by Unknown
The creature stared at her cunningly. “I think I’ll show you the way first—that way you will be beholden to me.”
Amina felt uneasy, remembering all the tales of trickery and deception. Would this fey creature with the iridescent wings show her a way only to close it and trap the miners permanently? Or show her a false image and then claim something was owed? But what choice did she have? She would never find a hidden way into the mine, if one even existed, without the help of this creature, now that she knew the memory was false. All she could try was bargaining.
“I would rather know now, in case I would be unable to fulfill your request.”
“Oh, it would be in your powers,” the fey replied. “Follow me.”
Before Amina could argue more, the creature had flitted off as swiftly as a darting star and stood waiting for her by the entrance to a narrow shaft cleft in the rock. “She could be thinking to lose me in the ways of this cavern and leave me to die,” thought Amina.
Well, she had already offered her life. If the creature was just playing games with her, she would be no worse off than she was now. Following was the only chance of finding and rescuing the miners. And if the creature demanded the impossible in payment, she would either find a way to meet her demands or find a way out of paying. She was a Memory Keeper, one whose life was given in service to her people, one who was supposed to have the courage, and the intelligence, to find ways when others couldn’t. She was through with cowering before the thought of what might become; it was time to deal with what was.
She strode briskly after the fey, holding her lantern high. As they walked, Amina activated the light trance Keepers used for making memories; if she needed to find her way out by herself, she would be able to retrace her steps. They squeezed through narrow passageways, hurried across caverns broader than the one she had entered at the bottom of the root stairway and turned this way and that. She would think the fey was deliberately trying to trick her, but they were always moving downwards. Amina could tell that by the ache in her calves.
The cool dampness of the cave seemed to press in upon her, gradually getting heavier, as if the air itself was testing her. Still, Amina followed the flickering form of the fey creature. They left the passageways of rock and the sounds of dripping water and moved into passages that were dirt and rock. The way got harder, the passages narrower. At times Amina had to bend over, ducking her head and walking with a crabbed step. At other times she had to climb up and over piles of dirt and rocks that shifted and tumbled away beneath her feet. The air no longer smelled fresh, but close and breathless.
And then she heard a murmuring sound—more water? Air moving past an opening?
The fey stopped and slid back against a depression in the side of the passage they were in. She pointed ahead into the blackness. “Up there and down,” she said.
“You can lead them out this way, but I won’t let them see me. And I won’t let them see my home, either, so only you will see the way. After you lead them out, come back and I’ll tell you my price.”
Amina looked at her and saw something flicker in the other’s eyes—something that wasn’t spite or ill humor. But she didn’t have time to linger and seek what it was she had seen.
“Thank you,” she said to the other, sincerity ringing in her voice. She could tell now that the murmur up ahead was voices, low and muffled by the dirt and rock, but voices. “I will come back, and learn your price.”
The other ducked as if avoiding her gaze, and then vanished, as if she had never been there. Amina held the lantern up, but there was no crack or crevice behind where she had been standing that she could have gone into—fey, Amina reminded herself with only a slight shiver.
Then she turned and started climbing up the narrow passage. It became so steep she had to hold the handle of the lantern in her mouth in order to free her hands to grasp at the rocks and pull herself up step by careful step. The passage took a sharp turn to the left and climbed a bit more and then, at what Amina thought was another turn to the right, dropped off precipitously. She gasped, scrambling backwards a bit. Below her was a section of the mine—and there, down below, slumped against rock walls and curled up against each other were the trapped miners.
She had found them.
#
It was still a matter of hours before the last of them were out of the mine. First it had taken some time for them to cut lengths of rope from the small carts used to haul ore up to the surface, and knot them together. More time still for the nimblest of the young men—of those who still had the strength to be nimble—to climb up to the small opening where Amina crouched and find a secure place to fasten the end of the rope. The best they had found was a half buried rock that neither of them trusted, so they had wound it around themselves as well, and dug their heels in, telling the lightest of the others to come up first. As more ascended, they added their hands and weight to the rope and eventually all had climbed, or been carried, up the rope.
Then Amina started the long way back, scrambling backwards down that last steep passage and then counting everyone by the now feeble light of her lantern to make sure no one got left behind. The entire journey out was like that: get through a set of passageways and turns, have a moment of rest for those who could barely walk, and for those carrying the ones that couldn’t, count faces and start over again.
When they reached the end of the dirt passageways and began through those of red rock and air, Amina could see two passageways. The one she could see with her eyes and her memory, and another, just like the ones they had already battled their way through. She realized this was what the others were seeing, and wished they could rejoice in the beauty and air she could see. But she realized this was what the fey had meant; this was her home and the others would not be allowed to see it.
Indeed, Amina realized, if the villagers knew that these beautiful caves were here, they would flock to them. Folk would come from other villages to gawk and marvel. And the fey would have no home; she was right to guard it. Still, it was difficult to see the weary, desperate miners ducking to squeeze through narrow dank passages that were not there, peering to keep sight of Amina’s faint lantern glow when light from above filtered through and turned damp sheens of water on the rock into glimmering mirrors and bathed the glowing rocks with beauty.
At last they reached the rooted stairway, and even that seemed to be difficult for the villagers to see. Amina wound up climbing the narrow winding way and attaching the rope they had carried with them to the bole of the tree and once again the miners had to climb up cautiously, passing the weakest of them up hand-to-hand.
The final stumbling walk down the hill was done in silence, amidst the growing dusk of a day already over, not one of them with the energy to talk until they reached the mine entrance where anxious relatives still hovered, watching the efforts of those still trying to dig through from the other side. Then the babble of voices broke out, amidst tears and hugs, and the blowing of the mine’s whistle.
Amina stumbled back to her aunt’s house, knowing she had to return to the cavern, but wanting just one cup of tea and to wash her face and hands. She remembered answering a few of her aunt’s questions and took the mug of tea she had pushed into her hands, and woke the morning, stiff, in the chair in the corner of the room.
“Oh, no!” she cried, jumping to her feet and then stumbling forward awkwardly, on feet stiff from sleeping in a chair.
“What is it?” her aunt cried, alarmed.
“I have to go back to the cavern—umm, to the mine!”
“Why do you have to do that? All the villagers are out, dear. You did it; you got them out.”
“Yes, I know, but… there’s something more I need to do… Keeper work,” she said finally, looking at her aunt firmly but saying nothing more.
Her aunt met her gaze and then nodded. “There often is,” she said, and asked no more. She insisted Amina have something to eat—‘you didn’t eat a bite last night and barely sipped your tea—you need some
thing for energy or you’ll collapse like those rocks in the mine shaft, and then what can you do’—but then let Amina leave with no further questions.
Amina blessed again the fate that had brought her into her aunt’s raising, for all she’d been hurt by her mother’s abandonment at the time. Her aunt respected her, as well as loved her, and had raised her to be a woman, true to herself and her obligations. And now she had to fulfill one, and hope the fey was not so angry at her failure to return right away that she wreaked vengeance on the village.
Her calves, still sore from the day before, burned as she walked steadily up the hill to the copse of trees and the huge old oak that guarded the way into the cavern. She noticed with bemusement that the opening was filled with leaves and twigs and dirt as thick as if it had been undisturbed for years, instead of having been trampled by some 35 miners just yesterday.
She brushed aside the debris and climbed down the narrow, rooted stairway and into the airy cavern down below.
The fey sat there, watching her, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” Amina said. “I meant to return right away, but I fell asleep. I came as soon as I woke up. I am ready to pay the price.”
Then she swallowed hard, stood straight, and waited.
The fey smiled. “I thought you would return. You’re a Memory Keeper. Even I know what that means. My price? I want memories. I want you to bring me memories.”
Amina stared at her in horror—use up her people’s precious store of memories to amuse a fey? She couldn’t do that; she wouldn’t do that.
“Those memories that we store in the boxes are for helping my people through crises. Once a Memory Keeper takes one out of the box, she is the only one who can remember it. It can never be used again. Please, is there any other way I can repay you? I can’t sacrifice my people’s safety.”
“Oh, I don’t mean those memories. I meant new ones—ones you could make. And then give to me. Memories like what it is like to be out under the sun. What it is like to do the things you do around the village. Maybe even memories from some of the other villagers—you can gather them, right? Little things. Celebrations, get-togethers, even regular days…”
The fey’s voice drifted off, and Amina finally recognized what she had seen in the other’s face in that moment at the end of the last tunnel. It had been loneliness.
“You can’t go out, can you?” Amina asked softly
“I’m bound here,” the fey said simply. “At least until my people come back.” She clamped her teeth tightly over that second remark, as if regretting letting that slip out. Amina sensed it had been a long time since the others of her kind had been back.
“That I can do,” Amina said, knowing she was committing herself to doing the one thing that she had struggled with and fought against for so long—working with, gathering and using the memories of others. But it didn’t bother her now. As her aunt had said, she was a trained adult now, one with a strong gift for the task, and even when she had immersed herself into the memory of the girl who had claimed she had traveled the fey ways, she had had no problems pulling her ‘self’ back out and letting go of the memory.
“I will bring you memories of sunshine and harvest, of winter storytelling around the fire, of the laughter of children and the good ache of a harvest brought in. I will bring you memories of all that and more.”
And she did. She went regularly to the cavern under the oak and gave not only memories but friendship to the lonely fey. And if, in later years, she seemed to grow a bit fey herself, well, she was a Memory Keeper and they always were a bit odd.
Grave Gold
by Jonathan Shipley
Jenna had problems: the Church; her brother; the unquiet ghosts in the barrow; and her ability to speak with them, which could lead to accusations of witchcraft. And then, of course, there was the cursed gold. But perhaps the gold and its curse could be used to solve the problems and to get the Church to leave her and her village in peace.
This is Jonathan Shipley’s third appearance in SWORD & SORCERESS after another busy year of writing and marketing short stories. Most recently, he was published in an Australian horror anthology and has several other anthologies about to make print. Although “Grave Gold” is a departure from his favorite clan, House Arburg, it revolves around one of his favorite thematic explorations: life and death and undeath. Even with so many varied presentations of undeath available to the modern reader, there is still a lot to explore. Jonathan has a web presence at www. shipleyscifi.com and lives in Fort Worth, Texas.
****
Looks like trouble, Jenna thought as she rooted vegetables in the garden by the inn. Down the road, a little procession was headed her direction. At first glance, it seemed to be a lord in a fine coach with a brace of riders fore and aft, but a second glance revealed that the guards’ shields weren’t emblazoned with family armorials, but with the crossed oak clusters of the Church. She frowned. If those four were Knights of the Holy Retribution, the occupant of the coach was a cleric of considerable rank.
Her gaze automatically flicked to the hillock with its crown of ruined towers. There was only one reason outsiders visited this desolate region on the edge of the moors—cursed gold. It drew those greedy lowlanders like a magnet. The locals had more sense. After seeing lowland visitors trek up the hill and never come down, they kept their distance. But Jenna didn’t mind living right there on the doorstep, so to speak. The moors might extend all the way to hell, but the inn provided good enough employment. As a young woman without money or family, she could do far worse. Besides, her family had a way with the dead.
From her post in the garden, Jenna watched the procession roll into the inn’s stable yard. So His Grandness was favoring the inn with his patronage, was he? She doubted anything good would come out of that. With a shake of her head, she gathered her vegetable baskets and headed back to the inn.
His Grandness was coming out just as she reached the door, and he was very grand indeed. It wasn’t so much the silk of his robes or the heavy gold Ring of Office on his finger as the attitude of his walk and glance. Jenna had a bit of the Sight and disliked him instantly. This was a man of power who would roll over anyone who stood in his way. At least he wasn’t staying.
She pushed through the door into the common room. The afternoon patronage was the usual mix of drunkards, ruffians, with the occasional honest traveler thrown in. Travelers might want a room for the night, but the rest just sat in the taproom and swilled ale through the afternoon, then moved on at sundown. The moors behind the inn had a reputation as a grim place at night, and the locals preferred a little more distance between grim and them.
Bron, the innkeep, beckoned Jenna over to the counter. “Deal with that one who just came in,” he murmured, glancing at the corner where a priest in a wide-brimmed hat was drawing sour stares from around the room. “A priester is always bad for business, but he’s wanting a room.”
Jenna nodded. The borderlands weren’t that hospitable to lowland priests, not even ones that arrived by grand carriage. Straightening her apron, she headed across the room. “This way, father,” she said, pointing him toward a narrow staircase. “You’ll find our rooms spare but clean.”
He followed quickly, seemingly as eager to get away from the rough clientele as they were eager to be quit of him. Something prickled at the back of her mind. Did she know this priest—he felt familiar. She led him up the stairs to the room farthest away from everything. “How long will you be staying with us, father?” she asked as she ushered him into the sparsely furnished bedroom. It was small but had its own window, which was better than some.
He didn’t answer, just followed her inside and closed the door.
Jenna stiffened. This was odd. And it bothered her how he kept ducking his head so that his hat obscured his face. None of that was behavior that she wanted to be alone with, though he didn’t feel at all dangerous. She tensed as he stepped closer.
“Jenna,” he said nervously. “It’s
me.” And he pulled off his hat to reveal a thin face far too young to be a priest.
“Herrin?” she gasped. “What are you doing here?” Her little brother was supposed to be studying at the St. Kyre’s cathedral half a kingdom away. “And why are you pretending to be a priest when you’re still a seminarian?”
“I’m not pretending—people just assume when they see the robes.”
“Which you encourage by hiding your face so they can’t see you’re just a boy,” she pointed out.
He bristled. “I’m not a boy anymore, Jenna. I turned sixteen last month—old enough to be given a mission of expurgation by the Lord Bishop himself and important enough to ride with His Magnificence in his carriage.”
Riding in a bishop’s carriage would turn the head of a lowly seminarian rightly enough, she thought. The word “expurgation” ominously echoed in her head. “Herrin, tell me you did not come back on a fool’s mission to cleanse the barrow.” The reason the moors were shunned after dark had much to do with the unquiet dead up the hill.
“The Church is trying to root out all these pockets of unclean spirits,” he muttered defensively. “The Lord Bishop was delighted that I know the barrow hills so well and thought I was the man for the job.”
“The boy for the slaughter, you mean,” Jenna sniffed. “Either your Lord Bishop is a complete idiot, or for some reason he wants to be rid of you. You grew up here. You know what happens to every gold hunter that goes up to the barrow.”
Herrin gave a deep sigh. “Actually the Lord Bishop doesn’t believe the barrow is all that dangerous. He says this should be an easy expurgation.”
Jenna frowned. “Easy? If it were easy, Gran would have laid the dead to rest a long time ago. Remember how hard she had to work calming them down every time another gold hunter got them riled up? She knew the darkness up in the barrow better than anyone and always called it dangerous.”
“I know, I know. I’m just repeating what the Lord Bishop told me. That’s why I need your help. I know Gran taught you things, maybe enough to keep the dead quiet until we finish here.” She stiffened. “Please, Jenna,” he wheedled. “You have the Sight and Gran taught you to do up charms as well as anyone.”