Orion: The Tears of Isha
Page 13
‘What did you wish to show me?’ he asked, unable to hold the question back.
Mälloch gave no answer. He simply turned and started climbing down the side of the hill, waving for Finavar to follow him into the darkness.
Finavar grabbed his sword and skulked after him. After a few minutes he heard the noble laughing softly to himself. ‘The Darkling Prince, indeed. Perhaps Sibaris is not so stupid after all.’
Chapter Nine
A light rain fell across the forest, drumming against its fallen leaves and splintering the apple-green surface of its pools. It was late afternoon and as the shower turned into something more determined it broke through the trees and ran down the back of Clara’s neck. The old woman was crawling through a waterlogged glen, following the course of a small beck. A thick, clinging mist hung over everything and it was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. As the rain ran down her back, Clara looked up with a grimace. Wan light washed over her face, revealing a ghastly, corpse-like pallor, a snarling demeanour and a bloody scar on the side of her skull. As the eerie light shifted around her, the old woman scratched anxiously at her head. The wound was already covered with angry red weals and as she scratched more of her skin came away, revealing bright, bloody bone.
‘It has to be this way,’ she muttered, pulling her deerskin higher and continuing to crawl. The light at the far end of the glen was brighter and a little more wholesome, and Clara was sure it must mark the end of the forest. Perhaps it was even the lights of Garonne. She had no desire to encounter more peasants, but it would be a relief to see some good, honest bricks and mortar. Her encounter with the forest daemons was a blur but she knew that, even in her blind panic, she could not have fled that far beneath the trees. It was worrying that she had failed to find her way out already. Hours had passed since she ran into the forest and somehow she had failed to find her way back to the heath.
The Everwood was famously capricious.
Clara had the unnerving feeling that she had travelled farther than she intended.
‘I’m almost back,’ she said, a little louder, as though speaking the words out loud would make them reality. She lifted her snake-bone necklace to her mouth and gave it a fierce kiss. Then she waved her crook, trying to clear the mist, but it was useless; autumn had the forest firmly in its dank grip. Everything was muffled and vague. Clara’s confidence remained unshaken, though. Her memory of the event was sketchy, but she knew without a doubt that something wonderful had happened to her. The image of the white stag still lingered in her thoughts and her limbs still tingled with unnatural power. The sheer terror of her encounter with the daemons had confused her for a while, but now she remembered her purpose. She was destined to rule. She scratched at the wound again, unleashing another trickle of blood. If she could just master the peculiar energy coursing though her, she would return home a hero. She would have the Amber Brothers locked firmly in her grip
As she considered this, Clara felt the strange energy gathering in her palm. She looked down and let out a surprised curse. Her hand was no longer her own. It had been transformed into a powerful, leathery claw, complete with powerful-looking talons.
‘What’s this?’ gasped Clara.
Never, in all her years of arcane study had she been able to mould her flesh so easily. The merest thought had transformed her fist into a new shape. Her pulse raced as she considered the power she had been given.
Then she noticed that the transformation was not complete. Her excitement seemed to have fed the change and, as she watched in amazement, her forearm withered and blackened into the foreleg of a bird.
Clara’s elation began to be edged by fear.
‘Enough,’ she muttered, glaring at her mutating limb.
The dark scales continued to climb her arm.
Clara hissed the words of a spell, ordering her arm to regain its natural shape, but there was no response.
The change had now reached her shoulder and broad, tawny feathers began knifing through her skin and gathering beneath her robes, straining at the seams.
Panic gripped Clara as she realised the power was beyond her control. She raised her crook and screamed her most powerful oath, snatching amber flames out of the morning air and setting the staff alight.
Finally, the mutation slowed.
She barked out the words of the spell a second time, with even more vehemence, and, to her relief, the feathers began sliding back beneath her skin.
Clara shook her head and clamped her eyes shut. ‘What have you done, you old fool?’
Then she looked again at her arm and saw that it had almost returned to normal. Her breathing slowed and her panic subsided.
‘They have never seen power like this,’ she said. ‘My claim will be beyond reproach.’
She glanced nervously at the trees. ‘As long as I can leave soon.’ She felt sure that, once she was beyond the forest’s boundaries, she would be able to better harness the energy she had taken from the stag.
‘Let me leave,’ she gasped. She touched the scar on her head, realising that she had clawed at it again. ‘I appreciate your gift,’ she said, softening her voice, ‘but now you must let me go.’
She grabbed the crook and rose to her feet, abandoning any pretence of stealth and running through the sodden grass. Suddenly, nothing seemed as important as leaving the forest behind and returning to humanity.
As she ran, she failed to notice that one of the forest shadows had broken free and was following her through the gloom.
As Clara neared the end of the glen, she saw that she was right – the trees grew thinner as she reached the borders of the forest and shafts of pale light were visible through the rain and the mist.
Her heart raced and she realised just how afraid she had been. The forest air was stifling and oppressive, and as she reached the open hillside she gasped like a drowning man, rescued from the pull of the tide.
Strangely, despite all her hours of wandering, Clara had emerged at exactly the same point she entered the Everwood. She sighed with relief and collapsed on the wet grass. Then, as she sat up and looked down the valley, she frowned.
She was sure, from the shape of the valley, that she was in the same place, but there was no sign of the dead peasants. In fact, where their bodies should have been, there was now a smart cobbled path, snaking through the grass. ‘This must be a different valley,’ she muttered, shaking her head. But then, as she peered through the rain, she saw the squat outline of Garonne. Confused, Clara stumbled up a small incline, trying to get a better look at the keep. Her confusion grew. The shape of the fortified town was unmistakable, but something incredible had happened to it. During the few hours Clara had spent in the forest Garonne had aged so badly it had become a ruin. Its walls had slumped and tumbled, and in some places collapsed completely, and where the gates had once stood there was now a misshapen, lichen-covered maw. One of the towers had tumbled, spilling its stones across grass that had already risen up and enveloped them.
Clara groaned. ‘I’m bewitched!’ She whirled around and jabbed her crook at the trees. ‘What have you done to me?’ The trees watched her in silence but she knew the answer. Travelling south she had heard all the local folk tales. As she warmed himself by the hearths of friendly strangers, she heard stories of foolhardy travellers, entering the Everwood never to be seen again. And there were other legends. A gruff old farrier had cowered at the mention of the place and relayed a story of adventurers, thought long dead, staggering from the trees centuries after they were last seen, returning home with lunatic tales of forest daemons and attempting to reclaim estates from their stunned ancestors.
‘Where have you sent me?’ she demanded, looking down the valley at the oddly perfect road and the ruined keep.
Again, there was no reply, but as Clara looked down the road, she saw movement.
There was a shape on the h
orizon, a carriage, rattling over the cobbled road towards her. It was little more than a dot beneath the vast, lowering clouds, but it was travelling fast. Within a few seconds she began to make out four horses, hurling it through the rain.
‘I’m saved,’ she said, hobbling down the grassy hillside. The grass was slick with rain, but she used her crook to steady herself and reached the road with a triumphant laugh, sneering over her shoulder at the trees.
The coach raced through the dull, grey valley, shrouded in spray and growing larger every second. Clara began to make out a smart-looking carriage, painted deep, bottle green with a golden chalice emblazoned on the doors. The design was unlike anything she had seen before. The footboard was constructed to resemble the wings of a swooping eagle and the coachman’s seat was the bird’s back. The whole thing was constructed so ingeniously that, if not for the clatter of hooves and wheels, Clara might have believed an enormous bird was racing towards her.
As she reached the side of the road, Clara could already make out the coachman himself. His livery was as strange as his vehicle – he wore a simple, fitted jacket and a plumed cap – but the sight of a human face was enough to drag a yelp from Clara’s lips. She raised her crook and waved it frantically over her head.
‘Hey!’ she cried, stumbling out onto the road.
The coachman saw her and slowed the horses a little as she approached. He leant forwards on his seat and squinted through the drizzle.
As the coach slowed, Clara stepped out into a patch of pale sunlight, still waving her crook. The coachman was just a few feet away and he saw her clearly for the first time. ‘Ho there! What are you doing out here? The forest isn’t safe.’
‘Friend!’ cried Clara, stepping closer to him. ‘I’m lost. Take me to the nearest town, I beg you.’
As Clara approached him, the driver’s expression changed.
‘By the gods, what are you?’ he cried, drawing back in horror. Then he yanked the reins and drove the horses on with a howl.
The carriage jerked forwards and a shutter rolled down in the carriage door, revealing a furious woman’s face.
The face at the door looked just as horrified as the coachman’s and the shutter slammed back up again.
‘Stay where you are, daemon!’ yelled the coachman as the carriage pulled away.
‘Wait!’ cried Clara, waving her crook in panic.
The sound of hooves rang out through the valley.
As the carriage sped away, Clara saw the terror in the coachman’s eyes.
She stumbled after him, but in a few more minutes his face was hidden from view. The coach went thundering down the road, even faster than when Clara had first spied it on the horizon.
Despair and shock washed over her. The driver had been so shocked. Why had he been so afraid?
Clara dropped to her knees with a groan, letting her crook clatter onto the road. For a few seconds she was too shocked to think straight. Was her appearance so wild as to scare innocent people?
‘Why were they so afraid?’ she groaned, looking up into the whirling cords of rain.
‘What difference does it make?’ asked a piping, childish voice.
Clara flinched in shock. Then she clambered to her feet and stared up into the downpour. It seemed as though the rain had spoken to her. ‘Who’s there?’
The voice had come from just a few feet overhead, but Clara could see no sign of its owner.
‘Too many darknesses have passed, old woman,’ said the voice, quivering on the breeze. ‘You could never have returned anyway.’
‘Who is that?’ Clara peered into the rain. Then she staggered off the road and looked back at the trees. She suddenly had the horrible idea that the forest was speaking to her. ‘What do you mean, I could never have returned?’
The breeze picked up, snatching dead leaves from the forest floor and spinning them up into the rain, making a glinting, waist-high column of copper and gold.
‘You’re not one of them any more, old woman.’
Clara lurched back towards the trees, her eyes locked on the little tornado. ‘Who’s speaking?’
The spiral of rain and leaves vanished for a moment, then reappeared just a few feet away, fluttering in the downpour. As it moved briefly into the light, Clara glimpsed a vague shape in the tumult: the shimmering ghost of a child, smiling mischievously at her. The spectre was only visible for a second, but it was enough to terrify her.
She looked back at the road, wanting to flee, but something stayed her in her tracks. She touched her wound and wondered if it had unhinged her mind. She was talking to the rain. ‘Not one of them?’ she asked, with desperation in her voice.
The ghost child waltzed into view again with a tinkle of fluid laughter. His skin burned like an autumn sunset and as he spoke, his features shifted and rolled, as though even his bones were unable to stay still. ‘We’re playing games, old woman.’ He laughed, stepping fully out into the light, so close that Clara could have touched him. Then suddenly, his expression darkened. His face became a furious snarl. ‘You know what you’ve done! You’re a villain! You’ve stepped too often into skins that do not belong to you.’
He jabbed a trembling finger at Clara and crumpled leaves flew from the digit, flashing in the rain. As they tumbled around Clara they assumed the shapes of animals. ‘You’ve travelled further than you should, old woman, and it’s left a mark on your flesh.’ His rage grew and he slapped the side of his forehead. ‘The doors open both ways. What goes in comes out! I can see your soul, Clara.’
Clara’s stomach turned and she thought for a moment she might be sick. ‘I’m human,’ she said, slapping her sodden robes. ‘I’m human.’ A note of desperation entered her voice. ‘Why did they flee from me?’
The spirit’s expression changed again. The mirth and the rage had both vanished, replaced by a look of heart-rending grief. ‘He fears what he doesn’t understand, Clara, like all of them. His heart is hardened by the paucity of his learning.’ The spirit glanced at a puddle of water at the edge of the forest. ‘He fears your strangeness.’
An awful feeling of dread welled up through Clara. Why was the ghost looking at the pool with such a mournful expression? What was in there?
She trudged slowly through the mud, dreading what she might see, but unable to resist.
As Clara looked down into the puddle she was blinded for a moment by the moonlight. She could make out her silhouette and nothing else. She let out a sigh of relief. Her fear suddenly seemed ridiculous. What had alarmed her so?
Then as she grew more accustomed to the glare, Clara’s vision cleared and she saw her face in more detail. She winced as she saw the bloody wound where the peasant had clubbed her. Then she noticed something else and hissed. Her eyes had changed. They were no longer hers. They were glassy and inhuman – the eyes of an animal. They were obscenely wide and the pupils had become two tall, narrow slits.
‘What have you done to me?’ she screamed, whirling around and looking for the ghost child.
The glimmering column of leaves was now hovering by the edge of the road and Clara could just make out the strange little spirit, staring back at her. ‘What have I done?’ The innocent little face twisted into a hurt pout. ‘Why does the blame always fall at my door? Zephyr is always the guilty party.’ Tears glistened in the spirit’s eyes. ‘I know nothing of life and yet everyone accuses me. Zephyr did this. Zephyr did that.’
Clara shook her head, dazed by the ghost’s bizarre behaviour. As the column of dead leaves weaved back and forth across the heath, the spirit wailed disconsolately, clutching at its golden locks and shaking with dismay.
Despite the surreal situation, Clara began to feel oddly guilty. The ghost child had dropped to his knees and was sobbing violently. ‘What do I know of the world? How will I ever learn if people see me as the source of all ill? What do I know of vice?’
As she reached the spiral of leaves the child looked up at her. His expression was completely transformed. The tears had vanished, replaced by a disgusted, imperious sneer. ‘How dare you address me?’ The child looked down the length of his tiny, upturned nose. ‘You filthy little mortal. Do you think I care about your wretched existence?’
The leaves flurried and tumbled around Clara’s face, blinding her for a moment, and when she looked again, the ghost had vanished.
‘Wait,’ she gasped. With the spirit gone, it suddenly occurred to her that, left as she was, she could never return home. She would be dragged before a magistrate and handed over to witch hunters. Her heart pounded. ‘They’ll burn me alive,’ she muttered, spinning around and looking for the golden child.
‘Of course!’ came a reply from the rain. The voice was full of laughter again – verging on hysterics. ‘You’d be a bonfire before you’d gone two miles.’
‘Then help me!’ cried Clara, spinning around and looking up into the sparkling banks of rain. ‘Tell me what to do!’ She dropped her crook and clamped her palms over her hideous eyes. ‘How can I be normal again?’
The child was suddenly at her side, just inches from her face, and when it spoke its voice was devious and wheedling. ‘You’d like my help?’
‘Yes!’ cried Clara, howling with fear and rage. ‘Make me human again, for pity’s sake!’
The spirit’s lips were next to Clara’s ear. ‘I did not make this mess, old woman,’ it whispered, ‘but perhaps I can unmake it.’