
"I'm coming over,” he said.
John's reply came back immediately. “Good. I thought you'd see sense.” Something jangled as Peter's subconscious registered the incongruity of the words. He ignored it. “Here. I'll help you up."
Peter clutched the rocklight in his left hand. He reached out with his other hand and grasped the hand John stretched towards him.
However, as though Peter had become a sack of potatoes, John hauled him towards the cloud. His friend's strength astonished Peter. Unaccountable fear washed over him. He tried to let go. John's hand gripped like a vice. Then it was too late. He had left the ground and the deathly pit yawned beneath. Next moment they were side by side on their knees in the black cloud. The gaseous substance filled his nostrils. It sickened him to the pit of his stomach. But he had to bear it—for John's sake.
He looked up. It was John's face he looked into, John's blue eyes and rosy-fair skin. But the eyes were pools of malicious triumph. John's mouth was stretched in the evil grin Peter knew too well. And that grin now belonged to the Evil One Himself.
Chapter 9
From the Great Oak
DREYFUS STOOD in the dark between two of the horses, looking towards the great light at the end of the tunnel. He made no attempt to follow Peter, Jamie and Bart but kept his gaze fixed on the light. And the light spoke to him—not in words but in pictures. He saw wolves—wolves in unnaturally large packs: the gray timber wolf, the red wolf, the Antarctic wolf, the maned wolf; wolves of the present and wolves from the distant past that hunted the length and breadth of the then known world. He saw them merge into one huge pack, as he had seen them once before. And he saw they were no longer his to command. The Evil One had reclaimed them for Cerberus.
Then he saw the three-headed one himself. Three pairs of red eyes flashed at him in triumph from the front of the pack. Dreyfus knew with dreadful clarity that he had to regain his role as the wolves’ leader. He turned and padded off into the darkness.
No one, he knew, saw him leave. No one would be able to find him and help if he couldn't accomplish the task on his own.
* * * *
BART AND Jamie watched as Peter placed his hands on the green rocklight above his head. It was the last they saw of him. As he tugged at the stone, both he and the light disappeared, leaving Bart and Jamie in total darkness.
"Peter!” Jamie heard Bart call, softly but sharply.
The only answer they received was Bart's voice thrown back at them. The echoes died until all that could be heard was a rustling noise.
"What's that? Can you hear it?"
"It's all right, Bart. It's only me,” Jamie's voice replied with relative calm. It was faintly comforting to hear alarm and fear in an adult's voice when his own hands shook and his heart thumped in his chest like a caged bird trying to escape. “I usually carry matches with me these days. I'm looking for them—well, searching anyway,” he added, grinning ruefully to himself as he realized what he had said.
"A box of matches is hardly going to last until we find our way out.” Jamie couldn't help noting that Bart's voice shook as though with relief at the thought that the darkness would soon be banished.
"No. But there's a torch in Argent's saddlebag and we can use the matches to find our way to the horses."
Jamie found the box and managed to take out a match without spilling the others. It took him several attempts to light it. The small flame blazed out, dispelling the darkness but making their shadows dance madly on the wall of fallen rock. Jamie heard Bart let out his breath in a gasp.
It took them what seemed like hours to reach the horses, stumbling all the way. Silvera and Crystalline seemed unperturbed by their long wait in pitch darkness. By the time Jamie found the torch in Argent's saddlebag, nearly all the matches in the box were spent.
"Where's Dreyfus?” Jamie asked sharply as he switched on the torch and flashed its beam around.
"Perhaps he's with Peter. I haven't seen him since we left the horses here."
"No, neither have I, and I didn't see him with Peter before he disappeared either."
"Well, there's nothing we can do about it. We're going to have all our work cut out just getting out of here."
"I hope the torch lasts until we do.” Jamie deliberately brushed aside the uppermost thought in his mind—that they might never find an exit. He took Silvera and Argent's bridles and tried to lead both horses and light the way at the same time. The flashlight danced all over the place. “I wish they'd left the torches in the walls burning for us."
Bart looked up to where the wall torches should have been.
"Just a minute!” he said as the beam of light briefly caught something on the wall.
Jamie flashed the torch beam towards Bart. “What's wrong?"
"I thought I saw writing on the wall—over there."
Jamie flashed the light in the direction of Bart's pointing finger. It caught a plaque fixed into the wall under one of the dead torches. Darker than the walls, it bore inscription in white letters. Bart dropped the horses’ bridles
and walked towards it. He ran his fingers over the surface. “It's made of obsidian!"
"What does it say?"
"It's in Latin. It says ‘Put a light to this torch.'” Bart turned back to Jamie. “Have you any matches left?"
Jamie produced the box of matches and handed it to Bart without a word. Bart opened it. There were two left. Bart grunted, struck a match and reached up to the nearest torch.
"If we're expected to light these things as we go—” He left the sentence unfinished as the fuel inside the torch instantly caught fire.
The flame, inches from Bart's eyes, was dazzlingly bright. Almost instantly Jamie saw the reason for all the light: one by one, other torches in the wall were springing to life.
"They must be connected somehow, with the fuel supply hidden within the rock,” Jamie said. “What a lot of trouble to go to for such a primitive lighting system!"
Bart handed back the matchbox and chuckled. “It's not as primitive as it seems. There's no electricity down here and no gas supply, so what else could they do? All that's needed apart from the oil they're using is oxygen. There seems to be a reasonable supply of that. We're not having any trouble breathing anyway."
"They make it awfully hot down here,” Jamie complained as they trudged on, each leading two horses.
"That's better than not being able to see."
"Yes. I s'pose so."
They went on in silence, concentrating on safely leading the horses over the uneven ground and around the many pitfalls. At each junction they came to they had no trouble finding the way, for only one tunnel ahead emitted light. They had been going for what appeared to be hours when Bart halted suddenly. “We seem to be taking longer to get out than it took to get in."
The Third Age of Obsidian [Quest for Earthlight Trilogy Book Three] Page 9
