by Peter Harris
Shelley, too, was restless. She got up and tiptoed to the window. The courtyard below was full of the tents and baggage of the Traders, but the fires were burnt out, and the only light was the faint starlight coming from the narrow strip of sky and gleaming on the damp rock of the other side of the Canyon. There were dark openings there, row on row of them, and she wondered what people would choose to live in there, on the side where the sun never shone.
‘The Pessimists,’ she murmured. ‘I guess they like being that way. They never have to be disappointed. Maybe they’re right, we’re just hopeless optimists on this side. Doomed to disappointment.’ A wave of sadness and loneliness swept over her. She shivered. Then one of the gaping openings across the Canyon caught her eye. It was shaped like a skull. Out of it came a glitter of eyes – or rather an Eye. It locked with hers and spoke into her mind chill words of death. In vision she stood again at the gaping maw of the Dark Labyrinth, into which the Death Wagons rolled, night after night.
‘Why fight it? It is the destiny of all life to die. That is the portal to Nowhere, where you will at last find peace, forgetfulness of this struggle, this endless, pointless struggle you call life,’ said the voice. She stood transfixed, horrified, but also strangely tempted.
‘Why resist?’ replied the voice, reading her innermost thoughts. ‘For you will all surely die, sooner than you think. Surrender now willingly to death, and you will fly free, and be spared what is to pass.’ Now it all seemed clear. She felt light-headed, and the darkness was inviting. She opened the window wide, and stood on the ledge, about to step out into the void. It was five storeys up, but she did not fear. Then she realised what was happening: this was a Dreamcaster speaking to her. But instead of following Korman’s instructions to make her mind as a mirror of silver, she felt an unreasoning trust in the message of the voice. She whispered, ‘I am coming!’ and stepped out into the welcoming void. With a lurch in her stomach like taking off on a flying fox, she was gone, plummeting into the glowing nothingness.
But at that moment a white blur swooped into the courtyard and Shelley felt a warm powerful something lifting her up. Instead of falling to easeful oblivion, she was very much alive, flying effortlessly through the night on the back of the White Unicorn. Far below was the Canyon, receding fast. She gasped in the cold fresh air, exhilarated by the joy of flight. The unicorn wheeled, and there below them was the whole island realm of Aeden spread like a jewelled starfish in a silvery sea. The Blue Moon was rising, suspended over the distant edge of the ocean. Shelley was wondering what was over that horizon, when she found she was surrounded by glowing fireflies, like tiny jewels. They were singing, a huge choir of tiny angels singing the glories of life and of creation. She heard a voice saying to her, but not in words:
‘Death is, but not as they have told you. For death is but a doorway to new life. We know! We are the Makers, with you in spirit always, though down on Aeden you walk in the midst of mindwebs. Be creative and joyful! Above all, love, and you will find a way for Aeden’s life to go on, to triumph over the worship of death.’ Then the song increased in intensity until she felt she would die of joy.
‘No more!’ she begged. Then she felt the unicorn beneath her falling, angling back down in long sweeps to the island. For an instant she saw an image of the Lady, still in the thorns of the dark valley, but glowing with light and radiant with love, then she was back in the Canyon, gliding along its length. There was a white mist lying in it like cloud-tops. And she saw, in the gaping caves of the Pessimist’s side, an army of endarkened ones gathering, standing in the shadows, waiting with ropes, catapults, and cruel grappling hooks.
‘They’re going to attack!’ she thought. ‘I’ve got to get back and warn Korman!’ But then the unicorn seemed to melt away into the white sheets of the cosy bed.
‘It was just a dream!’ she sighed, with relief. ‘But what a dream!’ Then she remembered she had taken off her silver helmet. She reached out and put it on, then sank back into a dreamless slumber, until she heard in her sleep the sound of knocking on a hollow door. She was in the hall of the Labyrinth at the head of the Canyon, and a deep dread grew on her as she approached the sound of the knocking. There was Gullquill the gatekeeper, trembling but refusing to open to the one who stood at the door, dark and menacing. It was Hithrax. His third eye flicked open like a jack-knife and mindbolts spewed forth, snaking up at the archers in the windows. Cries came from above; one man fell screaming out of a window to die at Hithrax’s feet, then another. But the rest of the guards rallied, putting on their silver helmets and holding up their silver shields. ‘The siege has begun!’ cried Shelley in her sleep, but no one could hear her.