Eleanor

by S. F. Burgess

  “Eleanor?”

  His voice made her jump again.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” An irrational anger at being caught crying made her voice harder than she intended. She sat up. He sat up across from her, scrutinising her face again.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?” he asked softly.

  “Help me? Can you get me an iPod? A good book? A bed? No, I don’t think you can provide any of those things, and that’s just what would make me feel better right now. How about getting to say goodbye to my parents? Or telling my friends how much I’ll miss them? How about giving me back my life?” She stopped as the pain of reciting what she was missing was threatening to cause tears again.

  “If you had died you’d have had none of those things either,” he pointed out.

  “Don’t be so calm and rational! If I’d chosen death I would have moved on, it would have been natural. I certainly wouldn’t have been stuck in this wood with you!” Eleanor snapped.

  “Moved on?”

  “Yes, Conlan, moved on to the afterlife. Heaven? Hell? For all I know the Elysium Fields or Valhalla; anything but here! You don’t believe in life after death?” Her voice was still hard, the anger making her feel less pathetic.

  “I’ve never really given it much thought. The shamans believe that your soul can come back and live again if you have further lessons to learn.” He was ignoring the fight in her tone, concentrating on answering her questions and keeping his voice calm. With nothing to argue against, Eleanor felt her anger draining.

  “Shamans?” she enquired, interested despite her mood.

  “Those who live with the ancient gods.”

  Leaving that cryptic response for a later conversation, Eleanor tried a different tack. “You believe in a soul, right?”

  “Of course, your soul is energy. It’s what the shaman pulled through from your world, it’s what makes you – you.” He sounded so very matter of fact about it, so confident, that Eleanor could not help but smile, thinking of all the many philosophers and religious theologians that had argued back and forth about the soul’s existence over the years. Conlan watched her suspiciously, as if she was going to throw herself onto the fire at any moment. Is sudden amusement when considering your soul a sign of insanity and impending suicide? Eleanor felt her humour evaporate as quickly as it had come; the darkness outside the fire’s circle seemed to press in on her from all sides. Three others had gone through this before her, and none had survived it. Was she really stronger than they were?

  “I’m here for good, aren’t I? Or at least until I die again,” she clarified.

  “Yes.”

  “I guess I get to live twice, so that’s more than most people get.” She stared into the fire for a while until she felt calmer, more in control. Eventually, sleep seemed possible.

  “I’m going to try and sleep.”

  “OK. Eleanor?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s an iPod?” He sounded genuinely curious.

  “It’s a device for playing music,” she mumbled, not opening her eyes.

  “There’s music in this world.”

  She could barely hear his whisper and she doubted very much that this world had anything good enough to rival her favourite bands, so she ignored him, allowing herself to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Bremen

  Consciousness was instantaneous, if uncomprehending. Totally disorientated by her rapid jerk from deep sleep, unsure what had woken her, Eleanor stared wildly at the trees around her. Where am I? Memories came flooding back. She sat still and with her eyes closed, waited until the onslaught subsided. When her mind had settled down a little she opened her eyes again, noticing with shock that she was alone. Trying not to panic, Eleanor carefully scanned the immediate area. Neither Conlan nor Rand were anywhere in sight. It was raining and in the grey morning light the steady, soaking drizzle blended the edges of the world around her into one grey-green, formless smudge. There was also a strong smell of damp, rotting wood that she had not noticed the night before. The fire had long since died and it was now cold and apparently lifeless. Eleanor pulled the damp blanket tighter around herself.

  “Just wonderful!”

  Her quiet sarcasm felt loud over the near silence of the world around her and it pushed her fear up a notch. Now what? She realised with horror that she had no idea where she was, no idea where she was going and no idea how to survive this world on her own. She was totally dependent on Conlan. She felt fresh tears spring to her eyes and the world blurred further, but before they could fall she heard her mother’s angry voice echoing down from her earliest memories.

  “Eleanor Mary Murray, self-pity will do you no good. You might not be able to change your circumstances, but you can always change yourself!”

  Eleanor smiled. She could sit around and wait to die of hypothermia, or be eaten by a wolf, or she could get on with it and find a way to cope. She wiped away the tears. She was stronger than this, more able, so she would take her mother’s advice – if she could not change her circumstances, she would change herself and learn how to survive in this new world.

  First, she needed a fire. She could already feel the cold and damp seeping into her bones, but how do you start a fire? She had no equipment and, frankly, no idea. Why had she not paid closer attention to how Conlan had done it? She ignored the frightened little voice in the back of her head that told her she had not paid attention because she had not felt any of this was real. The cold was real, unpleasant and not going to go away. She poked at the fire embers, nearly yelling for joy when she realised that deep under the ash they still glowed faintly. She jumped up and began pulling away the papery bark of the trees around her. This she had seen Conlan do. She also swept up in her arms a collection of twigs and a few larger branches, in the hope that the wet bark might catch. By the time she got back to the fire she was soaked, cold rain chilling her further as it ran down her neck. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Working carefully, her hands shaking, she uncovered some of the glowing embers from the layers of ash. She held the thin bark strips over the ember and blew gently. At first nothing happened – the ember glowed a brighter orange, but that was all. Getting closer, trying to cover the ember and the bark with her hand to protect them from the rain, she blew again. Smoke curled up from the bark and suddenly there was a small flame; Eleanor stared at it in amazement for a moment and quickly covered the little flame with more bark. Too much bark. It smoked for a few seconds and then went out. Swearing softly to herself, Eleanor uncovered a fresh ember and started the whole process again, but this time she added the bark slowly, allowing the flame to build until the rain no longer threatened to put it out, and she then began slowly adding larger twigs, followed by the branches. The resulting blaze was impressive. She spent a short time collecting a stack of firewood before settling down in front of her masterpiece. She pulled the blanket back over her shoulders. It was still damp, but now it was warm and damp, a far better combination.

  Now the fire was lit, Eleanor felt a lot more comfortable, but where was Conlan? She could have excused a short absence, even planned to gloat about her wonderful fire when he got back. What if he isn’t coming back? What if he’s in trouble? Again she felt panic but choked it back down. Panic is not going to help me, she told herself firmly. What she needed was a plan. Where could he have gone? Wherever it was he had gone willingly, taking Rand with him. Would he have abandoned her? This seemed unlikely, as he needed her to join the Five. Perhaps he had not meant to be long and had been held up.

  As the morning grey turned to a darker afternoon and the fire burned down, Eleanor became more and more worried. She had to do something. As the day wore on, the rain began to ease off and Eleanor finally stood up, covered the fires remnants with earth and looked around. She had some vague notion that she could follow Conlan. She had read about hunters who could track their prey, so could she follow him? She stood where Rand had been tied the night before, his large hoof pr
ints showed clearly through patches of trampled wet grass to the mud below. As she looked at them, Eleanor realised that she could see two distinct tracks, one leading into the copse and another leading out, the rounded front of Rand’s hoof clearly showing which was which. This was something she could follow. Trying to keep Rand’s hoof imprints in sight at all times, she followed them through the trees and out onto the track. Eleanor swung her gaze up and down the rough road as it stretched into the distance. The recent rain had made the surface wet and impressionable and there were myriad hoof prints and cart tracks heading in both directions, which made sense, as it was a track most likely used by other people. Which prints were Rand’s? I need something to identify him. She kept following her line of logic, as it was keeping the panic at bay. She moved back a little way into the trees and found an imprint she knew was Rand’s. It was large and deep, as Rand was a big horse. Is that enough to work it out? Careful not to disturb the print, Eleanor held her hand against it, trying to get an idea of the size. She then moved back to the road and began to measure the prints. It narrowed down the choice, but not enough, as there were large hoof prints going in both directions. Returning to the camp, Eleanor looked carefully for an imprint of each hoof, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to miss anything. She had inspected two different prints before she found what she was looking for. Rand’s hooves were shod, and on his back right leg one of the nails holding the shoe on was not straight. The nail’s head stuck out at a slight angle, leaving a thin line in the hoof’s impression. Surely this pattern was unique to Rand? Elated and rather impressed with herself, Eleanor ran back to the track. She found Rand’s hoof mark almost immediately, and turning to the left she found another and then after a few more paces she found it again. She had a trail she could follow.

  Once she became used to the hoof marks and the approximate distance they were from each other, Eleanor found that following the trail was almost easy, the imprints jumping out at her as she walked. Several times during her journey other people came down the track, but in the still air Eleanor heard them before they came close and concealed herself until they passed, trembling in her hiding place with Conlan’s words ringing in her head: “We’re not safe here.” However, as she rounded yet another bend it became obvious that eventually she was going to have to deal with the locals, as the track was leading her towards a small village.

  The village houses were comprised mostly of wooden huts and Rand’s trail appeared to be following the main street. Everything looked shabby, and when compared to the amazing snow-capped mountains in the distance, rather depressing. It began to rain harder as Eleanor came to the edge of the village, but she was grateful as it meant there would be fewer people to encounter. As she walked further down the track the houses became more tightly packed, small gardens disappearing until the houses faced directly onto the muddy street. It reminded her a little of the old Wild West towns. She had gone a fair distance from Rand’s last hoof mark before she realised they had vanished. Retracing her steps, she found the last hoof mark; he had stopped here. Why? Eleanor looked around her. There was a post to her left that could be used to tie up a horse. The building behind seemed to be one of the larger ones with bigger windows. Moving cautiously, she looked through the grimy glass. There were items on display, tools she did not recognise, a metal skillet she did. Material was draped across a child’s chair and a selection of painted wooden toys were scattered across it. They had a lot to learn about window dressing, but it appeared to be a shop. What had he wanted to buy? Conlan seemed resourceful, she did not think he would have resorted to buying something unless he had to do so.

  Moving back into the street, Eleanor studied Rand’s hoof marks again. They had not gone forward. Searching, she noticed them disappearing down an alley on the other side of the street. It looked dark, but if Conlan had gone that way, Eleanor was determined to follow. The alleyway was narrow. Windowless building walls rose above her on both sides, blocking out what little daylight there was, but there was a flickering orange glow at the end of the passageway, and Eleanor moved warily towards it. The alley opened up into a small courtyard, in which lanterns hung from various points, casting eerie shadows in the gathering twilight. At one end of the courtyard stood a large trough into which water ran, while on either side of the courtyard were stables. Eleanor moved towards the water – she had not realised how thirsty she was. She drank hurriedly, and after sating her thirst she began to investigate the stables. She found Rand in the third stall. The red saddle was gone, but it was definitely Rand. He made a soft whiny when he saw her, rubbing his head gently into her stomach. Reassured by his obvious recognition of her and his slow, gentle movements, Eleanor patted his neck, moving to scratch behind his ears as he slowly lowered his head so she could reach. He seemed to be just fine, better then fine in fact, as someone had given him a good brush.

  “Nice to see you too, Rand. Any idea where Conlan is?”

  He was not with Rand and Eleanor did not think he would have voluntarily left his horse unattended. Stepping out of the stall she closed the door. One found, one to go. As she pushed the latch on the door shut, a hand grabbed her arm and yanked her round. The man facing her was quite a bit taller than she was, with thick meaty arms. He smelt strongly of horse; he was also very angry. He yelled in Eleanor’s face, grabbing both her arms and shaking her until she felt like her brains were going to rattle out of her head. He yelled some more. Eleanor stared at him – she had no idea what language he was speaking, as it was deep, hard and guttural, as alien a sound as she had ever heard, and in some places it actually sounded like he was snarling and growling. He was looking at her, expecting an answer. Thinking fast, Eleanor pointed at her mouth and shook her head. The man glared at her, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. She again pointed at her mouth and shook her head, making a few gasping sounds to emphasise her point. The man stared at her a moment longer then muttered something in disgust and slapped her in the face, knocking her to the ground.

  Eleanor had never been hit before. The experience left her stunned and confused. The man glared at her and then yelled something else, moving back towards her. Ears still ringing and face burning, Eleanor forced herself to her feet and staggered back down the narrow alley, relieved to discover the man did not want to chase her but seemed content to yell what sounded like a few final insults.

  At the end of the alley, Eleanor slowed her headlong rush, knowing it would look suspicious if anyone was watching. She walked from the alley as normally as she could manage, not really thinking about where she was going but just wanting to get away from the angry horse man. She continued down the main street, until eventually it opened up into a paved square with a raised stone platform in the middle of it. The main street flowed round the square, with two grey, squat stone buildings flanking the space, facing each other in an eternal stand-off. Their architecture could use as much help as their window dressing. The single-storied buildings were drab and ugly, but the stone steps leading up to the large, sturdy-looking wooden doors gave them an air of officiousness. If something unpleasant had happened to Conlan, perhaps an encounter of his own with the horse man, then an official building was the best place to try. However, as she clearly did not speak the language, it was not as if she could just walk in and introduce herself. Eleanor had no idea what to do next. It was raining again and the wind had picked up, pulling at her merger clothing and moaning with soft menace through the gaps and alleyways of the village. She looked around fearfully for a tornado, until she realised she was getting cold and wet as a result of her indecision. Huffing, she moved to investigate the building on the left side of the square first, mostly because there was a lot of light coming from the windows and she would be able to see what was going on inside. Wrapping her arms around her cold, shaking body and pushing her hands into her armpits, eyes carefully sweeping the empty street, Eleanor moved towards the nearest window.

  As she reached the building’s wall she realised she was not go
ing to be tall enough to see inside. As she stood on her tiptoes trying to pull herself up on the ledge, something grabbed her leg. She yelped in surprise. There was a dirty hand thrust through a small barred hole near the bottom of the wall. Panic and fear twisted in her stomach and she kicked at the arm, falling on her back in the mud in the process. The hand released her and retreated back into the hole. Once her heart rate had slowed a little and Eleanor was quite sure no one was going to come out of the building and investigate the noise she had just made, she peered into the hole, making sure she did not get too close. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she found two bloodshot eyes staring back at her. It was a man, a dirty, badly dressed man. He appeared to be in some sort of room, as there was a closed door behind him with a barred hole that allowed flickering orange light to spill in from the other side. It’s a prison. Once Eleanor’s mind reached this conclusion it seemed obvious. The man was saying something in that strange growling, snarling language. Eleanor did not understand him any better than she had the horse man, although his tone became more desperate as she moved away. She ignored him; there was nothing she could do. There were other holes with bars across them further along the wall – other cells, she thought. Maybe Conlan is in one of them. The next cell was empty and the one after that. The first cell on the other side of the steps contained another dirty man, who was lying spread-eagle on the floor snoring loudly.