The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers)

by Frank P. Ryan

  She felt the muscles in Alan’s arm tighten and wondered why. Her first glimpse of the trees was of great boughs, festooned with living curtains over green-carpeted banks. Every branch and twig was so bearded with moss and lichens it was difficult to make out their forms. In places the secondary growths were so dense as to become hanging gardens in the canopies. The giant green fingers of ferns proliferated in the sunlit openings.

  In a hushed voice Milish spoke of a forest of giants. Meanwhile Alan, beside Kate, nodded, awestruck.

  But still Kate sensed these trees meant something even more special to Alan. They had seen massive trees in the forests north of Isscan, but they had been no more than saplings in comparison. Great boles of trunks soared into the distant sky, their upper reaches lost in the fusion of mist and canopy. Kate struggled to identify even a few of the species—Douglas fir perhaps, and Sitka spruce and cedar—only to be forced to withdraw her gaze from leaf shapes that were completely unknown, or colors so bright they dazzled her eyes like spears of sunlight. Back in Clonmel, many of these plants would have been listed as rare, or more likely unknown.

  Over the splintered caps of the encircling mountains to the northeast, smoke and fumes fed the discolored clouds. She saw now that many of the peaks were volcanic cones, and she heard the cracks and rumbles of their restless violence, even at this great distance. Part way up the slope, heated air rose from vents in the rocks, billowing steam that fell down into the forests and ran like a tidal race between the trees.

  Hour after hour they watched in amazement as the great ship sailed deeper into the pass, past streams yellow with sulphur from the discharges in the distant peaks. Here and there age had thinned out the woodland, where bedraggled survivors of some natural calamity lay scattered about open spaces, supporting an explosion of parasitic mantles, each its own intimate garden of delight.

  Then, as they rounded a bend into a sunlit valley, Kate’s breath faltered and her heartbeat rose into her throat.

  Rising, as if through an immense struggle from the arid rock of the waterside, was an extraordinary tree. Its roots were a gnarled battle of intertwining shapes, as ancient as the stones, and from that complex skein of roots, the trunk and branches were grotesquely twisted, their ends broken and repaired through the storms of thousands of bitter winters, until the golden heartwood was exposed, whorled and twisted like the eddies of whirlpools.

  Although she knew it only from pictures, she recognized the tree. She whispered to Milish, “What do you call these trees?”

  “Ah—these are the Oleone. They are revered as the most ancient of living spirits in all of Tír, the elders of the Forbidden Forest.”

  Kate put her hand on Alan’s shoulder.

  He reached up and cradled her hand. “Yeah—I know!”

  They both recognized the species from their own world, where it was also revered for its great longevity, known to live for six thousand years. Though gnarled and contorted almost beyond recognition, they were looking at a bristle-cone pine—it looked like the oldest bristle-cone pine that had ever lived. Its significance overwhelmed Kate, even as she heard Alan sigh with grief.

  “What is it, Mage Lord?” Milish spoke softly.

  “These are the trees of my native land, Milish.”

  “What land is this, that it should arouse such passions?”

  “America.”

  “A-me-ri-ka!” The council woman tested the syllables, a look of astonishment on her bronzed face.

  “Seeing them so unexpectedly—they reminded me of my loss, my parents . . .” Alan couldn’t speak any more of it.

  Kate hugged his arm, recognizing other familiar trees among these leviathans. The rust-colored tannin of their barks was unmistakable. These had to be giant redwoods, sequoia. The river hinterland was dense with them, tall and upstanding amid the Douglas firs and spruce.

  For the first time Alan realized what should long have been obvious—that there must be a link, a sister-like relationship, between Earth and this very different world. That thought stirred him at a level he could not altogether logically understand.

  After another day and a half’s journey, the river expanded until it became a mile or more in width. Ahead of them its stream divided around a pinnacle of rock. Sailing closer, they saw that it was the northernmost prow of an island around which the river split into two unequal branches.

  The main branch flowed right, while a lesser stream flowed left through a shadowed inlet.

  On Siam’s direction, Mark began to pull hard on the wheel to direct the prow into the broader tributary when a dreadful foreboding seized Alan.

  “Hold it! Don’t head that way!”

  Siam turned round to confront Alan. “We cannot take the leftward channel. That way leads to forbidden places.”

  Through the pulsating oraculum, Alan sensed an even greater danger waiting for them on the broader tributary. That danger was so overwhelming he took a firm hold of the chief’s shoulder.

  “We have no choice. I’m sorry—but we have to turn aside! We’re in great danger.”

  A chorus of voices erupted into the air about them as the Olhyiu clustered around their chief.

  “The Mage Lord is right.” It was the clear strong voice of Ainé that cut through the rising panic. Alan saw that the Kyra’s oraculum was also pulsating strongly. “I too sense the trap that awaits us upon the greater channel of the river.”

  With a groan of disbelief and a continuing shaking of his head, Siam nodded to Mark, who brought the helm around so the ship was heading into the left channel. The chief glanced at Kemtuk, whose face was haggard with worry.

  Alan and Kate were also joined in the prow by Mo, all watching intently as the island flowed steadily by them for mile after mile. “Ossierel was the name of both the capital and the island itself, from ancient times,” said Milish. “Such was it called in the tongue of those who first settled the valley.”

  They saw that the island was densely forested over its lower reaches, and rising in a series of scarps to a broad plateau on which they glimpsed walls and buildings of ruined stone—the fallen citadel. Blue in the distance, and capping the plateau, more scarps buttressed a tor that soared almost vertically upward, so steep and high its peak was lost in the mists of what was now afternoon.

  “There is a tower, at present obscured by the mists, on that soaring pinnacle.” Milish’s finger led their gazes far inland.

  Then Siam’s voice sounded from behind them. “We sailors know it better as the Rath of the Dark Queen.”

  “The Rath of Nantosueta!” echoed Qwenqwo Cuatzel, who had only just descended from his watch in the crow’s nest to join their gathering on the prow. “It is all that remains of the temples of her dark arts, elevated above forest and river, from where long ago her witches’ coven could cast their spells over forest, mountain and river, and over the kingdoms of men.”

  An hour and a half after entering the narrow channel Alan could see a small alluvial plain that broke out of the dense forest of the island’s lower slopes, and now, as they approached it, he could make out the faint outline of a track winding up through the forest that cloaked the slopes over the river. It had to lead to the plateau, and ruins, high above. It looked like a difficult place to get to. Now, peering aloft through gaps in the mist, he was awed by the vast ascent that took his gaze to the level of the plateau, and beyond it, to the level of the clouds.

  Suddenly Mo startled them all. She was standing stiffly before them, her face racked with alarm. In a piping voice she warned them, “We must stop here—it’s where we’ve been drawn to.”

  Alan wheeled around to face her. He took her shoulders in his hands and gazed down into her startled eyes. “What is it, Mo?”

  “Don’t you feel it too?”

  Even as he began to shake his head, he felt it rise in him, so overwhelming with its closeness that he was almost thrown backward. The ecstasy of contact came in a single great wave, causing gooseflesh to erupt over his skin. H
e heard the sighs of his friends and knew all of their mouths had fallen open.

  The calling!

  All four friends, even Mark, farther back on the aft deck, looked upward, toward the high plain on the mysterious island. The calling had come from there.

  A chill of presentiment swept through Alan as he waited for the wave to ebb, then looked at Mo and Kate, then across to Mark, whose arms had fallen from the great wheel. He asked them, “Are we all agreed?”

  The two girls nodded but Mark was silent.

  “Mark?” He had to call out across the intervening decks.

  Mark shrugged, as if to say, “What choice do I have?”

  Alan realized that Mark, more than anyone, would naturally be reluctant to leave the ship. He turned to Ainé and Siam, his face pale. “I’m sorry, but we have no choice but to leave the ship and answer this calling.”

  “Abandon the Temple Ship?”

  Alan heard the incredulous growl of Siam even as he felt his oraculum begin to pulsate so strongly his entire brow seemed to throb with it. The chief was insistent. “You cannot ask this of my people. Not here!” His fearful gaze lifted up to look at the distant ruins that towered over them.

  “Siam—I know you don’t want to leave the safety of the ship. My friends and I have no choice, but you do. You don’t have to come with us. We’ll make our way up to the plateau on our own.”

  Kemtuk’s hand reached for Siam’s shoulder, as if supporting him in his fears for the people now gathering about them in consternation.

  “The Mage Lord asks that we abandon the ship,” Siam groaned to the sea of anxious faces. “Here, in the very shadow of the Dark Queen’s Rath!”

  Ainé stood erect with a silent Qwenqwo Cuatzel, watching.

  “Never has danger so threatened us in this journey as it does now.” The Kyra’s deep voice rose above the clamor of debate. “Can you not sense eyes upon our every movement?”

  Topgal roared, “Aye—and there is even greater danger in the forest and above these slopes. We are safer leaving this place. We shall pole our way back up these quieter waters and find the greater tributary.”

  “Where you will discover a much greater peril!” Ainé raised her voice to a roar. “Do you not yet understand the nature of what faces us? A Legun has surely passed through the pass of Kloshe Lamah. What other force could sunder the image of the queen, where she has guarded the gates for two thousand years? That Legun has cast a deathmaw over the wider course of the river. That is the peril that the Mage Lord sensed ahead. None would survive, for there would be no escape, trapped within the confines of the ship.”

  A groan of fright went through those who heard her.

  “What is a Legun—or a deathmaw?” Alan asked Ainé.

  “A Legun is one of the seven orders of malice that forms the Tyrant’s inner circle. It draws power directly from its master. The deathmaw is its malengin—a force invisible until you come up against it. Then it is deadly.”

  “We are already doomed!” muttered Siam.

  Ainé said firmly, “We are not doomed. But we invite doom if our courage now fails us. The Mage Lord and his companions have heard their calling. Above us, in the ruins of Ossierel, he and his three friends will come face to face with their destiny. Is this not the purpose of his journey? Do not waste time on argument. Take heed instead of the gravity of our position. Dark forces close upon us from all sides. But on the plateau of Ossierel we can put up a better defense.” Ainé lifted an arm to calm their terrified babbling. “We must enter these forests without delay—or abandon all hope of redemption for our peoples.”

  Topgal’s voice was raised among the Olhyiu. “These are fine words. But we have children and elderly to care for. Darkness falls—it can be no more than a few hours at most. I say return to the main stream and sail on. Take our chances in spite of these faint-hearts with their womanish forebodings.”

  “No!” Siam stood full-square against his brother-in-law. “Not one among you dreads these accursed forests any more than I do, yet I trust the Mage Lord more than I fear death. How can you even consider denying his counsel?”

  Ainé took her sword out of its scabbard and lifted it high above the fearful company. The blade glowed with the pulse of her slow steady heartbeat, like a beacon of resolution against the shadows of approaching evening. “If you attempt to sail on, darkness will bring the attack you fear. The Legun will cast a new deathmaw farther along this very channel. We Shee leave immediately, in protection of the Mage Lord and his companions. If you will take my counsel and accompany us, we will find concealment in the forest this night. That will give us respite to continue the climb with rested limbs tomorrow.”

  “So be it!” Siam spoke quietly, without the heart to roar.

  As they cast anchor against the shingle beach and made ready to unload supplies of weapons and food, Alan turned to examine the island, his face lifting to the temple plateau. He had a lot of sympathy with the Olhyiu’s fears. The ruins of Ossierel, if ever they got to them, might prove to be another trap.

  Brooding Heads

  In the crepuscular shadows of the forest’s edge the Shee spread themselves out, with Ainé leading and the others distributing themselves to guard the long column of Olhyiu. Mark stopped for a moment and looked back at the abandoned ship a final time with tears in his eyes. Within minutes, they were within the gloom of the canopy.

  They made their way up the winding slopes, hacking through the undergrowth and climbing—ever climbing. Just as darkness fell they found their progress blocked by a wall of Cyclopean stones. In the twilight Alan saw how each stone was an individually shaped boulder of granite, so skillfully sculpted that the convexity of one stone exactly met the concavity of its neighbor. It was a fortification built to withstand a siege, and it stretched into the distance to either side of them.

  Ainé explained, “We have reached the first of three defensive barriers, intended to delay any attackers and give time for the inner defenses to organize.”

  “Yet,” Qwenqwo countered, “in spite of such defensive calculation, Ossierel was defeated?”

  The Kyra glared down at the little man. “Here,” she growled, “the people can rest for the night. Warn them there can be no fires. In the meantime we must search along the wall to either side until we find a gate.”

  “More likely a breach!” Qwenqwo muttered softly.

  In the gloom, Kate was shivering from a mixture of cold and trepidation. Keeping close to Alan, she whispered, “The Shee can see in the dark. But how can we help them search without some form of light, which would only give our positions away?”

  The dwarf mage came to their rescue. From one of his pockets he brought out a cluster of tiny stones, lumpy like knuckles, which, when he touched them against his runestone, glowed in the dark. He handed one each to Alan, Kate and Mark—Mark, who had not spoken a word since they left the ship.

  “Hold the glowstones in your fists and let the light appear only through the gaps in your fingers. Thus to our enemies will it resemble the fire insects that abound in these forests.”

  The Olhyiu put down their bundles and set about making a temporary camp, sharing out their rations and huddling together under their rugs. The Shee melted into the shadows, concealed under their camouflage capes. Meanwhile, Alan and Kate were forced to split up into two groups. Kate, visibly unhappy that she had been separated from Alan, headed left, led by Ainé, and Alan headed right, accompanied by Qwenqwo and Kemtuk. They used their machetes to clear a path through the undergrowth.

  After Alan’s group had covered a few hundred yards they came to a hexagonal buttress that marked an ancient guard tower. Through brief flashes of their glowstones they made out gargoyles on the tower wall, jutting monstrously over the surrounding forest.

  Qwenqwo murmured softly, “Though the Kyra did not mention it, this fortification was guarded by Fir Bolg warriors long ago.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because of this!” The dwarf
mage hacked aside some scrub immediately downslope of the wall tower until, in the glow of the pebbles, they peered at a monument of rounded stone, overgrown with creepers and ferns. Between them they cleared away more of the scrub to discover a giant head carved in granite which, though tilted askew and a quarter buried, still rose a good nine feet above the forest floor. The face had the same broad flat nose and wide-lipped features as Qwenqwo. While Alan was still staring up in amazement, a hand suddenly took hold of his shoulder, causing his heart to miss a beat.

  A Shee voice whispered, “We must go back. The Kyra has found a way.”

  Qwenqwo, with a thoughtful expression, asked Alan to leave him behind. “You should return to the camp while I spend a little time in this sacred place.”

  Back in the dark and fireless camp, they satisfied their growing hunger with dried berries and salted fish. Alan asked Kemtuk if he knew the explanation of the stone head in front of the wall tower.

  Kemtuk sucked on an unlit pipe, talking reflectively. “I wonder about the masons who shaped these walls and towers. Here and there, in the marks I found on the stones, I recognized an ancient calendar—a year divided into the eighteen months of the moon cycles and the sacred nature of the five days.”

  “Are you suggesting it wasn’t just guarded but also built by Qwenqwo’s people—the Fir Bolg?”

  The shaman nodded. “Legends do tell of a fierce warrior race of that name, stories of fearless valor from the days before even the Olhyiu were known in this land. And warriors such as these would have had engineers skilled at defending sieges. It may indeed be that the dwarf mage is a descendant of those who constructed these walls.”

  The friends huddled together for warmth but none of them slept soundly in the oppressive darkness. Alan woke to the whispering of Mark and Mo, who appeared to be sleepless. He could make out nothing of their words, and could see only the vaguest shapes of their hunched-up figures in the dark.

  “What is it with you guys?”

  It was Mo who whispered a reply, “Mark is pining for the ship.”