Under Earth

by Ellen Renner

  Her eyes scoured the pennants, searching for the familiar flag of Yanlin, with its design of a seabird and quarter moon. It took many anxious breaths, many heartbeats squinting through the moonlight at the bobbing ships, listening to the familiar slosh of waves on wood, until Storm at last believed the evidence of her eyes. Yanlin’s fleet was gone. The Wayfarer had sailed and left her behind!

  She had not been so close to weeping since her mother’s funeral. You can’t stay here! warned her mind-voice. The town was patrolled night and day by the Pact’s guards, and they would doubtless pay particular attention to the harbour warehouses. There was only one person who might be able to help.

  “Let’s go see your master, Scoundrel. Perhaps he will know of a way to contact Uncle Lake. I can’t go back to Talon’s house!”

  “Huh!” The monkey grunted softly in her ear and, to her surprise, laid his cheek briefly against hers. Then he leapt to the ground and scampered further along the pier towards the headland. The creature stopped and looked back.

  “No!” Storm hissed. “Not that way! Take me to your master’s house. To the garden behind the wall!”

  Scoundrel stayed where he was, waiting for her to follow, huge eyes shining in the fading moonlight. Storm remembered the old man’s words: He’s cleverer than he seems.

  “Ancestors!” Storm muttered. But obeyed.

  The cling-monkey led her past the pier and quay-side warehouses and along the strand until they reached the headland furthest from town. As she approached, Storm saw that a series of semicircular wooden doors lined the base of the cliff. They reminded her of the entrances to the shrines of the Elementals back on Yanlin. These doors must also open on to caves or rooms carved out of the rock, but if these caverns were shrines, the spirit being worshipped was that of Trade! They must be ancient warehouses. Most seemed to have fallen into disuse, the doors rotten and hanging off their hinges, showing gaping, toothless mouths.

  Still Scoundrel scampered ahead, stopping regularly to see if she was following. He began to make anxious chittering noises, and she doubled her pace. The last of the caves neared. Above it sheer rock rose the height of many houses. Halfway to the falling moon, Storm thought. Surely the monkey wasn’t going to ask her to climb that!

  But Scoundrel paused in front of the disused warehouse. He chirruped encouragement and, with a swish of his long tail, disappeared into its open mouth.

  “Come back!” Storm paused in the entrance. She could see rotting wood scattered about the rocky floor – all that remained of the door that had once protected the gathered treasures of the world’s islands. But the slanting moonlight illuminated only a few paces of ground. And then … utter darkness.

  “Scoundrel?” Her voice echoed around the invisible room, bouncing round and round. The chamber must be enormous. And then the monkey was back, scolding, bared teeth gleaming in the patch of moonlight. He reached up a long arm, grabbed her hand and tugged.

  “All right,” she said. “But don’t you dare let go!”

  The monkey led Storm under the earth. She walked for what seemed like an eternity, blinded by darkness. Her memory took her back to the night of her Choosing – the terrifying journeys into the shrines, alone in complete blackness.

  This time a warm hand held hers tight. But for that, Storm knew, she would be running back towards the entrance. “Scoundrel?” she pleaded at last. “Are we nearly there?”

  Somewhere ahead a light glimmered like a solitary star. Scoundrel gave a squeal of happiness and abandoned her. She heard the patter of his feet racing towards the light. Just as suddenly, her own fear disappeared.

  I am here, Storm, said the Tortoise. Storm followed Scoundrel towards the light.

  “Well done, my friend. Yes, you may have a cake. Now, do be quiet so we can hear ourselves think!”

  An iron lantern stood on the damp stone floor of the tunnel. In its circle of light stood four people and one small orange monkey. The Earth-witch smiled at Storm in welcome as he placed a pack on the floor. Scoundrel grabbed it and scooped out a small cake. He settled down on his haunches, held the sweet to his mouth and began to nibble. The cling-monkey seemed to have forgotten Storm entirely.

  She walked forward, studying the three strangers. There was an older man in a dark cloak. His hair and beard were streaked with grey and he looked strangely familiar. Beside him stood the young Water-witch she had met in town, and a smaller, frail-looking woman.

  The three bowed in greeting. “We met in town,” said the younger man.

  Storm nodded. “I remember. You warned me about the Fire-witch. I saw you too,” she said to the older man. “You are an Air-witch! I saw you in the red tent. I never thought of using a flute to focus magic. Will you teach me, Master—”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t time for lessons,” interrupted the old Earth-witch. “Skill matters, Storm, but always remember that the Elementals control their magic. You can never master what does not belong to you. It is your other talents the Three seek to use.”

  “I have no other talents!”

  It was true: other than storytelling, she had never had a talent for making. But the old man merely smiled in reply.

  Three of the four gathered here to meet her were witches: Earth, Air, Water. Storm stared at the woman, unease making her heart beat harder.

  “Yes.” The woman spoke reluctantly, her words so faint Storm could barely hear them. “I belonged to Fire.”

  A gaunt woman dressed in crimson, flames shooting from her fingertips. Storm shuddered. “Why have you brought her here?” she demanded.

  “She has relinquished Fire.” The Earth-witch’s voice was grave.

  “Some of us have refused to do the Fire spirit’s bidding, even at the price of our magic,” the woman said. “I am a witch no longer.”

  “The Tortoise is here as a sign that you may trust us,” said the Earth-witch. “The spirit told me you would come here. How else would we be waiting for you? We meet here, Under Earth, for your safety. Far from the island’s old volcano. Here Earth is dominant. Nevertheless, we must hurry. The morning draws near and we have much to tell you. Please listen. The Tortoise itself asks this!”

  “And the Albatross.” The grey-haired man’s eyes grew fierce, like those of a sea-eagle.

  “And the Dolphin!” The young man smiled with joy.

  The woman’s eyes never left Storm’s face. Now she said, “I do not speak for the Salamander. Only for those Fire-witches who fear that the spirit who claimed us as its human children will sacrifice everything – even the existence of life itself – for dominion over its old rival, Water!”

  “But what can I do? What can any of us do?”

  “You doubt yourself,” said the Earth-witch. “You have run from Talon’s house carrying hate in your heart, seeking the destruction of your enemy. You do not yet understand how important it is to prevent war – not just on Bellum Island, but war such as we have never known, where every hand is turned against its neighbour!”

  “You mean the Drowned Ones? But they are our enemies!” Cloud’s words echoed in her head. “It is our duty to avenge our dead!”

  The old man did not reply.

  “You have, I am told,” said the Air-witch, “the makings of a Chanter. So you will know the old tales.”

  “I know some.”

  “Then you know that Fire was first sent into the World in order to destroy it. That it was prevented by being chained by Earth and imprisoned by Water.”

  “Yes. And the One admonished the Elementals to keep the Balance. How is it that Fire dares flout the will of the One?”

  “Fire is impetuous and selfish,” said the former Fire-witch. “It may believe the One will never return.”

  “All the Elementals are selfish.” The Earth-witch spoke at last. “Even the Tortoise. They are not prone to introspection.”

  “Will the One return?” Storm asked.

  “In its own time, which is not measured in human years. Fire sought to destroy
Water long ago. The tales speak of the time when the seas burned, and the mountains of the north-east islands woke in rage, erupted, burned and sank. Those that escaped the battle between sea and fire became the Drowned Ones.”

  “But it was their own fault that their islands sank! The homes of the Drowned Ones disappeared beneath the sea because the people who lived on them lacked virtue. Ever since, they have tried to steal our islands for themselves. The war between us is their fault!”

  “It is important to remember who writes the tales,” the old man said wryly.

  “Humans are frail, even as the Elementals.” He shrugged. “We fight because there is not enough land for all of us. But if life is to survive, we must find a new way.”

  “Know this,” said the woman who had once been a Fire-witch. “The Salamander grows fat on hate. War makes it strong.”

  “But … how can we not hate those who hurt us?” Storm protested. “I saved the life of a Drowned One and then the boy betrayed me. My mother died because I trusted him!”

  “Yes,” said the old Earth-witch.

  Storm wanted him to tell her that Dain’s death had been unavoidable. That it would have happened whether she had rescued Nim or not.

  But the old man kept nodding. “Yes.” Every word he spoke broke her heart anew. “Your mother died because you saved the boy. I am sorry.”

  “Do you desire the Drowned One’s death?” asked the Air-witch. “Do you want vengeance?” The four adults waited. Even Scoundrel seemed to watch, his deep-set eyes strangely knowing.

  “Yes.”

  “Yet I have told you the Salamander feeds on hate,” said the woman who had been a Fire-witch. “You bear the proof on your right wrist.”

  It was true. Last year, her hatred of Mixi had made her vulnerable to the Fire Elemental. But this was different. “Nim betrayed me, pretended to be my friend! And all the time he was planning to help his people kill us and steal our island. My mother died because of his treachery. How can I not hate him?”

  The Water-witch shrugged. “You are a Child of the Dolphin. The Trickster loves riddles. Try to use your talent with water to find a path.”

  Rebellion rose in her heart. “Why does it have to be me? Can’t we do it together?”

  “There will be a time for ‘together’. That I do promise,” said the Earth-witch. “But not yet. As for why you, why not? It must be someone. The Three chose you before you were born. Your job is to figure out what is special about you – what you are meant to do.”

  “You must be important or the Salamander would not be trying so hard to get rid of you,” said the woman. “There is something about you that is a threat to its plans. Or perhaps it is something that will happen to you. Something you choose to do, or not to do.”

  “You must go now, Storm,” said the Earth-witch. “Scoundrel will return with you.”

  The young man held something out to her. “Here, I want you to have this. The music is in you; just practise.” He held out a small flute. “The smallest magic is always the hardest. But sometimes the most important.”

  She took the flute in a numb hand. Stared down at it, her fingers barely feeling the smoothness of the precious ebony. “Thank you. But cannot you teach me?”

  “Everyone’s music is different. Besides, there isn’t time. The moon falls into the sea.”

  “But I can’t go back to Talon’s house! The Fifteen are trying to force me to work for them. They intend to cleanse the island of rebels. I went to the harbour to find my uncle and escape, but Yanlin’s fleet has sailed. You must see that I can’t go back!”

  “You must!” The Earth-witch’s expression was unyielding. “The Pact is the key to the battle to come. Bellum must not be allowed to descend into civil war. The Drowned Ones wait for the opportunities a war among the islanders will bring, and the Salamander desires a catastrophic war so it can feed on the hatred and grow ever stronger. You must try to influence the Fifteen.”

  “You don’t know Talon.”

  The old man smiled. “I know more than you imagine. He is easily led by his desires. It is all part of the same riddle, Storm. You must also return to Talon’s house tonight because the Pact offers you some safety from the Fire-witch. While you remain on Bellum they are your best hope of survival. I will try to find a way to contact your uncle. For now, you must stall Talon or trick him. And, most of all, stay alive!”

  Your first duty is to survive. Go, child.

  Storm bowed her head. She had no choice – she must choose to trust the Tortoise or lose everything she believed in, everything Dain had taught her, and become like Mer.

  At a nod from his master, Scoundrel bounded forward and took her hand. The cling-monkey led her out from beneath the earth, towards danger.

  The moon plunged into the sea as Storm climbed over the crumbling wall, and its light drowned with it. In blind darkness, she crept through the back garden of Talon’s house, stumbling over tree roots, nearly falling into the carp pond.

  At last her feet met paving stones, and the house rose above her, a towering presence almost invisible against the moonless sky. Storm edged in the direction she thought the wooden stairs to the attic must be, arms out, fingers searching. Guide me, Ancestors! she prayed. Don’t let me trip over something and wake the guards!

  Her fingers brushed wood, splintery and rough. She had found the steps. “Hold tight, Scoundrel!” The monkey seemed to be dozing. She too was longing for her bed. She would worry about Talon tomorrow; she still had most of the day to figure out how to outwit the Pact leader. She would talk to Mer again.

  Storm began the climb. From somewhere behind her in the garden came a soft thudding noise. She froze. Was someone else out there? If it was one of the guards, they would raise the alarm and she would be in even more trouble. Talon was bound to guess that she had tried to escape to the Wayfinder. Did he have something to do with the disappearance of her uncle and the fleet?

  Most certainly, replied her mind-voice. But we have other things to worry about!

  Storm waited, breath caught in her chest, for more sounds she wasn’t alone in the garden. Nothing. It must have been an animal. She steadied herself, began to climb, one cautious step at a time. Nearly at the top. She would soon be safely back in her room. Storm stepped on the next rung. As she did so, Scoundrel shrieked and jumped from her shoulders.

  A sharp crack, a lurch, as the rung gave way beneath her foot.

  The falling took forever and no time at all. She seemed to have too much time for thinking but no time for doing – no time for magic.

  As she plummeted towards the earth, Storm knew she would die. In a way, it was a comfort. She had failed, but at least she could stop now. Nothing would be her fault after this.

  The ground rushed up to meet her. She could hear it coming. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for stone and gravel to smash her bones to jelly. When she landed with a ridiculous-sounding squelch on something soft and springy, Storm gave a whimper of outrage. Shocked at being alive, she bounced two, three, four times, before quivering to a stop.

  The ground stank of dank, root-full richness. Storm lay face down in what seemed to be a peat bog. She groaned and turned over. As she lay there, the squelchy ground beneath her firmed, grew hard and stony. The Tortoise had saved her life yet again. Storm pushed to her feet, wheezing with shock and sore all over, but very much alive.

  Something scurried towards her, scuttering over the gravel. Storm drew her knife in a panic, then resheathed it with a sigh as a familiar scolding voice announced Scoundrel. The monkey darted forward and tugged at her trouser leg, muttering and fretting.

  “I’m glad you’re alive too,” Storm said crossly. “But I don’t need you to tell me what an idiot I’ve been. How was I to know the ladder was going to break?”

  “Huh! Huh!” It was a contemptuous, sarcastic rebuke. Scoundrel kept tugging until she followed him reluctantly to the bottom of the ladder.

  “You want me to go back up there? Are
you mad?”

  But she had no choice. Other than knocking on the front door and announcing herself, there was no other way to get back into Talon’s house. Scoundrel was clever: there must be enough of the ladder left intact. Maybe only enough to support a monkey! cautioned her mind-voice. But Storm began the climb again on less than steady legs.

  The cling-monkey scampered up before her. As she neared the top, a warning hiss told her to go carefully.

  “Like I was going to do anything else,” Storm muttered under her breath.

  The faint glimmer of starlight showed a gap in the ladder just above her head. Only one rung was broken. She could climb past, with care. But something strange caught her attention… Storm peered closer at the place where the rung had broken away. On one side, the place was splintered, the wood torn as it broke beneath her weight. But on the other she saw a neat stub. This side of the rung hadn’t broken. It had been cut.

  Someone had sawn this rung in two since she had travelled this way. Someone had tried to kill her, and it could only be one person.

  Storm clung to the ladder, closing her eyes as a wave of sickness swept from her head to her feet, turning her legs to mush. Mer hadn’t trusted her to keep her word not to help the Pact. Mer had decided that if Storm attempted to return to Talon’s house, she would not live to reach her bedroom.

  Storm woke at least five times in the night from a dream where she was falling: from a cliff, a tree, the mast of the Wayfarer. Each time she struggled to keep awake. She needed to think, to plan how she would persuade Talon and the Pact to treat with the rebels. And each time sleep grabbed her by the heels and pulled her back under.

  Talon’s red-and-gold gown rustled as he leaned forward. The leader of the Fifteen Families steepled his fingers and smiled at her over them. His eyes were plump and sticky with greed.