Blind Man's Buff

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Hermes flapped a bit, then settled himself, and regarded the castle. “There is a bad feeling here, my illustrious lord,” he said. “I distrust it. My advice to both your lordship and to myself, is not to enter this place.”

  Nathan agreed. Although it stood tall, it seemed somehow to be only a shadow of the real thing, and not a solid building at all. The torrential crashing of waves behind it did not help, for flying white spray rose so high, the castle walls streamed with water and the wet stone reflected the speeding clouds, as though the towers hung in the sky instead of sitting solid on the ground.

  There was a narrow moat but it was full of rubble and only a few small grey and dirty trickles ran free.

  The drawbridge was down, the portcullis up as though it welcomed guests, but there was nothing else welcoming about its appearance.

  “I’m not going in,” said Nathan quickly. “I don’t trust it either and I’m not going to risk meeting Yaark. But I want to see what it’s like from the outside.”

  “Most unattractive,” decided Hermes.

  “And dangerous,” added Nathan. “But if the Octobr rebellion is ever to succeed we will need to kill Yaark, and perhaps set up a siege here. I should know what’s possible.”

  But he walked a little closer, keeping cautiously to the shrubs and bushes so that no one could see him from the high castle windows. Hermes did not follow. “I will fly above, my illustrious lord,” he said without enthusiasm, “if you order me.”

  “Not unless you want to.”

  Hermes did not want to. His sense of duty, however, made the decision for him. With a waddle and a flap, he flew up, soaring eastwards and up over to the castle’s grip on top of the precipice of cliffs. Flying on until he was just a small white streak in the sky, he swept around as though to return, and then, quite suddenly, disappeared.

  This did not bother Nathan at first. He believed the goose had flown through a cloud, or readjusted his flight to swoop down on the other side. But after some minutes, Hermes had not returned.

  Nathan crept a little closer to the shadowed gloom, then sidled around, attempting to see to the other side. There was no sign of Hermes, nor of any other bird. Eventually, now walking fast towards the coastline, he could look down and across to the ocean pounding against the rocks. He waited, staring. But he could see no sign of Hermes, nor of bedraggled feathers, nor of anything washed up in the waves nor on the shore. He could not understand what had happened, for the goose had been wary, and exceedingly careful. His reluctance would surely have stopped him landing on the top of one of the towers, or of coming down in one of the ruined courtyards.

  The chill seemed beyond any natural cold, for even without snow, the ice and frost lay thick and coated all the land in a pure white crust. The wind, freezing and relentless, blew in from the sea. And as he crept nearer, Nathan could see icicles hanging from the broken stones around the towers. Then he heard a moan, at first low and guttural, but then turning to squeal, high pitched and desperate. He thought it the wind, whining and whistling through the broken castle stones. But when it subsided, the wind was still strong. Nathan thought there was no reason for it to have stopped moaning, unless the horrible noise had not been the wind at all.

  Nervous, he walked a little closer, bending low and making no sound.

  The moaning began again, whirling around the stone walls and finally trailing off into an echo. Nathan felt his heartbeat thump faster and louder. But he was determined to discover where Hermes was, and whether he had been hurt, so Nathan crouched down even further, and crept closer to the cliffs. Now he was not far from the castle, and could see the strange patterns carved into some of the stones along the outer wall, and up one long streak in the larger tower. They were symbols of some kind, but he had no idea what they meant.

  Not only hidden in shadow, Nathan was also partly covered by the prickles of a scrubby tea tree, and felt safe for the moment. But nothing moved. He saw no sign of Hermes nor of any other life. Peering down to the bottom of the cliffs, the eastern ocean pounded against the dark rock face, swallowing the tiny cove of stony sand where slimy things clung. He was sure that falling there would mean immediate death. He edged away from the cliffs, and began to creep directly towards the castle.

  Now he could see into some of the broken and empty window frames where nothing but stars showed through. It seemed as though the castle was entirely abandoned, but so many had said that Yaark lived here, and Nathan did not want to risk it.

  But now he was terribly worried about Hermes, and he risked one soft call. “Messenger of Clarr? Are you there?”

  There was no sound, no movement and absolutely no reply.

  Once more Nathan crept closer to the castle. Now he could see the way past the open doors beneath the rusted portcullis, along a cobbled walkway and into a wide open square which he guessed was the bailey, leading to the Keep and the main tower.

  The third noise whispered softly behind him.

  Nathan whirled around, peering into every shadow. He saw nothing.

  Somehow it seemed as though a low and threatening voice was oozing from the stones. “Trespassing the ancient secrets of Lashtang is the road to the greatest danger. Trespass if you dare.”

  He stopped very still, waiting for someone to rush out at him, but no one did, and the whisper sank into silence.

  Two steps more.

  A dank and dirty mist began to rise from the stone walls, as if the ivy vine had a new life and was trying to reach the stars. Like smoke, it twined and twisted, circling towards the sky, then slinking back. It squashed into sudden shapes, a giant climbing, his vast toes, ingrained with dirt, discovering footholds in the broken stone. He had a parcel, squirming to escape, over his shoulder.

  But the giant became a swarm of spiders, eight-legged monsters racing to the moon. Then a serpent, almost as large as Clebbster. Finally a whistle of wind, and a change to a river of squirming things, of maggots and slugs, snails, eels and cockroaches with stretching, seeking antennae.

  Whispering without words. The whine of pain turning to a mournful howl.

  It started to snow again. But the snow rose from the ground around Nathan’s feet, and floated, frost clear, up into the night sky to rest amongst the stars.

  Nathan refused to hesitate any longer. He ran across the drawbridge and over the cobbled path until he stood at the base of the largest tower, gazing up at the black stone turrets, and hoping to see the flutter of white feathers.

  “Come in,” whispered the same voice from nowhere. “Come in and feast with us. We invite all the fools of Lashtang to be our guests. Come in and be welcome.”

  Nathan ran up three stone steps and kicked open the tower door, which hung broken on one rusted hinge. At once three large icicles hurtled down from the top of the arched doorway, pointing directly at his face. Hunching his shoulders, he ducked and avoided the long slithers of ice needles, but it had certainly felt very much as though those icicles had aimed themselves purposefully to stab him.

  “But never hope to leave,” continued the whisper. “Once you enter here, you are mine.”

  Nathan clutched tightly to his knife, entered the rich thick blackness, and called loudly, “Hermes? Are you here?”

  No answer. But the silence seemed to whisper.

  In front of him, almost entirely covered in cobwebs, was a staircase winding up into deeper shadow. There was no other entrance. Nathan stared. The door remained open behind him. So he started to climb the steps, sweeping away the cobwebs as he climbed, waving his arms and kicking both feet. The sticky webs fell away, but some clung to his hands and legs, and clasped like tiny glued threads.

  He continued upwards. An arrow slit on one landing allowed him to peep out, and he saw the snow, still snowing upwards from the crusty white ground and into the sky above. He could see nothing else. So once again he climbed the winding staircase, sometimes leaning back against the wall to rest. It seemed a very long way. The tower had looked tall from the outside,
but this felt taller, as if he climbed into the moon.

  The stone beneath his feet was cold, and the ice felt as though it seeped into his boots. Each step was uneven, some steep, some shallow, and some slanted to one side or the other. Many were dipped in the middle, and most were slippery so that the climb was not so easy, and Nathan constantly felt as though he might slide backwards, and slip all the way down to the bottom again.

  It was a long time before a landing led off from the steps, with a very high door at the other side. Once again the landing seemed to slide him away, its stone wet and slimy. But Nathan held himself balanced with his arms outstretched and holding to both side walls. He approached the door, holding his breath and horribly nervous, then kicked it open. Without a sound and without difficulty, it swung wide, and showed a long thin chamber within.

  Nathan entered. The room was empty except for two things. One was a large window without glass or curtain, through which the wind whistled. The other was a long bed. The bed was golden metal, and thickly covered in swathes of fleece and cushioning. And on the soft coverings lay one of the Hazlett twins.

  Whether it was Brewster or Wagster, Nathan could not be sure, but a top hat was perched on one of the nobs of the bedhead, and the man’s shoes were shining red. So Nathan guessed it was probably Wagster.

  He lay very still, very straight, his arms down tight at his sides, and his legs close together, unbending. His hands and body seemed limp, and were neither stiff nor alert. It appeared that Wagster slept.

  Or, thought Nathan suddenly, was dead. He leaned over the man’s quiet face. He could feel the warm breath against his cheek, and smell the soft steady exhale. Not dead, then. But deep in sleep.

  Without the hat, Wagster’s head was partially bald and just a few thin straggles of black hair were pulled across from ear to ear. His bright green eyes were fast shut, his long thin face was relaxed, his bony knees jutted up from the tight black trousers, his black jacket was buttoned to the neck with barely a sign of the dark shirt beneath, and apart from breathing he did not move, or twitch, or splutter.

  They were the same clothes he always wore, and always had since Nathan had first seen him, making Nathan wonder if the twins ever washed them. Nathan once again leaned over. Then he saw, surprised, that a small slug or maggot-like thing, pale cream and fat in folded creases, with its antennae protruding in two small spikes, rested, also asleep, on Wagster’s high hairless forehead. And floating just above the slug was a tiny blue star, small as a whisker, but glittering in the shadows.

  Moving back quickly, Nathan stared and swallowed, feeling sick. His stomach heaved. He would have loved to run back down the stairs and get away, but he had still not found Hermes, and that was all he had come for.

  The danger seemed remote. Everything slept. There was no other thing in the room except those relentless unmoving shadows. So hurrying away, Nathan left by the one door, but did not close it behind him.

  He looked around. Then up. There was a trapdoor cut into the stone ceiling, and it was low enough to touch. With a little jump, Nathan pushed upwards and the trapdoor opened. With another jump, he managed to grasp the edged of the little space, and then, slowly and with bruises, hauled himself up, scrambled out, and found himself sitting up amongst the ramparts, the broken turrets all around. And there on the wet dark stone before him, lay Hermes.

  The white bird lay face down on the stone and the frozen snow, as though crash landed or shot down. His wings were spread, feathers already snow bound, neck bent, and his head to the side. His eyes were shut.

  Nathan, thinking of nothing else and without a moment to wonder, ran over and bent in the snow beside the goose, stroking his head and feathered back. He felt the cold and the frosted stillness, and began to cry. He bent there, knees in the freeze, and wept.

  But as his tears, warm and salty, fell on the side of Hermes’ head and onto his eyelids, Hermes moved, just a flutter of his stubby tail, and a faint glimmer of life.

  Immediately Nathan scooped him up into a frantic embrace, hugging the bird to his chest, but careful not to bend a feather or snap a wing. And very gradually, Hermes slipped back into life.

  With a voice that seemed to come from a distance, he muttered, ‘My illustrious lord?” and then fell limp again.

  “Oh no,” begged Nathan, still in tears. “And it is all my fault. Don’t leave. Don’t die. You are such a precious friend. My most beautiful companion.”

  He felt a flutter and within the bird’s body a sudden pump, as if the heart had sprung back into function. “You order me, my lord?” croaked Hermes.

  For a moment Nathan spluttered, not wanting to order his suffering friend. But then he suddenly realised that this was what he had to do. So he sat up straighter, and spoke louder. “As the Lord of Clarr, I order you not to die. As the lord to the messenger of Clarr, I command you to recover completely.” And then he waited.

  Hermes wriggled a few moments, righting his wings, legs and neck, then flopped out of Nathan’s arms and sat up. He groomed his wing tips, tested each flat golden foot, stretched his neck to right and left, blinked in a highly un-goose-like manner, and said in a voice far more like his own, “As the Messenger of Clarr, I must obey the Lord of Clarr.” He bowed his head. “I am therefore now completely recovered, my illustrious lord.” And then sat, rather hastily. “Perhaps not completely recovered. I need just a moment. But, “and he looked up, “I have no memory of what occurred. Was I attacked?”

  Nathan didn’t know. “I was down on the ground and watching you. You disappeared. I didn’t see what happened. But when I came to find you, I found something very strange.”

  “This is the Ancient Castle of Fibillank. The home of the demon Yaark. What occurs here cannot be explained, and everything will be strange.”

  “Do you feel strong enough to carry me?”

  “I do, my illustrious lord,” Hermes stood, eager.

  Nathan climbed on, settled himself, made sure Hermes was comfortable, and said, “I’ll tell you everything when we’re safely away. Let’s go – as far as you can.”

  But as Hermes took one step and spread his wings, a rumble of clattering thunder surrounded them, and apparently from nowhere, gigantic black metal chains appeared, wrapping around the whole tower, entwining and clashing as they linked, closing off windows and doorways from the courtyard to the turrets, clanking over their heads and wrapping them in cocoons of imprisoning weight above, below and all around. Their escape was blocked.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Is it still winter? Do you ever have a winter in Sparkan?” Poppy sat cross-legged on the flat plain of rocks, smiling up at the orange sky of flame.

  Wuz was swimming, but not in the Lake of Serpents. Several small ponds, linked by a river, dotted the rocky plain. The blue rabbits, the colour of a bright summer sky although a blue sky had never been seen on the floating island, were scampering across from pond to river bank, drinking and darting away. They were fast and very cautious, for they were sometimes the food of both the dragons and the lava wolves.

  Peter felt sorry for the rabbits. “Must you eat them?”

  Wuz chuckled. “Perhaps you’d feel sorry for us if we lay starving with nothing to eat.”

  “Eat the snakes instead.”

  “I’d feel sorry for the snakes too,” decided Poppy. “Come on, never mind about dinner. Let’s go for a walk.” She stood, stretching. “I suppose we’ll have to leave soon, so we ought to find the rainbow, or at least the ladder. We have to go home sometime. How long have we been here? A week?”

  “Longer, I think,” said Peter, thinking and trying to count the days.

  “Time is of no interest to us,” said Wuz. “But I have never seen the rainbow, and the ladder comes only if it is called by someone with the power.”

  Poppy looked startled. “But we haven’t any power at all. How do we get home? We can’t stay forever.”

  “The future,” said Wuz, “will look after itself as always.”r />
  He climbed from the small lake, shaking himself with a slight rattle of scales and a shiver of his long tail, and did a few skips around the rocks to dry off in the heat. Finally comfortable, he set off towards the coastline, folding his wings into tight tubes along his back. Poppy and Peter followed. There was no way they could keep up.

  “Where are we going?”

  “For a healthy scamper,” Wuz called back. “And to find this odd rainbow of yours. It must leave from somewhere.”

  “We arrived on the Lake of Serpents.”

  “No landing strip there.”

  Poppy was lagging behind, when she saw something off to her right, which the others had passed unseeing. “Hang on,” she called, though no one did. She shrugged and walked to her right to have a look.

  The rocks stretched, flat and colourless, but dotted with crevices and small openings to caves and ravines. Where the little lakes were joined by the river, there also grew shrubs and weeds, but the scene stretched for many dreary miles with little to see. But as Poppy drew closer to the object she had noticed, she realised it was an animal of some kind, laying on its side and bleeding badly.

  It appeared to be a large dog, and Poppy immediately bent over it to stroke its head, and see if she could help. That was when she realised there was more than one head to stroke. With a jolt, she fell backwards, sitting with a bump on the rocks.

  The dog’s body was large, black-haired, and muscled. But from its wide shoulders grew three necks, each sinuous and strong, and each holding a separate head. At first the heads appeared identical, but after a moment she saw they were not. The central head was large, heavy jawed and seemed wolf-like, but on either side the heads were smaller and appeared gentle. All six eyes were closed, and all three mouths were open and gasping for air. The wound was on the central neck, and was bleeding badly.

  Poppy took a deep breath, hoped that Wuz and Peter would soon come back for her and protect her if necessary, and leaned over the dog once again. “I suppose,” she mumbled to herself, “that this is a lava wolf. I feel even more sorry for those rabbits.” Her long coat, open from the waist down over tight trousers, was already exceedingly torn, so now she ripped a piece from the hem and plodded over to the nearby stream, soaked it in the water, and brought it back to the dog. Washing the wound did not seem to wake the animal, so she rinsed out the torn rag, washed the injury again, and then with another strip ripped from her coat, she bandaged the wounded neck, binding the pieces of the injury tightly together. When she had finished, she sighed, and began to walk away, but a voice stopped her.