Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “Yes, dear,” Ginny said dryly. “You did.”

  “Uh, well, it’s not pretty but it is the truth.”

  Ginny looked down at the bread she was tearing between her long fingernails. “Come on, help yourselves.”

  “Where’s Faith?” Rosie asked as they sat down.

  “Still asleep. I put them to bed. They’ll stay here while you find your brother, don’t worry.”

  “Thank you,” Rosie said quietly. “I really appreciate it. They’ve had such a hard time.” As she looked at the food on the table—fruit, bread, eggs—she had a flash of intuition about the myth of faerie food. One meal would not bind you to the Otherworld—but years of imbibing the food and water and air might do it, as the Aetheric substance of the Spiral gradually became part of you.

  “I’ve been thinking about everything,” Ginny said, pouring tea. “Hardly slept for thinking about it. Something your father said once . . . That when humans dream, they create angels and vampires—but when Aetherials dream, what do we create?”

  Sam leaned on the edge of the table, his sleeves rolled back. Disheveled from sleep, he looked so good that Rosie wanted to grab him . . . if only they’d been in a world where the crash had never happened. “Did he have an answer?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She didn’t elaborate. They were silent for a few minutes, Rosie doing her best to eat although she had little appetite. Then Ginny asked, “Does he still talk about Barada?”

  “Rarely,” said Sam. “He doesn’t visit Valle Rojo anymore and says the mine’s exhausted. He once spoke about Barada in a way that worried me—as if he’d transformed from nasty land-grabber to part of the nebulous threat. As if he sees all his enemies as joining the amorphous mass. Like I said, paranoid. That’s the toughie, trying to work out if the threat’s real or if he’s plain mad . . . no one knows for sure, least of all me. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Sounds like he hasn’t changed.”

  “Has there been any sign of danger on this side?” Rosie asked. “Last night was scary enough.”

  “Oh, that’s normal,” said Ginny. “No, nothing clear . . . but I feel something, like the sultry pressure before a storm. Rosie, my ancestors were from the borderland of Melusiel and Asru, part watery and part spiritual, not quite one or the other . . . and I’m from a long line of women known as witches on Earth . . . so I should know the answer, but I don’t. It’s cloudy.” She sighed. “If it is the case that the lych-light had been taken from Lawrence and bestowed elsewhere, only the Spiral Court could have done that. And if they’ve done it, they must want the Gates open again. Which means that the danger isn’t real after all.”

  “Or that they haven’t seen it,” said Sam.

  Rosie looked at him, startled by the thought. “Or aren’t taking it seriously?”

  “Or don’t care,” Sam added.

  “The Spiral Court is a mysterious law unto itself,” said Ginny. “It’s said that only the most wise and ancient Aetherials are called to serve upon it, rather like being called to jury service. As the members change, so there are sways of political opinion and policy . . .”

  “So maybe a bunch of doddering old idiots are in power just now?” said Sam.

  Ginny laughed. “Still as disrespectful as ever. I like that. There are factions who want to maintain a peaceful connection with Earth, others who don’t.”

  “Then there’s my uncle Comyn, who’s a good old anarchist,” said Rosie.

  “I remember him.” Ginny smiled. “Lawrence never got on with him . . . but Lawrence got on with almost no one, really. He had such a difficult father in Albin, who was a particularly extreme Aelyr puritan and separatist. Myself, I keep out of the politics. I like my quiet life here. You know, it’s hard to see you go, so soon after we’ve met. At least you’re initiates now.”

  “I don’t feel any different,” said Rosie. “Just sore.”

  “Well, initiation isn’t having a library of knowledge poured into your head. It’s more an opening of awareness. The rest is up to you. You will already have had more glimpses of it than you realize.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Sam gave Rosie a meaningful sideways glance that sent a thrilling rush of memories through her. We’ve shared things no one else could imagine.

  “Aetherials are always drawn to the center, whether in physical or essential form,” Ginny continued. “The realms aren’t inside each other like the layers of an onion; the theory is that they’re arranged loosely around a spiral, but the boundaries shift and change. The way is easy enough to find. Go back up to the path and turn left upon it. It will lead you across the Causeway of Souls, which cuts straight across the realms to the center. Anything you see on your way may be illusory—but it will have meaning, and possibly danger. Whether you’ll find Lucas—I don’t want to give you false hope.”

  Rosie exchanged a somber look with Sam. “We must try.”

  “I know. I can’t promise you’ll be safe, either.”

  “I like unsafe,” Sam said, mouth curving. “It’s what I’m best at.”

  Ginny rose to her feet. “Get ready, then. I’ve wrapped food for you to take.”

  “Thank you,” said Rosie. “Give Faith a hug from me.”

  “Mum,” said Sam, rising with her, “now the Lychgate’s open—assuming it stays that way—will you come home?”

  Her hesitation answered him before she spoke. “No, Sam. I’ve been here too long. This is home now.” She turned away. Sam busied himself clearing the table, face expressionless, moisture on his lashes. Rosie tactfully avoided catching his eye.

  “One more thing,” said Ginny. “If you find Lucas—when you find him—don’t come back here. You must lead him straight to the Gates. Don’t leave the path and don’t look back at him until you’re safely on the other side. It’s not superstition; it’s said that the soul-essence is fragile, and the mere pressure of attention may unsettle it enough to make it flee.”

  “Hang on,” said Sam, “I’ve only just found you and now you’re telling me, don’t come back? When am I going to see you again?”

  “You will see me, don’t worry.” Ginny held his shoulders and looked into his eyes, her expression firm. “Concentrate on Lucas now. Remember, don’t look back. Exactly as in the old myths. And remember, things you see on the Causeway may be illusory, but the meaning will still be important, and the danger real.”

  Sam and Rosie stepped out of the cottage to find the light of dawn limpidly soft and sparkling, fingers of gold infiltrating the aquatic blue. Rosie glanced back as they climbed the slope, but the cottage was already lost behind trees. Here was the clearest sign of all that they were in the Otherworld; it wasn’t winter.

  At the top of the hill, they found the silvery deer track once more. Anxiety hovered in her chest. Setting foot on the path, Rosie felt power zinging under her feet, an electric pull. Her head went up. A cold, haunting wind filled her lungs.

  The way led them through green woodlands for a time. It was only wide enough to walk in single file, so she went first. Behind her, Sam asked, “How are you doing?”

  “Not bad,” she answered. “You?”

  “Fine,” he said quietly. “I still can’t believe I found Ginny.”

  “Has she changed?”

  “No, not really. More serene, maybe. What do you think of her?”

  “I think she’s wonderful,” said Rosie. “Blunt and honest. Doesn’t give a damn. I like that. She made me feel braver than I really am.”

  He smiled. “You are brave, sweetheart.”

  “I ought to be terrified, but I’m not, because I’ve no idea what to expect.”

  “Yeah, definitely best not to know.”

  “I’m glad you’re with me,” she said. “I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

  “Nowhere I’d rather be, believe me.”

  Elysion shook off its intimate cloak of woods and orchards, unfolding into a landscape of rounded fells. The track took them up the largest hill, a sweeping curve lik
e a turtle shell. Soft winds arrowed through the grass. Behind and on either side lay folded forests. Above, the sky was turquoise shading almost to midnight blue at the zenith, the sun an apricot yolk on the horizon. Daystars glittered like drifted snow. Rosie fancied she could hear their song, the white-noise hiss of creation.

  Ahead, the path led them over the high curve of the hill, down a gentle slope on the far side. There it abruptly curled back on itself, terminating in the flourish of a large spiral gouged in the grass. They were on a cliff top.

  Sam and Rosie looked over the edge in awe and dismay. The drop was breathtaking. A valley fell dizzyingly below them, rising again in the far distance to a ridged escarpment, softened by violet haze. A river glinted far below. The landscape was epic, as if painted by a visionary artist—but there was no way across. Rosie felt a rising flame of panic. If Lucas’s essence was lost out there, how could they ever hope to find him?

  “We’re stuffed,” Sam remarked. “ ‘Follow the path,’ Mother said, but it fizzles out.”

  Rosie stared down at the spiral, pushing her hair behind one ear. “It’s a map,” she said. They looked at each other, frowning. “We haven’t actually finished following it yet. This might be pointless, but let’s try.”

  She set her feet in the curve and began to follow it round towards the heart of the spiral. Sam followed, one hand on her shoulder. “Yeah, this feels pretty daft, like dancing around a maypole.”

  Looking down at the track, she found that it looped on itself and came spiraling outwards again. On the outside curve, it straightened, heading towards the cliff edge. She experienced a disturbing change of perception. The track grew brighter, while their surroundings seemed to withdraw behind a thin veil of fog. Sam’s fingers tightened on her shoulder. “Hey, look at that.”

  Stretching from the cliff top, there appeared to be a natural ridge of rock, running high above the valley floor. The path was taking them towards it. “The Causeway?” said Rosie. “How did it appear?”

  “There all the time,” he said. “I guess we couldn’t see it until we approached by the correct route. It’s all about perception.”

  The grass beneath their boots gave way to shale and then to the substance of the ridge, a smoky, semilucent quartz. They left behind safe ground as the narrow way climbed before them, with a precipice yawning on either side.

  “Ah,” said Sam, a few steps on. “Right, this is it, is it? Figures.”

  “Are you okay?” She glanced round. She’d never seen his face frozen like that that before. “Sam, are you scared of heights?”

  “No! Well, yeah. It’s just a thing.” He looked to his left, swayed and closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “Oh, shit.”

  He appeared paralyzed. Rosie said in concern, “You can wait for me here, Sam. I’ll manage on my own.”

  “No chance.” His eyes came open, blue and fierce. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t have to act the macho guy, you know,” she said gently. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  He spoke through his teeth. “Shut up and keep walking.”

  In places, rock formations made a natural parapet and handhold beside them. In others, the ridge was exposed and uncomfortably narrow. She tried not to think about the height, or the possibility of falling. Below lay Elysion, with shimmering meadows, orchards heavy with fruit and hazelnuts, liquid birdsong—but they were far above that realm now, no longer part of it. It was like dreams she’d had, of a landscape monumental yet ethereal, a filament bridge too high to be real. The growing ache of her legs, however, was vivid enough.

  It seemed a good two hours before the Causeway brought them to the far side of the valley, where it ran along the face of a chasm wall through a gorge. They sat down to rest, sharing food and water. Fog came down and she felt the air turn chilly. “You okay?” Sam asked.

  “Soldiering on,” she said. “You?”

  “When you’re this high up, it’s not so bad. More like being in an airplane above the clouds.”

  She smiled at his offhand bravery. “I feel like shouting Luc’s name into the void,” she said, “as if he might hear me.”

  “Er, Rosie . . .”

  She stood up and let her voice go in an impassioned yell, “Lucas!” The echo bounced off unseen surfaces until it was lost. The silence that followed was as deafening as machinery.

  “I was going to say, you don’t know what you might wake up,” said Sam, rising to his feet. “Come on.”

  The ridge split away from the wall and continued its high, singular way. It appeared the gorge they’d rested in was a gateway; beyond, the scene changed dramatically. Thin cloud drained the sky of its riches. All around them was a foggy void full of vague shapes; mountain peaks, sketched in grey and white. They were inside a cloud.

  “Sibeyla,” he murmured over her shoulder. Turning, she could barely see him. She felt dizzy for a moment, almost losing her balance. Vague shadows circled them, arcing above, vanishing, reappearing to swoop through the archways beneath.

  Rosie forced herself to continue along the slippery walkway, step by step. When the cloud thinned, the mountains were fully revealed, higher than the Causeway itself, their pale grey peaks capped with snow. Mountain flanks fell and plunged forever—never reaching solid ground, as far as she could see.

  The airborne shadows were raptors the size of men, dark against the whiteness.

  “Realm of air,” said Sam. “Home of my ancestors.”

  “I don’t like the look of these hawks,” said Rosie. “They’re easily big enough to—Aah.” She dropped into a crouch as one swooped low, almost bowling her over. A small outcrop saved her from falling. The hawks continued to circle, playful but menacing. “Call your ancestors off!” she exclaimed.

  Tenting air currents beneath its wings, the raptor came in again. This time, Sam swung the backpack at it, almost losing his footing as he did so. He clipped its wing, causing it to swerve and tumble a few hundred yards through the air. Rosie caught and held Sam’s jacket for dear life until he found his balance. Crouching, they saw the bird rise and glide in to land in front of them.

  Only it was not a hawk on the Causeway, but a man. He wore a cloak of greyish feathers and his hair was a pure white mane down to his waist. His pale patrician face looked no older than Sam’s. He had bright blue irises, and a bright blue jewel in the center of his forehead, like a third eye.

  “Travelers on the Causeway of Souls,” he said. “Where are you from?”

  Cautiously they walked towards him. There was just room to stand side by side on the ridge and Sam kept a firm arm around her. “Show me the rule-book that says we have to answer your questions.” He pulled down the neck of his jacket and sweater to show the blistered spiral. “Look, we’ve been stamped. Let us past, please.”

  “In peace,” Rosie added. “We don’t mean any harm. We’re looking for someone.” She took an instant dislike to his icy, insinuating menace, but—real or not—she didn’t want to antagonize him.

  “You’re Vaethyr,” he observed with disdain. “Are the Gates open once more? I thought you were him, for a moment.”

  “Who?” said Sam.

  “Lawrence. The worst Gatekeeper in history. He has cut the realms in half and some say that we will all wither and die as a result; but I say, good riddance. The Spiral will survive without the burden of Vaeth and those traitors who chose to live on its surface.”

  Sam’s expression hardened. “Well, that’s my father you’re being so rude about. He’s been protecting us and maybe if the Aelyr had helped him, he wouldn’t have had to take those measures.”

  The Sibeylan smiled, a thin, knowing smile that made Rosie both furious and very frightened. “Lawrence only ever acted out of weakness. Protecting you from what?”

  “I don’t know. Attack of the bird impersonators, maybe?”

  “Funny, Samuel. You Vaethyr are very fond of your masks and of pathetically trying to recapture what you once had. You need to realize that entering the Spiral i
s all about stripping the masks off. Back to the bone.”

  Rosie felt Sam’s arm tighten around her. For all his strength, she was horribly aware of how vulnerable they were, poised alone on the heights with a predator who, since he could fly, was fearless. “How do you know my name?” he said quietly.

  “Work it out,” said the Sibeylan, “unless you’re as foolish as your father. Yes, a shade passed this way. It’s no good shouting his name; he won’t hear. Our soul-essence travels like an arrow to the heart, but you, brave idiots, will have to walk every step.”

  “And we’re wasting time,” said Rosie. “Please let us pass.”

  Wings sprang from his shoulders with a whumph, startling them; his face became a hawk’s, uncannily like the mask she’d seen Lawrence wearing. She thought it was their last moment. The pale hawk slipped sideways off the precipice, falling until the wind buoyed him up again. As he rose back to their level, she heard his words, muffled, “Violently separating your bodies from your souls would not be half as amusing as watching you struggle to the end of this pointless quest.”

  He tilted and wheeled away, joining the other hawks, the wind of their flight stirring swirls of ice crystals, wing tips dipping into the mist. She heard Sam murmur, “Oh, shit!”

  “What?”

  “I think it was Lawrence’s father, Albin. My grandfather.”

  “He wasn’t real!” Rosie said desperately.

  “Seemed it. Never mind now. Keep going.”

  Rosie realized how hard she was shaking only once the threat had gone. Cold burned her lungs and froze her fingers. She hadn’t thought to bring gloves. Exposed, chilled, with the treacherous path winding endlessly ahead, for the first time she considered they might not actually make it.

  “You want my jacket?” Sam said behind her.

  “No. I work outdoors for ten hours at a stretch in worse weather than this.”

  “Rough, tough and weather-beaten.” His teeth chattered slightly. “I like that in a woman.”