by GARY DARBY
With a thunderous splash, the huge serpent lands back in the water.
Moments later, the golden sets us set down on bare, soggy soil. I yank Galondraig out and with furious, vicious slashes at the clutching roots, free Cara from the plant mesh.
I pull her away from the muddy ball of roots and off to one side. She’s slumped over, her arms listless at her side. I pull her close and yell, “Cara! Cara!”
Her head lolls back, her eyes closed. I roll her to one side, letting her head droop lower than her body. “Cara! Cara!”
It takes a moment, but then she starts coughing and sputtering, spitting out the swamp water. I let her cough and wheeze until she’s able to draw several deep breaths.
I sit in the mud, holding her tight in my arms. After a bit, she stops gasping, opens her eyes and looks around. “Where are we?”
“Safe,” I whisper, “Golden Wind rescued us.”
“Safe,” she sighs. I hold her for a while more before she sits up, glances down and makes a face. “I’m covered in this icky slop.”
Smiling, I think, only a girl would worry about how she looks right then. However, Cara’s right, she’s covered head to toe in black, watery mud but she’s alive and to me, absolutely gorgeous.
Of course, in my eyes, she could be covered in troll snot and still be beautiful.
I glance around to thank the golden, but, for some reason, she’s nowhere to be seen. I whip my head in every direction, but we’re alone.
“That’s strange,” I mutter and then stand to yell, “Phigby! Alonya! Anyone! We’re over here!”
Then, off to one side, I hear pounding footsteps and then Amil bursts through the dense underbrush.
He takes one look, turns, and yells, “Over here! They’re over here!”
Moments later, Helmar breaks through the brush and rushes over to us. As he kneels, he wraps his big arms around Cara and with eyes closed, holds her tight.
“Are you hurt?” he questions, the anxiety in his voice apparent.
“No,” she whispers. “Just a little scared. It was a close thing.”
With that, he stands, carrying her in his arms and turns away. I screw my mouth to one side and my shoulders slump, my eyes still on Helmar and Cara as he wades through the brush.
My whole being is glad that Cara is safe, still, there’s a little corner of my heart that hurts as she’s holding so tight onto Helmar instead of me.
Nevertheless, she’s safe, now. Isn’t that all that matters?
We march back to where the dragons wait. Phigby soon determines that other than being a bit soggy, exhausted from fighting the root trap, and frightened by her experience, Cara is all right.
He then turns to me and I wave him off. “I'm fine,” I state, “just soaked and muddy.”
Phigby gives me a relieved smile and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Lad, you and Cara gave us quite a fright. We searched everywhere, but couldn’t find you.”
I give a quick recounting of our almost fatal encounter and then add, “If the golden hadn’t pulled us out of that trap, either we drowned or that thing would’ve gotten us.”
Alonya and Phigby give each other quick glances. From their expressions, I ask, “What? What’s wrong?”
Phigby pulls at his lip between thumb and forefinger. “Hooper, while the others searched, I stayed with the dragons—all of them.”
He motions to where the dragons sit. “The golden never left my sight.”
“But,” I sputter, “I heard her wings, she picked us up, I—”
“Hooper,” Phigby interrupts to say, “I have no doubt that what you’re saying is true, however—”
“Then, if not Golden Wind, who?” I demand.
“Yes,” Phigby agrees, “that is the question isn’t it, for I can assure you, it was neither Golden Wind nor any of our other dragons that saved you and Cara.”
I push myself to my feet and turn to take in the swamp’s deep gloom. I draw in a sharp breath. “We’re not alone are we?”
Phigby’s eyes flick to the left and right at the marsh’s thick and dark underbrush before he shakes his head. “In more ways than one, it would seem.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Plodding over to where the golden waits, I glance up at her with a puzzled expression. It’s obvious that she’s not left the clearing, so whose dragon wings did I hear and whose strong talons was it that pulled Cara and me from our entrapment?
Scamper comes scurrying up and bounds into my arms. Hrrrhh? He asks.
“No, I’m fine,” I answer as I stroke him on the head. “Cara took the worst of it.”
Araa? he questions.
“Yes,” I reply, “but I think she’ll be fine.”
Golden Wind questions softly, “Are you two all right?”
“Yes, it was a near thing for Cara,” I whisper, “but with some rest,” I glance over as Helmar kneels next to Cara, his worried eyes never leaving her, “and apparently a strong dose of Helmar, she’ll be fine.”
Phigby comes wandering over, bent over almost to the ground, his eyes narrowed as if he’s searching for something. “What are you looking for, Phigby?”
“What I failed to see before,” he answers me.
“Which is?” I prompt.
“Remember those lines in the soil we saw earlier?”
I nod in answer.
“Fool that I was,” he growls, “I didn’t realize that they weren’t merely places where the grass had separated and let the sludge ooze to the surface.”
“No?”
“No,” he states. “They marked the boundaries of what you might call fishing nets.”
Amil, who’s followed behind Phigby shakes his head. “Phigby, you’re making no sense. Fishing nets? Are you saying that someone is fishing here in this forsaken swamp?”
“Not someone,” Phigby replies in a grim voice. “Some—thing.”
He spreads his hands out and gestures toward the ground. “We made the mistake of placing ourselves on floating islands of matted roots.
“During the day, the islands come together and appear as solid ground, except for those lines that I saw.
“However, late in the evening, when it cools, the individual islands pull apart and anyone on the island sinks into the roots, which act somewhat like a fish net, where the unfortunate victim drowns and gets eaten by a Gbhali.”
“A Guhh—what?” I sputter.
“Gbhali,” Phigby replies. “Think of a long, slinky crocodile, add in dragon scales, long tail, take away the wings, and lives in swamps such as this.”
His eyes grow hard. “Very dangerous, rarely seen, and a voracious meat-eater who’s always hungry.”
He eyes me and shakes his head. “You and Cara were incredibly fortunate to escape.”
“Indeed,” I reply, my eyes growing wider with every word of Phigby’s description of what I saw in the water, “very fortunate.”
As Phigby goes back to studying the ground, I squeeze my face together, puzzled, and ask, “But what about the rest of you? You were right next to us, why didn’t your islands split off?”
“That I can’t answer,” he replies, “I guess we were lucky.”
No one gives a second thought to spreading out again, so we all scrunch together, tight as grapes in a juicing vat, but feeling much safer to be back to back.
We’re too close for me to speak to Golden Wind, but first chance I get tomorrow, I’m going to ask about our rescuer.
With both Helmar and Amil standing double guard, I drop off into a troublesome slumber, still wondering, even in my sleep, whose wings I heard and whose talons it was that pulled Cara and me to safety.
It seems that only a short time passes before a gentle hand pushes at my shoulder and a soft voice wakes me. “Up you come, Master Hooper, dawn is upon us.”
I blink my eyes at Cara. “Hi,” I respond and sit up. “How are you?”
She dimples and turns up her nose. “Still a little soggy, but much better than last night
.”
Smiling back, I reply, “Most anything is better than last night.”
She leans close. “Thank you, Hooper, for not letting go of me. It seems you keep coming to my rescue. I owe you my life.”
I wave a hand and shake my head. “You don’t owe me anything, Cara, not ever. I’m just glad you’re all right.”
Amil calls over, “Hey, you two, time to go, mount up.”
It doesn’t take us long to gather up our few things. With the sprogs in their saddlebags and Scamper riding in his accustomed place, I guide the golden into our usual place at the end of our little dragon caravan.
With Wind Glory leading and Amil giving directions, we make our way through a land of ever increasing and larger slime-covered bogs and sluggish, marshy streams.
The undergrowth becomes a dense collection of pointed fanlike bushes with an occasional stunted oaken tree draped in the ever present gray moss.
I let the others get a little ways ahead before I lean over and whisper, “Golden Wind, do you know what happened last night?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Then who rescued Cara and me? I swear I heard dragon wings, but it wasn’t you.”
“No, Hooper, it wasn’t me. As to who it was, I told you before, we have friends.”
“Uh, huh,” I say, “the ones that will show themselves when they’re ready?”
“And at the right time,” she answers.
“Well, it was definitely the right time,” I sigh. “If whoever it was had waited much longer, I’m afraid that Cara and I would’ve ended up in the belly of that Gabba whatever.”
“Then, let’s be grateful for both seen and unseen friends who arrive at the right time.”
I can tell that I’m not going to get any more than that out of her, so I settle back and keep my eyes peeled for any sightings of our apparently invisible friend.
Late in the day, we round a thick set of moss-draped trees and stop. My eyes widen at what I see.
In the near distance, from far to our left to an equal distance to our right and rising so high that I cannot see the top is a solid wall of roiling, churning gray cloud.
It hugs the ground and nowhere is there a single break in the curtain haze, except for a dark spot just to our front.
Slowly, we plod forward only to stop when from the mist ahead comes a ragged wailing and moaning as if someone was in maddening pain. The sound floats on the soft wind and my skin prickles and I recoil slightly as if I’ve been touched by something unclean.
Even Scamper and the sprogs hunch down at the groans and wails before whatever made the awful sounds seems to move away. Once the sobbing dies away, we march forward again though I notice our steps are even slower than before.
The dark spot in the cloud begins to take shape and it’s not long before we stop before a stone colossus, at least four or five times the size and height of Alonya.
Clothed in the armament of a warrior, his head tilts upward. Though his eyes are made of stone, they’re full of sorrow as if he were in deep mourning and stares skyward. A smooth, chiseled mouth hangs wide open as if he were shouting to the heavens themselves.
Thick, muscular legs spread far apart and beyond, through the gap they make, I can see the swirl and eddies of mist and fog.
Moreover, I can also see what looks like more of the swampland that extends beyond and disappears in the haze.
A heavy scabbard covers one side of the colossus with the hilt of a sword showing, but between his two hands, he holds an enormous shield.
His arms and hands thrust the plate outward. On the shield written in plain, red letters are words, which Phigby reads aloud:
Behold, this is Ukur’s Gate
Beyond which holds both grief and hate
None who are just, honorable or fair
Should enter this realm of hopelessness and despair
But if you must seek your repentance due
To remove foul sins and fitful banes too
Then through this gate made of stone
Pass your most loathsome flesh and bone
However, to you is given but this one warning
Whether by night or by morning
Many there are that enter both night and day
But few there be that ever pass through Perseon’s Way.
“Like I said before,” Amil grumbles, “lovely, just lovely.”
Alonya takes a step forward and reaches out as if to feel the boiling clouds that churn to the stone giant’s one side.
She pushes on the haze but it doesn’t give. While she’s pushing hard, the fog still doesn’t move. “How very odd,” Alonya wonders, “it feels soft to the touch but it doesn’t part under my hand.”
“And it won’t,” Phigby explains. “As I said, there’s only one way into the swamp. You cannot wander accidentally into the place. You must either choose to enter on your own, or,” he sighs, “cross the threshold through no fault of your own.”
“A sturdy wall made of a cloud,” Cara states wide-eyed.
“Yes,” Phigby replies, “and aren’t you glad you don’t find something like this floating around in the sky.”
“More than glad,” Cara returns, “I assure you.”
Phigby lowers himself from Wind Song and comes to stand in front of Ukur’s Gate before he turns to us. “Well, this is it; the point and time for our decision. Remember, once we enter, there is only one way out.”
He pauses before saying, “And like many things in life, there is no shortcut in finding one’s way out of misery. This will take hard work, effort, and sacrifice.
“We may well come to depend on one another as we’ve never done before. Ukur’s Gate leads to wretchedness coupled with constant peril and only by finding Perseon’s Way will we leave the swamp beyond.”
He points to the marsh beyond the gate. “I must remind everyone that we’ve been led here for a reason, but what that is, we don’t know. The answer lies there and I’m afraid there is only one way to find out why the Faelian ode sent us here.”
His face is grim, his voice matching. “Well, what say ye?”
I swear I neither spurred, nor gave Golden Wind any encouragement, but the next thing I know, we’re charging under the stone colossuses’ legs and into the mist beyond.
Scamper is chittering at me, his displeasure evident, while the sprogs are screeping and bleating like a bunch of sheep.
The sprites stay huddled on the golden’s back, but the way they’re clustered together and keeping their heads down tells me they’re not all that happy to be here, either.
With slow and plodding steps, one by one, the rest of the company joins me. “Well,” Amil grouses at me, “couldn’t we even have had a little discussion before you went galloping off on your own?”
I don’t answer. What can I say? The golden made me do it?
Swiveling in his seat, Helmar scans our immediate surroundings. “What do we do now?” he asks.
He hooks a thumb behind us. “The gate is gone.”
I turn and peer back at where we entered the swamp. Helmar’s right, the colossus has disappeared, and in its place is a wall of churning, swirling cloud.
A feeling of being cut off, alone and isolated from the rest of the world sweeps over me. For a moment, I recall thinking that once upon a time, I wanted to escape the world, and leave it all behind.
Well, I’ve truly done just that, and I quickly decide that I don’t like the feeling at all.
Phigby turns to Alonya. “M’lady, if you’re able, methinks now would be a good time for you to use your Queen Sight.”
Alonya eyes Phigby for a moment before nodding. “I’ll try.”
She glances around at the bleak landscape and lets out a long sigh. “But in this place, I can’t promise anything.”
“Please try, Alonya,” Cara urges.
“Yes, please do try,” Phigby encourages. “I think we could all use a little direction about now.”
Alonya gives Phigby anothe
r little nod and takes a step away, closes her eyes, and holds very still for long, long moments. After a bit, she turns and points off to her right.
Letting out a breath that swirls the air around her, she admits, “I cannot say for certain, but I believe that what we seek may lie in that direction.”
“Perseon’s Way?” Amil questions, his eagerness easy to hear.
Alonya shakes her head in reply. “I’m not sure, only that in this place of darkness there seems to be a light, dim, in that direction.”
“Then that’s the way we shall go,” Phigby declares. He then suggests, “I also recommend that in this place, everyone should keep sword and bow at the ready.”
Alonya unlimbers her bow and notches an arrow, while Cara, who lost her quiver of arrows but not her bow in the sucking muck, catches an arrow tossed from Helmar and fits it to her bowstring.
Sliding out Galondraig, I lay the blade across my knees.
Phigby points at Scamper, who’s still voicing his displeasure, loudly. “Hooper, quiet your beastie. It will be hard enough treading quietly through the marsh’s muck without his alerting everyone that we’re coming.”
I wrap an arm around Scamper, pull him to my chest. “Scamp, you need to hush now and I need for you to keep the sprogs quiet, too. Understand?”
He gets an exasperated look on his face before he bounces out of my grasp and with a fierce expression sets himself in front of the sprogs. In answer, they hunker down and grow quiet.
I give a little wave to Phigby. “I think we’re ready here.”
“Good,” he answers and gestures to Alonya, who, like a sloop at sea plowing through ocean fog, strides off into the swirling mist. The rest of us fall in behind her, single file.
The fog swirls and curls around us and is so dense that I, for one, can’t see more than a few dragon lengths in any one direction.
The heavy mud makes a thick sucking sound as both Alonya and the dragons tread along and I understand why Phigby said it was going to be hard to move and be quiet in this quagmire.
At times, gnats swarm at us in thick dark clouds. When they do, their buzzing sounds as loud as a hive full of honeybees. We have to spend so much of our time swatting at them that it’s hard to keep an eye on the trail.
