by Dennis Foon
Moving closer, Willum bends to gently stroke Stowe’s hair. “In extreme times, people make extreme choices. Choices that push all they hold sacred into shadow.”
The Dirt Eater lifts her head, her eyes swollen. “Roan warned me. I lost his faith because I could not believe him, lost fourteen children who trusted me, whom I loved completely. I have tried everything I know; nothing has worked. They lie still, close to death. I was told if I brought Stowe to Oasis, I would be able to help them. Is there no truth in that?”
Mabatan cannot believe the healer still harbors such false hopes. Willum’s answer is direct and uncompromising. “Their plans for Stowe do not include freeing the children.”
“How can you know that?” the Dirt Eater demands, staring helplessly at him.
“Do you not now know this yourself? Please. You have your answer. We made an agreement. Time is short. We must remove all evidence of a struggle.”
“And how do you intend to get us out of here? It’s not as if we can just walk through the front gates.”
“But that is exactly my plan.”
The gatekeeper addresses the Bird Man with great respect and not a little fear. “Is Your Worship leaving so soon?”
“Ah, my dear friend,” Willum replies, his cloying voice, Mabatan guesses, mimicking Raven’s. “It always pains me to leave Fairview; however, when the City calls, one has no choice but to answer.”
His eyes fixed on the robe’s brilliant feathers, the gatekeeper waves Willum and Stowe past, barely noticing the healer and assistant following closely behind.
As the gates swing shut, a foul wind rises from the lake. “People here must be used to the smell of death,” Mabatan mutters. She has heard of Governor Brack and his justice, of all the people thrown in that acidic stew and dissolved in a day.
The healer’s lips are tight, her whisper strained. “The people of Fairview live in comfort. They have electricity, imported food, fine clothes, and the best things the City can offer. They ignore the smell. You might too.”
Mabatan snorts contemptuously. This Dirt Eater presumes much and understands nothing.
A strained silence takes them well past the edge of the red stick forest. Once safely concealed in its shadows, Willum lifts Stowe off the horse, removes its saddle and sends it galloping off in the opposite direction from Fairview.
“What are you doing?” gasps the Dirt Eater.
Willum almost appears amused. “The horse would not like where we are going.”
“You look every bit like a Master of the City, or someone close to them,” the healer accuses. Then looking over Mabatan, she sputters, “You could be anything. Boy, girl, man, woman. What are you?”
“I am a woman. The same age as you. We Wazya are different than most.”
The confusion of emotions that play over the Dirt Eater’s face is almost comic. Mischievously content, Mabatan turns and taps out an arrhythmic beat on a fallen log.
“People of the Earth? They’re a myth. No one’s ever seen them. Wazya! That’s too easy a lie to tell.”
Mabatan raises an eyebrow and at Willum’s nod, tilts her head toward the Dirt Eater, grinning. “My father is a brown speckled rat. I believe you have met him. In your fenced-in Dreamfield.”
“It’s not possible.” The healer sighs, slumping down on the log.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Willum asks, indicating she might want to move.
As her seat begins to roll beneath her, she bolts up again like a startled frog. When a fanged figure emerges from the exposed ground, the Dirt Eater stumbles back, gasping, “Blood Drinker!”
Mabatan scowls at the terrified healer. “This is Mhyzah. She’s Hhroxhi. We’ll be traveling with her now. And you will want to keep your ignorance to yourself.”
Willum gently carries Stowe over to Mhyzah, who takes the sleeping girl and disappears into the hole. Then, with a firm grip on the Dirt Eater’s arm, he murmurs, “After you.”
THE RAT
THE EARTH’S FORESTS WERE REPLENISHED. ABUNDANT WILDLIFE ROAMED THE LUSH UNDERGROWTH AND THE WIDE GOLDEN VALLEYS. BUT THE EYES OF THE PEOPLE SHOWED NO INTELLIGENCE. THEY PERISHED BEFORE THE BEASTS DEFENSELESS. ALL THEIR DREAMS HAD BEEN TAKEN FROM THEM.
—ROAN,
VISION #117, YEAR 7 A.C.
DREAMFIELD JOURNALS OF THE
FIRST INNER CIRCLE
ROAN WALKS ALONG THE VOLCANIC ROCK, to where a dozen younger Apsara perfect their swordplay. The women dodge one another’s blows in a mesmerizing dance. The blades never touch, though the sharp whirr of the steel leaves no doubt what would happen if they came into contact with skin and bone.
Inside the temple, several dozen more of Kira and Ende’s people are seated cross-legged on the floor in deep meditation. Here the only sound is their perfectly coordinated breathing, the exhale and inhale so exact that it slits the air with the precision of a calligrapher’s brush. The Apsara’s discipline dwarfs that of the Brothers: it’s no wonder they’re such formidable fighters.
Standing before a heavy stone door, Roan waits. He knows that Ende will feel his presence and the door will open when she’s ready. He doesn’t wait long.
The room is so gracefully appointed it exudes serenity. At its center is a simple table, perfectly proportioned, the wood grain curved into a vibrant spiral. Two cups are set on it; made of fine white clay, they appear strong yet delicate. Even the bamboo mat Roan sits on is woven in a way that soothes the eye. The woman herself embodies the room’s perfection: lithe, long limbs rippling with muscle, her aging face both beautiful and wise, her smile an invitation but also a warning.
“You have lost the clarity you experienced after your last ordeal,” she says, pouring Roan some tea. The scent of spearmint rising from it calms him.
“I realize it’s important to put the past to rest, but seeing Wolf and Asp and Stinger, hearing their voices…I just don’t know if I can do it. They came to the Caldera with the intention of serving me but now, with the added problem of Asp—”
“You overestimate your obstacles. Keep in mind, Roan, that you are not being asked to forgive the Brothers or even to understand them, but to lead them. Accomplish this and you may also be able to guide them, in thought as well as action, and prevent the anguish you experienced from becoming another’s.”
Roan shudders.
“It may be distasteful to you, Roan of Longlight, but it is not an unworthy endeavor.”
“I had a vision—”
Ende holds up her hand, stopping him. “I am not the one to interpret your visions but I do know to whom you must speak.”
Roan extends his awareness beyond the room, hoping to get a sense of what awaits him.
“No, no,” the ancient warrior sighs as she takes a sip of tea. “You cannot meet him here. Rat awaits you in the Dreamfield.”
At the mention of the creature, Roan’s stomach flips. “Large, with brown speckles?”
Ende puts down her cup. “Ah, you remember him. He thought you would.”
How could he forget? And Rat was in his vision too. Their first encounter in over a year. This can be no coincidence. But what is the creature’s connection to Ende? “I was under the impression that Rat was a Dirt Eater. They took orders from him.”
“Think back on your meetings with him.”
“The first time he came to me by himself. I was at my house, after Longlight was destroyed. He warned me to leave. He was right.”
Without looking up, Ende pours herself another cup of tea. “Has he given you any other good advice?”
“Several times. But I’m telling you, he was also with the Dirt Eaters. I’m sure he was one of them.”
“This is all you know of him?”
Roan remembers what Haron of Oasis told him. “During the Wars, when my great-grandfather decided to put a stop to the fighting and divide up the rebels, he said the instructions came to him in a dream, from a rat.”
Ende touches her fingertips together. “The rat comes to those in need,
and to those who share a common interest.”
“Like what?”
“The preservation of the Dreamfield, for one. The Dirt Eaters have only met a small part of the rat. They fear and therefore respect him, thinking him some kind of guardian animus, an aspect of the Dreamfield that can divine the future. Dirt Eater nonsense.”
Studying Ende’s face, every nuance of her body and voice, Roan can detect nothing but openness and truth. “Once he told me he was many and few. What does that mean?”
“That, you will have to ask him.”
Roan is hesitant. “How? How do I move freely in the Dreamfield, without risking being found by the Turned or the Dirt Eaters?”
“You have the ring. The Badger is a protective spirit. When you breathe yourself into the Dreamfield, put a picture of it squarely in your mind. It will lead you to a safe place. Rat will find you there.”
Roan considers Ende’s instructions. Why does he see traps everywhere? Why has it become impossible to trust even those who seek to help him? As if sensing his doubts, his white cricket leaps onto his knee and begins to sing. “I see you’ve already made up your mind,” Roan says. Closing his eyes, he slowly sips the air. His thumb passes over the ring Saint gave him and a picture of the enigmatic badger takes shape.
ROAN DUCKS DEFENSIVELY AS AN AVALANCHE OF BLAZING ROCK CRASHES AROUND HIM. BUT ALMOST IMMEDIATELY HE REALIZES HE IS SOMEHOW PROTECTED FROM THE INFERNO. REACHING OUT TO EXAMINE THE TRANSPARENT PERIMETER, HE GASPS IN AWE AS HIS HAND PRESSES AGAINST ITS FLEXIBLE SURFACE. GLOWING COALS EVAPORATE INTO DUST OPPOSITE HIS FINGERTIPS. AWARE THAT HE IS NO LONGER ALONE, ROAN DROPS HIS ARM. HE CANNOT KEEP THE SUSPICION FROM HIS VOICE AS HE TWISTS TO SEE RAT LICKING HIS PAWS ON THE GRANITE FLOOR. “HOW DID YOU KNOW I WOULD COME?”
“I DID NOT KNOW. YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE UNDER SIEGE, ROAN OF LONGLIGHT. THOUGH DARIUS CANNOT EXTEND HIMSELF PAST HIS BORDERS, STILL HE SENSES THE SHADOWS BEYOND HIS REACH. HIS CONSTRUCTIONS RIP AT THE FABRIC OF THE DREAMFIELD. NO ONE CAN WALK FREELY NOW. THIS IS ONE OF THE FEW PLACES THAT CAN BE SAFELY APPROACHED.” RAT’S EYES ARE OPENLY CURIOUS. “DESPITE THE BADGER’S PROTECTION, YOU COME AT GREAT RISK. WHY?”
“ENDE ADVISED ME TO CONSULT YOU.”
“TELL ENDE TIMES HAVE CHANGED AND SHE MUST NOT PUT SO MUCH STORE IN MY CUNNING. BUT SINCE WE ARE BOTH SAFELY HERE…”
“I HAD A…VISION.”
RAT CLOSES HIS EYES. “TELL ME WHAT YOU SAW.”
“STOWE WAS A TREE THAT BURNED TO GOLDEN ASH. I KILLED A BULL WITH MY HOOK-SWORD. BLOOD RAN DOWN IT AND FELL ON THE CHILDREN, THE FOURTEEN NOVAKIN. IT EASED THEIR PAIN. BUT THEN MY SWORD MELDED TO MY HAND. WILLUM GATHERED THE ASH THAT WAS STOWE AND SCATTERED IT OVER THE NOVAKIN. DO YOU KNOW WILLUM? YOU WERE ON HIS KNEE.”
WITHOUT OPENING HIS EYES, RAT NODS ONCE. “PLEASE, CONTINUE.”
“IN THE VISION, WILLUM TOLD ME WE HAVE ONLY UNTIL THE BULL RISES IN THE EAST. THEN, IF WE FAIL, ALL ENDS.”
RAT’S EYES OPEN. “ROAN OF THE PARTING DIPPED HIS FINGERS IN THE RIVER OF TIME AND SAW VISIONS OF WHAT WAS TO COME, THINGS FOR WHICH HE FELT RESPONSIBLE. HE DECIDED TO TRY TO CHANGE THAT FUTURE. YOU MIGHT THINK THIS PURE ARROGANCE BUT WHEN HE SOUGHT OUT MY ANCESTOR, AITHUNA, HE WAS ACCOMPANIED BY CRICKETS. THIS CONVINCED HER TO HELP HIM CARVE OUT THE PATH HE THOUGHT MIGHT SAVE US. BUT THERE ARE NO CERTAINTIES AND REALITY LAYS A CIRCUITOUS TRACK AROUND OUR CHOSEN COURSE.
“WHILE IT IS CLEAR FROM YOUR VISION THAT THE NOVAKIN MIGHT STILL BE SAVED, IT IS ALSO EVIDENT THAT YOUR SISTER’S SURVIVAL IS IN PERIL. FIRE IS THE ELEMENT OF THE SPIRIT. STOWE’S BURNS BRIGHTLY, ROAN, BUT WHEN SHE CAME UNDER DARIUS’S THRALL, HE LEVELED A GREAT VIOLENCE AGAINST HER. WILLUM WAS ABLE TO CONTAIN THE WORST OF HIS ATTACKS, BUT WE NEGLECTED TO ANTICIPATE THE DANGER POSED BY THE DIRT EATERS. WE UNDERESTIMATED THEIR MALIGNITY AND IT HAS COST US ALMOST EVERYTHING.
“THERE IS NO ONE WHO REGRETS OUR ERRORS MORE THAN WILLUM. HE KNOWS OUR MISTAKES HAVE COST YOUR SISTER A VITAL PART OF HER SPIRIT.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN—HOW?”
“STOWE’S POSSESSION BY A DIRT EATER HAS TAKEN FROM HER WHAT SHE MIGHT HAVE SALVAGED HAD SHE ESCAPED DARIUS WHOLE.”
“ISN’T THERE ANYTHING THAT CAN BE DONE FOR HER?”
“WE ARE DOING ALL THAT CAN BE DONE. BUT, ROAN, YOUR SISTER MUST BE ALLOWED TO WALK TOWARD HER OWN FATE AS SURELY AS YOU MUST HAVE THE FREEDOM TO WALK TOWARD YOURS.”
THAT MAY BE, ROAN THINKS, BUT IF THERE’S A WAY TO PROTECT HIS SISTER, HE’S NOT GOING TO STAND BY AND DO NOTHING. HE CAN’T.
RAT FASTIDIOUSLY SMOOTHS HIS TAIL AS IF SEEKING ANSWERS ON ITS FLESHY PINK SURFACE. “YOUR VISION OUTLINES YOUR DILEMMA. THE SWORD IS LEADERSHIP, THE BLOOD ON IT IS THE BLOOD OF THE BULL. THIS IMPLIES THE INVOLVEMENT OF THE BROTHERS OR THE FRIEND, OR BOTH, I CANNOT SAY. YOU KNOW THIS BUT FEAR IT BECAUSE YOU DESIRE A SOLUTION WITHOUT VIOLENCE. BUT ROAN, BLOOD IS ALSO A SYMBOL OF HOPE, OF LIFE. IN YOUR DREAM IT AIDS THE CHILDREN. VIOLENCE COMES WHETHER WE WILL IT OR NO. THE SWORD MELDS WITH YOUR HAND BECAUSE YOU KNOW YOU CANNOT TURN YOUR BACK ON THE RESPONSIBILITY BEFORE YOU. IF YOU DO, ALL WILL BE LOST.”
“I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.”
RAT’S NOSE TWITCHES. “REMEMBER THE WORDS OF YOUR PARENTS: TO WIN WAR YOU MUST ENVISION PEACE. TO DO OTHERWISE CLOSES THE WAY.” RAT CROUCHES BACK IN PREPARATION TO LEAP.
“WAIT!” CRIES ROAN. “TELL ME: HOW CAN YOU BE MANY AND FEW?”
“OBSERVE.” THE RAT’S BODY MELTS ONTO THE STONE, BECOMING A SWIRLING MASS ON THE SMOOTH ROCK. IT CONGEALS FIRST INTO THE FACE OF AN OLD MAN, THEN A YOUNG WOMAN, SOON REPLACED BY A MIDDLE-AGED MAN. DOZENS OF FACES CHANGING IN SHAPE AND AGE, THE LAST OF A MAN WHOSE DARK EYES AND BROW SEEM ODDLY FAMILIAR.
“YOU RESEMBLE MY FRIEND, MABATAN.”
“I AM HER FATHER.” A SHADOW PASSES OVER THE MAN’S SMILING FACE. “THE PEOPLE OF LONGLIGHT LIVE WITHIN YOU, ROAN. FEEL THEM IN YOUR BLOOD, HEAR THEM IN YOUR MIND. YOU WILL NEED THEIR WISDOM IN THE DAYS TO COME.” THEN IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE, THE FACE OF RAT VANISHES.
You desire a solution without violence but…violence will come whether we will it or no—Rat’s words resound in Roan’s skull like a bell tolling in a watchtower.
When he opens his eyes, Ende is still across from him. “Drink,” she says, gesturing to his cup.
Roan takes a gulp of steaming tea, hoping it will steady him. “No matter what I do, people will be hurt, they will die. How do I accept that?”
Ende smiles sympathetically. “All life exacts a price, Roan, and there is no denying the unfairness of mortality.”
“If it was only me…”
“I know well the burden of leadership, and the only relief I have found from it is in action.
“Consider the distracted child who looks carelessly behind her. She does not see the edge of the cliff. In the plunge to her death, there is no forethought, no hand of evil. Yet with this single unconscious act, she tragically alters the lives of her entire family. Goodness, innocence, they do not exempt us from grief. We weep over the fate of the distracted child and her family but it is beyond our reckoning. There are other fates, though, that we can change. As leaders we must recognize that they are more needful of our attention.”
Kira, her long red hair severely tied back, appears at the door. She bows her head respectfully to her grandmother.
“Rise, Roan of Longlight,” Ende commands, and taking his arm she effortlessly pulls him to his feet. “Our guests await you.”
Plan for war, envision peace, Roan tells himself as he follows Kira and Ende out of the tranquil chamber. He knows the caution behind Ende’s tale. In their world, the children aren’t carelessly tumbling off a cliff, they’re being pushed, and it’s up to him to cut off the hand that’s pushing them.
HOMECOMING
MABATAN INTERVIEW 1.3.
MOR-TICKS SPREAD LIKE PLAGUE AND WE WERE ALMOST OVERCOME BY THEM. BUT THE WHITE CRICKETS HEALED US AND SHARED THE POWER IN THEIR SONG. WE HAVE WALKED WITH THEM EVER SINCE.
—GWENDOLEN’S CRICKET FILE
HISS, CLICK. HISS, CLICK. Insect-
like and menacing, the sound forces an unwilling Stowe out of her comfortable dreams and into a low-ceilinged room illuminated by noxious blue gas. The light is so eerie, she thinks she might not be awake at all, but in some unknown corner of the Dreamfield. She identifies the source of the sound: two albinos, in a mad frenzy, fangs bared, fighting over…a meal? Could the meal be her?
But there is Willum; clever Willum, he found her. He seems concerned, though not for his life. Stowe does not recognize the fair-haired woman behind him—she is terrified out of her wits. The boy, though—or is it a girl—those dark eyes, Stowe’s seen them before, but she can’t place where. Willum and the boy-girl are listening with such keen interest, she’s sure they can actually understand what those monsters are saying.
Suddenly, one of the albinos pulls out a short but very sharp-looking knife and waves it threateningly. The other takes a step back, but its hand shoots out and the knife goes clattering on the hard clay floor. That was good. That albino radiates a brilliant crimson. What could it be? The glowing red wisps spiral into deep violet as they bend and twist in the blue light. Beautiful.
Willum’s picking up the knife and smiling grimly at the growling monster. Stowe watches it consider for a second, then lean back and vanish. Smart monster to have recognized Willum’s power. Smarter than that other monster, Darius. Darius. How is she going to kill him now? She must find a way. She must…but it hurts her head to think of Darius, so she focuses on the walls instead. She sees holes, several of them. Where do they all go?
“Willum?” Stowe says weakly. Her throat is raw; it hurts. Willum is at her side in an instant, his hand enclosing hers.
“Do not worry, we are safe. But the Hhroxhi are divided, and we will have to go another way.”
“Hhroxhi?”
Willum points. The color around the remaining albino is muted now, steadily fading. “Mhyzah here is Hhroxhi. I will explain the situation later. You must rest.”
