The Sword of Sighs

by Greg James

  “Do you think I should believe a doll that talks? How do I know you aren’t lying to me too? You could be as bad as she is.”

  "I could, but do I talk to you in the same way as Yagga? Do I command, starve, and beat you? And can I harm you now, such as I am?”

  “I don’t know but things are different here to home. You might hurt me.”

  “I might, but you need a friend, Sarah.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I listen when you speak and cry at night. I can help you if you help me. There are Paths out of the Wood Beneath once it is made well again, and the White Rider can take you with him along such a Path. I can ask the trees to guide him to us.”

  “I’ve seen him. He still seemed to be able to find his way out of here.”

  “Not even Yagga can stop the White Rider, but he will not stop or pause unless the Wood is made well again.”

  That’s what you think, thought Sarah, remembering the Rider favouring her with a glance. I wonder what it means that he paused for me, then?

  “... the Burning Ones ... carry the Fire ... Keepers of the Flame ...”

  “Sarah?”

  She snapped out of her reverie and looked at the doll. The Rider had paused for her, but would he stop? Did she know how to make him stop?

  She knew Yagga would not teach her, even if there were a way.

  “Okay, Gorra. I will help you. What you need me to do?”

  “Feed me. Just a little every day, not so much that she notices what you’re doing. It’ll take time, but feed me enough grain and oats and I will get us out of here.”

  Sarah smiled despite herself and kissed the doll on its sack-cloth cheek.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sarah did as she was told.

  Each day, when she was picking the bad grains and oats out, she kept a little aside, less than a thimbleful. And when Yagga slept, she took out the doll and fed it. It was only a very little every day, but days turned into weeks and then into months. Life became a haze, and Sarah became so thin and weak that she barely protested when Yagga struck her across the shoulders in the morning with the stick. But still she stole pinches of food to feed her friend. And Gorra thanked her and stayed hidden beneath Sarah’s mattress. He became no fatter, as she might have expected, and he said no more about what he was going to do to save her.

  Perhaps he lied, she thought. Perhaps he is like a rat, like vermin feeding on what I steal for him. Spirit of the Wood? That little doll? I’m so stupid.

  Then, one morning, Yagga awoke her with a vicious beating. Sarah threw her arms up to defend herself against the blows raining down. She cried out and shouted. Eventually, Yagga relented and smiled at her. “Well done, dear. You did well. Stealing food from me for this long without my noticing.”

  Sarah wanted to speak up, to protest, but her mouth was too dry and her tongue too weak to ask how Yagga knew.

  “Now, child, my Familiars will see to you. I had them go through the last batch of grain, you see. Now, I could always do with another pair of hands when I am out foraging, and yours seem to be light-fingered enough to be just what I need.”

  Sarah jumped, making Yagga laugh, as three pairs of disembodied hands appeared out of the thin air, waggling their fingers and thumbs, groping and floating towards her. Yagga looked at Sarah, amused. There was nothing Sarah could use as a weapon. Nothing she could hit them away with.

  “My Familiars are most adept with their fingers and with the ways of torture. Before they take your hands from you, I think you shall entertain me with some screams.”

  “Yaaa ...Gaaa ...”

  The old witch froze as the syllables of her name boomed out in the hut. Sarah felt the mattress writhing beneath her. She scrambled off it as the ground began to shake. Yagga’s floating hands drifted away, retreating towards their mistress, who snatched up her tattered skirts and backed towards the door.

  “There’s no escape for you ... not that way...”

  The wood of the door erupted, running over with moss, mulch, and vines that bound it shut. It was Yagga’s turn to cry out as she pounded her gnarled fists against the door. “No, no, no, no. Let me out of here!”

  Sarah’s mattress was thrown aside, and the doll was on its feet. For a moment, it stood staring across the room at the witch. Then its fabric split and tore. Roots, vines, branches and leaves came surging out, spinning around and around, weaving together, taking shape and form until he stood there.

  “Gorra ... oh no…” Yagga cried.

  The lean man-creature with a visible skeleton of branches and twigs, covered with a skin of shimmering moss, had two bronze-bright acorns for eyes. Rustling and creaking, he began to move towards Yagga. “You bound me ... Yagga ... in that doll...”

  “I know. I know. I did, I did, and I’m sorry, so sorry, Gorra.”

  “That is not enough. You bound this child to your service ... starved and exhausted her ... as you have starved and exhausted the Wood Beneath the Worlds. That is not ... how it is meant to be ... down here.”

  “And I repent. I repent. I do. I will never do it again. Never ever ever. Please leave me be. Take her with you. Send her back to her World as she wanted. I don’t want her. Beastly horrible human, stinking up the place. My hands, my Familiars, will do my cooking, cleaning, sweeping, and picking now. I swear, I swear, O Gorra.”

  “Too little ... too late ... O Yagga.”

  With those words, he raised his hands and began a chant that, to Sarah’s ears, sounded like the creaks, groans, whistles and moans of a dark, dark forest after midnight. Yagga threw up her arms, just as Sarah had to ward off the old woman’s walking stick, and opened her mouth to let out a scream.

  But no scream came.

  Instead, a torrent of crumpled autumn leaves fell from her mouth. Yagga’s eyes grew wide, wider, and still wider as a dull texture like bark spread across her face. She tried to lower her hands but could not; they were stiff and shook as if disturbed by a harsh breeze. Her fingers were lengthening, sprouting branches. Sarah looked back to her face and saw how the eyes, nose, ears and mouth had become holes sunk deep into what appeared to be the bark of a hollow, dead tree. The moss and mulch that clung to its limbs had once been Yagga’s clothing. Gorra lowered his arms. His strange chanting stopped, and there was nothing left to hear but a slight sigh coming from the hollow tree that had been Yagga.

  “Is she ... dead?”

  “No. She lives as I ... lived in that doll. Our spirits remain whole, though our bodies and forms may change. I am the growth to ... her decay. The change ... to her rot... both are needed in the Wood ... and the Worlds above. She has bound me before ... but for far too long this time. I fear ... her rot has spread too far ... and too deep into the Thirteen Worlds...”

  “Can’t you do anything?”

  “I can, but it will take ... time. And what is already dead cannot grow back again ... but I will do what I must to make things grow once more...”

  He turned his acorn eyes on her appraisingly. His eyebrows of knitted yellow grass rose and fell, and was that a smile curving the worn whorls that made up his lips? Sarah could not tell.

  “Come, Sarah. I promised you the White Rider ... and he comes by here soon ...”

  Sarah followed Gorra out of the hut, pulling away from the hollow tree. It smelled bad. She could still see Yagga's face etched into the tree’s bark, and she was sure there were spiders inside it, scuttling about in the shadows.

  Outside, the Wood seemed unchanged but the air did not seem so dank and heavy, and there was a gathering scent of fresh, dew-tipped grass. There was less mould on the tree trunks, and the bark seemed to glisten in rich shades of brown, ochre, and amber. She could not name the trees. She had seen nothing like them at home, with their great spreading roots that were as knotty and tangled as their gargantuan limbs and branches, which reached up towards a sky she could not see.

  “Here he comes now ... the Burning One ...” Gorra said.

  It was as it
had been before—a light shining in the distance, growing fiercer, coming closer, closer.

  “Sarah ... I have something for you. If something happens to you ... in the Worlds ... you may call for me ... if you have the need ... with these words: Thou foot treads soft amidst thy darkening trees, O hear my call whisper on this twilight breeze.”

  Sarah could hear the horse’s hooves beating through the undergrowth, and she squinted as the light resolved into that armoured figure of streaming fire. The trees seemed to melt away as the White Rider burst out from amongst them. He was streaming sunshine, and his steed seemed to breathe and pound out flames.

  “But why would I need to call on you, Gorra? I’m going home, right?”

  “The White Rider’s Path is your own ... Sarah. You know that as ... well as I.”

  “No! I want to go home! I want to see Mom, Kiley, and Malarkey!”

  A hand swept around her waist. She could see the flames fleeing along it, but could not feel them. There was no heat from the fire; as before, it did not burn her. She kicked out as she was lifted off the ground. The Rider had stopped only for a moment, as Gorra said he would.

  “Gorra! You lied to me! You said you were my friend.”

  “I did, Sarah ... and I am. But the Worlds come first ... and I do what I must … for them. Remember me not with hatred ... O Flame...”

  “No!”

  With those words, and a wordless cry in her throat at being lied to and betrayed, Sarah was carried away by the White Rider. She watched Gorra disappear into the darkness cast by the trees. She struggled against the Rider’s strong, sure grip to no avail until tiredness welled up within her. Sarah’s eyelids drooped and her eyes flickered as they rode on, although she was not sure whether it was her eyes, or just dreams, that caused the flickering.

  She saw great cities of emerald and amethyst; rolling deserts that echoed with scintillating song; skies burning with impossible shades of colour; people made of shining smoke and vapour; and bottomless seas, underneath which slumbered god-like beings of darkness and wonder that were lost deep in their own dreaming.

  And Mom and Kiley, their faces drawn and sad. They were searching for her. And Dad, too. He was there. Somewhere.

  Then, after a long time that took no time at all, the flickering came to an end and the White Rider set her down on her feet. Grass prickled her soles and toes and she saw that she was at the edge of a wood, one of the many that formed gateways to the Wood Beneath the Worlds. She looked back, opening her mouth to say something; she didn’t know what. But the White Rider was already gone. She closed her eyes and listened to the hooves retreating and heard the words of Gorra come again.

  Thou foot treads soft amidst thy darkening trees, O hear my call whisper on this twilight breeze…

  Then Sarah took slow, unsure steps ahead. Was this home, as she had hoped? Or somewhere else? She didn’t know, but Gorra knew, and he had asked her not to hate him.

  Somewhere else then.

  “I wonder where I am?”

  She walked out into a green valley where the sky was a clear, bright blue, and a crisp spring wind was blowing. The sun was low on the eastern horizon.

  Early morning in a new world, she thought.

  Sarah walked out into the valley of Norn on the Seventh World, which she would come to know as Seythe.

  ~~~

  Chapter Five

  Old men often speak of infinity and eternity, even though they know nothing at all of these things. Infinity can be found in a few seconds, and eternity in an hour. And when one is locked away from light, love, and laughter for even a short time, one knows time only as a thing of weight and pain. Days are as desolation, and nights pass as haunted hells.

  Jedda had been sealed away for an entire year of her short life. She was barely past her eighteenth winter. In this time, she had known the lashes of the inquisitor’s tongue, and when his words failed, they had put her to the rack. She knew, as well as any citizen of the Three Kingdoms, that men were put to torture but women were not. Such an act was as deep and dark a blasphemy as those she was accused of being party to. It was winter outside the dungeon walls. She could feel it in the coolness of the stone and in her aching bones. Months ago they had tried to tear confession from her, but still the pain lingered on. Some days, when it was bad, she limped and hobbled, as she remembered her grey-skinned mother doing before she had passed away.

  Jedda’s small cell was illuminated only by a single night lantern set in an aperture high in the far wall, too high for her to reach. She had tried to climb the walls of the cell, but her fingers shook and her toes trembled too much for her to keep a sure purchase.

  Jedda rose in the mornings and dressed herself with the same slow, sullen air that had hung over her time in prison. Even with the privileges accorded to her as heir to the throne of Highmount, an atmosphere seemed to cling to the air she breathed, the food she ate, the water she drank, and even the books she was allowed to read. That atmosphere stole away flavour, nourishment, and simple joy. She knew that every moment she was alive was borrowed time that Ianna would see she paid for.

  The iron door to her cell clanked and clattered as the shutter over the opening at its base was raised. A tray was pushed in and the shutter closed once more. Jedda picked up the tray and took it to the table, where she picked at the bread, sliced peach, and dried strips of meat. The milk she sipped as she stared into space, seeing not the wall, nor the corridors and crypts beyond it, but the throne room of Highmount above, where her sickly sister, Venna, wheezed, coughed and spluttered her way through audiences and ceremonies. Ianna—an emerald-lipped shadow with a powdered face—would be at Venna’s side, holding the child’s frail hand, her lips parting only to bark orders at those before them. Rumours had come to Jedda, from the serving wenches, that when Ianna was displeased with Venna’s performance in court, she had the frail child carried to their shared bedchamber. There, Venna was laid facedown and her useless but still sensitive legs and bare behind were brutally switched. The serving wenches trembled when they told Jedda, knowing they were committing treason by saying such things to the traitor-child of the dead King Ferra.

  “But it’s not right, your Highness,” they said. “Venna sits on the throne, not Ianna. Ianna shouldn’t dare raise a hand to her, and it’s worse with her being so poorly. Some say she won’t live out the year, what with the way Ianna treats her and things the way they are in the Grasslands these days. Thieves and bandits’ll be at the city gates come this Wintertide.”

  Jedda stopped them there each time. “Venna will live to see out the year or Ianna’s head will roll in the city gutters as a plaything for penniless snipes. I will see to it.”

  The wenches would always stop and stare at her as if she were mad when she said such things. Sealed away, deep in the palace dungeons with two of the Queen’s Guard at the door day and night, how on earth did she think she could escape?

  “I’ll find a way,” she told them, and often told herself when she was alone at night and near to tears. “I’ll find a way. Venna, be strong. I’ll find a way.”

  Even if I have to call upon the Fallen One Himself, she thought.

  ~~~

  Chapter Six

  Three years went by.

  Sarah was sixteen and still dreaming, and home felt more and more like a dream every day. She lived on the hill atop the crest of the Norn Valley with an old man who was like a grandfather to her. He had found her wandering when she had come out of the woods. He said she was as old as his granddaughter might have been. Sarah never asked why he said ‘might have been’, and he never said why himself, but he received no visitors from family in the three years she stayed with him in his house that overlooked the grassy slopes. Night winds gusted and blew below, at times making the little house feel as if it were a great citadel astride a tall, craggy mountain. This had always been his home, he said. His name was Woran Bean; his last name just like hers.

  “We are the same,” he said. <
br />
  The first year was the hardest; she wandered, she walked for miles across the hills and valleys, through the woods and forests, searching for some sign, some way home. She cried at night, as she had done in Yagga’s hut, though she was warm, slept on a good bed, and was well fed by Woran. Still, she ached for home, yearned for her family and for little Malarkey, who licked her face and fingers as his way of saying hello and good morning. But she found nothing to show her the Path back to Okeechobee.

  If the White Rider and Gorra had ever come to this World again, she never saw them.

  Or, as she thought, they kept well away from her.

  O Flame, that’s what he called me, why?

  Sometimes, she shouted the question to the trees, hoping to stir him from the Wood Beneath the Worlds. But the only answer was a sighing breeze.

  And after three years, she no longer cried at night or ran away from Woran. The old man was growing brittle in his advanced years, and he needed her help. The Beans were the shepherds of the hill. Their nearest neighbours were the Taproots and the Saltwines. The Taproots were farmers of the slopes. The Saltwines were brewers of ale, whose famous Hillshine liquor was sold to the taverns and way-houses thereabouts. The three families had been neighbours in the valley for generations—so many that none could trace a time in their family trees when their children had not known and played with each other from their earliest days. Some even married, so the bloodlines of Bean, Taproot and Saltwine crissed and crossed, back and forth, until there was a web of loyalty and trust binding them together.

  Or so it had been, until Woran and Joliah Bean, his only son, went to war. They rode away together, but Woran Bean rode home alone. His lined face was made even more haggard by the sights of war and the loss of his son. Thus, the Bean family became one lonesome old man and his goats. The Taproots and Saltwines grew distant from him, their relationship strained. The girls who had once vied for the hand of Joliah Bean grew older and more matronly. Spinsters of the valley had been a rare enough thing when the blood of the three families had been thick, strong, and vital. Now that it was growing thin, and the children fewer, those who lived through the lengthening winters that swept down from the Northway Mountains grew bitter. Solitude and shadows pressed in upon their hearts and souls.