Complete Magic Lands Books 1 & 2 Omnibus

by William Robert Stanek

  He considered his trek now, thinking that perhaps the choice lay obvious somewhere within it. He questioned the way the slither moved, gliding upon its belly. The bull had feet with which Ray knew it could race at tremendous speeds, even on the dry. The slither was graceful, the bull sometimes awkward. Yet the bull had clear advantages over the smaller slither.

  Ray’s eyes turned back to the loch. Old Bull was lethargically withdrawing as the day was nearing an end. As he watched Old Bull slip away, he searched the length of his staff with his hands. Every inch of the six foot, straight length was as familiar to him as his own hands. He had smoothed and refined its edges and strengthened it himself. The staff, like the container, was an integral part of his journey.

  Thinking of the container brought back memories of Tall. Tall was his closest friend in the village. Tall was the one who helped him learn how to make the webbing on the end of the container when old three toes had declared that Ray was “unteachable.”

  “I made it, Tall,” Ray said to the empty air, a sparkle in his eye. He imagined then that his lanky friend was smiling back at him. As he reclined back, his stomach rumbled and the thought of food and eating came to him suddenly. He decided it was time for a grand feast. He had found the place lost and deep—and he had done it on his own.

  He took out a generous share of his gatherings, spilling over it a portion of the long sap he had secreted away. He did not portion out more than was needed, a drop here, two drops there, and not much more.

  Ray shelved his anxieties for a while, until dusk arrived and the air turned cool and the humidity began to recede. Then reality began to settle in. Reaching the place lost and deep wasn’t the goal—completing the rite of passage was. He must prepare himself. He must circle the three arbors, set his mark upon them. He must choose—and with thoughts of the choosing came doubt. Is it true what the elders have said? Am I unteachable? Am I unworthy? Am I unready?

  Doubt led to hesitation. He waited perhaps longer than he should have, but he did manage to coax himself into preparing. He groomed himself, cleansing staff and body, flexing muscles. He made a large pile of cake-mud, intermixing wet and dry, applying it from toe to head.

  In the last minutes of light, he took up the pieces of the stinging he had laid out, rubbing their oils over the hardened cake of the mud on his body. Staff and pack secured now, again he waited, eyes adjusting to the ever-increasing darkness.

  Noting the homes, and those that lingered upon them, Ray purposefully set out, making cautious progress through the tall, skirting the edge of the deep. He still had not made his choice, rather he performed instinctively as he had been told.

  He circled to the first arbor with confidence, setting his mark alongside the others: Ray son of Waddymarre, Third Village the mark said. Between the first and the second arbor was a thick with nests; Ray knew this, and he proceeded at a choked pace.

  Weed-grass was all around him and though in other circumstances it could have served as camouflage, now it was a dangerous hindrance. He must rely only on his night senses, and the thrashing of his heart in his ears. He was afraid, but he turned his fear into his strength. He used it to shield him, to make him more aware of his surroundings.

  Mentally, he tallied the number of nests he passed, noting the location of each. The silent guardians of the clutch were vicious and unremorseful in their attacks, and Ray knew that even a bull that wandered into their ward would not pass retaliation, yet he did not fear the guardian queens as much as he feared stumbling into another’s stray lair. The slither did not always lie close to the wet and her nest could be settled anywhere, even atop the scatter brush he passed.

  Halfway into a step forward, Ray froze, foot still hanging in the air. He waited, listening, was it the breeze, a fervent imagination, or was there something directly in front of him. “Is that you, Old Bull?” he whispered, the sound of his voice barely escaping his lips as the question flashed through his mind.

  He backed up, paused again. He gleaned a hiss from the air, though not down low where he had expected it, perhaps level with his chest. He hesitated, breathed.

  No, he corrected, in front of his face. The hiss came from in front of his face.

  The gloom withstanding, he could have swore he saw a slither drawn up full, tongue lashing in and out, red eyes scrutinizing, and needless to say, he stopped, dead still. If the slither was real, if he wasn’t imagining it, it would have to be the biggest slither he had encountered in all his life. Perhaps, it was Mother Slither herself, she who birthed all the slithers. If so, she was the greatest and most dangerous slither that ever lived—enormous. Dangerous and enormous.

  His thoughts started moving in circles. He hesitated when maybe he should have pressed on.

  Tiny flashes of hot circled around his face, lashed out at his shoulders, moved down his right arm. Had he been bitten? He was unsure. His thoughts were spinning. Everything seemed surreal.

  Time clicked by. Reluctant to move, he continued to hesitate. Something touched his foot, he could feel it wiggling across now, dry and scaly. Was his hesitation about to cost him his life or was it saving him? Was venom coursing through his veins? Was he about to die?

  He waited, fought to concentrate, to think. He breathed, slowly in and out, clearing his thoughts and calming his nerves as the smoot had taught him.

  After what seemed an eternity, he took a hesitant step forward. The hot flashes passed. He proceeded on. The second arbor was not far off. He knew he could reach it—he told himself he could. “Quick of eye, quick of foot, quick of mind,” he reminded himself.

  Last season he had thought it would be so easy to find, to take, and to return, but then again, he had not understood the challenge. Anyone could find and take, and to return was as simple as following your path to its beginning. He understood this now, blood surging through veins, his awareness heightened, the senses reaching, reaching out.

  He achieved the second arbor without further mishap and circled it he had the first. He was breathing hard now and a bit winded, but also excited. Within, he felt an inexplicable desire—a true need to succeed not just to prove himself to others, but to prove himself to himself. He was Ray, son of Waddymarre. He was not unteachable. He had learned all that he needed to become a man. He had taken no misstep—except well maybe that one but that one misstep was a lesson learned.

  The elder’s voice streamed through his mind. “You know which to take from Third to First, and so to Second, but which do you take from Second to Third?” He hadn’t truly understood before but now the logic made sense. Before he had only considered the things he had known, the way from Third Village to First was known, but the elder had not been talking about Third Village, First Village, or even Second Village. He knew this now.

  His night eyes saw the three villages gathered close; he was at First Village. The place between Second and Third was the deep, and therein the lost. He walked to the edge of the deep, kneeling down close to the wet, bringing a touch of it to his lips. The taste was almost sweet.

  His step truer, his thoughts clearer, his senses keener, he walked back to face the grand arbor, inscribing two simple markings along side the others: the sign for his name, Ray, and the sign that said he was Waddymarre’s son. “One more,” he hastened himself, adding, “Come on, Old Bull,” as his sense of the grand game returned.

  Almost on cue, a churning came to the loch, splashing, thrashing, a tangle; something must have gotten too close to an Old Queen. A bit more wary now and less driven by his elation, he hesitated until the echoes died. Mindful of step, knowing he had nearly succumbed to haste, he set out for the third arbor.

  He passed the place where the convulsing, tiny ripples still licked the shore. “Don’t worry, Old Queen, I don’t want any of your litter,” he quietly called out into the night, casting his druthers then and there. The choice was clear now; he had only to make it.

  A prickly tangle barred his way, and just as Ray turned aside, he felt a familiar hot b
last upon his flesh. Later he would not know what came over him, acting only on impulse, on instinct, he dropped down to hands and knees, the tiny puffs of air never straying, destined on his face.

  He reached out with his right hand, while circling with his left, feeling a small twinge on the end of his nose at the same time. He grasped out with left and right, not quite convinced he was groping at empty air, yet not quite sure what to expect.

  Slipping hands up dry, responsive scales, tightening under lower jaw with the thumb of his right hand, while clamping down with his left. The slither’s first instinct was to coil, and it wrapped and wrapped, twining up Ray’s arms until its tail crept round his neck, up under his Adam’s apple, and clenched down like two giant hands upon his windpipe.

  His thoughts spun wildly out of control and it was all he could do to keep from panicking. He fought with both hands as he tried to keep the slither’s powerful mandibles closed, quickly discovering that the beast’s head was twice as big as his own.

  He knew then that he had stumbled upon the lair of a slither that was a queen of her kind—a slither that had stood the test of centuries and was as large as she was old. Struggle as he might, there was nothing he could do to ease the vise upon his neck and little he could do to keep the powerful jaws closed.

  Primal fear overcame him and a primeval will to survive took over his every action. He hunkered down to his belly, rolled onto his back, the sudden adrenaline rush filling in where the long sap fell short.

  He broke his left hand free, struggled to unwrap the tail from his neck while holding the powerful jaws in check, knowing he had only one chance to get rid of the angry mother, or she may have a pleasant feast waiting for the hatching.

  Just before he released, throwing with all his might, it suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t even know if the mother slither’s nest contained hatchlings or eggs. Was he about to stick his hand into a live nest? Was he about to make the last mistake of his life?

  He didn’t hesitate. “Quick of mind, quick of eye, quick of hand,” he told himself, as he released.

  In the interim of the next few heartbeats, he lived his life in blurring explosions of images. While he wiggled his hand through the protective layers of the nest, holding one single breath, afraid if he let it go that he might never partake of another, he thought of all he had done, and all that could be yet ahead of him.

  His fingers came upon a thing warm and leathery, several somethings warm and leathery. He cringed, the sour returning to his troubled innards. He exhaled; it was round and nearly ripe, but not yet hatched.

  His hand passed over several, but he did not take one of the first he came upon. He probed onward, coming to one that was on the far side of the nest. Its surface against the palm of his hand felt warmer than any of the others, and this one, he plucked up, placing it immediately into the protective container he had made, delaying no longer.

  The mother slither would be upon him any instant. He ran, forgetting better judgment, forgetting the dangers ahead, for the one behind was graver than anything he could imagine. He would have a new player in his game of chase and catch me if you can. He was sure of this. He ran and ran and ran as if his life depending on it—because it did.

  He never came to that last arbor tree, not that night, and most probably not for the rest of his life, though if he had, he probably would have only jotted down one symbol, Ray, near the base of its trunk. Some events are life changing and life shaping—and he knew this now.

  He had faced a challenge greater than any he had ever before faced in his young life and he had done so alone. He was no longer the son walking in his father’s shadow. He was no longer Ray son of Waddymarre, Third Village. He was simply Ray and he now stood in a shadow of his own making.

  The land beyond the hill beckoned strong now, and he willingly went. Perhaps following an imagined path back towards home would have been best, but he didn’t heed those instincts. He knew the direction of the hill, and so he went, across a path he had never been before, yet he wasn’t afraid. He carried on, head up, feet true, switching dexterously from house to house, pole in hand, precious cargo stowed.

  Finally, he had become in his mind and through his deeds the thing he was always destined to be. No longer a child, he was a man now, at least as much a man as could be expected. He was after all only thirteen, having turned thirteen on his name day one turning of the moon ago.

  CHAPTER FOUR: OLD BULL

  In the twilight of day, Ray slumbered, an exhausting night passed. The filter between conscious and subconscious adhered to the phenomenon of the rising sun. He slept, eyes open, and in the window of his mind, he saw the sun rise, heard the night’s sounds fade away and heralded the tendencies of the day. His weary body bade him to linger in rest a few hours more and so he did.

  Awakening was more or less a switching from inward thought to outward thought. Ray made the transition willingly, but not easily. He stretched and craned sore muscles, arching back and molding it into place, cracking neck from side to side, massaging toes and feet, only then doing the inspection—the black sucker check—he should have conducted before his slumber.

  Breakfast was moderate, and afterwards he collected handfuls of soft plumes from the weed-grass, sliding his precious cargo out of its holding, constructing a nest of sorts, putting the egg back into the container. “A slither,” he said to himself, happy with his choice.

  For a moment as he had held it, feeling its warmth in his hand, the outer layer had writhed and moved to his touch. The tiny one within was already beginning its struggle to break free from its prison home and Ray was pleased. He was hard pressed to resist the temptation to crack open the egg, knowing full and well this was not a thing he should do or even consider.

  “Every thing has its time,” he reminded himself, “Every thing has its time.”

  He thought about the tiny slither in the egg and it carried him through the rechecking of his pack and the stowing of his meager belongings. As he strapped on the pack though his thoughts turned inward. He thought of his experiences the night before. The change he felt within him but didn’t see as he stared down at his reflected image in the nearby pool.

  Not far off was a glade and beautiful lilies floated on the open pool within it. In his world though, the In, he knew such beauty could be deceiving. The bright orange flowers grew only in places known as deep sinkings. Just below the surface of the pool was a muck so thick and deep that no one who entered ever escaped.

  Suddenly he wondered if the lilies were a warning. They were, weren’t they?

  The other day he had seen the flash of orange just before the bull pulled him under. He felt an inexplicable urge to race back to his village. He began to rationalize his return. The only one who knew he had dreamt of the Out was the smoot and the smoot would never speak of it—it was forbidden to speak of another’s vision quest. The villagers would see his prize, think him a man. He didn’t have to continue. He didn’t have to journey into the beyond. It would be his secret, the one thing he would never share with another.

  He found himself saying aloud, “You know which to take from Third to First, and so to Second. … You know which to take from Second to Third. You have placed your mark for all to see, for your children and their children to see. You have your life’s companion. You can go home now, a man.”

  Everything felt right about what he said, except that the words rang hollow in his ears. What did he really know? Was he really a man?

  He saw no change in his reflection, but he did feel something inside of himself that he couldn’t explain, that he couldn’t rationalize away. He had set out to do what others before him hadn’t. He had set out on the long path. He had set out knowing the journey to the place lost and deep was but one step of many. That thought alone used to terrify him. That thought alone kept him awake many nights. That thought alone isolated him even from his friends—friends with whom he couldn’t share his vision and who wouldn’t understand if he did. Th
e village smoot hadn’t understood it entirely either, so how could he or anyone else hope too?

  He had shared some of it, however. Tall knew of the mountain and the wizard. Tall’s paintings of the mountain and wizard had brought the elders. Perhaps everyone in his village knew of or had seen the paintings. It seemed now more likely than not. “My path is long,” he whispered, near tears. He was still frightened by the sound of the words in his ears, but fear was a shield that brought him awareness and awareness made things clearer. He made his decision, cinched his pack tight, and then headed in the direction of the beyond.

  When he started out, the sun was a large dome on the horizon, which was good for he had not slept as long as he thought he had. Somewhere ahead of him, he expected to find the widening that he had not found during the night, but with each new residence he crossed, the notion waned. The houses were drier here, they did not give as much as they ought, and this set him on edge. Thoughts played in the corners of his mind, images of the stone land and of the pale, ashen faces of those that dwelled therein.