by GARY DARBY
At that, he bends over to peer intently at the ground. “What is it, Phigby?” I ask.
He pushes his toe into the short, muddy grass before he gestures. “Very unusual,” he murmurs.
“What’s unusual?”
“The ground,” he answers, “there are patterns in the soil, little furrows that run in lines as if someone had taken a sword and dragged it along.”
I glance around, unsure of what he’s seeing. “I don’t see anything other than places where the ground’s split the grass and the mud has oozed up.”
He scratches at his head for a moment before he nods slowly as if agreeing. “Perhaps that’s all it is. Well, everyone, let’s find the driest spot we can and settle in for the night.”
In the end, no one piece of somewhat dry ground is wide enough for all of us and we have to split up. I settle the golden on the largest spit of land that I can find and with Cara’s help, unload the sprogs.
Once they’re down, I turn to Scamper and jab a finger at him, my voice stern. “No exploring, not in this place.”
Aarrrhh, he replies in a mournful tone.
“I mean it,” I respond. “You and the sprogs stay where we can see you.”
Urrrrr, he growls before he trundles off with the sprogs in tow to the bog’s edge to lap at the slime-covered water.
Cara chuckles as she watches Scamper lead his little caravan of sprogs away. “It’s amazing how those sprogs follow him around, like a mother duck with her ducklings.”
“And a good thing, too,” I reply, “or they would constantly be underfoot and we’d be chasing them everywhere.”
Like beads on a necklace, we’re forced to spread the dragons out along the narrow trace, but before the rest of us bed down, we gather in the center, next to Wind Song, to share Dazzle’s light.
“Phigby,” Cara asks while gazing out at the darkness, “why does the swamp have so many different names?
“I’ve heard,” she goes on, “the Wailing Swamp, or the Swamp of Lost Souls, and the Marsh of Lost and Tormented Souls among others. Why the different titles? And why do we have to enter the swamp exactly at this Ukur’s Gate?”
Phigby’s somehow managed to find a small log to sit on and rocks a little in his sitting position as he pushes his ever present bag to one side. “The story is old,” he begins, “very, very old.
“Ukur was a favorite of the gods. Sometimes known as Ukur the Valiant or Ukur the Loyal; he was a brave, fearless warrior who was fiercely dedicated to the gods. However, he fell afoul of Celestial Law. He fell in love with Perseon, the daughter of Dagur, god of the daytime, and Esotere, the goddess of spring.
“For a time, the two young people would meet secretly and Perseon returned Ukur’s love, but unfortunately, there came a time when the gods discovered their romance. The god’s decreed that Ukur was the guiltier of the two and while such a crime would typically lead to death, because of his great loyalty and devotion to the gods, they agreed not to take Ukur’s life.
“In fact, because of all his heroic deeds on their behalf, they not only spared him, but they gave Perseon the chance to be with Ukur for the rest of their lives. Only, she would have to become mortal and live out her days on Erdron.”
“That seems unfair,” Cara blurts out. “Why didn’t the gods just make Ukur immortal?”
Phigby tugs at his beard while pursing his lips. “Whoever said the gods were fair, my dear? I suppose it was their way of punishing Perseon for falling in love with a mere mortal.”
Cara’s face clouds up. “I still think it was unfair. If I were a god, I would have made Ukur immortal, perhaps just a minor god, but still a god so that he and Perseon could be together forever.”
“An excellent sentiment, indeed,” Phigby acknowledges, “but in the meantime, do you want to hear the story or do you wish to debate the merits of the gods’ handling of the situation? As I said, whoever heard of the gods necessarily being fair?”
“No,” Cara sniffs. “By all means, go on.”
“Poor Perseon,” Phigby continues, “she loved Ukur, but the thought of living out her days as a mere mortal was too much for her, too much of a sacrifice, so she turned her back on Ukur.”
“So much for love conquers all,” Amil grumbles.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Phigby answers. “Naturally, Perseon’s decision devastated poor Ukur. Next to serving the gods, he had poured all of his heart, his energy, his life into loving Perseon, and now she had turned her back on him.
“Distraught beyond reason, he began wandering the land, wailing, crying out in his woe and misery. He would shout up into the sky time and time again; ‘Perseon, my one true love, why have you forsaken me?
“’Were not our hearts as one? When our hands, our lips touched, did you not feel my burning passion for you? Were not my love, my heart, my very soul enough for you? Why, my love, why?’”
Phigby strokes his beard, staring at Dazzle’s glow. “Well, this went on for years. Ukur wandering the land, crying out in his misery until there came a point where the gods had heard enough of his loud and constant lamenting. They were going to put a stop to his endless caterwauling by killing him.
“However, just before they were going to snuff out his life, Perseon had a small change of heart and went before the Pantheon to plead for Ukur.
“A small change of heart?” Cara questions.
“Yes,” Phigby replies, “a small change of heart. You see, Perseon wasn’t willing to give up her immortality. However, she felt some pangs of guilt for Ukur’s condition and beseeched the gods to spare poor Ukur.
“The gods agreed to a compromise. They would build an enormous swamp, enclose it with a cloud so thick that no sound could escape and there Ukur was to spend the remainder of his days. He could cry to the heavens day and night for all the gods cared, only they would never hear even a whisper of his voice.
“Then it occurred to the gods that the swamp could serve other purposes, such as a place where they could send those who displeased them, whether it be one of us, or a forest beast, or fish, or fowl of the air. So, they built a gate and named it Ukur’s Gate—the only place where those exiled can enter the swamp.
“Over time, however, the swamp became more than just Ukur’s eternal prison. It also became a place where rulers would cast their enemies or criminals, whether they were guilty or innocent of any crime.”
“A place of tormented souls,” Cara stares.
“Indeed,” Phigby replies.
“So,” I ask, “does that mean that once you enter the swamp the only way out is back through Ukur’s Gate?”
Phigby shakes his head and sighs. “If only it were so simple, Hooper. No, I’m afraid that the gate serves only as the entrance, it does not offer passage out of the swamp. To escape the marsh, one must find Perseon’s Way.”
“Perseon’s Way?” Helmar asks. “What is that?”
“After the gods placed Ukur in the swamp,” Phigby explains, “Perseon’s heart grew heavier and heavier. Call it guilt or remorse, nevertheless, she went back to the Pantheon and pleaded with them to provide a way to leave the swamp.
“Her thought was that maybe someday, Ukur would overcome his grief. If he did, it would be unfair for him to have to live out his life in such a miserable and wretched place.
“The gods agreed and they allowed Perseon to build another gate, one that leads from the swamp into our world of sunshine, fresh air, and green grass.”
“Ah,” Cara replies in understanding, “Perseon’s Way out of the swamp.”
“Exactly,” Phigby replies. “So, there is but one way to enter the swamp and but one way to quit the quagmire. Moreover, once inside, there are no directions to Perseon’s Way.
“The legend says that only those who are innocent, or more pertinently, those with changed or repentant hearts can find the exit, and leave the swamp.”
Phigby holds his hands out. “And so now you know the legend of Ukur’s Gate and what lies beyond.”
“Lovely,” Amil grumbles, “just lovely.”
“Ukur,” Cara asks, “was he ever able to leave the swamp?”
Phigby nods and runs his fingers through this bushy beard. “As the story goes, he eventually did, which gives rise to the thought that there is always hope, that you can change your heart or circumstances for the better, no matter how dire your situation.”
“But wait,” Alonya protests, “you said that the cloud surrounding the swamp was made so thick that no sound could come out, yet Amil says he heard wails and such when he grew close.”
“Aye, that’s right,” Amil affirms, “I did.”
Phigby shrugs. “Easily explained. Once Ukur left the swamp the gods didn’t care if other noises escaped, they just didn’t want to hear Ukur. The normal laments and wails of Erdron they hear everyday—”
“And usually ignore,” Amil grouses.
“Yes, well,” Phigby bleakly smiles, “after Ukur returned to the world and stopped his constant beseeching the swamp lost its ability to muffle all sounds from the outside.”
No one speaks for several moments until Helmar rises, snatches up his bow and states, “I’ll take the first watch.”
“I’ll take the second,” Cara replies.
“I’ll greet the dawn,” Amil grunts, “I won’t be able to sleep anyway, knowing what we’re up against tomorrow.”
With that, I make my way back to settle against Golden Wind. She already has her eyes closed in sleep. Scamper brings his troop of sprogs close and they cuddle next to me.
As the sprites huddle in a small circle on one side, I smile to myself. It would seem I’m surrounded by dragons, and what’s more, I don’t mind it one bit.
It doesn’t take long before my little troop of dragons are asleep.
I eye them with envy as I wish I could fall into slumber as easily. My thoughts keep swirling around the notion of what might lie past Ukur’s Gate and why we’ve been led here.
Will tomorrow bring answers to why we’re here or will we once again face some dire threat and be in a fight for our lives?
As the evening cools, like steam rising from a pot that’s just beginning to boil, wisps of fog begin to swirl off the surrounding bogs’ smooth water.
A soft breeze roils the fog and sweeps it across our small spot of dry ground and my snoring dragon herd. I wrinkle my nose at a musky, foul odor that accompanies the vapors. I cover my nose with my tunic so as to not breathe in the noxious smell.
Between the dragons snoring and the fumes, I can’t sleep, so I get up and wander a few paces away where I sit and stare at the darkness. Finally, my eyes grow heavy and I drop off into a fitful sleep.
I’m dreaming that I’m trying to wake up from sleep, but I can’t. The more I try, the harder it becomes. My arms and legs feel as if powerful arms are holding me down, the more I struggle, the tighter the grip becomes.
From somewhere nearby comes a muffled, Help!
It’s Cara.
That jolts me awake.
I’m alone, floating on a tiny island on the water’s surface and in the middle of a thick cloud of fog. Golden Wind, Scamper, the rest of the dragons are nowhere in sight.
Springing to my feet, I find myself tipping back and forth, trying to keep my balance as my abrupt movement has caused my floating grass island to rock back and forth, almost dumping me into the water.
I stumble around, trying to keep my balance and not fall off while yelling, “Cara!”
“Hooper!? Help!”
Whirling to the side that I think her voice is coming from, I yell out, “Cara!”
“Hooper, over here! Hurry!”
I can hear her—I just can’t see her.
I peer down into the dark, roiled water. How deep is it? Dare I take a chance and swim in the scummy stuff?
“Golden Wind!” I cry out. I call again. No answer.
“Where’s a golden dragon when you need one,” I growl to myself.
“Cara, I can’t see you. Yell again!”
In answer, comes, “Hooper, help me, I’m caught and sinking!”
I spin around. Cara’s voice came from behind me and closer this time. Without hesitating, I flop into the water and like a dog, paddle toward where I heard Cara.
I’m not a strong swimmer and my sword is weighing me down. Nevertheless, I furiously kick and paddle while spitting out muddy water that tastes like I’ve bitten into a rotten hard-boiled egg.
“Hooper, hurry!”
I whip my head to one side. Cara’s voice seemed to come from right beside me. I paddle in that direction, until, in the gloom, I make out another tiny floating island.
My eyes widen at what I see. Cara’s head, shoulders, and arms are sticking up through the floating plants, but the rest of her has disappeared.
I swim with everything I have toward her, grab at the tangled vegetation and manage to hoist myself onto the little island.
On all fours, I scramble across the slick, muddy matted plants and throw myself at Cara. I wrap my arms around her and she clings to me, our bodies pressed together, cheek to cheek.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” I keep repeating. She holds on that much tighter and a little sob escapes her throat.
Catching my breath, I rasp out, “Are you all right?”
Her head is buried in my shoulder, but I hear a muffled, “I can’t get out, it keeps sucking me down.”
Spreading my legs and digging my feet into the matted plants, I say, “Hold tight, I’m going to try and pull you out.”
Tightening my grasp on her, I tug with all my might. Cara is squirming, wiggling, trying to free herself, but the more we struggle, the more she slips down.
“Stop!” She cries. “I’m sinking further.”
I stop yanking, but don’t let go of her. Instead, I scrunch even closer, trying to pull her closer to me. We’re cheek to cheek, her mouth against my ear, my mouth against her cheek. “Listen, hold onto me tighter, I’m going to try and reach the emerald.”
She tightens her grasp on me. I loosen my grip and start to reach for the emerald gemstone.
As if in answer, the island begins to pull her under. She squeaks, “I’m slipping!”
I stop and whip my arm around her, preventing her from sliding further. We stay that way, catching our breath. “Well, so much for that idea,” I breathe.
Thinking for a moment, I say, “Yell out again, maybe someone will hear you.”
She gives a little nod and shouts, “Helmar! Helmar! Help!”
Of course, she yelled for Helmar, who else? Not only that, my ear is ringing from her shouting. A small price to pay, if we get rescued.
We wait, listening, but there’s no answering call. I move my head a little to the side, away from her mouth. “Again.”
She takes a deep breath and shouts as loud as she can for Helmar. We wait, listening, but no one calls back.
“No one’s coming, Hooper,” Cara moans in a small voice, “what are we going to do?”
I tighten my hold on her. “Someone will find us,” I reply, in what I hope is a confident voice. “They’re out looking for us right now. I’m sure of it.”
“But what if they’re like me?” she groans. “Stuck? Or worse?”
I don’t have an answer and though I don’t admit it to Cara, that same thought has already crossed my mind.
We bob on the water, neither speaking for a time, just holding onto to each other. At another time and place, to be this close to Cara, her soft cheek against mine, her warm breath against my face would be more than heavenly.
But right now, I’ve got to find a way to save her, to keep her from being pulled under and drowned in the plant island’s entangling roots.
The trouble is—I don’t know how.
After a bit, Cara whispers, “Hooper?”
“Yes, Cara?”
“You won’t leave me, will you, no matter what?”
If it’s possible, I bring her even closer to me. “I will never leave you
, Cara.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Dragon scale promise?”
Dragon scales—hard, firm, everlasting it seems. A dragon scale promise is meant to be forever, too.
“Dragon scale promise,” I answer.
“Thank you, Hooper, I feel better now.”
Before I can answer, our little island starts to shift and swirl. “Wha—” I begin, when Cara screams, “Hooper! It’s pulling me under!”
I don’t know what’s happening, all I know is that no matter how tight I hold onto Cara, she’s slipping further down.
Pulling as hard as I can, I fight back, but it’s no use, I’m not strong enough. The water’s past her shoulders, and then up to her neck. I’m struggling with all my might as is Cara, but it’s not working, her chin is into the roots.
She gulps one last breath and her head slips under the mesh of water and root.
“No!” I scream and dive in after her. We’re both underwater, entwined in the clutching roots.
I whirl around as I feel an enormous, slimy body brush against me. It swishes by, causing the island to swirl as if it’s caught in the thing’s eddy as it passes by.
Cara grabs onto me, scratching, clawing to get a tighter grip. My arms wrap around her, pulling, yanking, tugging with all my strength, but we’re both pulled further into the tangle.
I open my eyes and wish I hadn’t. Cara’s face is against mine, her eyes pleading, imploring, but there’s nothing I can do.
I can’t save her.
I feel a movement in the water and jerk my head up.
Eyes.
Huge, glowing eyes fill the darkness, and below them are giant jaws that widen to reveal a fang-filled mouth.
Snakelike, the thing surges toward us. I try to pull Cara around, put myself between her and the enormous fangs, but I can’t move her, the roots hold her too tight.
The water fiend is almost upon us when, of a sudden, we, and the tiny island are lifted out of the water. I can feel wind beating on my legs as we’re pulled up.
It’s the golden! She’s found us!
We’re pulled aloft as a cascade of water pours down. Through the waterfall, I watch as the water denizen leaps upward, its jaws snapping and cracking in the night air, only it falls just short of Cara’s limp legs.
