The Dead Wind

by Dennis Monaghan

  Bartok stepped into the hall, and Lieutenant Stev motioned to Ides, who took the lead, across the crowded floor, through the ornate double doors, and into the fog.

  Eleven

  Woodside Mill

  Grandfather Lute let Bell and the twins know this was their last chance to search the ridge behind the forge until after the tomorrow’s welcome feast. They had found countless nooks and crannies that they imagined could be the missing Grotto. Their knowledge of the lower half of the hill had grown remarkably. Today they would go a little higher.

  The days Bell spent exploring with the twins were filled with laughter and excitement, a relief from the tragedies they had experienced from the Dead Wind. Book and Page dashed from one imagined adventure to another. With the role of scout leader, Bell had no trouble bossing the twins, but she pushed only so far. She enjoyed their company too much to risk rebellion.

  Bell dashed across the rocks fording the mill stream, cloth bag hanging across her shoulder. Using her rattan pole for balance, she made it across completely dry. Book and Page splashed right through the water and scrambled up the bank.

  “That's not very scout-like behavior,” Bell scolded in her best imitation of Big Red's no nonsense manner. “Stirring up mud, scaring the fish—now the Evil Wizen Noster will know something has happened upstream”

  Bell couldn't really remember the story about Noster, but the name was enough on which to build hours of adventure. The Evil Wizen Noster had dogged their trail throughout their search for the Grotto. Sometimes they had to do battle with his deadly creatures. When this happened, they would bravely leap about the rocks and dart into the trees, striking at the air with their staves.

  Today, Bell wanted to focus on their task. “Let's go higher up the ridge,” she said.

  Page agreed and took the lead with Bell behind him and Book bringing up the rear. They passed through the area they had already explored. One afternoon a fall of boulders had kept them back, but this time Page pressed on to climb these moss-covered rocks. When he got to the top, he waved Bell forward before walking out of view.

  Bell tackled the rocks then, pulling herself up the face of the lowest boulder. The climb was steep but not overly hard. She poked her head above the lip of the last rock. Page was several paces away, standing in a small meadow. He was looking across to a rock cliff, the base of which was hidden by live oaks, redwoods, and two house-sized boulders. The top of the cliff was hidden in the fog.

  “Come on, Bell, move,” Book said from below her feet, “I want to see.”

  “Oh, sure, sorry,” Bell climbed onto the meadow. Book scrambled up behind her.

  Page turned and waved them over. “I can feel something in the air!”

  “I can hear something in the air!” Book added.

  “The Grotto must be near!” Bell said, thrilled.

  They explored the meadow and the trees and the cliff face, each of them heading off in a different direction and returning to report and hear what the others had seen. None of them had found, and it seemed they could not find, the Grotto—even though the energy, which they all could feel, suggested that the Grotto was near.

  Finally, they sat on a big flat rock on the cliff side of the meadow. Bell was winded and confused. The Grotto had to be here somewhere but they had looked everywhere and nothing had come of their search.

  “We are missing something,” Page said.

  “We are missing some place,” Book said.

  “Well, I'm hungry.” Bell pulled her meal from her travel bag. “The Grotto will just have to find us.”

  The three settled down to eat, passing the water bag between them and enjoying the quiet music of nature. The morning fog had risen to the tops of the trees and random rays of sunlight played on the cliff face.

  The air seemed to vibrate with peace, lulling them into a dreamy state. As Bell watched the sunlight play over the rock face, she found herself being pulled into the One Wave. The earth seemed to shift. The water bag slid off the flat rock. Bell wasn't sure if she had nudged the bag by accident.

  “Did you feel that?” Book asked.

  “Do you hear that?” Page asked.

  “I think I felt something,” Bell said, “And yes, I hear water.”

  “There was no water before,” Book said.

  Page pointed. “Look where the sun is shining on the cliff face.”

  Dozens of thin ribbons of water gently tripped their way down the face of the cliff. Dark green moss clung to the gray rock; birds darted among pockets of ferns.

  “That wasn't there before!' Page shouted. The twins jumped up and ran toward the cliff.

  “Scout caution!” bellowed Bell at their backs. The twins stopped their race and took up the posture of scouts on patrol. Bell trotted up beside them, and together the three went among the live oaks and the large boulders. They had been here before, but something seemed different now.

  Bell stepped around a massive boulder toward the cliff face and gazed around in wonder. Hundreds of tiny falls tinkled into a clear pool of water. Ferns skirted the pool near the cliff, and grand redwood trees rimmed the area opposite the cliff face. This place could only be the Grotto, but how could they have missed this marvelous spot in their search? How was that possible?

  The base of the cliff formed the back of the Grotto. Around the edge of the pool, where the water, the cliff and the ground came together, rock walls enclosed a natural hollow in the cliff face, which had been masoned to form a dwelling with a cooking area and a sleeping space. Green velvet moss covered the gray stone walls and much of the ground. In the center of the clearing sat a large natural cube of grey stone.

  The stone drew Bell; she felt a great anticipation fill her. She walked across the moss carpet and placed her hand on the waist-high top of the stone. A shock of energy passed from her hand to the stone, and the stone shimmered to life filling the Grotto with the vibrant power of the One Wave. Bell’s thoughts stopped, and she was filled with the radiance. The vibration from the stone enhanced and refined her awareness. Her energy mingled with the endless waves that made up all things. Part of her knew what it was to be a redwood tree, part of her tinkled down the face of the cliff to become one with the pool.

  Bell pulled her hand back gently and held it to her chest. She was stunned. This was beyond anything she had felt before.

  Book and Page each placed a hand on the stone and then clasped their free hands to join their experience as twins. They were wide-eyed and glowing with wonder. They stepped back from the stone and looked at Bell.

  “We see different,” said Book.

  “We hear different,” said Page. “Ever since the Dead Wind we have been able to, ah, read each other better and others too.”

  “The only good thing to come from the Dead Wind,” Book said. “But touching this stone has unlocked something else, a channel to the One Wave.”

  “And now we know what you and Grandfather Lute were hinting at,” added Page.

  “I never said a thing!” Bell protested.

  “No, you didn’t,” Page said. “But we knew. We would walk in on the two of you talking about the One Wave.”

  Book smiled. “Grandfather Lute is much better at covering up than you are, Bell.”

  “Oh dear! I should have known you two would find out.”

  “But this Grotto,” Book said, “is amazing. This place has opened us to the One Wave. We have to bring everyone here. They must touch the stone, maybe they will be opened.”

  Bell looked at the stone dwelling just a few paces away. She said, “Now that we’re here, let’s look around.”

  “Yes!” As one, the twins dashed for the portal.

  Bell followed, stepping over the stone sill.

  Bell was struck with how vast the interior seemed compared to the outside. The place looked currently occupied. A wooden table and two chairs stood on the stone floor to her right. Bell wiped her hand across the table—no dust. At her left stood a stone basin supported by a wooden
cabinet. Water channeled from the cliff face by way of a stone gutter, kept the sink bowl full. Windows overlooked the pool and the moss-covered cliff.

  Page inspected a clay and stone stove beyond the table. Book was at the rear in the cave portion of the hut, which appeared to be a sleeping and storage area. Bell could see a rack that contained colorful dried grass and sticks hanging from the ceiling. The walls held shelves: thick redwood boards doweled into the rock, filled with jars and baskets of many different sizes and shapes.

  A spice rack replete with jars of seasonings and herbs stood next to the sink bowl. Bell took one marked “Bay” and pulled open the stopper. The pungent aroma filled her nostrils, as if the leaves had been put up this season.

  “This hearth looks as if it was just swept,” Page said, pointing at the stove.

  Book rubbed some stalks between his finger and thumb, “These grasses look like they were set to dry last fall.”

  “What a wonderful place—the feeling of home,” Bell said. “I don't think anybody is living here. I think it has been waiting to be rediscovered or somehow been kept ready for us until we finally got here.”

  The boys nodded in agreement.

  “Let's go tell everyone. They must come here,” Bell declared and walked out of the stone cottage. The twins followed right behind her. When they got to the square stone, Bell paused. A woven grass basket was nestled next to the side of the stone facing the cottage entry.

  “What's this?” Bell picked up the basket and looked in. She held the uniquely patterned basket in front of the twins. “Look at these!” The basket was filled with thumb-sized twig and grass figures of animals and people, tiny buildings and trees.

  Page reached into the basket and took out a twig-and-grass cow—although it looked more like the skeleton of a cow.

  Page placed the cow on the top of the square stone and reached in for another figure, this time a tiny redwood tree. He placed it on the stone next to the cow, accidentally knocking over the cow over with his hand. The cow righted itself.

  “Did you see that!?” Page said, jumping back from the stone.

  “That cow stood up!” Book said.

  “I saw!” Bell said, reaching into the basket and putting another tree on the stone.

  Nothing happened.

  Page set a sword on the stone. The sword slid back into the basket.

  “Whoa!” the twins exclaimed.

  Book pulled another sword from the basket. This sword, too, slid back into the basket. The three young people began placing all sorts of twig-and-grass replicas on the stone top. Some things stayed there, and others slid back into the basket. In the end, what remained on the stone top was a miniature version of Woodside Mill and its surroundings, including the Roadside Inn. The buildings were all in their places, and male and female twig figures occupied replicas of the appropriate farms.

  Some of the figures were recognizable. The twig man that was Grandfather Lute was unmistakable. The sisters were identical twig women, one dark, and one light. Most of the figures looked like young people and children with no real definition.

  The three of them looked at the stone in awe. The figures seemed to have stopped moving. But they could feel the stone shimmering with energy.

  “Let’s go tell Grandfather!” Bell said. The three ran for Woodside Mill.

  The Butte

  Noster stood before the chamber’s rock wall. Its face, pitted with large holes, resembled a vast honeycomb. A semi-transparent membrane covered each cavity, and vague forms moved slowly behind the membranes. On the rock floor at Noster’s feet, a cloth sack of rotten meat exuded a horrible stink. Turning to Bast and his team of soldiers, Noster explained, “The giant electric slime worms that live in the swamp around the Butte lay their eggs in these cavities. I have manipulated and infused this batch with the vibrations that will make them blood riders.” Demonstrating, he raised his arms and stretched his fingers wide. From his hands, he then cast a black-red fire, which incinerated the membranes.

  Cow-sized larva with black bodies and white heads slid from the smoking holes and trembled on the rock floor. One larva was damaged in the fall; the others turned and began to feed on the injured larva.

  “Drag that sack of meat to the holding chamber,” Noster directed. “The larva will follow. Don’t let them get too close, or you will become their meal.” He watched as the beginning of his elite force slid by him, leaving a slimy trail.

  Noster then returned to the throne room. “The blood riders will possess more intelligence than the human warriors,” he told Bast. “I will be able to control them with a mind link over the One Wave. They will be fearless, and they will do my bidding. Some will be my eyes, some will lead the army. In time,” he added, “there will be enough blood riders to attack the City.”

  After pausing to sit, Noster turned to Bast with instructions. “While I wait, you are to take a train of trade wagons to the City. You will pose as a Bottom trader and introduce a tea made from the Crim mushroom. The tea grants illusions of invincibility and for a time provides physical strength. But the price the body pays is heavy, and the user is debilitated for days afterward. These first barrels of the tea have been diluted so the after-affect is tolerable and the desire for more is strong. The next shipment will be stronger, and just before our army is sent to attack the City, a last full-strength dose will be distributed to incapacitate them all.

  “This step is vital,” he added. “Leave here as quickly as you can.”

  “Yes, my lord Noster,” Bast responded.

  “Is Bottom occupied? Have you secured my food?”

  “Yes, Lord, prisoners should be coming now.”

  “Have five brought to me when they arrive. You may go.”

  “Yes, Lord.” Bast left the throne room.

  Noster placed his hands on the Altar Stone and drank in the power. A spasm shook the One Wave. Noster felt the Woodside Mill Grotto Altar Stone come alive, and he had a brief tantalizing contact with the young woman who had set the stone to life: a tasty meal to look forward to.

  The City

  Bartok waited to meet the artists in the gardens off the speaker's suite. He sat on a carved stone bench cunningly crafted to resemble a natural stand of rock. The area under the majestic live oak tree was arranged to look like a natural rock garden, but in reality each formation was a chair or bench thoughtfully placed for comfortable conversation. Bartok thought this beautiful setting would please the artists and possibly make them less aggressive regarding the invitation.

  “The artists are here, Captain,” Nance announced through the glass doors.

  Bartok rose. “Show them in.”

  A tall, dark-haired woman stepped into the garden. Bartok watched a smile brighten her face as she touched one of the rock chairs and looked around.

  A young man, about Bartok's age, followed. He, too, smiled and looked at the chairs. “How good to see these again,” he said to his companion.

  Seeing Bartok approach them, the young man dropped his smile and said, “Captain Bartok, I am Michael. This is Cara Sagra.”

  “You have seen this artwork before?” Bartok asked, speaking to the woman.

  She nodded happily, but it was Michael who answered. “She made them, Captain.”

  “I am truly honored.” Bartok bowed to her. “Thank you for surviving the Dead Wind, Cara Sagra.”

  “And thank you, Captain.”

  “Come and sit. Let us talk.” Bartok led them to a shady spot under the live oak. “I thank you for coming. I feel I owe you an apology. I got carried away and spoke my hope for your participating in the festival. I fear I have overstepped my bounds.”

  Michael dismissed his comment with the wave of his hand. “That may be, Captain, and it may be otherwise. What matters now is the Festival of the Living and the Dead. I support the festival, as do most of the City artists. We will be able to provide music around the City, in the squares and halls. We also have many other kinds of performers who are willing t
o participate. But,” Michael paused, “we have problems with supplies and logistics.”

  The captain nodded, sensing the potential of hostility within Michael but noting his enthusiasm. “I propose to open the City treasury to buy the goods and services for the festival. Make a list of all that you need, and I will let it be known that the government will pay for or obtain those items. I will have the City Troop deliver what you need. Hopefully this will help the economy get started again.”

  Michael’s mouth opened, but he was too surprised to speak. Cara smiled and said, “That’s an excellent plan, Captain, just what the City needs. Jana said you could be reasonable.”

  “Scout Jana? How is she? Where is she?” Bartok, cheeks flushed, and he consciously stopped himself from babbling.

  “She didn't want to be an influence on this meeting,” Cara said. “She is off riding somewhere.”

  “Well, tell her as a scout she must report to the captain of the City,” Bartok, said. Then he laughed and added, “At least once in a while.”

  “I will tell her,” Cara said. “Now, would you like to hear our plan for the Festival of the Living and the Dead?”

  “Yes, although I was hoping to leave all of the decisions and arrangements to you.”

  “We would like nothing better,” Michael said.

  Cara stepped in, saying, “The night will be filled with music, starting with The Requiem to the Dead,” composed by Michael and performed by his group. After that, dance music will be performed by various groups throughout the City. At noon the next day, there will be a masquerade, beginning with a parade from Government Square to Market Square. Throughout the day in many different locations, various forms of entertainment will take place: plays, jugglers, tumblers, magicians, and the like. The inns and cafes will have outside stalls with an abundance of food and drink.”

  “Wonderful,” said Bartok.

  “Later in the day, we would like to install and dedicate a memorial to the victims of the Dead Wind, placed at the location on the Wharf Road, where you threw the torch into the City Bay to signal the burning of the barges.”