Freewalker

by Dennis Foon

  RED RAIN FALLING FROM THE SKY. TREES ON FIRE. A WOUNDED SOLDIER WRITHES ON A BLOODY WHITE SHEET. HUNDREDS AND HUNDREDS OF BROKEN WARRIORS HUDDLED OVER CAMPFIRES. A MAN, PERHAPS THIRTY-FIVE, WHO CARRIES SOME RESEMBLANCE TO ROAN’S FATHER, LOOKS OUT AT THE HALF MOON. HE TURNS, HIS GREEN EYES LUMINESCENT. HE LIFTS HIS HAND, TAKES THE BADGER-SHAPED RING OFF HIS FINGER AND HOLDS IT UP. “IT’S FOR SAFE PASSAGE,” HE SAYS. “IT CARRIES ALL FORMS AND WILL NEVER FAIL YOU.”

  Ende lets go of Roan’s mind.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Understanding will come with action,” Ende states. “Strength, though, comes from the heart and through the acceptance of what we know we must do. You stand at a crossroads, Roan of Longlight. In you, old hopes culminate and from you new hope will spring forth.” Ende pauses, releasing Roan’s arm. “But for you the way will be difficult, with no reward other than the accomplishment of your task. It is much to ask of one so young. Do you still wish to return to the place of death?”

  “Yes.”

  “You may use this room.”

  “I was sick for a while after the last time. It could happen again. Or worse.”

  “If you come back sick, I will heal you. If you do not return, we will wait until your body dies, then we will bury you well,” Ende says, sending a chill up Roan’s spine.

  The possible risks of the venture so bluntly laid out, he turns inquringly to Kira and asks, “What about Lumpy?”

  “I will inform him.”

  “If he wishes to sit vigil, he may,” Ende offers.

  Putting the badger ring on his finger, Roan takes a deep breath and tries to clear his mind. But the terror of dying in the Dreamfield, his body in this world condemned to vegetate soulless, mindless, until corporeal death sweeps it away, will not leave him. All too aware of how much depends on his success, he takes breath after breath, but these thoughts keep him grounded as surely as chains.

  With a few leaps, Roan’s white cricket lands on his ring. It raises its wings, and rubbing them together, begins its song. Roan’s apprehension is harnessed, his unruly mind soothed, and with every inhalation, light filters in from the soles of his feet. Rising slowly, the radiance finally fuses with his tailbone, blasts up his spine and he is finally freed.

  ROAN STANDS AT THE EDGE OF THE RUPTURE AND LOOKS AT HIS CLAY HAND. ON HIS FINGER IS THE SILVER RING IN THE SHAPE OF A BADGER. IT’S MOVED WITH HIM BETWEEN THE WORLDS.

  THE IRON STATUES, PELTED BY WIND AND RAIN, HAVE GROWN THICK WITH RUST. THE CLOSEST ONE SLOWLY TURNS HER HEAD. SHE TRIES TO SMILE BUT CAN BARELY MOVE.

  “ROAN!” MURMURS LONA, HER VOICE GROWN WEAK.

  “I WANTED TO SEE HOW YOU WERE.”

  “WE’RE DOING GOOD, ROAN,” WHISPERS BUB. “WE’RE GOOD AT THIS JOB.”

  “I’VE STILL GOT A LOT TO DO. YOU HAVE TO KEEP HOLDING ON.”

  “WE’LL HOLD ON,” SAYS JAW.

  “WE’RE NOT AFRAID,” SAYS LONA.

  “WE KNOW YOU WON’T LET US DOWN,” GIP TELLS HIM.

  LIGHTNING FLASHES, ILLUMINATING THE FOURTEEN CHILDREN OF IRON. THEY SEEM SO MUCH AT EASE WITH THEIR SACRIFICE—ROAN CAN ONLY GUESS AT THE COST... HOW LONG WILL THEY LAST IF HE FAILS TO FIND A WAY TO CLOSE THE RIFT??

  MAYBE SAINT HAS THE INFORMATION HE NEEDS, SOMETHING THAT WILL GIVE HIM DIRECTION. NURSING THAT HOPE, HE TURNS AWAY FROM THE CHILDREN AND IN SECONDS IS AT THE WATER’S EDGE. LEAPING ONTO AN ICEBERG, HE IS HURLED OVER THE TUMULTUOUS SEA TO THE BRINK OF THE WHIRLPOOL.

  WITHOUT HESITATION, ROAN DROPS INTO THE MAELSTROM. AS HE SPINS DOWNWARD, THE STENCH OF DEATH GAGS HIM. ALL TOO SOON, HE SPLASHES INTO THE LEECH-INFESTED SLIME, AND REACHING PAST HANDFUL AFTER HANDFUL OF THE PARASITES, HE LOCATES HIS NEMESIS. SAINT’S EYES SNAP OPEN AND HIS COLD FINGERS CURL AROUND ROAN’S ARMS, DRAGGING HIM BENEATH THE UNDULATING MASS. HOPING TO HASTEN HIS SURRENDER, ROAN BREATHES IN THE VILE SOUP. HIS LUNGS FILL WITH LEECHES AND SCUM, BUT THEY ALSO SWELL WITH AIR. WARM AIR. HE’S SQUINTING IN THE BLAZING SUN, STANDING ON THE PRECIPICE OF A BOTTOMLESS RAVINE. THE SAME TERRIBLE GORGE WHERE BOTH SAINT AND LELBIT DIED.

  HE HEARS A BATTLE CRY. SAINT IS CHARGING TOWARD HIM, SWORD HELD HIGH. ROAN LOWERS HIS HEAD, AWAITING THE DEATH BLOW. HIS CHIN RAISES INVOLUNTARILY. HE’S NOT IN HIS CURRENT BODY, BUT IN THE BODY FROM THAT DAY, HIS HOOK-SWORD MEETING SAINT’S WEAPON WITH A CRASH. HE TRIES TO STOP FIGHTING, WANTING TO INVITE THE DEATH MABATAN TOLD HIM HE MUST SEEK, BUT THIS ROAN IS THE ROAN SAINT WANTS HIM TO BE AND WILL NOT QUIT. THE BATTLE RAGES, EVERY SWORD STROKE AND BLOW REENACTED. ONLY NOW THERE ARE JUST THE TWO OF THEM. NO LELBIT WILL COME FORWARD TO SAVE ROAN.

  THEY CLASH UNSTEADILY ON THE NARROW LEDGE, NEITHER GAINING THE ADVANTAGE. UNTIL SAINT SPOTS THE OOZING ARROW WOUND ON ROAN’S ARM AND PUNCHES IT WITH HIS FIST. THE ORIGINAL FLASH OF PAIN COURSES THROUGH ROAN AND HE JABS OUT WITH HIS SWORD, CATCHING SAINT ON THE THIGH. ENRAGED, SAINT SMASHES THE WOUND AGAIN. ROAN FALLS AND SAINT’S BLADE IS AT HIS NECK.

  “NOW DO WHAT MUST BE DONE,” SAINT WHISPERS AS HIS BLADE SLICES ROAN’S THROAT.

  BLOOD GUSHES DOWN ROAN’S ARMS AND STREAMS INTO THE ABYSS. HIS BODY GROWS COLD, AND TUMBLING OFF THE CLIFF, HE PLUNGES DOWNWARD LIKE A TAILLESS KITE. THROUGH THE HAZE OF HIS DEATH, HE GLIMPSES A CRIMSON SHEEN IN THE EYES OF THE BADGER RING. THE GLOW SPREADS OVER HIS HANDS, HIS ARMS. HIS BODY BEGINS TO SHIFT AND CHANGE, ARMS TRANSFORM INTO LEGS, WHILE HIS JAW ELONGATES AND BRISTLY HAIR SPROUTS FROM EVERY PORE. HE HAS TAKEN THE FORM OF A BADGER.

  ROAN’S DESCENT SLOWS, THEN HE REVERSES, GAINING SPEED AS HE BULLETS TOWARD THE DEAD PROPHET. SAINT WAITS AT THE PRECIPICE, SWORD LOWERED, HANDS BY HIS SIDES, AND OFFERS NO RESISTANCE WHEN ROAN DIVES INTO HIS EYE.

  THROUGH SAINT’S EYES, ROAN SEES THE POLISHED CORRIDOR, THE HANDSOME OAK DOOR, SAINT’S HAND REACHING FOR A BRASS CLAW. WHEN THE DOOR SWINGS OPEN, A NARROW-EYED, TIGHT-SKINNED, ODDLY AGELESS MAN WELCOMES HIM TO COME AND SIT.

  “GREETINGS, SAINT. I TRUST YOUR NEW MOTORCYCLE IS UP TO STANDARD?”

  “YOUR GENEROSITY IS LEGEND, MASTER DARIUS. I AM HONORED.”

  “YES. THEN WHY HAVE YOU SECRETLY KEPT FROM ME THE VERY BOY FOR WHOM YOU KNEW I WAS SEARCHING?”

  “IF I HAD KNOWN, KEEPER, YOU WOULD HAVE HAD HIM. WE FOUND ONLY THE GIRL THE NIGHT OF THE RAID. THE BOY I DISCOVERED LATER, FAR FROM THE VILLAGE. HE CLAIMED HE’D BEEN WANDERING. HE SAID HE COULD READ AND I THOUGHT HE MIGHT BE USEFUL.”

  “WHAT WOULD YOU DO WITH A READER?”

  “DOCTOR ARCANTHAS HAS REQUESTED THAT MEDICAL BOOKS BE SALVAGED. I THOUGHT THE BOY MIGHT HELP IDENTIFY THOSE BOOKS. WE SEEK TO SERVE THE MASTERS.”

  “YOUR GOVERNANCE OF THE FARLANDS HAS BEEN, FOR THE MOST PART, IMPECCABLE.”

  “THANK YOU.”

  “YOU ARE MY PRINCE.”

  SAINT LOWERS HIS HEAD. “YOU HONOR ME, SEER.”

  THERE IS A SLY GRIN ON DARIUS’S FACE. HE MOTIONS FOR SAINT TO COME NEARER. “I WANT TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING.”

  A PANEL OPENS IN THE WALL AND A GLASS SHELF GLIDES OUT. UNDER A BELL JAR A HUGE HAND REACHES UP INTO A SURGING CORAL SKY. THE BASE OF ITS ARM SITS DEEP IN A SILVER POOL.

  “ONE DAY SOON THIS STRUCTURE WILL BE COMPLETED. BUT, LIKE THE MOTORCYCLE, IT REQUIRES FUEL. THAT BOY, HIS SISTER, THE CHILDREN YOU ARE ABOUT TO FETCH IN FAIRVIEW—IT IS THEIR DESTINY TO POWER MY MACHINE.”

  IS THAT ALL WE ARE TO THE MASTERS? FUEL? ROAN WOULD LASH OUT AT DARIUS IF HE WERE MORE THAN A MEMORY.

  SOMETHING FLOWS UP FROM THE SILVER POOL THROUGH THE ARM. THE SKIN SEEMS TO BE KINETIC AND AS SAINT LOOKS CLOSER ROAN DISCERNS A MULTITUDE OF SHAPES, WRITHING, SCREAMING, TWISTING IN TORMENT.

  “WHAT DOES IT REMIND YOU OF, SAINT?”

  “MAY THE FRIEND SAVE US ALL.”

  “VERY ASTUTE. YOUR FRIEND IS, OF COURSE, FRIEND TO US ALL. MY DEVICE HAS BEEN CREATED TO HONOR HIM AND TO BENEFIT HUMANKIND. HELP ME AND YOU HELP THE FRIEND AND THE WORLD. YOU MUST EARN MY FAITH AGAIN, SAINT. TO DO THAT MEANS DELIVERING THE BOY AND THE CHILDREN.”

  “I WILL FIND THEM.”

  “I SHOULD BE VERY DISAPPOINTED IF YOU DON’T. NOTHING VEXE
S ME MORE THAN WASTE. BUT IT IS MY CURSE AS A LEADER TO HAVE TO, ON OCCASION, ERADICATE EVEN A PRINCE IF HE VEERS OFF COURSE.”

  “I WILL NOT FAIL.”

  DARIUS SMILES, TEETH FLASHING, AND HIS VISAGE MOVES FARTHER AND FARTHER AWAY.

  BACK ON THE PRECIPICE, THE BADGER IS HURLED FROM SAINT’S EYE. TAKING HIS HUMAN FORM, ROAN FACES THE KILLER OF HIS FAMILY.

  “COULD YOU SEE?” PLEADS SAINT. “DARIUS SEEKS TO CAPTURE SOULS AND IMPRISON THEM IN HIS MACHINE. I DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW HE WILL USE WHAT HE STEALS, BUT HE LIES WHEN HE SAYS IT WILL HONOR THE FRIEND. HE MEANS TO TAKE THE FRIEND’S PLACE, THE VERY PLACE OF GOD. HE IS EVIL, ROAN. YOU COULD SEE IT, COULDN’T YOU? SENSE IT? HE MEANS TO END EVERYTHING. GO TO THE BROTHERS, GATHER THE ARMIES TOGETHER, AND LEAD THEM AGAINST THE CITY. DARIUS MUST BE STOPPED.”

  ROAN STARES AT THE DEAD PROPHET IN DISBELIEF. “YOU’RE ASKING ME TO DECLARE AN ALL-OUT WAR?”

  “DARIUS ALREADY WAGES WAR. YOU’VE SEEN ITS VICTIMS: THOUSANDS OF DEFENSELESS CHILDREN, WHOLE VILLAGES ANNIHILATED—HE DESTROYS ANY WHO STAND IN THE MASTERS’ WAY. DO YOU NOT WANT TO SHIELD THEM FROM FURTHER HARM?”

  “BUT YOU HELPED HIM. HOW CAN YOU NOW—”

  “FOR MY PART IN IT, I AM HERE. AND I DO NOT ASK YOU, ROAN, I BEG.”

  “THERE MUST BE ANOTHER WAY TO DO THAT BESIDES FIGHTING.”

  THE DEAD MAN’S EYES CLOUD OVER. “I KNEW OF NO OTHER WAY. THAT WAS MY DOWNFALL. YOU HAVE HEARD WHAT YOU WERE MEANT TO HEAR.”

  THE CLIFF THEY STAND UPON BEGINS TO SOFTEN INTO AN UNDULATING MASS THAT CRAWLS UP SAINT’S LEGS, HIS CHEST, HIS NECK, UNTIL HIS EYES, STILL FIXED IN DESPAIR ON ROAN, SINK BACK INTO THE LIVING BOG.

  WEARY, ROAN ASCENDS TOWARD THE WHIRLING LIGHT THAT FUNNELS FROM THIS SEA OF WRETCHEDNESS, LEAVING SAINT BEHIND. TO LEAD ARMIES, TO SEND PEOPLE TO A CERTAIN DEATH, HOW CAN HE ACCEPT SUCH RESPONSIBILITY? HOW CAN ANYONE?

  REACHING THE VORTEX, HE HEARS VOICES. HIS PEOPLE. THE PEOPLE OF LONGLIGHT. THEIR SONG ENTICES HIM, BEGGING HIM TO SURRENDER TO GRIEF AND YEARNING, TO LET TEARS FALL, BUT HE DESIRES NOTHING MORE THAN TO BE WORKING BY HIS PARENTS’ SIDES AGAIN, FREE OF THE BURDENS THAT WEIGH UPON HIM.

  THE VOICES RISE, EACH A THREAD CONNECTING HIM TO A PERSON HE LOVED. THEY ENTANGLE AND INTERWEAVE, COCOONING HIM IN LAUGHTER AND LIGHT UNTIL HE IS BROUGHT BEFORE HIS MOTHER AND FATHER. HIS MOTHER IS DRESSED IN HER WORK-CLOTHES, A SMUDGE OF SAWDUST ON HER CHEEK. HIS FATHER IS IN HIS FORMAL ROBE, THE ONE HE WORE EVERY YEAR AT THE REMEMBERING.

  THEY HOLD OUT THEIR ARMS AND ROAN EMBRACES THEM. WIPING AWAY HIS TEARS, HIS MOTHER KISSES HIM. “WE’RE SO PROUD OF YOU.”

  “BUT I’VE FAILED. I’VE BROKEN EVERY RULE. EATEN MEAT, STRUCK OUT IN ANGER, KILLED.”

  “YOU WERE TAUGHT TO REJECT VIOLENCE AND AVOID THE DESTRUCTION OF LIFE,” SAYS HIS FATHER. “AND YOU LEARNED THOSE LESSONS WELL. BUT THOUGH THEY ENHANCE HUMANITY’S CHANCES OF SURVIVAL, ROAN, THEY DO NOT GUARANTEE IT. YOU WITNESSED THEIR FAILURE THE NIGHT LONGLIGHT WAS DESTROYED.”

  “EVERYONE SAYS I AM MEANT TO LEAD THEM INTO WAR.”

  “THERE IS NO OTHER WHO CAN,” SAYS HIS MOTHER.

  ROAN LOOKS AT THEM BOTH, INCREDULOUS. “BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I SHOULD.”

  ALTHOUGH HE MEETS HIS SON’S GAZE WITH A STEADY EYE, ROAN’S FATHER’S VOICE IS BURDENED WITH SORROW. “THE WAR WILL HAPPEN WHETHER YOU LEAD OR NOT. ROAN, THE GIFT YOU POSSESS WOULD BRING A VISION OF PEACE INTO THE CONFLICT. THAT WAS THE LEGACY OF LONGLIGHT. HOW TO USE IT IS A DECISION ONLY YOU CAN MAKE.”

  FOR A BRIEF MOMENT, ROAN LOWERS HIS EYES. HE HAS SO MANY QUESTIONS, BUT HE KNOWS NONE OF THEM WILL BE ANSWERED, THAT THEY CANNOT BE ANSWERED, AND PERHAPS HE DOES NOT WANT THEM ANSWERED. HIS PARENTS MADE THEIR CHOICES, NOW HE MUST MAKE HIS OWN. HE LOOKS UP TO FIND HIS SURROUNDINGS TRANSLUCENT, HIS PARENTS SHIFTING INTO LUMINESCENCE.

  “WAIT, PLEASE!”

  “WALK FREE, ROAN OF LONGLIGHT,” THEY WHISPER AS THEIR SHIMMERING LIGHT ENVELOPS AND SOOTHES HIM.

  Lumpy, his face fraught with worry, looms over Roan. “Are you alright?”

  Roan smiles. “Yes,” he says. And for the first time in years, he truly believes it.

  THE DORMANT VOLCANO

  WHEN THE MOON DIES IN THE EYE OF TAURUS, SET YOUR VIGIL TO THE EAST. AWAIT WITH PATIENCE ITS APPEARANCE UPON THE JOINED HANDS OF GEMINI, FOR IT WILL PRESAGE THE COMING OF THE NEW AGE.

  —THE BOOK OF LONGLIGHT

  ROAN’S SHOULDER TINGLES, the same sensation he had when Willum touched him, and a brown-speckled rat appears. Roan follows it as it scurries across a verdant landscape and onto Willum’s knee. Willum sits cross-legged, staring at his empty palms. Behind him, in the distance, a tree burns. Flames leap from its outstretched branches, cracking and spitting, an angry dance of shifting color. Roan can almost hear the screams in the frigid night air, the pounding of horse hooves, the roaring of warriors. The tree, Roan understands, is Stowe. He can see her face, the tears streaming from her eyes.

  He rushes to her, desperate to smother the blaze, but the fire repels him.

  Beneath the whispers of crackling light, Stowe’s voice is unmistakable. “Don’t worry. It is what’s meant to be but couldn’t be. I have been waiting for this. The future waits for you, Roan. I will meet you there, I promise.”

  The crimson flames shift to a brilliant blue, then in a burst of white light they engulf Stowe, leaving only a mound of golden dust. As Willum kneels to carefully collect the gleaming powder, a wolf howls. When Roan seeks out the source of the cry, he’s transported over the landscape to the crest of a hill. There, a huge bull stands, the setting sun a robe of red incandescence on the beast’s glistening black coat. The wolf holds Roan’s hook-sword in its teeth and drops the weapon in his hand. With great reluctance, Roan grips the hilt, the bull kneeling on its forelegs before him.

  The ground beneath him shudders and the earth peels open at the bull’s hooves, plunging them to where the rusting Novakin are stretched to breaking point across the fathomless abyss. Blood drips onto the iron forms like balm on a wound, the metal itself sighing with relief.

  Roan sees that the blood is coming from his sword. Stumbling back, he tries to drop his weapon, but it has become part of his hand and he can do nothing to dislodge it.

  Stepping past him, Willum lets the golden dust that was Stowe drift from his fingers onto the children, then turning to Roan, he smiles. “We have until the bull rises in the east. After that comes the end of all possibility.”

  Roan wakes with a start. The white cricket’s song lulled him to sleep while he waited here, on the edge of the volcano. The gentle noon sun still glints through the mist. How much of what he saw came from Willum? How much from himself—from his hopes, his fears?

  As if in prayer, he says their names out loud. “Lona. Bub. Jaw. Jam. Gip. Runk. Sake. Dani. Beck. Anais. Tamm. Korina. Geemo. Theo.” They have not left his thoughts for a moment. He has until the bull rises in the east to keep his promise. Next spring, six months away. He will not let them down.

  Roan’s musings are broken by wild laughter. Lumpy is hunkered down with Kira and a few other women, and he’s said something that’s amused them. They’re drawing out a map on a piece of parchment. The sight is like a great wind blowing the future inexorably toward Roan.

  As if he too senses its inevitability, Lumpy catches Roan’s eye. He points to the cliff edge. There, climbing up the trail, are two men. Warriors.

  Breathing deep, Roan lets the crisp air fill his lungs and steady his emotions. He rises to meet Brother Wolf and Brother Asp, sword in hand and Longlight in mind.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I WOULD LIKE TO THANK Pamela Robertson, Susan Madsen, and Barbara Pulling for their effort and support. This book would not have been possible without the contribution of Elizabeth Dancoes, who is responsible, in good part, for whatever grace this book achieves.

  Be sure to read the first book in The Longlight Legacy, The Dirt Eaters.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DENNIS FOON has written more than twenty plays for the stage. His body of work
is staged internationally and published in numerous languages. Recognition for his work as a playwright has come in the form of the British Theatre Award, two Chalmers awards, the Jesse Richardson Career Achievement Award, and the International Arts for Young Audiences Award.

  In addition to his many plays, Dennis has written extensively for television and film, including the award-winning shows Little Criminals, White Lies, and Long Life, Happiness and Prosperity.

  Dennis has written three other acclaimed novels for young adults: Double or Nothing, the award-winning Skud, and the first book in The Longlight Legacy, The Dirt Eaters.

  Dennis lives with his family in Vancouver, B.C.

  Text © 2004 Dennis Foon

  Edited by Pam Robertson and Barbara Pulling

  Copy edited by Elizabeth McLean

  Cover and interior design by Irvin Cheung/iCheung Design

  Cover illustration by Susan Madsen

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  This edition published in 2012 by

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  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.