On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness

by Andrew Peterson

  “But how could you blame Peet for that?” Janner said. “You just said that there were too many Fangs.”

  Podo glowered at Peet, his eyebrows quivering, and an uncomfortable silence followed.

  “What happened to her was no one’s fault,” Nia said firmly. “That’s all that needs to be said.” Podo sputtered a protest, but the look in Nia’s eye silenced him. She turned to Leeli and placed a hand on her cheek. “Peet held them off as best he could while we boarded, but—one of the Fangs grabbed you, dear.” She took Leeli’s hand. “He tried to tear you from my arms, and…”

  “My leg,” Leeli breathed.

  “I’m sorry,” Nia whispered. She covered her eyes and struggled to keep her composure. Leeli scooted over to her.

  “It’s okay, Mama,” Leeli said. “I have Nugget now.”

  Nia took a deep breath and hugged Leeli tight.

  “We made our way down the river,” Nia said after a moment. “Peet ran back through the Fangs and into the palace to find your father, even as it burned. The last I saw of Anniera was fire and death. We sailed the river for hours to the estuary at the Dark Sea and saw nothing but towering flames on either side of the river.”

  “I couldn’t see anything,” Podo said, staring out at the storm. “I was sailing on a black river between walls of fire. We rode the River Rysen all the way to the Dark Sea. Gnag had sacked every village we passed, and I saw things I’ll never forget, though the Maker knows I’ve tried to.” He was silent a moment. “When we got to the sea, we asked the Maker to guide us, to protect the Jewels of Anniera, and I tell you, he did. He sent up a mighty storm that nearly tore that little ship to pieces. The waves were high mountains, and sea critters like I’d never seen churned up from the deep and watched us pass with eyes as big as a house. I’ve never been so afraid, and I tell ye I felt like the Maker had cursed us sure. But when the storm cleared, I saw we were better off than before—we were in the Phoob Islands, just north and east of here, on the other side of Fingap Falls. We had crossed the Dark Sea in five days. That’s something I’ve never told anybody for worry that they’d think I was crazy. And besides, we were in a little skiff with naught but one sail. It’s impossible, I tell ye.” Podo spread his hands. “But here we are.”

  He looked at his grandchildren intently. “Your grandmother’s name was Wendolyn Igiby,” he said. “You took on the Igiby name when we came here and left the name of Wingfeather behind.”

  “So how did Peet find us?” Janner asked.

  Nia looked puzzled. “We still don’t know. About five years after we settled here, we saw him in town. We barely recognized him, and when we did we were frightened. We were sure that somehow he would lead Gnag to us. For all we knew, Gnag had turned him into one of his own. Podo told him to keep away from you, from us. And he would, for a while. Then he’d be back in town, carrying on and making a spectacle of himself for some reason. I can’t explain it.”

  Nia continued, shaking her head.

  “Before last night I didn’t understand why he wore the socks. I thought the old Artham was lost forever. But he’s in there.” She stroked his wild hair. “Whatever happened to you,” she whispered to Peet, “I’m glad you’ve got it in your head to protect my children the same way you would have protected Esben.” Nia looked up at Janner. “And I tell you, you should rest easy knowing that a Throne Warden of Anniera is keeping watch.”

  Janner felt a surge of pride.

  Nia smiled at him.

  “Grandpa, what’s in the bundle?” Tink asked.

  “Ah, yes,” Podo said as he laid the blanket on the floor between them and folded back its edges.

  51

  A Letter from Home

  For you, lad,” Podo said to Janner, handing over an ancient leather-bound book. “It’s one of the oldest books in the world, one of the First Books, according to some.”

  Janner looked at it with wonder.

  “Among the treasures of Anniera were several ancient books that were passed down to the Throne Wardens over the ages,” Podo explained. “This one’s said to give ‘wisdom to the wise,’ whatever the deep that means. I never took to readin’. Artham here, if he’s not too crazy, will be able to tell ye more about it. Yer father gave it to me before we were run out of the palace. Told me no matter what, to make sure it got to you.”

  Janner held the big book gingerly but didn’t open it.

  “And for you, young Tink. High King Kalmar, I should say. That is yer real name, after all.”

  “Can you just call me Tink?” he asked, blushing.

  “As you wish. Tink, then. This is for you.” Podo handed Tink an old, tattered notebook.

  “Your father’s sketchbook,” Nia said. “He was an artist, just like you. He filled this book with pictures of Anniera, along with his own writings. I wanted you to have something to remind you of your homeland. It’s a prettier place than any picture could tell, but your father loved his land, and you can see that love in these pictures. I fetched it for him on my way out of the palace because he never let it leave his side. I thought he’d want it once we were all safe and away. But it’s yours now.”

  Tink’s eyes shone as he accepted the gift.

  “And for you, my lass.” Podo lifted the last fold of the blanket and handed Leeli a silver whistleharp. This belonged to your great-great-great-aunt Madia, Queen Sister of Anniera, and it’s been in the kingdom longer than that. See, whenever a third child is born, that child, according to Annieran tradition, is to learn to sing and make music. That’s why we’ve taught you all these old tunes over the years. Legend says there’s a power to protect Anniera in the music of a Queen Sister who knows the right songs. Nobody believes that anymore, mind you, but this very whistleharp has been in Anniera since the beginning of the Second Epoch.”

  “That’s three thousand years ago,” Janner said with astonishment.

  “Aye,” he said.

  Leeli held the gleaming whistleharp to her lips and hesitated.

  “Go on,” Podo said, smiling.

  Leeli played “The Fisherman’s Elbow,” one of Podo’s favorite tunes, and the happy music filled their hearts.

  Peet woke to the familiar song of his homeland. He seemed more like a man and less like an animal there in the brightness of the melody. He stretched, then rose to stoke the fire, pushing back the wet chill even further.

  Night had come and the storm yet raged outside their haven.

  The Igiby children laughed with one another and felt the bond of their blood grow stronger than ever before. Nia and Podo, relieved of secrets carried too many years, leaned back in reverie of memory and song.

  Janner thought Tink didn’t look much like a king, but maybe in a few years. He was only eleven, after all.

  Tink opened the first page of his father’s notebook and saw a sketch of an island rising out of a fitful sea. In the center of the picture, lifting out of the trees, were the lofty spires of a castle. Next to it, beneath a drawing of a puffy cloud, was written one word by the hand of his father: Home.

  While Tink marveled at his father’s sketches, Janner opened the ancient book in his lap. The pages were yellowed and tattered. The handwritten words were in another language, but it was beautiful to look at nonetheless. Janner felt a familiar tickle in his stomach as he turned the pages of a book he hadn’t yet read. To his surprise, a folded piece of paper fell from the book and into his lap. The paper was white and crisp compared to the book’s old leaves, still Janner was careful in unfolding it.

  Janner,

  You’re only two years old now. Everyone says you look just like your father, and I take it as a high compliment. A handsome boy you are! I’m no poet like your Uncle Artham, but seeing you sleep here tonight bid me sit and put down some words for you to read one day. Your mother loves you and your brother well. And she has another little one bursting to come out! Foes to this kingdom beware! These three little Wingfeathers will keep this island safe and good. I know it. You’ve royal bl
ood in your veins, no matter what your name or place in this world. The Maker made you the Throne Warden to your little brother, and I wouldn’t wish anyone but you to keep him safe. There are rumors of war, and though I scarcely believe the half of it, should Anniera fall (and I’m sure it won’t!), remember your homeland. Ancient secrets lie beneath these stones and cities. They have been lost to us, but still, we mustn’t let them fall to evil.

  It occurs to me how silly it is to be writing this to a two-year-old boy. But maybe one day when you’re alone, unsure, doubting yourself, you’ll need these words. Remember this: You are an Annieran. Your father is a king. You are his son. This is your land, and nothing can change that. Nothing.

  Ah, and no one can change your underclothes but me. I can smell that you’ve soiled them again. Should I fall over dead from the stench in your britches, know when you read this that your father loves you like no other.

  Your Papa

  At the end of the letter was a sketch of a little boy sleeping peacefully in a crib surrounded by flowers that had withered from the smell of the child’s soiled underclothes.

  Janner’s heart felt large and full. He lay down in the tree house and stared up at a dark, rain-battered window, thinking of his father. Esben.

  He heard Nia and Podo in the other room talking softly, but he made out enough to understand they had agreed it would be best to stay in the tree house with Peet for several weeks, maybe longer. Peet assured them that he had learned how to live safely among the creatures of Glipwood Forest, and the Fangs wouldn’t be coming near the forest for a long time once they saw the remains of the battle at Anklejelly Manor.

  Skree, meanwhile, was shrouded in darkness. The black storm roiled in the sky, and the bright moon could not penetrate it.

  The Dark Sea of Darkness moaned and heaved beneath the thundering expanse.

  Among the glipwood trees, chorkneys and thwaps and toothy cows alike sought shelter from the mighty wind and rain, and the town of Glipwood sat as barren and windblown as a ghost town. The hearts of the people and trolls and Fangs all across Skree were black on this night while they tossed and turned in gloomy beds.

  Darkness was everywhere.

  Except, of course, in a tree house, deep in the murky heart of Glipwood Forest, where the Jewels of Anniera shone like the sun.

  The Legend of the Sunken Mountains

  Traditional

  (from Fencher’s Comprehensive History of Sad, Sad Songs)

  Come forth from sunken mountain calls the sundered summer moon

  The eyrie’s fallen dragon king hath groaned his grievous tune

  The halls that rose in cloudy steeps now lie beneath the waves

  And Yurgen’s fallen kingdom sleeps in bouldered ocean graves

  Yurgen’s son, the dragon fair, met Omer son of Dwayne

  And so the knight and Yurgen’s heir did battle in the rain

  And lo, the dragon wounded lay from Omer’s mortal blow

  The knight, in grief, did haste away to save his mortal foe

  And Omer, bent with sorrow, bowed in Yurgen’s mountain hall

  And told the ancient dragon how his only heir did fall

  So Yurgen, mighty dragon king, atop his mountain keep

  Asunder tore the glistening and rocky mountain steep

  He summoned every dragon for to burrow through the ground

  And find at last the fabled ore that makes the maiméd sound

  But Yurgen’s heir was cold and killed, and buried in the mount

  As dragons tunneled deeper still below the ocean fount

  And then at last with thund’rous din the misty mountain climbs

  Collapsed upon the beasts within the darkness of the mines

  From ocean then did Yurgen rise to seek his dying son

  But where his mountain once arrayed a half-moon golden hung

  His dragon kingdom moldered, his dragon scion slain

  King Yurgen’s sorrow smoldered and he sank away again

  The halls that towered in cloudy steeps now lie beneath the waves

  And Yurgen’s fallen kingdom sleeps in murky ocean graves

  The summer dusk hath split in twain the gilded summer moon

  And all who come shall hear again the dragons’ lonesome tune

  Author Andrew Peterson is a natural-born storyteller, being a preacher’s kid from the South (mostly).

  He wrote and produced the acclaimed epic song cycle Behold the Lamb of God: The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ (awarded the 2004 Best Album of the Year, World Christian Music Editors Choice), part of which inspired his children’s book The Ballad of Matthew’s Begats: An Unlikely Royal Family Tree.

  A singer-songwriter and recording artist, he has just released a new album, Resurrection Letters, Vol. II, having written and recorded seven others over the last ten years, including:

  Slugs & Bugs & Lullabies (with Randall Goodgame)

  Behold the Lamb of God: The True Tall Tale of the Coming of Christ

  The Far Country

  Love and Thunder

  Clear to Venus

  Carried Along

  Andrew and his wife, Jamie, have two sons, Aedan and Jesse, and one daughter, Skye. They live in the Nashville, Tennessee, area on a wooded hill in a little house they call the Warren—where they’re generally safe from bumpy digtoads and toothy cows.

  You can find Andrew online at his Web site www.andrew-peterson.com or visit The Rabbit Room (www.rabbitroom.com), an online writer’s collective inspired by the Inklings (C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, Charles Williams, and other friends), for more fun facts and delicious details.

  Illustrator Justin Gerard spent most of his childhood in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, drawing imaginative characters informed by comic books, science fiction, and Disney films. As his art developed, Justin found inspiration in N. C. Wyeth, Caravaggio, Peter de Sève, and Carter Goodrich. He’s illustrated several children’s books, including The Lightlings storybooks for young readers by R. C. Sproul (Reformation Trust/Liggonier Publishing), as well as numerous short stories published in elementary reading texts. He lives in Greenville, South Carolina, and works as the chief creative officer for Portland Studios. He holds a bachelor of fine arts degree in studio art.

  To return to the corresponding text, click on the reference number or Return to text.

  2

  1. Zibzy gained wide popularity in Skree in the year 356. A lawn game played with giant darts (hurled high into the air by the offensive team), a whacker (a flat board with a handle), and three rocks. Injuries abounded, however, and because of the public outcry the game was banned. In 372, it was discovered that a passable version of the game could be played by replacing the giant darts with brooms. For complete rules, and a deeper look into Zibzy’s fascinating and bloody history, see We Played, We Bled, We Swept by Vintch Trizbeck (Three Forks Publishing, Valberg, 3/423).

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  3

  1. Bip Thwainbly, The Chomping of the Skonk (Publisher and date unknown).

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  2. From “The Legend of the Sunken Mountains,” a traditional Skreean rhyme. A later version of the tale was printed in Eezak Fencher’s Comprehensive History of Sad, Sad Songs. in Appendices.

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  5

  1. Glipwood had prospered greatly over the years and was now a slightly larger cluster of buildings, thanks in part to the tourism generated by the Dragon Day Festival. Willibur Smalls, It Happened in Skree (Torrboro, Skree: Blapp River Press, 3/402).

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  2. Ridgerunners are a reclusive race that dwell primarily in the mountains of Dang. Their great weakness is fruit of any kind, in any form, whether plucked from the tree or baked in a crispy pie. Because of this, ridgerunners are the chief enemy of the people of the Green Hollows, who grow fruit of many kinds. Each year, swarms of ridgerunners descend the northern slopes of the Killridges and steal fruit from the Hollows. It’s said that as long as you are not a f
ruit, a ridgerunner won’t eat you. Since there was no fruit directly involved in the Great War, the ridgerunners of course remained neutral. Padovan A’Mally, The Scourge of the Hollows (Ban Rona, Green Hollows: The Iphreny Group, 3/111).

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  3. In order for Podo to hoe the garden, he had to fill out the Permission to Hoe Garden Form, then the Permission to Use Hoe Form to borrow the hoe. If the tool wasn’t returned by sundown, the penalty was much too severe to be mentioned in this happy part of the story. See pages 285–286 in Appendices.

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  6

  1. A delightful sport in which each team tries to get the ball into a goal without using their feet in any capacity, even to move. B’funerous Hwerq, Ready, Set, Chube! A Life in Gamery (Three Forks, Skree: Vanntz-Delue Publishers, 3/400).

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  2. Blaggus’s duties as mayor included running the town press, which now printed Commander Gnorm’s various permission forms for tool usage. Being a person obsessed with paperwork and rules of order, this suited Blaggus well. He also organized which Glipfolk would prepare meals for the Fangs each week, who would clean the barracks, and made formal requests to Commander Gnorm on behalf of Glipfolk who wished to travel to Torrboro. Blaggus had lost his youngest daughter to the Black Carriage six years earlier, and Gnorm kept him in his employ under the threat of taking his two remaining sons as well. Understandably, because of this the people of Glipwood bore the mayor no ill will.

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  3. Many Skreeans doubted that the legendary Isle of Anniera existed at all. It is a sad truth that some people only believe something exists if they can see it with their own eyes. Bandy Impstead, for example, had argued for hours in Shaggy’s Tavern one evening that there was no such thing as Wind for this very reason. His roof was torn off in a storm that very winter. Bandy’s mind, however, remained unchanged.