The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  The wanderer, despite his splitting headache, felt elevated once more, and marched on with a new spring in his step.

  Hour after hour passed, with no change in the tunnel. The company plodded on like automatons. No one talked, each one of them preoccupied with his own thoughts, until eventually even those were numbed out of them by the unending, unchanging march. Time lost all meaning.

  Eventually, Nibulus called a halt. No one, not even Wodeman, had any idea how long they had been down here, or what time it was in the world above. The passage of time was now measured only by the increasing exhaustion of their bodies. And now their bodies told them it was time to stop.

  ‘Right, that’ll do for today,’ he suddenly announced. ‘This will do as night-time. We’re stopping here.’

  Nobody argued. At least the tunnel floor was smoother here, and there were no puddles. Within minutes a fire had been lit, and the weary travellers collapsed upon the ground for the ‘night’. The crackling and popping of dry pine cones greeted their ears, and they crowded around the welcome fire as best they could, trying to warm some life back into their aching bodies. Rations were devoured and, not long after, the fire burnt itself out. Appa and Paulus fell immediately asleep, and the others soon followed.

  As it happened, Kuthy’s claim that it would take them but half a day to get through the tunnel did not prove quite as ludicrously exaggerated as the company assumed. In fact, had it not been for the wounded members of the party, they might have left the tunnel the previous night. For now, within an hour of setting off for the second day’s march, they finally saw daylight ahead, and with it the heaven-sent fragrance of warm, loamy soil, sweet rain and cherry blossom greeted their senses.

  Moments later, far too suddenly for them to adjust, they emerged from the foul blackness of the pit to stand blinking in the sunlight, shielding their eyes against the blinding glare, dizzy with the cornucopia of colours, sounds and smells that was suddenly poured over them to assault their senses. They could only stand there transfixed at the mouth of the tunnel, swaying in the breeze, and then, when their eyes finally adjusted, stare in wonderment at this fabled land before them.

  What had they emerged into? How was it possible? For this was no less than a land of dreams that they had entered; never in all their lives had the men from the South beheld a vista of such unearthly beauty. Great mountains of the most brilliant sapphire and lapis lazuli reached up to staggeringly unreal heights all around them. High cascades, fed by countless rillets from sun-melted glaciers far above or from springs bubbling up from sources deep within the mountains, fell like a billion diamonds in the morning light. They fountained along stony flumes; they filled the air with the finest spray of heavenly coolness; and through the rainbows with which they were festooned bluebirds swooped madly. Forests of pine, spruce, and never-before-seen varieties of conifer clung to the lofty slopes above, plummeting down steeply towards the terrain below wherein lay woodlands of deodar, tamarind and oak. From these trees came the constant drone of insect life, the shrill call of large birds flapping noisily amongst the branches, and the susurration of a million leafy voices whispering in hidden sylvan tongues.

  And beyond the forested slopes lay the rest of Eotunlandt. Sparkling lakes of crystal-clear water dotted the undulating land all about; strangely shaped hills poked their craggy heads out of the carpet of trees, from which arose the haunting wail of far-off, unknown beasts; here and there an enigmatic line of smoke could be seen rising out of the forest’s canopy. Who could guess what dwelt beneath its boughs?

  Meadows there were, too, both near and far, rolling meadows of emerald-green with fresh, fragrant grasses that shone with dewy lustre. Cherry trees abounded, bedecked in a virgin-white mantle of blossom in this land of perpetual spring.

  And there, right on the very edge of sight, could be seen the jagged white teeth of the northernmost rim of the encircling Giant Mountains. Above them, lines of wispy clouds floated against a pale blue sky.

  From this high place, the whole of Eotunlandt appeared to them a vision too beautiful to be real.

  Amid laughter and cheers of relief, the company had arrived in Eotunlandt. They ran or staggered out into the land before them, eager to gorge themselves on the new sensations that were pouring into them. New life pumped through their veins until it made them dizzy, and their hearts pounded with excitement. It was like being transported from a dismal and benighted land, in which people wrapped up in coats drift coughing and grumbling through dimly lit, foggy streets like lost souls, to a holiday world of colour, sunshine, bustling activity and overwhelming joyousness. Never before had they felt the like of it.

  This surely was the fabled Land of the Second Ones.

  FIFTEEN

  The Thieves of Tyvenborg

  HOW COULD EOTUNLANDT BE described? What poetic expressions could do any justice to such a place? What words of lyrical eloquence might one use to give even the vaguest impression of what it was like for the travellers during their sojourn there? For, out of all the languages that the various members of the company spoke, almost immediately it became apparent that their adjectives describing beauty were quickly exhausted.

  It is enough here to say simply that their journey through Eotunlandt in those first few days was one of unequalled strangeness and beguiling joy, where bewilderment, fiery exuberance and unearthly enchantment were their constant companions. They had spent too long in the dismal Rainflats and frigid forestland of Fron-Wudu, where skies were grey and lifeless. And now, stumbling in from the cold, they found themselves all of a sudden wandering through this realm of unimaginable beauty. It felt as if they had rediscovered life itself, and their senses, substance and souls were a-tingle with the thrill of it all.

  Down into the hanging valley that nestled between pristine blue mountains they went, and were swallowed up by the swaying, whispering trees. Along fair woodland tracks bordered with random scatterings of red-and-white toadstools, bluebells and primroses they strolled; into the sun-dappled, verdant gloom of hidden sylvan glades; along softly chattering rills of the purest spring water; through tunnels of trees heavily laden with white blossom. It was another world, every bit as far removed from their notions of reality as had been the dungeons of the huldre-woman. It occurred to each one of them that it was all too beautiful. Yet it was real.

  The effect it had on them was deep, too deep for description, prose or verbiage; too deep even for them to understand properly. Upon Appa, of all of them, it was most apparent. As soon as he had beheld Eotunlandt, his dull, watery eyes had cleared; they now shone brightly, and darted here, there and everywhere, taking it all in. His usual sickly, leathery old face was flushed with new life, the lines of pain and sickness turned now into the creases of a smile. And the further he walked the more energy he seemed to gain; it was as if he were drawing in strength from the very air, and the years fell away from him.

  Noticing this, Nibulus at one point remarked to his quest-brother: ‘What’s up, old ’un? You don’t look so bad. Spring fever making you randy?’

  Appa laughed out loud more heartily than any of the company had ever heard him do before. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Could be. All I know is I feel forty years younger!’

  ‘Really? And what about Melhus? Feel ready for that yet?’

  But the priest simply waved a dismissive hand, and continued smiling at the land around him.

  Even Paulus, the huldre-hater himself, had taken on a new air. His perpetual scowl was absent, and his single eye stared hungrily about him. At every squeak of a bough or rustle in the undergrowth his head would snap around. His entire frame was taut, poised to pounce, like a fox a-prowl in a rabbit warren. Being let loose in a land full of huldres, with a massive sword in his hand: this was the closest to heaven he had ever known.

  (Well, perhaps he was not so different after all.)

  The effect it was having upon Wodeman, however, was a mystery. For the moment, this priest of nature was walking in an utter
trance, seeing all but unable to say or do anything. Whatever was going on behind those sparkling green-brown eyes was far too overwhelming for him to express.

  From morn to dusk they walked, nobody even beginning to tire. All were reluctant to tarry for even a short while, for at each passing step there was always something new to see, some new wonder to greet their eyes. In this way they wandered without ceasing, yet made little progress northwards, for always there was some new distraction to keep them from their path, some new way to be explored.

  As their first long day in Eotunlandt finally drew to a close, still their fervour to continue was undiminished. For, as the sun set in a radiant wash of ardent colours, turning the snowy peaks of the eastern mountains peach-pink and jacinth, there was new spellbinding to be discovered in this twilit world.

  Kuthy, of all of them the only one who had been here before, was actually growing a little bored. He decided that if he did not call a halt, they would in all likelihood still be walking ceaselessly by tomorrow morning, and still no further on their way. But he could guess what his companions were feeling, for he had experienced it himself, a long time ago. So he played along with them.

  ‘My, my!’ he trilled. ‘What a beautiful glade over there! Just the kind of place where one could watch the moonlight reflected off the glassy surface of that little lake, and all.’

  This suggestion was enthusiastically taken up, and the travellers cast themselves down upon the cool grass and stared at the aforementioned glassy moonlight, and all. Within minutes, weapons, packs and outer garments had been tossed upon the ground, and the travellers were finally still.

  Bolldhe, alone of them, stripped off his grimy clothes and dived into the icy pool. He disappeared beneath the water leaving hardly a ripple, as if he had fallen into a black mirror. Two minutes passed without a sign of him, though no one made a move to help, or even showed a care. Then he reappeared at the far end of the pool, and began languidly sculling towards them, staring up at the nearly full moon peeping between the boughs, and breathing deeply.

  The others watched him half-interestedly, lying on the sward or preparing food. Their dried rations were left utterly untouched, for this land provided an abundance of sustenance wherever they looked: delicious, succulent fruit, edible fungi, clear spring water, and wild game that almost wanted to be caught. It was the best food any of them had eaten in their lives, and was just there for the taking.

  Talking lightly, the company stretched out for the night, only Wodeman being now absent – again. Nibulus broke wind with a deep grunt of satisfaction, and rolled over onto his stomach.

  ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Mr Tivor,’ he announced, stretching luxuriantly in the long, soft grass, ‘this certainly beats a monthlong trek through forest and tundra. Is it like this all the way to the other side? I can hardly believe our luck! And the food couldn’t be better . . .’ He delved into a clump of undergrowth at his side, and pulled away a handful of big, succulent strawberries.

  Kuthy grinned without looking up. ‘There you go, see? Just put your trust in old Kuthy Tivor, he’ll see you all right.’ He nibbled at a wedge of honeycomb, and strained its gluey sweetness out of his beard.

  Nibulus nodded contentedly, reached into another clump of undergrowth, and this time brought forth a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar.

  The only sound now was the lascivious gorging of the Peladane, the lapping of water as Bolldhe bathed his feet in its inky coolness, and the steady, purposeful shink-shink-shink of Paulus sharpening his blade.

  ‘I could live here for ever,’ Nibulus announced at last in a hushed, tranquil tone. ‘This place has got everything.’

  Kuthy snorted. ‘Except women . . . and tourneys. And troubadours, mead, weed . . . civilization, in fact. No, believe me, Mr Wintus, you’d soon get bored. This land is not for such as us. Best leave it to the sprites.’

  ‘No, I honestly don’t think so,’ Nibulus went on quietly. There was an uncharacteristically contemplative, serene tenor to his voice that stirred his companions from their wandering thoughts. Even Paulus paused in his blade-sharpening and fixed his eye on the leader.

  ‘Something’s awoken in my soul,’ he explained to them, not caring what he said. ‘Something that was never there before . . . or maybe something that’s been sleeping so long that I’d forgotten it was there. It’s like all day I’ve been walking through the land of my earliest childhood memories, all those fantastic stories of myth told to me by my wet-nurse, tales of foreign lands with strange names; hidden tunnels and secret gardens; strange, fey woodlands ringing with unearthly laughter; mysterious flower-circles in alluring grottoes. And suddenly it’s all here and now . . . I really didn’t believe this sort of thing could happen to you till you’d died.’

  Kuthy made a mental note of the Peladane’s words, so he could mock him later, once they were out of this land.

  Eotunlandt was affecting them all in different ways, but for each of them it was a personal journey of rediscovery, a reawakening. The trials of the previous day were now no more than the distant memory of a bad dream. The unending march through the confines of that black, freezing passage, in which each painful second seemed to drag on for an eternity, had no place in their thoughts now. The dark of this world was the dark of a twilit wonderland where the troubles of the outside world, of even their quest, were of little concern to the company now. Relaxing by the moonbeam-spangled pool beneath trailing fronds of willow and whispering boughs above, it felt as if that previous day had never happened, and if it had, well, it was no more than another fleeting instant in the World of Man, too transient to hold on to.

  This night, this world, however, had the air of permanency to it. It had all the essence of a recurring dream that one has experienced as far back as one can remember, a place to which the dreamer can return time and again, yet which never changes, never ages, no matter how many years pass within the waking world.

  This surely was the more real of the two.

  Within scant moments, it seemed, of drifting off, they awoke to a cacophony of birdsong. They peered, blinking, from their dew-frosted bedrolls to look with new wonder at the world around them. The sun was just rising above the eastern mountains, and another day in Eotunlandt was beginning.

  Their second day in the Land of the Second Ones was every bit as joyous as their first. Not even bothering with breakfast, they hurriedly broke camp and dived out into the new day. The morning air was delightfully chilly, and their breath curled out of their mouths in frosted swirls. But already the sun was beginning to warm them. With hearts full of child-like animation, they strode from the glade and out over the meadows that led towards the distant line of purple mountains in the North. Chatting light-heartedly, they rambled over field and dale, field and dale, leaving an undulating line of dark emerald green against the silvery sheen of the sunlit, dew-spangled grass to mark their passage.

  Again, much like the previous one, this day was one of ease and plenty and no small amount of wonderment. Nature was in full bloom, the weather was nothing less than radiant, and the land offered up its bounty at every step. Appa’s sickness had all but disappeared, and the wounds they had received in the tunnel, though still colourful and not yet fully healed, no longer seemed to be causing them any pain.

  The continuing absence of their shaman was of even less concern to them than usual. He was his own master, and came and went on little more than a whim, it seemed. If this time he chose not to come back to them at all, well, nobody had asked him along in the first place.

  So it was with a certain amount of surprise when he did finally return. It was at the end of the day, and they were reclining in the deep, fragrant grass of a low hillock, gazing at the setting sun as it bathed the whole land in a sea of gold. They felt no movement nor footfall, they heard no sound – save for a sudden snort from Zhang – and, despite the open terrain and their high vantage point, they had seen nothing for half an hour. Then without warning, the wolf-man pounced into the
ir midst and landed on all fours.

  Appa leapt back and choked on the sour pear he had been eating. Paulus immediately swept out his blade. But the others merely looked up in mild surprise, and regarded Wodeman in silence. He remained as he had landed, crouching on his haunches, fingers splayed on the ground, and a wild look in his eyes. He said nothing, just stared at them intensely, breathing hard. From the vegetation still clinging to his garments, and the powerful smell of his ‘musk’, they could tell he had been running hard.

  Not for a moment taking his eyes off them, he reached inside his clothes and whipped out the leg of some animal. His white teeth sank through mottled fur and crunched through sinew and bone. He tore off a large chunk of raw, red flesh and chewed on it enthusiastically.

  Appa’s hand went unconsciously to his amulet, then down to his crow’s-beak staff, and he edged closer to the Peladane. Even so he stared in awe at the shaman, who, in contrast to the company’s almost apathetic contentment, burned fiercely with life in every particle of his being.

  ‘Having fun?’ Nibulus enquired, and tossed a waterskin over to their returned friend. Wodeman caught it in his free hand and gratefully emptied it down his throat.

  ‘So tell us, Wode,’ Nibulus went on, ‘what’ve you been up to these last two days? We thought we’d offended you somehow – maybe our coarse dining etiquette or something.’

  Irony was only vaguely recognized by Wodeman, but these words of the southerner caused him to hesitate a second. Mulling them over in his head for a moment, he seemed to remember who he was, or had been, for the past eight weeks. The wildness ebbed away from him, and he relaxed a little.

  ‘Ach, what have I been doing, you ask. What haven’t I been doing! Having fun, yes – but oh what fun! I’ve been living, boy, living like I’ve never done before: I’ve never felt so alive . . .’