‘It doesn’t look like he is breathing,’ Mor’seka mumbled, ‘and he’s cold as river water.’
‘Stop fussing, Mor’seka, you think I don’t know what I’m doing?’
Anya tried to hide her own panic as she played with her newly acquired dreadlock. Fashioned to mimic the roots of the Great Tree, she hoped it would be the first of many – so long as she didn’t accidentally kill her brother before her priestess training was finished.
‘This is how it’s supposed to go. Stop being such a Galoofin. What I want to know is did he manage to break through the Dreamtime? What do you think Albion is like? I wonder if the legends are true?’
Mor’seka was no fool. He knew Anya was concerned for her brother but she was also genuinely more interested in her little experiment. Not for the first time, he worried about her sanity.
‘A worm? You’re actually comparing me to a skittish, flatulent worm?’ Mor’seka retorted as he tried to rub some warmth into Tar’sel’s freezing limbs. ‘It’s no good, I’m going to get some help.’
‘Don’t.’ Anya grabbed his arm. ‘Any second now the nut is going to…’ She was interrupted by a loud pop and a hazelnut shooting into the sky.
She stared intently at Tar’sel for a moment. ‘It worked.’ She beamed.
*
The full moons of Syluria bathed the Nellpa Barra in burnished silver and the river wound its way across the valley like a glossy black serpent. Ice blue stars hung in the frosted winter sky and the last crops of lotus grain rippled gently in the wind. On the hill overlooking the Tree Weaver village the sacred Nymet tree, a sturdy gnarly oak, glowed gently in the darkness.
The festival fire had long since collapsed into itself and in the dying light of the fire, the sculpted branches of the dwelling trees, with their hide and woven bark bowers, cast strange shadows which spread over the grove as if trying to tempt people to bed. In the highest treetops of the Nymet temple on the northern hill, the Draoi priestesses continued their soporific heart song in honour of the animal that had provided the feast.
The Nabinder ritual was an anxious time, when the world was vulnerable as time reset itself. The ceremony, always a sombre affair, had gone without incident, and the grove was lit by the warm glow of individual fires lit from the main festival hearth.
Young and old still feasted and drank, finishing the last morsels of the great feast and chatting in the fading light. The air was thick with the smell of applewood hearts, roasted stuffed quinnarra roots and Rheadak meat, the burnt fat from the remains infusing the night air to feed the ancestors.
Gathering around each other’s hearths, they tried to outdo each other’s storytelling skills but Anya, bored of the same old tales, had suggested a traditional divination game instead. Both Mor’seka and Tar’sel had been keen to join in, curious to see what Anya had been learning in her priestess training.
*
Tar’sel’s body lurched and with incredible force of will, he drew his mind back into his body. He could feel the consciousness pouring back into the young male body sitting by a small fire. He became aware of the reassuring heaviness of the trees rooted behind him, the wet grass beside him where he had knocked over his beaker and followed at last by the fact that the male body was him.
‘I am Tar’sel Aderquaile, Child of the Nymet. I belong to the great forest of the Nellpa Barra, heart of Syluria – and that was not real!’ he muttered to himself for reassurance, while the heat of the orange flames crackling in the small stone circle brought him round.
Beads of sweat decorated his ashen face, his normally spiky blond hair pasted to his head, and the points of his green ears began to tingle. He soon realised that the buzzing noise in his ears was in fact voices, voices that belonged to real, physical people, people who were talking to him.
‘Tar’sel! Tar’sel? Are you OK?’
He could hear the tone of panic in his sister’s voice, even though she would have denied it was there, and managed to acknowledge that he was fine. However, the image of those long, dirt-encrusted nails that had gripped him, and the pain of that ruthless mind which had plunged like a thousand daggers into his own, still lingered. He felt nauseous from the memory of the smell of decay and blood; and that scream – where had it come from?
Exhausted, he slumped gratefully against the nearest supportive trunk and waved away the suggestion that they should take him to the medicine woman. He wasn’t ready for the questions that would inevitably result from such a visit. Away from the fire, the cool night air soothed him.
‘At least drink then,’ Anya insisted, thrusting a beaker of greenish fluid into his hand.
He downed the mixture in one; it was weird, but not unpleasant and almost immediately he felt better, more solid, more real.
‘What was that?’ He held the beaker up as Anya refilled it.
‘A simple concoction of nettles… amongst other things.’ Anya smiled, clearly relieved.
‘This what they teach you in your Draoi lessons?’
‘Don’t be stupid, I learnt this from Mother when I was four!’
‘Never mind the brew.’ Mor’seka nudged his friend. ‘You going to leave us in suspense all night? Did you get through the Dreamtime?’
‘Give him a minute, for Goddess’ sake,’ Anya chided. She was very protective when she was in Draoi mode and Tar’sel was glad of it. He needed a minute to gather his thoughts.
Anya had explained the rules as Tar’sel gazed into the glowing embers. The molten flames had long since subsided and the remaining coals throbbed with orange heat which flowed through them like a river current, and it had swept him along too, into the Dreamtime.
He had never consciously entered this half-world of shadows before, only the priestesses had the skills to do so, but curiosity had got the better of him. The journey had started with the silver cord.
He recalled how golden dust drifted around him in the dark and he began to wonder if he should be doing something as he stood there. Suddenly, a punch to the chest knocked him to the ground, the force of it all swirling the dust into a frenzy. As it cleared, Tar’sel noticed a silver cord attached to his chest, and it began to gently pull him forward.
The hairs on his arms and back of his neck stood up as he remembered the sense of foreboding that had coiled in his guts. Out of the corner of his eye, wispy mist curled into strange shapes he couldn’t quite make out and the silver cord led him round the deep craters that pock-marked this desolate, grey landscape. It was not at all how he had expected it to be.
Menacing images swirled in the deep black pools of the craters and Tar’sel averted his gaze as he passed. As his eyes began to adjust to the gloom, he could see that the light of the dust settled into a grid-like formation that floated at chest height.
‘The Wyrdweb,’ he muttered to himself. It should have been no surprise; they were all taught from a very young age about the web that connects all things, but he had never considered it would exist out here, in fact he had never really thought about the web at all, let alone seen it. The intricacy of the pattern was like lace and he marvelled at its beauty as the silver cord led him slowly on, pulling along a single thread, looping and twisting and spinning as they went.
Ahead of him was a vortex, very much like the one he had entered, and it was obvious the silver cord was leading him there. Tar’sel took a few deep breaths; he knew how deadly panic could be, but he couldn’t help but worry that he was now getting out of his depth. He hoped and prayed that Anya knew what she was doing.
At the vortex, the silver cord stopped. An image of a world bloomed around him so colourless and blank like a half-drawn picture, but it made the Dreamtime look real. He was standing on a hill with a large oak tree. Bryony curled through nearby bushes of wild rose and birch trees that swayed at the base of the hill. Despite its unfamiliar feel, Tar’sel knew where he was: the hill of the Nymet – only, this was not his Nymet.
A rustling noise behind him made him turn, alerting his hunter instin
ct, and he made a grab for his knife only to realise there was nothing there. He walked away from the vortex feeling the silver cord tugging at his chest; it clearly didn’t want him going this way but eventually he felt it slacken.
There was a cluster of craters to his left, filled with the same black liquid he had seen in the others. Images began to fade in and out so quickly he caught only fragments: a glowing stone, a withered tree, a flame-haired girl… and the claw. Red lightning danced across the mouth of the crater before the claw erupted from the black water, the nails gripping his face, digging into his temples and dragging him down. There was a searing pain in his chest as the silver cord was stretched to breaking.
That had been the moment when Anya had used the nut to bring him back. Tar’sel suspected that it had brought something else back as well though he had no way to prove it.
*
Even now, as Tar’sel sat around the fire drinking Anya’s potion, the last image of the girl’s face was still burnt into his mind’s eye. Those pleading eyes set in an alabaster face and wild red hair as she began to fall away from him… screaming. Like everyone, he knew the story of the flame-haired girl from beyond the Dreamtime. The one who would come at a time of great tribulation. Had this been her? Was this the time? Tar’sel shuddered from an inner chill.
Tar’sel realised he had been sitting in silence for ages with Anya and Mor’seka staring at him expectantly. The tree canopy seemed to be drawing in around him and for the first time in his life he felt claustrophobic in the forest.
‘Where are you going?’ Mor’eska moaned.
‘I need to walk, eat… to do something… normal,’ Tar’sel shouted over his shoulder.
‘Wait, you can’t go. I need to know if it worked properly,’ his sister replied.
‘Forget it.’
‘But…’
‘K’hul, Anya! That was dangerous and I wasn’t prepared…’
‘I was always in control,’ Anya protested. ‘You…’
‘No. I’m done.’ Tar’sel strode off to the central grove.
*
Tay’mor, the Nymet guardian, was settling down to perform his rendition of the ‘Vorla Lamp’ as Tar’sel entered the central grove and a large crowd was gathering around the embers of the festival fire waiting in anticipation. The stars shone brightly in the open sky above him. It was the perfect distraction.
The stories of the sinister Vorla had always been Tar’sel’s favourites and Tay’mor always told them best. More importantly they were comforting and familiar. Just what I need right now, he thought, as he took his place amongst the crowd, accepting the offer of a plate of spiced Rheadak meat and his favourite creamy quinnarra roots, perfectly smoked. The food warmed him, helping to clear the remnants of the terrifying vision.
The Nymet tree shone from its place on the hill, a familiar beacon that told him all was right with the world. However, Tar’sel couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but he always thought the Dreamtime was a place of light and wonder; instead he had found only darkness and he felt polluted by it. He didn’t know if it was him or the tree but it seemed to shine less brightly than normal tonight.
‘The tale of the Vorla Lamp,’ Tay’mor announced loudly, allowing time for the crowd to cheer before he began.
Tar’sel decided to put his concerns to the back of his mind for the time being and settled down to enjoy his meal and the entertainment.
Long ago, before the beginning of time, the land known as Syluria existed only as the tiny island of Inish, surrounded in all directions by the primordial waters of the Dreamtime.
Inish was the bleeding heart of the Sleeping Mother, which oozed molten fire as she dreamed. Little by little, over aeons of time, the island grew, but it remained barren under the fierce gaze of the triple suns.
The only other forms of life in this empty universe were the Manush de Bar, creatures of living stone that had absorbed the pulsing life-force of the Sleeping Mother; and among them were the oldest of the Manush de Bar, the Vorla. They lived, locked outside of time, in their bed of crystal caves deep within the darkness.
Even to this day, the Vorla live within the original Isle of Inish, known now as the Mountain of Mourne, far to the north close to the Barra of Arkturus. These lovers of knowledge and learning would send their minds out into the Dreamtime, hoping to gain new experiences, yearning to connect with other sentient life, yet alas, they found only emptiness.
The Vorla, who had been observing the dreams of the Sleeping Mother, devised a plan to change the balance of power between her and the suns. They sent a terrible storm of flame shooting into the sky in order to dim the light and quench the heat of the surface, but the plan failed. However, as the molten rock hit the primordial waters, it hissed and spat and cooled, and as the largest ball of lava touched the water, it split open. A feeble black bird stumbled from the remains of the rock and, before the suns had time to burn it to ashes, it swooped into the sky and swallowed all but one of the balls of fire.
Instantly, the bird grew, its plumage turning from black to iridescent gold, red and orange tinged with blue, while its eyes shone like topaz, and its tail dripped flames. Its wings became long and graceful as it glided and danced through the air.
So pleased with its beautiful new form was the bird that it began to sing with joy. With each new sound, life blossomed on the island of Inish. Lush rainforest, plains of rippling grasses, vast forests and glistening lakes spread across the land, giving birth to all manner of creatures of earth, sea and sky; and still the Benu bird sang.
Soon this little universe was full to overflowing and the Sleeping Mother could feel the sadness in the heart of the Benu bird, for it wished to continue its song. As the Sleeping Mother exhaled, the universe expanded and a Great Tree formed in the wake of her breath. The Sleeping Mother exhaled twice more into the void, hanging two new universes from the branches of the Great Tree and so the Triverse was formed. The Benu bird swooped and soared through these new worlds, filling the air with its beautiful song of creation and disgorging a sun into each.
In time, the fire within the Benu bird was spent and it returned, exhausted and feeble, to the island of Inish. Once again the Sleeping Mother felt the sadness in its heart. The Rani, Queen of the Vorla, sent her most trusted aide Durga to the surface to attend to the Benu bird on the orders of the Sleeping Mother. So pitiful was the Benu that Durga split the Sylurian sun in two and, extracting a little light from each half, she fed the Benu bird, restoring its beauty.
However, the Benu bird was not content and wished to continue to sing. Durga knew that this could not be allowed; the Benu’s song still echoed through the Triverse, even rippling into the Dreamtime, and a new melody would jar with the original song of the creation, bringing it collapsing in on itself. With the permission of the Rani, she trapped the Benu bird within a crystal jar and wrapped this in layer upon layer of stone.
In spite of its confinement, the Benu bird continued to sing and the stone glowed with its happiness. In this little world, the Benu was perpetually renewed by its own light and song.
The Vorla took the stone deep into the recesses of the crystal caves, gilding it in a beautiful cage of silver, gold and precious jewels. The stone was hung in the chamber of the Rani where it infused her and her diamond veil with its dormant life-giving light. Bathed in the light of the Vorla Lamp, these creatures of living stone lived for millennia in peace and happiness.
Tay’mor paused for a moment, taking in the faces around him as they sat listening intently while passing round mead horns and the last scraps of the feast. A gentle ripple of applause wafted through the crowd, but most knew the story wasn’t quite over yet.
Since that time, the Vorla vowed never again to interfere with the evolution of any lifeform within the Triverse, but they still stalk the Dreamtime with an eternal, unquenchable thirst for knowledge. They have even been known to drive men insane in their quest. You wo
uld do well, dear friends, to ensure you never sleep on an argument or you may find yourself suffering nightmares, as the curious Vorla discover and unravel your darkened mind.
A proper cheer went up this time, as the storyteller took a bow and people began to retire to their bowers. Tar’sel, however, was still stuck in the story.
Vorla still stalk the Dreamtime. The words echoed in Tar’sel’s head. Could this be what he had just encountered or was he just letting his imagination run away with him? Sinister as they were, the Vorla would not deliberately harm other Sylurians, would they? After all, they had made a promise not to interfere. Was the scream from one of their victims?
This was perhaps the weirdest night he’d had in all his sixteen seasons; he needed to speak to someone, but who? Anya was only interested in experimenting with magic she should not be using and Mor’seka was looking for any bit of excitement he could find. There really was only one person he could trust with something this big, not just for sound advice but to be discrete.
Tar’sel could see the elders heading towards the hill and the sanctuary of the Nymet temple and his father nearby was preparing to head over and join them. It didn’t seem right to interrupt but Tar’sel wouldn’t see him for a few days once he has in the temple. He had hoped to speak to him before that. It could wait, couldn’t it?
Tar’sel watched the orange sparks coming off the festival fire as they floated one by one into the night sky and winked out and allowed himself to drift off with them. A heavy hand on his shoulder made him jump.
‘Now is the time for rest not planning adventures, young one.’
Tar’sel quickly rose to his feet. ‘I was just thinking about the Vorla, Father. Are they real? Do they really send people mad?’
The leathery face of Tay’mor wrinkled into a smile, his green skin mottled with age, and the firelight dancing in his blue-grey eyes.
Charlotte Stone and the Children of the Nymet Page 5