The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey)

by Martin Gibbs

  What is the matter?

  “Fa says there is no air in the mountains. I don’t want to die.”

  We won’t go up the mountains. There is a pass that goes through. It is not well-marked and has not been used in centuries.

  “How do you know?”

  There are Welcferians here in the spirit world. In any case, I don’t know how Zhy is getting up to the place, but I know this route. It will take time, but I am here for you.

  I walked again. I was scared. I hoped I could find the trail. I was hungry. “How much time?”

  Long enough that you will have to ration what you have left of dried meat. The snow is your water, just as the water in the Tunnels sustained you. If we see any animals, we will trap them. You will trap them, I mean.

  “And kill them?”

  Yes, and kill them. If we have to. You have been very strong, and the Tunnels afforded us a very easy journey, not having to use as much food. I’m sorry it gets harder as it goes on.

  “I never killed anything.”

  I’m sorry we have to go this route. My son and his companions will have a slightly easier route, but I don’t know how this so-called magic works to release the wards on the entry tunnel. You will have to go cross-country.

  I was very cold. Zhy’s Fa told me to put on the big coat. That was before I went outside. There was a fuzzy hat and fuzzy gloves. My hands sweated in them. He said to leave them on and I did.

  Now turn a little more left.

  “I am going straight.” It was white everywhere.

  You think you are, but you’re not. In land like this, you will wind up going around in circles. Make sure to walk towards the gray mountains.

  “I was. I was looking at them. My eyes hurt.”

  I understand, and I am sorry. Even though you think you are going straight, you will angle one way or another. There are no landmarks until the mountains. But one step at a time.

  I walked a long time. It was cold and white. My feet got warm. My hands, too. But Zhy’s Fa told me to keep walking. He kept saying I went right. I did not. I went straight. A long time went by. Then it started to get darker.

  “Are we by the mountains?”

  No. You will have to stay out here tonight…it will be dark soon and we can’t reach the mountains in time.

  “It is so cold ...”

  I know. Have you ever built a snow-house?

  I smiled. Yes. Fa and I built one in our field. It was big. Fa said we could have a fire in it. I thought it would melt, but we had a fire. A big fire and we slept in it all night. Ma brought the spicy drink. She didn’t stay out there. She was inside. She cried. “Yes.”

  Do you remember how you built it?

  “No, only Fa did it.”

  Well, stop up ahead. You can do it by hand, but it will help if you have the hand shovel. Do you have it? Good. Now, start by piling up a very large pile of snow…

  He talked to me and told me what to do. First, I made a big snow pile. Then I used the small shovel. I cut big bricks out of the snow and piled them. Some fell over. He made me make some and set them aside. They would get hard in the cold, he said. I had one wall and he told me to eat some dried meat. The meat was salty. I ate snow. Then I made more blocks. I piled up the other ones that were sitting. They got hard fast. I built the house like he said. It was as big as Fa’s.

  “I can have a fire in here!”

  Where will you get the wood?

  I wanted to cry. I wanted to go home.

  You will be very warm in there, even without a fire.

  I know he was right. But it was cold. I wanted to talk more about Fa and our snow-house. I fell asleep. I was warm.

  * * *

  He did not say I would have to build many snow-houses. I had to build nine-hundred and thirty-seven. The mountains were there. But they did not get closer. Why did they not get closer?

  This is a very long journey. You are doing very well.

  I was hungry. But I had to save my food. Save the food, he said. I ate some but saved more. I saw no animals. There was no wood. And no fire to cook them. I did not like meat that was not cooked.

  Turn a little to the left.

  He said that a lot. The mountains were always there. Why did I keep going left and they never moved? I wanted to go home. I did not want to go back in the snow. The mountains would be better. There might be wood. Past the mountains was a house, he said. A real house. With a fire. I was cold. I wanted to be warm.

  * * *

  Moose.

  “What?”

  Moose tracks. How in Sacuan’s name does a moose survive up here?

  “Is Sacuan with you?” Fa said Sacuan was not a god. He said he might not be real. But Lyn might know. He might even see Sacuan. Or talk to him. If he was real.

  What? Oh…yes, yes, he is. He doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t quite agree with what I am doing.

  “Is he nice?”

  Yes, very. Now, listen, there is a moose. That means food. I want you to set the trap you brought. Once we are done here you can leave it where it is. I’m sure it is heavy to carry it all.

  “I’m strong. Like Fa.” The pack was very heavy. More heavy now. In the Tunnels it was not so heavy. In the snow it hurt my shoulders. I was cold and hungry. The dried meat was very salty, and it was almost gone. I wanted water, not snow. Snow was water, Fa said, but it was not the same. I wanted to drink more. I wanted the spicy drink.

  And you’ll need some of that dried meat. I hate to waste it, but if it works, you will have more meat. And better tasting. Be very careful setting it up. Have you ever set one of these?

  “Yes.” One time there were bears in the field. Fa bought a trap. We put meat in it. The bear ate it. We ate the bear. It was greasy. I was hungry. Would moose be as good as bear?

  Better. Not as fatty. Well, go ahead and set it over in that small depression. Then hide.

  “Where can I hide?” It was white everywhere. Everywhere was snow.

  In the snow, make a small wall and hide behind it. You may have to wait awhile.

  I put up the trap. I was careful to put the dried meat in. It did not snap at me. The meat smelled good. I went and hid in the snow. “How long?”

  I’m not sure. It may be awhile. You can try to rest if you want—it has been a lot of work in the cold to get this all set up.

  I closed my eyes. I wanted to sleep. But it was cold. The wind was loud. I could not sleep. I thought of the notes. My new chords. I played the sutan in my head. And I hummed the notes.

  * * *

  I heard the moose in a dream. He talked to me. He said he was not going to eat my meat. I was sad. I begged the moose to eat the meat. He was hungry. I was hungry. And cold. “Eat the meat, moose,” I said.

  I woke up and the moose was there. He was starting to eat the meat.

  It didn’t work, he was able to—

  The trap went snap! And a light flashed. The moose made a loud sound. He was crying. The big feathers on his head shook. “What are those feathers?”

  Those are called antlers. I still can’t believe a moose—a moose!—would be this far into the wasteland. Normally it is just reindeer and the odd caribou. He must have wandered from somewhere, or be traveling.

  The moose was sad to die. I did not like killing. But I was hungry and cold.

  How ...? He was out of the trap! Where did that flash come from? I thought I saw a flash! He was out, and then he was back in, how did that happen? Everything is a little blurry on this side, but I swear, I—

  “Can we eat the moose?” I did not know what happened, but I now had the moose.

  He did not talk for a long time.

  Yes, yes we can. But you probably can’t cook the meat until you have a fire. We can’t have a fire until we find wood.

  “There are no trees.” Only snow. What about the small lamp?

  Lamp? Oh, yes! Yes, of course! That’s not a lamp, it’s an oil stove. It won’t keep you warm but you can sure as Sacuan cook the meat
in that small pan.

  It took a long time to cut the moose. He helped me. He talked to help me cut the meat. There was a lot of blood. Like the bear. The bear had more blood. And more fat. The moose did not have a lot of fat. Just a lot of meat. The stove did not start. I tried many times. But finally, it started, and I built a wall of snow around it. It was cold. The stove did not warm me like I wanted.

  I cooked a big piece of meat over the stove. It smelled good. I ate it still pink; I was so hungry. And cold. I wanted to build a snow-house, but I slept outside.

  In the morning I put the meat in a blanket. Not my large blanket. The thin one. I wrapped it so blood would not get anywhere. I could eat it a lot as I walked. The oil ran out in the lamp. I was very hungry. I ate the meat very pink. It was cold but I was hungry. The mountains looked closer.

  Go left a bit.

  He was quiet. He did not say much. Maybe he was cold.

  No, I just don’t know how that moose died. The trap failed. I’m positive the trap failed. Did you do anything?

  “No, I watched the trap. The moose died.”

  But that…flash, what was that?

  “The sun?”

  He was quiet again. Was he mad at me? I was very tired. My feet hurt. “Are you angry with me?” He did sound angry, and I didn’t like that...it was cold here!

  I’m not angry. More to the left there, Bimb…keep going, you are doing great. Almost to the mountains.

  “Is the warm house in the mountains?”

  Not right away, but there might be wood. For a fire. Once we are in the mountains, there is a path that leads to the castle.

  I started to walk faster. The snow was deep. It was hard to walk fast.

  Take it easy. There is still time. At your pace you will arrive just in time. You are a long way away, but the moose has surely saved us. Saved you. Keep walking.

  “Keep walking.”

  You will soon reach the Spires. The great Spires of Solitude. And you will cross them. Bimb! Think of it! You—you crossing the Spires! A dream how many people have had?

  “I will climb the Spires.”

  Chapter 16 — Labrador Tea

  Tea is a spiritual drink. It soothes, calms, sustains, and nurtures us. Even the most bitter and dark tea can bring enemies together and friends closer. It is our life and our sustenance.

  Cleric Bertrand

  A few hours after lunch, the three travelers rested their horses along the road. Zhy dismounted, tied his horse, and immediately found a large spruce tree against which he could doze. Qainur followed suit. Torplug ambled around for a few moments then did the same. However, the small-man was soon up and about. Zhy’s eyes fluttered open when he heard the mage trot across the road, but he lay there quietly watching in silence.

  Torplug had suffered with these two—no that wasn’t a fair description. He had put up with these two inexperienced travelers and their harrowing experiences for longer than he had planned. When they picked him up, he was in desperate shape and would have gone with anyone with a horse or a cart—anyone going north, that is. He never believed for a moment they were actually going as far north as Gray Gorge, and then many miles beyond to visit a warlock. The small-man had suffered the trials of a prostitute for so long, he assumed the pair were up to some other quest and only covered for their actions. But nothing in the journey confirmed his suspicions. Rather, he became convinced they were actually going to see a great warlock. He was so used to people being other than they claimed, that he was taken aback at the sincere nature of the journey.

  Zhy was out of his element, and he truly was the town drunk he portrayed. He was absolutely clueless to so many aspects of long distance travel, he was lucky he was alive. And all that was keeping him upright, apart from himself, that is, was the bulky mercenary.

  Qainur was definitely a self-taught warrior of sorts. In the Icedown Plains, a man like him would last ten minutes. He’d slay a few naked savages, then fall victim to their whirlwind attacks and base brutality. But for a Beldener, he was one of the best he’d seen—his skills surpassed all but a few long-tenured Counsel Guards. But why did he ever think that he could simply walk up to a seith in the isolation and desolation of the Spires of Solitude and ask for magical powers? Too many knots, as the Beldeners put it, to even begin to try to understand.

  What if the warlock was truly insane and would relish three new victims to torture for countless years? What if he killed them outright...? Torplug was strong, but a warlock may be vastly stronger, even with wards and the like. But something nagging at Torplug’s mind kept him doubting any of this would happen. He worried more that nothing would be there. Nobody. No warlock. Only the mountains. And, knowing Qainur’s bull-headed nature, he would need rescuing. Again. He needed to get home—father was probably already at Zhyfrael’s Folly, sipping hot tea and fretting over his son. Well, he would have to wait. Even though there might not be any warlock in those mountains, there was still adventure to be had, even with two very strange people.

  As he trudged through the bog, he nodded curtly to himself. I’ll stick with them. What else is there to do? He shuddered at the thought of working the common room and all of those groping, fumbling hands…and not no mention—his body shook again at the loathsome idea. He continued to trudge through the bog. It’s got to be around here somewhere—

  His thought snapped closed as he felt Zhy’s eyes upon him.

  “What are you up to, Torplug?” he asked when he saw the small-man’s head turn slightly toward him. Eyes in the back of his head.

  “Can’t sleep,” he replied. “There’s a little bog here—these things are everywhere as we move farther north.” He was gingerly stepping through the small swamp, his head down, obviously looking for something.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Labrador tea,” he replied curtly.

  “Tea grows here?” Zhy asked in surprise.

  “It’s not really tea,” the mage replied. “Just a plant that grows in the north and that you can find in bogs and swamps. There’s usually a white flower around it, but not this late in the year. There!” He bent down and gently picked something off a low shrub. Zhy didn’t have a good view, but he heard the gentle snap as Torplug plucked tiny leaves away from the plant.

  His curiosity piqued, Zhy stood with a groan and walked over to the edge of the road. The ground was soft and spongy underfoot, but at least he did not sink down and fill his boots with filthy, grimy water. He hated the feeling of walking on such terrain—his greatest fear was to get a foot stuck and be sucked down into the muck and grime. Ignoring his fear for the moment, he trod carefully over to Torplug, who held a bunch of leaves in his hands.

  They were very small leaves—about a finger width and just as long. A tiny vein ran through the center, with a fishbone pattern of even smaller veins running to the pointed tip. There was a very slight ripple to the surface, but the leaves were smooth. Zhy took one and sniffed it—it smelled only like a leaf.

  “Smells like a leaf.”

  “Wait until we cook it!” Torplug sounded excited, but when he looked at the leaves, Zhy swore his mouth curled into a slight grimace, as if he’d eaten something bitter.

  A light breeze blew overhead and whistled softly in the scrubby trees, and the musty smell of the bog enveloped them. Torplug led the way back to the road, and Zhy followed carefully, again thankful his boots didn’t sink into the muck.

  Torplug found some dry wood and started a small fire. Once he had some medium-sized logs fully engulfed, he dug out a small crock from his pack. “Do you have your mug?” he asked Zhy.

  “Sure.” Zhy was just preparing to sit and gave a groan as he stood to retrieve the mug from his pack.

  Torplug had positioned the fire perfectly between two medium-sized maple trees. He and Zhy could sit against a tree and relax. Qainur, not far away, snored with abandon.

  The small-man directed Zhy to sit, then re-crossed the road. There he found a low point in the bog and bega
n digging until water seeped through. It was surprisingly clear, with only a few flecks of brown sediment. He filled the crock and carefully took it back to the fire and waited patiently for it to boil.

  “Once this boils a bit, we can add the tea,” he said to Zhy, who was watching the whole exchange with wonder. He’d never seen a man make tea from plants found in a swamp. “Plus, the tea is rather strong, so it’ll cover up any strange tastes in the water,” he chuckled.

  Zhy nodded absently and stared into the fire. His focus blurred, and the images from the previous days flashed through his mind. He started to doze, but the stress of the past events forced his eyes to flutter open and he groaned, looking out at the road again. He had been afraid of this—that he was entering a new reality in which sleep was just a memory. Long gone were the days in which he could sleep until the thirst for ale woke him. He suddenly felt much older.

  He sighed.

  “Everything all right?” Torplug asked, his eyes on the fire.

  “Just thinking about what’s happened so far,” he said quietly.

  The mage didn’t nod—he was most likely thinking the same thoughts. Instead, he checked his bog water. It had just started to boil.

  Once more Zhy attempted to close his eyes and doze, but as soon as his lids dropped shut, gouts of blood spurted before his eyes, flashes of light skittered across his mind’s eye, and he could almost smell the rank stench of the temple. And in a flash of torn flesh and dark demonic spells, he saw the twisted and rotting remains of his companions. He gave a start.

  After the water had boiled furiously for several minutes, Torplug tore up the green leaves and tossed them in the water. It wasn’t long before the bitter-sweet smell drifted over to him—a mix of sweet, sour, and spicy cinnamon wafted up from the crock. Torplug let the tea boil a minute, then used a stick to edge the crock off the fire. He carefully filled both mugs with the hot tea and handed Zhy’s over to him. The small-man leaned against the pine with a sigh.