Dwain dragged himself up to it and took one of two iron handles fastened on either side of the door. It was heavy, stuck within the earth that sealed it. He pushed and pushed with all the strength he had left, but it was no use. The door was impossible to move on his own, not to mention with just a single able paw.
Regina realized this right away. She circled around Dwain, carefully planted her paws upon his hedgehog bottom, and shoved with all her little might to help accommodate. Dirt hissed down upon them as the door shifted against the clay track. Pure daylight lit up the tunnel in a single blinding ray. Regina clenched her eyes shut. Dwain turned his face away and threw his shoulder into rolling the door further up the track.
Cool afternoon air billowed into the damp and stagnant chamber. A strong sweetness of huckleberries filled the children’s noses – as well as the husky scent of fir trees, chestnuts, and wet grass. Somewhere, sparrows and jays of every kind cheered for the children’s escape.
The door came to a stop halfway, too heavy along the upward track to keep momentum. But the way was open, and that was all that mattered.
The children collapsed into the dirt. Dwain bit back tears as he nursed his wounded paw. Regina panted for fresh air that didn’t yet fill her lungs as she slowly climbed to a stand. She looked back down the tunnel. For a moment, she became mesmerized by a pure emptiness, an abyss, which lay before her from the tavern cellar whence they journeyed.
Dank winds that had haunted their every step up until now faded into the earthen walls.
…Please, come back…
…Please, don’t wander off where danger waits…
… Please, do not leave us here … to rot…
The howls of the dead, left behind. Regina shuddered.
“Reggie.” She felt Dwain’s digits clasp around hers. She shook off the ghostly tendrils of the tavern’s secret tunnel and allowed herself to be led towards the light.
They stepped out into high-grassed clearing. Mossy rocks of every size speckled the area, like sleeping ogres. The clearing was circular-shaped in nature, walled in at every turn by steep coniferous-rooted hills, red like blood under a veil of fallen pine needles.
The door rolled shut behind them. The children turned back and found themselves before a fallen log, moss-covered and home to large, flat-headed mushrooms. The log’s face bore the cracks and rings of many ages long since passed. Dwain placed paw digits upon it. It was flat, seamless – perfect.
Regina, in the meantime, took wary steps out into the middle of the glade. Somewhere, crows cackled in the distance amidst the cacophony of jays and sparrows. Her listless eyes found sad reflection in rain droplets that rolled off some leaves of a low-hanging sycamore branch, into a bare patch of soil with a faint splash.
Dwain’s voice resonated from behind: “Keeto Town shouldn’t be too far from here, yeah. Hopefully.”
“Where is this place?” Regina asked.
“Smells like the Keeton Woods, yeah – though I don’t reckanize these parts, say.” Wheezing with pain and exertion, Dwain searched the grass for worms and fallen berries and gobbled up whatever could be found. All the while, his determined hedgehog eyes devoured the impossible steepness of the hills that kept them grounded.
The Keeton Woods. Regina had never been outside of Altus Village before, not even during the Harvest Festival when trade between Altus and Keeto Town was had. She gazed upon the vast red hills that surrounded them at every turn and felt very, very, small. Wherever they’d ended up, she had no choice but to take Dwain’s word for it.
“In any case, if we’re to find our way out of these forsaken woods, we’ll need to climb these hills, yeah. Quickly, though. Last thing we need is to run into any guffin’ canines.” Dwain spat into his claw and marked the direction of the breeze.
“What are you doing that for?” Regina asked.
“Hrm. Eastwardly, then, yeah. Ma always told us these stories of how our village was blessed by wind. If one of us kits ever went out, she’d tell us – Oi, you spine-headed loves, if ye ever git your fool selves lost, follow the wind, yeah, and she’ll guide ye back home, yeah—”
Sober realization flashed across Dwain’s face. His eyes went empty, evasive from Regina’s gaze. He turned away from her and wandered off to inspect the hills further in unannounced silence.
The look upon his face only lasted a moment. But Regina had seen it, recognized tangible pain that seeped from within: the realness – the weight – of Dwain’s own loss. She recognized this in an instant and respected the new silence between them.
Regolith and red pine needles rolled down the incline around Dwain’s ankles as he attempted to ascend the hill directly ahead. But its vast steepness threw him off balance. A young sycamore off to his right teased him into reaching for its fledgling branch for support. Tall and thin as it was, the sapling elbowed without effort as soon as Dwain took hold. It dragged him face-first into a bed of pine needles that carried him yelping in pain all the way back down beneath the high grass.
Regina rushed to his aid, but he nudged her away and climbed to a wobbly stand on his own by use of a large rock nearby. He tossed away sapling leaves and searched around the glade, muttering about stability and staves.
Among a huckleberry bush near a small stone formation, Dwain found a fallen branch, likely broken off one of the sycamore trees during the earlier rain storm. He tucked the branch under one arm and used the hem of his tunic to wipe it clean of dew and dirt, and then broke off stray limbs and thistles. Last, he peeled away any loose bark, save for a fist-wide band near the top, caught around a particular hook which refused to snap.
“Here, climb onto my shoulders,” Dwain found his way back to the boulder and patted its rough surface. “We need t’ find a road. The main road, yeah. That ol’ hedgehog’s tale about the protection of the wind got some truth t’ it.”
Regina eyed his spines with wariness. “Is … is it safe to?”
Dwain wrinkled his nose at her. “Well, like I said, might be some canines about, but don’t ye worry, Reggie. We’re a tough lot—What? Why, pointing’s rude, lass, didn’t ye know? Ohh, guff’, don’t worry. I won’t prick ye, I’m no moody porcupine.”
With a little coaxing, Regina climbed up the side of the large rock. The spines on the back of Dwain’s head and neck were flat over the collar of his tunic, gleamed against the afternoon sun. Regina touched him with a hesitant paw. His spines were scratchy, but somehow also smooth, and almost shivered under the stroke of her digits. Farming straw came to mind, like the mounds piled high in the hay loft above Mr. Kessel’s poultry keep. She could almost see the barn swallows dive between nest-encrusted rafters under rays of sunlight that spilled in through the cracks, above. The smell of chickens and hens filled her nostrils, the swell of stuffy heat tingled over her cheeks and arms. It was a warmth that brought imaginary sweat to her pores … brought forth the flame-engulfed hay that dripped all around; the streets ran red with blood as Westley Horne begged for help under the crushing weight of his dying grandpapa. In the distance, crops burned to ash and the canines slaughtered all those who fled for—
“Reggie.”
Dwain’s face appeared before her. She felt his gentle clutch upon her shoulders. All the awful memories faded from her mind – at least, for the moment. There was only quiet now. There was just the two of them, together, in the quiet of the forest. Regina shook her head to abate any leeching nightmare remnants that still clung to her memories. She shuddered and looked away.
“Reggie, look at me. I need ye to trust me,” Dwain said to her. He searched her face with a gaze of deep concern. “Look. Do ye trust me?”
Regina slowly looked into his eyes. She nodded. It was all she could do. But it was all she had to. Dwain’s worried stare melted into a relieved smile.
“Come on, then,” he said. “The father sun is soon to set, yeah.”
Together, they started up the hill, this time using the newly-made walking staff to support their bal
ance. Just as Dwain predicted, the extra sense of stability was all they needed to get to the top. Regina nestled her cheek against the back of his neck and closed her eyes. With every thump her body made under his step, her mind grew lighter and her eyes, heavier.
Finally, she could rest without fear. And she did so, drifting off into a deep, dreamless, sleep.
4. A Wizard and His Mule
Regina awoke into semidarkness. She uncurled her body beneath a blanket of sycamore leaves, stretched out her limbs, and found herself alone inside of a hollowed log. There was a loud pounding at her ears, voices that screamed and wailed her name.
… Regina …
… Regina, please don’t leave us …
…Please, don’t abandon us …
Behind her, long grass tickled the log’s opening, reached for her tail as stray leaves blustered inside. Her eyes focused on tree roots directly beyond, waited for the face of a ghost to appear from the edge of the opening. But nothing more than the wind dared to torment her grogginess. It was just the wind. Only the wind.
She closed her eyes, turned towards the opposite end with breath held deep. She imagined blood-hungry canine eyes and a maw of frothing madness. But there was nothing. Only grass. Only leaves. Only the wind that screamed and struck the walls around her. Only her imagination.
Regina wiped one eye with the back of her paw and crawled towards the opening. Warm air kissed her cheeks when she peered out. Sycamores towered around her with their trunks guarded by huckleberry bushes, under the clutch of an early evening orange-magenta sky. She climbed out of the log with awkward finesse and dropped down into soft soil smattered with leaves and pine needles. The Song of the Harvest was but a whisper on the breath of the wind around her.
Regina noticed that the hollow log lay beneath a stretch of eroded ground that spanned over the barren crossing, sloping down between the reach of trees on either side. As grogginess left her, Regina realized the fallen trunk, rotted with time, had once been a culvert now at the bottom of a since dried-up stream.
She gasped. “…It’s a road!”
Dwain had been right all along. He was sure they would eventually find a path if they followed the wind’s direction – and sure enough…
But now, Dwain wasn’t anywhere in sight. Regina called out for him, but only the wind’s wails answered. She called out again, but there was no reply. Sudden panic squeezed around Regina’s heart. She sniffed for him around the trees and within the bushes, but he was nowhere to be found.
“Dwain, where are you?! Answer me – please!!” she cried out. “Where are you?! Where are you?!”
It was then that Regina heard the echo of distant clops. Slow, and steady, with all the patience of the world. She whiffed the air in hopes to catch Dwain’s scent but instead the familiar smell of duskroot filled her nostrils. It was a bittersweet musk upon the wind, a rich scent similar to that of hot bonfire kindling – a scent Regina knew well from nights her father sat by the fireplace, sketching maps for village council meetings. Many of the grownup villagers – most especially Elder Rombard – often carried the smell with them, wherever they went.
Sudden hope filled Regina’s heart. She bounded over to the edge of the culvert and scurried up to the expanse, using whatever rocks and roots she could find to aid her. She peered over the edge of the road.
A grey-black blot appeared around a bend of trees in the distance. Regina struggled to make out who exactly it was, though sure by the twitch of her nostrils that this was the source of the duskroot scent. Dwain had clearly left Regina to go find help, so it only made sense he would return with aid. A donkey brayed noisily as hooves clacked closer towards her. The smell of duskroot was so dense – it couldn’t be anyone other than Elder Rombard! Dared by the hope in her heart, Regina pulled herself up over the edge of the road and scuttled towards the blot.
As she neared, her weak eyes settled upon a strong and droopy-headed mule treading the middle of the path. Upon its saddle slouched a mammal clad in a cloak as deep as the blue night. A wide-brimmed hat with a heavy crooked point shielded his eyes from view. Rays of dying sunlight that spilled through the tree tops revealed the wrinkled, liver-spotted flesh and a flat, wet snout of an age-old swine. He chomped on the end of a long, downward-curved pipe that plumed thick smoke around his floppy ears.
“Steady now, Phalanx.” His voice was high and gravelly, worn with that of a long life. Regina halted with shrill immediacy. This swine was not Elder Rombard, nor did Dwain’s face appear behind him. Tail raised but a hair, Regina started to back away.
The unfamiliar rider came to a stop a few feet before her. He patted his mule’s mane and leaned forward to gaze upon she who obstructed their path.
“You there! Is … is your name Regina Lepue?”
Regina’s ears perked instinctively, but she was too terrified to respond.
The swine ran cleft hooves across a full, faint-haired beard. Beneath his hat brim, deeply-wrinkled knowing eyes that reflected stars and moons of distant worlds contemplated Regina.
“Why, you’re just a little thing!” He took a deep puff from his pipe, exhaled great and wondrous clouds thick as fog. “Are you out here all alone? These woods are no place for such a little skunk.” He patted a wheat scythe hooked to right side of his mule’s saddle. The swine then screwed his face up with a look of realization. “Did you stray from your tribe? Are you lost? … My, that’s blood on your gown! Are you hurt?”
“N … no. I’m not hurt,” said Regina. “Or lost. I – I haven’t a tribe. How … how did you know my name?”
“How did I know your name? I know a great many things, my child. Truth be just, our meeting today was foretold, aha!”
Regina’s eyes widened. Dwain. “Have you seen my friend?”
“Hmm? Your friend? Mm, that would depend on who your friend is, my dear,” said the swine. He pushed back his hat brim to caress the wrinkles of his sweaty forehead. “You say you haven’t a tribe? Why, this road leads to Altus Village, does it not?” He twisted in his saddle, looked up the road behind him. “And that way, to Keeto Town.”
He wrenched himself back into a forward position, then clamped his teeth down upon the smoky pipe stem with an audible click and took a deep and thoughtful puff. His mule brayed angrily, shaking his ears to stave off the smoke.
“Oh – yes, yes, you hate the smell, Phalanx, I know,” said the swine with a sigh. He waved off two sparring flies before his face. “Put a hoof in it. Such a moody ox, I may have well married you.”
The mule threw a nasty glare back at him and sent a swift swat of his tail across his rider’s ribs.
“Phalanx – ouuuch! I didn’t – didn’t mean it, you nasty old jackass! OUUCCH! STOP IT! Bruise my bones why don’t you, and see what fares into your supper bucket tonight!” The swine brushed away another attack and twisted his hat firmly to his crown before the wind had a chance to snatch off with it. With an annoyed huff he looked to Regina once again, who quietly giggled with paws clamped over her mouth and nose.
He snorted, incredulous. “Oh, that’s funny, is it? An old porcine, flayed mercilessly by the very mule he rides. HAW! Indeed!”
“I – I’m sorry,” said Regina. She tried without avail to suppress her amusement. “I – I think he’s more upset that you called him a … an ox…”
“Oh, bother.” The swine waved this off and started to dismount his mule, with some struggle. “Wouldn’t – Oof! – Wouldn’t be the worst insult he’s endured along the way.” He trekked towards Regina on wobbly hind hoofs, grunts escaping his lips with shallow snorts. “A – allow me to introduce myself. My name is Astral Ages – master of the arcane teachings of Life and Mana; alchemical healing. You’ve already met my, uh, my trusty, erm, steed, Phalanx Andromedon.”
With eyes closed, Phalanx bowed his head with great importance. He then farted and began to graze.
Astral sighed.
“He can understand you?” Regina asked, amazed.
; “Unfortunately. Phalanx is a special mount, unlike any other … if his majesty dares to acknowledge you, I mean. But for as long as we’ve been bound by fate, he has grown to be an ally and a scholar … erm … in his own right.”
Regina curtsied out of politeness, though wary eyes never left these strangers unchecked. When Astral began to encircle her with a curious eye, she immediately cowered on the spot.
“How is it that you ended up in these woods, by the way?” he asked, caressing his beard and inspecting her top to bottom. “No place for a skunk your tender age, not at all!”
When Regina didn’t answer, Astral stopped and awkwardly lowered himself to her height, snout to nose. Her nostrils twitched against the smoky musk intermingled with the old hog’s natural body odour. She flinched when he took her chin between his cloven grasp.
“There, there. Nothing to be afraid of,” he assured her. “I just want you to … lay your gaze upon mine, only a moment.”
Regina wrinkled her nose, but relented. She looked deep into Astral’s knowing eyes, and found herself transfixed by the stars and moons of the many worlds known only to him. There she saw fire, and fear, and the oblivion of Altus.
She saw her meeting with Dwain, and their escape. She saw herself asleep as he carried her up the blood hills. She saw herself awaken inside the semidarkness of the log culvert … she saw herself stand before Astral and Phalanx as she did, this very moment.
Regina watched herself and was filled only with reawakened calmness, peace – as though this strange traveler of the Keeton Woods extracted all that she had endured in the many hours until now for his own study and her own solace.
Astral’s eyes focused. He jerked a bit with a snort, taken aback with a look of sickened horror. He let Regina’s chin free and rose to a stand.
“Oh dear – oh dear, oh dear,” he murmured. “I see, I see, I see … My child, you’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you.”
The Book of Wind: (The Quest for the Crystals #1) Page 3