by Dennis Foon
“Lumpy, can you understand why the Wazya reclaimed this land and not where we were this morning?”
“I’ve been thinking about that too. Remember how after we’d sailed about four days out on the lake at Fairview, it started to change? The life in the water was slowly detoxifying it. Maybe what the Wazya try to do is find the best spot to start from and then the renewal spreads from that place. They must have planted these trees right after the wars.” As Lumpy scans the forest, he stops abruptly, pointing. “Look.”
Following the direction of Lumpy’s finger through the needle-leafed trees, Roan sees a pair of horses grazing in a small corral.
“This is the spot,” Lumpy confirms, checking his map.
“But there’s no sign of a dwelling.”
With a grin, Lumpy casually points a finger up. Roan peers into the dense foliage. “Are you sure?”
Lumpy shrugs. “According to Asp.”
“Give me a minute.”
Leaning against a tree, Roan takes a few deep breaths and in a very short time, his ether body follows his exhalation up through the leaves. When he comes to a structure made of woven branches he knows his search is over. Past the cleverly camouflaged walls is a rustic laboratory. Two middle-aged men in shabby robes sit at a table intently pouring liquids from one vial into another. Roan inspects every shelf and container of the rough-hewn room. There’s no sign of Dirt. Or weapons.
Satisfied, Roan falls back into his body. “Found it,” he mouths to Lumpy with a grin, and locating the correct tree, begins his ascent.
“Don’t forget this,” Lumpy whispers, holding out Roan’s hook-sword.
But Roan shakes his head. “Won’t need it,” he says, and reaching to the next branch, he pulls himself up and away.
Secure foot and handholds make the ascent as simple as climbing a ladder. Finding an opening at the base of the treehouse, he quietly lets himself in. The two men continue their work as Roan does something with his real body that his ether form cannot: to his relief, there is not the slightest scent of Dirt.
Roan clears his throat, but the men, utterly engrossed in their work, ignore him. “Excuse me,” he says, quite loudly, worried they might be hard of hearing. “Would you happen to be Othard and Imin?”
Both are visibly startled, but only one peers over his test tube to acknowledge the visitor. “I am Othard. Who are you?”
“My name is Roan of Longlight.”
Both physicians freeze as if confronted by some fantastic apparition.
“Roan? Of Longlight?” asks the other physician.
Roan nods. They stare at him quizzically, then at each other. Imin, presumably, stands up and pumps Roan’s hand. “Forgive us. There is a virus in Farlands we are trying to defeat. It’s become a rather absorbing obsession.”
“Brother Asp told me you might know how to find a place I’m looking for,” Roan says, wanting to get straight to the point.
“And what might that be?” Othard asks.
“The Foresight Academy,” Roan answers, almost causing Othard to tip his test tube over in its stand.
Imin leans against the table for support. “You planning on traveling there alone?”
“No,” admits Roan, “I’ve a friend.”
Othard and Imin share a worried look, before Imin asks: “Is he strong?”
“He’s a Mor-Tick survivor.”
“That’d do it.”
Nodding in agreement, Othard bravely steps forward. “May we come along?”
The doctors wait, eyes wide, not breathing.
“I was hoping you’d ask,” Roan replies.
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” they shout, embracing each other.
“You have no idea how long we’ve dreamed of going there,” says Imin, taking Roan’s hand in his.
“But our responsibilities were huge, and the dangers in going to the Academy great,” Othard adds.
“We are not warriors like you...”
“…or as frightening in our countenance as a Mor-Tick survivor…”
“…so we dared not take the risk...”
“…but we did the calculations...”
“…and there’s a good chance it’s survived.” Imin stops, suddenly unsure, and peers at Roan. “The library. That’s why you’re going, isn’t it? For the library?”
As Roan nods an assent to Imin, Othard reaches inside a cabinet and removes a false wall from the back. Inside is a rolled-up parchment. Withdrawing it, Othard explains, “It has taken years to piece this map together. Questioning the Dirt Eaters was not an option. It would have only increased their already growing suspicions of us. But there were clues. Clues in the library at Oasis, here and there.”
“Here and there,” Imin echoes, “in journals.”
“And letters,” Othard adds. “Duty rosters. Memorandum.”
“Doctors,” Roan interrupts. “The map?”
“This is it,” says Othard, tapping the roll in his hand.
“Did we mention,” interjects Imin, “the place is booby-trapped?”
“How do you know?” Roan asks.
“Rumors…”
“…Reports…”
“…Accounts...”
“…No one who’s gone there has ever—”
“Yes! I understand. Thank you. Maybe you’d like to pack a few things for the trip?” says Roan, attempting to stem the tide.
“Oh! Are we going now?” asks Othard.
“Yes. Right now.”
“This is a great day, Roan of Longlight,” exclaims Imin, quickly throwing some clothes and notebooks into a pack.
As the two physicians charge toward the hatch and collide with each other, Roan can’t help but wonder if he’s made a mistake in inviting them along.
THE EXORCISM
MABATAN INTERVIEW 2.4.
WE WALKED FOR MANY YEARS WITH THE WHITE CRICKETS BEFORE WE KNEW THE LANGUAGE OF THEIR SONG. THEN WE UNDERSTOOD THAT THE EARTH SPOKE TO THEM, AND THROUGH THEM, ITS MESSAGE CAME TO US.
—GWENDOLEN’S CRICKET FILE
THE ROOM IS TOO SMALL. The healer needs to writhe and scream and run—exhaustion might soothe and dampen her senses. Watching her claw the walls, Mabatan yearns for the quiet wetlands she called home. She can feel the paddle in her hand, the boat slipping through the current, smell the new growth all around her. Perhaps she will never see them again. The thought flits around her like a hungry fly, ready to land and bite the instant she weakens her guard.
The Dirt Eater’s hair is limp with sweat; her eyes gleam with the rage that the craving brings. Mabatan dips a towel into a pail of cold water and offers it to the healer. “Keep chewing the leaf, it will help with the pangs.”
The healer twists the towel in her hands, panting. “You say the children are in the Dreamfield. You say I am to help them. How? You lie to me, Wazya. You lie. How can I help them if you deprive me of Dirt?”
How the Dirt Eater is to aid the children is a mystery to Mabatan. Even in the best of conditions, years of training are required to travel to the Dreamfield on the needle’s song. So she ignores the question and holds a bowl to the healer’s lips. “Drink as much as you are able. The water is infused with purgatives.”
Mabatan waits as the Dirt Eater struggles between thirst and anger. For the moment thirst wins.
As the healer drinks, Mabatan’s white cricket crawls out from her pocket and onto her arm. She smiles, listening to it. She has always lived in the company of crickets and enjoyed the aura of protection and friendship they bestow. After her mother had disappeared and her grandmother died, the crickets had soothed her to sleep, opening her eyes to the things her ancestors had loved and cared for. They had guided her wichumin, the journey each Wazya must take at the age of thirteen. Since that time, if her father needed her, the crickets had been the ones to let her know. Of all her teachers, friends, and family, they’d always been the most constant.
“I must go,” she says, putting down the bowl. “I am needed.”
&
nbsp; But as she rises, the Dirt Eater kicks over the bowl and clutches at her arm. “You understand the crickets?”
Suppressing her urge to thrust the healer aside, Mabatan answers patiently, “They speak to me. I hear them.”
“What do they say?”
“That I must go.” Mabatan recognizes the desperation that colors the healer’s voice, the fear of being alone in her pain and the feelings of self-destruction that are hidden in its wake. “I won’t be far. Keep chewing the leaves, drinking the water. You are strong. Use your strength to fight your enemy.” But the Dirt Eater will not let go of her arm.
“Who are you?”
“I am Mabatan.”
“That is not an answer!”
The healer’s grip on Mabatan’s arm is tightening. “Release my arm.”
“The Wazya are a myth. Who are you really? Are you from the City? Your friend, he looked like a Master. What do they want from me? Why don’t you kill me and have it over with?”
Mabatan twists, bringing her free elbow down hard just above the Dirt Eater’s heart. As the healer collapses forward, her grip slackens. Pulling herself free, Mabatan swings round to sit on her fallen charge.
“I do not blame you for distrusting me, but you must understand I will not allow myself to be harmed by you, Dirt Eater.”
“My name is Alandra,” the healer spits out defiantly.
“I know your name, Dirt Eater. I know the name of your old teacher as well. And, despite your protests, I have no reason to believe you are not also capable of his actions. You were thrust in my path and I help you because it seems that I must. But until you prove yourself otherwise, you are my enemy, and I will name you as such.”
“Why do you hate the Dirt Eaters so much?”
Ah. Mabatan must not forget that this one is a healer. “Is it not enough that their actions are destroying the Dreamfield? That they think only to use the children you tried to save as weapons?”
The healer looks up at Mabatan defiantly. Her lips widen into a venomous smile and the air in the room becomes thick with her desire to hurt Mabatan. “Liar,” she whispers.
Suddenly aware of the frantic pounding of her heart, Mabatan stands and knocks on the door, never taking her eyes off the Dirt Eater. The healer laughs contemptuously and Mabatan does not breathe easily until Resa shuts the door behind her.
“How’s it going in there? Sounded a bit noisy,” Resa comments knowingly.
Mabatan scowls, then looks urgently at the Apsara warrior. “Resa, there is something I must do. I will be in my room. I cannot be disturbed.”
Resa nods. “I understand.”
“Do not let her sleep.”
The warrior shifts uneasily from foot to foot. “How strong will she become when the sickness leaves her?”
“You think her capable of overcoming you?” smiles Mabatan.
Lips pursing, Resa stands a little taller. “No one knows the limits of Dirt Eater power. Even the bravest warriors fear what they do not comprehend.”
“Yes, you are wise to fear her,” says Mabatan, the healer’s dry laughter echoing in her mind. “Take appropriate precautions.”
Willum gazes out at the shifting mist that masks the top of the volcano. The Caldera itself is still as he remembers it: black stone, warmth rising from deep inside the earth, green fields, swaying bamboo. But the Apsara community has grown: there are more children than when he last visited, many more buildings and paintings, swirling kaleidoscopes of color, pleasing to eye and heart. So much changes in fifteen years. And though Ende is still strong and fit, the lines in her face are deeper when she smiles, partly the ravages of age, partly those of worry. Willum feels her burden. Apsara are sure to perish in the battles to come, and she loves each as a mother loves a child.
Footsteps, almost silent. The right leg is favored, ever so slightly. No one else would notice, he is sure. Always ready to attack with the left. This is how their mother’s death marked her. “Kira.”
“Grandmother is ready.”
“When is she not?” He never understood why Ende chose Kira to take on the challenge of Saint, but there is no doubt Kira is the stronger for it. She has grown into the warrior she was destined to become; the only residue of the terror she experienced as a child is the battle readiness she carries even in her most relaxed moments. “Did I tell you how good it is to see you again?”
Kira grins at him. “Yes, when you first arrived, then again at breakfast, and last night as well.”
“The City has made me clumsy at sharing my heart.”
“I’m teasing,” Kira says dryly. “I’m sure I’ve told you just as many times how awfully good it is to have you back. I’ve missed you terribly.” Then, putting her arm through his, she leads him toward Ende’s quarters.
With her touch comes a surge, a vision: her face distorted in pain. How or why he cannot tell. Only that it will be death she faces, death. But as hard as he tries, he cannot reach further, cannot see the outcome.
“What is it? You sensed something, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Willum knows better than to lie to his sister.
Kira elbows him in the ribs. “Fifteen years of fooling Darius and the Masters and you still couldn’t try to pull the wool over my eyes?” she grins.
“Kira…”
“No. It’s all right. I don’t want to know. I have no illusions about what’s to come, Willum. Darius is ancient, his power vast and insidious. I fight for the children. Whether or not I’m to be part of their future, only fate can decide.”
Kira stops and, placing a hand on his cheek, she kisses Willum gently. “You think the girl will help us? She was pretty angry when we told her Roan had gone.”
Touching his forehead to his sister’s, Willum whispers, “If there is enough of her left, yes, she will.”
Moving again toward Ende’s threshold, they are greeted by the aromatic scent of burning herbs. Through the misty doorway, Willum can see Stowe lying eyes open, breath shallow.
“Come,” Ende calls out.
Stowe reaches up a hand to Willum. “What took you so long?”
Squeezing her hand comfortingly, Willum observes with concern that Stowe’s eyes are stained with blood. The strain of keeping Ferrell in control is rupturing her blood vessels.
Ende places a hand on Stowe’s shoulder. “Stowe has many questions. Not the least of which concern our motives in this situation. I have striven to assure her that what she is about to undergo is in her best interests as well as ours. I have asked her to seek this truth within herself.”
“This could kill me and you know it,” Stowe snaps.
“Could is a great distance from will,” Ende replies, her tone gracious. “The exorcism is not without danger, but if you allow Ferrell to continue to possess you he will terminate your life. This is certain.”
“You are Apsara. I cannot trust you.”
“Is there anyone you trust?”
As realization of this harsh truth hardens Stowe’s delicate features, Willum fights to retain his composure. She is his charge and he has failed her. He acted too slowly. Saw the truth too late. It is no wonder she has lost her confidence in him.
“I will not let you face this alone, Stowe. I will be with you,” he says, gently encouraging her. Though she will not look at him, her small hand grips his more tightly.
“Remain still,” Ende warns Stowe. “Find your breath.” She stabs the floor with a long needle and flicks it with her finger. It emits a sound, soft yet penetrating, sweet but unyielding. Dozens of white crickets emerge from Willum’s pockets, from under Stowe’s blankets, from behind the candles, from the cracks in the walls.
“Ferrell,” Stowe gasps.
“He must wake. We cannot purge him if he sleeps. I stand with you, Stowe. Can you feel the vibration of the needle? How the crickets sing with it? We must join their song. It will take us where we need to go. I will see to Ferrell.” And as Stowe beings to sing, Willum gently crosses the threshold of her mi
nd.
What are you up to, my little house?
You will stay back, Willum commands.
Dodging him, Ferrell seeps up Stowe’s spine. Trading one master for another, are we?
But Willum quickly adds his song to Stowe’s and, together with the tone of the needle and the singing of the crickets, their energy swells. It bursts out of their chests, a great sonic wave that sweeps Ferrell mercilessly in its wake.
BOULDERS OF FLAMING ROCK CRASH INTO THE PROTECTIVE BARRIER ABOVE THEM. A CRIMSON LIZARD EMERGES FROM STOWE’S RIGHT SIDE AND LUNGES AT HER THROAT. WITH A CRY OF TERROR, STOWE SLASHES AT THE ATTACKING REPTILE. STUMBLING, SHE FALLS HARD ONTO THE UNYIELDING GRANITE FLOOR. THE LIZARD DIGS ITS TEETH INTO HER SHOULDER, AND THEY BOTH HOWL WITH PAIN—THEIR BODIES ARE FUSED, THEIR SENSES ONE.
WILLUM’S HAWK EYES GLEAM; THERE IS NOTHING HE WOULD LIKE MORE THAN AN OPPORTUNITY TO SNAP OFF THIS ONE’S HEAD, BUT HURTING FERRELL NOW MEANS HARMING STOWE.
“I THINK I WILL KILL YOU, MY LITTLE HOUSE,” THE LIZARD HISSES. “BETTER THAT WE BOTH DIE NOW.”
“IN THAT, FERRELL, YOU WILL FAIL.” THE WARNING COMES FROM BEHIND THE LIZARD AND HE TWISTS TO IDENTIFY THE VOICE. WILLUM WATCHES, CONTENT TO SEE FERRELL FLINCH NOTICEABLY AT THE SIGHT OF RAT. NOW, AT LAST, THIS MONSTER CAN BE DISPENSED WITH.
“YOU CANNOT KILL ME,” THE LIZARD SCREAMS, JAWS SNAPPING. “I HAVE A RIGHT TO BE HEARD!”
“YOU HAVE A RIGHT TO NOTHING.” THE RAT’S LIPS PEEL BACK TO REVEAL ITS TEETH. “YOU GAVE UP THE HIGH GROUND WHEN YOU INVADED ANOTHER HUMAN.”
“THE MASTERS MUST BE DEFEATED—”
“YOU DEFEAT NO ONE BUT YOURSELVES.”
“WE FIGHT FOR THE SURVIVAL OF ALL.”
“WE HAVE NOT COME TO LISTEN TO YOUR JUSTIFICATIONS, BUT TO SEPARATE YOU FROM THE ONE YOU HAVE DEFILED AND RETURN YOU TO THOSE WHO SHARE YOUR DELUSIONS.”
“BUT YOU CAN’T—YOU’RE NOT A MURDERER AND I WILL SURELY DIE,” FERRELL WHINES, TWISTING DESPERATELY IN STOWE’S SIDE.
HIS EFFORTS HAVE NO RESULT, HOWEVER; THE RAT ONLY CONTINUES TO STARE AT HIM UNBLINKING AND DELIVERS THE SENTENCE FOR FERRELL’S CRIME. “THE PROCESS OF SEPARATION WILL ERASE YOUR MEMORY. YOU WILL BE AS A CHILD, EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE YOU ONCE KNEW YOU WILL MEET AS IF FOR THE FIRST TIME. PERHAPS THE ONES WHO SUPPORTED THIS ABOMINATION WILL FIND IT IN THEIR HEARTS TO ASSIST YOUR RECOVERY. PERHAPS NOT. AND, FERRELL, YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO TREAD IN THE DREAMFIELD AGAIN.”
