The Land's Whisper

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  “Darse?”

  “Yeah?” The man stood from his bent crouch. He fluidly wiped black sand from one hand while maintaining the hold of his shirt-made bowl with the other. Mussels clacked together against his chest with the movement. Their shells were a smattering of slates and dark grays.

  “This whole thing is as simple as his house.”

  Ordah cocked his head at the words and straightened his frame. His sharp eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Darse’s face tightened, and a shower of shells fell to the wet sand. He let out a breath with a nearly inaudible oh. “You think he’s underground?”

  Brenol nodded. “The house, this island—they both seem so perfect on the outside. Hiding what’s really going on. And Jerem,” Brenol cast a glance to Ordah, “wouldn’t do anything where the maralane would see him. If we know for sure he is here, he has got to be underneath us somewhere.”

  “And hopefully still ignorant of our blundering presence.”

  “Yeah.” Brenol’s face paled slightly in remembrance of the dark lair. He had no desire to repeat the burrowings. “Yeah,” he repeated.

  “But could there be an underground here?” Darse asked. “Wouldn’t it get flooded?” Yet even as he asked, he surveyed the island with fresh eyes. The land itself sloped up from the shore, and the giant jutting rock at its heart hinted at possibilities he had not considered. His face grayed considerably.

  “I’ll look,” Ordah said firmly and began to tread lightly around in simple examination. He paused, and returned with a dark scowl. “As I said before, if you find anything, come get me.”

  “I’d been so busy looking in trees, I forgot he was no bird. He’s a rat,” Brenol said.

  Darse’s eyes darted toward the prophet, but Ordah appeared to be beyond aural range. “Careful,” he whispered to Brenol. “I don’t know how far their respect goes toward animals.”

  In a flash Brenol recalled visnati hands fingering weapons. He wondered if Darse even had a flicker of that memory left. The boy nodded grimly, not wanting to question Darse on the topic, and followed the man to the south side of the isle.

  The land curved around, and the two pushed past frond and bough. The sun provided steady warmth though it was not yet midday—when the group usually cowered back in the shade to perspire. Brenol breathed in the humid air and thought of home. He missed it.

  “Now that you’re here, Darsey…do you think you’ll stay? Assuming we could even find a way back to Alatrice eventually.”

  Darse was surprised—not at the question itself, but by his response. He had not considered returning to Alatrice, not once. All his plans and thoughts had focused upon the mission, Brenol’s safety, Brenol’s mother, and his future in Massada. There was no home for him on Alatrice, save Brenol.

  “I’ll stay,” Darse said decidedly. He waited a moment before sliding a sideways glace over to the boy. “What will you do?”

  Darse held his breath, for his insides were knotted in conflict. He wanted Brenol in Massada but still felt bound to honor his mother for the time being. That day he had chosen to love Brenol had meant more than caring for a child. Darse felt an unspoken responsibility toward the broken woman who lived with Brenol, too.

  Brenol’s neck pulled back half a digit in wonder. His eyebrows raised exaggeratedly. “You ask? You did not ask when we first arrived.”

  And if he’s still tied to Veronia? Do you want him here then? Darse pressed his lips together in discomfort, for he felt that he would lug Brenol back bound to Alatrice if the nurest connection remained. Darse shrugged, although it was evident much roved through his mind.

  “I understand, Darse. I know I have to go back eventually. Just not yet.” He bent as if to pick up a stone but rested on heels and haunches instead. And then, as easily as Arman’s invisible hands had in Callup, Brenol lifted up some vines and grassy growth and peeled them away like a scab. He stared down. The hatch at his hands was like an evil eye, a pupil of the underworld.

  Darse exhaled slowly. He peered down at the oval door. It was an iron plate resting in stone, and its hinges were orange with rust. “It doesn’t really look like this door was meant to be concealed. This looks more like natural cover and time.”

  The man brushed the surface with his palms to remove sediment. An imprinted image became visible: a tail fin one might witness as a fish returned to the deep after a leap through the air.

  “I’ve seen this before,” he whispered.

  “What?” Brenol asked.

  “On the invitation to return to Massada. The one the wolf brought. It was the seal.”

  “Is it the seal of the maralane?”

  “I’ve no idea. But I think the seals have more meaning here than they do at home.”

  Brenol paused to consider. “Why would the maralane invite you?”

  Darse had no answers, but the iron beneath his hands would not allow him to forget the moment’s peril. “Wait here.” He held up a finger and began to stride away but then turned back to whisper urgently, “Put that back!”

  Brenol, without objection, softly released the viney spread back down over the hole and waited. After many long minutes, Darse returned with the prophet. The three looked at each other and the hatch with faces grim, lips pursed.

  “Sloppy. It’s a wonder we didn’t see it before,” Ordah commented.

  Darse raised an eyebrow. “Jerem didn’t set this door. This is clearly not the work of anyone within the last two moons.”

  Ordah’s jaw tightened and his eyes rested upon the rust, the age, the viney growth. “No. It is not. And that means there are likely other entrances too.”

  “Has a love for the dirt,” Brenol whispered, looking to Ordah for an explanation.

  The prophet ignored the underlying question, consumed with his own pawing wrath. “I go first. I have some understanding of him and his ways. If you see him, do not hesitate to attack. He will kill you.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least try to bring him out alive?” Darse asked. His memory flashed back to drugged Fingers, face puffed and heaving in slumbered effort. Killing held little pleasure for him, regardless of the evil. His fingers twitched on the hilt of his knife.

  “The maralane would not let Jerem’s tiny toe soil their waters again,” he replied. “Jerem will be dead on beach or boat within minutes once we scare him from this rabbit hole.”

  A brother’s love, Brenol mused wryly. He watched as Ordah inspected his vest and then bent to heave the rusty plate open. He paused as if recalling something and dug through his pockets. He pulled out a slip of fabric and swiftly ripped it into three.

  “Here,” Ordah whispered, extending two of the small taupe cloths cupped in his hand. Brenol recognized them from Ordah’s nighttime use. “It’ll help you see.”

  Darse retrieved his with tight lips and a nod.

  “Just hold it out and it will glow a bit.”

  The taste in the boy’s mouth was salty, sticky—like burned beans. He could feel the darkness drowning his skin already, and he had not even left the day’s breezes. Brenol pushed his emotions back, took his own small cloth, drew his knife, and waited for directions.

  Maybe Ordah will get to him first. It was a comforting thought, but not enough to dry his clammy hands or calm his nerves.

  Darse nodded, pulling Brenol back by the shoulder. “You stay. You said it yourself before—it’s my turn this time.”

  “Darse—” Brenol began.

  The man’s face silenced the boy. He spoke in a hushed imperative, “You’ll likely get your turn. Don’t push me this time.”

  Ordah’s eyes glinted with harsh purpose as he descended into the abyss of night. Darse followed, lowering himself down the stone ladder. His golden eyes gleamed like a feline in the dark before he disappeared entirely.

  A whisper issued up, “Stay on guard! There have to be other entrances.”

  Brenol tucked the fabric square into his pocket and reeled back from the all-too-familiar scen
t of earth and stone and rust.

  It was an unpleasant experience waiting. He crouched beside the hole but could not find a comfortable distance. He was either so close that he could only imagine dark limbs flashing out to grasp and drag him under, or he was too far and fearing for his companions beneath the dark pupil. Brenol eventually settled three strides from the eye and sought to calm his nerves by softly clinking out his thoughts on beads.

  His pocket tapped, I wish you were here, Arman. Darse is down there… He is always looking out for me. Always. The clicks stopped as he sought to control his shaking hands.

  ~

  Half an hour later the two emerged, dirty and somber. Ordah’s eyes bulged from his square and soiled face like an enraged bull’s. “There is a system of caverns down there. Dozens.”

  “How is that even possible?” Brenol asked.

  Darse’s face looked morose and disturbed. “The island is apparently more rock than earth. It all looks like that down there.” He lifted his chin to indicate the giant stony mount rising to their north.

  “And there are a lot?”

  “Countless. It seems as though the whole center of the isle is made of passages chiseled through solid rock.”

  “Is there flooding?” asked Brenol uncomfortably.

  “No. Whoever designed them did it well. I even saw some kind of piping for drainage,” Ordah answered softly. He seemed strangely unsettled.

  “Any way to tell which direction he is? Colette?”

  Darse was shaking his head before Brenol even finished his questions.

  “What do we do, then?”

  Ordah gripped his fists in a white, controlled fury. “That little tick has burrowed himself down there, feeding off that child. He’s a disgrace!” His voice slowed and dropped to a low and lethal growl. “I will find him. I will hunt him. And it will be ended. I will end it. He will die.” Ordah padded off softly: the deceitful tread of a hunter in pursuit.

  Brenol watched the prophet leave. “Why is he so surprised about all of this?”

  “I think he feels betrayed by the maralane. They didn’t prepare him for an entire world hidden underneath his feet. This is something else. This is some long-held secret… Who even knows what this tunneling is about.”

  “Yeah,” Brenol said absently, noticing his still-trembling fingers. He inhaled slowly, perceiving simultaneously that Darse did the same. “What’s wrong? The tunnels? Ordah?”

  Darse’s eyes fell to ground.

  “Darse?”

  “Bren,” he said finally. “I…I just don’t like it. There’s no possibility we can manage to surprise Jerem without all of us going down there and mapping out the place together. The longer it takes, the more likely it is that he’s going to catch us. Scents, dirt in a strange place, tracks, noise, a rock upturned, a string torn from our clothes, anything. Surprise is all we’ve got. And it’s his lair, his advantage.”

  “What about waiting him out up here?” Brenol asked.

  “Like Ordah would sit around knitting a blanket up here? Plus, we don’t know his schedule for emerging for food. It could be a moon out here, and then easily we miss him. While Colette is tortured below and we tan and rot?”

  “We need help.”

  Darse gave a pained nod. He had felt as much from the beginning. “We aren’t going to get any,” he said somberly.

  “It seems strange that we’re the only ones around who’re willing to find her and face Jerem.”

  Darse grunted in agreement. He wished for anyone more adept than himself, fingering his hilt with despair.

  Brenol met Darse’s gaze. “You don’t want me to go down.” As the words left his lips, a surge of revolt filled him. To stay offered little relief and unquestionable regret. I want to go down. I actually want to save her, he thought. The realization galvanized him. Maybe I am not a monster. Maybe.

  Darse smiled ruefully. “No, I don’t. I don’t want you worming around down there, blind and close to a murderer. But I don’t want you peering down that hole waiting, just for Jerem to pop up elsewhere and grab you from behind. I don’t want you on this island.”

  “You’re going to have to think of new ways to encourage, Darsey,” Brenol said wryly.

  “You’ve already made your decision. I can’t stop you from standing in the danger that we’re drowning in.” Darse’s features loosened slightly. “Bren, I want you to go into this aware. From the first moment we came to Massada, we have been swept up in the otherness of this place. Nuresti this, terrisdan that. Fingers, Ordah, Jerem. Honestly, I have no hope of protecting you. And these knives…I can handle one for skinning and butchering, but I do not know how well I can do against a real attacker.”

  Brenol held his gaze steadily, and even his heart beat with a gentle and sure rhythm. “I’m right here, Darse. You’ve protected me all along. You’ll return me when this is done—somehow. And to be fair to the place, not everything has been a whirlwind. The visnati, Trilau, the Songra, Arman…Arman, Darse.”

  Darse dipped his head in agreement, filled to the brim with both thanksgiving for the juile and bitterness at their untimely separation. He guarded Bren as no one else could. If only…

  The man closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, recalling again the juile’s words to him: “He is no child. You must let him—no, encourage him to—be who he is: independent, strong, willful… You cannot force him to the side for the sake of safety. Forcing is not love. No, you can only make choices for yourself.” Even in his memory, the olive-skinned face stared at him with the intensity that marked Arman’s person.

  Brenol placed a surprisingly sure hand on his older friend. “Darse. I’ll be ok. I will.” Brenol nodded his head, full of conviction. “I’ll think. I’ll be careful. But we’ll go together.”

  Somehow talking in this way turned his unsure foal legs straight and strong. His purpose was clear. He would do it because he must. No underground world must stop him, no temptation, fear, or greed either. Nothing must deter him.

  Darse nodded. There was a girl. And now that was all that mattered.

  CHAPTER 28

  The lugazzi, in its vacancy, reveals much about the terrisdans.

  -Genesifin

  The tunnels now became their lives. It was baffling how the underground world could have been created. The system of roads—for it almost appeared to be a grid—was roughly three or four strides beneath the land’s surface and cut through straight rock. This was not the work of one, but of hundreds. Countless hands, backs, tools. And time.

  It was deliberately laid out, but the reasoning behind the order remained unclear. Ordah had never seen anything of its kind before, and he grappled and sweated to organize a searching pattern in covering the maze. They divided up, laden with paper and pen and the odd fabric-light Ordah called canata, and mapped as they went, working as quickly and silently as possible. No one was allowed more than thirty minutes at a time in any direction, and they always regrouped at the hour. If Jerem’s presence was located, the finder was to return immediately to their rendezvous site and wait for all three to orchestrate an ambush. All this meant time wasted, but it also meant safety. Or perhaps just the illusion of it.

  After hours, days, and even nights underground, though, their caution began to slip. It was not a place that elicited rational thought. It stank of rot and dirt and stone, and the putrid scents sank into nostril and pore. Their clothes and bodies were caked with red clay and usually wet from the rock’s condensation. Their eyes ached from straining in search of a monster in the dark and constantly readjusting to light and darkness, and began to play tricks on their minds. The maze became monotonous; their lives, a droning left-right, map, and return. They met no success, and they rested less and less as the pressure mounted to find Jerem before he discovered them. What was more, on the third day, Brenol somehow misplaced several of their maps, and the group was forced to re-map already explored sections. Soon, the nausea from lack of sleep and their living patterns nestled down in their b
ellies without hope of reprieve. It was hellish.

  ~

  The rendezvous times stretched as the intervals to travel to the last mapped place grew. It had been over a septspan since their initial descent, and Darse blearily took in the slate stone curve of the tunnel. He saw this image so often that it stalked him even when his eyes closed, like the sensation of rocking after being upon the waves for moons.

  He sighed. Darse knew by instinct now that he had only a few more minutes before he must return, without success, to meet the others. Each return trip left them with less strength, less fire. And it would happen again in only a few more minutes.

  Don’t think. Don’t think about it. Just keep moving.

  Who made these caves? Who? Why?

  Why would anyone think to build this? What could the purpose be?

  Darse labored along through the tunnel. It was very low, and he was forced to bend uncomfortably. The gray rock scraped and scratched beneath his soles. He was weary of the sound. He would give anything to never hear it again.

  Just another minute. We’re going to have to do something else soon. We can’t continue like this.

  And then, suddenly, he caught a murmured sound that sent his pulse rocketing and drew his eyes wide and alert. He froze and strained his ears. The noises were like whispers on the wind; indiscernible and muffled. He shuffled forward with a new care and caution, cursing the rock below him.

  Up ahead, the tunnel tightened still more, and Darse dropped to a crawl. The rocks clattering under him sounded as loud as a siren. Abruptly, the murmuring stopped. His limbs trembled, and his breath choked in his throat.

  Should I go back? Should I get the others?

  Darse’s heart raced. Something was ahead; it was undeniable. There were faint lights on the curve before him, and the sounds had ceased at the approach of his fumbling legs. Life was around the next turn in the cave.

  Whatever it is, it knows I’m here. It heard me…

  If it’s Jerem, he’ll disappear if I go back for help.