Dark Mist Rising (Crossing Over)

by Anna Kendall

  Looking up at the one brilliant star I could see from my hiding place, I could wait no longer. I was still half a day's journey from the border between the Unclaimed Lands and Soulvine Moor. But both time and distance were different in the Country of the Dead, and it may be that I did not need to be directly on the border.

  I pulled my little shaving knife from my boot, pricked my thigh and rode the pain to cross over. The last thing I was aware of in the land of the living was Shep stirring frantically beside me.

  Darkness—

  Cold—

  Dirt choking my mouth—

  Worms in my eyes—

  Earth imprisoning my fleshless arms and legs—

  But only for a moment, and then I lay in the Country of the Dead. The deadfall was gone and I lay in the open. Scrambling to my feet, I looked around. For a long, dazed moment, I recognized nothing.

  All was hidden in fog.

  It hung heavily over the landscape, obscuring anything further away than an arm's length. I could not even tell if the countryside here matched that in the land of the living or if it had stretched or shrunk, as it often had before. All I could see was light grey fog: motionless, silent, parting effortlessly as I moved through it.

  I tripped over one of the Dead, a man dressed in winter hunting clothes, too young to be roused. Next I fell into the shallow woodland pool. The bank, which I could not see clearly, gave way beneath my feet and I splashed into a foot of water, climbing out wet and muddy to my knees. But at least now I knew that the landscapes matched. However, without much visibility, how would I know in which direction I must walk to reach Soulvine Moor? Here there were never stars to guide me, never sun, never moon.

  But I could not face the idea of returning to the land of the living. Not yet, not after having come so far. Not without at least trying to find my mother.

  Carefully I walked around the woodland pool, judging as well as I could when I had reached halfway. Then I set myself to walking away from the pool, which should be south, in as straight a line as I could manage. The fog became a little less dense. I had gone less than a hundred yards, water from the pool sloshing in my left boot, when I came upon one of the circles of the Dead, and my blood stopped in its veins.

  The Dead often sat in circles of four to eight people, sometimes touching, sometimes not. This was a larger circle, fourteen Dead, and they all held hands. I could see their clasped hands resting on the grass by their sides, and their legs, crossed under them or stretched out on the ground before them. But their heads were all enveloped in patches of the fog denser and darker than any on the landscape, so thick it completely shrouded each of the Dead from the neck up. And another, equally dense patch of fog rested in the centre of the circle.

  When I had meddled before in the Country of the Dead, keeping the Blue army artificially roused and then bringing the Dead soldiers temporarily back to the land of the living, the landscape had reflected my meddling. Winds, storms, quakes and finally the tearing of the sky itself, so that there roared out of it that bright and terrible thing I had glimpsed for only a brief second. Trying to change death itself had monstrously roiled the landscape of death. But that was not happening now. This ground was as stable, the air as motionless, the woods as silent as the grave that in fact they were. Only the fog was different. And it had increased hugely since I last crossed over.

  Cautiously I approached the circle. Closest to me was, judging from the shabby homespun skirt and wrinkled bare feet that were all I could see, an old woman from some poor upland farm. It is old women who are most willing to talk to me. I put my hand within the dark fog and laid it upon her head.

  Immediately I jerked my hand away and cried out. Her head vibrated. It felt like touching the outside of a hive humming with bees. My hand was not injured, and the lower half of the old woman's body rested as tranquilly on the grass as before.

  ‘Mistress! Wake up!' With the toe of my wet boot I nudged her leg. Nothing. I pushed harder. Nothing. Finally I kicked her, knowing that the Dead cannot be hurt, but although my kick knocked her over, she did not rouse. However, her hands slipped from those on either side of her in the circle.

  All at once the patches of dense fog dissolved from around each head; what remained were thirteen Dead holding hands and one lying peacefully on the grass. I could see each clearly. No heads vibrated. But the dark patch of fog in the centre of the circle began to hum angrily.

  Those were the watchers from Soulvine Moor.

  I dared not approach that angry central fog. The cloud could not, as far as I knew, move from that one spot, but what did I really know about what was happening here? Nothing. This was new, and troubling, and there was no one to help me understand it – unless my mother was that one.

  In the land of the living, Soulvine Moor had lain a half-day's walk from where I had crossed over. The Moor might be closer here – or further. I had crossed over soon after dark. I had the whole night and, should I need it, the whole of the next day to spend in the Country of the Dead. My body could go that long tranced. It was a risk, but I was well hidden in the deadfall from any savage soldiers, and Shep would protect me from four-legged predators. Skirting widely around the remains of the circle, I again moved south through the fog.

  It was not easy to keep my bearings. But as the land rose and the woods thinned out, I was sure that I approached the Moor. I passed two more large circles of the Dead, all holding hands, each head shrouded in impenetrable dark fog. In the centre of each circle was a patch of even darker fog. I did not approach the circles.

  Finally, after hours of climbing steadily upwards, the ground levelled and began to feel springy under my feet, squishing slightly as I walked. Peat. I was on Soulvine Moor.

  Another hour of walking and I came to the largest circle yet. Twenty-one Dead. Except for its size, it looked like the three circles I had seen in the Unclaimed Lands. But I knew how people died on Soulvine Moor – at least those people who either were strangers or natives who left and then returned. It was how Cecilia had died.

  Don't think of it.

  And then I saw something that wiped away all thoughts of the past. Figures moved in the fog. Figures, where here-tofore nothing had moved except me.

  They came towards me very slowly, three of them, as shrouded as the immobile circled Dead. Their dense mist moved with them, dark patches in the lighter fog that hung everywhere. Slowly, so slowly, they approached me, then stopped on the far side of the circle of twenty-one Dead.

  ‘What ... what are you?' I quavered, and realized that I had said the same thing, on the other side, to Shep. But Shep was a dog – familiar, solid, known – at least in form. I could not see these forms beneath the fog. I did not know if they were solid. I could not imagine what they might be.

  None of the three answered.

  We stood there, on opposite sides of an immobile circle of the Dead, in the grey silence. I don't know how long we stayed thus, I waiting fearfully for what might happen next, and they waiting for ... what? It seemed a long time. Perhaps it was, perhaps not.

  A woman's voice spoke from behind me. ‘Roger.'

  I screamed and whirled around. Now the pervasive light grey fog had thickened, although without growing darker. A wall of it stood behind me, and it swirled as if in a light breeze. Through that swirling pale fog it seemed I glimpsed shapes, shifting and inhuman, and among the shapes the glint of a crown.

  The voice was the voice of my dream.

  ‘Roger,' she said again, and then, ‘Eleven years dead.' And she laughed.

  It was a laugh to shiver bones, to shatter minds. When the wall of swirling fog moved towards me, I bit my tongue and crossed back over.

  Darkness—

  Cold—

  Dirt choking my mouth—

  Worms in my eyes—

  Earth imprisoning my fleshless arms and legs—

  Horrible, but not so horrible as what I had left. For the second time in my life, my travel through the cold and maggoty gr
ave was actually welcome. Then I lay back in the land of the living, wrapped in Tom's cloak, hidden in the deadfall in the Unclaimed Lands. Shep was gone.

  I had crossed over early in the night. Now the sky was pale grey. Dawn? I crawled out of the deadfall to see red streaking the western sky. Sunset. Time is different in the Country of the Dead, and I had been gone nearly twenty-four hours. Hunger twisted my belly. Where was Shep?

  The dog waited outside the deadfall, and beside him waited Tom Jenkins, his face stiff with anger.

  15

  ‘Tom,' I said, inadequately. He was supposed to be on his journey to join George's mythical rebellion. I was supposed to have time to think on what I had seen in the Country of the Dead. Nothing was as I had planned. ‘Tom—'

  ‘Roger,' he said, and my growling belly clenched like a fist.

  ‘That's your name, ain't it?' he said. ‘Not “Peter Forest”. Roger Something, and you lied to me all along.'

  What could I say? He was right. I had lied to him, and chances were I would now have to lie again. My lies might be for his own protection, but it was clear that Tom was not interested in being protected. He had no idea of the forces against which he might need that protection. Neither, for that matter, did I. ‘ Eleven years dead ...'

  ‘I went as fast as I could down the track,' Tom continued, ‘and I came last night to a farm. There were only two women and a passel of young children there; the men were away on what the head woman called a “long hunt”. It was a poor hard-scrabble kind of place, but they gave me something to eat and a place to sleep in the goat shed.'

  Now I could smell the goats on him. I had underestimated the speed with which his strong body could travel. Shep sat on his haunches, looking back and forth between us.

  ‘But before I went out to the goat shed, I sat with the women and children around their hearth. I cut them wood and fetched water, and they were kind to me. Also, I think they were glad of any company.'

  Of course they were. The huts in the wild, infertile Unclaimed Lands were far apart and the living very hard. I could see it clearly: the hearth blazing with logs cut by this handsome young stranger who talked so easily. The two ragged women, old before their time, their men gone on a hunt, listening to Tom talk. Watching his yellow hair fall over his forehead. Abashed and yet intrigued by the flirting that was as inseparable a part of him as breathing. The children hugging the shadows, staring in wonder at this visitor from another world, just as Jee had once stared at Maggie and me.

  ‘It was hard at first to get those women to talk personal to me. They don't like strangers. But soon enough I got at least the younger one to speak. Her name was Karha, and the two were sisters. Karha told me an interesting story. She said that two years ago a man and a woman stole her sister's oldest boy, a youngster named Jee. Just stole him. She described the man to me. Except for having two hands, the man looked exactly like you. Ain't that a strange coincidence? More strange, even, than two identical dogs.'

  Tom's anger was growing with his recitation. I must find a way to damp down that anger. ‘Tom, many men would fit my description, I think. What did she say? “So tall, such-and-such colouring—”'

  ‘No more lies!' Tom shouted. ‘I won't have it! You've called out in your sleep both “Jee” and “Maggie”, and Maggie was the name of the woman with Roger! It was you!'

  Called out in my sleep – my old problem. What else had I said?

  ‘And that's not all that those women told me, Roger. There ain't no inn two days' travel from here. It's much longer travel before there is any inn. The women ain't never left their ugly little farms but their men have, and so they knew. And they told me. From beginning to end, you gave me nothing but lies!'

  He stood and advanced on me. I was no match for him; not even with two hands would I have been a match for him. Tom's huge hands balled into fists, and I braced myself for the blow I could not hope to evade.

  But he didn't hit me. When he was close enough that the smell of the goat shed enveloped us both like fog, his face suddenly crumpled. Tears sprang into his eyes.

  ‘Why did you lie to me, Peter? Why? I liked you, I thought we were going to have adventures together. You sent me to George—'

  His slow brain had finally got there. The tears vanished and the anger returned. ‘Is there even any George? Is George a lie too? He is, ain't he, you stinking bastard!' Tom raised his fist. The rest he might have borne, but not the loss of George.

  ‘No!' a voice cried. ‘Don't hit him!'

  Tom whirled around. A girl stood there, her out-stretched hand beseeching. Then her eyes rolled back in her head. Tom, cat-fast, leaped forward and caught her as she fell, just as Shep began to howl and howl as if he would never stop.

  She was beautiful. That was the first thing my dazed mind noticed. Black hair falling loose around her shoulders, skin white as lilies, lips nearly as pale as her skin. The girl wore a simple gown of homespun grey, apron of the same material and boots of tanned hide. Both dress and boots looked worn, with a rent in the skirt of the gown. Tom laid her on the ground.

  ‘Where did she come from?' Tom said. ‘By damn, I didn't hear her! Why didn't Shep bark before she got so close? Hush, you stupid dog, it's just a girl!'

  ‘Quiet,' I said to Shep. He stopped howling and lay on the ground, his head on his front paws. But I had no time for dog jealousy. ‘Tom, is she dead?'

  ‘No. Just fainted. Get the water bag.'

  It was with his pack, and full. I handed it to Tom, who gently flicked droplets into the girl's face. After a moment she stirred in Tom's arms and opened her eyes. I felt the breath go out of me. They were Cecilia's eyes. The same bright clear green, not emerald nor moss nor any other easily named shade but only their own colour. This was not Cecilia; this girl was taller, less delicate in feature, though no less beautiful. She was not Cecilia. But she had Cecilia's eyes.

  Those green eyes stared straight at me.

  Tom said tenderly, ‘Are you all right, mistress? How came you here?'

  ‘I ... I hardly know.' Her voice was soft and guttural, not Cecilia's voice at all. And also – although I hadn't realized I'd feared this until the fear was gone – not the voice of the crowned woman in the Country of the Dead.

  Tom said, ‘Can you sit up?'

  ‘I can stand.' She pulled herself upright, leaning on his arm, and smiled at him. The three of us stared at each other. All at once I realized that my member was hard as stone, and from the state of his breeches, so was Tom's. His voice came out low and intimate.

  ‘You said you don't know where you come from?'

  The girl frowned. ‘No. I ... I can't remember.'

  ‘It don't signify,' he said reassuringly. ‘Do you know your name?'

  ‘Fia.'

  ‘Come now, that's a start. Fia what?'

  She hesitated. ‘I don't know.'

  ‘No need then. Fia is enough.' He flashed her his most devastating grin. ‘I'm Tom Jenkins. And this is ...' He scowled, remembering my betrayal. It was difficult for Tom to keep more than one thing in his mind at a time, but the betrayal still lay there, sharp and dangerous as a sword, and I knew I must sheathe it before he turned on me again. He finished, pointedly, ‘ Roger.'

  The girl curtseyed to each of us.

  Tom's mouth fell open, as did mine, but undoubtedly from different causes. He was astonished that anyone should curtsey to him, Tom Jenkins, sometime shepherd and his father's fool. I was astonished that a girl who dressed and spoke in the manner of the Unclaimed Lands should have this court gesture at her automatic command. Certainly no other woman in the Unclaimed Lands had ever curtseyed to me. Who was Fia?

  ‘Who are you?' Tom blurted.

  ‘I ... I hardly know.'

  ‘Oh!' Tom said. And then, ‘Stay right there, sweetheart, for just a moment.' He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me beyond her earshot. ‘I seen this before, in Almsbury. Will Larkin got hit on the head in a fight with some stranger at a summer faire, both of them drunk as piss
pots. Will got his memory knocked clean out his head. Didn't know who he was nor what had happened nor anything else for two weeks, and then it all come back, but slowly. That must have happened to this girl too.'

  I nodded. She did not look to me like anyone who had been knocked in the head. Where were the bruises? But I had no better explanation. And I did not want to anger Tom any further.

  ‘We have to take care of her till she recovers,' Tom said with perhaps too much enthusiasm. ‘But don't think I've forgotten your lies, Roger. And don't try to run me off again, or to run off yourself!' He stalked back to Fia.

  She waited, swaying a little on her feet, gazing at me steadily from Cecilia's green eyes.

  16

  Tom, usually so feckless, actually made a plan. We would go back to the deserted hut by the waterfall – Jee's family's hut, although of course Tom did not know that – and make it habitable. He and Shep would hunt. I would gather nuts and berries. Fia would rest and recover her memory. He did not say, although I suspected, that part of his plan was that he would bed Fia while I was out nut-and-berry-gathering. What Tom did say was, ‘At least this way she will have a roof over her head until she gets well.'

  ‘It wasn't much of a roof,' I said, remembering the gaping hole open to the sky, the sagging walls.

  ‘I'll fix it,' Tom said. ‘I'm good at such things.'

  Of course he was. Tom was good at anything physical. He had washed his face in the pool, combed his yellow hair, strapped one of the guns to his back. He looked manly and confident. Fia sat a little way away beside a roaring campfire, even though it was only slightly past sunset and not even the first stars had appeared.

  In truth, she looked like she needed the warmth. Tom had spread his cloak – which up till now had been my cloak – close to the fire. She sat on it with her head bowed, her shoulders in their drab gown hunched forward. Her slender body looked barely able to support the sorrow in that bent neck and drooping shoulders. As I watched her from the corner of my eye, all the while listening to Tom's plans, her shoulders shook with might have been a single silent sob.