by Sandra Waugh
She leaped forward, all bones and joints, and danced toward the hut. She turned her head once to look back at me. “Follow, little thing! You’ve not much time.” And she cackled and jumped for the door.
I followed her, to the single door, which she pushed open, then into the darkness. There was no window in this hovel. The boards were flimsy and gaping; little of the gray light showed through. And though it smelled of the smoke I’d sought, there was no fireplace, no fire.
“You enter,” muttered the Bog Hag. “But you do not belong.”
“I told you that I do not stay. Where is the path?”
I could hear her toothless smile widening. “This is the path, little thing,” she hissed softly. “You are on it.”
“Where?”
My blunder to show that momentary uncertainty; her grin nearly split her face. “Do you not see?” And then with her cackle, “Of course you do not see—”
“It is my right to know—” I stopped, realizing already it didn’t hold the same power.
“NO!” she shouted in my ear. “It is only your right to be pointed the way. It is all that you asked.”
“You play with me, Hag!” I cried. But then the memory came in one crushing blow: Twig warning me to be specific. The Hag was right. The Hag was right was the sickening realization. I should have asked her to open the path.
“Hah! I’ve pointed you! I’ve done my bound.” She leaned into me. A wave of rotting leaves fell around my shoulders. But they were her fingers, playing—drawing back strands of my hair. I slapped her off, but her fingers hovered.
“Your glorious hair I will keep,” she crooned. “ ’Twill dress me fine.”
And I gritted back, trying to stay commanding, “You’ll not have it, Hag. You’ll have nothing from me!”
“Not true, little thing! Not true. You are trapped here. You cannot see, so you cannot move. I’ll have every piece of you.”
“Open the path,” I hissed.
“Hah! That does not come for free.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Something you cannot give.”
“Name it!”
She crowed again. “What matters a name? You are lost, Birthday Guardian. You shall stand here until you waste away.”
I turned immediately to leave, but she was right. No longer was there any door. We merely stood in this dark place, no way in, no way out. I reeled back to her, desperate. “Open the path! Tell me what you want!”
“Why?” She preened. “You cannot deliver it—”
“Tell me! I demand it!” I stabbed my hand into my pack, the moonstone the largest thing to grab. “Here! A great gift for a Guardian! I will give you this!”
“Hah!” the Bog Hag screeched, and slapped my hand away. “The treasure is beyond you, little thing. A drop beyond your grasp.”
There was a change in her voice at that, something beyond the triumph of besting me. Something that became loss, rage, and despair. “And you do not tell me what it is!” I shouted at her. I stuffed the moonstone back in the pack and dug for something else—anything else.
“Never! I keep you instead!”
“Then I’ll learn without permission!” I yelled in return, and caught up her arm in my hand before she could jump back.
She screeched, she clawed at me, but she could not break my grip. I remembered the sensation of pulling Gharain from the rifting earth—my arm was as vinelike here; I would not let go. She leaped and tugged, but I was the stronger. Desperate determination; it was my only chance. And then I felt her energy come through my hand and I saw what she wanted:
A thousand souls swirling in an ever-tightening spiral. Plant and animal—a branch, a body, all draining into that spiral—smaller, tighter, until the souls were funneled out in one tiny teardrop. A single tear of blood.
She shrieked and squirmed, even as I released her arm. And I said to her in grim triumph, “I have your treasure. Open the path.”
“Give it to me!” she screamed. “Give me! I bring it home!”
I pulled open my pack, and ground my hand in once more to clench the tiny gem that Twig had bequeathed. I cried, “Open the path!”
“Let me see it!” she begged. “Let me but see it!”
“Open it first!”
“I swear it! I will open the path for you!”
I held up the little thing between my fingers. There was no light, but it gleamed anyway: a precious jewel—a thousand souls squeezed into one blood-red tear.
“Mine!” the Bog Hag whispered. Then she screeched, “Mine!” And even as she cried, a wall of the hovel shimmered and dissolved, revealing a rocky outcrop in the lonely wild of the Myr Mountains. Immediately, the eerie pull of the mountain caught at my body. I felt the drag toward its hard face.
“There,” she screamed. “There you are! Give me the tear!”
“This is the way?” I hissed.
“I am sworn. Give me!”
“Take it!” And I threw the teardrop high in the air, heard her spring to catch it, and I stepped far out.
“Thank you, Twig,” I whispered as the bog faded with the Hag’s victorious last shriek.
MY BREATH STEAMED, then dissipated in the thin air. I watched the vapor leave where I could not, the windswept face of the mountain rigid against my cheek as I hugged it for safety. For a time I let breath waft away, and then slowly eased around to center myself on the narrow ledge—its width only half my height—to face out with my back pressed to the wall, to look far away and imagine I saw a green splash of color that would be the realm of Castle Tarnec.
I dared not look down.
My hand went behind me to the rough granite, which shot straight up through the clouds. Gray rock, gray sky, gray clouds; the sun simply dissolved against the stone. So cold it was—achingly so.
Cautiously, I slid my pack from my shoulders and opened it to pull out Gharain’s tunic. I’d not been able to give it to him. I threw it over my head and tugged it close, inhaling its stillwarm scent of late summer—as when leaves have reached their peak, sun-drenched until they can hold no more. I breathed in his richness until I too felt drenched in him.
Fortified, but only briefly so. I looked around once more. I was on a thin break of stone. No seeming way up, certainly no way down. Where was the supposed path? I shuffled to one end of the precipice and felt the wall end behind me, cornering to nothing. I retreated and tried the other side. The wall dropped away there as well; I was confined to this tiny edge. A hint of panic crept in—maybe the Bog Hag had cast a spell, sent me to the mountains but with no direction to move. How long could I survive pinned as I was on this barren surface? To mock me, the wind whipped sideways across the face of the mountain and spiraled as it hit my little ledge. A push, a pull—a tease of movement to prove I was fixed to this spot before it whisked away, leaving the bleak cold. I sat down and laid my head on my knees, and wished for something I could not have.
The strange sensations I’d felt when I’d confronted the mountains on Rune’s back not so many days before were creeping in again. What had Gharain said? That I could be made to feel things others did not, a way for the Breeders to find us—this emptying of any feeling, this drag of body to stone, the eerie whirring in my ears.…
The eerie whirring in my ears.
Swifts! They’d have to be near. Heart pounding, I craned my head, searching the gray sky for specks of black. Perhaps this was home to them: circling these mountains in endless flight with no ability to land. I shuddered. Though I might die by Gharain’s hand, there was nothing I’d foreseen that implied I could not be badly burned by a swift strike first. Viewed from Tarnec, I would be but a tiny glint of mica in the forbidding rock.…
These were bad thoughts; they made my body limp. I wondered at my challenge of the Bog Hag—that I’d felt momentarily powerful in my impulse to grab her and learn her desire—for here I now sat, fixed, cold, and alone. Maybe I’d thwarted my own destiny, ripped away the end of my own story. Maybe I’d
lost the chance to reclaim the crystal orb. The whirring in my ears was growing. I’d soon be able to see the first swift.
Foolish, foolish girl.
I leaned back to put my head against the stone, moving the pack to do so, and I watched my hand, almost on its own, reach in and pull out the little ally token Twig had made me. Stone, cloth, and leaf—of the Earth, of love. My fingers curled hard around the little thing, mindlessly exploring the separate shapes and textures. I squeezed it tightly and then briefly pressed it to my lips.
Fear is what happens when you think you don’t know what to do.…
Out of nowhere the words flowed into my mind. I smiled a little and then grew stern. They were true, those words—too true. I was afraid.
Think! I charged myself. Think! Why stay so helpless on the ledge? Climb, descend; leap if you must.… Do something!
You do not climb over the Myr Mountains; you go through them.
Another murmur of things once spoken. And then in that moment I heard too the words of the hare I’d rescued from Gharain.
Dark entry to the world … the last stand on the windswept face. Go left—stay true.
I laughed out loud. Wisdom from allies remembered and shared, buoying me up in a moment of despair. You are not alone, the king’s words reminded, and Twig’s as well. Indeed, I was not. My ally token was speaking—the voices rang through me as clearly as if the speakers stood at my side.
There had to be an opening into the mountain. Standing up quickly, nearly losing my footing, I turned once more to the wall of rock and craned my head to search its face. An opening, somewhere. I scanned the façade, looking high and wide, slipping fingers into every crevice. I could see no entry.
That left below. Crouching sideways, gripping the sharp rim, and dipping my head down, I gingerly peered over the edge.
The drop was awesome. It was good that the mountain’s energy pulled so, for the sheer view from its plummeting sides could have drawn me over the precipice. But there—to my right—I could see a dark gap. That was it: an opening into the mountain, wide enough for a person to pass through. But more than the relief I felt at its discovery was the shock at its distance. It was too far. I could not hang over the edge; I could not slide down the sheer face. There was nothing to hold me. There was nothing to catch me.
I pulled up, panting, working through all the futile possibilities of stretching, falling, and jumping in such a way as to reach impossible entry—ludicrous ideas all of them. Then I derided each acrobatic exaggeration of my unremarkable strength.
Niggling hysteria was dancing at the edges of my brain. “Now what?” I shouted out loud at my token. Stay true, the hare’s words whispered once more. Stay true.
The tokens. They’d opened the way to the mountains this far. Two I’d not yet used. I opened my pack, returning the ally token and digging deep for the others. The moonstone I left alone and drew out instead the three lark feathers. Another time, another life, it seemed, when I’d found these three wisps. The cottage, the garden, the field, Grandmama, Evie, and Rileg—all so far away as to be almost unfamiliar. And neither was I the naïve recluse who’d taken the feathers from stone and bush and bird. Translucent quills, a brush of brown—
The whirring hit a shrill pitch. Gasping, I looked up. There were specks in the sky now, four, then five, growing larger by the moment. That horrid buzz pierced into my head, thrilled down my arms. I had to move.
Feather to wing—it made sense. I would fly with this token. I stroked the three feathers along my arms, against my hair. And I waited while nothing happened. I kissed them; I swept them across the pack, on stone. Nothing.
There came the swifts’ first shrieks; my body shook at the sound. “Please!” I shouted at the feathers. “Show me!” Was it a tug I felt on my arm? I didn’t know; I was already standing, shouldering my pack, gripping the lark feathers. “Please!” I waved them above my head. Nothing. I was rock-bound.
The swifts were close now. Enormous, ugly black bodies—talons, beaks, and haunting human eyes. For a moment I froze in horror as two of them dove straight at me with ripping cries, before throwing myself heavily to the floor of the ledge. I huddled there, waiting for the explosion, but there was none. Rolling over, I peeked up. The swifts had indeed brushed the mountain, but this pitiless mass was of their ilk—they did not explode. With skull-shattering cries, they circled and prepared another dive.
No pebbles to be thrown, no impediment there to prevent them from burning me on the ledge. Naught that I could do, except the thing I didn’t want to do—no choice but the one escape.
Their screams ringing my ears, I spread flat on the narrow precipice, gripped my feathers, and waited. Waited until they were nearly upon me, and at the last moment shoved myself off the ledge.
There is nothing slow about falling.
In a heartbeat I saw the opening to the mountain fly by—up and away. Gone. My hand holding the tiny quills flung up above my head. Maybe I hoped they would spread wide and break the speed of my fall. They did not. And for a stunned moment I thought, This cannot be possible. But then I was simply falling, gaining speed—jagged edges of gray rock streaking by. The only comfort was that I fell faster than the swifts could fly. It was over—it had to be over.
I opened my hand and let go the feathers.
It is strange how beauty remains long in the memory. Released, the feathers did not disappear, but stayed with me, growing, changing form to become whole larks—birds of flight, soaring flecks of golden brown against the sky, like the shimmering flecks in Gharain’s eyes. Their wings stretched wide in a gentle curve, feathered edges sweeping through the cold air. Free. Exultant.
The flecks grew larger. The larks were swooping, streaming fast straight for me. Small though they were, they reached for sleeve and legging—talons catching hold with delicate strength. And then we were up, winging straight up the side of the mountain, with no less speed than my fall. I was rising, high above the glorious earth, gasping, crying, laughing with the joy of rescue and of flight. And in but a moment, the three larks lightly dropped me inside the dark entry to the Myr Mountains and raced away.
Sometime later I sat up. I was not afraid. I could no longer be afraid. I stood, adjusted my pack, walked into the black, into the strange, heavy pull of the rock, and closed my eyes.
THE COLD DEEPENED.
Unused, empty passage. The darkness was tangible. It oozed through my body, surrounding and invading. I felt ancient air running over my palms, heard the soft whisper of my footstep on the solid ground. I smelled the rock, and the icy moisture. I smelled the remains of Troth.
Yet there: a faint pulse—a tiny throb. The sound washed in and out for a moment, soft and slow and steady. I felt it then, tingling inside, the Life amulet—the crystal orb. Foreign as it was, I knew it as well as my own heartbeat. It was here; I was close.
I opened my eyes, pulled open my pack, drew out Twig’s moonstone, and clenched it aloft in my fist. It fizzed and burst into light, illuminating a passageway tunneling straight into black—one of a thousand to choose from, for in the gleam, the Myr Mountains were honeycombed with openings. Go left. Stay true came the hare’s whisper. I smiled, though; the orb’s throb was loud enough without her guiding words. I chose my route, into the heart of the mountains.
The dark swallowed all traces of my steps but for the tiny halo of light. I walked quickly and silently, tugging against the forceful pull of the mountains, which wished to hold me down. Though grit-strewn, the path was evenly carved—trampled flat, I imagined, by the scrabbling weight of innumerable Troths. I did not look above. Winding through, veering left at forks, sensing the tiny pulse grow stronger until it throbbed in my own breast, matching the pace of my heart. Long passages, working inward ever deeper—a moment, even, when I was reminded of Castle Tarnec’s long hallways, and missed the beautiful tapestries that lined its walls.…
I was forced to an abrupt stop.
Bars. My hand moved instinctively to pu
sh the barrier away, but froze again as I caught the sound of something beyond the pulse of the amulet, something so achingly gorgeous that I sank to my knees to listen.
The melodious voice from my dream echoed through the cavernous tomb, lofty and lyrical. Erema was speaking. I wanted to touch the words as they glided past, so temptingly sweet, but they drifted just out of reach, not meant for me. And then, with a sudden chill, I heard another’s response that evoked a yearning far more real, far deeper than anything Erema’s throat could spin—a shout of desperation that took my breath away.
“Gharain!” I jumped up, reaching for the barrier to shake it loose, moonstone falling, my fingers nearly grasping, but then snatched my hands back to my chest with a sharp yelp. The bars were of hukon—thick, crossed saplings of the evil stuff, knobbed with stubs of branches that looked to be sharpened so they stuck out like ghisane thorns. Fiery hot, acidic, and negating—preventing me. Furious, I grabbed the moonstone, passing the light overhead and around, searching for a way past this hideous barricade. The roof of this cavern was high above, bars disappearing into dimness—a solid mass, with no way to climb, for the rippled walls were chipped smooth. I threw myself belly down and felt around the base of the bars. They were solidly, impossibly merged with the stone—a trick of magic, a manipulation of vision, I didn’t know. And yet, this ridiculous barrier in the middle of nowhere was clearly meant to thwart, teasingly so, just as the tantalizing voices compelled me to find a way through.
I took off Gharain’s tunic then, wrapped it thickly around my hands, and tentatively touched the bars. His clothing helped—I could grip the strips of black wood between its thorny weapons; I could shake the bars in my fists with little burn. But I might as well have been shaking iron. Top, bottom, sides—there was no give to the barrier. Over and over I tested each joint, each binding; I kicked at its base until I growled in frustration and impatience, and finally threw Gharain’s tunic away from me so hard it skidded sideways and hit the passage wall.