by James Comins
The Archer climbed down the terrace steps. Loora and Yrn followed, carrying the glowing Podling on the sheet of canvas. The gathered ur-Mystics seemed to hardly notice their approach. Dangerous, Loora thought. And: remember Aughra's words.
"Dreamers," said a dark voice. "All of fallen heart. Approach."
The speaker wore red robes. His hair draped black around his long neck. His voice was haunted.
"The road to ur-Kalivath is a secret way. It is kept from childish eyes. None have spoken of your coming," said the red-robed Mystic.
Loora cleared her throat. Somehow she worried that Yrn might try to speak first, or speak for her. But the Archer's words gave her confidence that she was, at some level, capable of being a diplomat. A thread of her soul. She and Yrn placed the sleeping Podling on the ground before the cluster of Mystics.
"A weakness has risen from the intelligent hearts of Thra," she recited. "It burned away some of Thra's souls and has threatened to spread. Will you heal the land?"
Don't mention me, Aughra had told her. And don't call it a disease.
"Thra is crystal and song," said the red-robed Mystic. "Its voice sings ever in our ears. A weak song we hear, fainter than yesterday, and tomorrow it will be fainter still. We conceive of weak crystals as well. It is our hope that the weakness comes from the veins of crystal that flow thither in five directions from their heart in Skarith. A fault in the old lunicites? Or perhaps the Skeksis have dug a mine and torn the crystals to sundering? Such a break could well disrupt the voice of the land. We will test the veins. We have no further need of you. Leave now. Leave this songweak one here. We will renew him."
That was all. That was the mission. The quest. She had delivered the message. And now she should leave.
And yet . . .
"Mystics," said Yrn, bowing. "We have shared the message we were given. But I have a question, and I'd like to ask it before we follow the very long road back."
Three other ur-Mystics exchanged glances. The Archer perched on the ledge behind Loora and Yrn. The red-robed Mystic sniffed.
"The question you want to ask is not for me to answer, sick one, for I speak not on behalf of dreams. It is urGoh the Weaver you must visit. I, Speaker, grant you permission to entreat him. Leave here and go there."
And the Archer leapt down and led them across the central basin of ur-Kalivath and up into the caves.
* * *
"Hide it, quickly! They've requested your presence at the throne room."
SkekTek's weak arms let the huge wheel and its vast motor mechanism slip onto the floor, clunk. A balancing system--wheels, perhaps? Later. First, to find out what the babbling king needed of him. He ordered Rian to close the Dark Crystal's wide door and put the bladewheel away discreetly.
He was close now. So close. First to resolve the Emperor's foolish needs (and was it not a mere toll ago that he had been falsely accused and then dismissed in the Great Hall?) and then to punish the Slavemaster and then on to more important things. Replace all the fixtures in the castle with bonestone, channel the Dark Crystal's energy into . . . what? Shattercite for lights, then carnicite for heat, and then to refine this simple motor into far more complex systems. And the slaves, yes . . . the lenses . . . it might be time to learn to work glass and take that monopoly away from skekLach . . . patience, perhaps the merchant would return . . .
The sight of outlandish carvings at bug-level just outside the door did not go unnoticed. Bad things were coming to that bug.
A broad astonishment--the entire castle was assembling in the Great Hall. Skeksis whom he hadn't seen in almost a trine were drifting in. SkekLach, still wearing fogged smelting glasses. The Ornamentalist, wearing blue and purple robes inlaid with dried tamtail eyesockets. The Poisonmaster, smelling of sweet herbal draughts and smiling thinly.
Where was . . . ?
"Where is the Hunter?" roared the Emperor as sixteen cloaked forms collected like a clot before the throne.
"Your immeasurability, he has not been seen," the Chamberlain whimpered.
"I ORDERED EVERYONE TO--"
"SkekSo," said--ahhhh. That would explain the summons. The wise woman had returned. It would perhaps be worth milking her for information regarding larantine sap--or no, she may become suspicious, defensive. The Hunter would retrieve what was needed, ally of the Chamberlain or not. "This assembly satisfies me, Emperor. Hmp! Very respectful. Good sign for Skeksis. Now, I'll speak! Just try to stop me." The woman paused and was not interrupted. "Hmp. I speak of Skarith. Land of the Castle. Home of the Skeksis. Hmp! Your home. All of you indoors. Watching and waiting. But right outside? The land is split. One side too wet? One side too dry! Plants are dying. Storm blocks out the sun. Mud pours over into Lost Vale. Isn't this your kingdom, skekSo?"
"Mine!" the Emperor roared. Sad fool, skekTek could tell that something clever was happening beneath the woman's words. She would arrange for the Emperor to resolve these issues; she had ways. SkekTek might not be an expert on palace drama, but he knew intelligence when he saw it.
"Then tend it!" the woman exclaimed. "Skarith needs work. Suns not shining down through the storm. Skeksis have ways to bring the suns back. Very clever, Skeksis. Know many powerful secrets. Use them! Break through the clouds. Let the suns shine on Skarith. Let plants grow! Or is it too difficult?"
"SkekTek!" the Emperor boomed. "You failed me once today. Break through the Perpetual Storm for the Mother of Thra. SkekNa! Invite Podlings and Gelflings to grow plants of the Mother's choosing. Aughra, is this to your liking?"
"Indeed. Appropriate!"
"Then EVERYBODY BACK TO--"
"Not so fast!" the wise woman snapped. "Rare thing for Skeksis to gather away from their private rooms. Maybe a very good thing. Aughra has questions. Many, many questions. Everyone get comfortable. I expect answers!"
From his place near the back of the assembly, skekTek said, "With your permission, I will begin work on a way to diminish the Perpetual Storm."
"You first!" barked the woman. "Build machines. All you care about. Why not build machines that plant seeds, or fly people through the air, or bring clean water from garden to garden?"
A drip of suspicion fell from skekTek's dense mind. Suspicion. Something in her words. It was not, he thought, the water or the seed that drew his attention. It was--
"What need have I to fly through the air?" he murmured. "What need have the Skeksis to imitate a simple flapbird? Are we not visibly superior in intellect to mere animals? And where, woman, would you like us to fly?"
"Skeksis don't need to fly!" Aughra said. "Gelfling needs to fly! Gelfling travel is limited. But they are very good at finding things Skeksis need. Trade them technology for what you need. Hmp! Economics."
"I have what I need," said skekTek.
"Yes," exclaimed the Emperor, "we have what we need! Why give away our secrets for things we can get already?"
The wise woman's two open eyes flashed. She was preparing to unleash her hidden purpose, skekTek thought.
"Ah, but great majesty, Skeksis lack in one important area."
"Yes?"
"Gardening!" The wise woman bounced once. "Let's say you want . . . larantine sap." Her moustaches flicked too knowingly at skekTek. "I need sap, someone says. Cut down all the larantine, you say! Hmp. Good idea, isn't it? Then all the larantines are cut down, and you take the sap, and there isn't enough! Now what? No more larantine. Never again. Plants all dead. Trees all dead. Then you could travel all over Thra and no more sap. What will you do?"
The Emperor met skekTek's gaze. "And what would the Mother of Nature suggest?"
"Don't cut them down. Harvest them. Hire Gelflings to collect the sap. Gelflings understand gardening. Plant more larantine here in Skarith! Take the sap with spigots instead of axes! Much more reliable."
"Aughra, oh Aughra, I've seen enough and we can go now. Oh, and Keirkat found this for you. She said it looks like that nose the Worshippers shot off--"
"UrNol, run!"
> * * *
"The pain is not so great. A wizard is made of heart, and inner strength endures."
In a cave-den filled with woolen fabric, surrounded by mountains of brown yarn and colored thread, the bruised body of an ur-Mystic reclined on a many-webbed hammock. Cloaks like rugs covered the long torso, but left raw red wounds exposed. A second ur-Mystic dabbed a white grease from a mortarboard onto the wounds.
"Who did this to him?" Loora asked at the entrance to the Weaver's den.
The Healer answered: "If the Skeksis desired to injure us, then more of us would be injured. The intent to harm is difficult to stem; only by kindness is kindness found. Thus, we imagine that these marks are an accident."
"But all those defenses--" said Yrn.
"Ah, defense," said the Healer, picking up more balm with a soft cloth and circling the sores. "A rare defense it is that can deflect a self-inflicted wound."
"Self-inflicted . . . ?" said Loora.
"Speculation, speculation. There are deeper threads beneath what you know how to see, dreamer, a hidden universe, and much remains to be uncovered. I know only my mind, not any other, and yet there are thoughts that arise to me unbidden. Who can say where they come from or who has delivered them to me? Little use is it to guess."
"Dreamer?" the supine Weaver groaned, attempting to sit up.
"Yes, urGoh, they are Gelfling. And they are here because . . . ?"
Yrn knelt on the plentiful spun blankets and took the hand of the Weaver. "They say there's a way for me to become whole," he said.
The Weaver's eyes opened. "I can hear the rattle of the torn cloth of your dream," he said. "And I see the death in you. A death not far from overwhelming you. Only a moment of weakness stands between you and your last journey to the stars. Yes, the cloth is torn. It is still tearing. No less than a relooming will recover your dead half, Gelfling." The Weaver sucked in a painful gasp of air and grimaced. "And you will need a place to root your dream where it will do the rest of us no harm."
"Put it in a Skeksi," said Loora.
The Healer smiled sadly and gestured with his mortarboard at the wounded torso of the Weaver. "Grave consequence," he said.
"Then where could you put such a crazy dream? Aughra put one in a tree--" and Loora clapped both hands to her mouth and felt like such an idiot. She'd been told not to mention--
The Weaver nodded solemnly. "That," he said, "sounds very much like Aughra's mind. And what if the tree is struck down? A dangerous consciousness now adrift. If you should find a being willing to accept death in life, or willing to become consumed by death, then it wouldn't be impossible to transfer this one's death-dream. But when that one dies, as any weak being would? Then the dream becomes free once more, and another victim would be claimed. One by one, this dream will consume the mindful beings of Thra until none remain."
"Is there nothing that could hold it forever?" Loora asked.
"Permit me time to consider, dreamer, for my thoughts dwell in my wounds today."
* * *
"Let me get you down from there."
The Skeksi had had a stronger grip than the guard, and it took the Gelfling the better part of a toll to peel away the six strips of metal. Lemny dropped to the ground, exhausted but alive.
"Lifesaver, you. Hope you're as lucky at rescuing your Mikethi."
Breath began to refill Lemny's filter-lungs, and blood no longer ran to his head. The dizziness was still extreme, but was diminishing. "Have you got a bit of a flashing in your eyes?" he mumbled. "Or is it my brain losing what little sense I've got left?"
"Wait, you saw that, too?" said Rian. "It's like I've been staring at a bright light for too long. I figured it was nothing."
"Funny."
They were at the door to the labs. The sculpted surface--Lemny couldn't resist--
"If you take a peek on your right as we exit this moral disaster area, you'll see just the merest glimpse of what I--"
But they were both bowled over by the bursting, too-rapid arrival of a whiskered woman with three eyes, followed by an enormous lumbering sparkling half-invisible form with a small fuzzy thing on its shoulder. Lemny sprang away, fearful of getting squooshed, and clung with his leg clusters to his stone etchings. Rian regained his feet and picked up Lemny, and a stampede of Skeksis bowled them both over a second time.
"Remove yourself from the Crystal!" the Chamberlain screeched. "Emperor, it's an invasion! The ur-Mystics are returning, with weapons! Look at this horrible device!"
That odd razorwheel that skekTek had spent all day building got held up and passed around between the skeks. Ugly brutes. Lemny noticed that skekTek did not take the time to claim ownership of the object.
"And Aughra's nose!" gibbered the Chamberlain, pointing at the Shovel o' Doom, lately installed on the whiskery face.
Oh. That's what it was. It was a nose.
"MOTHER OF THRA!" a skek roared. "HAVE YOU BETRAYED US? EXPLAIN YOURSELF."
"Nonsense," the whiskery woman snapped. "Put me down. Hmp! A lot of hullabaloo. I'll explain."
"MY EYES!" howled a Skeksi.
"If you don't want to go blind, then don't look at me," said a new, milder voice.
"Blindness and blades!" the Chamberlain wailed. "Weapons beyond our understanding! The overthrow of the Skeksis! Our doom has come upon us, a plot to destroy everything we have! Doomed! We're all doomed! Everybody RUN!"
The Chamberlain grabbed the arm of that horrible Slavemaster and shook him. This outburst was followed by an embarrassing, motionless silence. Ignorant lumps, all of them.
"I'll explain," said Aughra. "This is my friend, the, mm, Crystal Technician. Hmp! That's who he is. Here to examine the frequency of your crystal. You DO have the Great Crystal here, don't you?"
"Oh, it's certainly here, Aughra," the mild voice of the Crystal Technician said. "I can hear its song. It's very close. Even from here I can tell you something's very wrong. I wanted you to see it for yourself--"
Lemny hardly knew what the skeks were gibbering about. He poked Rian and gestured at the door. Nodding decisively, Rian began backpedaling away from the confrontation, towards the door.
"Emperor skekSo! Show me the Great Crystal at once! My Crystal Technician needs to--"
Rian was out the door. Lemny was on his shoulder.
* * *
"Yrn, may I ask you a question?"
The parallel stripy layers of red sedimentary stone were surprisingly warm beneath her hand, and were polished smooth. A thick rug from the Weaver's cave was beneath her legs, and beside she and Yrn, a thin waterfall poured like thoughtful rain along a groove into a pool.
"You may."
She brushed her hair aside, so that her ear stuck out. "You're always in control of yourself. Are you ever able to let go?"
The green-shaded face nibbled the good side of his lip.
"I should tell you what it's like to be touched by this dream," he said.
"You should."
"You breathe, right?" Yrn said.
"Yyyyes?"
"How often do you think about it?"
"I don't. I don't ever think about it," Loora said.
"I do. Every second I think about it. Every breath. If I stop concentrating--" and Yrn stopped breathing and went funny and his eye went bug-eyed and he choked down a gasp--"then I stop breathing. When I was young, there were whole weeks when I couldn't sleep, because every time I tried, the dream would stop my breath. And then my heart. Some days I have to use this--" and from one of his vest pouches he took out a large tourniquet of flexible branches--"to keep it going. My whole body feels like it's being squeezed by a dark hand. Right over my shoulder. Every second. And I can pour all the medicine in the world into my body, and it stays alive, but the dark hand is beside me, squeezing as hard as I do."
"So you're a fighter," said Loora.
Yrn looked away. "In the village, none of the kids enjoy my company. They say I'm too frightening or talk too specifically or they're worried they'll
catch what I have or they say I'm not any fun, and--well, some days, the dark hand of death is my only company. I used to collect dead animals and sing to them, to see whether there was a song to their deaths, the way there's a song for mine, but they never answer. Their songs are gone. I don't know why I'm different."
Loora blinked. "You have to keep yourself breathing," she said.
"If I want to live. Loora, you haven't said anything about the way I look--"
"I don't care," Loora said. Somewhere in her head she felt like she wasn't saying this in the right tone of voice, but she also wasn't sure how she meant to say it. There was a recurring emptiness inside her.
"Loora. Once the Light Sickness is cured, however it's cured, would--would you like to--?"
"Let me stop you there." Loora leapt off the Weaver's rug and paced along the redstone step. "I--" but somehow talking about Cory wasn't a thing she could do, and her feelings--I mean, she'd only known him well for two days! Almost a stranger--How could Cory have--he had, it was like he, he had invaded her heart and now he was all she could think about, and yet she kept trying to push him away because he was gone and somehow that made it worse, and she--
"I'll be back later," she said, and began walking.
She didn't own anything that had ever belonged to Cory. No talisman, no romantic lock of hair, no indication that he had ever existed. He hadn't given her anything--he hadn't even liked her! It flooded back. He'd been irritated with her and she'd been bossy and she'd managed to push him away and now she'd never be able to tell him how she--it hadn't even been two days, really, a day and a half--
Her feet sped her ahead. An awareness that she had no idea where she was. Yrn--he had stayed behind on the rug on the ledge, his one bright eye following her. The amphitheatre of ur-Kalivath could be seen through gaps in the stone, lit by large yellow and maroon crystals with white jagged streaks. Mystics were singing over the form of the Podling, a low tonal sound that resonated. Blue light still shone out from the little guy's ratty clothes.
Singing. She wanted to sing a song of her own, but she didn't want Yrn or anyone else to hear it.
The valley didn't have any clear exits--a circle of natural stone walls surrounded the valley, topped with the balanced roof of huge stones. A thick canyon sliced across the far side. Ivy-vines grasped a cliff of red steps. Loora took off her work jacket and began to climb.