Hall of Mosses

by Evans, Nicoline

  Her followers watched in muted horror as the fog blanketed the western horizon. Sierra retreated to her tent to be alone, too aware of what came next. The smog would reach Ireland by nightfall and trigger the next catastrophic natural disaster to unfold. It was hard to bear witness knowing the terror was far from over.

  Chapter 22

  Amazon River, Brazil, South America

  The water was rising.

  Marisabel Rios, Champion of Fresh Water, had moved her following a safe distance from the Amazon River, but she could still see its surge in the distance. There was no place left to go. She’d been pleading for direction from the water for days, but the spirits remained silent. The concept of desertion threatened her every waking moment, and the longer they stayed quiet, the greater her fear grew.

  Per their guidance, she relocated her people from Macapá, Brazil to Montes Claros, Brazil, but the water kept rising. Everyone was tired and she wasn’t sure how much further she could convince them to follow.

  When the landslides began, their temporary shelter in Montes Claros was briskly swept away. She lost five people and their deaths deeply affected the trust she’d earned from everyone else. When they finally escaped the current of muddy water dragging people to their demise, she found a stable spot of land to address those who survived.

  “I’m so sorry, but we have to head south again,” she shouted over the loud rainstorm that pelted the crowd surrounding her. Her face was wet and her hair was covered in mud. Everyone stood around her, shivering in drenched clothes and wiping grime from their eyes and mouths.

  “How much further must we travel?” an elderly woman cried out.

  “The weather has only gotten worse. We will perish if we don’t escape the radius of this storm,” a man added.

  “You promised us refuge, you promised us life,” exclaimed a mother cradling her baby.

  “All you’ve done is lead us further into harm’s way,” her angry husband seethed.

  The group erupted in squabble and Marisabel tried to swallow the defeat she felt. Though she hadn’t failed them yet, everyone around her thought she had. Her once devout following was losing faith. They no longer trusted her command and were questioning her leadership capabilities. The shift was crushing.

  As they carried on with their complaints, Marisabel looked to the sky in hopes she’d receive some direction. The rain stung as it landed on her face, but the temporary sores were soothed as the water rolled off her cheeks and into her ears.

  It’s time you lead them to Uruguay. The shores of Punta del Diablo will act as a safe haven until your next quest.

  The water spirits had not abandoned her. A smile crept on her face as she absorbed their instruction. They said no more, but that brief moment of acknowledgment was all she needed to restore her resolve.

  “Punta del Diablo, Uruguay,” she shouted over the bickering amongst her people.

  “Uruguay?” the elderly woman objected. “You want us to walk to Uruguay, in this rainstorm?”

  “This rain is slow moving. If we go now, we can get ahead of the storm and the majority of the trek won’t be so bad.”

  “That’s almost 3,000 kilometers away!”

  “We will move slow and rest. This storm is land-based; walking along the shore will be our safest route. The ocean presents us no harm.”

  “How long will this take? Won’t it be safer to find better shelter here and wait out the rain?” a young man asked.

  “This is not an average rainstorm. It has been sent with the intent to kill all human life it touches. I’ve already explained this to you: this storm is meant to wipe us out. We’ve been given the chance to survive. If we don’t abide the water’s instructions, we will die with everyone else. We can’t wait this storm out, we must move onward.”

  Lightning struck and the formation of a mesocyclone began to form. The entire group hushed in fear. Marisabel looked on them with eager hope.

  The young man shook his head, “Let’s go.”

  With his head down he walked south toward the Brazilian shore of Rio de Janeiro. His family and a few others followed him. Marisabel looked at those who stubbornly remained.

  “Will you join us?”

  There was a pause before the elderly woman spoke. “Do we have any other choice?”

  “I promise I will not lead you astray.”

  Before anyone else could add their own snarky remarks, a secondary cyclone dropped to earth a few meters from where they stood. The winds tore at them, knocking many off their feet. A man standing behind her was snatched by the winds and dragged into the cyclone. A rush of pure terror seized Marisabel’s heart and the only thing pushing her forward was her will to survive. Fueled by adrenaline, she grabbed a small child and ran. The child cried in her arms, but she kept her cradled and safe in her embrace. The parents followed close behind and Marisabel prayed others did the same. The fierce winds ripped at them as they sprinted away from the cyclone, which seemed to be choosing its victims selectively. On any other day, in any other storm, they’d all have died, but somehow they were outrunning a twister. Marisabel thanked the water spirits repeatedly in her head; they were the only reason she and those who ran close behind survived this heroic dash. It only took a few minutes to escape the cyclone’s reach, and once they were in the clear she examined the damage. The entire town was in ruins. What was once a quaint road lined with shops, restaurants, and a family-friendly street market was now a muddy wreck. There wasn’t a single building left standing, or one voice left to cry out through the storm. All those who had not followed Marisabel were lost.

  Marisabel said nothing and led those who remained toward the group that already embarked south. When the two groups reunited, tales of their survival were shared. The first group witnessed the ordeal from afar and the second filled in the gaps of what the others had not seen. Marisabel saved them; she guided them along the perfect path to avoid the wrath of the cyclone. No one truly understood how she managed, or what force she had on her side that made them so lucky, but they all suspected it was a bond to an entity much greater than their comprehension. They witnessed firsthand how the cyclone strategically avoided anyone trailing Marisabel and how their loyalty to her saved them from certain death. Their faith in her was restored. They continued following her through the rain, no longer questioning her choices.

  The journey was arduous and no one spoke. After a few days of walking they breeched the edge of the storm and found dry land. Though the new climate was a relief, they did not stop moving. The rainclouds were still in sight and grew closer every time they stopped to take a break. They would not be clear of the storm until they reached Uruguay. It was imperative that they keep moving or else they’d find themselves caught in another round of landslides and tornados.

  Once their journey became more stable, Marisabel reached out to her second.

  Zaire, can you hear me? she asked in thought. He was located in Egypt, right along the Nile River, and was also tasked to bring his following south. She hadn’t heard from him in days and prayed his quest hadn’t been as devastating as hers. She waited but received no response.

  Zaire Nzile, this is Marisabel Rios. Feel me calling you, please. I need to know you’re okay.

  Another moment passed before Zaire responded, his thoughts reflecting the exasperation he currently felt.

  Marisabel, I have missed you. She could feel the pain in his mind’s voice.

  And I you. Are you okay? How are your people holding up?

  We are safe underground. We made it to Eshe three days ago, barely, and have been avoiding the storms since. I lost over a dozen people in Sudan. A cyclone sprung up unexpectedly and ripped them from us. It was traumatizing. We ran. I’ve never sprinted so far in my life. It was so surreal, my memory of it feels fake. I lost another half-dozen people to landslides in Ethiopia. It’s been terrible.

  Is it better beneath the earth with Eshe?

  Yes. We are safe from the worst of the storm down here
.

  I am so glad to hear that. We’ve had similar casualties, but we finally made our way outside the radius of the storm. We are headed toward Rio de Janeiro and once we reach the ocean we’ll follow the shoreline until we reach Punta del Diablo, Uruguay.

  I suppose that’s where you’ll be leaving for Antarctica from?

  Yes. I haven’t told anyone here about that part of the journey yet. Their faith in me has been wavering. I have them onboard currently and I don’t want to do anything to mess that up.

  They’ll follow. Don’t worry.

  Let me know when you reach Cape Town, and I will touch base with Coral to see if it’s safe for you to begin your journey. I suspect you’ll get there faster than we’ll get to Uruguay, and it’s imperative you start the next phase of the journey. Africa will implode the moment the core strikes and you can’t be there, waiting on me.

  Let’s deal with that when it happens. We still have another week or two of walking through these volcanic caves before we reach South Africa. Eshe is Champion of the Core, she will have a good grasp on the timeframe and if we will be in danger.

  So I take it her following is safe from the fresh water attack too?

  Yes, but we are only traveling with her. Her following remained in a deep, underground cave in Djibouti. Eshe will return to them once we are safe in Cape Town.

  Okay, be careful. I eagerly await the day we are united in Antarctica.

  The anticipation of that moment keeps me going, Zaire responded. She could feel his smile from across the ocean.

  Until then, Marisabel responded before she severed the connection. She returned her attention to the people surrounding her, who were in much better moods than they’d been a few days ago. The feeling that encased their journey was perseverance, and its overwhelming presence swallowed every doubt regarding their ultimate survival.

  Chapter 23

  Rub’ al Khali Desert, Saudi Arabia

  Sofyla Yurchenko, Champion of Soil, was caught in the crossfire of nature’s battles ever since the mountains struck. She was warned that Donetsk, Ukraine, her hometown, was in direct line of the arctic freeze and toxic fog, so she had her following ready to flee weeks ago. They’d been traveling non-stop since the earth told her the attack was coming and were now taking careful routes to get to their destination in Saudi Arabia. As they fled Ukraine, they heard the cracking of the mountains all around them. The noise was that of nightmares; it sounded like the planet was splitting in half.

  Their trip through the southwest peninsula of Russia was fast as they were all desperate to escape the aftermath of the avalanches. Collectively, they mustered the energy to travel fueled only by their primal instincts to survive. They slowed their pace along the coast of Georgia and through the massifs and plains of Eastern Anatolia. Those treks were tough but feasible. Sofyla was most concerned about their journey through Syria and Jordan.

  The toxic fog was still spreading through Europe by the time they reached the Syrian border, and her time to reach her Second in Saudi Arabia and continue their journey to Eshe in the caves of Africa was running out. The soil spirits kept warning her to hurry, but she knew getting detained by Syrian rebels was a far worse fate than running late. They’d be executed and then the entire quest would be lost.

  They waited until nightfall before attempting their crusade over the border. It was dark and her people were smart enough to proceed with stealth. By now, the lot were skilled hikers and well versed in keeping a low profile as they traveled. Though she trusted them not to make any dumb mistakes, the uncertainty of what they walked into had her concerned.

  As soon as the last of their group stepped over the border, headlights emerged from the darkness accompanied by the sound of gunfire blasting into the night sky.

  “Do we run?” her father asked as everyone around her huddled.

  “No, that will split us up. Stay by me.” Sofyla’s confidence was strong and those following obeyed with little hesitation.

  I hope you’re with me, she thought to herself, praying for Gaia and the soil to hear her.

  The vehicles raced toward them, kicking up dust and making the night darker as they neared. And though the sounds of guns being fired had not ceased, they were yet to be aimed at Sofyla or her people.

  The armed trucks formed a circle around the group of Ukrainian refugees, and armed soldiers positioned themselves between each vehicle. There was no escaping now. They were dressed in black, wore bulletproof vests, and had scarves wrapped around their faces; they were part of the Syrian Rebel Militia. Her heart pounded as she realized this would not be a negotiation. There would be minimal reasoning with these individuals.

  A man jumped down from the largest truck and approached the group. He spoke in a language she did not understand, but she stepped forward, hoping one of them might understand her broken English.

  “We are from the Ukraine. We mean you no harm. We are just trying to cross through into Jordan.”

  The leader of this battalion took a step closer to her and grabbed her face. He shined a flashlight into her eyes, which made her pupils shrink and her blue eyes pop with color. Her foreign appearance was not welcome. The man spit on her and shoved her away. He approached Andriy, the largest male of her group, and placed a rifle beneath his chin. He coaxed him forward then spoke again in his native tongue. Andriy shrugged, unsure how to respond to the questions he could not understand. The rebel leader blew his head off.

  The women screamed and cursed in Ukrainian, and the children cried. Sofyla swallowed her fury in order to stop her more brazen followers from jumping forward to attack the murderer. If they fought back, they’d all die.

  She stepped forward again.

  “We are not here to fight. We just wish to have trouble-free passage through your land.”

  Furious that the small female addressed him again, the Syrian rebel lunged toward her and struck her with a solid punch. She stumbled backwards, doing everything in her power not to fall down, but she stumbled and the man laughed. She stood up straight and fumed, glaring at him through bloody vision. Her enraged energy radiated and the dusty soil began to levitate. Unbeknownst to her, she was channeling the element she championed.

  The leader of the Syrian rebels lurched past her and snatched the three smallest children from the group. He lined them up on their knees and had his men place bags over their heads. The children sobbed and begged for their mothers, but their cries were ignored. With a gun pointed at the back of the youngest boy’s head he turned to Sofyla and spoke in English.

  “You are spies from Ukraine?”

  “No.”

  “Lies!” He shoved the barrel of his rifle into the nape of the boy’s neck.

  “Let them go,” Sofyla commanded, her voice low and menacing.

  The man flashed a wicked smile before placing his finger back into the trigger guard.

  “Bye, baby,” he sneered, and as his finger pressed upon the trigger an enormous sand geyser exploded beneath him. The impact tore his body apart and launched him into the night sky. The children were tossed forward from the blast, but were mostly unharmed.

  “Retrieve the children,” she whispered to those standing behind her. Their mothers rushed forward to help their babies. As they did so, the other soldiers shook off the shock of their leader being blown to bits and regained their stance. One solider stepped forward to stop the mothers from removing the bags, but before he got too close, another sand geyser erupted and blasted the man sky high. His body landed in pieces.

  “Anyone else?” Sofyla addressed the men hiding in the dark behind the headlights of their trucks. She was answered with silence. “Let us pass and the rest of you live. If you follow us, I will turn the earth beneath you into a sandy death trap and happily watch you choke.”

  The soldiers carefully got into their trucks and then sped away.

  “How did you do that?” her mother asked in astonishment.

  “I didn’t. It was Gaia and the soil spirits.
I told you they mean us no harm.”

  “Poor Andriy,” a young girl said as she fell to her knees beside the man.

  “We must leave him,” Sofyla said, sounding harsh but speaking rationally. “There is no time to waste. We only have two weeks to make our stop in Saudi Arabia then head into Africa. We are already behind.”

  The group took a brief moment to pray over Andriy and place small mementos on his body, then they followed Sofyla’s lead south. Once they were inside Syria, catching public transportation and paying farmers to transport them via horse and carriage to the Jordan border wasn’t difficult. Crossing through Jordan went similarly and they bartered with locals to add speed to their trip. They heard rumors of the flooding in South America and Africa as they journeyed, and Sofyla counted down the days until the soil attacked. She had ten days from the start of the floods until the rain would slowly move to cover the regions commanded by soil. The Middle East was one of those regions and she needed to guide her following and Riad’s to safety before then.

  After an emotional but brief unification with Riad in the city of Riyadh, they led their people through the Rub’ al Khali desert. She spoke to Eshe often, who was hustling non-stop to help the Fresh Water Second reach Cape Town, then traveling back to the Great Rift valley connecting Yemen to Djibouti so she could help Sofyla cross through tunnels under the Red Sea and into Africa. The Great Rift Valley spanned the entirety of the Red Sea and connected Yemen’s largest mountain, Jabal an Nabi Shu'ayb, to all of the mountains of the East African Rifts via underground caves. They’d travel beneath the Southern Ethiopian Highlands and the Aberdare Range in Kenya. From there they’d make the trip into Tanzania where they’d wait out the remainder of the purges with Eshe and her people. It was a guaranteed safe haven, so long as they were able to make it there in time.