The Land's Whisper

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  “We will find a way through it,” Brenol said simply, his eyes more forceful than his words.

  Darse nodded, finding his insides cold with premonition.

  ~

  The morning was uneventful, but it served to separate Brenol from thoughts he sought to bury. The two passed through the Stonia woods and by mid-afternoon headed across the border. The lugazzi was a thin patch, but Brenol could immediately sense the neutrality of the land. There was no eye upon him here. He breathed freer, and an ease came over the youth that was noticeable because of its abrupt arrival.

  “What’s going on?” asked Darse.

  Brenol allowed himself a small smile. “Lugazzi, Darse.”

  “Is it really that evident?” he asked incredulously.

  The boy’s face stretched into a grin. It felt strange, but right. “Remember when you forgot about those boiled eggs?”

  Darse grimaced.

  “No one who walked into your house could pretend it smelled good.”

  “It’s a smell?”

  “No. But it’s that obvious: stinky eggs, no stinky eggs; eye, no eye.”

  Darse frowned. “That sounds unpleasant.”

  “Can be,” Brenol affirmed, shrugging his shoulders.

  They began to walk. After several minutes, Brenol’s ease was replaced by a strange emptiness. He had grown to appreciate the relationship between creature and terrisdan. It was odd to have the land under his feet be vacant of emotion, presence.

  “I remember my dream with Veronia,” Darse said slowly. “I don’t really think any part of it was all that nice.”

  Brenol’s freckles came together as he smiled, much more naturally this time. “It can be good, it can be bad. I think I prefer to be with the land instead of the lugazzi, if I have the choice.”

  Darse shook his head and muttered.

  Brenol did not maintain that sentiment for long.

  ~

  The lugazzi ended after about a matrole and a half, and Selet began. The woods formed a formidable line, like a barricade, between neutral and new land. They were thick, but not impenetrable, and the two approached with a strange caution.

  Darse grasped the boy’s arm, and Brenol looked back to the man questioningly. “Don’t mention my father once we’re in. Okay?”

  Brenol nodded brusquely. “I was worried I’d have to warn you as much.”

  The youth pushed through first, but Darse was close upon his heels. Once in, Brenol stooped tentatively and brushed the earth with his hands. The loam was rich and soft and left moist clumps sticking to his palms. “Selet?” he called. “I am Bren. May we cross?”

  The air was thick with humidity. The teeming gnats and mosquitoes issued a suspenseful buzz that lingered in their ears. It was the only noise in the wood, save the labored breathing of the two. They waited.

  No response came, at least none of which Brenol was aware. Darse shot him a questioning glance, and Brenol shook his head.

  “Selet?” he tried again.

  “Are you sure we are fully past the lugazzi?” Darse asked, though even he knew the answer. It just felt different in there. One step in and any could sense a looming presence, and not necessarily a pleasant one.

  Brenol snorted. “Well, let’s get going. Not much else we can do.” He shouldered his pack and consulted the map. He tapped it with a finger and stepped forward with purpose. Darse trailed closely.

  Within minutes, the soft loam transitioned into a hardened clay and then a rocklike surface that somehow still sustained life. The air was humid, but bearable, and the trees clustered closely together and made passage more a maze than a thoroughfare. Toes were stubbed, feet tripped by rocks and roots, and faces and limbs scratched raw by boughs and bushes. It seemed to Brenol he could not pass five minutes without pricking his fingers on the thorny briar-like bushes huddling menacingly on the forest floor. He drew each finger in turn to his mouth, cursing inwardly, and time trickled by in a stuffy haze.

  The two did not speak it, but whenever their eyes met, the understanding was clear: they both detested this place.

  The map, at least, proved to be a great fortune. It was extraordinarily detailed and saved them several times from wandering down false paths that would eventually lead south. The sense of otherness still tickled their necks, but the scrap of paper helped to cheer away many of the phantoms lurking in the back of their minds. They camped and then continued on the following day, thankfully without major mishaps.

  It was in the early evening, yet still light, when the far-off roar of water pricked their ears awake. It was disorienting after the matroles and matroles of silent wood. They rejoiced in their luck; their progress was better than they had anticipated. Their hopes mounted, and the ferryman’s advice and warnings seemed fearful and uninformed. After a brief discussion, they opted to camp beside the water and find a way across the Garz in the morning.

  “Sleep,” said Darse longingly as they pushed through the last paces of forest. “I could just collapse into sleep.”

  Brenol did not respond. He shared the sentiment but was consumed by brooding thoughts—and not regarding Veronia, for a change. The hard travel had intensified his awareness of the strange experience it was to tramp across the land. Selet’s eye caused an unrest he could not name, and as the day progressed, the land’s gaze had grown hotter and more malicious. Brenol felt ready to topple.

  As the roar grew louder, the forest thinned and the Garz came into view. The relief of open air gave way immediately to uneasiness. It was a stronger river than the Inest, wider and undoubtedly deeper. It rushed and crashed through the forest with spectacular force. Fording, not to mention navigation, would be impossible. Their eyes grazed the stretch of water in search of a ferry or at least a suitable campsite. Suddenly, the two spotted a crackling fire and what appeared to be a group of people situated about a matrole north. Although they were ready for rest, curiosity won, and the pair dragged their heels up through the scattered trees toward the light.

  Darse realized on drawing nearer that there were really only two people; it was the wagon resting beside them that had made him think there had been a third, and possibly fourth. The first was an older man with a gray-white beard and dappled hair to match. His deep bass issued from a robust, belted belly. He spoke in a thick accent to his companion, an aging stick of a woman. As Darse and Brenol stepped forward, the two halted their conversation and eyed the strangers suspiciously.

  Darse immediately regretted his decision to approach. The fire had been so warm and inviting he had not given thought to caution. His reasoning still felt as muffled as the forest air. He sputtered through an introduction.

  The fire bounced across their stony features as the couple gazed with silent animosity.

  Brenol edged backwards and, as if in confirmation, the ginger-haired woman spit derisively upon the damp grass.

  Darse nodded tensely and hastily turned and strode away from the strangers. Brenol scampered behind him.

  “What was that?” Darse asked, more to himself than to the boy.

  Brenol hugged his cold frame. Exhaustion had unraveled his ability to think, and guessing only strained his already anxious insides.

  They moved north until the fire was only a flicker on the horizon and began to make their own camp ready. Darse battled the sodden wood to a cheering red life and curled before it like a bedraggled cat. As the warmth seeped back into his bones, his mind cleared, and the encounter appeared less hostile and more awkward. He shook his head at himself; the cultural differences of this place upset his balance.

  “Should we worry about those two?” Brenol asked.

  “I doubt either one of us could handle a night watch,” he replied honestly.

  Brenol nodded.

  Darse turned his bleary eyes to Brenol’s strained face. “Are you really that worried?” he asked.

  “No,” the boy replied, but his tone contradicted him.

  I just feel like something is strange about this place,
Brenol thought, craving reassurance. This land isn’t right.

  “Let’s get some sleep. The sooner we find Arman, the sooner we can move out of here.”

  Darse did not notice, but the ground and air almost twitched at the words, as if finding offense. The movement stirred further unease in the boy.

  The embers were darkened by the time Brenol finally fell into unconsciousness.

  ~

  Brenol jerked awake to Darse’s jostling the fire to new life.

  I didn’t wake up last night, he realized in relief. I didn’t wake up and burn to go back to the connection.

  It was dawn, and while the sun still hid beneath the horizon, tangerine streaked the blue sky like color trailing a painter’s brush. The dark canopy of stenciled trees highlighted the glorious backdrop, and Brenol’s breath rose and fell in a soft wonder.

  One minute I’m shaking, the next I’m staring around like it’s paradise. This place isn’t right, he thought, yet with a lighter heart, for the beauty—coupled with a night of uninterrupted sleep—had alleviated much of his angst. He stretched out of his morning stiffness, breathed in the piney freshness, and warmed his toes before the crackling blaze.

  As his eyes peered into the fire, his thoughts lingered upon the nuresti connection. The uncanny moments—when desire all but stole his person back to Veronia—nagged, but with a determined shake of the head, Brenol pushed the memories away.

  I’m in control now, he rationalized. Maybe that greed is over now. Just stop worrying.

  They breakfasted, packed, and began anew. The exquisite dawn was soon just a flicker of a memory.

  The two trailed the river north in the hopes of discovering a ferry or crossable section, but even the ground was close to impassable. The air was free and open, a markedly welcome change from the thick damp, but that proved the only pleasant aspect of the day. As in the main forest, there were no paths, and the two were forced to scramble like mice over large outcroppings of black rock that jutted up and blocked the way. The map was surprisingly unhelpful, and they were loath to turn aside to find an easier thoroughfare lest they miss the crossing. In the end, they were left with dejected spirits, scraped knees, and precious hours lost in tedious effort. It was mid-afternoon when they spied an arch rising smoothly before the horizon.

  Brenol blinked in disbelief. “A bridge? I…for some reason I’d forgotten all about them.” He shook his head, feeling foolish.

  The bridge ahead curved into the pale sky like a dark, slumbering cat.

  Darse lifted his hands feebly in a makeshift shrug. He shifted his heavy pack, seeking to rest the weight in a place free from chafe. He sighed as his efforts met little success.

  They trudged forward and their eyes fixed upon the enigmatic yet familiar structure. The bridge was neither old nor new but appeared in good repair. Cold steps of gray rock rose from both sides of the bank to meet an ebony-like wood extending out into an arched walkway. Its simplicity contrasted dramatically with the harsh land. It was almost too ordinary to be trusted.

  A furtive figure appeared atop the smooth rise, slender, tall, and decked in billowing white robes and cloak. He moved to the stone steps and waited their arrival while peering out at them through thinly slitted dark eyes. When the two finally drew their heels to a halt before him, he courteously removed his hood, revealing a handsome head full of smooth, dark curls extending to his shoulders. The man did not smile or extend a greeting.

  The roar of the river could not mask the teeth wrenching silence.

  Brenol slid a glance sideways to Darse, who stood with jaw clenched but appeared otherwise composed.

  “May we—” Darse began.

  “Four freg to cross,” the stranger interrupted. His voice was deep, and loud enough to carry over the water’s rush. He took in their dirty faces and once handsome clothes—now bedraggled and torn. “Each,” he added bluntly. His olive face revealed no trace of emotion.

  Darse bent over wearily and shuffled through his pack until he found the small wallet loaded with stamps and currency from Isvelle. He warily placed the papers in the stranger’s extended hand, waiting for something dramatic to break the scene. The man said nothing but moved aside gracefully, permitting them to pass. The only sound was from his white cloak, which flapped about his sandaled feet.

  Halfway across, Brenol glanced back, his neck twitching under the sense of being watched. The lone figure was indeed gazing fixedly upon them, his narrowed eyes taking in every movement, but he did not stray from the stone steps.

  Brenol whispered to his companion, “Darsey, I’m not scared of him…but he sure does make my spine do a little dance.” He shivered and fell silent.

  “Mmmm,” Darse assented. This land felt somehow askew, though the sensation was hard to pinpoint. And the cloaked man was as Selet: uncanny, arcane, foreboding.

  “I do think it would’ve been wise, regardless, to have asked Duke Robes for directions,” Darse said uneasily, and Brenol snorted in amusement. The man glanced back toward the stranger, pondering if he should return for this purpose. “Well, that is strange,” he muttered.

  The black bridge was devoid of life, and the white keeper was nowhere along the bank.

  Darse furrowed his brow and turned forward to resume walking. He jerked to a stop with a sharp inhale. The stranger stood no more than an arm’s length before him. Brenol’s face paled considerably, and his heart leaped alive.

  “You require information? It is available for a price,” the man said. He spoke simply, as though it were entirely normal for him to appear out of nowhere.

  “H-how?” Brenol stammered. He slid a step backwards. And another.

  The man considered Brenol for a moment before speaking. “Selet is the land of visibility…but rules can be bent.” As though that settled matters, he returned to business. “You are searching for a place?”

  Brenol looked to Darse for an answer.

  Darse shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he cared now to speak.

  Dark eyebrows rose at his reticence, yet the stranger lingered. Finally, Darse sighed, saying, “We are looking for a person called Arman.”

  At the name, the stranger’s vacant face assumed a decided air of amusement. His eyes opened and glittered in silent laughter. It was enough to cause Darse to tilt his head sideways in wonder.

  “You know him?” Darse asked. Please don’t be him, he prayed.

  The stranger smiled thinly without parting his lips. “More of than personally. He lives in Graft—when he chooses to be in Selet.”

  “He’s not here?” Brenol asked dejectedly.

  “That I cannot answer—but to Graft…” He gingerly, and with a familiarity that piqued Darse, plucked the map from where it had been tucked into a small pocket on Brenol’s pack. He smoothed it open with clean palms and began pointing with an elongated index finger. The man indicated the eastern realm of the terrisdan.

  “You hardly need my directions with this map. It is very fine… I would however, if you have the ability,” he gave another fleeting glance at their garments, “buy passage down the Barn. It is doubtful you could navigate the rapids yourselves. And here—avoid the southern reaches.” He traced the lower sections with an almost loving caress. “Move instead through these forests and curve along this path. The city here is Trilau.” He tapped the paper lightly with fingertip. “You will find directions, supplies, lodging. Whatever you require. The Songra will not be difficult to cross. Many fishing villages line the land there, and the waters are not as dangerous as the Garz’s.” He extended his hand to indicate the rushing flood beneath them without lifting his eyes from the map. “From there it will be a day’s march to Graft, more if you are weak.” He gazed expectantly at the two.

  Darse perceived the hint and again retrieved his wallet. He gave an additional two freg to the the man, who, upon receiving it, bowed his head slightly and said, “It has been bountiful.”

  Without another word, he swept down the bridge. Darse had the impre
ssion that even without the roar of the water to mask them, the man’s movements would have been as soft as snow falling.

  ~

  The forest thinned after the crossing and the two walked briskly across a grassy field. It was speckled with lavender-colored daisy-like flowers that smelled sickly sweet. The afternoon sun was hot upon their tired bodies, and sweat puddled on their backs, necks, and behind their knees.

  “Bending rules? I really am missing something here. He can’t fly, can he? Is it some kind of eye trick?” Brenol asked, with the air of one thinking aloud.

  Darse wiped his glistening forehead with the back of his hand, groping in the corners of his memory. “Well, I’ve been thinking about that… Remember the visnati mentioning something about Selet being the place where invisible are seen?”

  Brenol nodded slowly.

  “I don’t know, but I imagine that he,” Darse bobbed his head west in the direction of the white-robed stranger, “has figured out how to be invisible anyway…at least to a degree.”

  “Bending the rules. Huh… Can that be done in each terrisdan?” Brenol asked. “For whatever the properties of the land are?”

  “That’s a thought.” Darse mulled it over like a cow chewing cud. “Doesn’t make me too comfortable, to be honest.”

  “Duke Robes,” Brenol repeated from earlier. “Ha.”

  Darse inhaled deeply, working to loosen his nerves. “At least we have a path for our Arman.”

  “Arman!” Brenol laughed scornfully. “If he is even here. Next time we send a letter.” He grimaced as he thought of the blisters he would tend in a few hours’ time, and likely all for naught. He refused to attend to the other fears that rumbled in his core.

  Darse smiled ruefully. “Well, let’s not quit before we even get there…” He poked Brenol playfully with his elbow. “Vacation of the worlds, eh?” he said with a twinkling eye. “Ordah most certainly knows how to plan them.”

  Brenol, surprised, chuckled in genuine laughter, revealing teeth and dimples. Darse always knew how to draw him back to the present.