Tides of the Dark Crystal

by J. M. Lee

  When the fruit-cutters saw Amri and his friends, they waved them over and placed cuts of the heavy, juicy fruits in their hands. They even stacked an extra rind on top of Kylan’s cut, knowing they had a fourth Gelfling guest back at the tent. All this without a word or sound. Amri tried one of the deep bows he had seen the others give. The Dousan bowed back in reverent silence.

  They ducked into the tent just as Amri felt a spray of dust whip through the oasis. The wind picked up, moaning through the valley. The tent flap sealed it out, but he could hear the sand raining against the leather.

  Onica had lit the fire, and together, the four of them sank their teeth into the sweet desert fruit. The rind was tough and thick and slightly hairy, but the yellow meat of the fruit was sweet with a green flavor at the back, like meadow grass. Tavra watched from Onica’s shoulder, disinterested when Onica offered a bite.

  Wind rattled the tent. As much as Amri tried to ignore the droning of the sand and the wind, he couldn’t any longer. The sound of the tiny grains swarming in the wind told a song of its own, etching the shape of an image in his mind: the storm wall, pouring in through the narrow mountain pass and filling the oasis valley. It would destroy everything.

  “That storm is coming into the valley,” he said, breaking the silence. “Erimon says it won’t, but I think he’s wrong. I know a cave dweller like me is the last one you want to trust about the weather, especially desert storms, but I have a really bad feeling about it.”

  His friends listened, ears slightly angled, but none of them wanted to admit it.

  “Maybe it’s like this every night,” Naia said. “They would know if the storm was coming into the valley, wouldn’t they? And if it did, they’d . . . raise an alarm or something. They’d come and get us.”

  A gust of air slapped Amri in the face as the tent flap opened and shut. Periss sealed the flap again, then buried his hands in his cloak as they all stared at him.

  “Are we evacuating?” Amri asked. It was half a joke. At least, Amri wished it were a joke. All he wanted was for Periss to laugh and tell him he was being a stupid Shadowling who didn’t know a storm from a cloudy sky. It would have been a wonderful time to be wrong.

  But it was not to be. Periss tongued his teeth and said, “The Dousan will never evacuate.”

  Naia leaned back and arched a thick brow. “Then why are you here? You want Onica to do more fortune-telling for you?”

  “You’re all here because I brought you here. And I did that for a reason.”

  Periss swept his cloak back. Naia rolled forward but didn’t draw her dagger when Periss lunged at Kylan, pressing the point of a short, double-edged knife against the Spriton’s cheek. Amri hadn’t even thought to draw his sword and didn’t know what good it would do now, anyway. Slashing around in the close confines of the tent would only be a disaster.

  “Let him go,” Naia said. “Just tell us what you want. Your . . . reason.”

  Periss grabbed Kylan by the braid, tugging him up. Still holding him at knifepoint, he backed toward the tent door.

  “Come with me. All of you. And if you draw that sword or that dagger, I’ll cut this song teller’s tongue out of his mouth.”

  “Really not necessary. I’m sure we’ll all be quite compliant,” Kylan muttered, holding his hands up to illustrate his point. Periss looked them each in the face with nervous eyes, one at a time as they stood. Amri was especially careful not to make any quick moves, and he saw Tavra twinkle down the back of Onica’s arm. Across the floor and then up his leg, finding her place at his shoulder.

  A calm came over him. Now he could be ready with the sword, if he had to.

  Periss lowered his knife but kept hold of the back of Kylan’s hood.

  “All right. No quick moves.”

  Out they went into the whipping wind. The sky was pitch-dark, though Amri couldn’t tell if it was because of the clouds or because of the desert night. He could only see the silhouette of the mountains when lightning, purple and white, rippled across the sky. The storm was truly upon them, creeping over the valley in an unfolding mass of thunder, lightning, and ruining wind.

  All the torches had blown out, and some of the tents were crumbling under the violence of the storm. Yet in spite of it all, there were no Dousan running about, trying to gather the Gelfling of the Wellspring and flee to safety. In fact, there was no commotion of Dousan at all. It was as if they had all vanished.

  Something caught Amri’s eye. He looked toward the lake and paused, a chill going down his back like cold water. In the dark and lightning, he could just make out figures, seated on the rocks and roots that surrounded the lake.

  “What are they doing?”

  Periss shoved Kylan ahead, and they followed him as he led them off the footpath. He didn’t look back and growled, “Nothing.”

  “They’re meditating,” Onica said from beside Amri. The Far-Dreamer was tense from top to bottom, and with the wind whipping her hair, she looked particularly fierce. “Come. Let’s follow Periss before he does something he regrets.”

  The footpath quickly disappeared into the sand that surrounded the oasis, making it clearer than ever how small the pocket of life and safety was in the vast body of the desert. Sand washed around Amri’s knees, and he tried to push back the all-too-recent memory of being stranded in this very storm, in this very desert. But this time Onica was on her feet beside him, and Naia was ahead keeping an eye on Periss. At any moment, Amri was confident, she could disarm the Dousan and end this. But she didn’t, and so Amri trusted her. Maybe she’d caught the glint of the desperation in Periss’s eyes, too.

  “If I need it, you can help me with the sword?” he asked. No way Periss could hear him over the howling wind.

  “Indeed,” Tavra replied. “I will not allow Kylan, or any of you, to be harmed.”

  Thunder poured into the valley like a monster, shaking Amri’s bones. A blunt gust of wind hit them so hard, they had to pause. When they could see again, the sand had blown away from around their feet, revealing a long stone walkway. The walkway stretched all the way to the mountainside ahead, ending in a gaping hole carved into the rock.

  “Now, while the path is clear!” Periss ordered, waving with his knife.

  He ran and the others followed, racing toward the mountain as the raging storm filled the valley.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Where are we going?” Naia shouted, and Amri remembered none of the others could see in the dark.

  “There’s a cave,” he called out.

  The entire cliff face was etched in figures and pictographs, illustrating the passage of the stars and the sun, but he didn’t have time to decipher them. Sand raked at his cheeks, and deafening thunder filled his ears.

  Suddenly they were inside. The cavern was large enough that several dozen Gelfling could have fit comfortably. Red and gold ledges ribbed the ceiling, and Amri heard a trickle of water flowing underfoot, felt it when he knelt to touch. The heavy rock of the mountain enveloped them, and Amri’s ears rang with the memory of the storm. It still howled out in the valley. He shuddered to think of the destruction that would befall the Wellspring.

  “What were they doing back there?” he cried. “I saw them—the Dousan, all just . . . just sitting around the lake! While the storm destroyed the Wellspring! Why?”

  “Because that’s how they are.”

  Periss swore, fumbled in the dark, then struck a stone with his knife, bringing a torch to life. Naia, Kylan, and Onica took in what Amri had already seen:

  On the walls, reaching up about as high as a Gelfling stood, were carved and etched illustrations. They showed Gelfling with shaved heads and tattoos, bearing incense, all standing in a line in sets of three. The row of Gelfling ended facing a beautifully articulated tree, with long gnarled roots surrounded by a pool of water. The tree branches and leaves spread wide and tall over the heads
of the Gelfling. Above the canopy were the jagged depictions of lightning and storms, and at the tree’s base sat a long-backed creature with a heavy tail. Four big arms and a mane tied in knots and braids.

  “A Mystic,” Naia gasped. “The ancient sage?”

  Kylan walked right up to the drawing, and now that they were here, Periss let him go. He kept his dagger in hand as the song teller traced the pictures with his fingers.

  “This tree, protecting the Dousan and the Wellspring from the storm. Where is it? In the picture, it looks like it should be at the center of the lake . . .”

  Periss grimaced. “It was, once. Songs tell that it was so tall, it could be seen from every corner of the desert, guiding the Dousan to the oasis. But many trine ago, it began to dwindle. The lake, which once filled the entire valley, shrank. When I was a child, the tree was just a dried-up old trunk. I remember the day it fell . . . All it took was a gust of summer wind.”

  For the first time, Amri felt like he was seeing the real Periss. Under all the snide comments and thievery.

  “So the tree . . . died?” he asked.

  “No!” Periss’s voice echoed with determination. “It’s not dead. Yet Maudra Seethi and the incense bearers gather the remains of its branches and burn them in an eternal funeral.”

  “I thought there was something strange going on, down in that lake,” Naia said. “The water is so rich. You’re saying you think the root of the tree survived?”

  “I know it. If it hadn’t, the lake would have dried up. The tree is the source of the water, not the other way around.”

  “And your maudra doesn’t believe you?” Kylan asked.

  Periss kicked a rock.

  “Maudra Seethi was the first person I went to. She told me I had to let go. That clinging to things that have passed on will only chain me to an effigy of the past. She even gave me a part of it to burn. Can you believe it? A pyre for a tree that lives! That is the ritual taught by the sage, from hundreds of trine ago. But she wouldn’t understand that rituals must change with time, and circumstance.”

  Naia crossed her arms, disinterested in the drawings. “All right, so you left in anger. Traveled the world looking for a solution. And you found us?”

  Periss put his knife away, apparently realizing he wasn’t going to need it anymore. He pushed Kylan’s firca aside and opened his belt pouch, taking out a familiar pink petal.

  “I found one of these on the wind. Saw your dream. Knew it was connected to the Wellspring Tree. I left to seek the All-Maudra’s help . . . But when I saw you in Cera-Na, I recognized you. The song teller with the power to dream-stitch on the petals of an ancient tree, and spread a message like that . . . And you, Naia. Who healed the Cradle Tree in the Dark Wood.”

  Periss plucked the firca off his belt and tossed it to Kylan. Secure in its master’s hands again, the bone-flute nearly resonated with relief. Periss gestured sharply. Desperately.

  “So now, do it. Revive the Wellspring Tree.”

  Kylan grimaced, hanging the firca around his neck so it rested where it belonged.

  “Naia. When you were in the lake, you said you sensed something. Do you think the tree is alive?” he asked.

  “Yes, I sensed something, but even if the tree is alive . . . Healing the Cradle Tree was one thing. Dream-stitching on the Sanctuary Tree’s petals. But this tree has been below the water for trine . . .”

  “Dying,” Periss insisted. “It’s been under there dying a slow death while all the Dousan turn the other way. You have to fix it!”

  “I don’t know that we can!”

  “Well, we might as well try.” Onica stood near where the cave opened back into the valley. The storm outside was so dense, it was like the fabric of a Skeksis robe. “If we don’t, this storm will destroy everything. The Dousan, the Crystal Skimmers, the Wellspring. Even if we survive the storm itself, we may be trapped in this cave.”

  “Caves aren’t really that bad, but I get what you mean,” Amri said under his breath. Naia still looked unsure, and still a little angry at the way Periss had gone on about the whole thing, and Kylan was anxious as ever. No one was willing to make the first move. After all, Periss’s task seemed impossible. How were they supposed to resurrect a tree that had gone from protecting the entire valley to being so ill, its Gelfling maintainers thought it was dead?

  None of that mattered. What mattered was saving the Wellspring and all the Gelfling gathered there.

  “If we revive the tree, you believe it will protect the valley from the storm?” Amri asked.

  “I believe it with all my heart,” Periss replied.

  “Onica is right. We have no choice but to try. But let’s make one thing clear”—Amri faced Periss and held out his hand—“we’re doing this as friends. Not as hostages. Got it?”

  The Dousan boy hesitated, but one glance out at the storm sealed his resolution. From the strength of his grip, Amri wondered if he would have preferred it this way from the beginning.

  “Amri, still. I may have eased the Cradle Tree’s suffering, and I can heal cuts and scratches, but . . . I don’t know if I can do this,” Naia said. “We don’t even know where the tree is down there, and it’s pitch-dark.”

  “And the storm is so loud, it will drown out the sound of the firca,” Kylan added.

  Amri ignored his friends’ doubts for the moment. There was no point in arguing; they were right, after all. But what Onica had said reminded him. These were caves.

  “Periss,” he said. “I can feel water under the cave floor. Does water stream from the Wellspring into the cavern?”

  “Yes . . .”

  Amri nodded. Good. “Onica and Kylan, stay here, where you’ll be safe from the storm. Naia and Periss, come with me. We’re going back to the oasis. To the lake where the tree is . . . or where it was.”

  “The firca definitely won’t be heard by the tree all the way from this cave!” Kylan protested. Amri put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “Mountain water is full of minerals. You tasted them in the Wellspring. The minerals will have formed crystals around the underground rivers. Minerals like that will carry sound just fine. The clearer the better. That’s how the Grottan speak when we’re spread out among the caves.”

  “But I don’t know if I can—I’m not a Grottan—”

  “That doesn’t matter. I believe in you!”

  Kylan’s shoulders tensed up, but when Amri shook him, he gave a dutiful nod and said, “I’ll try to find a place where the firca’s song will resonate.”

  “Play the song of life. Call to the tree. We’re going to need your help if we’re going to find it down there . . . if you can awaken the tree, maybe Naia can heal it.”

  Amri pulled his hood back over his head, trying to ignore the dread of going back into the storm. Naia stood with him, and then Periss. He didn’t want to say goodbye to Kylan and Onica, as if they might not come back. So he didn’t. Instead, he stepped out of the cave, feeling Naia and Periss at his back.

  The return to the oasis was more harrowing than their departure. The storm was on top of them now, as if it had a mind and a sentience and wanted, more than anything, to devour the Wellspring whole. They waded through the sand, climbing on top of it in intervals to keep from being drowned. He felt Tavra clinging to his neck and held his hood tightly around her to keep from losing her in the ravenous storm. He needed her with them when they went into the lake.

  When they finally reached the grassy turf of the Wellspring, it felt like washing up on the shore of the ocean, but they couldn’t rest. Amri tugged Naia along toward the lake. As its waters came into view, frothing with peaks under the pressure of the storm, he saw the statuesque shadows of the Dousan, still sitting around the lake. They were not trying to find shelter. They were not trying to escape. They didn’t even seem to notice the storm that was bearing down
upon them.

  Amri couldn’t think about them right now. He pulled off his cloak. Naia did, too.

  “You’re coming with?” she asked. “But you can’t breathe underwater!”

  “And you can’t see in the dark,” he shouted back. “You’ll have to breathe for me!”

  “What’s going on?” Erimon, the only Dousan in sight besides Periss who was not immobile in contemplation, had found them. With the sand crossing between them in veils, it was hard to tell if his face was twisted in anger or concern.

  “Could ask you the same thing!” Amri cried. “I thought you said the storm wouldn’t come here!”

  Erimon grimaced. “Where are you going?”

  “Into the lake. We’re going to revive the tree,” Periss said, pulling Erimon away in defiance. “And you’re not going to stop them.”

  “No!” Erimon shouted. He faced his brother. “Periss, listen to me! For once, just listen! The tree is dead. You have to let it go. This is out of our hands. There’s nothing more we can do except surrender to Thra’s will. Why can’t you understand this?”

  “You may not be able to hear its song, but I do. I hear it in my dreams and in my nightmares. My own clan won’t believe me, so I brought someone who would!”

  Erimon shoved Periss away. Next he tried to appeal to Naia and Amri.

  “You could die down there, and for nothing.”

  “If we stay up here, we’ll die anyway,” Amri said.

  He glanced at Naia. When she nodded, he grabbed her arm and jumped into the lake.

  It was another world under the water. The booming of the storm instantly vanished, replaced by a droning, echoing noise of water against the ribbed, root-laden walls of the basin. In some ways, with its constant, thousand-voiced song, it reminded Amri of the sands of the desert.

  Naia moved Amri’s hand to her shoulder as her wings bloomed around them both, powerful as the fins on a fish. When he touched her skin, their dreamfast filled his mind.

  Ready? she asked.

  Did it not seem like I was ready when I pushed us both in? He blew a bubble at her, then glanced at Tavra. In the Sanctuary, when Kylan’s firca had been but a bone shard, its song had brought the spider race to its defeat. They were a race close to Thra, sensitive to its song. Maybe even more sensitive than Gelfling. As keen as Amri’s hearing was, it couldn’t help them when his ears were full of water. They needed Tavra.