In the distance, the red-orange ball of the sun was beginning its descent, but Tall only vaguely perceived this as he began plotting his escape. The charge would come soon. If he pushed with all his might against his staff and used the leverage to jump away at just the right moment, he might live. He had done so many times before, but never with a full pack.
His thoughts turned. Did he dare slip the pack off and risk losing it? If he lost the pack, he could survive in the deep, but he’d have to gather everything for his quest again. The required leaves: the gritty and the stinging. The required roots: the dark and the light. He had even found the bitter-sweet, and it was the gathering of this final item that had brought him close to the bull’s house.
Ephramme and Keene had told him this would happen. They had taken their quests during previous moons and had both stumbled unwittingly into slither nests. Ephramme’s honesty for telling the smoot he had crushed eggs earned him a public humiliation, but he took it in kind and became a man. Keene’s dishonesty, though, set him back and aided his failure. The smoot cast Keene out into the wilds. Though the village arbor wept for him, the smoot did not change his mind.
To be certain, Tall did not want to share Keene’s fate, and so his thoughts spun while his ears took in every sound around him. Not far off, he heard swarms of fist-sized buzzers. No doubt the winged bloodsuckers were trying to locate Tall, but Tall was rock still as he waited and had just used the gritty to mask his scent. The gritty bush was a small, woody plant with coarse, thick leaves that contained a heavy, pungent oil. When Tall rubbed the leaves together, the oil foamed and the foam put a masking coat over anything it was rubbed on, from clothes to skin and hair.
Tall hated the always-hungry buzzers almost as much as Ray hated black suckers. Black suckers lived in the deep mud at the edges of the wet, and any slip into the wet was sure to come with a few. Detaching suckers was tricky because they not only attached themselves with their rows of tiny teeth—they also burrowed into flesh. The stinging herb was one of the few things that could get a burrowed sucker to detach itself. When suckers came out of the mud at night to feed, the stinging also was one of the few things that could keep them away.
Though he dared not move to look, Tall’s sharp senses told him buzzers were gathering at the edges of a deep pool, near the scatter brush that blocked his field of vision. His senses also told him the bull was on the move. He steeled himself, resolved to wait. If he was patient enough, the bull would return to his feast and he could resume his journey.
Before long, however, he saw the tell-tale signs of movement in the weed-grass. It was the bull and all the gritty in the great beyond couldn’t block his man scent from a bull that close to him. The time to make a decision was at hand: attack the bull as the bull attacked him or drop the pack and run.
A childhood rhyme came to his mind. “Scatter bush and weed-grass blowing in the wind. Scatter bush and weed-grass shaking in the rain. Scatter bush and weed-grass sticking through it all. The tall, the thick, the wide, the deep, in and around, out and in, out and around, scatter bush and weed-grass never did fall.” There were more lines, but these were unimportant now. The lesson in the rhyme was two-fold. It spoke of the timelessness of bush and grass and of what he must do to survive the wilds.
He must keep calm. He must become like the scatter bush and weed-grass. He must weather rain and wind. He must endure whatever the Great Father of the Heavens sent his way.
As the bull came out of the grass, its great jaws flapping and its razor sharp claws raking, Tall took his long, wooden staff in both hands, raised it over his head, and called out on the winds, “Beware, Great Bull. This path is my own and I’ll not have you in the way on my journey.”
His voice came out as a shrill scream and he followed it with his staff, giving the bull’s head a series of sharp blows before stepping back and screaming, “Be gone! My path is before me and I must go on my way!” His voice cresting, he struck out again, rapping both sides of the bull’s head with his staff.
The bull for its part, opened its jaws wide and began to hiss. It was a warning. Tall knew at once that the new kill was only a part of the bull’s concern. Somewhere near was a newly hatched brood, and if so, a queen lurked somewhere out there as well.
A breath caught in his throat. Bulls and queens only gathered to brood in one place. He twisted sideways, dodging past the scatter brush that blocked his view and chasing away hungry buzzers with his staff.
His eyes became wide, wild discs as he caught sight of the three great arbors that marked the place lost and deep. He was just at the very edge. If he had skipped past the bull’s house, gone a few over, and then a few down, he would have stumbled straight into the immense hollow loch. It was right there, waiting for him, as it had waited for so many others.
The smoot’s voice echoed in his ears, “Go until you think you can’t go any more, and then go some more…”
“I have,” Tall said to the fading voice. “I’ve gone as far and as fast as any ever have. The deep spreads just there, at the edge of my reach.”
“Tall, is that you?” a distant voice called out.
Tall turned toward the vaguely familiar voice, just as the bull and his queen came on. He sidestepped, swept back around with his staff, catching the bull and successfully chasing it off. But the queen was there waiting as he turned back, sinking its teeth into the flesh of his right leg. He screamed, letting out a piercing cry that caused every beast around him to stir and jump into the deep loch.
Fighting through the pain, he found the resolve to turn his staff on the queen, striking again and again. This alone was not enough to make the queen release the deadly grip. Suddenly, a second staff was striking the queen, following his own blows. Then the dark, mud-covered and mostly naked figure was jumping on the queen’s back, wrestling against its great claws and prying open its great jaws.
With the vise-like grip on his leg eased, Tall freed himself, his leg leaving a bloody trail in the mud as he used his staff to scuffle back and away from the beast. Strange screams of pain and panic followed, but they were not his own—they were the other’s. Tall was sure the queen was devouring the one who had saved him and he pressed his hands against his ears certain that he could do nothing but close his eyes and pray it was all over soon. But with the next breath he found himself on his feet, racing toward the queen, staff in hand.
He arrived at the same time the bull returned to aid the queen as they together set upon the stranger. Time seemed to stand still. He cried out as he struck the bull, his arms going back over his head and coming down to strike with all his might.
The bull raked his good leg. He fell back, but managed to strike a blow between the beast’s eyes. Using the staff as leverage, he got back on his feet. Swinging his staff wildly, he came back around at the bull trying to chase it off, but the bull came on as hungry as ever.
The stranger’s panic-filled screams filled his ears. His own panic took over as he attacked the bull with all his might, no longer seeking to subdue or chase the bull away. He repeated this blow over and over until the bull was still and then turned on the queen. Soon, the other was free and time resumed its normal course.
Exhausted and panting, Tall fell back. He crawled to the other’s side. “Are you truly here or do I conjure you of dream?”
“I am here,” the other said, reaching out his left hand to clasp Tall’s right. “You are the one I thought conjured of dream.”
“The bull? The queen?”
“Dead.”
Tall turned onto his back, grabbed at the air with a breath, while he gripped his shredded calf muscle with both hands. “And you?”
“I live,” the other said.
“We’ve killed, murdered a bull and a queen.”
The other pressed a hand to his left shoulder, straining to sit and look over to Tall. Beneath the scraggly hair, Tall saw the other’s face now. The eyes, he knew those brown eyes. “Keene?” he asked, his voice barely a whispe
r.
“Exile for you too now,” Keene said, “We are brothers in that at least even if you’ll never have my sister Ellie’s circle.”
Hot tears began to stream down Tall’s cheeks. Pain didn’t bring the tears, rather the certainty of failure did. His father’s every hope and dream was crushed in an instant. His mother would wear the black veil for twelve moons and cry of his downfall through it all as she moved from village to village begging forgiveness for her family. His brother would never speak his name, nor would Ellie or any other. He would be a lost one. Darkness would be his only companion until his death. It was the law—and yet he was not alone and Keene was not dead, but living. “Keene, is it really you? The elders said the casting out meant certain death.”
“Death of a kind,” Keene said, wincing as he pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Since we’ve no desire for true death, we must see to these wounds or else we’ll bleed out as the bull and queen have.”
Tall’s tears did not slow. “I’m but a crafter’s son. I’ve no healing skills.”
Keene dragged his hands through the mud, creating a large ball of mud. “Then let a gatherer’s son show you how it’s done.”
Keene caked Tall’s right leg in mud from ankle to knee. At first, the bleeding would not slow, but with several layers of mud applied the bleeding at last stopped. When he finished, Tall encased Keene’s shoulder in mud. Soon after, dusk gave way to night, and the two were left to the deep darkness of the wilds. Tall’s last act, before fatigue overtook him, was to enclose himself and Keene in a circle of the stinging. The long leaves were narrow on both ends and accordion-pleated lengthwise. Their scent was sweet, but their touch burned like fire and itched endlessly.
Chapter 2: Across the Waters
Tall awoke with the rising sun, Keene did not. “It’s morning,” Tall called out to the other boy as he sat up. When the other didn’t stir, even with gentle nudging, Tall touched a hand to the dark-haired boy’s forehead. Feeling fever fire, he pulled the hand away quickly, almost as if burned.
Fear overcame him. The fever took almost as many as it found. He wrapped his hands over his face and wept. His tears were shameful, he knew, but he couldn’t stop them. His first thought was that he must save Keene, for if he were cast out of the village, Keene would be his only friend. His next thought was that he was unworthy of such a friend as Keene—he was unworthy of any friend. He should work to save Keene because Keene deserved to live and not because he did not want to be alone. All life was sacred—and there it was. The real reason for his tears.
The lives of the bull and queen mattered as much as his own, and yet when it came down to it, he had chosen his life over theirs. Fleetingly he wondered if the village arbor would weep for him when he was cast out. He doubted the ancient tree would. It was one thing to foolishly stumble into a nest and kill the babes, quite another to take the lives of a bull and queen. Had there ever been another who’d killed as he had, he wondered. “Only the outsiders,” came the answer to his mind. “Only the wizard’s men.”
He fought to push down his fright but could not. The Great High Wizard of Adalayia was the ruler of the lands to the east. His men came to steal the wet, to enslave, and to kill. They took their kills with them to parade as trophies. He had never ventured upon their lands and the mere thought of stepping on land that did not shake and move beneath his feet sent his thoughts racing. The still lands—the stone lands—were a thing almost beyond his imaging. He and his people were one with the moving lands. How could one know a house was occupied if the land beneath it did not shudder in such a way to tell him so? How could one know when it was safe to make a leap from one side of a deep wading to the other if the shifting land did not disclose it was time? How could one feel a bull’s lope or a slither’s crawl if the vibrations did not reveal it?
A distant whisper from another time spoke to him. “Find control, Tall. Focus, live.” As ever, these were the smoot’s words. As the eldest in the village, the smoot knew all and saw all. He carried word of lore and law. He prepared boys to become men. He spoke for the great tree and the great tree spoke with his voice.
“Focus, live,” Tall repeated to himself. He touched the back of his hand to his own forehead, found that he was burning with fever as well. He checked his wounds. The mud caking his calf had dried, sealing the cuts and gashes beneath.
Keene wasn’t so fortunate. His shoulder wasn’t his only deep wound. He had others which still bled, and no doubt they were the reason for his current state. Tall tried to stand, found he couldn’t put his weight on his bad leg even with his staff as an aid. He crawled to his pack, pulled free the container attached to the bottom and wrapped the container’s cord around his neck. He made his way to the wet using his arms and good leg, dragging his right leg behind.
He filled the container, made his way back to Keene’s side. He washed the other’s wounds before caking them with mud. This time he ensured that he spread the mud in thick layers, waiting each time for the bleeding to stop, as Keene had done for him.
A deep growl from his belly reminded him of how hungry he was. He crawled to his pack, undid the top, and took out several long, dark roots. He chewed small pieces of the root but did not swallow. Instead he spit the chewed root into his hand and fed this to Keene, using the container’s contents to help Keene wash down the root. The process was long and slow and enough to lull him to sleep. He awoke to find the mid-day sun overhead, but it wasn’t the sun that awoke him—it was the sound of nestlings hatching that did.
Crawling over to the nest at the far side of the residence, he found the dead queen draped over the nest. The queen had given the nestlings the final warmth needed to hatch, but without the queen and the bull the nestlings would die. Tall knew this, and yet he vowed to save them all—as he also vowed to save Keene. With his hands, he ripped open the queen’s belly and helped the nestlings feed on the queen’s own flesh. The guilt of the deed would gnaw at him later, much as the nestlings would soon gnaw upon their mother.
The glowing ball of the sun reflected across the surface of the deep pool caught Tall’s eye. He stared out at the great beyond and a breath caught in his throat as his gaze found the three massive arbors and the large pools they shaded. Although the gnarled and twisted trunks and branches of the arbors dominated the horizon, the long roots stretching into the deep were what Tall studied. The rounds and hollows made by the roots were filled with nests, and those nests were guarded by queens whose bulls were sunning nearby. It was a sight he had scarcely dared hope to see, and seeing it now he knew the stories told during festivals around the village fire did not do it justice.
Across the waters he saw a towering structure with a domed roof and spire that none of the stories spoke of. Though it looked as ancient as the trees and showed no signs of decay, it did not belong in this sacred site, and he wondered about those who made such a thing in such a place. Did they not understand the power and magic of the place? It was lost and deep for a reason and it was not meant to be looked upon by the unworthy. One was meant to sweat and to bleed, if necessary, to reach the deep. The journey was as important as the destination itself, and that was something Tall was certain the builders of the monstrous tower and wall did not understand.
The tower was a desecration. The wall, a blight. He spat and shook a fist in the air. Angry, he made his way back to Keene, using his arms and mostly dragging his legs. He chewed light root for Keene before eating some of the root himself. By mid-day, he found he was unable to keep his eyes open and so he slept. He awoke near dusk, weak and feverish. He used what remained of the light to prepare for the night, filling his container in the deep pool, spreading the stinging, and seeing to Keene’s needs, though Keene so far had not regained consciousness. As the twilight faded, he applied the gritty to help mask his man scent from all that flew, crawled, hopped, and walked. The last of the gritty he applied to what little of Keene’s face wasn’t covered in mud.
The night was long and cool, and
Tall awoke shivering just as the moon was rising. By moonlight, he checked his surroundings to ensure no manner of beast was lurking in wait for him as he dragged himself down to the edge of the pool. He used the thick, moist mud to cake his scrapes and wounds before filling his container and drinking deeply. As he gulped down something thick and slimy with the wet, he started gagging and choking.
Reaching in with his fingers, he gripped the plump sucker and ripped it out of his mouth before it could attach its rows of tiny, sharp teeth. The repulsive creature thrashed about between his fingers as he flung it out into the pool.
“Only fools drink what they cannot see,” a soft voice told him.
Tall wished his hand gripped his staff and not mud as he spun around on his backside. The mud made his turn easy, but his hands balled into fists found only empty air. He quieted his breathing, focused on the darkness.
Complete Magic Lands Books 1 & 2 Omnibus Page 11
