Complete Magic Lands Books 1 & 2 Omnibus

by William Robert Stanek

  One time, when he was far from the village with his father, waiting motionless for a group of bulls to pass, he had dozed off while standing and had fallen over, landing on his side. The impact had startled him awake, but it was the mud at the side of the deep pool that made him panic, for it filled his mouth and nose and ears. As he lay there struggling to breathe, fighting to do anything, all he could think about were the bulls. Surely he was attracting them and surely he was going to die spitting mud and trying to stand.

  That was how he felt now, trying to remember how to regain his feet, unable to do anything but spit mud as the realness of Keene’s death bounced around the inside of his skull. He wished there was time to mourn properly, but bulls could smell death’s approach. It had brought them as had the anticipation of feasting. Now, with the scent of death and so many gathered, a vying frenzy would begin—if it had not already.

  Closing his eyes, he listened for what wind and land had to tell him. He saw the bulls then in his mind’s eye. They circled; they waited; they yearned.

  He sensed the roar of challenge and the returning bellow that would start the frenzy. It would be a single pairing at first, but other challenges would follow, and then this sacred place would be a battlefield.

  He opened his eyes, took deep, calming breaths. Methodically, he emptied and sorted the contents of his pack. There was precious little, but he vowed to make what was at hand work.

  With a rounded stone, he crushed dark root and bittersweet. With his hands, he foamed gritty. He poured a mixture of the three into the container, mixing them with a generous portion of wet, and spreading the resulting perfume over Keene by working it in by the handful. He worked with urgency, but calmly to ensure he didn’t make a mistake.

  Using foamed gritty, he soaped and washed Keene’s hair. His tears stained his cheeks but he continued to work, folding Keene’s hands one within the other and crossing Keene’s legs one over the other. Tradition also demanded that he open Keene’s eyes, so that Keene would know his way on his journey, but Tall couldn’t bring himself to do it. So instead, he cleansed himself as was necessary to display that he was worthy of carrying his friend across the shore.

  As he worked, he tried to remember the sacred words of the journey, but all he could remember was the reprise. It didn’t help matters to hear and feel the circling bulls, though truly their mania lessened as the scent of death and man-flesh lessened.

  Tall started softly. The words of his song, barely audible,

  A journey begins, a journey begins.

  The sun rises and the sun sets.

  The wind blows and the wind knows.

  The land tells. It does, it does.

  The tree listens. It does, it does.

  A journey begins, a journey begins.

  The tree weeps as I weep.

  Our tears are joyful, joyful.

  The land speaks as I speak.

  Our words are blissful, blissful.

  A journey begins, a journey begins.

  Tall put Keene’s staff in dead hands, wrapping dead fingers around the smooth, straight wood. The fingers, stiff and cold, didn’t want to cup the staff, but Tall forced them to take a firm grip. Keene needed the staff to complete his journey. Without it he would be lost and would never reach the distant land where the Great Father waited.

  The journey pack was as important as the staff, and so Tall filled it with what remained of his previous gatherings. He spared nothing, saved nothing.

  As Keene had no life companion, Tall retrieved the remains of the queen from her nest and laid this beside Keene. She was only skin and bones now, but she’d serve her purpose. Where a boy might lose his way on the journey, a fully grown queen would not. Tall knew this. His heart told him it was so, even if his mind doubted.

  Sensing something nearby, Tall spun around, staff in hand. On an outcropping of rocks, he saw a massive bull perched with its snout raised and one clawed hand lifted. The battle scars and markings told Tall that this ancient one was a dominant alpha. The pose was both warning and challenge, not meant for Tall, rather for the other bulls in the area.

  A challenging roar that Tall had been dreading came, followed by a returning bellow from the ancient bull. Defender and challenger clashed. The clap of their bodies coming together resounded across the loch like a fleeting thunder. Other challenges followed and then bedlam.

  Tall had only enough time to snatch up his staff before his house was overtaken by the bulls. He fled, following the yearling, both racing as fast as they could. It was the unmistakable sound of flesh being rent from bone that froze Tall in place. The yearling stood statue still too, almost as if by instinct or, perhaps, sheer terror.

  Tall’s tears returned. He sank to his knees, wrapped his arms around himself. This calmed the shuddering of his body but did not quell it.

  Tall did the only thing he could do at that moment. He finished his song,

  A journey ends, a journey ends.

  The sun sets but will return.

  The wind calms but will blow once more.

  The land quiets but will speak another time.

  The tree slumbers but will remember.

  A journey ends, a journey ends.

  The tree remembers as I remember.

  My sigh is heartfelt, the branches tremble.

  A leaf grows, a place earned is given.

  I see it, our people know it.

  A journey ends, a journey ends.

  The song echoed in his ears long after he finished it. The yearling felt its power too, Tall was sure of this. How long they stood stock-still together Tall would never know, but the sun was a full circle on the distant horizon when Tall turned his back to it and whispered, “Goodbye, friend. Your story is written; mine to be completed. I will tell all who will listen of you. Others will know the truth and you will not be forgotten.”

  With that said, Tall clasped his staff in his right hand and started walking. The sun was to his right; the day moon, to his left. He had only taken a few steps when he heard a voice that said, “You’ll need this for your journey.”

  “Smoot?” Tall said. He turned around and saw the time-worn elder. “You arrive in time to see my great failure.”

  “I’ve seen much more than you know,” the smoot said, returning Tall’s pack and container to him. “Your tears are misplaced. Your heart fills with sorrow when it should fill with joy.”

  “Joy?” Tall said, turning on his heel. By now the bulls had finished their work and were easing into the wet to bathe before sunning. Tension mounted. Angrily, Tall said to the smoot, “How can there be joy in this? Keene has, has—”

  “—moved on to a better place,” the smoot replied. “He’s found peace when he otherwise would’ve had none.”

  “Because you cast him out of the village and made him an exile. He was but a boy who made a mistake.”

  The smoot spoke no immediate response. He started walking and Tall felt obliged to follow. His long silence was worse than any rebuke. They switched to a new house, using their staffs to help them make the long jump.

  The deep quivered with one final burst of activity as two alphas locked jaws. Other bulls and queens began streaming out, flowing around Tall and the smoot. Then out strolled the largest of the dominant bulls. Tall couldn’t read anything in the smoot’s face, but he was terrified.

  Tall watched wide-eyed as the smoot reached back just as the bull was coming up from behind. It seemed the bull was about to rend the smoot’s arm at the elbow, but that was not what happened at all. The bull gripped the smoot’s arm in its mouth; the smoot reached out with his other hand and rubbed the side of the ancient, battle-scarred head.

  In a way Tall was relieved. But then he saw the trophy the bull gripped in its clawed hand—a thigh bone still thick with Keene’s bloody flesh. Tall’s eyes flashed with displeasure. The smoot shot Tall his sternest look, stepping between Tall and the old bull. He said, “You forget the circle is all and everything. What do you think happ
ens to those who journey on when we put them in the little reed boats and push them out into the quieting pools? Keene lives in that flesh no longer. What was his is no longer.”

  Tall didn’t reply. He felt ashamed. A boy’s tears were in his eyes. He looked away from the smoot’s penetrating gaze.

  “He died not a boy, but a man.” The smoot turned up a hand and gripped Tall’s arm at the wrist. “No shame. A man can cry as long and hard as any boy. When he’s been through what you’ve been through, he can cry all the more and find no shame in it.”

  Tall collapsed at the smoot’s feet. “Cast me out now,” he blubbered, “I’ve no strength to return and face the other elders.”

  The smoot was old and frail. He was small, with tiny feet and hands, but when he stood over Tall it seemed he was as big as the village arbor. Tall might try to climb the trunk of his legs, or he might reach for the great branches that were his arms. But either way, he’d never reach the great height of the smoot’s eyes.

  “You ensured his life’s record was written, and because of that, he will be remembered not as an outcast, but as Keene, son of Rooter, Third Village. He earned a man’s passing and the tribute he’s received in this place will be spoken of until the winters of your children’s children’s children. You’ve a place in that story and I see you are no longer a boy either. You’ve now a man’s sensibilities.”

  Tall’s face turned red. “I meant no disrespect. I—”

  “—wanted to speak and did. I would expect no less from any man in our village.”

  “Man, me? I failed, elder. A bull and queen are dead because of me. I live only because he saved me. His death should have been mine.”

  The smoot reached down to help Tall to his feet. “You speak from the place of your sorrow when you should speak with your heart.”

  “My sorrow is in my heart. My sorrow fills my heart.”

  “Your sorrow fills your mind. Your heart knows it was his time. His pain has ended now; he has found peace. There is no pain or sorrow or unhappiness where he is now.”

  “I mourn him as I would a brother.”

  “You know nothing of true mourning. You mourn his absence. You mourn the loss of your friendship. You do not mourn as a father would, as a brother would. If you did, you would see the sum and measure of the choices that lead him to his path. You would know he made wrong turnings, wished with all his heart to correct them, and did so when the opportunity arose.”

  If Tall believed this, he showed no sign. “I should have been the one and not him.”

  “That is the truth of your sorrow. Isn’t it? You feel guilty because you live. Your sorrow is because you wish he lived and you had journeyed on. Well, that’s not how things happened, but you can make your life into one that’s worthy of his sacrifice. Think now… Think carefully. Will you rise to the occasion if given opportunity?”

  Tall didn’t answer. He had no response that seemed appropriate.

  Chapter 5: The Outcast

  Tall walked beside the elder, mindful of his step as he moved across a wide opening and onto another house. Here the smoot stopped to pick through a plentiful growth of black root. The old bull aided the gathering by digging with his great claws. The smoot put dozens of the long rooted plant in Tall’s backpack—root, plume, and all.

  When it was time to go, the smoot bounded away faster than Tall thought possible, with old bull at his side. The smoot called back, “Well, will you or won’t you?”

  Tall raced to keep up. “Will I or won’t I what?”

  “The boy returns,” the smoot muttered as he turned down a new lane. Then his jaw clenched in the way that forewarned. “The white root there won’t gather itself.”

  Tall worked quickly, digging up and stowing whole plants in his pack. He said nothing of the oddity of not separating root from plume.

  The smoot set a brisk pace. Tall struggled along behind with the heavy pack. By the time the sun was midway in the sky, they’d worked their way almost to the far side of the deep loch.

  Tall saw the deep pool off to their left as they worked their way toward the growing wall of stone. His pack was filled well beyond its normal capacity. After collecting dark and light root, the smoot had taken Tall to a wide growth of bittersweet. Not far from there they’d found both gritty and stinging near a hot wading. The smoot had even told Tall to gather scatter bush pods and spike bush thorns. He had collected these even though he didn’t know what use they were. But in truth, Tall wanted nothing to do with either.

  Plants were tricky. Many were edible; many more weren’t. Some plants cooked before eaten were okay. Others were always deadly. Scatter bush was one of these. One pod mistakenly added to soup killed wise old Harn, the smoot’s predecessor. Spike bush sap was almost as deadly, but it did its job slowly through infection.

  Just when it seemed they must be nearing the loch’s farthest shore, the illusion faded. They rounded a bend and Tall saw the long serpentine line of the shore head off into the distance. The new vantage point also gave him a new view of the wall. Moments ago, he was sure the stone wall would collapse in on them. Now he knew how far away the wall really was—and how terrifyingly big.

  Tall staggered under the weight of the pack. He was ready to crawl into a cool shading and go straight to sleep. He would have, too, but the smoot and old bull were bounding across houses with the same lively step they’d started out with.

  For a time, they seemed to be playing a game of catch-me-if-you-can. He’d race, panting heavily to catch up with the smoot, who had stopped with an elbow perched on the old bull’s back, certain the smoot was going to quit for the day. But no sooner did he catch up than the smoot and bull bounded off.

  Each time this happened, Tall’d stare after them for a few long breaths before starting. Then he’d hurry off.

  He was hurrying to catch up with the smoot when he got a good scare. A thick mound began to writhe and loop. He caught a quick glimpse of sliding scales and a large, black eye, and maybe a fang. Then an enormous slither appeared.

  The slither’s lashing tongue just missed Tall’s face as it shot out at him hissing. The last thing Tall saw was the great hood on its head opening, the body thick as a tree, snapping into a coil. He raised his staff instinctively to protect himself, but too late. Fortunately, the smoot and old bull intervened. The smoot was at Tall’s side pulling him away to the left while old bull came on strong from the right. One rake from old bull’s claws sent the slither hissing in retreat.

  “I see now why Keene interfered when I forbade it,” the smoot muttered. He pulled Tall onward. “You’ve the skill, not the application. Of all the 12-winter boys to put our hopes in. If only Ray’d returned by now, it’d all be so less dire.”

  The only thing Tall heard of any of it was the name. “Ray?” he said. “What’s he have to do with anything?”

  “Never mind,” the smoot said. “Mind your step. It’s gone, only wanted to protect its patch. There’s worse around, though, so I’d keep my hands on my staff if I was you.”

  “Okay, okay,” Tall said. The smoot stifled a rare smile. Tall felt certain the smoot had no high opinion of his skills, and he hadn’t done anything to change the smoot’s mind.

  They were underway again, Tall keeping a sharp eye on the weed-grass and nearby scatter bush. He was recovering from his embarrassment, and the smoot was racing along the bank. One moment the smoot was muttering on and on about the loss of hope, or something to that affect; the next the smoot was wading out into the shallows and standing on an outcropping of rocks. The rocks were dangerously wet and slippery, though the smoot fixed his small feet as firmly to them as the slimy covering allowed.

  He paused to reach down into the water, snatching up something long and sinewy. Afterward, glancing briefly into the murky wet, he plunged in and plucked up another wiry creature with his other hand. Both hands full of what Tall now realized were squirming bulls—hatchlings by the look of them—the smoot made his way back to Tall. He was w
eaving to keep his balance.

  Behind him, something broke the surface—some things, Tall corrected, and they were all racing after the smoot, whipping tails and generally writhing.

  Tall thought of the old queen’s hatchlings immediately, but these were bigger than he remembered and more plentiful. Mad as buzzers, they seemed to be drawn by the smoot’s abduction of their brethren.

  A mob of hungry hatchlings was an ugly thing, and even the old bull drew back at their approach. The smoot kept at it, bending double to offer the two captured hatchlings something from his pack. When all the hatchlings were falling over one another at Tall’s feet, the smoot took more offerings out of his pack—something dried, smelly and pressed into long sticks.

  “How did you know where they were?” Tall said amazed. “You couldn’t see them, but you snagged them right off.”