by J. J. Faulks
“Little mouse? Where are you, little mouse?”
The plants to his right started to tilt to and fro. His body froze. Leaves swished and heavy steps thudded into the damp soil. The flowers bowed towards him, tendrils tickling his face as sun-scorched petals rained down. The wave of plants brushed against him, engulfing him, and then sank back, the ripple of movement sailing on by.
Piprin wiped the pooling sweat from his brow. His legs trembled like those of a newborn lamb as he staggered onwards through the field.
The air grew fresher as the plants started to thin. Glimpses of grass and woodland appeared through the leaves. He edged closer and closer to the end of the field, pausing to check for guards at the border before slinking out from the rows of flowers and scurrying up the hill. The trees opened their branches to him, beckoning him like a mother’s arms. He ran to them, burying himself in their darkness.
In the basin below, three lit torches rampaged up and down the opposite edge of the field, whilst in the field itself, the plants lurched this way and that in two bubbles of movement. The bubbles drifted closer and closer together until they collided and fused.
“Got you!” one man shouted.
Whilst the other cried, “Let go of me!”
The tides of movement started again, heading off in opposite directions.
Turning his back on the field, Piprin walked deeper into the woodland. At the centre of the trees stood an old oak, its branches cloaked by thick plumes of leaves. He clambered up the trunk, hauling himself higher and higher beneath the leafy veil. Once settled in the crook of one of the highest branches, he took a flower head from his bag and began to squeeze the petal juice into the vial that the Seer had gifted him. Every wring of the petals released a new burst of the flower’s perfume into the air, the smokey scent clawing its way into his nose and down his throat, wrenching at his stomach.
For the rest of the night, he drifted in and out of consciousness, his short snatches of sleep awash with vivid and peculiar dreams, much like the dreams that plagued him after Orleigh was taken. He woke often and with a start, grabbing hold of the branch as though he were falling.
The faint light of dawn trickled through the leaves, nudging him to wakefulness. He stretched and yawned, the last of his sleepiness shed as he caught sight of his blood-red hands. He stared at them for a long moment before his fingers found the vial at his throat. The time had come to journey to the Land of Gods, to begin his quest proper.
Chapter Twenty
People said that every flower found in the Land of Mortals was represented in the field of the borderland, but Piprin could think of at least one flower that had been forgotten. Perhaps the flower head stowed in his bag completed the set. Then again, perhaps there were other secrets that were also lost to time, known only by the Seer. Such a truth would not surprise him.
The great torch post that marked the centre of the field was grander than he had imagined. He had heard people describe it before, but he had never seen anything like it. His eyes remained fixed on the structure as he walked the gravel path towards the border. With each step, its height and magnificence grew. As promised, all four lanterns were glowing, their light ever-present, even in the glare of the midday sun.
At the base of the torch post, lounging in the long grass, was a white-haired boy who Piprin guessed to be a similar age to himself, though the boy’s carefree smile could easily have made him look younger than his years. The boy’s eyes had been shut, seeking refuge from the sunlight, but they blinked into awareness as he approached. His hands reached up, up, up in a rousing stretch, and he rocked himself up to sitting.
“Welcome, friend!” The boy called out with a lazy wave. He made no effort to get to his feet. “What brings you to the borderland?” His eyes jumped from Piprin’s juice-stained hands to the blood red vial that hung around his neck. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.
Piprin kept his distance, hiding his hands behind his back. “I’m looking for my friend,” he said. “I was told that she passed this way a long time ago.”
“Well, I’ve been here a long time,” the boy countered. “Perhaps I might have seen her.” He gestured to the ground in front of him. “Have a seat. Why don’t you tell me about her? Who is she? What was she doing out this way?”
Piprin hesitated. The boy’s youthful features shone with an air of innocence, but something dark lurked behind his pale blue eyes.
“I just want to help,” the boy said, as if Piprin exuded a potent mix of mistrust and fear that he could sense as clearly as the wolf scents the lamb. “It’s not often that people come to the border. They might stop to look, but few of them make this far. Spending all this time alone can be quite boring, lonely.”
“I know what it’s like to be lonely,” Piprin said and he sank down onto the grass, crossing his legs beneath him. His arms gathered his knees towards his chest, hugging them like a shield. “I’ve been lonely ever since my friend, Orleigh, was taken.”
“What do you mean ‘taken’?” the boy asked, his back straightening.
“One night, ten years ago, a man from our village snuck into her house and took her whilst she was sleeping. I was there when it happened, but he drugged me too.” Piprin’s fists clenched and he glowered at the ground. “I couldn’t stop him.”
“What did he want with her?”
“He thought that she was cursed,” Piprin spat. “He was going to sacrifice her to Teymos. My father and some of the other men of the village went after him, but they said that they were too late, that she was already dead.” The final word hung over them like a raincloud.
“The man killed her?” the boy gasped.
“That’s what we thought.” Piprin swallowed. “But recently I saw that man again and he said that he hadn’t killed Orleigh, that he had brought her here as an offering to Teymos. He said that when he handed her over she was still alive.”
A frown flashed across the boy’s face before bursting into a grin. “She was!” he said, throwing his hands into the air. “I saw her and that man and Teymos. She was sleeping when she was handed over, but she was very much alive.”
“You’re sure?” Piprin asked. A glow of hope kindled in his chest, as bright and as buoyant as the first flames gifted to Argentus.
“Yes,” the boy nodded. “You have no need to fear. Teymos is kind and I know that he would not hurt your friend.”
Piprin’s brightness drained, the nascent fire doused. “If Teymos is so kind and means her no harm, then why did he take her from her home? Why did he take her from the place where she was happy?”
The boy’s smile faded too. “I… I don’t know,” he said. His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Sometimes good people, mortal and immortal, do seemingly bad things.”
They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Piprin glowered at the ground, the weight of his question casting a gloomy shadow over him. The boy’s eyes bore into him, flitting from the crimson vial to the dyed skin of his hands. Every so often the boy’s tongue would dart out, lizard-like, as if tasting unspoken words that lingered on his lips.
The boy cleared his throat. “That vial,” he said, gesturing towards it, “—around your neck? What’s it for?” He clasped his hands together, but his fingers fidgeted as if they had a mind of their own and were battling to break free.
Piprin’s hand rose to his throat, covering the vial. “It’s a potion,” he said.
“A potion?” the boy echoed, his fingers still writhing. “The man you spoke of, he had a potion that looked like that. Left it in the handcart that he gave me.”
Piprin frowned and nodded. The darkness behind the boy’s eyes seeped through like a winter’s mist, turning the pale blue murky grey.
“What’s the potion for?” the boy asked, his tongue darting out again, his eyes fixed on Piprin’s throat.
Piprin drew back, his fist closing ove
r the vial. “It’s meant to protect me from the creatures in the Land of Gods,” he said and clambered to his feet, but the boy had shot up and stood in front of him, blocking the way.
“You cannot enter the Land of Gods. It is my duty to guard the border, and whether you are protected or not, I cannot let you pass,” the boy said. He stood as tall as his height would allow, his hands on his hips, elbows jutting out wide.
“But I have to enter the Land of Gods in order to find Orleigh,” Piprin said. “I thought you understood that.”
Why hadn’t the Seer told him about the boy? He had warned him about the men that guarded the battlefield.
Piprin held his hands up. “I don’t want to fight,” he said. “There must be some way that you can let me pass. If I can’t enter the Land of Gods, my whole journey will have been for nothing. I won’t be able to rescue Orleigh and I won’t be able to bring her home. Please?”
The boy held his stance. “If you give me some of that potion, I will let you pass.”
“But I can’t!” Piprin said and retreated a step. “I need it to protect me!”
The boy shrugged, his lips twisting into a smirk. “You won’t need it at all if I don’t let you pass.”
Piprin let the bag drop from his shoulders. “I have a second flower head,” he said. He loosened the tie on the bag and produced the orb of crimson petals. “I squeezed the juice from its—”
“That will do,” the boy said before Piprin could finish. He stepped forward, his eyes wide and his hands outstretched, fingers clawing to snatch the flower head from Piprin. “Give me the flower, and in exchange I will let you enter the Land of Gods. Deal?”
Piprin cradled the petals in the bowl of his hands, holding them close to his chest. His gaze shifted to the vial. Would the juice of one flower be enough?
The boy took another step, his fingertips a shadow under Piprin’s. The red of the petals reflected in his face, blooming in the whites of his eyes like blood spilling into milk.
“I don’t really have a choice,” Piprin said, and he opened the basin of his palms, letting the flower tumble through and into the boy’s grasp.
The boy snatched the flower head away before Piprin had the chance to change his mind. “Why don’t you stay a little longer?” he suggested. His eyes had brightened, the mists cleared. “I’d be happy to share my food with you. One final meal before you enter the Land of Gods?”
The trees of the Great Forest loomed over the field with the ominous heft of thunderclouds. Like a crack of lightning, a howl broke loose, striking Piprin square in the chest.
“I guess I could wait here a little longer,” he said.
Piprin nibbled on a crust of bread, his stomach as choppy as the wind-whipped sea. The boy blew out a stream of pinkish smoke that swirled around him, the fog cloaking his head and clogging his lungs. When the boy offered him a puff, he wrinkled his nose in refusal. The boy shrugged and continued to chatter away.
“I’ve guarded the border for as long as I can remember,” the boy was saying as he lounged back against the base of the torch post. “It gets lonely, but it’s all I’ve ever known.”
“You remind me of the Guardians of the Sanctuary,” Piprin said. “You protect the border from travellers like the Guardians protect the Key of Life from the Hunters.”
“I guess,” the boy said. A ring of smoke escaped with a hollow chuckle as he shook his head to himself. “No, I’m just like a Guardian. Except that I don’t have my brothers rallying around me, I don’t get to fight in legendary battles, and I don’t get to see the beauty of the Sanctuary. I’m stuck here, in the borderland.” He tugged at a tuft of grass. “I never understood the Hunters.”
“Well,” Piprin said, “Some thought that if they stole the Key of Life, it would make them immortal. Others thought that if they destroyed it, it would free them from the ties of fate.”
The boy shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I know that,” he said. “What I meant is, why would you want to be immortal and why would you want to free yourself from fate?”
Piprin paused. He searched the field for an answer. A thousand flowers turned to face him, waiting for his reply. “I guess some people want a different life for themselves,” he said. “Something other than what fate has given them.” Fate had given him his father and the farm, but it had given him his mother and Orleigh too. “You said that you find it lonely living here, but it was fate that put you here—”
“Fate didn’t put me here,” the boy interjected. He took the stub from his lips and ground it into the earth.
“Then what did?” Piprin frowned.
“A riddle.”
“A riddle?”
The boy’s voice softened, taking on a translucence. “He said that if I could solve the riddle, I would be free to leave.” His eyelids swept down. When they flashed open, milky white obscured all trace of pale blue, like clouds shrouding the sky. His eyes were empty, soulless.
A blanket of fog descended on the boy, swaddling him like a newborn. The more he struggled, the tighter it bound him. Threadlike wisps wound their way out of the haze, penetrating his mind, numbing him from the core. His heart had frozen, each beat a wave of ice that shocked his body into silence.
Through the stillness came a scream, shrill and persistent. It went on and on and on, until the sound lost all meaning. It took the longest time for him to realise that the scream came from his own mouth.
His eyes were open, but only now could he see. He was at the torch post in the borderland, the beacons burning overhead as his body curled into a tight ball at the base. A ring of people surrounded him, their faces masked by the fog.
“Make him stop!” one of them demanded, shouting to be heard over the scream.
An old man leaned down towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He tried to pull away, but a bolt of fire shot through him, immobilising him. The old man reached into his pocket, retrieving a vial of liquid as thick and as black as pitch. The man dotted the substance onto his forehead and dragged his fingernail through it, drawing a four-pointed star on his skin. One point each for Teymos, Retsa, Onea, and Efrinon, with the Creator at their centre.
Like the damming of a waterfall, his scream stopped.
The old man spoke into the lull. “Do not fear, child. You are free to leave, but first, let’s play a game. You like games, don’t you?”
With his voice parched, he could do no more than whimper. His eyelids were drooping, too heavy to hold open. The warmth of sleep washed over his body.
The old man continued, his words lapping like waves at the shore of his mind,
“I can run, fall and roar.
Through the clouds, I can soar.
I am blue, sometimes green.
When I’m still, you are seen.
What am I?”
“What am I?” the boy whispered, eyes staring into another world.
Piprin waved his hand in front of the boy’s face, but there was no response. As quick as he could, he gathered up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He stepped past the boy into the Land of Gods. One hand clutched at the vial, his grip tightening as he neared the Great Forest.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Seer gripped the bowl of water with both hands as the image of Piprin disappeared into the Great Forest. His calm expression belied the restlessness that simmered beneath his skin.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he was met by the perpetual rain of sand tumbling down against the screen of his eyelids.
“You must not fail,” he addressed the image as it faded from the water. “You cannot fail!”
Pushing the bowl away, he swept the matted curtain of hair back from his face. He took a deep breath, letting his body soften, and then sent the mouse figurine over the border into the Land of Gods.
The palm-sized doll with its shock of white hair was waitin
g for him. He plucked it from the jar, shaking off the creamy liquid that clung to its fibres.
“I told you to let him pass,” he muttered and cast the doll aside.
*
A cloak of darkness fell upon Piprin as soon as he entered the Great Forest. It was distinct from any darkness that he had experienced before. The forest did not just lack light; it consumed it.
If a proper path existed, it had hidden itself well. Instead, he created his own path to walk, a line that lay central in the gorge-like gap between the trees. Fallen leaves created a dense, rotting carpet underfoot that absorbed his every step, as if the forest was leeching life through his sole.
The roots of the trees erupted through the ground and their branches swung low into his path. Fear stretched across his eyes like gossamer, distorting his vision. These obstacles were designed to fell him, to see him devoured by the undergrowth. In the loving warmth of daylight he might have laughed at such ridiculous thoughts, but in the darkness the roots flexed beneath him like clawing fingers and the trees creaked and groaned, though there was no breeze. In the darkness, fear spoke to him and it told him that the forest was alive.
The air in the Great Forest hung heavy and humid. Each breath that he took weighed him down, and he found himself tiring quickly. It felt as though the trees were closing in on him, trying to suffocate him. If he were to stop, to succumb to that exhaustion, they might just succeed. So he ploughed on. His pace held steady as he stepped over roots and ducked under branches, his laboured breath setting a slow but persistent rhythm.
The vial knocked against the hollow of his throat, the warmth of the juice seeping through the glass and onto his skin. He felt like a boy going to battle with a twig for a sword and a dish for a shield.
The animals remained hidden from sight, but their snarls and howls and grunts filled his imagination with gouging claws, sharp teeth slick with saliva and blood-thirsty eyes. Worse than the noises that emerged from beyond the wall of trees was the smell. Damp fur, fresh dung, putrefying flesh—a noxious perfume that stung in his nostrils. There was nothing that he could do to escape it, nothing but forge ahead deeper into the Land of Gods.