The Devil in green da-1

by Marc Chadbourn

  He slept regularly, usually where he stumbled, and on one occasion he attempted to eat some of the travel biscuits, but he immediately vomited them straight back up. In his daze, time slopped in haste. He would close his eyes in a moment's thought and clouds would have scudded across the sky, or the quality of the light would have changed.

  He came to a small, winding track of well-trodden earth and without thinking began to follow it. It eventually led to a quaintly constructed small stone bridge over a tinkling brook where he was suddenly overcome with a tremendous thirst. He made his way tentatively down the side of the bridge, through the thick brookside vegetation, and scooped up handfuls of water, splashing it into his mouth and across his burning face. He was stunned at how wonderful it tasted, vibrant, with complex flavours, like no water he had ever sampled before. He immediately felt a little better, his thoughts sharper, his limbs a tad more energised. He continued along the track beyond the bridge with a little more vigour.

  Twilight came sooner than he anticipated, the trees growing ghostly as the grassland turned grey. Most of the clouds had disappeared, so he could clearly see a crescent moon gleaming among myriad glittering stars. It was surprisingly balmy, with moths fluttering above the grass.

  Where am I? he thought, without really giving the question much weight.

  A little further on, he noticed a light glowing amongst the trees away to his left. Hope filled him that at last he might be able to find somewhere to rest. The path forked and he took the track that led directly towards the light, the other branch heading in a near-straight line across the landscape.

  As he approached the trees, other lights became visible, like golden fireflies in the growing gloom. Lanterns had been strung amongst the branches and from their vicinity he could now hear voices, some raised though not threatening, others lower in conversation. It brought his consciousness another step back from the misty region where it had retreated, so that he was alert enough to experience surprise when he saw what lay ahead.

  Amongst the trees, illuminated by the hanging lanterns, lay a large market stretching far into die depths of the wood. On the periphery there were only a few stalls and browsers, but further into the depths he could see that it was bustling. The air was filled with the aroma of smoke and barbecued meat, along with unusual perfumes and spices he couldn't quite identify. The raised voices were the traders encouraging people to examine their wares, and somewhere there was music, singing voices accompanying some stringed instrument that set his spirits soaring.

  Obliquely, he knew how strange it was for a market to be held at that time of evening in such an isolated location, but he was so attracted by the sights and sounds it barely registered. Nor did he truly notice how unusual some of the market-goers were. They were dressed in ancient attire that echoed a range of periods — medieval robes and Elizabethan doublets, wide-brimmed hats, long cloaks, broad belts and thigh-high boots — while some were unusually tall and thin, and others uncommonly short. Their features were the most striking. Every face was filled with character, eyebrows too bushy, noses too pointed, eyes astonishingly bright or beady, so that they resembled pictures of people from another time rather than the familiar blandly modern features he was used to. Indeed, some of them were almost cartoonish in appearance, and if Mallory had looked closely, he would have seen that their skin had a strange waxy sheen, as if they were wearing masks over their true faces.

  His attention wandered as he entered the market. The detail of his surroundings was almost hallucinogenic, the sights, sounds and smells miasmic after the tranquillity of the countryside. But while he was lost in the swirl of life, he was unaware that many of those around watched him carefully and curiously, with only a hint of suspicion, and occasionally a hint of threat.

  After the initial fascination had worn off, Mallory grabbed a passer-by by the sleeve and mumbled, 'Where is this place?'

  The man he had stopped was thickset with a long bushy beard and piercing dark eyes. He wore a beige cloak, fastened at the throat with a gold clasp, over clothes that reminded Mallory of an Elizabethan pirate. 'Why, this is the Market of Wishful Spirit,' he said in an oddly inflected voice, as if Mallory were sub-educational. Mallory didn't notice how the man's words came a split second after his lips moved.

  Mallory staggered on his way, his concentration coming and going. In that place, everything seemed like even more of a dream, the light from the lanterns too golden and hazy, the music growing louder then softer as though someone were tuning in a radio station.

  Mallory's attention was briefly caught by the produce on sale at the stalls. On many there were items he might have expected — vegetables, clothes (though strange in appearance), gold and silver jewellery of unusual design, furs, perfumes in wondrously designed bottles of multicoloured glass — but others displayed goods that left him thinking it really was a dream. There was a rock in a gilded cage that spoke with the voice of a small boy, a purple jewel encasing a tiny man and a woman of dismal expression who hammered at the walls of their prison, a hat that supposedly made its wearer invisible, a mirror showing continually changing views of alien landscapes, and many more, some too astonishing to comprehend.

  'Here! Over here!'

  Mallory looked around at the call. A skeletal man in a black robe that appeared to be made of tatters was beckoning to him. Mallory drifted over.

  'A Fragile Creature,' the trader said in a rasping voice, 'abroad in the Far Lands in these times. I thought I was mistaken.'

  'I need to get some medical help.' Mallory supported himself on the edge of the trader's stall. The world was growing dark on the fringes.

  'First examine my wares,' the trader said. 'They come from distant Kalashstan on the edge of the Terminal Waste. Very rare, very wondrous.'

  'I don't have any money,' Mallory said, distracted. He needed to move on, find someone to aid him quickly.

  'There are many ways to pay,' the trader said slyly. He held up a pair of scissors with long golden blades. 'Here. The Extinction Shears that cut the weft of existence. Very rare, but within your grasp for a very small consideration. Very small, barely noticeable. Or here.' This time he raised a face mask of a screaming man constructed from silver and studded with emeralds. 'A Gon-Drunning. It will allow you to see into the dreams of your friends and enemies.'

  'No.' Mallory looked around, bewildered. The darkness was even closer now, like the shadow of an enemy sweeping up on him from behind. 'I have to go. I have to…'

  The market began to swim. He was vaguely aware of the trader leaning forwards to peer at him closely with predatory eyes, and then others nearby stopping to stare, smiling malignly as if a pretence were no longer necessary. They began to move forwards just as the darkness rushed in and he collapsed to the ground.

  Chapter Six

  Into Heaven

  'Although we cannot choose what happens to us, we can choose how we respond.'

  — Epictetus

  Mallory woke on a pile of furs on a long, low bed in the corner of a darkened room. The windows were flung open, revealing the silhouettes of trees beneath a starry sky. The perfumes of a summery wood floated in on the breeze.

  Cautiously, he raised himself on his elbows. It took him a second or two to comprehend his state, but more important than his location was the realisation that he felt astonishingly well: refreshed, free from pain, his thoughts once again sharp and focused. He swung his legs off the bed and sat on the edge before examining the injuries on his chest. His clumsy stitches were all gone and the deep wounds themselves had almost healed. It didn't make sense to him at all. How long had he been unconscious?

  In confusion, he went to the window. He was in a wing of a low building made of stone with a timber and thatched roof that stretched out for a hundred feet on either side; the architecture was unfamiliar. It was in a large clearing in a wood. Close-clipped grass ran down to the trees, and here and there torches blazed. There was no sign of life.

  Instinctively, Mallo
ry went for his sword — it was no longer there.

  'No weapons are allowed in the Court of Peaceful Days.'

  Mallory whirled at the sound of the voice, though it was melodic and gende. A woman stood in the open doorway, smiling enigmatically. When Mallory looked into her face, it took a while before he understood what he was seeing. At first he thought it was his mother, who had died ten years ago, then the Virgin Mary, then the dinner lady who was always kind to him during his lonely, troubled days at school. Finally, her features settled into those of a woman in her late forties, long black hair framing a face that was still beautiful, with lines of happiness around her mouth and eyes. She was wearing a dark blue dress that appeared to be made of velvet yet reflected the light of the torches filtering through the window. A mysterious quality to her made him feel instantly at ease.

  'Where is this place?'

  'The Court of Peaceful Days.'

  'I heard you the first time. But where is it? I walked for a while.' His day's journey came back to him in flashes, impossible to place in any context. 'On the way to Bath?'

  'It is further away than you could have walked in a lifetime.'

  Her smile melted him instantly; he could no longer resist. 'My injuries-?'

  'We healed you. They were minor.'

  'They didn't feel minor.'

  'To us they were.' She stretched out a supple arm; her hand was pale and delicate. 'Come. Let us walk outside.'

  He took it, despite himself. Though he had almost recovered, he still felt as if he was existing in a dream. 'Who are you?'

  'My name is Rhiannon. The Court of Peaceful Days is my home.'

  'I'm Mallory.'

  'I know.' She led him out into a long stone corridor. Guards were posted at regular intervals, dressed in a strange golden armour designed with an avian style. She nodded to each of them as she passed. Outside in the warm night she let go of his hand and they walked side by side across the grass until they reached a fountain of fire. The flames gushed out of a spout in the centre and rolled down into a surrounding pool, swirling like liquid against all the laws of physics. Even close to it, Mallory could feel no heat.

  'Where is this place?' he whispered, suddenly overcome by awe.

  'In the Far Lands. A heartbeat away from your own fields, yet as distant as the farthest star.' She stood before him, still smiling benignly. 'You were brought to me by some of the market people. They feared for your safety.'

  'When I was blacking out, I thought they were going to rob me. Or worse.'

  'Indeed, some of the traders come from far afield, and they have a predatory nature. But those who live within the remit of the Court of Peaceful Days would never harm anyone. That is our law, immutable, a law of all Existence, though recognised by few.'

  There was something about her that reminded him of Sophie, an odd combination of gentleness and power, perhaps. 'As laws go, that's one of the best.'

  'It is a law of Existence.' Rhiannon looked from the flames to the stars scattered overhead. 'So simple when compared with the great philosophies, yet it is the only law that matters. We are all brothers and sisters of spirit, joined on levels Fragile Creatures can never comprehend.'

  Mallory looked back at the building. From his new perspective he could see that it was quite enormous. It stretched far back into the trees, and in parts, on the fringe of his vision, it appeared that the trees were growing in it and through it, were part of the very structure. Though the construction was simple, there was a breath-taking majesty to it that made him feel as if it had a slumbering life of its own, as peaceful and gentle as Rhiannon.

  'Fairyland,' he said. 'That's what you're talking about.'

  'It has always existed, though for many generations of your kind the doors were locked.' Her brow furrowed as she examined his face closely; Mallory had the strangest feeling she was looking deep into his mind. 'Does it trouble you?' she asked.

  'I'm not surprised by anything anymore.'

  Her smile returned. She motioned for him to follow her into the trees where the perfume of summer vegetation was more heady. Enough moonlight broke through the cover to allow them to see the nocturnal animals scurrying out of their path and the ghostly imprint of owls in the branches over their heads. Mallory was surprised to see glitter trails moving through the treetops, which he at first took to be fireflies, but which eventually revealed themselves to be tiny gossamer-winged people frolicking amongst the branches. They, too, made him feel powerfully happy, as if they radiated an energy field that altered his emotions. For the first time in ages he felt at ease. In his swirl of feelings, he suddenly felt like crying, and he hadn't cried in a long while. The thought of going back to the bleakness of his own home depressed him immensely.

  'I think I'd like to stay here a while,' he ventured.

  She shook her head, looked away into the dark. 'You have a job to do, Mallory. Every Fragile Creature has work of the greatest importance to do before they finally depart die Fixed Lands. A task that is unique to them, so important it is stitched into the fabric of Existence. And you cannot rest — none of you can rest — until your personal task has been completed.' She paused. 'There is always time to rest, when the work is done.'

  'What task?' he asked. 'What use can I be?'

  When she turned her face back to him, there was something profound locked in her eyes and her smile, but it was too enigmatic for him to decipher. She carried on amongst the trees in silence until they reached a large clearing where the moon appeared to have come down to earth, so milky and luminescent was the light reflected on the metallic items scattered all around. Swords were embedded in the ground. Shields lay like seashells; helms and breastplates, axes, spears and other weapons Mallory didn't recognise had been discarded there. It was the detritus of some great battle.

  'These remain here, so even at this, the most gentle of all the Courts… especially at this Court… we never forget,' Rhiannon said gravely. 'Suffering is always only a whisper away. Peace and happy days never last. Pain and war and despair will always rise up.'

  'That's a depressing view of life,' Mallory said.

  She disagreed forcefully. 'Peace and happy days have their potency because of this dark side. Without it, the things we treasure would tarnish with boredom. They shine because we know the dark is always over the next rise.'

  'So you're justifying war… and suffering…?' He was deeply surprised by her position after what he had seen of her so far.

  'Justifying? No. Accepting. It is the way of Existence. There is a meaning for everything that happens. We deal with the unpleasant things in the same way that we celebrate the wondrous. And we must always deal with them. Never turn our backs, let them gain an upper hand, throw Existence out of balance so the darkness gains ascendancy, for that is what the darkness always wants.'

  He had a feeling she was no longer talking in abstract terms; indeed, was talking directly to him.

  'We must be vigilant,' she continued, 'all of us, and even the gentlest must take a stand, on their own terms, when needs call.'

  She moved amongst the weapons of the dead before selecting a sword. She nodded knowingly as she weighed it in her hands, then handed it to him. Moonlight limned its edges so that it appeared as if a faint blue light was leaking out of the very fabric of the blade. Its handle was inlaid with silver and was carved with two entwining dragons, like the flag he saw flying over the pagan camp.

  'I have a sword,' he said.

  'Your sword is built to despatch the threats of the Fixed Lands. This is a sword of my people. It has a power that transcends the space it holds. Three great swords were forged from the very stuff of Existence, so our stories tell us. Three swords that can cleave the very foundations of life. One is the Sword of Nuada Airgetiamh — that stands alone and will not be seen again until the Dragon-Brother returns. The second is lost, believed corrupted, a danger to all who wield it. This is the third, and it is linked to your land in a fundamental way. Keep it close. It will bring you
light and warmth in the dark days ahead.'

  'You're talking as if it's alive.'

  'It is, in the way that all things are alive, from the stones of the field to the clouds of the sky.' She proffered the sword. Mallory hesitated before taking it, but when it slipped into his fingers it felt instantly comfortable. A tingling warmth spread through his palm into his arm. It felt as if the dragons on the handle were shifting to accommodate the unique musculature of his hand. 'It is called Llyrwyn.'

  'It has a name?' Mallory said wryly.

  'There is a reason it has a name, and that reason should be clear, if not now, then in good time.'

  'Why are you giving me a sword?'

  'I told you, there is a meaning to everything that happens. You are not here by chance. In the terms of your world, you may have arrived a little earlier or a little later, but you would always have come here, to this spot. For the sword.'

  Mallory turned the blade over in his hand curiously. The faint blue glow wasn't a product of the moonlight at all — it truly was coming from the weapon. 'I don't understand.'

  She moved her hand slowly to indicate the trees, the sky, the grass. 'Everything is alive, everything is linked. There is a mind behind it all. We cannot know it, nor begin to know it, but it shapes us all… Fragile Creatures, Golden Ones… We are all part of it. And it demands champions. In its wisdom, it has decreed they come from the ranks of Fragile Creatures… of your kind, Mallory. They fight for the very essence of Existence, for Truth and Life. They are known in the Fixed Lands… in your world… as Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. At any time, five are chosen, though they may never be called to fight the enemies of Existence.'

  Mallory didn't like the way the conversation was going. 'What are you saying?'

  'The five who held that role throughout the troubles that devastated your land are broken, Mallory. Gone… to time long gone, to the Grey Lands, to different roles where the need for them is greater. A new five must arise.'