Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  The milky sea thinned. To her left she glimpsed the sparkle of silver-blue towers. A city in the far-off cleft between two mountains. “Sam, look!”

  “I’m not looking down, even for you.”

  “Not down. Across. Over there.”

  She heard his slow intake of breath. “The ancient towers of somewhere or other,” he said. “You never know what’s real and what’s illusion in this place.”

  Presently the Causeway touched another mountain flank and threaded through a vast natural arch of rock. Passing beneath it, Rosie gazed up at its awesome height and reddish glow. When she looked forward again, the sky had turned soot black.

  This sense of disorientation was growing familiar now. She reached behind her and found Sam’s hand. Heat sheathed their skin. Within seconds, their iced fingers were burning. “Naamon,” she said. “Realm of fire.”

  She hadn’t expected Naamon to be dark, but all she could see for a time was smoke shrouding an indistinct landscape. She had the impression of dark underground cities, backlit by smoldering fire. Warmth hitting her cold skin sent shivers all over her.

  After a time, the sudden night faded. An amber glow crept over the scene, and she saw far below the remains of a rose-red town, with vines spilling over fallen towers. The Causeway bestrode the ruins like a colossal viaduct. The sight made her unbearably sad. She could sense the jostle of ghosts in silk and fur, the bright hair, the gleam of eyes behind ceremonial masks . . .

  Gradually the sun climbed the sky and began to burn. The city was left behind, its edges crumbling away into an expanse of desert. On either side, scarlet rocks dotted tawny sweeps of sand. Volcanoes smoked on the horizon. The Causeway turned to orange sandstone, and the walkway became broader, more rugged, the strong central path forking into a confusion of smaller tracks around tall stones. “Wonder if Ginny ever came along here?” said Rosie. “It sounds like a line from a song. ‘It cuts across the spiral, straight towards the heart.’ ”

  “That’s how the dead travel so fast.” Sam’s voice behind her sounded guttural, oddly accented, nothing like itself. The bizarre sound shocked her.

  “What?” She whipped around. He wasn’t there. “Sam?”

  There was a faint cry below her. She looked over the edge, saw two figures locked together and rolling down the steep flank—Sam in a death grip with a heavy, sunburned man.

  Rosie stood horrified for a heartbeat, then launched herself after them, finding the tiniest rough thread of a path to help her. She skidded down on her heels, tearing her jeans and skinning her hands. They’d come to rest about twenty feet down, where a ledge with a scooped lip had arrested their fall. Gasping in pain, she fell over Sam’s feet and managed to stop her own descent by crashing into the sandstone lip. The impact winded her. Sam was on his back, fighting for his life.

  The attacker seemed feral, with torn, dusty clothes, and a bald roast chestnut of a head. His fingers were locked around Sam’s throat and he was snarling.

  Rosie seized a medium-sized hunk of sandstone and brought it down on the shiny sphere of the wild man’s skull. He uttered a grunt and flopped unconscious. Sam shoved him off and struggled up, coughing for breath. The rock fell from her hand. “Fucking hell,” she said.

  “That,” Sam choked, pointing upwards, “is why I don’t like heights. Falling off them.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Jumped me out of nowhere.”

  “Oh my god, he’s dead,” she gasped. The man lying at her feet was waxen and blue-lipped, as if he’d been dead for days. There was a dark crimson hole in the center of his chest, and his shirt was a torn mess of blood.

  “Yes, but you didn’t kill him,” said Sam. “Someone shot him—a while ago. Again, not real.” He grabbed her hand, making her raw palm throb. “Leave him.”

  They’d fallen onto a half-eroded side path. A grueling scramble brought them back onto the ridge. “Less steep here,” Rosie gasped through parched lips. “If you’d fallen in Sibeyla . . .” The words caught.

  “Hey, you saved my life.” He grinned at her. There was dust stuck to his face, blood tracking through it. Feet braced, he pulled off the scuffed backpack. “Bloody hell, everything hurts.”

  “Anything broken?”

  “Only this.” He held up a plastic bottle, split and leaking water. They shared what was left. Rosie looked down at the rock ledge below. There was nothing there. “What was he?” She pushed her hair back, wincing as sand scraped her palms. “Seemed human. A ghost corpse, like yours?”

  “Maybe,” said Sam, roughly wiping his face with one hand. “Absolutely not responsible for that one, I swear.”

  “I believe you. Are you all right?”

  “Battered, bruised, half-strangled—it’s like being back at school,” he said. “Let’s keep moving. That was the last of the water, by the way.” They resumed their journey, sore limbs shrieking at every step. Rosie thought, The Otherworld is testing us.

  The blinding apricot sun cast mirages in the liquid gold mirror of the desert. Rosie imagined she saw Malikala’s fiery army, deluged by the unexpected rush of Jeleel’s river, the King of Sibeyla’s sky boats drifting in to rescue drowning soldiers. Soon her mouth was parched, her head aching.

  “I’m missing something,” she said. “The qualities of the realms are symbolic; they’re supposed to strengthen us, not punish us.” She thought she was speaking out loud, realized the words were only in her head. They walked in a trance of heat. After a few hours of it she was exhausted to the point of collapse but still her feet kept moving . . .

  Violent change shocked them both out of the trance. From nowhere, sheets of rain hit them.

  Without noticing, they had passed into the realm of water, Melusiel. As one, they put their heads back and drank the rain. Through curtains of soft silver they saw the cloudy shimmer of lakes far below, rivers lying like branched lightning across inky swamps. The Causeway turned to grey slate.

  Rain washed away dust and blood, plastered their hair to their heads and ran down their necks. As Rosie’s feet slipped on wet stone, she realized how weary she was. She couldn’t control her legs anymore. How many hours had they been walking? The wind was growing so strong it was hard to breathe.

  “Ought to rest a few minutes,” said Sam.

  “Bit further,” she answered, pointing up the slope of the path. “Some rocks there.” A hurricane rose as she spoke, battering them with walls of rain. Rosie dropped to her hands and knees. The wind was pushing her towards the edge. She felt her legs going over, couldn’t stop herself, felt the slate sliding like wet glass under her palms with no handholds . . . the pure terror of the moment sucked out her breath and she couldn’t make a sound.

  She felt Sam’s hands grab her wrists. With his help she scrambled back, and together they crawled along the exposed ridge to the shelter of a tilted slab protruding from the Causeway’s edge. They huddled there, blinded by rain. She had no thoughts left, only despair that they’d come so far and failed.

  Rosie closed her eyes and endured. A long time later, she felt Sam’s arm tighten around her shoulders. The storm had abated. She looked up and saw a clear black sky with a perfect, huge white moon. Melusiel was all silver and black.

  As they rose, crabbed with weariness, they saw, in the center of the Causeway before them, a doe.

  Snow-splashed by the moon, the creature regarded them. Rosie trod the last few yards and stopped, looking into the creature’s round dark eyes. Beyond, the Causeway became a bridge proper, its slender span arching into the darkness. The doe stood guarding the threshold.

  “Every realm so far, something’s tried to stop us,” Sam said hoarsely.

  Rosie had no idea what to say or do. You could not thrust a guardian out of the way and the small pale deer looked so delicate . . . but if she didn’t move they were going nowhere. Then the doe’s mouth opened and spoke with a human voice. “What are you seeking?”

  Rosie answered, stumbling, “A young man, Lu
cas. My brother.”

  “Our brother,” said Sam over her shoulder.

  “We think he came this way . . . towards . . .”

  “Towards the Source,” said the doe.

  “I—I think so,” said Rosie. “His body’s still alive on Earth and he’s not ready to die. He must come back. Have you . . .” She shrugged helplessly. “. . . seen him?”

  Before their eyes, the doe changed. She rose on her hind legs, becoming a petite young woman and wrapped in a full-length coat of the same creamy, dappled fur. She had a heart-shaped face, hazel eyes, fawn-colored hair.

  “Daughter of Elysion,” said the doe lady. “Son of the Gatekeeper-that-was. I know you. And Lucas—also an opener of ways. He’s here.”

  Hearing the words, Rosie felt her heart race, sweat trickle down her neck, tears spill down her face. Sam’s fingers dug into her arm, holding her up. “He must come back before it’s too late.”

  The heart-shaped face was composed. “If he wants to. We would be loath to lose him.”

  “Please.” It took all her strength to stay calm. “There may not be much time. Can I see him?”

  The girl paused. “It won’t be easy. You can try, of course. Follow me over the Frost Bridge. Beyond is Asru, realm of spirit.”

  Taking doe form again, she led them across the spun-glass arch of the bridge. Rosie glimpsed slender hills and chasms, trees of gnarled beauty clinging to rocks. Sam was so quiet behind her that she glanced round to make sure he was still there. His eyes were fixed straight ahead. He said, “Don’t worry, if I fall you’ll hear the scream.”

  Bright under moon and starlight, she saw elaborate roofs enameled with kingfisher colors. As the bridge curved onto the far side, all views were lost behind the foliage of a garden. The path continued as stepping-stones across a lawn, with tangles of briar roses and weeping willows on either side.

  In human shape again, the doe lady led them along the final few curves of the path. Sam walked alongside Rosie. She felt the warmth of his arm around her and his quick sigh as he kissed her wet hair; his relief at being on firm ground again.

  In the heart of the garden stood a temple the size of Oakholme. It had no walls, only an azure-tiled roof supported on peacock-blue pillars. Inside, a soft green light glowed. The doe lady led them over the threshold and into a cool, lofty space with a floor of leaf-green marble, pillars rising like stylized trees to a celestial ceiling. This space stretched on and on, forming a broad cloister that curved gently down and round upon itself. In echo of the realms, the colors changed as they wound inwards. The greens of Earth faded to chilly violet and white for air, into amber and flame-red for fire, then to cloudy blues for water. Symbols were inlaid into the pillars like hieroglyphs; many were unknown to her, but she saw the spiral endlessly repeated. She touched the sore place on her ribs, the brand that connected her to this.

  The doe lady brought them to an inner temple; a circle of silver columns around an obsidian floor, some forty feet across. The ceiling was a night sky emblazoned with a spiral galaxy of stars. The columns hung reflected in the floor as if in a still black lake, and in the very center of the floor was a sunken round pool, flashing with brilliant carp. The water within it appeared bottomless, the shimmer of fish hypnotic.

  Again she heard Jessica singing, “Find the mirror at its heart, Merry meet and merry part, We kiss the water and fly, Kiss the water and fly . . .”

  “The Mirror Pool?” Rosie whispered.

  “No,” said the doe lady. “The temple is the Spiral in miniature, the pond a tribute to the Mirror Pool, which lies in the most sacred grove of Asru’s deep forests.” She smiled. “No, this is the Spiral Court. Welcome.”

  “There’s no one here,” said Sam, looking around. “Where are the judges, the ancient ones, who look down on our little lives on Earth?”

  Rosie stiffened. The heights of the court were hard to see clearly, but gave the impression of tiered galleries full of movement. She glimpsed figures like barely seen reflections in dark glass; hints of jeweled robes, shining hair, fierce all-seeing eyes like those of serpents . . . A moment later, the illusion vanished. The temple sighed with emptiness.

  “No one here,” Sam whispered. “It’s deserted.”

  The girl paid no attention to his remark. “Ancient or dead or dying Aetherials pass through the Court on their way to the Mirror Pool, where they go to reflect, to immerse themselves in the pure water and consider their rebirth . . .”

  “Is Lucas there?” Rosie’s voice broke. “Are we too late?”

  The black eyes met hers, kind and grave. “They rarely go to the Abyss itself. We shall all fall into the darkness at the end of time, but until then we can’t say what lies beyond. From the Abyss there is no return. However, I cannot prevent any soul from going there.”

  “He went to the Abyss? And it’s . . . final?”

  “I’ve tried to persuade him away from the edge,” the doe lady said sadly. “He won’t listen. Perhaps he’ll listen to you. He should return with you, since he is the Gatekeeper now.”

  A whirl of fear and exhaustion darkened her vision. Through it, she saw a pale figure drifting across the temple; the hawk man from Sibeyla, his hair white against the soft feathers of his cloak. She had the disturbing impression of a triangle of blue fires floating towards her.

  “Since when?” exclaimed Sam.

  The white-haired man said, “Since your father threw off the responsibility.”

  “No—hang on—he did nothing of the sort. The opposite. He was exercising his powers to protect us.”

  “Unless the Gates are open,” said the girl, “Aetheric essences cannot travel from Vaeth to the center. Instead they haunt the Dusklands until they fade to nothing. Living Aetherials lose their memories and powers. Even humans suffer. Vaeth itself suffers. So the Spiral Court took Lawrence’s power from him and gave it to Lucas. That is their judgment.”

  “And perhaps the young man should decide for himself,” said the white-haired man.

  “Albin.” Sam named him grimly, as if it were a spell to bind him. “How can you look younger than me? You’re supposed to be my grandfather. That’s just wrong.”

  “Ah, finally, you know me. No doubt Lawrence poured poison on my memory.”

  “On the contrary, he rarely mentions you. It’s all Liliana.”

  This clearly struck a nerve. Albin’s lips and eyes narrowed. “And I say to hell with all Gatekeepers.” He looked up, arms outstretched as to address the galleries. “The failure of Lawrence and his successor tells us that the Great Gates should stay sealed! Let Vaethyr traitors take their chances on Earth with the mortal rabble. Leave the Spiral to Aelyr of pure hearts.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” said Sam.

  “Addressing my argument to the Spiral Court. They will decide whether to let you go to the Abyss.”

  “What?” He turned to the doe girl. “Tell my grandfather to get off our case, will you? Whose side are you on?”

  “I take no sides,” said the girl. “I only observe.”

  “Right,” said Sam, squaring up to Albin. “Can I respectfully suggest that you step aside and let us see Lucas, unless you want to be using that third eye to look out of your backside?” He looked up at the glassy shadows above and shouted, “As for you lot, who haven’t even got the guts to show yourselves, what are you thinking by disrespecting Lawrence’s judgment and putting the burden on poor Luc instead? Have you any clue what you’re doing?”

  “Sam,” Rosie whispered.

  There was a moment of awful, echoing silence. Albin stared back at Sam with such icy lack of compassion that Rosie saw why, with such a father, Lawrence was as he was. Her hopes sank.

  The doe lady only smiled and said, “The decision is made. Lucas must be given the chance to return to Earth. If ever you serve the Court, Albin, then you’ll have a say, but not now. Let us pass.”

  Rosie almost cried out with relief. “Where is he?”

  “Come with me.�
�� The doe lady beckoned, turning her back on Albin.

  Stony-faced, he watched them go. “The Court itself will come to regret this pro-Vaeth bias,” he said after them. “You will all be sorry.”

  When Rosie glanced back, Albin had vanished into shadow.

  The doe lady led them out of the temple, between rows of pillars until they entered the darkness of a wild midnight garden. A cool wind breathed against their skin. Ahead, a reddish glow outlined the grass and rocks beneath their feet, masses of foliage on either side. A leaf scratched Rosie’s hand. All the shrubs were barbed, she realized. Wild rose, bramble, spiny exotics she didn’t recognize. She was wet, aching and exhausted, but none of it mattered, if she could only see Lucas again.

  “Their arguments are beyond me,” said the doe lady, a pale shape ahead of them. “Lucas matters. He reminds me of someone I loved.”

  “You sound as if you don’t want him to leave,” said Rosie.

  “I would miss him, it’s true,” came the sad reply. “Here we are.”

  Where the thornbushes ended there lay a wide landscape of rock. The infinite night sky vibrated with the thunder of a waterfall. Following the doe girl, Sam and Rosie clambered over rocks until they reached the end of the shelf and saw the chasm, plunging straight down into blackness.

  It was like standing on the edge of the world. Rosie instinctively reached for Sam’s hand. Tears burned her eyes. There was solid ground and then there was nothingness. The full impact of the sight was veiled by a fine rising mist with a red glow at its heart.

  She took another step forward. The Abyss went down forever. The thought of falling sent a pulse of terror through her. Looking up to her left, she saw the tangled branches of a huge leafless tree with stars netted in its twigs. Its thick roots clung deep in the rock and the trunk leaned out above the Abyss. Pale lichen sheened the iron-grey bark.

  “The World Tree,” said the doe lady.

  “Lucas?” Rosie called softly. Panic rose in her. As she spoke, she saw him. There was a figure high up in the tree, far out on a limb that stretched above the Abyss. A small, gangly, unmistakable silhouette.