by Gene Stiles
Morpheus awoke to the sound of birds chirping high in the thick foliage above him. Bright, warm sunlight trickled between branches cluttered with wide, green leaves. Small, unseen animals rustled through the undergrowth and waved the grass beyond the forest edge with their passing. A light breeze rippled like waves along the tips of the meadow like the caress of a lover’s kiss. Morpheus broke his fast then took a moment to scan along his back trail before breaking his camp and donning his pack.
He stayed beneath the canopy of the forest, picking his way through thickets of brambles, around hedges of viciously barbed briers and over rocky hillocks. He raised the setting on his Polaris-Belt slightly, easing the weight of his pack, and lightening his tread. However, it still did not take long before sweat beaded his high forehead and trickled down the back of his shirt. The incredible beauty around him was not lost on his senses. Motes of dust danced like fairies in golden shafts of sunlight that penetrated sporadically all the way down to the hard packed ground. Blooms of pink, white and violet tipped the stems of newly awakened flowers. In open patches of forest, thin waterfalls cascaded down the cliffs of the western mountains sending forth sprays of mist that sparkled like rainbow-hued jewels in afternoon light. At times, Morpheus had to stop, remaining stock still as a large predator passed in search of dinner. A mammoth cat, dusty gold in color, with wicked looking fangs that curved far below the curve of its jaw stared at him through eyes as green as jade as it passed. Another time it was a pack of wolves, fat and lazy, lounging around the tattered carcass of a fresh kill. They watched him warily as he passed, but otherwise paid him no heed. The scents that assailed his nostrils with unknown fragrances were so many that he could not tell where one stopped and another started. Morpheus was acutely aware that he had spent little time beyond the city since his awakening. He had missed so very much of this world. He truly did not know how much until now.
Despite the myriad distractions, he kept himself to a hard, fast and grueling pace, bounding over rocks and brush, cognizant of the fact that he must reach the Izon before they passed completely through the mountains. Once they crossed to the island beyond, there would be no way he could reach them. He did not have a craft to cross that water. He prayed to the Creator that he was not already too late.
His route from the city had taken him far south of where he needed to go and it irked him severely that he must waste so much time taking this longer trail. The sled was useless in the forest, too many trees, too much undergrowth, or he would have used it to speed his journey. He knew of the pass in the mountains that the Izon would take. Haleah had drawn him a map that he had committed to memory.
For the next three days, Morpheus pushed himself to near the end of his endurance. He traveled deep in the forest, staying close to the outer edge, keeping the rocky, jagged cliffs always within sight. Onward and onward, he plodded, at times concentrating only on putting one foot in front of the other. The canopy of branches and thick foliage above kept most of sun’s rays at bay, but still the grove was muggy, soaked with the moisture of growing things. Often he took respite by dipping his body in the icy cold streams flowing down the mountainside, winding their way through the trees and into the meadow. When darkness enveloped the day, night slamming a thick curtain of blackness all around him, Morpheus continued. He strove to suck the slightest leavings of light from the moonbeams that cracked through the whispering ceiling above him. Only when he could not see the tips of his toes did he stop to rest. He would drop to his sleeping bag, falling asleep with the speed of the exhausted. At the merest hint of the first trickle of dawn’s awakening, he was up and moving.
On the morning of the fourth day, dirty and exhausted, Morpheus stood at the edge of the forest near the base of the narrow, rocky trail that lay tight against the mountainside. Had he not known where to look, he would have missed it. Looking at the mountain dead on, the color of the stone completely hid the ledge from sight. The treacherous path was barely wide enough for a man to walk encumbered as he was with his gear. On one side, the cliff rose in gray splendor, lost in the misty clouds high above. No rail of rock or brush lined the other side of the tiny goat track to give purchase if he should lose his footing.
“Creator, bless me,” he whispered in prayer. For the first time in his long life, Morpheus felt the cold fingers of fear grip his heart, sending shivers down his spine. The slightest misstep would end his quest in less than a heartbeat. From here, he could not even see the wide ledge he knew to be the entrance to the cavern of the Izon and the passage through the range beyond. Still, he knew he had no choice but make the attempt. ‘The Izon men, women and even children have made this trek more than once,’ he thought. ‘I should have no problem.’ However, night was coming and he knew it would be a stupid person who was caught against that cliff face when darkness fell. He would have to wait until the morn.
The sun had barely crept from its hiding place beyond the mountain rim when Morpheus strapped pack to back and started his climb. He never thought of himself as a coward in the past, but it took a strong swig of his courage to force himself into those first few steps. He had made his way only twenty feet up the face when his journey almost ended before it began. A strong gust of wind shot down from above, blowing him completely off the trail. He landed with a thud that drove the breath from his chest and tumbled him across the rocky ground. Morpheus lay stunned and panting, covered with dirt and sweat, adrenaline causing his heart to pound beneath bruised ribs, saved only by the low setting of his Polaris-Belt. When the blood finally slowed its feverish race within his veins, he rose on shaky legs and dusted himself off.
“Alright,” he muttered, adjusting his Polaris-Belt to increase his weight as much as he dared, “Let us try that again.” The heaviness of his step added a welcome firmness to his movement. The rocky ledge felt harder, each footfall more solidly attached to the earth. When the next shot of wind brushed between him and the cliff, it only tickled and cooled him, not threatened his balance.
Time lost all meaning to him then. Morpheus concentrated only on putting one foot before the other, consciously refusing to look behind him or allowing his gaze to drift from the rock face to his left. His hand rested on the stony surface, tracing the outline of the folds in the cliff. More than once, he heard the trickle of pebbles rolling like a stream down the mountain and each instance froze in place, fearing the fall of larger rocks that could dislodge him from his feeble perch. The higher he went the stronger the gusts of wind blew, curling around him like the hand of the Creator trying to pluck him from the path. To make matters all the worse, the trail was not smooth, but cracked in places and knobby with imbedded rocks. Morpheus slowed to a crawl, testing each touch of his toes, insuring that he found a securing handhold before stepping carefully across open holes in the narrow track.
The sun was well to the west and beat down on his exposed position with relentless fury. Heat waves shimmered out from the cliff, joining forces with the droplets of moisture flowing in rivulets into his eyes in their effort to obscure his vision. When he was so weary he was sure he could not take even one more step, Morpheus was blessed with the view of a wide, welcoming ledge jutting out from the sheer granite, beaconing him with a smile and promise of safety. Only a few more minutes and he could allow his trembling, aching legs to rest. Dredging up his last reserves of energy, Morpheus dragged himself toward that flat, smooth outcropping. His arduous journey reaching an end, he let his eyes look toward his goal instead of where he was. His boot skidded through the sand-like pebbles coating the path.
He felt the wind suck him off the trail and into the waiting arms of the hungry, open sky, his horror-filled scream echoing against the uncaring rock.
Chapter VII
“Hurry! We need to help him!”
“I think not. He is of the People. He is probably a scout. I say let him die.”
Morpheus hung by the tips of his fingers, lodged with a death grip on the sharp, biting edge of rock. His other hand wrapped a
round the handle of the knife he had managed to slam into a tiny crack in the stone. His body swayed in the softly blowing breeze, hanging hundreds of feet above the waiting maw of the hungry, teeth-like boulders at the base of the cliff. How long he had dangled so precariously he no longer knew. He only knew his strength was fading fast and it would be but seconds more before he welcomed the end of strain as he dropped to his death. It would have been hours ago had he not managed to slap his Polaris-Belt to its lowest setting as he fell. He was only faintly aware of the voices, speaking in a guttural language that considered his demise above him and, at this point, almost did not care. Yet survival burned in his mind and he muttered, “Please…help me.”
“Of the People or not,” one voice stated firmly, “he is a man. If we do not help, we are no better than they are. Now tie this rope to my waist and hold tight.”
With a strange sense of detachment, Morpheus felt a powerful grip clasp his numbed left arm, attempting to dislodge his fingers from the ledge. For a moment, he fought against the attack, then his nerveless hand fell away of its own accord. A cascade of pebbles and crushed rock pelted the top of his head, his face tore, the abrasive rock scraping his dry skin. He heard a growl of strain and the voice grumbled, “Help yourself, man. I cannot do this alone!”
Somewhere in the deep recesses of his consciousness, survival instinct responded and Morpheus released his knife and reached over the outcropping, searching for a handhold. With the help of his unknown savior, he managed to haul himself onto the flat shelf of stone. Blackness descended onto his exhausted mind. The last he remembered was the feel of being tugged and dragged from the light into a windless wedge of darkness.
Morpheus awoke to muscles that screamed in agony. Flickering shadows danced along granite walls cast by the warm light of a small crackling fire. He heard muted whispers of conversation echo in the confines of a narrow clef torn like an old wound in the mountainside. He raised himself from the floor and leaned his back against the hard wall. Dim light trickled in from outside, showing him the small plateau of rock that had almost been the end of him. Scented air drifted in, tossing the flames lightly around the wood on the floor.
“Ah, you live.” From the black hollow on the other side of the fire, a fur-covered, wide-shouldered form emerged. The Izon squatted next to him and handed him a gourd steaming with the most tantalizing aroma Morpheus had ever smelled. He took the offered dish and sipped the hot, meaty tasting liquid, swirling the blessed elixir in his parched mouth before swallowing gratefully. Another Izon came into view, standing quietly on the other side of the campfire, his face hidden in shadow.
“Thank you,” Morpheus said, feeling the spread of renewed strength throughout his body. His cramped muscles began to loosen, relaxing as the food brought much needed energy to his system. “I owe you my life.”
The Izon nodded. “This you do. I ask that you keep that in mind as we speak. I am Grog. My friend here is Tusk. Why are you here and how is it you speak our language?”
“I am Morpheus.” Recognition flickered in the eyes of Grog, but he did not speak. “I came in search of the Izon and, especially, Haleah. It was she who taught me your tongue.”
Grog pondered a few moments as if choosing his words carefully, deciding what could and could not be said. “I see. I have heard the name, but how do we know that you are who you claim to be?”
“You do not,” Morpheus replied. “I can tell you that it was Haleah who told me how to find you. She gave me a map of the trail and told me of the cavern beyond the pass. If I were not who I claim, how do you think I could even understand you?” Tusk moved a little closer then, his hand tickling the hilt of his knife. Morpheus noted the movement, but made no attempt to stand. “I came not to intrude on the Clan. I came only to assure myself that Haleah is safe.”
“The Keeper is not with us,” Grog stated.
Morpheus felt a cold shiver run down his spine. A deep, stabbing dread locked his jaw and clamped around his heart like the hand of the Creator. “Where is she?” he asked fearfully.
It was Tusk who answered, his voice grating against Morpheus and leaving his soul to bleed. “We do not know. She stayed behind when we escaped from you People.”
Morpheus stood in the mammoth cavern that housed the Izon. A blazing bonfire filled the center of the room, its black tendrils of smoke lost in the darkness of the high ceiling above. Columns of wet, twisting stone shimmered and sparkled in the firelight, dancing with colored bits of stars. Like the wide-opened maw of some gigantic beast, teeth of glittering rock rose from the floor and speared down from high above. Rich veins of green, yellow and gold swirled along the walls like the glowing arteries of a living creature. In the center of the cave lay a flat, black pool of water, rippling with the touch of children’s feet against the surface. Echoes of childish laughter and bits and pieces of conversations filled the room with a constant babble.
The radiant beauty surrounding him was completely lost on Morpheus though. His troubled eyes saw not the rainbows cast on the moist pillars. His worried mind registered not the joy cascading around the rocks and over hills of tumbled boulders. His ears were all but closed to the muted giggles and soft conversations carried on slow currents of moist air. His cold, trembling body felt not the welcoming heat of the crackling fire. He stood rooted to the floor as if he, too, was but one of the many towers of wet stone scattered around him.
“I thank you for allowing me to regain my strength here among you, but I am going tomorrow at first light,” he said, his voiced edged like the sharpened blade of a knife. “I do not want any of you to go with me. I do not need you and I will not endanger you further. It is far better that I move alone. I will travel faster and, when I do reach the city, I will be far less conspicuous than you would be.”
“You have no choice in this,” Guel countered. He stood before Morpheus like the One Tree, itself. His eyes blazed and his clenched fists caused the tendons in his bulging forearms to stand out in stark relief against the dark brown of his leathered skin. “We will go with you or without you. We know the trails much better than you and will arrive before you can even get to your precious sled.”
“And should you choose to betray us,” Tusk growled from near the fire, “we will be there to rip the hide from your body.”
Grog stepped between the two men and interrupted the heated debate with a wave of indifference. “Besides,” he smiled, looking up at Morpheus, “if you get in our way, we shall simply bind you to one of these pillars and leave you for the women to deal with.”
The comment was stated so offhandedly and the idea so ludicrous that Morpheus stared at him dumbly for several heartbeats. He felt some of the tension drain from his stance and even forced a wan smile to his lips. “Alright, have it your way.” He gazed at the group of ten men arranged around him. “But you must wait for me in the valley when we are within sight of the city. It would be impossible to get you within unnoticed. I have friends who will help us, but many will be our foes. If I can find Haleah and bring her to you without having you cross the isle of the One Tree, it will lower the risk to us all.”
“Agreed,” Guel acquiesced sullenly. “Once she is with us, we will keep her safe.”
“My friends are looking,” Morpheus added, “but remember that, as yet, we don’t even know where she is. We still must find her.”
“At first light then,” Guel said.
Moving away to rest and prepare, Morpheus replied, “At first light.” He took a moment to check his pack then burrowed beneath the thick pile of furs given to him to soften the roughness of the floor. He closed his eyes to force sleep to come, whispering into the night, ‘Ah, Haleah,’ he thought. ‘Where are you, my love? Are you safe?’
Haleah was nowhere near safe.
Untold numbers of days passed in the clammy dampness of the humid cell. Feeling had long since fled Haleah’s fingers, leaving behind only the constant buzz of angry hornets within her wrists to assure her that her hands rema
ined attached. Her dislocated shoulders finally quit protesting the weight of her body dragging down upon them. The muscles were stretched and torn beyond caring or repair. Her knees bowed, unable to make the attempt of raising her up on the balls of her useless feet. Her chin seemed permanently joined to the ripped and stained tatters of the foul piece of cloth that still draped her chest.
Dark brown, dried blood coated the remnants of her dress from the torn-open collar all the way down to the jagged strips lying limply against her kneecaps. How many times had those knees been broken, shattered by the blows of a heavy metal hammer? How many times had she screamed out her agony at the sickening sound of joints cracking, bones breaking? A thick, ugly pool had formed at her feet, staining her repeatedly crushed toes, caused by the hot rivulets of her own streaming blood. Knives had pierced every inch of skin, tracing deep paths in tattooed designs conceivable only by the sick, twisted mind of her tormentor. Large, odd shaped patches of her flesh were displayed within inches of her blurred vision when question after unremembered question was put to her by that horrid voice.
What evil devices had been applied to her flesh Haleah no longer knew. Some had burned like fire, others burned like the coldest ice imaginable. The odor of her own frying meat assailed her nostrils and forced her stomach to heave. In the vicious hands of The Other, blades of incredible sharpness sliced through her flesh and into her muscles as would a red-hot blade through a bowl of fat. At other times, rough implements with jagged edges and holes were pulled down her twisting, howling body that peeled large swaths of hide from her at once.
