by Tom Deitz
“Scared, Sullivan?”
“Shitless,” he admitted. “But I’ve done it before, and it’s gotta be done.”
“Good man,” Calvin said. “We’ll go through the gate together, but I’ll need you to lay low during the ceremony. I wish I’d thought to bring gear for all three—shoot, all four of us, but I didn’t. Anyway, you’ll have to look after my mundane stuff while I open the gate. Once through, I’ll change if I have to. This stuff”—he gestured down at the flimsy loincloth—“ain’t exactly made for heavy duty action. I’d hate to fuck it up. ’Sides,” he added wryly, “Sandy made it.”
“You got it, man,” David assured him, and retrieved Calvin’s pack as well as his own, then followed the would-be shamans back to the clearing.
Liz met them there, rising from where she’d been munching sandwiches. David took a swig of the Gatorade she offered him, and Calvin and Alec helped themselves to long draughts as well.
Liz was staring at them speculatively, saying a lot more with her eyes than her mouth, and a lot of it related to sexism. Finally Calvin rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Oh, why the hell not?” he muttered. And with that, he emptied the last of the canteen into his hands and anointed as much of Liz as clothing and decorum allowed. Warpaint followed, lightning bolts on her cheeks and a stylized flame on her forehead. “Red-haired woman with lightning eyes,” he murmured. “This I name you.”
Liz simply smiled, but David could see that the ritual had meant a lot to her.
Finally Calvin drew Alec aside, spoke to him briefly, then motioned David and Liz to join them at the makeshift Power-Wheel. “Ready?”
“I guess,” Liz whispered. “What’ll we do?”
“What I tell you,” Calvin replied softly. “I’ll be master of the ritual, but Alec’ll do the actual motions. As soon as the gate opens—if it opens—me and Dave’ll jump through. Your job is to keep it open if you can. Don’t ask me how. Since I don’t know how this’ll work, I can’t offer any suggestions. If…if we don’t come back, give my regards to Sandy and tell her I love her.”
“I don’t have to tell you that, do I?” David whispered to Liz in turn, as he enfolded her briefly in his arms. The kiss was the shortest but sweetest he could remember, and even when they broke apart the feel of her body burned against his own like the shadow of a flame. A rough hug for Alec, a high-five from Calvin, and they began.
Calvin had laid out the Power Wheel so that each quadrant encompassed a cardinal direction. Alec was already in the South, but he motioned David to the north. Liz took the west, and he the east. Calvin’s fannypack, full of six return-trip scales, a spare T-shirt, and cut-offs, they left outside the circle but ready to hand. (The survival kit wouldn’t fit with the rest of the stuff, and he thought he’d need clothes more—besides, David still had his kit and pack—to which the bolt-cutters had been firmly affixed with a generous application of duct tape.) The rest of the scales were in David’s backpack (Calvin’s was again too full), which would not be going.
Calvin took a deep breath, retrieved the mysterious bag Uki had given him from his knapsack, and withdrew a smaller pouch, which he handed to Alec, who untied it and emptied the contents onto the center of the Wheel. “Shavings from a blasted tree,” Calvin explained softly, “Strong medicine.” He glanced up at Alec. “From here on, say what I say, and if I hand you something, use it like I told you.”
Another bag yielded several small twigs, which Alec shaped into a pyramid, naming the species of tree or shrub as he did: “Cedar…pine…spruce…holly…laurel.”
“All the plants of vigilance,” Calvin noted, “so as to see between the Worlds.”
Alec poured various herbs around it then, but David could not identify their scents, nor did Calvin identify them.
Finally came a dribble of some thin, oily liquid—and fire from flint and pyrite expertly struck (one of the fruits of Alec’s five years in the Boy Scouts). Nothing man-made, David noted. Nothing that was not part of the natural world.
The fire blazed up immediately, far brighter than the material that comprised it would have suggested, nor did it smoke much. And, David noted to his surprise, neither was the material quickly consumed.
“Ulunsuti,” Calvin prompted. Alec nodded resignedly, took the jar, and removed the crystal slowly, almost reverently. He placed it on a circle of deerskin before him and began to repeat the chants Calvin fed him a few at a time. And as he did he sprinkled the crystal first with more of the strange oil, then with a second mixture of herbs. David was not surprised when it began to glow. A longer chant, and then Calvin took a deep breath and looked up. “All blood or bone from a beast that lives in two worlds. All leaf and root from plants that haunt the edges.”
David nodded, knowing of this prime rule of Cherokee magic: that things that were of more than one category were sacred: bats that flew like birds but had fur; frogs that lived in land and water—he supposed plants like cattails that likewise grew in both.
“And now the catalyst.” He motioned for David to get the thermos. David gave him a quick thumbs-up and reached outside the Wheel to grasp the chrome-and-plastic cylinder. At another sign, he unscrewed the cap and poured its contents into a pottery bowl Alec took from Calvin and held between his hands until the still-warm deer blood lapped against the rim. David returned the not-quite-empty thermos to his lap (fearing that it would not do for so mundane an object to touch Calvin’s sacred sand), and folded his hands around it expectantly. Wind brought him a flash of odor: herb-smoke and fresh blood. Alec lowered the bowl and set it before him, then took the ulunsuti and gradually submerged it in the blood, once more repeating the chant as Calvin uttered it.
David craned his neck, squinting through the rising pall of smoke to see the bowl. The ulunsuti was glowing more brightly, of that there was no doubt. And the blood level was dropping as if the crystal sucked it in. Finally, though, the talisman seemed to be sated, and no more blood was absorbed, though a small quantity still remained in the bottom of the bowl. The ulunsuti’s glow had shifted, however: was now as red as the solar disc that was finally peeking around the edge of the woods to the east.
“Two things left, folks,” Calvin whispered. “We visualize our destination, and when it’s there, be prepared to act. Oh, and one more thing. It oughta remain open as long as there is warmth in the blood. After that, who can say?”
David sighed apprehensively and tried to stretch as much as he could without disturbing the ritual, then followed Calvin’s instructions and stared at the ulunsuti. This was getting to be the easy part: gazing at a rock and willing it to show him what he wanted. And this time it was made easier by the arcane glow that drew his eye toward it almost against his will. Brighter and brighter, a silver-red glow. Silver—that made it easier. He tried to key onto Fionchadd, caught an image of him writhing on the bed. He tried to call out to him, to send him words of comfort, tell him that help was on the way—but could not. Liz’s mind overruled his: out, it seemed to say. You must appear outside and try to get in. There appears to be some kind of barrier with this technique.
Abruptly Fionchadd’s face vanished, to be replaced by the tower, the strip of rocky land—and the endless waves. The tower was closer than it had been before, he realized with considerable relief—and then it was as if he saw two things simultaneously: Stone Mountain and the tower, each overlapping the other. And the water—water flowing around them, under them, yet not touching them.
“Christ,” he heard Alec whisper.
“Hold,” Calvin ordered, and David was aware that Alec had lifted the ulunsuti from the bowl and was slowly easing it toward the flame. One part of him glimpsed the crystal, one part the fire between them, one part a tower, and one part the clearing and the faces of his friends. And then David finally realized what Alec was about. Before he knew it, his best friend had thrust the crystal barehanded into the flames. He held it there for a moment, and David could see the pain etching itself across his face. And then he saw nothing at
all, as the flame leaped up to form an archway as tall as he was through which he saw the sea-girt tower that imprisoned Fionchadd.
Somehow Calvin was beside him. David reached down, checked his fannypack, the uktena scale at his throat, along with Liz’s token, the knife that hung sheathed at his hip. Calvin quickly donned his own scale and pack and weapon. David stared ahead, saw the gate to the Otherworld widen, grabbed Calvin’s hand, and leapt.
—Or was pulled, he never afterwards remembered.
Chapter XVIII: Rescue
(a tower—no date—morning)
David had been prepared for everything—he thought—except for the possibility that the World which enclosed Fionchadd’s prison might be bitterly cold. As it was, icy air bit at him before he was even aware of falling; and he smashed flat into frigid water from something like six feet up in the king of all belly-floppers. The air exploded from his lungs, almost stunning him, and the unbelievable cold made him gasp double and shocked him enough to send him flailing wildly. It was like the polar sea must be, and the tiny rational part of him that was still alert wondered what the freezing point of salt water was. Or was it even salt? He tasted the rime already frosting his lips… Salt indeed, though strangely seasoned. But then the gravity of his situation dawned on him. He had to move, and quickly, or he’d freeze to death. Already he’d lost track of his fingers and toes, and his ankles and wrists were no great shakes, either. “Help!” he yelled, thinking inanely that Liz or Alec might be able to throw him a line, but then a glance over his shoulder showed him the gateway: a fiery shimmer in the air two yards above his head. He could not see his friends. And Calvin? Jesus, where was Calvin? David spun around, dog-paddling in place. There was the tower, not three hundred feet away, gleaming silver-pink in the morning light—but no grinning Amerindian. Yet they had come together! “Calv—” David began desperately, but the cry became a cough as a wave swamped his mouth. He ducked under, and when he rose again—sputtering and gasping, teeth chattering beyond control—Calvin’s head rose with him. He dared a sigh of relief, but then he saw that the Indian’s eyes were wild with shock, and didn’t seem to be focusing quite right.
“Oh…God, Sullivan,” Calvin choked between bouts of uncontrollable shivering. “Oh Jesus God, what’ve we got into? I—” His words were cut off by another wave, and this time David made a frantic grab for his friend and held him up. His flesh was cold as ice.
“Quick, Fargo,” David gritted. “We gotta get movin’, and get movin’ fast. Swim as quick as you can. Hang onto me if you have to; holler if you can’t, and don’t be proud. Ain’t no tellin’ what might be in this water.”
“You…g-got it,” Calvin managed.
David caught him by the shoulder. “You okay? I mean for sure?”
The grimace that followed could have meant anything, but David thought Calvin’s eyes looked a little less wild. “Any trouble at all, you let me know!”
“Right on.” And with that he jackknifed forward and surged toward the tower.
David gave Calvin a few yards lead to see that he was in fact more or less competent, then started after him, wishing he didn’t have an awful sick feeling in his stomach.
Fortunately, their goal was fairly close—much closer than it had appeared through the gate. And equally fortunate, they were both good swimmers, though David thought once about reaching for the uktena scale that hung around his throat, trying to imagine what sort of beast might be able to live in such frigid conditions, and finding himself unable to think of anything but narwhales, which he didn’t want to be. But the cold bored into him again and all he could think about was swimming: urging his body onward, trying to fight the numbness that crept in at him, turning every breath to a tortured gasp.
Faster and faster, harder and harder, keeping Calvin always in sight to his right, searching for any signs of faltering.
Closer and closer, and the waves were becoming much choppier as they approached the tiny island. He found himself probing downward with his all-but-numb feet, hoping to find some trace of bottom, but having no luck. Apparently the rock that supported the tower rose sheer from some unfathomable seabed.
Another wave blurred his vision, its twin choked him, a third grabbed him and flung him abruptly forward, narrowly missing the sheer escarpment that suddenly reared before him, its lip more than a yard above his head.
A fourth wave drew him back, but the next hurled him onward again, and this time he was prepared, this time he managed to grab the top edge of the rock face and hang on. He remained there a moment, panting, before he was finally able to summon enough strength to mount the final effort that sent him scooting over the jagged stone onto solid ground.
“Calvin?” he shouted, and realized dumbly that he’d lost sight of his companion again.
“Calvin!”
“Dave…”
“Where…?”
“Dave, I…I can’t hold on much longer.”
David followed the cries to a higher shore maybe five yards off to his right. He peered over the edge of the cliff and finally saw his friend. Evidently the last batch of waves had separated them and flung Calvin toward a slicker, steeper bit of coast. He had caught the upper edge, though only with his fingertips, but could find no other holds and lacked the strength to pull himself further. And meanwhile the waves were pounding at him—not helping, not thrusting him up to a better hold, but dragging him down, their crests like cold, cruel knives. “Hang on, man,” David yelled, as he flung himself flat on the shore and slid a hand down the cliff to grasp Calvin’s wrist. “Hang on guy, I gotcha!”
“You think I might not?” Calvin somehow dared to laugh, as he freed his other hand and grabbed David’s forearm, which in turn freed him to maneuver the other.
At first David wasn’t sure he was going to be able to make it, since Calvin outweighed him by a good fifteen or twenty pounds—especially as he could barely feel his own fingers and doubted his friend’s were much better. But with Calvin’s persistent struggles and one final shove from a cooperative wave, he managed to haul his friend ashore. Only then did they realize how dangerously chilled they were—for though the air itself was warmer than the water by some small fraction, there was a wind that flung around the base of the tower and sucked even that embryonic comfort from their bodies with shocking rapidity. David tried to recall everything he knew about hypothermia. There were various stages, he knew, each characterized by certain effects and responses, including a euphoric stage that was really dangerous because it gave you a sense of well-being right before it zapped you. Cold was the one thing they had not counted on.
“Quick, to the tower!” he cried, as soon as Calvin had found his feet. “We’ve gotta get out of this wind and dry off a little; gotta take a minute to think.”
“That’s about all we can spare, too,” Calvin replied, rubbing his body frantically. “My hair hurts,” he added with a solemn chuckle.
“Mine too,” David assured him, and dragged him into the shelter of a projecting buttress. The low morning sun lanced in there, and it was noticeably warmer. A quick check in Calvin’s pack rendered relatively dry cut-offs and T-shirt which David envied. “Jesus,” Calvin whispered, as he shucked the loincloth and donned them, “I had no idea I was that far gone. Damn near went into shock there.”
David started to reply that he was pretty burned out too, but then remembered that Calvin had gotten even less sleep than he.
“So what next?” Calvin wondered, apparently back to normal—for a person covered with goose-bumps from head to foot and shivering like an epileptic. Not that he was any better.
David surveyed the section of tower beside him. It was even rougher than it had appeared through the ulunsuti; was fissured and snarled with patterns that might have been natural or might have been carved, all wrought of the silver stone that comprised it. “Don’t remember there bein’ a door, but I don’t reckon it’d hurt to look.”
“Right.”
David glanced back a
t him—and froze with his reply on his lips. Something had moved out there in the choppy, frigid sea; he was sure of it. Calvin noted his frown and followed his line of sight, shading his narrowed eyes with a hand. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know,” David whispered—just as a slick golden shape broke water, followed immediately by a smaller, more angular form he thought might have been a fin.
“Dolphins, maybe?” Calvin suggested, though something in his eyes told David he didn’t believe it.
David backed further around the tower—maybe ten feet. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly, straining his eyes.
Nothing.
And then—so quickly it took his breath—a shape reared from the cold silver sea not twenty feet to their left. Up and up it rose, towering over their heads. Foot-long claws slapped like matching daggers onto the shore of their suddenly precarious refuge. Claws, yes: long silver hooked ones—and paws to retract them into: webbed and covered with sleek golden fur like a seal’s. But the head that gazed down on them was like nothing David had seen in all his forays into other Worlds. Like a lion, it was—but like a shark as well: long-ish muzzle, a cat’s slitted nostrils, fangs like a sabre-toothed tiger backed up by the more extravagant dentition of a shark—all beneath slitted eyes as big as baseballs and greenly glowing, and the whole at least four feet across.
David caught only the smallest glimpse of body before he grabbed Calvin and ran—but that glimpse showed him a form at once mammalian and piscean—as if a smilodon had been raped by a great white shark and born hideous offspring. For the monster, though forelegged like an enormous lion, had the scaly hindquarters of a fish.
And now it was coming after them, and they had, David realized grimly, nowhere to go. There was water on all sides, the tower was only fifty or so feet in diameter—and the beast itself was easily half that long. It’d get them, sure enough, or the water would—if not the icy wind. Unless…
