by Terry Brooks
They made their camp at the foot of an ancient koa that fronted a small clearing. With their backs to the tree, they ate their dinner and watched the light deepen from smoke to charcoal. The rain slowed to an intermittent drizzle, and mist began to creep down the mountainside in probing tendrils. Already the forest was beginning to turn to jungle, the trees thickly grown and tangled with vines, the ground damp and soft and yielding. Slugs and beetles crawled through brush and rotting logs. The ground was dry beneath the koa, but the dampness in the air seemed to penetrate everywhere. There was no possibility of a fire. Wren and Garth hunched within their cloaks and pushed closer to each other. The night settled down about them, turning the world an inky black.
Wren offered to stand the first watch, too edgy to sleep. Garth acquiesced without comment. He pulled up his knees, put his head on his crossed arms, and was asleep almost immediately.
Wren sat staring into the blackness. The trees and mist screened away any light from moon and stars, and even after her eyes had adjusted it was impossible to see more than a dozen feet from where she kept watch. Shadows drifted at the periphery of her vision, brief, quick, and suggestive. Sounds darted out of the haze to challenge and tease—the shrill call of night birds, the click of insects, scrapes and rustlings, huffings and snarls. The low cough of hunting cats came from somewhere distant. She could smell faintly the sulfur fumes of Killeshan, wafting on the air, mingling with the thicker, more pungent scents of the jungle. All around her an invisible world was waking up.
Let it, she thought defiantly.
The air grew still as even the drizzle faded away and only fog remained. Time slipped away. The sounds slowed and softened, and there was a sense that everything out there in the blackness lay in wait, that everything watched. She was aware that the shadows at the edge of the encroaching mist had faded away. Garth was snoring softly. She shifted her cramped body but made no effort to rise. She liked the feel of the tree against her back and Garth pressing close. She hated how the island made her feel—exposed, vulnerable, unprotected. It was the newness, she told herself. It was the unfamiliarity of the terrain, the isolation from her own country, the memory of Tiger Ty’s warning that there were monsters here. It would take time to adjust . . .
She left the thought unfinished as she saw the silhouette of something huge appear at the edge of the mist. It walked upright on two legs momentarily, then dropped down on four. It stopped and she knew it was looking at her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she edged her hand down until her fingers closed about the long knife at her waist.
She waited.
The thing that watched did not move. It seemed to be waiting with her.
Then she saw another of the shadows appear, similar to the first. And another. And a fourth. They gathered in the darkness and went still, invisible eyes glittering. Wren took slow, deep breaths. She thought about waking Garth, but told herself over and over that she would wait just one more minute, just long enough to see what would happen.
But nothing happened. The minutes crawled past, and the shadows stayed where they were. Wren wondered how many were out there. Then she wondered if they were behind her where she couldn’t see them, sneaking up until they were close enough to . . .
She turned quickly and looked. There was nothing there. At least, nothing within the limited range of her vision.
She turned back again. She knew suddenly that the things in the darkness were waiting to see what she would do, trying to ascertain how dangerous she might be. If she sat there long enough they would grow impatient and decide to test her. She wondered how much time she had. She wondered what it would take to discourage them. If the monsters were here already, only three nights off the beach, they would be there every night from here on in, watching and waiting. And there would be others. There were bound to be.
Wren’s blood pumped through her, racing as quickly as her thoughts. Together, Garth and she were a match for most things. But they could not afford to fight everything they came across.
The shadows had begun to move again, restless. She heard murmurings, not words exactly, hut something. She could feel movement all about her, something other than the shadows, things she could not see. The inhabitants of the jungle had discovered them and were gathering. She heard a growl, low and menacing. Beside her, Garth shifted in his sleep, turning away.
Wren’s face felt hot.
Do something, she whispered to herself. You have to do something.
She knew without looking that the shadows were behind her now.
She felt a burning against her breast.
Almost without thinking, she reached down into her tunic and removed the leather bag with the Elfstones. Swiftly, unwilling to think about what she was doing, she shook the Stones into her hand and quickly closed her fingers about them. She could feel the shadows watching.
Just a hint of what they can do, she told herself. That should be enough.
She stretched forth her hand and let her fingers open slightly. The blue light of the Elfstones brightened. It gathered, a cold fire, and issued forth in thin streamers to probe the darkness.
Instantly the shadows were gone. They disappeared so swiftly and so completely that they might never have been there. The sounds died into a hush. The world became a vacuum, and she and Garth were all that remained within it.
She closed her fingers tightly again and withdrew her hand. The shadows, whatever they were, knew something of Elven magic.
Her instincts had told her that they would.
She was filled with a sudden bitterness. The Elfstones were not a part of her life, she had insisted. Oh, no—not her life. They belonged to someone else, not to her. How quick she had been to tell herself so. And how quick to turn to them the moment she felt threatened.
She slipped the Stones back into their container and shoved it within her tunic again. The night was peaceful and still; the mist was empty of movement. The things that lived on Morrowindl had gone in search of easier prey.
It was after midnight when she woke Garth. Nothing further had appeared to threaten them. She did not tell Garth what had happened. She wrapped herself in her cloak and leaned back against him.
It was a long time before she fell asleep.
They set out again at dawn. Vog lay thick across the slopes of Killeshan, and the light was thin and gray. Dampness filled the air; it seeped up through the ground on which they walked, penetrated the clothing they wore, and left them shivering. After a time, the sun began to bum through the mist, and some of the chill faded. Travel was slow and difficult, the land uneven and broken, a series of ravines and ridges choked by the jungle’s growth. Last night’s hush persisted, a sullen stillness that isolated the pair and spun webs of uneasiness all about them.
At the edge of their vision, the shadows persisted, furtive, cautious, a gathering of quick and formless ghosts that were there until the instant you looked for them and then were gone. Garth seemed oblivious to their presence, but Wren knew he was not. As she stole a furtive glance at his dark face from time to time she could see the calm that reflected in his eyes. She marveled that her giant friend could keep everything so carefully closed away. Her own eyes searched the haze relentlessly, for even now she was unsure how much the things that hid there feared the Elfstones, how long the magic would continue to keep them at bay. Her fingers strayed constantly to her tunic and the leather bag beneath, seeking reassurance that her protection was still there.
The day wore slowly down. They passed through forests of koa and banyan, old and shaggy with moss and vines, along slides where the lava rock was crusted and broken off into loose pieces that crumbled and skidded away as they tried to find footing, down ravines where the brush was thorny and across the sweep of valleys over which heavy clouds stretched in an impenetrable blanket of gray. All the while they continued to climb, working their way up Killeshan’s slopes, catching brief glimpses of the volcano through breaks in the vog, the summit lifting away, s
eemingly never closer.
They began to recognize more and more of the dangers of the island. There were certain plants, bright colored and intricately formed, that snared and trapped anything that came within reach. There were sinkholes that could swallow you up in a moment’s time if you were unfortunate enough to step in one. There were strange animals that showed themselves briefly and disappeared again, hunters all, scaled and spiked, clawed and sharp-toothed. No monsters appeared, but Wren suspected they were there, watching and waiting, the specters that whispered from the mist.
Night came and they slept, and this time the shadows did not approach, but stayed carefully hidden. A moor cat prowled close, but Garth blew into a thick stalk of grass, producing a whistling sound the big cat apparently did not care for, and it faded back into silence. Wren dreamed of home, of the Westland when she was young and everything was new, and she woke with the memories clear and bright.
“Garth, I used the Elfstones again,” she told him at breakfast, the two of them huddled close against the chill gloom. “Two nights ago when the shadows first appeared.”
I know, he replied, his eyes fixing her as he signed. I was awake.
“How much did you see?” she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief.
Enough. The magic frightens you, doesn’t it?
She smiled wistfully. “Everything we do frightens me.”
They walked through the silence of the dawn, lost in thought. The land flattened out before them and the jungle stretched away. The vog was thicker here, steady and unmoving before them. The air was still. They crossed an open space and found themselves at the edge of a swamp. Cautiously they skirted its reed-lined borders, searching for firmer ground. When they were successful, they started ahead again. The swamp persisted. Time after time, they were forced to change direction, seeking safer passage. The bog was a dull, flat shimmer of dampness stretched across masses of grass and weeds, and trees poked out of it like the limbs of drowned giants. Winged insects buzzed about, glittering and hides-cent. Garth produced an ill-smelling salve that they used to coat their faces and arms, a shield against bites and stings. Snakes slithered in the mud. Spiders crawled everywhere, some larger than Garth’s fist. Webs and moss and vines trailed from branches and brush, clinging and deadly. Bats flew through the cathedral ceilings of the trees, their squeaking sharp and chilling.
At one point they encountered a giant web concealed overhead and set like a snare to fall on whatever passed beneath. A less skilled pair of hunters might have missed it and been caught, but Garth spotted the trap at once. The strands of the webbing were as thick as Wren’s fingers, and so close to transparent that they were invisible if you were not looking for them. She poked at one with a reed, and the reed was instantly stuck fast. Wren and Garth peered about cautiously for a long time without moving. Whatever it was that had spun that webbing was not something they wanted to meet.
Satisfied at last that the webmaker was not about, they pressed on.
It was nearing noon when they heard the scraping sound. They slowed and then stopped. The sound was rough and frantic, much too loud for the stillness of the swamp, almost a thrashing. It came from their left where shadows lay across a thicket of scrub with brilliant red flowers. With Garth leading, they skirted the scrub right, following a ridge of solid ground to a clearing of koa, moving silently, listening as the scraping sound continued. Almost immediately they saw strands of the clear webbing trailing earthward from the tops of the trees. The strands shook as something tugged against them from within the brush. It was apparent what had happened. Garth beckoned to Wren, and they continued cautiously on.
Amid the koa, they stopped again. A series of snares had been laid through the trees, one large and several small. One of the smaller snares had been tripped, and the scraping sound came from the creature it had entangled as it struggled to break free. The creature was unlike anything either Wren or Garth had ever seen. As large as a small hunting dog, it appeared to be a cross between a porcupine and a cat, its barrel-shaped body covered with black and tan ringed quills and supported by four short, thick legs while its squarish head, hunched virtually neckless between its shoulders, narrowed abruptly into the blunt, furry countenance of a feline. Wrinkled paws ended in powerful clawed fingers that dug at the earth, and its stubby, quilled tail whipped back and forth in a frantic effort to snap the lines of webbing that had wrapped about it.
The effort was futile. The more it thrashed, the more the webbing caught it up. Finally the creature paused, its head lifted, and it saw them. Wren was astonished by the creature’s eyes. They had lids and lashes and were colored a brilliant blue. They were not the eyes of an animal; they were eyes like her own.
The creature’s body sagged, exhausted from its struggle. The quills laid back sleekly, and the strange eyes blinked.
“Pfftttt!” The creature spit—very like the cat it in part, at least, resembled. “Don’t suppose you would consider helping me,” the creature softly rasped. “After all, you share some—arrgggh—responsibility for my predicament.”
Wren stared, then glanced hurriedly over at Garth, who for once appeared as surprised as she was. How could this creature talk? She turned back again. “What do you mean, I share some responsibility?”
“Rrrowwwggg. I mean, you’re an Elf, aren’t you?”
“Well, no, as a matter of fact I’m not. I’m a . . .” She hesitated. She had been about to say she was a Rover. But the truth was she was at least part Elf. Wasn’t that how the creature had identified her—by her Elven features? She frowned. How did it know of Elves anyway?
“Who are you?” she asked.
The creature appraised her silently for a moment, blue eyes unblinking. When he spoke, its voice was a low growl. “Stresa.”
“Stresa,” she repeated. “Is that your name?”
The creature nodded.
“My name is Wren. This is my friend Garth.”
“Hssttt. You are an Elf,” Stresa repeated, and the cat face furrowed. “But you are not from Morrowindl.”
“No,” she responded. She put her hands on her hips, puzzled. “How did you know that?”
The blue eyes squinted slightly. “You don’t recognize me. You don’t know what I am. Hrrrrowwl. If you lived on Morrowindl, you would.”
Wren nodded. “What are you, then?”
“A Splinterscat,” the creature answered. He growled deep in his throat. “That is what we are called, the few of us who remain. Part of this and part of that, but mostly something else altogether. Puurrft.”
“And how is it that you know about Elves? Are there still Elves living here?”
The Splinterscat regarded her coolly, patient within his snare. “If you help me get free,” he replied, his rough voice a low purr, “I will answer your questions.”
Wren hesitated, undecided.
“Fffppht! You had better hurry,” he advised. “Before the Wisteron comes.”
Wisteron? Wren glanced again at Garth, signing to indicate what Stresa had said. Garth made a brief response.
Wren turned back. “How do we know you won’t hurt us?” she asked the Splinterscat.
“Harrrwl. If you are not from Morrowindl and you have come this far, then you are more dangerous than I,” he answered, coming as close as he probably could to laughing. “Hurry, now. Use your long knives to cut the webbing. The edge of the blade only; keep the flat turned away.” The strange creature paused, and for the first time she saw a hint of desperation in its eyes. “There isn’t much time. If you help me—hrroww—perhaps I can help you in return.”
Wren signed to Garth, and they moved over to where the Splinterscat was bound, careful to avoid triggering any of the snares still in place. Working quickly, they sliced through the strands entangling the creature and then backed away. Stresa stepped over the fallen webbing gingerly and eased past them to where the ground was firm. He spread his quills and shook himself violently. Both Wren and Garth flinched at the sudden movement,
but no quills flew at them. The Splinterscat was merely shaking loose the last of the webbing clinging to his body. He began preening himself, then stopped when he remembered they were watching.
“Thank you,” he said in his low, rough voice. “If you had not freed me, I would have died. Grrwwll. The Wisteron would have eaten me.”
“The Wisteron?” Wren asked.
The Splinterscat laid back its quills, ignoring the question. “You should already be dead yourself,” he declared. The cat face furrowed once more. “Pffftt!” he spit. “You are either very lucky or you have the protection of magic. Which is it?”
Wren took a moment to respond. “You promised to answer my questions, Stresa. Tell me of the Elves.”
The Splinterscat bunched itself up and sat down. He was bigger than he had looked in the snare, more the size of a dog than the cat or porcupine he looked. “The Elves,” he said, the growl creeping back into his voice, “live inland, high on the slopes of Killeshan in the city of Arborlon—hrrowggh—where the demons have them trapped.”
“Demons?” Wren asked, immediately thinking of those that had been shut away within the Forbidding by the Ellcrys. They had already broken free once in the time of Wil Ohmsford. Had they done so again? “What do these demons look like?” she pressed.
“Sssssttt! Like lots of different things. What difference does it make? The point is, the Elves made them and now they can’t get rid of them. Pfft! Too bad for the Elves. The magic of the Keel fails now. It won’t be long before everything goes.”
The Splinterscat waited while Wren wrestled with this latest news. There was still too much she didn’t understand. “The Elves made the demons?” she repeated in confusion.
“Years ago. When they didn’t know any better.”
“But . . . made them from what?”
Stresa’s tongue licked out, a dark violet against its brown face. “Why did you come here—grrwll? Why are you looking for the Elves?”
Wren felt Garth’s cautionary hand on her shoulder. She turned and saw him gesture off into the jungle.