by Lisa Maxwell
Chapter 11
The next day, as they rode away from of Amil's place, the dog appeared and followed them. Is spent the first half of the day trying to chase it back. The dog was probably the only company the old man had and she did not want it to leave him. John watched her attempts with a quizzical expression and did not offer any help. Eventually Is gave up.
The going continued to get steeper and rockier. They swung west to cross a saddle in the last ridge before they would have to cross the snowcapped giants of the range. Is no longer worried about how they were going to get the horses across that sheer forbidding wall. A scholar would know how to do it.
They camped high in the saddle near a little stream. Is could feel the altitude in muscles that cramped in her legs and feet; and in her mind, which wanted to wander aimlessly from her tasks. It seemed to take forever for the water to get hot and it never did really boil. The leaves John put into the tea sieve made the water taste bitter and after one sip Is thought she wouldn't drink the rest. But her body craved the liquid, and making her way to the stream for more water seemed like too much effort.
She had pretty well learned to ignore the tricks her eyes liked to play when her mind was like this. So she was ignoring the man shapes visible among the shadows cast by the bushes when the dog came in. He had stayed back from them all day, but now he came right up to the fire, slinking with his skinny tail pressed under his belly. He made a sound between growling and whining. Is snapped out of her trance.
John was already standing, facing the shadow shapes. Now Is recalled that there had been no bushes around big enough to cast man-tall shadows. All the tales she had ever heard of the supernatural horrors of these mountains crowded her mind.
Is edged backward. The packs were behind her and the tool in John's pack might stop the shadow men if they attacked him.
But John didn't seem afraid. In fact he got down on his knees, moving slowly, like a man trying to coax some wild animal closer. Is heard the breeze blowing through the leaves of the bushes, until she remembered that the bushes didn't exist. Then she heard voices instead. They talked rapidly and softly, one overlaying another and another. She didn't know how anyone could make sense of such speech. Sometimes there were little crackling sounds like sticks breaking. She had to keep reminding herself that there were no bushes, no breeze, no cracking sticks.
Nothing else seemed to happen for a long time. She might have dozed off, although that seemed unlikely given how scared she was, but the next thing she knew John was surrounded by the shadow men and she couldn't remember having seen them move.
She was determined to be more alert, but it was hard to keep the shadow men focused. Her mind kept telling her they were bushes and shadows cast by the fire, not men. Now they seemed to be stroking John. They weren't using hands, but gliding against him, weaving from side to side and slipping down the length of his body. He was standing again. When had that happened? Other than the shush-shush talking there was no sound.
The dog had stopped growl-whining sometime back. He was lying flat out on his side, not a posture a frightened dog would assume. There was a ghostly darkness in the air over him. Is knew he was dead. The shadow men had somehow sucked the life out of him.
She thought they were taking something vital from John too. They might deplete him. He would lie dead like the dog when they were done with him. Despite her fear of the shadow men, Is was more afraid to let them kill John. She stood up and moved toward them in a rush, shouting and waving her arms before she could lose her nerve. Somehow she knew to push them back with her voice, and not just her voice, but the release of energy, angry energy. She could almost feel the force of her voice, her energy pushing them. Then suddenly John caught hold of her. He pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her. Is could feel the tremors running through his body.
She stood still, making herself solid, letting him feel her solidness because that was what she felt he needed.
When he let her go, she saw the dog. He was curled by the coals, not flat out as she'd seen him before. Careful not to disturb him, she went close enough to see that he was breathing. The hair on her arms stood up and goose bumps ran down her back. She felt a strong presence, but could not say if it was benign or harmful. Her own system of superstitions made her react with fear. She desperately needed to ask John what had happened, but that was impossible.
John curled up by the fire and soon fell asleep. Is got his sleeping bag and tucked it around him. That gave her an excuse to be close to him, to touch him. After a while she got into her own bag and sat awake the rest of the night listening to John breathing. It became a vigil, something she had to do to protect him. She didn't know from what. She kept thinking about the "ghost of great power" in Amil's translation of John's note.
John seemed fine in the morning. Is watched him for any strangeness and really wished she could talk to him.
Little gusty breezes accompanied them as they rode. Whenever Is heard the wind she turned to look, but saw nothing unusual.
By mid-afternoon they had reached the top of the saddle. There was a light dusting of snow here. The air rising from it was cold, but the air above them was hot with the moisture-sucking stillness that only a summer afternoon at high altitude has.
Facing them was a sheer wall of mountains. The crystalline air made the mountains seem close enough to touch. Exposed rock showed in vertical stretches shining with melt water like the black bones of the earth itself. A man with a rope might make it up there; no horse would. Above them rose peaks so white the air seemed to vibrate off their color. Below them the mountains’ flanks were covered with green forests, inviting and cool.
John pointed east, where the highest of the mountains ran a long white shoulder down into the valley. His hand motions said they would ride down into the valley, around that shoulder, and up over something. Is supposed through a pass that was hidden from their view by the height of the long ridge of that shoulder. She calculated two days to get down to the bottom of the valley, two or three days to get around that shoulder, and perhaps another few days to get over the hidden pass. She wished it would be longer.
They camped below the tree line, sheltered from a storm that blew through. Is woke several times to the sound of low branches scraping against the tent in the wind. In the morning she knew there could have been no branches. Neither of them would pitch a tent where branches could possibly puncture its waterproof fly. Again she longed to talk to John.
The air was cool after the rain. The horses felt frisky, shying and snorting at the dark rocks like foolish youngsters instead of horses who had trekked this land for weeks already. Is laughed when John's mare refused to pass an especially big wet rock, and then they both laughed when Is tried to ride Lark past it first and he behaved as badly as the mare.
It was dark under the tall trees as they descended, and though the rain had stopped, the branches dripped big wet drops on them as they worked their way downward. Instead of getting lighter, the day grew darker and soon they were riding in a thick fog from which the massive boles of trees would appear and disappear, sinister and dark.
The gay mood of the morning slipped away. The horses shied more often and more seriously. Is could feel Lark's tension along with her own mounting sense of unease.
Lark snorted, sidestepping hard, and came to a halt. The creature sat on the rock regarding them with baleful red eyes. It blinked and disappeared. Lark snorted a loud blast, his legs braced wide, ready to run in any direction. Is stroked his neck. "Some trick of the light," she told him, her voice sounding less reassuring than she’d intended.
Lark continued to snort. He refused her aids to go forward even though the mare had passed that way in front of him. Is turned him to go around the rock since he wouldn't pass by it.
Lark sidled sideways, snorting and tense. Is didn't feel so brave herself. The back side of the rock seemed bigger than the
front side. Going around it took them more off track than she had thought it would. She'd been depending on Lark to pick up the mare's trail again, but he seemed more interested in shying from every tree and rock he saw.
Is tried to deal with Lark's foolishness, keep her sense of direction, and look for the mare's trail at the same time. When she couldn't find it, she wanted to zigzag back and forth over the area looking for it but Lark wouldn't cooperate. He continually shied off the line Is would have ridden. Knowing how well the trees could muffle sound, she decided to call out before John got too far away.
Her voice sounded muted even to her own ears, as though swallowed by the fog. She heard no answer of any sort, but she still wasn't worried. She would keep riding downhill and find her own way around the shoulder and over the pass if she had to. Surely she'd meet up with John somewhere en route.
As the fog grew thicker, Lark was more reluctant to go down into it. He snorted and shied and moved sideways. Is could feel his heart beating between her legs and tried to soothe him with her voice. He kept managing to turn aside from the deepest fog, which lay below them. They were traversing the slope rather than descending it.
Finally Is slipped from his back, took the reins and led him into the fog. He followed reluctantly, snorting and hesitating, right on her heels. With his head up, Lark towered over her and Is hoped he wouldn't forget she was there and jump on her if he shied. She talked to him and kept contact with him through the reins.
All of a sudden, Is was spun around as Lark bolted backward dragging her with him. Unable to resist him, she was forced to run after him, trying desperately not to let go of the reins. Her commands of "Whoa!" had no effect. If he got turned, he would take off at a gallop and she would not be able to hold him or keep up. Though she was determined not to let that happen, there was nothing she could do to prevent it. He outweighed and out-muscled her many times over and all of his training was now completely overridden by fear.
Is was jerked to the side as Lark turned. The dark bole of a tree appeared in front of her the instant before she slammed into it. Her hand let go of the reins involuntarily.
She hit the tree with such force she was thrown backward, landing on her backside. At first even hitting the tree didn’t hurt. For a few seconds more she could hear Lark crashing away, then silence. The arm that had held the reins had wrapped around the tree so fast that the bark had taken her skin off. Her arm was beginning to bleed now, stinging like crazy. As she had been pulled around the tree the side of her face had smashed against the rough bark, and then her body had been slammed against the tree with enough force to fling her on her backside three feet away. When she tried to turn her head she felt dizzy and pain lanced down her spine. She had no choice but to sit still a moment. That helped. Wherever the pain had come from it retreated and waited. Good. Let it wait. She didn't need to move just yet. She was distracted by the warm creeping feeling of blood beginning to run down her neck. When she raised her hand to touch her face, she saw that her hand was covered with blood too. She stared at it. The two outside fingers stood out at an angle that didn't look right. She tried to flex her hand. Pain returned with a vengeance and relocated itself in her hand, shooting up her arm until it nearly made her sick.
She looked away from the blood. The pain will only get worse, she thought. Do it now!
Before she could think better of it, she took hold of the two dislocated fingers with her good hand and twisted them back into place. She'd been braced for pain, but it didn't come. Shock, she thought. Thank you. Best to get moving before it wore off.
It felt as if something heavy were sitting on her neck. She couldn't turn her head to the right at all. If she kept her head tilted down and left she could walk. She started to ascend, bearing off to the left all the time. Lark would have gone up to get out of the fog. Once he'd outrun his fear, he'd turn back. He'd want his companions, but Is doubted he'd descend into the fog again. With luck she'd find him wandering above the fog line.
Her arm and hand throbbed with her heartbeat and the stiff neck made her whole back hurt as she leaned forward to climb the slope. She felt nauseated and weak. It took an act of major concentration to keep putting one foot above the other.
She found herself skirting the deepest patches of fog, reluctant to enter them, which was ridiculous. But every time she'd tried going straight into the fog, there'd be a rock or something she'd have to go around anyway.
She was not ascending enough.
Stupid to avoid the worst fog. She couldn't see farther than her own feet anyway. The slope of the ground was her guide.
She was not ascending.
No smarter than the horse to be afraid of the fog. Look at her feet. One step, the next. Keep going.
Still, she was not ascending.
The fog was a wall above her. She turned around, slowly so she wouldn't lose her balance. The lack of visual references didn't help her dizziness.
The fog was definitely thinner below her. She could make out the trunks of trees.
Maybe down was the right direction to go. Follow the original plan she'd had with Lark. When she found the pass, she'd find John. Together they'd come back looking for Lark. Or maybe Lark would find them. Yes, it made more sense to look for John than for the horse. She turned downhill.
The fog was herding her now. She'd given up resisting it some time back. She'd given up thinking, and her mind was too numb for fear.
She had to sit down.
A breeze came gusting over her and was gone. Seemed strange, a breeze at ground level in a forest this thick. Besides, when there was fog the air was still, usually.
The breeze came again in little fits and starts. The fog swirled and shredded when the breeze blew, only to resettle as thick as ever when it stopped. Is sat and watched this little contest. If the breeze cleared the fog away maybe she'd have more energy. Maybe she'd be able to make her feet go where she wanted them to go.
She could hear leaves rustling with the breeze. It was some time before she thought, leaves! In a pine forest?
If she listened just right she could hear the voices instead, one over the other in a quick shush-shush whisper. She couldn't begin to understand them.
She got up and moved with the breeze, downhill and left, which was the direction she'd need to go to get around the shoulder. Sometimes her mind seemed to wake up, or clear, or something. Then she'd check with herself that she was still going the direction she wanted to go. The rest of the time she might as well have been sleepwalking.
When she had to stop, she lay down and slept. Let whatever was going to happen to her happen.
... In the dream she was riding Lark, following the mare.
Lark's left front hoof came down jarringly on a rock. The jolt traveled up Is's spine into her sore neck. She put her hand up to rub her neck. The fingers were stiff. The pain of flexing them to squeeze her neck was worse than the pain in her neck. She gave up trying to massage herself. They'd be stopping for the horses' afternoon break soon. She'd lie flat on the ground then. That would feel good. If she relaxed enough, maybe the muscles in her neck would un-kink.
The mare stopped. John twisted around in his saddle and looked at her. He seemed to stare at her and past her at the same time. Is began to worry that he would start one of his fits. She made Lark walk past him. Then she heard John say, "Hast thou dreamed a life, or lived a dream,” in a completely ordinary voice.
Shocked, Is turned to stare at him. Was there some message in his riddle, or were the words only the wandering of a disturbed mind.
"Be thou not confused of reflections that guidest thee astray, or true. Thine own heart knowest not."
"You're not real, are you?" Is challenged him. "This is just a dream isn't it?" When John didn't answer, or respond to her in any way, she concluded, "Really, I'm lost in the fog, and dreaming."
Then she saw what she had somehow failed to notic
e before, Lark standing beside John. She forgot everything else and said, "Lark," and walked toward him.
When she reached out her hand to touch him, her neck was stiff and her hand was swollen and wouldn't open all the way. She was surprised by that, until she stroked Lark's soft coat. Then everything seemed alright again.
The saddle had a scrape along one side where he'd cut too close to a tree or something in his panic, but other than that everything seemed fine. She started to ask John how he had found Lark and realized John wasn’t there. Only Lark was real.
She wasn't going to fight with Lark about going into the fog, but now the fog was gone. She mounted and let him pick their course. Once he whinnied and broke into a trot. She let him go and in a few minutes she heard the mare's answering call.
John welcomed her with a smile. He looked relieved and happy, which made Is feel good. Then he turned and rode on, just as if nothing had happened. Is followed and began to doubt what had really happened.