by Rhett DeVane
Tales from the Emerald Mountains:
Dig Within
by
Rhett DeVane
Tales from the Emerald Mountains: Dig Within
Copyright © 2014 Rhett DeVane
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing.
Cover design by Elizabeth Babski, Babski Creative Studios
First edition, Writers4Higher, October 7, 2014
Dedication
To all of to my readers, near and far.
Contents
Copyright © 2014 Rhett DeVane
Dedication
The Clan Family Tree
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
About the author
Acknowledgements
The Clan Family Tree
Elsbeth The First Mother
Jen » Faith
Mari
Taka-Herb
Jondu
Sim The First Father
Grant » Zeke
Slate
Gabby
Brick
DIG WITHIN
Tales from the Emerald Mountains
Chapter One
Elsbeth The First Mother watched the mountain man.
Same scrawny dwarf with hair like a dump rat’s pelt and an unkempt beard to match. Since she and her friend Sim had escaped from New Haven City, Elsbeth had seen Taproot through fifty Emerald Mountain springs. He acted stranger than usual this year.
“What’s up with you, old man?”
The favorite joke between them failed to gain his usual snipped laugh. Funny since she was over a half-century old too, not exactly a kid. Instead, Taproot crammed cloth bags of dried herbs into his backpack. He took a swig of tonic made especially for shaking off the winter doldrums and turned his attention toward Elsbeth. “Got something to do.”
What kind of something? Elsbeth scanned Taproot’s cavern. Larger than hers or any of the other burrows of her clan. Earthen walls with stocked shelves, a kitchen area with a hearth and storage bins, sitting stones rounded by years in the nearby stream, and a flat rock table. On the other side, a living area spread out, with a sofa made from layers of stacked rocks and down-stuffed cushions. Unlike her burrow, Taproot’s had a second room, a combination library and sleeping area.
Of course, Taproot needed more space. He was over three feet tall. Elsbeth had to stretch to reach four inches. He didn’t treat her or any of the clan as if their diminished size mattered, though. Easy to overlook their differences when magic ran through them all.
Elsbeth studied the root-laced earthen ceiling with its series of skylights fashioned from green and amber dump-dive glass bottles buried bottoms-up. Their filtered light met the ever-present shine from the foxfire clumps below. The light-absorbing fungus illuminated the cave with a soft green glow.
Taproot’s cavern, beneath the hollow stump hiding the topside entrance, held its own special aroma: a blend of herbs and the musty earth. Elsbeth took a deep breath. That smell whispered home to her spirit, much more than any place had back in New Haven City, years ago when she had been a scared little girl named Elizabeth.
Taproot’s burrow needed a few dried flowers, some artwork. All of her spirit-daughters’ homes brimmed with color, except for Jondu’s. That spirit-child never stayed inside her cave long enough to wish for decoration.
Elsbeth had tried to help the magician out in the cave-improvement department over the years, to no good end. Like Sim The First Father and his unruly brood of boys, Taproot preferred his hovel “without princess-y touches.”
“I know we’ll have to harvest when the new plants come in.” Elsbeth finally addressed his something-to-do statement. She waved a hand toward four long beams draped with hanging dried herbs. “But we have plenty still left from last season. So what’s with the dither?”
“Dither?” The mountain magician chortled. Bits of dried rosemary and snips of other herbs showered from his beard. No telling what else lived in there. “You never fail to amuse me with your funny lowlander sayings, Princess.”
Elsbeth barely recalled the ten-year-old scared orphan she had once been. For one thing, she was so small now, a sort of creature Taproot called a one-spirit. Able to live off what the mountains provided. Hide in the protective caverns carved beneath the surface. And dive in a landfill for supplies without so much as a sniffle over the stench. Plus, she had a family now. A big one.
Elsbeth helped herself to tonic in a doll-sized cup she had rescued from a dump-dive the first summer she and Sim came to the valley. A deep chip marred one edge. She drank from the opposite side, flinched, and added a drop of wildwood honey. Most of Taproot’s tonics bit her tongue, once she got past their unusual smell. This one held hints of dirt, wild plum, rosehips, and something a little fishy.
“I don’t even much remember being a lowlander,” Elsbeth said.
“Guess fifty years is long enough to forget being one of their sort,” Taproot said. “I have to remind myself I once lived amongst them.” He turned his attention to his pack. “And fifty years is long enough for a little one such as you to figure things out.” He waggled four fingers in the air, as if he scattered glitter with his hand. “Live on the outside. Learn on the inside.”
Elsbeth let out a snort. Why did the old dwarf have to speak in riddles? Perhaps by the time she reached Taproot’s age—two, three hundred, or more?—Elsbeth would riddle too.
Before Elsbeth could fire off questions, Jen dashed into the room, all flowing robes and golden hair. Her spirit-daughter. Elsbeth hated to admit she had a favorite, but Jen had been her first-born—if born was the right word for a pointy-eared little girl who emerged from a cocoon, turned magic crystal.
“Sim says the trails are clear enough!” Jen jiggled from one foot to the other. Her birth crystal medallion bobbed against her robe like a fallen leaf caught in a whirlpool. Poor little creature growing inside had to be dizzy. Where did Jen find such boundless energy? She barely stopped long enough to eat or sleep.
All four of Elsbeth’s spirit-daughters were different, like the freckles across her own nose. Part of her, but no two exactly alike.
“Take a breath. Calm down. Let’s talk this over.” Taproot motioned Jen toward the kettle. “Help yourself to some tonic, wild girl.”
Jen flicked a quick frown, an unusual expression for her. Then she grinned and dashed to the hearth to pour a cup. Some spilled over the rim and sucked into the earthen floor. Taproot and Elsbeth exchanged exasperated glances.
“We can go today! Just think! It’s been five months.” Jen did the little dance-step again. More tonic sloshed out. “Probably all kinds of treasures there by now.” Her eyes twinkled. “Chocolate and cookies and books and art supplies and . . .” The rest of her words got lost in twirls and hops.
True, lowlanders cast off all kinds of things. Amidst the rotting banana peels, maggots, and papers, the landfill held surprises ready to discover.
“What do you think, Taproot?” Elsbeth asked. Jen ceased her jiving and stared at the two of them, her eyes wide.
The mountain man stopped packing and settled onto a sitting stone. “What do you think, Elsbeth?”
He usually called her Princess and seldom asked her opinion. More strange behaviors. Taproot made all the important decisions. Especially since the soldiers now occupied the next valley. The old city dump was no more. Paved over, with long rows of metal barracks on top like a bubbly, gray rash. The lowlanders had carved another landfill three miles distant. A much longer trek for the clan, and they had to camp overnight near the river to make the scavenging trips worthwhile.
Elsbeth shrugged. She certainly wasn’t in charge, nor did she wish to be.
Taproot pointed a bony finger at her. “You know the answer. Quit acting slow-witted. Dig within.”
The slow-witted comment stung. After a long winter, the old magician could be crotchety, like her. A narrow tunnel connected the clan quarters to Taproot’s cavern, but they were all under a long-standing order to leave him alone during the winter months. Sim The First Father called him Tap-rude. Elsbeth would never say that to the old man’s face, though it often applied.
She sat down on a stone and stuffed down her hurt feelings. “The landfill is pretty far. There’s a river and a high pass between here and there. That route probably still has snow and ice.” She tapped her chin. “We wouldn’t have much cover from the hawks, yet.”
Taproot’s eyebrows danced like two irritated wooly worms. “And . . .”
“And . . . we probably need to wait a few weeks. Maybe . . .” Elsbeth searched Taproot’s features for approval then continued when he did not react. “Maybe when the ice melts in the upper reaches of the stream and the brush takes on new leaves.”
Jen stomped. “Sim The First Father and the boys aren’t going to like this.”
Taproot leaned back, took a long draw from his cup. “Safe is better than dead.”
Elsbeth let out her trapped breath. Had she gotten the answer right?
“Sim is often brash.” Taproot nodded toward Elsbeth. “You’ll have to ride herd over his daring-do.”
Daring-do. Taproot’s odd word summed up Sim. He would dash headlong with one of his flint-tipped spears, ready to take on danger. Snakes, bears, hawks. Sim figured he could conquer them all with his swagger. Amazing, he was still on this side of the Light.
Elsbeth stood and smoothed her robe, pocked with holes from the long winter’s wear. She’d have to drop by Mari’s burrow for a fitting. No need to sew anymore, since her second spirit-daughter loved to design and could fashion clothing from any scrap of dump-dive material. “Like I can control Sim.”
Maybe things would be different if she and Sim were a bit more like lowlanders, with two spirits joining to create children and then sharing decisions for the clan. But they weren’t. Her daughters arose from her spirit. Sim’s sons came from his.
Of course that had advantages. Sim didn’t control her either, though often he tried.
“You’ll find a way to rein Sim in, Princess.” Taproot slapped his hands on his skinny thighs. “You’ll have to. I’m leaving.”
Elsbeth felt the tonic’s warmth drain from her body. “Wh . . . What?”
“High time I go for a walkabout.” Taproot tipped his head toward his packs. “Thought I’d depart after the Spring Festival.”
“But, but . . . where are you going?” Elsbeth’s mouth felt as if dandelion fluff coated her tongue.
“Been over seventy-five springs since I went on a trek. Planned on going before. Then you and Sim showed up. You two changed my plans, for a bit.” He frowned at his hands, then retrieved an oak twig from his pocket and used it to plow dirt from beneath his fingernails. “Figure I’ll try to find my old friend Dell-Fee.”
Dell-Fee. Elsbeth knew the name. She was one of the circus performers who had escaped with Taproot into the valley, years before Elizabeth and Simon fled New Haven City for the Emerald Mountains. Before they became Elsbeth and Sim.
Elsbeth recalled the fantastical saga of Dell-Fee, one of Taproot’s harrowing dwarf troupe escapades, but figured it to be another of the mountain magician’s tall tales. So much of what he said seemed a stretch of truth.
“Might check on the deep mountain clans while I’m at it,” Taproot added.
Others like them. One-spirits. Somewhere, far away. If Elsbeth longed for travel, like her spirit-daughter Jondu, she might beg to tag along, but the thought of moving from this protected valley chilled her blood.
“You can’t leave us here by ourselves!” Jen said before Elsbeth could get the same words out.
Taproot leaned down so that his burly head was inches from their faces. “You aren’t alone, second little princess. You have a clan ten strong, the protection of the Pensworthy owls, and the friendship of the animals.” He paused. “Except for the hawks and bears. I’d still watch out for them, if I was you.”
Elsbeth’s heart thumped so hard, she could hear blood swoosh in her ears. “But we can’t survive without you, Taproot.”
The mountain magician tapped Elsbeth’s forehead with one fingertip. “Everything you need, you have in there, in your little princess noggin.” He stretched to his full height and rubbed the small of his back. “I’m hitting the trail.”
Jondu waited until she heard no noise from the clan. She slipped into the tunnel to the girls’ necessary room, a place where they deposited their bodily wastes. What better spot to hide a secret exit tunnel? Most of the one-spirits came and went so fast, they wouldn’t take time to look behind the tattered flap of dark material, hidden in a recess off the first turn.
She wondered who had carved the small hole. Had to be Sim The First Father, the only one-spirit bold enough. A couple of winters back, Jondu had observed him coming and going from both the male and female necessary room tunnels. Spreading Taproot’s powdered herbs to contain the smell, he explained once when she asked. Jondu didn’t buy that bag of hooey. Bet there was a matching exit tunnel on the boys’ side too.
No matter. If it was Sim, she privately sang his praises. The main tunnel exits caked with ice soon after the Fall Festival. Taproot’s hollow gathered drifts of snow too, cutting off all routes topside.
Jondu could only pace the underground caves for so long. Her body twitched with the need to breathe topside air.
She stopped long enough to listen for any sounds before slipping beneath the burlap. Now she knew how moles felt. No foxfire or hearth’s glow lit this deep passageway. Jondu felt her way along, curving first left, then right. Finally, a sliver of light pierced the darkness and she moved faster, toward topside. A boulder protected the tunnel opening from the cutting wind and snowdrifts. Perfect. She wiggled from the exit and stood.
“Who-wee!” The sound came out before she could remind herself to remain quiet. Jondu clamped her hands over her mouth. No telling if hungry predators lurked. The trees snapped and clicked under the weight of icicles. In the snow-muted silence, a hawk screeched. The fine danger hairs prickled on Jondu’s neck. Had to pay attention to that fuzz. It had saved her on many occasions, long before her other senses sounded the alarm.
So much for going for a long hike. The hawk was too close. Jondu would make a nice, late-winter snack. She sat cross-legged on the frozen ground, happy to be topside for a few stolen moments, even if the cold chilled her to shivers.
Wonder where the other tunnel comes out? Has to be close. She stood and stepped into the open long enough to survey the area. Jondu noted a series o
f tiny divots where feet had tapped down the surface. Ah-ha! Sim had been up here too. She looked closer. Two sets of prints. Bet they belonged to Sim and Jen. Who else besides her had the courage to come topside before the thaw?
Just our little secret, fellow adventurers. I won’t tell.
The other one-spirits had their distinct roles. Sim The First Father and Jen lived to dump-dive for supplies and treasures. Grant liked to read and ponder deep thoughts. Brick spent his time writing the history of the clan and forming fantastic tales. Gabby strummed one of his many instruments and sang ballads. Slate interpreted dreams and visions. Mari designed clothing. Taka-Herb took the part of healer. And Elsbeth? Well, Elsbeth was the all-knowing First Mother, of course.
Everyone fit into the clan. Except for her.
“One day, I’ll go,” she whispered to no one. “Far, far from this valley. Take the trails leading deep into the Emerald Mountains.”
Jondu felt the truth resound inside, as deep and steady as her heartbeat. She was born to be one of the travelers.
Chapter Two
Sim The First Father used a flint knife blade to scrape the ice from the bottom of his shoes. Other than providing time to knap new spear tips or practice his whittling, winter was a huge bore. And it lasted too long in the Emerald Mountains. All that time trapped in the underground caves wore on his nerves, no matter that the living quarters were much roomier than the first cramped burrow he and Elsbeth had shared during the early years.
Grant, Sim’s first spirit-son, stood with his thumbs hooked under his pack straps. His dark skin, hair, and eyes provided a stark contrast to the snow. “I think we shouldn’t travel over Mad Man’s Pass.”
Of course. Grant The Thinker always mulled things through. Worried. Planned. Perhaps Jen might’ve been a better fit for the first hike of the season. She was as carefree and adventurous as Sim. What was Elsbeth’s word for the two of them? Ah, yes. Reckless.
