The Road's End

by Daniel Kirk

  “It was meant to be,” Macta said and tried to draw her close again.

  “I said no!”

  “What do you expect of me?” Macta pleaded. “Did you expect me to go to my grave without the pleasure of tasting your lips?”

  Asra turned and hurried from the room. Macta struggled to undo the harness on his mechanical arm, undressed, and slipped into the water where Asra had bathed, just minutes before. This might be as close as I ever get to you, he thought, sitting alone in your tepid bathwater. Then, somehow, he thought of Jardaine. Here he was, joined forever to these two Elfmaids … one of whom he loved and the other he hated. With his good hand he pinched his nose and quickly doused his head.

  Soon Macta was following Asra and a group of monks along a darkened corridor. Walking with a purposeful stride they soon came to the chapel, where the Queen knelt before the altar and recited poetry she had memorized from ancient Holy Scrolls. The Queen’s monks helped her get up from the altar when she heard footsteps approaching. She was weary of strangers, and she realized her disappointment in her Mage’s pronouncements had made her careless when the last group of three showed up. The Human boy should never have been allowed near the chapel; he should never have been allowed to address the Mage. Despite all that had happened, the Queen knew that she was still responsible for Yggdrasil and the heritage and promise of Hunaland. She stood in the doorway and said, “’Tis best if the pair of you stay out in the hall. The Mage doesn’t like to be stared at.”

  “I’m not the staring type,” Macta said. “Neither is Asra. We couldn’t care less about your Mage. We don’t need to meet her, anyway. Just get us provisions for our trip, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Who is it now?” came a croaking voice from inside.

  “I told you,” the Queen said. “Have you forgotten already? ’Tis the King of Helfratheim, and a … friend of his. The two of them want to enter the Cord to the Underworld and help the others stop Jardaine from planting the Seed.”

  “Someone must plant the Seed,” came the voice from the withered, sightless head.

  “Aye,” said the Queen, “someone must. But not a thief, not someone who shows such disrespect, such contempt for the will of the Goddess. That’s not the way to begin a new era!”

  The Mage’s wrinkled head seemed to shrink in concentration. “How did this Jardaine enter the Gate of Hujr? Why did you not bring her to me first? Surely I would not have given my permission to take the Seed!”

  The Queen recalled how the Mage had responded to the presence of Jardaine in her chambers. She’d been filled with contempt, and rage, and anger after her revelations about the stranger’s heart. Now, apparently, she’d forgotten the entire episode. The Queen felt strangely relieved to know that the Mage wouldn’t blame her for failing to keep a closer eye on Jardaine when she had the chance. “In any event,” she said, “the Goddess will not allow Jardaine to plant the Seed; you can be sure of that.”

  “I can be sure of nothing,” said the Mage, “until I’ve tested this King and his consort to see the contents of their hearts and souls. I can sense them from here. But where is their Human? They cannot hope to plant the Seed without a Human to accompany them!”

  The Queen got down on her knees before the Mage and whispered, “I told you, they’re not going to plant the Seed, they don’t have the Seed. They’re going to help those who wish to save the Seed from Jardaine, and see that it is planted correctly. Don’t you remember what I told you?”

  “Bring them to me,” said the Mage, “and I will discover if they’re worthy!”

  A pair of monks helped the Queen get up, and she hobbled to the door. “The Mage says you may enter now.”

  Both Macta and Asra stood in stunned disbelief to see the misshapen creature reclining on her bed of pillows. “What is your name, Elfmaid?” the withered head demanded.

  “I—I’m Asra, formerly the Princess of Alfheim. But Alfheim was burned to the ground when the—”

  “Enough,” said the withered head, dropping heavily back onto the pillow. Her clawed hands felt the air as if molding some unseen mass.

  The other head lifted jerkily, like a marionette on a string. The smooth and featureless face waved back and forth as the gash of a mouth opened to speak. “ A is one, nothing more. Not nineteen, twenty-eight, thirty-seven, forty-six, fifty-five, sixty-four, seventy-three, eighty-two, or ninety-one. One, just one. That is all.”

  Macta and Asra stood in bewilderment as the other head lifted from the pillow and began to speak. “The letter A in the cornerstone reveals one who is self-motivated, self-directed, and at times self-absorbed. It is the beginning; it is ambition and intention. Its element is fire. Letter A is the number one; it seeks attainment and success. The letter A in the capstone position reinforces the notion that this soul finds herself not only at the beginning, but also at the end. This soul will meet many, but will always be alone; she will seek ways of finding attainment through the self, wishing to take on the role of a leader, but will find her greatest satisfaction walking a solitary path.”

  “That’s not true at all,” Asra said, indignant. “I came all the way here to help my friend. I’m not selfish or self-indulgent. All I ever think about is other Faerie Folk, my obligations to my family, my homeland! How can you say—”

  “Enough, child,” said the Queen. “This is but a formality, the Mage does not want to hear your protests.”

  “What is your name, King?” asked the Mage.

  “Macta.”

  “Aha,” the Mage said. “To be a King is an interesting thing; what is a King, but the servant of his people, the scapegoat for their sins, the one who bears the weight of his crown and must sometimes risk his own life for the good of the many?”

  “The numbers?” interrupted the Queen.

  “So we shall hear the numbers,” answered the withered head.

  “Four,” croaked the other head. Its slick, glossy face bobbed on the pillow. “Four is one and three, not four, but one-three-four. Not twenty-two, thirty-one, forty, fifty-eight, sixty-seven, seventy-six, eighty-five, or ninety-four; four, simply, four.”

  “The cornerstone is M, or four,” said the withered head. “M represents the limits of Elfinkind. M seeks to pit spirit, mind, body, and soul against the elements air, earth, fire, and water, in order to persevere, to endure, to achieve by hard work and effort. M is emotionally limited, unable to attain the heights of feeling. M must sacrifice in order to reach his potential, to grow, to understand. The dark side of this soul is rigidity, inflexibility and … violence.”

  The Mage’s body began to shake. Her face contorted, her shoulders hunched. “What is the date of your birth?” she cried.

  Macta was taken aback, but he managed to blurt out the answer. The featureless head translated it into her strange numerological code. “One, one, eight, seven, two, zero.”

  “As I thought,” said the other, managing to calm herself. “Nine.”

  “What does that mean?” Macta cried.

  “Completion.”

  “Completion of what? I stand here and listen to this drivel, and you don’t give me the courtesy of even explaining what you mean?”

  The heads dropped simultaneously onto their pillows; they were exhausted from their efforts. The Queen stepped forward. “Very well. Let’s see if the monks have prepared your packs for travel. Be forewarned—you must stay alert in the Cord, and do not get out for any reason until you reach the center of the world. Now hurry, if you wish to catch up with the others who preceded you!”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you since we got here,” Macta said, his hands balled into fists. The mechanical hand let out a low buzz as the fingers began clenching and unclenching.

  “Ignore what they said,” Asra murmured. “They know nothing, obviously. The Mage is just guessing, trying to throw us off balance, for some reason. No one knows the future, no one knows what the Goddess has planned for each of us. You’ve seen Fortune-tellers before,
I’m sure. They’re all bizarre, absurd, laughable!”

  “She said completion,” Macta said. “That means that I shall finish what I started, that I shall reap the rewards of my efforts. I know! And yet she said I was limited, and I’m just the opposite of that. I always go farther, take more chances, indulge in more risk for its own sake, than anyone else I’ve ever known.”

  “Then ignore it,” Asra said, understanding Macta’s injured pride. Soothsayers and Sagas had had the same effect on her; she couldn’t help but picture the card, The Hanged One, that an old Saga had shown her back in Ljosalfar. To show her sympathy she reached out, and her fingers brushed Macta’s chest.

  He forgot all about the Mage’s pronouncements. She was standing so close to him that he could draw in the sweet smell of her hair, and he found it completely intoxicating. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms. But at that precise moment, the palace shook. The air was filled with that same hideous screeching sound they’d heard outside. All the Elves pressed their hands to their ears. The screeching could only mean that the Sacred Tree was once again struggling to pull its deepest roots from their prison of rocks and soil.

  He blinked, and his eyes felt like they were on fire. He squeezed his lids shut against the wind in the Cord and opened his mouth to scream. The rumble in the air penetrated his body and he felt as if a giant were shaking him. No, it was worse; it was as if the atoms of his body might come undone, like a bag of marbles dropped on the floor. “What’s—”

  He had to concentrate on drawing breath into his lungs. He was still falling, still dropping down inside the Cord and plummeting to the very heart of the Underworld. His ears had gotten used to the high, keening whistle of the wind; the skin on his face, neck, and arms knew the slow burn of the constant blast of air as he hurtled downward. But the feeling of the rumble in the ground was like nothing he’d ever known. The tree is wrenching its roots from the earth.

  It was Tuava-Li’s voice in his brain. Matt opened his eyes to look for her, but the burning sensation was so bad that he squeezed them shut again. He moaned and felt the salty tears gathering beneath his lids. I’m here, she said in thoughtspeak, just behind you. You must have fallen asleep.

  Yeah, I fell asleep. I was in a playground, my dad was pushing me on the swing, and I could feel the sun and the breeze and there was laughter everywhere.

  Tuava-Li said, You can’t fall asleep here; you might never wake up again.

  My eyes are burning so bad! It’s killing me!

  ’Tis hard to hold on to consciousness in the Cord, Tuava-Li reprimanded. Your mind and body were drifting apart. You must have floated away with your lids open, and the wind dried out your eyes.

  I can’t see!

  Just keep blinking, Matt. Be glad that the sound of the tree roused us. We’ve got to get to Tomtar and wake him, too!

  What? Even you fell asleep? How long were we out?

  The rumbling was beginning to subside. Matt stretched out his arms, gazing ahead, squinting, eyes nearly shut. He blinked again and again to see what lay before him in the dim, milky glow. The tunnel was wide; a river of rushing air and little more. Then his burning eyes recognized a dark, ragged ball weaving in the wind below.

  “Tomtar,” he cried hoarsely, “Tomtar, wake up!”

  Then something else began to come clear in the vast white distance. Growing larger, coming closer, closer still, a zigzag of black, scribbled lines; dark, brittle fingers reaching across the void; tree roots piercing the Cord and grasping in the moist air ahead. “Tomtar!”

  Tuava-Li stretched her body like a cat, and with less resistance to slow her down, shot forward. She ricocheted off Tomtar and he bounced to the side, narrowly avoiding a long black root. But there were many more obstacles ahead. As he opened his eyes and cried out, his shoulder banged against another root. He spun around helplessly in the air, spinning like a top. “Tomtar, get ahold of yourself. Watch out!”

  The tendrils were thicker now, and the passage narrowed where the roots had pierced the walls of the Cord and drawn them inward. Matt grabbed on to one of the roots as he swept past, slowing his descent just a little as he swung back into the airstream. Tuava-Li bumped Tomtar once again and forced him against the glutinous wall. She managed to pin him there, though she was much smaller than the Troll. Grabbing fistfuls of Cord and squeezing hard, she called out to Matt. “The Cord is too thick to penetrate with my fingernails—do you have your knife?”

  The wind roared in Matt’s ears. “Yeah, I do,” he cried, fishing one hand into his pocket. He arched his back to avoid another massive root and headed toward the wall where Tuava-Li and Tomtar were clinging.

  Matt grabbed the Cord directly ahead of his friends and jammed his knife through the wall. There was a loud POP, and air hissed through the opening as he ripped back the Cord and pushed a foot through. “It’s not dirt or rock behind here—there’s at least a pocket of space on the other side. Come on!” he yelled and gestured to Tuava-Li and Tomtar. They crept along the wall, straining for handholds among the tangled roots, and worked their way toward Matt and the dark gash ahead.

  “Tuava-Li,” Matt called, “wrap your arms around Tomtar’s waist and hold on tight—I’m going to pull you both in!”

  Matt grabbed Tomtar’s wrist and yanked hard. At the same time he leaned into the opening he’d made, and the trio tumbled out of the Cord and into the darkness. Wind poured through the hole and threw up a thick cloud of dust and gravel. Coughing, Matt reached out and tried to smooth the ripped wall of the Cord back into place. “Give me a hand,” he cried, and Tomtar and Tuava-Li leapt up to join the effort to seal the Cord.

  A moment later the spongy mass began to heal itself. The three could hear the whistle of the wind on the other side of the wall. They were left in blackness at the edge of a maze of tangled roots, their hearts pounding. Tuava-Li was the first to pull off her pack and dig for her Kolli. She flicked open the lid and the Fire Sprite peered out, sending an orange glow into the dusty cave. “I must have drifted off, out there,” Tomtar said. “I’m sorry!”

  “We all did,” said Matt. “If Tuava-Li hadn’t woken me up, you and I’d have dashed out our brains on those roots. What’s going on, Tuava-Li? Do you know why roots would grow out through the Cord like that?”

  “Pressure, perhaps,” she said. “Roots grow, and if their path is blocked, they find another, easier way. ’Twas simpler for them to grow back through the Cord than into solid rock. Or maybe the roots are an obstacle put there by the Goddess to thwart infidels. It may be hard for us to get past this; with the winds so strong, ’tis dangerous to try and navigate around the roots. Perhaps we should try to find our way alongside the Cord for a while, and see if we can’t slip back in, once we’ve passed the worst of it.”

  “The Queen told us not to get out of the Cord until we reached the center of the earth,” Tomtar said.

  Matt shrugged. “What choice did we have? I wonder if Becky and Jardaine hit the same roadblock with these roots. The Cord couldn’t have gotten choked up like that in a day. If they had to bail, like we did, they might be out here, too, looking for a way back in. We should keep our eyes open for any signs of life, footprints, stuff like that!”

  Tuava-Li nodded. Matt might be right; but none of them knew how many decayed passageways might snake through the Underworld, how long they could walk alongside the Cord before the path veered away, or what unknown dangers might lie in wait. “Very well.”

  “I was dreaming,” Tomtar said. “I was just a young Troll, standing on the roof of my home in Argant. The sun was shining, and the breeze felt cool on my cheeks. It was a nice dream, clear as day!”

  “I was dreaming about the sun, too,” Matt said. “Since we’re so far from it here, our bodies must be craving sunlight.”

  Tuava-Li kept silent. When she’d awakened inside the Cord, she’d also been dreaming that she was standing in the warmth of the sun. There had been a lake, or a pool of some kind, and she’d come out of
the pool to find herself in the midst of a crowd; it included Matt, Becky, Tomtar, Macta, Asra, and Jardaine, and someone else, a monk, perhaps, who she didn’t know. In her dream, a struggle broke out. She couldn’t quite remember who was fighting, but suddenly a long black root, like an enormous snake, slipped up from behind Matt and thrust its pointed head straight through his body. The root pierced his heart and came out through the front of his chest, twisting and flicking its Bloody tip. It was that horrible image that had awakened her, just in time to save them all from being battered on the subterranean roots. What had the dream meant? Was it a warning, an omen, a message, or a clue of some kind about the sacrifice that was to come? “May we see your tattoos?” she asked Matt.

  Without protest Matt pulled up his shirt. Peering down, it was easy for him to see that the tattoos had changed. The old image of Becky was gone. In her place there were three black strips. He yanked off the shirt and leaned in closer to Tuava-Li’s Fire Sprite. “What do you see?”

  Tomtar pointed a finger at the tattoo on Matt’s chest. “It looks like doorways! Portals, entryways of some kind.”

  “Indeed,” Tuava-Li said. “But portals to what?”

  “I think one of the three is a different color,” Matt said in a trembling voice. The changes in the tattoos always made him feel helpless and vulnerable, like his life was truly out of his control. “Look, it’s subtle, but that one, the one on the end, I think it’s kind of a dark red color. The other two look black.”

  “Does it mean we should look for the third portal, somewhere down here?”