10
"Go to Tir," the Red Cavalier had said. "In the Temple of Ohma, the Priestess will tell you all you need to know."
No greater inducement could have been dangled before him. Fueled by anger, he rode until his muscles ached and Jacques was lathered with sweat, and they reached the vast river that marked the boundary of Kalmar by late the following afternoon. As Piotr had promised, it was impossible to miss or mistake for any other; icy blue and treacherously smooth, it stretched toward the horizon in both directions.
Following the directions he remembered, he turned Inland, following the river's flow, and rode on at a more reasonable pace until sunset, then stopped and made camp.
Without his armor, he felt naked and vulnerable, the more so now that he knew it could have protected him against further attacks by the more malevolent of the faeries. Had he been wearing it the night before, the horse-demon might never have approached him.
He settled for piling dead branches around his camp, drawing a circle within it, and asking for God's blessing and protection. He placed his helm and dagger at his head and feet when he lay down to sleep. The sword remained under his right hand. His sleep was broken and riddled with nightmares, and he woke feeling more tired than when he'd lain down.
He prayed nightly for a sign, some hint of the task or purpose that would earn him God's forgiveness. But forgiveness, like sleep, eluded him. God remained silent.
As he rode farther Inland the following day, the plain gave way to rolling hills again, sometimes wooded, sometimes farmed. But soon hills turned to mountains, which the river cut through like a scythe, marking its way with magnificent canyons and ravines of breathtaking, if daunting, beauty.
Though less wild and lofty than those he'd crossed in Yasenovo, the mountains of Inland Kalmar were formidable in their own right. Jean kept close to the river as long as he could, letting Jacques find his own footing.
But soon the river grew wild and white-capped, plunging into territory where even the sure-footed Jacques could not follow. Jean settled for riding where the trail was clearest. Though he could no longer see the river, he kept to his course by listening for its distant roar.
Yet, despite his rage, the magnificence of the land beguiled him as it had in the mountains around Tisza. Time and again, some sight captivated him, seduced him, tempted him to forget his anger and the danger through which he rode.
Here, a waterfall fell singing and shimmering from a tall cliff, the rocks sparkling as if shot with opal. There, a glade surrounded by ancient trees basked in a circle of light, welcoming the sun with a rainbow of flowers. A flock of unknown birds filled the air with joyous music. Farther on, a hidden pool, still and secret, reflected back sapphire and emerald portraits of the sky and trees above it. Air rich with the smell of green growing things filled his lungs and danced through his blood like wine.
The presence of God was a tangible thing, surrounding him and whispering, See and rejoice in what I have made.
But the spell Tir na n'Og cast could not hold him. He could no longer forget the menace behind the beauty; it hovered close in his thoughts, prickling at the back of his neck and breathing frost over his nerves even under the summer sun.
Nor did danger threaten only in his imagination. Real bandits attacked him once, but proved more bluff than threat. Jean slew one, wounded another, and the rest lost heart and fled. Farther on, he ran afoul of a group of…something…that remained hidden in the brush, yet trailed him with yelps and snarls and hoots of laughter, bulging eyes peering at him from between the leaves. Jacques outran them and Jean saw nothing more of them.
The following day, the mountains grew more heavily forested, the air warmer. Vines drooped from the trees, which grew broader of leaf and thicker-boled than the trees with which he was familiar.
As the mountains fell behind, the ground grew dank and moist beneath Jacques' hooves, and the scent of growth, death, and decay, became overwhelming. Strange trills and chirpings, hoots and growls echoed from the green shadows, weaving a tapestry of unknown life around them.
Jean gazed upward through the increasing canopy of dripping leaves with wary distaste. He did not care for the jungle. It seemed overgrown and decadent, lacking the clean, fresh beauty of the alpine forests, or of the open orchards and farmlands of his home. The noises of unfamiliar beasts left him nervous and on edge, and the serpents that occasionally slithered away from Jacques' approaching hooves made him more so.
His anger toward the Red Triad cooled; he merely added it to the general pool of frustration that lay heavy and curdled in his stomach. When would he learn what he needed to know to survive? Would he find the city of Tir?
When would this beautiful, deadly world release him from its grasp and let him go home?
If one of these mysterious Greater Fey were to appear before him, he would give it a piece of his mind!
It was nearing evening when he came upon a place where the trail forked unexpectedly. Jean scanned the surrounding trees and brush for a sign to indicate which road led to Tir, or at least to the sea that was supposed to surround it. He saw nothing and dismounted to search more thoroughly.
While Jacques pulled leaves off a nearby bush one by one and ate them, Jean, mindful of snakes, used his sword and dagger to carefully pry vines and branches apart to see if they hid a marker of some kind. When he had searched every possible hiding place, he sheathed his weapons with an impatient oath. Did both ways lead to Tir? If so, which was the better? If not, how far would he have to backtrack before he found the right way?
"One would think that anyone traversing this wretched forest would leave signs for others, so that no one would have to spend more time than necessary here," he commented to Jacques as he remounted. "Surely no one travels this route for pleasure." He settled into the saddle and looked from one path to the other. "But which way do we go now? I do not wish to spend the rest of my life looking for this place."
A woman's voice spoke in English behind him. "Pardon, sir, but I couldn't help overhearing. Are you lost?"
Startled, he turned Jacques to face the speaker, and went chill with shock; Jacques stiffened beneath him with a snort, apparently equally startled.
The woman in white who had spoken waited for his reply, but his attention was engulfed by her steed.
Dappled white, like snow seen through a veil of white lace, the unicorn watched horse and rider without fear in its huge, dark eyes.
Jean's eyes stretched wide to encompass the impossibility before him and make it real. His mouth gaped, but he could make no sound. A unicorn stood before him. A unicorn! Not a stiff heraldic drawing or lifeless, graceless woodcut, but a creature of flesh and blood and heart-stopping beauty, not five paces from where he sat on its more earthly cousin.
The creature was not at all goat-like. The legs and feet were like a deer's, and it had the same tiny, slim bones over all. But the body and head, despite its delicacy, were more like those of a horse, and it was easily as tall as Jacques, or perhaps taller.
Not that it looked fragile. The slimness was that of a creature of speed and agility, and the fine head and neck showed the details of tendon and muscle, giving it the same look of deadly but graceful strength as a good dagger or spearhead. The horn was a pretty thing, to be sure, of alabaster whiteness, but it looked no less hard and sharp for all that.
"Can you understand me? I asked if you are lost." The tone was a trifle sharp, and Jean dragged his dazzled stare from the beast to its rider.
The lady wore a white, full-sleeved tunic, nearly long enough to be called a gown, over white trousers laced provocatively up the sides, belted at the waist with the now not-unexpected sword. Flowing fawn-brown hair, braided on one side with white feathers, framed a face of great loveliness, but at that moment the woman could not compete for his attention with her own steed.
"I…I beg your pardon," he managed through numb lips. "I am looking for Tir. I see that my horse is in your
way. Excuse me, please…." He made a vague effort to nudge Jacques to one side, but the horse paid no heed. Ears rigidly erect, the gelding extended his plain, blunt head to touch noses with his fantastic cousin. The unicorn pinned its ears back at the effrontery.
"I'm sorry," Jean said helplessly, "I can't…he's never seen…I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, but that cannot truly be a unicorn."
Her eyes widened and fire flashed in the blue depths." Are you suggesting that I am somehow unfit to ride her? I assure you, sir, that would be most unwise."
"I…what? Oh, no, Mademoiselle, certainly not, I didn't mean, I…" He struggled to find an apology for an insult of which he was ignorant and certainly hadn't intended.
Jacques saved him from further embarrassment. Daunted by the unicorn, the dun backed away uncertainly, leaving room for unicorn and rider to pass.
A glint of humor returned to the woman's eyes, and a dimple appeared beside her mouth. "I see. No insult was intended, and, therefore, none taken."
Her face straightened and she nodded at the fork ahead. "If you were looking for a sign, there isn't one. Most people journeying to Tir take boats down the river from Kalmar. Only those who live in the jungle travel these paths with any regularity, and they don't need signs. But either of these will take you to the sea eventually. The one on the right is more direct, however. Don't camp until you reach the shore, and stay clear of the river. Good fortune attend you."
The woman turned her beast's head toward the left path with a touch of white reins. The unicorn, a pale gleam of grace in the gathering darkness, vanished silently into the brush with a flick of its tufted tail.
Jean stared after them, let out the breath he'd been holding and caught another, until his heartbeat returned to normal. It took him some moments to remember the need to move on, but at last he turned Jacques toward the right hand trail, though at that moment he could no longer recall why he'd wanted to go that way.
He was familiar with accounts of unicorn sightings, and all the usual, scholarly descriptions of them, which ranged from simply unlikely to unintentionally humorous. He had found them all equally ludicrous. He subscribed to the theory that unicorns, like many another heraldic creature, did not exist in the flesh, but as symbols only, visualizations of Man's dreams and spirit, strengths and weaknesses. At least, he had until now.
The unicorn, like the land itself, exemplified the dichotomy of the terrible and the marvelous, the magical and the mundane, flesh and spirit, the knowable and the mysterious.
I have seen a miracle. I have been blessed. He gazed up at the sky, past the screen of branches. Was God watching even now, seeing how he interpreted this sign? But the sky gave no answers, and he did not know how to think of what he had just seen.
Perhaps he had simply needed to be reminded of the existence of beauty.
"Merci," he said softly, and took a deep breath." Come, Jacques, let us follow the Lady's advice."
The path eventually led back to the river and ran along its banks. During the time he had ridden out of sight of it, the character of the river had changed. It now looked thick and torpid, flowing sluggishly on its way with only an occasional ripple betraying a hidden rock or other obstruction. He did not need the Lady's advice to avoid the water; he only hoped he would not be required to cross it. The opaque, greenish liquid had an unhealthy look to it that did not invite one to dabble in its coolness.
Though he was tired, and Jacques' head hung with weariness, he decided against stopping for a rest. He hoped to be free of the rank forest before full dark. Before long, he came across signs of human intrusion. Here a blaze marked a gnarled tree bole, there a hut crumbled to ruin under the weight of hungry vines and moss. A pile of moldering harness lay tangled and forgotten in the trail. Stumps, their tops raw with the marks of the axe, poked up from the surrounding greenery.
"We must be nearing a village of some kind," he told Jacques to raise his own spirits. "Surely no one would walk so often in these woods unless they lived nearby. It would be very good to sleep indoors tonight. Keep your ears alert, Jacques. We would not want to miss anything."
As if in response, Jacques' head came up suddenly, ears snapping forward. A moment later, Jean heard it: a sharp, shrill cry rising above the piping and distant howls that had become part of the background. It sounded like a cat.
Then it came again, and this time he could make out the broken rhythm of words.
"A child," he said aloud, realizing the truth as the words left his lips. Somewhere nearby, a child was screaming for help.
He kicked Jacques into a run, following the sound of the screams, while his eyes swept the surroundings, trying to catch any glimpse of movement or color that might tell him where to go.
The trail curved around, following a bend in the river, and suddenly he saw the small, crudely-made boat bobbing in the water, empty, and the white froth not far from it where small arms beat the water, trying to hold a little head above the muddy surface. Caught in the current, boat and child drifted downstream, farther and farther apart.
A huge log, caught in the current, swept toward the child; when it hit, the child would be smashed and drowned.
"Mon Dieu!" Jean raced the horse down the path, searching for a place where he could ride down to the bank. He could not swim, but the gelding could. It was the only chance the child had.
There — a great tree had toppled from the bank and lay half in the water, a partial bridge.
He wrenched the horse's head around and urged him toward the water, looking upstream to where the child bobbed toward them. It would be a close race.
Suddenly Jacques pitched forward, mired nearly to his belly in mud.
Jean kicked his feet out of the stirrups, stood in the saddle, jumped onto the tree and ran down it until he was over the water. He threw himself on his stomach, hooked his feet around two thick branches, and leaned down.
The child saw him and raised its arms, its small face twisted with fear. "Drachen," it screamed at the top of its lungs, "drachen!"
What? Movement behind the child grabbed Jean's attention; the huge log, much closer now, suddenly split down its length. It gaped wide, revealing a red maw lined with rows of jagged, yellow teeth like knives.
Horror stripped Jean of breath and movement. An image flashed in his mind, a drawing he had seen in a crusader's journal of a crocodile as long as the six-man boat it attacked.
This monster was bigger still. Time stretched to a standstill as the giant beast glided through the murky water toward the shrieking child, its mouth widening.
From the bank, Jacques screamed, fighting to tear himself free. The crocodile faltered on its course and swung toward the shore. A great, yellow eye as big as Jean's fist drifted over him, then focused its slit-pupiled stare on the horse thrashing in the mud.
"Helfen mich!"
Time abruptly returned to normal. Jean shook free of his paralysis as the child swept under the tree. He reached down and snatched a tiny, wet hand, but it slipped free.
He shoved the branch beside him down into the water. "Grab this! Quickly!" he shouted in German.
The child clutched the branch, holding as the current fought to pull it from that feeble anchor. Jean took a quick glance toward the monster. The crocodile was levering itself out of the water. It seemed to go on forever — surely living flesh could not achieve such proportions.
The fate of his horse sickened him, but he could do nothing with the child's life in his hands. He reached under the tree, grasped two sturdy branches, and swung down into the water. The foul stuff plunged down his nose and mouth.
Choking, he pulled his head up and found himself face to face with the waif. Huge blue eyes stared at him from a face pinched and white with terror.
"Don't worry, I'll save you," he said. He let go of one of his anchoring branches and held out a hand, hoping the remaining branch was as strong as it looked. "Here, child, take my hand.
Don't be afraid — come on."
The child reached for the outstretched hand without looking away from Jean's face. He caught the waif, pulling the shivering body into the circle of his arm. "Hold tight to me. Tight now; like a monkey. "It nodded, whimpering, and clung to him with surprising strength.
Jean grasped the branch with both hands and turned around, pulling himself up its length. He glanced at the bank again. The beast's upper body slid onto the bank, its unblinking gaze fixed on the helpless horse a few feet away. It did not seem to be in any particular hurry to reach its meal. Jacques, eyes white-rimmed with terror, screamed as he fought the grip of the mud. He sounded human.
Just as the crocodile lunged, Jacques wrenched free, plunging up the bank. Fear gave the horse wings; miraculously, he evaded the snapping jaws and scrambled to the trail. Despite his own danger, Jean gasped in relief as the dun galloped away.
But with the horse gone there was nothing to distract the crocodile. Jean shifted his grip on the branch, slipped, and seized it again before the river could sweep it from his grasp. He was racing time itself against the monster's return; he had no illusions about his fate if the creature caught them in the water.
He hauled himself and his burden up the branch until he could shift his grip to a knot on the tree. "Here," he gasped, "climb up my body and onto the tree. Do you understand? Do it quickly! Hurry!"
The child sobbed, but obeyed, swinging up Jean's body and scrambling over his head. Standing upright, it teetered precariously on his shoulders for a second, then pulled itself up onto the tree with small-animal sounds of strain.
"Good! Very good! Now make room for me, I'm coming up." Grunting with effort, he fought to drag himself from the water's grip and onto the tree.
"Schnell, bitte schnell!" screamed the child, its face fear-twisted, streaming tears.
He looked over his shoulder. The last of the crocodile's armor-plated back slipped under the surface of the water as it slid from the shore.
With arms suddenly imbued with the strength of ten men, Jean levered himself out of the water and stomach-first over the tree. He swung his legs up, but they tangled in the dead branches. Cursing, he kicked at the wood, snapping and breaking the branches like bones. One foot fell, dipping into the water. He wrenched it out and struggled to loop the leg over the tree again. Both legs slipped and plunged into the river.
"Please, please get up, hurry!" The child grabbed his arms and tugged with all its might. Jean felt his grip weaken.
"Don't," he gasped. "Not my arms. Let go!"
The child obediently shifted its grip to his shoulders, knotted tiny fists in the wet cloth of his tunic, and pulled. Surprisingly, the slight extra effort helped. Jean swung his legs up again, fighting to get them safely over the tree.
He tilted his head, searching for the crocodile. There — beside the tree a ridge of scales slid through the water. A great yellow eye broke the surface of the river and met his stare.
For a moment his vision narrowed down to a black-lined tunnel. A scream filled his throat and fought his jaw for release. He swallowed it down. Fainting would be a very foolish thing to do right now.
His legs found their grip and wrapped around the tree. With a gasp of relief, he reached for another branch to lever himself around.
The child released its hold on his shirt.
With a sense of disbelief, Jean felt himself slip over the side of the water-slick trunk. His flailing left hand slapped the surface of the river.
Yellow eyes filled his vision and swallowed his thoughts. His throat vibrated with his scream, but he heard nothing but the roaring of blood in his ears. He yanked himself upward in a desperate lunge as the reek of rotting flesh from the great jaws engulfed him.
The huge old tree saved him; the beast's jaws fouled on the branches. With a grunt, the crocodile released its grip and slipped back toward the water. A sudden wrench almost pulled Jean from his desperate perch, then water cascaded over him as the monster splashed down.
The child grasped his shirt and hauled upward with all its might. Jean flopped up onto the trunk. It was only when he sought to steady himself to rise that he saw the tattered stump that was all that remained of his left arm.
He screamed before the pain came, the blood fountaining out of the ragged flesh like shot from a bombard. Shock cold as death lanced through him.
Beside him, the child tugged relentlessly, and some part of Jean realized they were still in danger; the dragon would surely leap up again any second, and the dead tree would not shelter them forever.
He rose to his feet and staggered after the small figure along the trunk, squeezing the stump of his arm with his right hand to slow the bleeding. His heart pounded too loudly to hear anything pursuing them from the water.
Ahead of him, the child clambered up the trunk and over the tangled roots where the tree had been ripped from the bank. Beyond, it was mostly sandy soil and fairly dry. The child looked back for him, then jumped.
Reaching the same spot, he teetered and looked down; the sand looked miles away, as though he stood at the top of a mountain. To jump was impossible — the agony of landing filled his imagination and robbed him of courage.
But the child returned it to him. "Hurry!" it cried, pointing. "The dragon!"
Jean looked over his shoulder and saw the armored snout rise from the river. Water cascaded off the crocodile's hide as it hoisted itself onto the bank.
He jumped, landed, rolled, nearly blacking out from the pain. Blood splashed his face and sprayed the child bending over him. For all its own terror, it had stayed beside him every step of the way. Rare courage in one so young. He could hardly do less.
He staggered to his feet, grasping his stump, and let the child tug at him to get him up the bank and onto level ground. He used the child's thin rope belt as a tourniquet. Then he followed it down the trail in the direction he had been going when he had first heard the screams, such a long time ago.
Time stretched to infinity all around him. Images flashed in and out of his vision. The trees swayed as he looked at them. The child seemed to be trying to assure him that there was safety ahead. A village, though perhaps not the one the child came from.
It was all very hazy.
The child led him by the hand, urging him not to stop. Pleading with him not to die. Well, it was a reasonable request. He hoped he could comply, but at the moment it seemed in doubt.
At a bend in the trail, where some small fallen trees partially blocked it, stood Jacques, cropping off the tender leaves. He was mud-coated but unharmed, all his tack and gear in place. He nickered a greeting. Oh, it was good, good to see him. The iron smell of blood was everywhere, but Jacques did not seem to mind.
Time shifted in and out of focus again. Somehow Jean found himself on Jacques' back. His foundling sat before him, pointing them onward.
When next he became aware, there was the smell of cooking, and people had gathered around the horse, looking up at him and making a great fuss. The child begged them to help.
Jean was pulled from Jacques' back. A woman bent over him. She sucked in her breath when she saw his arm, shaking her head, and looked at him with pity. He hoped she could help him, but had forgotten how to ask. She touched his forehead and spoke softly, bidding him to sleep. It seemed a fine idea. So he did.
Tales from Opa: Three Tales of Tir na n'Og Page 17
