Time slowed as they stood together. Later, when they spoke of it, they could never quite agree on how long they had waited with the lights. It was the quiet pondering before the plunge. It was possibly the last moment in which the two would be together. It was mystery. It was unknown. The experience held so much for each of them, and for this reason could never be tallied into hours and minutes.
Brenol finally left in silence. He was shaken by the beauty and intensity of all that had happened that night. He knew there was little sleep ahead of him at his own small home. He trudged through the damp fields and felt the cool air press the wet wheat against his legs. He knew only too deeply why Darse must go.
~
Later that evening, Darse ambled through the house in a strange reverie. The house, as always, evoked thoughts of his father and his grief.
Marietta. The name had fallen from his father’s thin lips only a handful of times, yet the love behind it was evident. Sim had been a broken man, changed deeply by her passing.
What would I see in those green eyes now that I’m grown? What would I see?
Darse smoothed his fingers across the walls, wishing for some kind of connection, some response from the wood that had known Sim’s hands as he had carved and set the planks. But no—it was as silent as his father’s grave.
“Perhaps in Massada I shall know him better. Perhaps,” he whispered to himself wistfully, yet even in the quiet he dared not voice the hope of uncovering knowledge about his mother. It was an ache too powerful to touch.
Darse paced the length of the floor once more before turning towards his pallet. He crawled in, bleary in exhaustion.
As sleep began to loosen his limbs, he vowed silently to himself, I will go, I will.
And Bren. Maybe I can make it possible for him to come later, when all is safe.
Yes. When he is of age. Then I can get him away from Alatrice and his mother without guilt.
~
Brenol paced his room with the methodical unrest of a caged cat. His feet rubbed across the fraying cloth he used as a rug, and his eyes followed the trail marked before him. It was the dead of night, but he rejected any notion of sleep.
No, not tonight.
Desires raged within him. The impulse to steal away pushed hard on everything else and made it difficult to think. It dulled his loyalty, integrity, sensibility. He felt the tug toward Massada from the center of his bones.
Brenol paused in his stride to glance down again at his hands. There, within, rested a warmed silver key. It was the key that Darse had placed down absently while saying goodnight. It was the key to the portal entrance. It was the key that was tearing Brenol apart with desperation.
He had not intended to palm it. It had just happened. It had been sitting there. It was only natural to pick it up…
He shoved it down into his pocket but found he could not release his grip.
~
Darse awoke in the pitch black, sweating and with racing heart. He did not recall any dreams, but an unease had settled into his belly sometime in the night. He washed in the water bowl and dressed, not even trying to fight his way back into a slumber. There was a piece that he was forgetting, maybe even missing entirely. What was it? He walked the room methodically, grasping for calm. What is it?
He shifted through his simple belongings that he had begun to stow in a pack, checking again for missing articles. Frustrated, he cast the items out. The unease rubbed down into his marrow; whatever was awry weighed heavily.
He was striding to the main room with lantern in hand when his limbs stiffened in a sudden dread. The key. Yes, he had locked the door, but when saying goodbye to Brenol he had laid the key down on the table. It had slipped from his mind afterwards…
His eyes strained, but even from where he had frozen he could see. It was missing. The small table shone bare.
The front door was closed but unbolted. Darse knew. He knew what had happened.
Rushing forward, he entered fully into the room. The door down to the portal was not only unlocked, it gaped open like a giant, ominous mouth.
He clenched his knuckles tightly, and his fingernails pierced into white palms.
Brenol had escaped to Massada.
~
Darse did not even pause to pack his small bag, terrified of the danger that was coiling fast around the boy. Yes, he feared for Brenol’s mother and the serious trouble she would meet, but it was the voice of his dream that resounded in Darse’s head. Bring the boy, it had demanded. Darse shuddered and bounded down the steps.
CHAPTER 3
Be still—the worlds hold their breath in wait.
-Genesifin
Brenol had crept down the same steps several hours previously. The pool was even more brilliant than it had been when he had seen it with Darse. It shimmered and sparkled as if in expectant greeting. He shook with excitement and tried to push aside any thoughts of Darse.
I’m going. I have to go. Darse can’t leave me, he thought, though anxiety still churned his insides.
He stepped down.
“Come, come,” a voice resounded in his eardrums.
It startled him, and his mind swam with visions of wolves lurking in the shadows. He peered into the cavern and shook his head.
“There’s nothing here,” he said to the air, yet even his words betrayed a prickling doubt. The voice had felt as real as the gravel under his feet and the guilt clawing his back. He gulped and squinted down the length of the cavern. It seemed to extend forever. Brenol shuffled forward slowly.
The water seeped immediately into his hole-ridden shoes. They felt like bags of sand, but at least the water was not icy. He stepped back, slid them off, and discarded them at the steps along with his coat. He moved as quickly as he could, longing for his conscience to quiet. If he stopped to listen, all resolve might crumble, and he would be left alone on Alatrice. It was a fate too terrible to consider.
With determination, he abandoned his fear of the phantom voice and threw himself into the lucent water.
There was no need to adjust to the temperature. The water was warm—but not uncomfortably so—and aromatic. The waterway was about as narrow as a wagon trail, allowing enough room to maneuver, and along the right side ran a bank of stone, wide enough to clamber up upon if necessary. The water was deep enough that he could not stand, but Brenol was an adept swimmer and kicked ahead in interest.
He now saw that the lights were not upon the surface at all, but hovered like illuminated bubbles underwater. He tried to catch one, and as the light escaped his grasp, he was left with the image of a cat toying with a string just out of reach.
Once he had progressed about twenty strokes, Brenol discovered the presence of a mild current. He lifted his legs in curiosity and allowed the water to tug him with gentle motions, smiling at the effect. As he righted his body to continue the swim, he spied a multitude of fish. They swam about, dodging between his legs and sliding their sleek bodies through the rippling clear.
The dance of the schools was mesmerizing. There were stops, turns, dips, and flips, all worked into a synchronized body of movement. It was beautiful, especially as their fins and scales caught the lights. The promenade led on and on, and the current conveyed Brenol and the fish in the same direction.
The lights brightened—appearing now more like lanterns or posts guiding the underwater way. Brenol caught glimpses of writings and images upon the walls above, yet when he paused to examine them, the pictures disappeared as chalk does when meeting rain. He swam for another hour, becoming more and more intrigued, for now, in place of drawings, were doors with sturdy iron hinges upon them. These too vanished when he swam closer in curiosity.
See. I deserve to be here. I’d be missing out on all this. Darse was trying to keep me out.
“Come, come. I am waiting for you.”
Astonished by the voice, Brenol gasped and flailed around, looking for the source and finding that he was alone. Warily, he faced forward again, with t
he uncanny sensation that he was being watched.
There were several turns in the cave, and with each shift, light throughout the canal brightened and the current slowed. He seemed to be moving towards the light, and he looked forward to getting out of the cavern and into open sunlight. As he rounded the final curve, however, his heart shrank within his chest.
The canal contained a wall of fire.
The fire extended across the entire thoroughfare like a sheet, burning hot as it flowed down and up again in a waterfall of hungry crimson. The flames plunged under the water but did not extinguish. They were strikingly scarlet, soundless, terrifying. Steam emanated from the flames and water, and the vapors rose in shades of gold and crimson.
Some of the fish continued in their dance through the flames, but many darted away in fear, returning back down the canal passageway. He floated closer, but the heat burned his cheeks. He peered into the swelter and saw nothing; licking fire obscured all vision, and he involuntarily drew his arm up over his eyes. There could be matroles of flame for all he knew, but there was no way to continue on unless he passed through. Finally, he pushed his way to the side of the cave, hoisted himself, and scrambled up to sit on the smooth shelf of rock.
Darse had never said anything about a wall of fire. Brenol wondered if Darse’s father had known about it.
Maybe it’s meant to stop me.
His betrayal stared at him squarely, and Darse’s face loomed before his vision. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and he squirmed in discomfort.
You deserve this, his conscience hissed.
Brenol sighed and wiped away the steamy beads with a dripping hand. With determination, he pushed aside the guilt and allowed the sting of fury to bubble up within.
I will not let this wretched wall stand in my way, he thought. I took the key, and I am going. I will not be left behind.
“I’m going through,” he said aloud. “I want to know about this other world. I want to see it and enjoy it. I’m going through. I don’t care if I die.”
I must go on. I must. No turning back.
There was little point in diving under the water, for the flames reached to the bottom of the pool floor, but he decided he would feel better attempting to pass that way. He lowered his dripping body into the water, shook his head as if to wash it from fear and voices, inhaled deeply, and ducked below.
~
Both Brenol and Darse underwent the same experience as they drove themselves through the fire, although Darse swam in fear for Brenol, and Brenol swam in fear for himself. The underwater flames were a dark and deep crimson, licking at their bodies with a scorching heat. It hurt tremendously, and Brenol yearned to scream out in the water, afraid his skin was melting. They fought for their passages like infants through the birth canal: finger breadths were matroles, hand spans were leagues.
Finally, when it seemed they could endure no more, the biting fires ended. They simply ceased. The water grew shallow, and they found they could stand.
Emerging, they stumbled out onto a sandy shore, panting and heaving in exhaustion. They collapsed on the cool ground several strides from the cave. It was night, and the darkness was soothing after the fiery brightness. They each intended only to rest for a few moments and recover their breath, but sleep claimed them irresistibly.
~
Many hours later, the warm morning sun awoke Darse, and he sat up, blinking at the scene around him. His heart jumped as he remembered the missing key, the watery canal, the fire.
Bren!
His eyes darted about as he clambered aright. There, on the sandy clay bar, not fifteen strides from him, lay Brenol sleeping soundly. His chest rose and fell slowly in the soft rhythm of unconsciousness. Darse sighed in relief.
He is okay, he is okay…
The sudden assurance of the boy’s safety broke the dam of pent-up fury. Darse’s eyes flashed with a dangerous glint.
He stepped toward the youth and felt the crunch of pine needles beneath his feet and a soft breeze tickling his cheeks. The flare of anger sputtered, at least momentarily, as the immensity of their circumstance hit Darse. He let the fire cool, knowing Brenol could experience his ire later.
I’m in Massada. I’m finally here.
His lips parted in amazement as he took in the strange new world.
They were high up, that much was evident. Mountains of purple, black, and gray jutted up in merciless power all around. The cave from which they had emerged stood behind him. It did not appear fiery—just dark and ominous and far from welcoming. A rivulet snaked its way out for approximately twenty strides before kissing a massive body of water. The two had climbed out in this shallow section after their respective swims, stumbling out upon the red clay shore. Darse glanced down at his clothes, now noticing the burgundy caked on them.
A thick forest ringed the shore, and the air was heavy with the scent of sap. A single tree arched out over the water like a ballerina in arabesque, pointing with its entire frame toward the stretch of blue. If they had been lower, Darse might have mistaken the matroles and matroles of clear water for the sea, but his lungs stung and attested to the truth.
His father’s bass tones beat upon him, even though Darse had read his scrawled description rather than heard it: Lake Ziel lies high in the mountains, with belts surrounding and feeding her. But the springs at her floor are the true mystery. She is the life of Massada and has power I can’t begin to guess at.
“Ziel,” he whispered, tasting the word on his tongue. “Ziel.”
Darse crouched in thought, absently plucking up two smooth stones as he stared out. He blinked, for suddenly music rose from the clear as soft as steam. He cocked his head and strained his ears forward, puzzling over whether it was his imagination or if he truly heard the remarkable sound. The waves gently lapping upon the red shore seemed to intensify the music, which came from the depths and reverberated in his own person.
The melody was soft and gentle, beautiful and moving. He had never heard anything like it. It was ordered and soothing and put his heart at ease. Darse barely breathed as he soaked in each note, his skin and soul suddenly refreshed.
As the song dissipated, Darse stood. He recalled the stones and, naturally, arched his body back to skip one across the screen.
“You would do well not to disturb the waters,” a voice snaked nonchalantly in his ear.
Darse started and the rocks tumbled from his hands. He turned to face the arrival, his expression grim and tight.
The stranger stood casually before him. He was a thin, tall figure with elongated features and a lithe frame. He wore loose trousers and a tan jacket, and his face was smeared by a long smirk. He had an unusual quality Darse could not pinpoint.
“You have come through the portals, I see,” the man said. “Where, I must ask, have you come from?” He peered with interested blue eyes from Darse to the slumbering boy.
Darse felt his vulnerability keenly. He stepped between the stranger and Brenol and widened his stance. “Who are you?”
The smirk broadened at his response. “You are nervous. Perhaps that is wise.”
Darse spoke through a clenched jaw. “What do you want?”
Calmly, the man opened his fist in gesture. “To know where you came from. And your purpose.” His voice was serene and smooth, though anything but soothing.
“And if I do not tell you?”
The stranger swiped his hands together as if brushing Darse and all away. “Then I cannot help you.” His eyes danced in apparent diversion.
Darse paused but realized he had little reason to withhold this piece of information; it was plain he was a foreigner. “Alatrice. We are from Alatrice.”
“And your purpose?
“I don’t have one.”
The man’s face expressed mocking incredulity.
“My mother is from this world. I came to see if I wanted to live here,” Darse said.
“And the boy?” He raised a long index finger in indication.
Darse frowned. “He is going back.”
At this, the stranger chuckled. The sound billowed up and rolled out of his lanky frame, and amusement limned every feature. “There is no going back,” he replied.
“What?” Darse nearly choked. “What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t work that way, at least usually. Portals are for drawing people, not for sending.”
“But he cannot stay. He cannot. It isn’t safe and then his mother will be—” He stopped, not wishing to disclose more. “How can I get him back?”
The stranger shrugged lazily. “Perhaps you never can.”
Darse closed his eyes, picturing the events that would ensue back on Alatrice. When he opened them again, the figure had disappeared. He stared about the glade, but no one was there.
Darse again scanned the area and, in the sweep, locked eyes with Brenol. The boy had just woken, and his face was red and creased. He rose fidgeting, evidently uncomfortable.
“I…” Brenol fumbled over his words. “I don’t know what to say.”
Darse was not an impetuous man, but he still found it difficult to not erupt in exasperation. There the youth stood, barefoot, with maroon clay caked on face and copper hair matted upon head. He had not given a single thought to anyone but himself. Now, the consequences would be greater than either of them could bear.
“You could apologize, son,” Darse said behind gritted teeth.
“But I…” Brenol halted as quickly as he had begun. He was fourteen and rash, but he loved Darse more than anyone. Shame-faced, he flushed. “I’m…sorry.” He stared at his soiled feet and felt the sharp inadequacy of words. The guilt that had dogged his heels in the canal was nothing compared to the torture of this moment.
“I forgive you,” Darse replied, but there was no relief in his voice. He found Brenol’s eyes. “It’s not safe here.” He glanced around for the sly figure. “We have to find a way to get you back.” The menacing dream-voice resounded in his ears. It had sought the boy. It had known his name.
The Land's Whisper Page 5
