Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  Ash slammed his hand down on his belt buckle and lunged, kicking out with a single boot. He caught the creature on the furry side of its face, snapping its head around, briefly revealing a human cheek and eye before it flipped off into the dark.

  The car hurtled on, bounding out of the stone circle and into the blackness, bouncing and bucking over the broken remains of rocks, the creatures tearing along behind them.

  Their headlights reached out into the void, meeting nothing but the night. Soon a crazed mesh of beams of light fell about them as the convoy scrambled behind, careering out across the dark of the Barrens.

  The mesh became ropes in Sylas’s hands, twisting and bucking in the wind. His arms ached from holding so tightly, his hands burned, chafed by the coarse weave. The pain brought him quickly to himself and he felt his own limbs beneath him, the cold blast of the gale on his face.

  He gritted his teeth and clambered on up the ladder. As the Windrush lurched on a wave he stumbled, but he did not dare slow down – he had to reach the crow’s nest before it happened again. The ship was rocking like a colossal pendulum: he wouldn’t be able to hold on for long.

  He climbed quickly, hand pumping over fist, rung after rung. As he passed the top of the mainsail, he chanced a look down and saw the deck floating in a sea of blackness, and on that deck a jumble of frozen white faces looking up at him. He could see their horror and confusion. He shut his eyes and sucked in three deep breaths, then pushed on.

  Five more steps and he was at the bottom of the crow’s nest. He paused, working out how he was going to climb inside, and as he did so he became aware of the sway of the ship – so much worse up here. He waited for it to steady a little, closing his eyes, gathering his strength.

  And then he looked up, eyeing the brass rail.

  He crouched down and then threw himself upwards.

  His palms slapped on to the bar and he curled his fingers.

  Then he felt the chill of rain: wet, slippery rain.

  One hand slid away, sending his arm swinging into the winds. He tried desperately to hold on, but he felt his shoulder twisting too far, sinews being wrenched, pain shooting up his arm.

  As he felt his fingers slipping, everything went quiet and calm.

  It was as though the world was waiting. As though it was holding its breath.

  Then he heard a snap and a flutter. He felt something trace across his face.

  It was fabric, embroidered fabric, soft and smooth. He looked up and saw the Suhl standard, the white feather bright and vivid even in the night. It curled down from the mast above, sending out a tasselled finger as though offering its help.

  He snatched at its folds with his free hand just as the winds caught it up. It surged towards the storm clouds and carried him with it, sailing out over the ship, ripping his other hand free of the crow’s nest. He glanced about in panic and saw the basket drifting away, leaving him at the mercy of the winds. He looked down to where he was sure he would fall, along the length of the giant mast, past the bulge of the mainsail, through the lattice of rigging. He saw Simia, staring in horror from the wheel; Bowe, slumped in anguish against the railing; Paiscion, conducting the winds.

  Paiscion, conducting the winds.

  And sure enough at that moment those winds shifted and turned, pulling him back towards the mast. He felt the standard lift as though guided by a gentle hand, carrying him towards the crow’s nest. And then, miraculously, he felt the handrail in his palm. With a final effort he swung his legs up and over and let go of the standard, sending it back to the heavens, high and proud.

  He bowed his head for a moment, gathering himself, fighting through the flood of adrenalin. Finally he stood.

  The crow’s nest swung wildly but he held on, setting his hands wide on each side. He kept his eyes up, searching the blackness, looking for any sign of Naeo.

  And then he saw the headlights, carving through the nothingness like swords of light battling the dark.

  “There!” he yelled down to the deck below, pointing frantically. “There!”

  Naeo slammed her hand down on the needle.

  “There!” she cried, pointing out into the darkness. “They’re ahead of us! We have to catch up!”

  The car veered over the dry, packed earth, sending up a vast cloud of grey dust as it sped towards the riverbank.

  Naeo looked down and fumbled with the Glimmertrome until finally the catch snapped over the tip of the needle, locking it in place. She exhaled a deep sigh of relief, turning now to look with her own eyes, knowing he was close, praying he would find them.

  After a moment peering ahead into the darkness she looked around the car. Tasker was limp and unconscious on the far seat and Amelie was busy bandaging his wound; Ash was up ahead, leaning through the partition, talking to the driver and pointing out on to the Barrens. She glanced behind, out of the broken window, looking for the lights of the other cars.

  Four beams. Only two cars.

  The others were gone, lost somewhere out in the blackness.

  “Look! There!” bellowed Ash. “There! Do you see?”

  Naeo scrambled to the window, her eyes searching through the shattered glass.

  And then she caught her breath. She did see.

  It was a miracle. A beautiful, wonderful miracle.

  High above the Barrens and lit by the leaping beams of light, was a gigantic white feather.

  The feather of truth. The feather of the Suhl.

  “Reach for the silvered glimmer on the lake,

  Turn to the sun-streaked shadow in your wake,

  Now, rise: fear not where none have gone,

  For then, at last, we may be one.”

  THE CAR SKIDDED TO a halt on the riverbank, its wheels pushing dust and ash into the waters below. The others tore up behind, slamming on their brakes just in time to avoid plunging into the river. They were hardly cars at all now, but monsters of twisted metal, of gashes and punch-holes and shattered glass. Their bruised and broken engines spewed clouds of blue-black smoke, like flares calling for rescue.

  The occupants tumbled out into furious winds, scrambling from the nearest door or window, gathering at the water’s edge. Tasker was the last, still unconscious and deathly pale, borne between the shoulders of Ash and Amelie. And there they waited, whipped by the winds, gazing out into the dark. The flag had disappeared, no longer lit by the gathered headlights but out there, somewhere – close but out of sight.

  No one could speak. They waited in quiet, collective yearning, trying not to listen to the howls and the wails out on the plains, or the rumble of claws in the dust, getting closer every second.

  And then they saw it, like a spectre through the dark, silent and vast. It rode water and wind as lightly as the feather that fluttered from its masthead. As it turned towards them, passing through the golden beams of the headlights, Naeo felt the pain in her wrist – that familiar ache around the Merisi Band. It seeped into her bones and up her arm, but how welcome it was now.

  The winds suddenly seemed to drop and as they did so the keel rocked and veered, turning swiftly to draw up to the bank. The colossal sails sank back, the rigging fell loose, and in moments it was there, striking the earthen bank with a boom. They heard a sharp snap from above – a bolt being drawn. There was a clatter of chains and a gangway fell at their feet, gouging into the dust as the ship came to a stop.

  A lone figure stood in the shadowy opening. He had a proud, sallow face and his spectacles caught the light.

  “Paiscion!” cried Ash, stepping forward.

  The Magruman opened his arms to the gathering. “Come aboard, all of you!” he said, flashing a warm, welcoming smile.

  Suddenly the Barrens seemed to let out a moan.

  Paiscion squinted past them into the darkness. The moan quickly became a chorus of howls.

  “ON BOARD!!” he cried, waving them on. “NOW!”

  Naeo could not help herself – she turned and gazed out into the night.

&nb
sp; The darkness was no longer still and featureless but a muddle of shadow shifting against shadow, of dark forms bounding on dark earth, black claws tearing at black dust. And in the midst of the frenzy, hundreds of pale eyes, cool and unblinking, bounding towards their prey.

  “Naeo!” shouted Paiscion urgently. “Hurrry!”

  Naeo whipped about, stumbling on to the gangway just behind her friends as they were hurled into the belly of the ship. Paiscion reached out for her, seizing her hand and yanking her forward so that she almost tripped into the passageway. Even as her feet slapped down on the timbers of the Windrush, the chains roared around her and the gangway swung into the air, slamming shut with a deafening bang.

  She heard howls and wails outside and then something new: shrieks and cries from above her head, from the passengers of the ship.

  “Cast off!” cried Paiscion, scrambling past her then up some narrow steps. “Cast off NOW!”

  Sylas heard the terrified cries and looked out from the rope ladder, across the decks, following the gaping faces and frightened eyes. Most were looking out at the Barrens, at the halo of light cast by the headlights. There were too many creatures to count, some running as men, heads up and eyes fixed on the ship; some sprinting on all fours, using their arms to gather speed. There were hundreds of them, and they were gaining fast.

  Some of the passengers were staring out at the river, where the Slithen had made up for lost time. They were too close now, their spiny backs forming an endlessly breaking wave. Sensing their victory they gargled their battle cry, their screeches and whines joining howls and wails in a monstrous chorus.

  Suddenly Paiscion leapt from the hatchway, raising his arm to direct the winds.

  But Sylas was not frightened. He felt calm and strong.

  He felt whole.

  His gaze turned to the hatchway, to that small patch of darkness in the middle of the deck from which Paiscion had emerged.

  He knew that below that deck, through that doorway, they were there; that both of them were there.

  He clambered down the ladder, jumping the last few rungs at once and landing on the deck. As he did so, a figure stepped up from the darkness of the hatchway – strode towards him – took his hand, her bright bracelet shimmering like his own.

  As one they turned their eyes to the great lungs of the storm.

  The Suhl were silent now. No one whimpered, no one cried out. They were watching Sylas and Naeo.

  “Ready?” asked Sylas.

  “Ready.”

  The question and the answer came in the same instant, so they could not be told apart.

  They closed their hands through the pain of the Merisi Band, and held on.

  For each of them it started like before, when they had reached up beyond themselves for the sun’s rays or for the ravenous winds. They felt themselves become larger than they were, stretching up into the skies until the skies became them and they the skies. But then it changed. For a moment, up there above the storm clouds, they felt warm and welcome. They felt as though Nature herself was there to meet them.

  The Ghor snarled lustily as they leapt from the riverbank, sinking their claws into the smooth timbers of the Windrush, tearing at the gangway until it sprang ajar. The Slithen hissed their delight as they spidered up the hull, swarming up the stern, tumbling over each other in their thirst for blood.

  But they were not heard.

  Nothing was heard but the voice of the heavens, screamed in strains of thunder. It was a yell of fury, the command of Nature herself. She reached down from that highest place with a seething fist of wind, lashing out at the Windrush with a blow of awesome, crushing force.

  And yet it was as though that charmed old ship was waiting; as though those ancient timbers and well-worn ropes had always known that this would come. Because when the wind struck, the masts did not splinter, the rigging did not snap. Instead the Windrush creaked and groaned, gathering the gale in those grand old sails, catching it in rope and canvas and twine. The bow lifted, the wheel turned, and she set sail.

  The Ghor and the Slithen cried out in horror as claws were torn free of timbers and slimy palms were wrenched loose from railings. Bodies black and grey were thrown from the ship’s sides, sent spinning into the waters below. Some clung on, digging their claws deep into the bucking body of the ship, biting down on the anchor chain, wrapping themselves around the tiller. But soon they felt the winds curl about their limbs, whipping at their flailing flanks, sucking them down. They raged and snarled at an enemy they could not see and, one by one, they lost their battle. With a desperate howl or shriek they spun off into the darkness, twisting in the tumult, tumbling into the waters below.

  The Windrush sailed on into the night, carrying its precious cargo of the sick and the wounded and the free, of not one Magruman but two, of the Merisi and a mother from another world. Of Naeo and Sylas, standing bold at its helm, their minds lost in the storm.

  And as time passed and the ship steadied on its course, as it skipped lightly over the glassy waters, the two children opened their eyes for the first time. They saw the passengers staring at them in wonder, they saw the bow leaping on a cushion of air, they saw the shadows of the passing Barrens. And they saw Paiscion, his face full of emotion, his eyes glistening behind his glasses.

  He looked from one to the other. “At last we may be one,” he murmured.

  They both smiled.

  The Magruman looked up at the straining sails. “The Windrush hasn’t sailed like this since –” he laughed – “in truth, I’m not sure she’s ever sailed like this!”

  But when he looked down, he saw that neither had heard him. Naeo was gazing towards the stern of the ship, to a figure propped against the railing; and Sylas’s eyes were on the dark hatchway, peering into the gloom.

  Their two hearts pounded in unison, the excitement almost unbearable, but they hesitated.

  “Come,” said Paiscion. “I should be able to manage the winds for a while.”

  And then a new voice chirped from the direction of the hatchway.

  “I’ll help!”

  They all turned to see a great crop of blond locks rising into view, dancing in the winds.

  Sylas grinned. “Ash!” he cried.

  Ash heaved himself out of the hatch and straightened his clothes. “The very same,” he said with a grin, walking up and placing a hand on Sylas’s shoulder.

  Paiscion smiled knowingly. “Made your peace with Essenfayle, have you?”

  Ash turned to Naeo. “Let’s just say I’ve learned that there are more than Three Ways to skin a cat.”

  Naeo laughed, and glanced briefly in Sylas’s direction. Then they both took a breath and began lowering their arms.

  And as they ceased their conjuring, Ash and Paiscion began theirs.

  The winds raged on, sweeping down from the heavens and filling the wide span of the sails. For a moment, the gale faltered a little, no longer a mighty surge but a squall, spilling from the sails. Howls became wails; the thunder, a distant rumble. The ship shuddered and veered, dipping for a moment back into the waters so that Simia cried out, wrestling with the wheel. Many of the passengers had to lunge to steady themselves and a shout of fright went up from the decks.

  Paiscion and Ash eyed one another, but neither wavered. They lowered their heads, closed their eyes and set their arms wide, reaching into the furthest flurries of the storm. The winds began to come in gusts, making the ship leap and buck, but slowly the gusts became longer, picking up the bow, holding the sails taut. And then the gusts became a sustained wind, steadying the grand old ship, holding it to its course. The Windrush gathered pace and forged on, not as swiftly as before but still dancing with the winds, skipping lightly along the river.

  The two men exchanged a triumphant smile.

  “It seems we have a new Magruman,” murmured Paiscion.

  Sylas and Naeo had already walked away, Sylas one way and Naeo the other, their eyes fixed on a single spot. The Suhl spoke to th
em as they passed, whispering their heartfelt thanks, asking them to stop a while, but they did not pause.

  Sylas saw a movement in the hatchway and was struck by a sudden fear, a fear that after all this, after everything that they had been through, she would have changed: that she would be different from those precious, well-worn memories of her.

  His step faltered and in the same instant, so did Naeo’s.

  She could see her father clearly now, bruised and broken, his knees shaking, his face beginning to crumple. And it frightened her. He had always been so strong, so constant and true. And she his Nay-no – his little Nay-no.

  What had happened to him?

  How could she have left him like this?

  But then, in an instant, the doubts and questions disappeared. He started to fall, to slip down from the railing, unable to stand tall for his girl any longer. She rushed forward, darting between the remaining passengers, catching hold of him so that they fell together. They slumped down on the decks and they held on, so tightly that Naeo could barely breathe.

  She sobbed into his heaving chest and then looked up into his face.

  Into those deep, deep eyes.

  It was her eyes that broke Sylas. Her eyes, looking up at him as she climbed on to the deck. They were no different from his memories, no different from the picture above the trapdoor in his room, no different from the last day he saw her – that day in black and white.

  Except that these eyes, these were vivid and bright.

  And they were blue. How had he forgotten? The blue of a summer sky.

  They held him before he felt her embrace. They drew him close and told him he was home.

  Simia leaned on the wheel and watched, her throat tight, her eyes heavy with tears. They were tears of joy, she told herself. Joy at seeing Sylas so happy. And Bowe with the daughter he had lost. They looked so joyous, how could she not be?

  But there was sadness too. She turned her eyes up to the rigging, frowning at a perfectly sound knot as though it needed her immediate attention. She would allow herself a tear or two, but later, not now. Now wasn’t the time.