by C F Welburn
“I need more than general directions. Speak fast lest my ears fall off and I be unable to hear you.” The chubby man looked at the ‘gnilo, who sighed and nodded.
“There’s a witch nearby.”
“And she knows of curses?”
The ashen shrugged. “Bound to. She helped a friend of mine extract a worm from his gut. Dabbles in exorcisms, too.”
“And what would you ask for such paltry counsel? I’ll suffer no more treachery; trick me, and I’ll find you.” The podgy ashen smiled thinly even as his companion bristled.
“It’s an easy task, and ties in with your own. I need you to secure something from the witch.”
“And I’m supposing there’s a reason why you or your axeman haven’t been yourselves?”
“Bad blood,” he said vaguely. “I fear we’ve burnt our bridges with her.”
Not waiting for Balagir’s reaction, he mouthed something inaudible into his pouch. The fabric glowed red, and suddenly a fiery orb emerged to hang in the air between them. It was no bigger than an eyeball, yet lit all their faces, leaving a dim trail as it glided through the air.
“What manner of being is this?” Balagir asked, irritated at the awe in his voice.
“The kalaqai,” the old ashen said, somewhat flamboyantly. The definite article was not wasted on him.
“I’ve never heard of such a creature.” He hadn’t heard of a great many things he was being confronted with. Still, there was something uncanny here; the radiant red orb was as captivating as the piper himself.
“Era is her name.”
“Her?”
The man shrugged. “I’ve always thought of her that way.”
“Where did you find it? Her?”
“That’s redundant. The main issue here is her stability.”
Balagir frowned. “What’s wrong with her?”
The man shook his head. “A malady, I assume. Akin to those suffered by chisps. She wanes when we go north. I’ve had enough of this weakness and lethargy. I’m placing my hope in the witch, who must know of fey creatures.”
As they talked, the kalaqai circled Balagir, examining him with an air of indifference. Satisfied or bored, she pulsed twice and returned to her keeper’s shoulder.
“Then let her go south. Seems she has a will of her own.”
“Not so simple. We are bound, you see. Tooth and nail.”
“Then go south together. It can’t be worse than here.”
“Back there? No, no. They’d find her.”
“Who?”
It was the ‘gnilo that interrupted.
“Will you help or not?”
“I suppose so,” Balagir muttered, confused. “How long has she been this way?”
“Far longer than you may imagine.”
Balagir pondered how the mundane-looking ashen had survived so long, for he did not appear strong nor even obviously armed. He guessed that this kalaqai was as accountable as his ‘gnilo protector for his longevity.
“Maybe you should try arming yourself instead of draining chisps for protection,” he said mordantly.
The ashen’s shrug confirmed his suspicions.
“I’ve been demanding of late, though dandal root should do the trick. The southern chisps are enraptured by it. Fetch me some, and your oath will be complete.”
Which brought them back to the unspoken reason why he had not done so himself.
“May I have your names, so I at least know to whom I’m indebted?”
“Gwindle,” the man said softly. “And this stout fellow is Pog.” The red-headed ‘gnilo grunted.
“Then I shall be on my way.”
“You’ll not wait for dawn?”
“I don’t have your luxury of time.”
“Her hut’s in Whisper Wood, north of town.”
As he squinted at what he thought was Baramunda, the faint rumble came from his belt. Another oath. Another debt. He took one last look at the kalaqai and turned towards the north.
The night sky was clear, and the swaying silhouettes of the trees were visible from some distance against the studded backdrop. He ran into no trouble on the trail, and recalled Ginike’s words about cursed flesh being unappetising to most living creatures. At least everything was not stacked against him.
The woods were not large, but they were old and choked with briars and fallen trees. By the time he found the witch’s hut, he had more twigs in his hair than a bird’s nest and several scratches that had plucked more of his shedding skin away. Ginike would pay for this. His list of enemies was growing far more swiftly than that of friends, and the formerly cursed ashen from Warinkel had secured himself a lofty position.
The witch sat outside the hut, bent over a simmering pot, with more moths flittering around her than was prudent to yawn.
“Back once more, ashen?” she crooned, fixing him with milky eyes. Her vestments were little more than wispy rags, her bones prominent beneath a papery grey skin.
“Wood witch, this is the first time we’ve met. I come to you with great need. A curse has been laid upon me, and I must need lift it.”
She sighed, sniffing the air. “A vicious malediction. The Tree of Ages.”
“Yes, an ancient face in the old tree. How do you know?”
“Do not you grow weary of these circles? Be on your way, ashen, and enjoy your final days. This is a curse with no cure.”
Desperation seized him. “But surely—”
“No cure, to be sure. Poor, poor ashen.” No cure, lest he pass it on as Ginike had to him? He considered it, but he had not the sap to beguile another. “What’s done is done, and not undone, without first a favour won.”
“Are you saying there’s a way? What do you want? Ask it now.”
“Ponder I will, your sorry predicament; if wander you will, for yonder ingredient.”
“More fetch quests?” He snorted. “A dog’s game.”
“A man with no nose is less than a dog.”
He touched his face and felt a chunk of flesh come away.
“Then what is it you need?”
“Fuchsia cap, fresh and small; and ykle berry in spine tree tall.”
“I will be back presently. Get working, witch. My life wanes!”
Up a tree in a midnight wood was not where he had expected to find himself that morning, but such was his lot. The mushrooms had proven difficult, and although they were fuchsia, some had gills and others not. The ykle berries, on the other hand, were in season, and apart from sharp thorns, he received small resistance in obtaining them. Even so, the night was old when he returned and emptied the bag onto the witch’s table.
She held her hand above them, neither looking nor touching; after a moment, she made a contented sound.
“Now speak. I’ve tarried too long.”
“To undo the curse, you must undo the deed.”
“Impossible.”
“Impossibility is the only impossibility.”
“Then tell me the scheme.”
“This seed is a shatterer of reflections.” She opened her hand and presented a very ordinary-looking acorn. Balagir frowned uneasily.
“Enough of your riddles and rhyme. I’ve scant time.” He berated himself for joining her. “What can I hope to achieve with this acorn?”
“You must access a well.”
“In Wormford?”
“That would suit you well. A well well—”
“And then what?”
“Descend. Down, down, all the way. Drop the seed, shatter the surface; descend through time, ascend in time.”
“I’ll emerge in the past?”
“Time is tricksy to define. Let us say you will emerge at a point, not to labour whether it be ahead or behind.”
“And then what?”
She shrugged as though whatever he decided would make little difference. Ignoring her pessimism, he stood.
“Then I’ll be away.” But the witch held up her hand.
“Now listen clear, conditions three
you must adhere.” He sighed.
“Go on.”
“The acorn will take you but one day aback.”
“Understood.” He would emerge in Wormford the morning before in that case, at the same time he and Ginike would be striking camp in the gully. Could he make it to the tree on time? Assuming, of course, he could even find it.
But then he realised he would make it. He already had. The rotting stranger in the tree. And he had had an acorn, meaning he needed more than one. But he had failed to change events. Is that what the witch had meant by it being hopeless? She had recognised him; she had known of the curse.
“How many times have we had this conversation?” he asked hesitantly. She ignored him.
“One day, no more no less.”
“And if I drop more than one acorn?”
“Very risky indeed, with so potent a seed. A man once wiser than you, passed beyond his own birth and left time all askew.” He waved impatiently.
“You mentioned three conditions.”
“You cannot know yourself. To do so will cause cancelation. Puff, gone.” So that was why the stranger had hidden his face.
“And the third?” he asked ominously.
“Once the day is done, you’ll die.” He gawped. “Die. Dead. No more. Drowned in the well to all demeanour.”
“So, whether I succeed or no, I’m doomed?”
“You will break a cycle.”
“So we’ve met before?”
She smiled and asked, “Now, for the dandal root?”
“If you know of my oath then you must know of my failure. How can I convince myself without becoming a breaker?” She cackled sadly.
“A merry dance we make, you and I. Round and round. Yet answers to riddles I know not. I’m a witch of the woods, lest you’ve forgot.”
“Tell me more of these acorns. They work in any liquid?”
“Only liquid sufficient to submerge.” As far as he could recall, there was no water near the tree. Certainly nothing large enough in which to immerse himself. Then he stopped. Was this new? Was he doing something different this time which could break the chain? Or had he had this same thought all along? He knew not, but pushed on. The sun was clawing at the horizon already.
“Do you specialise in any other potions for chisps?” She looked up strangely. He had said something new, for why give him such a look.
“The creature of which you speak is no chisp; yet you persist that I assist.”
“This one has been bound to an ashen for many years. Is there anything that can sever and renew that bond?” The witch looked thoughtful and smiled unpleasantly.
“Wokka leaf and yaleigh petal… Mixed with dandal root just might unsettle.”
“Do it then, witch, this instant, and I swear I’ll return.” She smiled, all black gums and foul breath.
“You always do. It will take a few moments. Pick an acorn whilst I brew.” He did as she asked, but took a handful. If she noticed, she said nothing.
Once done, she handed him the potion, and he bid her farewell.
“Until the next time, ashen,” she called bleakly. He left at a sprint, her laughter fading behind him in the trees.
Instead of heading into Wormford directly, he reached the campfire just as dawn was breaking. Gwindle sat up, surprised.
“Any luck?”
“Try this.”
Gwindle’s face broke with relief. “Oh, wonderful ashen. I knew it. I knew there was something about you.” He quickly unstoppered the bottle, opened his pouch, and dripped a few drops into Era’s dazzling body. She fluttered and buzzed.
“She’s recovering!” he cried with glee, but then his voice faded. “What’s wrong, Era? Why do you shun me? Come now, it’s me, your kind master, Gwindle.” But she flitted up past him and landed on Balagir’s shoulder. Gwindle’s eyes grew round in surprise, then ever so narrow in understanding. “Treachery!” he hissed.
“You’ve become too dependent, Gwindle. Time to make it alone.”
“Pog! Aid me!” The ‘gnilo stirred from his trance.
“What’s amiss?”
“Your axe! Slay this man!” Pog, for all his bulk and confusion, was quick to his feet. Balagir leapt across the fire and ran towards Wormford with all haste. Pog followed him for some distance, but eventually his farcical axe proved too much burden, and he fell behind, red-faced and panting.
When Balagir reached Wormford he found a cluster of slate roofs and spires, alleys and squares. Two guards strolled by, and he hid his face, lest he be driven off like a mangy cur.
“Era,” he endeavoured, and she responded as quick as a gnat, descending into his pouch. He spied the well and, acorn in hand, sped towards it. The guards shouted out at his haste, but it was too late. He barged an old lady aside so her pail cluttered and cracked, and leapt onto the bucket. Lowering himself rapidly, he saw the guards’ faces appear above. They looked aghast as his frightful face stared up at them from the darkness.
“The well has been tainted!” they cried in dismay. “Cut the rope!” And they did. He fell, and the black water sucked him under, propelled him deeper until down became up and momentum thrust him free, up the mirrored shaft to sprawl ungraciously on the cobbles.
The square appeared the same, yet the guards were gone, and the bucket still swung on its rope. He had no time to marvel. The Tree of Ages stood a good way off, and his more comely self and Ginike would be on their way.
He passed the old woman whose pails were intact and stole a man’s horse, taking off down the western road to rising calls for guards. He felt no guilt. He was a dead man now, with scant time to secure his future.
Along the road he went, dust billowing in his wake. He found the gully and led his horse down, sliding and leaping in an avalanche of dirt. The campfire was still warm. He followed the fresh trail until the tree came into view and ducked behind a bush as Ginike came past, leading both horses. He only barely refrained from striking the villain. He had only enough time for one thing and was already later than the previous version of himself. What had delayed him? What had he done differently? His commandeering of the kalaqai, he instinctively realised, recalling the witch’s surprise at the new twist in their stale dialogue. He descended the roots in bounds, spilling into the great chamber just as his earlier self was raising the vial to the wooden lips.
“Halt!” he yelled. The man whirled, almost spilling the liquid.
“Who goes there?” he demanded, aiming the star-wand at his face.
“A friend in unfriendly times,” he said, shielding his face with his cloak.
“What do you want?”
“A sip of that vial.”
“I cannot allow that. It’s an oath I must obey.”
“I had foreseen that eventuality,” he said, still struggling for air.
“Then catch your breath and not waste it.”
Balagir decided he did not like arguing with himself.
Sullenly, he reached into his bag so that Era alighted on his knuckles. He deftly pressed several acorns into her spongy surface, hoping they would hold. He used the link between them to make his thoughts known, and though displeased, she seemed as unable to disobey as he could break an oath. His likeness regarded him warily before turning his back to pour the sap down the dry throat. In that instant, he released the kalaqai, and she flew directly towards the face, carrying the acorns into the gurgling liquid to drown in the creature’s throat. His former self gaped as the red entity disappeared down the wooden funnel.
“What have you done?”
“Run!!” he bellowed as the tree suddenly gave an almighty groan that shook its foundations. “Out! Out!” Too alarmed to argue, his counterpart obliged, rushing past with just enough time for him to grasp his pouch. “Dandal root! Now go!” He needed no more encouragement and fled, ascending the stairs at a wild pace. Once he was out of sight, Balagir sank to his knees. Had he done it? Had his plan worked? He closed his eyes and awaited death.
Somewhere, millen
nia earlier, a strange creature burst free from the wooden mouth. Except the wooden mouth had not yet been carved, and she smashed from the seed from which the tree would one day sprout. She spiralled upwards into the air, humming with delight; her bond broken in a freedom unwritten. She pulsed and disappeared over strange trees, leaving the seed cracked and dying on the forest floor. Presently a rodent began to eat it.
Balagir threw himself from the mouth of the tree as it creaked and shrunk and shrivelled in his wake. The door through which he had just passed became no bigger than his thumbnail, and the ground caved in where once monstrous roots had threaded. Each time he flung himself forward, the ground collapsed, until he finally lay still, and the forest’s heart was a lifeless crater.
What had happened? Had Ginike’s curse been lifted? The spiralling smoke about his outstretched body told him it had. What had the stranger done? The question must remain unanswered, for he had surely perished down there, crushed in implosion.
After some time, he noticed his horse was missing. Ginike had fled. He rose, dusted himself off, and rejoined the trail eastward.
Later that day, he reached a fire about which sat two ashen; a plump man in sack cloth nursing something red in his palm, and a red-headed ‘gnilo with an ambitious choice in weapons.
He lacked the energy to speak until he had paid the piper, which he did so promptly and felt the surge of flame simmer and boil his blood.
III.i
BRANDED
“How far to Wormford?” he asked once he had emerged from the trance and settled amongst them at the fire’s edge.
“A mile east,” the plump ashen supplied.
So he had arrived. He couldn’t quite forgive Ginike for his scrape with death and the theft of his horse, but at least the swine had not left him helplessly stranded.
“Tell me, what news of Wormford town?”
“Same as ever, ramshackle with unattainable aspirations of grandeur. You plan on visiting?”
“Come dawn I will, what of it?”
