The Other of One: Book Two

by Brian G. Burke

  “…Those?”

  Icrick then recited, “No speed of steel nor will of sight could fall those ghouls of night. Beware the black sky moon behold…” then facing William, he ended, “…when Slingtails take night flight…”

  “…Slingtails?!” William so uneasily asked. “What are—?”

  “Why the holdup?” Redmun came back to ask. “We’re waiting. You can chitchat later, when all of this is done. Hurry it up, we have matters to tend to, or have you already forgotten?”

  He was certainly adamant, and rightly so. William thus followed him out, all the while peeling himself away from Icrick’s abandoned stare. A pallid, scared expression which thundered, in an orchestra of pleas, just how much he did not wish to take that route after all. How it was a very bad idea.

  Did Redmun really know what he was getting them into?

  - Chapter Eighteen -

  Inferno to Blood Fire

  Veiled behind a nest of gnarly roots at the tree’s base was a way in. A black, inimical-looking hole, draped with scraggy lines of parched vines. A rotten stench radiated from within, the likes of which could only be stomached by the croakings of the occasional swamp toad. When they edged their way inside to see a broken old stairway engulfed by nothing bar dreary jungle, their anxiousness heightened tenfold. Khrum and Icrick, in particular. Khrum, however, tried to make out like he wasn’t the least bit troubled, though he was.

  Waist-high in a dank bayou of foul, viscous water, whose dead surface was frosted with a pane of grey mist, they waded inwards to discover just how enormous it truly was inside. Enormous and domineering. A jungle within a jungle. It was near impossible to believe that they were inside another tree; a nightmarish interpretation of Percy’s own abode.

  Deeper they thus delved. Walking furtively back-to-back, searching for a safe way up, with their steel guarding way before them.

  ‘Twas quieter than a graveyard, and as eerily still, but for their movements dabbling through the water. What struck them most was the sheer murkiness of everything, especially overhead. How that stealing miasma rose; sweeping upward and over, thereby silhouetting the countless storeys of ghostly wilderness which lay hidden alike tiers of a secret citadel. But there was more to it than merely a reeking bog.

  One attractive feature—unlikely as it may seem—were these fat, oily pods scattered about. They looked as if they had no earthly business being there. These bulbous, gelatinous moulds were of apple-green pigment which throbbed vividly to light whenever something passed them by; their intensity depending entirely upon how large that ‘something’ was. Only for Redmun still hadn’t quite recovered from his late injury to fashion any worthy style of torch, this light was more than a welcome find.

  Those plants (for plants they were, with their fleshy texture and cushions of thistles whereon they sat) whispered a mild droning whenever they illuminated. Heavenly, almost. Such qualities led them to assume that they were more likely a species of Iywék’s origin, as nothing of Briggun’s east could ever be so alluring. Perhaps, throughout the years, the magic had somehow found its way from the pool nearby.

  Whatever the reason, they were indeed a pretty thing, so why question them? They waded on through shadow, as that brilliant, limy light opened the way.

  Those lamps posed no problems for the first hour or so. It was only when they thickened on one side of the path did they begin to prove more of an obstacle than a help, because they soon found themselves uncomfortably encumbered by those pods; to the point where the whole bog was ablaze with burning green light, uncloaking them to unwanted eyes. Had it not been for the voices awakening in the jungle, it might not have been so eerie for them. But noises were seeping from all around the gloom now. Odd sounds. Chilling sounds.

  At first they weren’t even sure if they heard them at all, being so few and far between. But when this laughter, this hyena-like chuckling, gradually arose like hungry packs from all the dim corners of the trees, did they truly start to fret.

  “Wren,” Icrick snivelled, shaking like a leaf, “hold me!”

  Hold him she did, but not before taking William’s hand herself, and for good reason. Something else was out there. Creatures—if you could call them that—lurking about in the open. Moss People.

  They weren’t able to see them at the first, due to their clever camouflage. Suffice it to say, these were not the bearers of that ungodly laughter. That belonged to something else.

  Said to be more of plant than being, their somewhat hominid features notwithstanding, this wilderness was chief territory of the Moss People, or Úngmin, as used in Lythiann’s forest tongue. A clan of several hundred, supposedly. The word ‘people’ was often misleading to many, mind you, as there wasn’t much of ‘person’ about them at all. Not that most believed.

  Made out of moss and lichen from scalp to sole, these sluggish beasts spent their days crawling around the inner walls of the tree, blub-blubbing as they crept. They were Glogish, in a way, in that they could plunge in and out of the wood upon their discretion. Using heavily bearded lips, they would otherwise stoop like cattle and graze upon the outermost layers of rotting bark. Then, as with the common earthworm, their waste was of the greenest grass you could dream of. Strips upon strips of it, running all over. Disgusting and yet remarkable. Even its scent was refreshing, and if collected by a passing breeze, would wash through the otherwise stale air which lingered within, to instil summer memories of a far simpler time.

  What purpose such beings would ever hope to serve in such vile surroundings was surely a mystery, yet they were a miraculous creature nonetheless—if you could call them that.

  Typically, the term ‘creature’ suggests a mammal. A being of true life. One who knows what it is to feel, or to need. A ‘creature’ tends to respond to say, danger, in order to preserve itself. It would at least react with a struggle. Whereas these organisms seemed poles apart. Because, at one stage, our heroes heard one of the Moss People giving off a wavering groan. A sort of lifeless bawl. Lo and behold, just across from them, in an old hollow much like the one outside, they spotted a pair of pearl-white eyes chewing upon an Úngmin’s arm from inside the shade. They couldn’t see what was in there. It was too dark inside. Meanwhile, the Úngmin just sat there, sprawled out, delirious, doing nothing about it, as if it had no regard whatsoever for its own preservation; like it was allowing the shadowy beast to devour him. Maybe it was in pain. Who could say? This was why they were considered more of plant than of being. Hollow, emotionless. No worse off than common fungi.

  Wren, thinking otherwise, was about to leap in to the Úngmin’s aid, when Redmun clutched her by the coat, and disputed, “Leave it, girl! It is simply nature taking its course. Would you stop a spider from netting a fly? It would profit us in no way to interrupt it. Look away, if needs be. Just do not get involved. We have enough to deal with as it is!”

  There was no mistaking Wren’s fury, however there was no denying the Erethaoí’s wisdom, either. Alas, she left the poor being to its fate, as much as it frustrated her to do so.

  Anyway, that was the least of their troubles, now that they were completely exposed by the lanterns. This was what worried Redmun the most.

  “This is no good,” he grunted, hunkering down to reassess their path. “The trees have awoken to us now. We are far too vulnerable out here in the light.”

  “But we need the light to see, don’t we?!” William, so needlessly, pointed out. “We can’t just hope for the best and rely on our ears to take us through the dark. We won’t get a quarter-mile before we tumble off a ledge or something!”

  “Yes…this is true, too,” the man answered, stuck for a plan.

  Redmun’s hearing was, from experience, second to none so he would have gotten by just fine, but that wasn’t much help to the others. He couldn’t just lead them blindly, either, for that jungle was far too precarious as it was.

  “What about you, horseman?” he requested. “Should we find our way out of open, would you be
will to lead us with your light?”

  Crosco, however, was so petrified by the growing whispers that he’d bypassed his highest luminosity, full-circle, and was now pasty as a puddle of dry vomit again.

  Redmun rolled his eyes.

  “With all your brains ‘n’ bull-fluff, ye really don’t have a clue, do ye?” Khrum sniggered.

  “Care to explain that?” asked the Erethaoí.

  “Welly-well-well,” Khrum began, “‘tis my undershtandin’ that these yokes only light up when we walk pasht them, right?”

  (That much was obvious, so they agreed.)

  “An’ how bright they get all depends on how many of us walk by at the time? Whereas if we stay out o’ their way, they don’t light up a-’tall-a-’tall, correct?”

  (Again, they agreed.)

  “Righto! Well, supposin’ I was ta be the one who leads the way, while the resht o’ ye clowns shtay well back in the shadows there, on the far side, away from all those lanterns. All ye have ta do then is follow suit, while yours truly goes out there ‘n’ lights up a little bit at a time! Should work, with the sizheen o’ me! Sound like a plan? Ha? Ha?!”

  Smart thinking, truth be told. They were very impressed.

  Ample praise was given for his initiative, which just gave the leprechaun license to go off on one of his tangents, prattling on, “I told ye so!” or, “Ye should listen ta me more often!” or, “Up here for thinkin’, down there for dancin’!” That type of carry on.

  After milking it for all that it was worth, Khrum ordered them back in line. All he was missing was his bullwhip. Icrick wasn’t too impressed with his despotic conduct, but the position was temporary, so there was no sense in throwing a moody about it.

  They held back in the shadows, waiting for Khrum to lead the way. All the lights dimmed, as did the mutterings. Khrum then kicked off into a fine rendition of Diddly-Dees as he uncovered a softly lit pathway ahead.

  It transpired that his plan actually paid off extremely well for a fair march. Khrum, bouncing along, led them skyward, level after level, with a near-faded glimmer following his advance. The others trailed along in secret, knowing precisely where they were off to, and it was all done beneath a most beautiful shield of near-perfect darkness.

  It dawned on William, the possibility of employing his own shadow cloak, had there been any suitable surfaces around for him to do so. But there weren’t, so it wasn’t worth any further deliberation. Besides, everything was running smoothly as it was, so he was happy enough. He would’ve been a whole lot happier had Khrum only shut his gob every now and then. His singing was dreadful, loud, and risky. But he was the boss, for now, so he did as he pleased. They let him have his moment, this once, owing to his spat with Redmun not so long ago. What harm could a few relatively quiet notes really do, after all?

  “C’mon, ye slowpokes!” he hollered, cracking his imaginary whip. “Keep goin’ at this rate ‘n’ Drevol will have already died o’ old age. Get your fingers out!”

  “For pity’s sake, will you slow down?” Icrick scowled, not daring to speak as loud, for one loudmouth was enough. “Not all of us have legs made of springs, you know.”

  Then, from out of the silence, they heard a rather distinct wet pop, as of a water bladder bursting. And there was Khrum, chuckling somewhat, examining his tunic. He didn’t really understand what he was looking at, at first.

  Spattered across his tunic was what appeared to be a dark stain, streaking from his left shoulder, down to his right hip. Nobody knew what it was nor where it came from, not even he. But, no sooner had they joined him in his giggle, than they turned so frighteningly pale when Khrum’s signature grin shakily inverted, as a line of blood dribbled from his lips. He heard the ghostly cackling again, right next to him.

  A pair of white eyes appeared over his bloodied shoulder, which had been speared by a row of invisible teeth. The leprechaun passed out when he saw it. Manifesting itself from the wreathed backdrop was a large adult Slingtail, the size of an albatross. Of bleached leathery flesh, this albino dragon remained perfectly still, staring down those outsiders in the shadows, with their friend clamped lifelessly in its jaws. Far from reptilian were its features, as this breed’s face was more of human demon than anything. A grotesque thing of children’s nightmares.

  “NOOO!” Icrick wailed, and in his anger he lobbed his scythe at the beast.

  The dragon was too fast for him, and had already vanished into the dead fog above, hauling Khrum’s limp body after him.

  “COME BACK!” the Grogoch roared out, snatching at the air, “YOU HEAR ME?! COME BACK HERE WITH MY FRIEND, YOU…YOU VILLAIN!”

  “He…He’s my best friend!” he then wept. “Please don’t take him away!”

  Before his sorrows could well, disaster struck again. Be it the gloom revisiting the world or something else, that whole jungle, rocks and all, came alive, and appeared to worm its way down towards them. It felt as though a vast plague of invisible entities were out to get them, and these suspicions soon came to light upon the returning bouts of that most haunting laughter. This called for immediate action.

  Grabbing whomever he could, Redmun ordered them into a dense clearing just behind them.

  “Shut up! The lot of you. They’re coming.” He exclaimed, shoving their heads down.

  “Who?” Stell snapped, all upset and befuddled. “Who’s they, Redmun? Answer me that!”

  “There are things in this world that even I have no knowledge of, Sir Crimpleton,” answered the man, peeking through the grass. “All I know is that I can hear them speaking to each other.”

  Someone let out a roar to Redmun’s left, infuriating him beyond imagining. It nearly compromised them, after all.

  The Grogoch, in his torment, had wailed out like some village drunk who’d just lost his foolish mind, “Bah, it’s no use! Not against them. I told you we shouldn’t have come this way.”

  Then giving over to his anger, he seized young William and screamed, so lividly, into his face, “I warned you! Did I not? I told you this wasn’t…a good…idea. But what did you do? You went anyway. Now look what’s after happening! Our Khrum! He’s dead! All because of you!”

  William had never known his placid friend to be so hateful. Not towards him. Yet, now that he was, it must have been true. It must have been William’s fault. He was at so grave a loss by the Grogoch’s all-out attack that he took everything he had to throw at him; not disputing one word.

  Wren pulled Icrick off him, sneering under her breath, “We chose this way, Icrick! Not William! He’s just following us because he has to! How dare you blame him for what happened to Khrum! How bloody dare you!”

  She then slapped Icrick across the face so fast that he went absolutely still, and wouldn’t look at anybody.

  Wren maintained her ground and glared at him. Waiting for, I suppose, retaliation. Her slap was deemed a bit harsh by the rest. Harsh, though necessary. He needed to be shushed, or else.

  Ashamed by his unwarranted accusations, Icrick touched his cheek, and in such a turn of sorrow, he said to the boy, begging him, “William…O-O-Oh, my dear boy, William. I-I-I am so, so sorry! How could I hold you responsible for Khrum’s death? You, of all people? Please! Can you ever f-f-forgive me? I’m not myself. Please, take no heed of me. Please. I can’t afford to lose another friend.”

  “Icrick, you’ve been through a lot.” William answered pitifully. “I understand what it’s like…believe me! You just feel like lashing out sometimes. Even at your closest friends. It’s not a nice way to be. So, no hard feelings, okay? But…I have to ask…how are you so sure he’s dead?”

  The others nodded. Was Khrum dead? For some reason, it didn’t feel like his soul had departed the world. Not like when the Poppum passed over.

  “Y-You’re saying…” Icrick stammered, his face brightening.

  “All I’m saying, Icrick, is, he’s Khrum!” was all the boy could offer, lower now, with the creatures closing in. “We all know what he’s ca
pable of, don’t we?” (Everyone agreed.) “He may be small, Icrick, but that bite was probably just a flesh wound as far as he’s concerned. You know him better than anyone. He’s probably more worried about his fine pullover than some little scratch. As for his whereabouts? We’re just going to have to go with what we know…and follow him straight up.”

  “You may be right,” Icrick sniffed, drying his tears. “There might still be time! B-B-Because Slingtails are known for marinating any strange prey in beds of herbs some hours before eating them. It makes them taste more like Moss People, as far as I know. And to do that, the meat has to be fresh…or perhaps even alive. I must have forgot all this in my panic. Oh, do you really believe there’s hope, William? Do you?”

  The Dullahan intervened, “Who knows, Phynodderee? Yet in the words of our little guide, wherever he may be, ‘by Jehovah or by Jaysus, we’re goin’ ta find out!’“

  “That settles it,” said Stell, a little more like his old self, “and I have just the plan!”

  And what a scheme it was.

  Hidden by their ghostly sorcery, the breaker of invisible enemies undulated downward, magnifying the passing foliage, as of great, rolling droplets. By the time they had reached the tall grasses wherein William and his friends once hid, it turned out they were no longer there. You could imagine the Slingtails’ confusion, and ire. It baffled them, such that they even snapped at one another for being so incompetent. How, on earth, could they have missed them? They had all exits covered, and had more than enough scouts, much less how inventive one would need to be to avoid their noses so deftly. Even the most inexperienced of Slingtails could pinpoint a hog-hair in a poppy field, and on a rainy day to boot.

  They may not have found them, yet, but those ghastly dragons weren’t ready to quit. Burying their noses in the overgrowth like wild bloodhounds, they tried sniffing out their scent on foot.