The Pale Maraud

by Andrew McEwan

  As the sun came level with his brow, shaping concentric circles before his eyes, and the horizon appeared as illusive as it had that morning, he felt the magic begin to waver, the horse's breath no longer visible, its flanks heaving, warm under his thighs. The world turned more brown than green, shading to gold, amber and red, orange tufts of grasses and vermilion sands replacing stunted bushes and crazily angled trees, the land flattening, the mountains dwindling to his rear - their cloak of dense fog beginning to unwind. The wool was spun backwards, gathered in, trailing like smoke from a torch. The wind, salt-laden, was unravelling.

  He was aware of the white mist-flesh weakening, its labour drawing to a close.

  Twilight promised dissolution.

  A last rise presented Jerian with a glimpse of the sea, the sun choosing that moment to settle upon it, basking in glorious munificence, its fiery head meeting the spangled pillow beyond an island crowned with windows, smothered with steam, a silver wave shot through with yellow and purple. A host of vying colours rebounded upwards from the cliffs that locked the beach, washing Jerian from his vaporous mount and laying him flat, prey to beasts of every order, the night, the world, all creation passing over his supine form, the tail of it, the present time, disappearing to be at the van of a new day in the east as the silver quietness settled in behind, its source and guardian the bloated, smiling moon.

  Steel reflected in the brass studs of his corslet. Jerian stood and walked to the cliff edge, peered at the fortress, the island he must reach and conquer.

  Languid on the black water was a sail.

  And behind him? Turning, he filled his eyes with emptiness, as the world had vanished, the mountain ranges sunk into the earth and the sky curved to shroud that vacancy, permeating his senses like the bars of a cage, a cage he shared with another, the haunter of his waking hours and scatterer of his dreams. Facing that monster, wooden arm twitching, he did not see the moon's smile change.

  Chapter Seven - Shadow And The Walker

  The darkness shone, populating the night world with smooth curves and jagged points, rock formations and reflective vegetation.

  Jerian sank to his knees and cupped his hands beneath the hidden surface of a shrouded pool of fresh water.

  Drinking, he listened.

  The stars no longer cared what he did. They were higher now, distant memories. No clouds interfered with their vision; but what they saw lay beyond this mute outcast, resided below the ocean. As every night, they mourned their brother.

  No sound reached Jerian.

  Splashing fingers broke the silence. The noise of his washing was answered by an incredible, agonised roar. Jerian froze, expecting the beast to seize him - but no, the roar diminished, the terrible pain it carried hanging all round him, poised in the air like a blade, one whose arc ran incomplete as he crouched defencelessly, awaiting its bite, suspended in space and time, the moment his life, his life prolonged by something he had neither the will to fight nor the energy to flee, the predator of many spores that stalked him.

  Would the beast prey on another?

  It could not, thought Jerian; it was his own monster, his mistaken invention...

  Rising, he moved slowly towards the edge, careful not to get too close, and stared at the one lit window that marked the fortress. When the sun had set there had seemed hundreds, glass portals blazing, the island a pillar of lights at the world's end. He let his eyes fall to the beach, rocks there glinting in the gentle swell.

  There was no sign of the sail.

  The roar again. Jerian spun to face it. Quickly he shifted position, hunched low as he ran from the precipice, his right hand clenched in an oaken fist. He could feel every ripe muscle of that arm bunch powerfully, his shoulder hard against the brass-pinned corslet. Using his left hand he massaged its length, the wood yielding and warm under his fingers, skin tight against his palm, the veins therein pronounced ridges. His tongue flicked, tasting the air.

  Nothing.

  *

  Shadows pressed him. His feet naked in the heavy sand at the water's edge, the cliff overhanging him appeared composed of an army of stone shields, flaking lances behind which stood the incised faces and buckled limbs of men and horses, packed bodies that peered defiantly out to sea. A forgotten bulwark against an aggressor whose encrusted hordes had passed elsewhere, the result of their stout defence, a static victory on a bloodless beach. Jerian was taken by their black stares. The tide threatened. There would be no rest on this front. The stone army remained vigilant, patient, eyes across the tempestuous ocean, their numbers reduced, crumbling - but there were always others to take those places, jostling from behind like eager salmon.

  As dawn broke, swallowing the sky from the east, the army began to move, its shadows deepen, metal glint, ranks assemble from half-slumber, preparing for the assault all were convinced the waves would bring.

  Jerian lifted his feet from the swirling tidal water. The sea was their sole enemy. Perhaps unknown to them, they fought a battle they could not win. A multitude of hopeless eyes set deep in stony faces, arrowheads chinking, swords fingered, the forgotten soldiers gazed down at Jerian, he who walked like a commander before them, a leader who had crossed this continent from ocean to ocean. Leaning on their spears they watched him. In their anticipation they viewed him as the embodiment of a cause expressed in every bone of their situation, rank upon rank of men, ageless and waiting, fractured and tumbling to sand.

  Meekly, he turned his back on them. He felt neither pity nor contempt, he simply had no wish to heed their campaign. They grew increasingly animate. Jerian ignored them. He spied his sail and chased it, borne in on the tide a small boat whose slats were green with seaweed as it nudged ashore between cliff-fallen horses.

  He climbed on board without hesitation and pushed clear of the strand. The wind barely disturbed the sail. Jerian fumbled with the oars, eventually positioning them correctly in the rowlocks. He had observed such craft on a river, fishermen casting fine nets from their bobbing sides, and understood their method. In practice though he slipped clumsily, the boat spinning as the dour soldiers looked on, silently massing, fathers and sons, the salt spray eating their shoes.

  Jerian had located a crude path during the night, a stairway composed of helmets. The shadows had not inhibited him; had, in fact, bent their many necks to his feet, the quicker he might reach the corpse-strewn apron where their dead were unchained by the sea.

  The day was full now, the sun concealed behind that host, the sky a whitened blue. Struggling with the boat, Jerian cast glances instead of nets, fishing for currents, sunken rocks in the emerald swell, the island elusive, apparently shifting with the light, seeming to float. The ocean's surface gave no hint of its depth, and while he could swim, he thought it unwise to range his skills against the cunning water. He pulled harder on the oars, steering as best he could, striving to narrow the distance between himself and the fortress. Clouds advanced from the north, harried by gusts that rocked the boat and speckled his cheek with icy rain. Disregarding the portent, he rowed. Waves raised him almost to cliff height, the soldiers bedecked in gulls. His right arm, distant kin to the vessel, worked to turn his course, direct the boat, its sail stretched as it caught the wind and lurched, tipping Jerian forwards. He sensed the wakened empathy of the boards, oak fingers next gripping the rudder his flesh had failed to put a use to previously, riding the elements...

  A reef guarded the island. The water was quieter on its southern quarter, sheltered from the rain that blurred the ocean and frosted the army of the shore. He jumped from the boat, fearing he would be swept out to sea. A gust threw him. He stumbled, and the craft was lost. Jerian watched it drift back towards the mainland, the current tossing it, conducting the weed-coloured vessel to a rendezvous with the stone horses that lay crumbling on the beach.

  The day had turned the shade of granite now, and he sought purchase on the slick foundations of the cloud-topped edifice, cautiously circling its g
irth as he looked for an entrance, some means of gaining access. Any doubts he had were put from his mind. Concentrating on the task, the assassin, pelted by rain and seawater, advanced up the pile whenever opportunity afforded progress, clinging desperately to the near vertical stone, hoping his life would not be falsely spent on the rocks below. Hands raw, he clung on, leaning out in order to see higher. Above him, the stone dressed at its base, a window made an arch, a depression in the increasingly uniform wall. Jerian stretched his right arm, that newly created, the palm of his left flat to the stone. Every tendon in his body ached. He teetered painfully, muscles protesting, legs strained, feet bleeding as fingers brushed the ledge. The weather steadily worsened, peeling him loose, undermining his grip. Lowering the arm he manoeuvred to one side, found a hold that enabled him to slide his body higher; only now the window was further out of reach. Although its glass was visible, tantalising, he risked a fall greater than that from the boat should he miss this jump.

  The sun broke through the clouds then, blinding him. And a howling, the storm's death, tore at his ears.

  The casement rattled invitingly. There was a moment when everything, sun, wind, ocean, was still. Jerian filled his lungs, tensed involuntarily, released his grip, and lunged, oak hand fastening while flesh slipped, the scream his own as the wood violently jarred his merged shoulder, wrenched it loose. His face scrapped the wall as he dangled. He swung briefly, then hauled himself up.

  Standing amongst the litter of broken glass, Jerian let his breaths come in ragged bursts. Exhausted, he wanted to rest, but could not risk sleep in this place. He had his task to perform. The wood carver influenced his actions through the oaken limb. Even strained and torn, the polished muscles made a fist of his hand, the blood squeezed between chiselled fingers, knuckles darkened with what he recognised as a falsehood: the red drops a lie.

  The corslet had ripped, spitting brass pins to the smooth flags. The room was square, six paces wide. The heavy door was unbolted and he moved straight away into a dim passage, feet making wet prints that quickly dried, creating flimsy ghosts in the crisp air. A draught stroked his calves. Stray noises echoed from wall to wall, diminishing as he walked the bare stretches, winding deeper into the fortress past other doors that looked not to have moved in years, rust eating their hinges, boards rotting and nails corroded. None of these boasted locks. Turning at random, Jerian was puzzled by the vague constancy of the yellow light. He pressed his face to gratings and searched the spaces beyond for windows, but found none. He retraced his steps at one point, yet failed to find his way back to that first corridor. He could not believe Odil would aid his mission so far only to allow him to be casually trapped. One door here must open onto a stair. Whether that stair wound down or up was of little consequence. Jerian battered the nearest with leathered shoulder, the shock hurting his teeth. The portal, for all its obvious age and decay, proved immovable. He tried a second, a third, angry and desperate as his head spun and his body objected. But he succeeded only in wasting his strength. No door opened more than a finger's breadth, those that gave spilling choking dust as he shifted their ponderous lintels. Should he manage to force one, the wall might topple and crush him.

  What choice did he have? Sweating profusely, he forced a likely door inwards. The darkness on its far side spewed fetid odours, which his jaded mind judged favourably. A good sign. A promising difference. The door budged minutely, coaxing a grotesque smile from his contorted features. Saliva ran out of his mouth, but the gap remained insufficient. He stood back. As with the window, he realised, there was one chance, a single valid attempt at access, and to take it, to gain, meant risking all. He must throw his whole body at the door, break it down, unseat the stones above it, and in doing so gamble, hazard failure. If his effort was not great enough, if he lacked the will, then he would not make progress. It was a test, he saw. The woman, Odil's enemy and the sun's mistress, had contrived this defence. Perhaps if he walked along every passage he would discover any number of corpses, the fractured spines of earlier puppets, those that had balked and become stranded, not able to find their way out again.

  Jerian had no wish to add to that failure. He stared hard at the door he had chosen, measured its parts, its steel, the solidity of its frame. There was a delight in the challenge. The obstacle was possessed of a grim perversity.

  And what of the woman who had planed it? Jerian charged the braced timbers, seeking her.

  Chapter Eight - The Fey Woman Of Orange

  The sands in her glass trickled, a bright stream of moments, tiny granules whose precious hearts beat the rhythm of the hours, structuring the day and wheeling the sun and moon on an axis that itself turned in accordance with the prevalent season. She was alone but for her instruments. Clocks and compasses and telescopes occupied the garret. Gold workings oiled the gloom. She often wept until nightfall.

  Her lover rode the heavens, came each morning to quench his lust in the ocean.

  Her name was Ista. Aware of the intruder, the man even now walking her orange-painted halls, a glinting madness, a barely suppressed fury in his eyes, she sat with her neck bared in a window, facing west. The window was tall and wide, casements open to the blue horizon. Ista's orange dress spilled at her feet, a match for the orange carpet. Orange tapestries hung on the walls, filling the room with fire - still the gloom dominated.

  A broad ladder angled to a hatchway in the ceiling. On the flat roof stood a golden sundial, black numerals of inlaid jet dividing its fringe.

  The day represented a glut of time. The sands could not move quickly enough. When at last the sun touched the sea Ista felt she would live the instant forever, the blood stopped in her veins. But it was not to be. Her existence at the world's end was most vulnerable as long as the sun remained in the east, hidden from her. She lived in a fugue, soul adrift above the island, supported by her dreams.

  It had not always been such...

  Once the sun had circled the earth, brash and new. It cared little for those who would make of its image a tool for gain, either the trees whose fruits and foliage stored its energy or the men who later released that force, spawning flame. The sun was tireless, yet sleepy. Summers divided, became autumn and spring as the youth it had long enjoyed matured towards middle-age. It grew lazy, and winter came. Beneath the earth the sun was deaf to cries. It languished, subdued, until the cold seeped down through the rocks and threatened to snuff it entirely. Afraid, the sun rose, weakened by its long rest, impaired through idleness. It found a world sickened, hateful, ravaged by war, its people starved, itself enervated. The sun took its rightful place in the sky and there began a healing process; but it lacked the vigour of old and could not maintain its original cycle.

  And so patterns were laid. The summer was no longer predominant, and winter, having established a presence on land, now had its place on the calendar. In despair the sun waned further, sliding from its central arc, and the snows fell heaviest on the mountains. The moon, which shone on the dead as the sun on the living, seeing this, asked of its cousin the reason. The sun answered that it saw no purpose in its daily regeneration if it served only to perpetuate the business of dying. Would the moon not be pleased to have the world under its silver aegis? Tempted, the moon gave this thought. However, a balance was necessary; it argued, that only that way could it guarantee its own survival, for death followed life as surely as night followed day, and if life were to cease then ultimately stagnation would triumph and the very stuff of its being would disintegrate. Moreover, that life in all its complexity was the sun's true purpose. Even diminished it had a duty to those sustained by it. And the sun, chagrined, agreed. But sadness clung to it and it drew no pleasure from its journey. The heart was gone from the sun. Blinded by its own light it failed to recognise the offers made it. The moon intervened a second time, telling of how the dead had become a part of itself, its feet and hands upon the surface. Could not the sun do likewise? Did it not sense the worth of its power? Surely it was en
titled to some role, a position amongst men relative to its value? But such direct involvement with the lives it made possible did not interest the sun. They were too many. Unlike the moon, it saw no profit in being intrusive. Filled with remorse, the sun wished to mellow and die. But it could not. Life was bound to it after all. Life treasured it, shaped its image. All that was born owed its birth to the sun. Its breath and growth derived from just one source. And life, comprehending this, reciprocated in turn, giving up its past for fuel...

  Or so Ista read from the tapestries. Would the sun mourn her passing? She touched her face, unsure.

  *

  Making little of his bruises, the wounds clogged with debris, etched in blood, Jerian proceeded with a single-mindedness in keeping with his object and the wood carver's design. The orange spaces were peripheral to his vision. He only saw the way forwards, the next turn, stair or door. He was unaware of how much time passed, lost in this web of rooms. He ascended the fortress, its myriad windows concealed. The yellow light deepened to gold, a rich emission of picture frames and curious ornaments, with neither the images nor the forms making any lasting impression. Flames danced in a hearth, crackling about logs that must have been collected on the mainland. Before the fire rested a golden bath, the water it contained steaming. From a door to his right a woman emerged, her dress vivid, her eyes cool, an embroidered cloth over one arm.

  Jerian stared. She walked timidly to the centre of the room and held out her hand.

  Grimly, Ista welcomed death. Still, she thought, death should be clean.

  He stood next to her, her features plain, her copper hair combed straight, curling on her shoulders. Ista dropped the decorative towel and began tugging at the soiled material knotted round his waist and loins, tearing it as he remained passive, doing nothing to help or hinder, offering no threat save by his presence in her sea-locked abode. Seeing his arm confirmed her suspicions: he was Odil's. Whatever his name, his misshapen face displayed alarm when next she removed the corslet, slipping it from his back to reveal an ugly scar, while he prodded his flesh and made no sound. His disfigurement unsettled her. His skin was coarse, thick with dirt. She sat him in the golden bath, and taking a dish of scented liquid from the mantle, used it and her fingers to work the filth and pain from his scalp and his soles.