The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Dokie stripped off his armor and shark-torn tunic and dropped his britches. “I messed myself when swimming with them sharks. My arse is chafed something fierce.” Bare-bottomed, he submerged himself in a shallow bend in the creek, lifted his torn shirt, and washed the row of shark bites. He dipped his pants into the water, wringing those clean too, all this to the consternation of Liz Hen, who berated him for holding them up.

  “I itch,” Dokie said. “I can’t go on with soiled skivvies. Mamma said a bum-crack left begrimed is liable to offer up constant arse pain.”

  “Arse pain,” Liz Hen said, disgusted. “On top of all the injuries you and the rest of us have suffered, you’re worried about your stupid soily bunghole.”

  “I can’t help that my arse started hurting.”

  “Hurting? I should cram a knotty tree branch up your rosy-red spinkter, you stupid.” Liz Hen kicked dirt and pebbles Dokie’s way.

  “I ain’t stupid.” Dokie ducked. The rocks lit in the creek behind him. “What’s a spinkter?”

  “Don’t ask stupid questions.” Liz Hen picked up a rock to throw at him.

  “I think she means sphincter,” Zane said. “You know, your rectum.”

  “What’s that?” Dokie asked, then dodged the rock aimed at his head.

  “Fancy there’s a chamber pot in one of them sacks for our stinky companion?” Zane asked of no one in particular. “I’m with my sister on this. Lightning-struck. Shot by an arrow. Nearly ate by a shark. And his only concern is the putrid offense in his britches. As Laijon is my witness, now we all have to suffer hearing about it. Stupid shark-bit fool.”

  “That shark took me down gentle as you please,” Dokie said, running shivering wet fingers over the wounds along his chest before pulling up his pants. “But I reckon I wasn’t to his taste. He let me go as swift as he took me.”

  Nail shuddered, recalling his own experience in bloody waters surrounded by sharks. And the mermaid, cold scales wrapping around his legs, pulling him down. He took Shawcroft’s satchel off his shoulder, unbuckled the flap, and opened it, his master’s words rolling in his head. Of all things, do not lose this satchel, Nail. You must make sure it reaches the Swithen Wells Trail Abbey and Bishop Godwyn. Inside were a handful of rolled-up scrolls and a complete copy of The Way and Truth of Laijon bound in leather-covered boards and tied together with a slim leather lace. He thumbed through the pages. It was full of many splendid interior drawings. The print was small. Nail hadn’t seen a complete compilation of The Way and Truth of Laijon but for the massive bound volume that Bishop Tolbret had kept in the chapel. Nobody but bishops and barons ever got to read the holy book, and now here was one right in his hands. But such a thing would do them no good here. Disappointed with the satchel’s contents, Nail put the items back. He mourned the loss of his own satchel of drawings, left in Shawcroft’s cabin, lost forever.

  When Dokie was once again clothed, the group clattered through the creek and continued on, a hustle in their step. Hiking in battle armor was not easy. The skin under Nail’s breastplate was being rubbed raw in places. Each hurried step was a slow torture. He thought of removing the unwieldy bulk, but he had no other clothing or protection.

  Signs of Dokie’s limp had all but disappeared since his wash in the creek, though he still scratched at his bum from time to time. Zane, holding his side gingerly, continued to lag behind, only to catch up after stern words from his sister spurred him on. There was no sign of pursuit. Nail counted them fortunate for that one bit of luck. As the trail rose higher and grew steeper, snow still lay in patches and melting drifts along the way. The Sabor Creek became a silver ribbon winding through the yawning gorge far below.

  Near late afternoon, they reached the valley of the Roahm Mines, with still no sign of the Sør Sevier knights. They picked their way through the broken-down wooden hovels of the long-dead ghost town. The steep mountains were honeycombed with mines on either side. Many were collapsed, some closed off by stretched elk hides, the majority just open dark holes. Pine and birch grew tall and lush along the ridges. A crown of rocky peaks surrounded the valley, their jagged tops covered in brilliant sheets of snow and ice.

  Nail guided them through the valley. The Written Wall soon towered over their trail on the right, like a massive watchtower. A gentle slope of fern, aspen, and lichen-covered rock rose to the left, creating a jagged ravine for about a hundred paces. The trail under the cliff was rough and studded with large boulders. The two ponies navigated the obstacles with ease. Sunlight twinkled through the aspen leaves above and rained down upon them in a golden shower, littering the path with drops of sunshine. But once under the cliff and out of the sun, Nail noticed it was bitter cold next to the stone wall.

  The others stopped and gazed up the sheer rock face, which vaulted two hundred feet straight over their heads. “Wow,” Gisela said, her thin voice creating a small echo against the cliff. Hundreds of drawings and carvings lined the wall—the crude communications and artwork of the long-dead inhabitants of Roahm. The drawings were mostly of animals, and even though they were simple, Nail had always been able to distinguish what each drawing was: bighorn sheep, birds, snakes, stick men with bows and spears, and with just a few skillful strokes, the artists had captured the subtle differences between deer, elk, and moose. One drawing even depicted what appeared to be a crude scene of a man wearing a crown washing the feet of another man wearing a wreath of flowers.

  There were symbols: squares, circles, crosses, broken S’s, what looked like jagged rows of teeth or mountains. Nail shuddered. Many of the carvings were similar to the marks he had on his own body. Many similar to the red-glowing symbols I saw in the bloody water with the mermaid. Frightened by the coincidence, Nail urged the others on.

  There was a squalid little cabin ahead, its roof mostly fallen in, spots of dirty old snow at its base. So lonely and forlorn-looking, it hunkered under the massive Written Wall like a whipped cur. A cleft in the cliff lay just beyond the cabin—the Hot Springs Notch. It was the notch that would lead them to the main entrance of the Roahm Mines. Nail stepped inside the cabin and found the torches and two quivers of arrows left by Shawcroft. He handed the arrows to Stefan, then tied the torches to Lilly’s back.

  Liz Hen was outside near a corner of the cabin, looking down into the large elk trap Nail and Shawcroft had dug into the hard ground years ago. “Looks just like the horse the dark guy who killed Shawcroft rode.”

  Nail walked toward her. The pit was about ten feet square and ten feet deep. At the bottom, impaled by many long wooden stakes, was a black horse. A mare. Dead. Guts ruptured, ripe and rank, its once-red glowing eyes now a foggy burnt umber. The Vallè woman’s steed! Nail didn’t remember ever placing huge wooden spikes at the bottom of the trap. He took a step back, picturing Shawcroft shooting the Vallè woman with a blue-feathered arrow through the top of the shoulder as she looked up at him from the pit.

  “What a gruesome foul beast.” Liz Hen made the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over her heart. “And what a gruesome foul smell.”

  “The lady on the trail rode a similar black mare,” Stefan said. “Remember, Nail? Do you think this horse is hers? Do you think she’s okay? That man who killed Shawcroft reminded me of her. Do you think they are in league together?”

  Nail was not going to venture any information on the Vallè woman Shawcroft had killed. Nearby, willows lashed in the breeze. A brisk wind set the leaves in motion and tree limbs to gnashing. Nail thought he heard the clanking of armor behind him and whirled, pulling the dagger from his belt. He wasn’t alone in his fear. Stefan also had his bow drawn. In the far distance came the barking of many dogs.

  The Sør Sevier knights had found them.

  A gray form streaked from the underbrush straight at Zane. But rather than cower, Zane yipped for joy as Beer Mug barreled into him. The two tumbled to the ground, Zane crying out first in pain and then joy as he hugged his dog. Beer Mug lapped at Zane’s face, and then whimpered as Zane cli
mbed to his feet, tenderly holding his arm to the wound at his side. “I knew I’d see him again,” Zane said, ruffling the short fur on his dog’s head. “As Laijon is my witness, I just knew he’d find me. What a good boy he is.”

  He then looked at his sister gravely. “I don’t know how much farther I can go. Now that Beer Mug is here, perhaps I should stay behind. We’ll be safe.”

  “Nonsense,” Liz Hen said. “You’re coming with us. The knights draw near.”

  “We should go,” Nail urged as more dogs could be heard in the distance.

  He led them away from the elk trap with the dead horse, past the cabin, and into the Hot Springs Notch. The notch was narrow at first but then opened up, lined with gnarled birch and aspen clinging to the rock rising above. A bleak fog sifted up through the cracks in the ground, gases seeping from the hot springs deep below the mountain. The mist wreathed the narrows in an ethereal gloom that only grew thicker the farther they traveled, draping the forest in a cloak of sickly green. The scuffs of their footfalls were swallowed up by their surroundings. Still, the sounds of the knights and dogs following them grew in volume. They stuck close together on the trail. No one spoke. Only Beer Mug seemed lively, ears pricked, always looking back in the direction they’d come, toward the sounds of the other dogs.

  When the trail leveled out, the opening to the Roahm Mines was before them. In front of the mine’s entrance lay the still waters of a small mossy pond. Massive pale support timbers framed the dark opening of the mine like the columns of a cathedral. The beams bowed inward and appeared strained under the jagged rock. Hundreds of initials were carved into the wood, the antique workings of long-lost miners.

  They all stared at the dark opening before them—all but Beer Mug, who stood silent vigil at the rear, ears alert to the coming dogs and their armed masters.

  Fear gripped Nail as he stared at the ominous black shaft sunk into the mountain. It was a type of fear he had never felt before. He had been in these mines time and again. But tonight, Nail questioned his master’s wisdom that they should venture into their dank depths. Nail knew these mountains. There was a high trailhead not far away that would lead them over these peaks and see them safely to the Swithen Wells Trail Abbey.

  There was the sound of a horse whinnying. The chink and clink of armor followed. Gisela squealed in fright. The barking of the dogs grew more frenzied with the cracking and snapping of branches and grown men’s voices. Gisela clung to Stefan, eyes wide, pupils darting here and there. Beer Mug growled low and deep. Liz Hen grabbed him by the scruff of the neck in time to stop him from lunging into the trees.

  As the sound of pounding hooves grew louder and the voices of the knights grew more distinct, Nail’s survival instinct screamed for him to turn and run into the hills and leave his friends to fend for themselves. Laijon will see us to safety, or Laijon will see us dead, Zane had said earlier. Nail didn’t know the truth of such a platitude. But he now realized the mines were their only escape route.

  In the echoing canyon, obscured in dense fog, there was no telling how close the advancing knights were. Nail hastily dug through Lilly’s pack and found the scarves. He tied them around both ponies’ eyes. Stefan found flint and matches and lit two torches. He handed one to Nail. Torch in one hand, Lilly’s reins in the other, Nail moved quickly. Wading through the brackish pond before the tunnel’s entrance was a cold shock. And he had to duck as he entered the deep darkness.

  “Must we enter this dungeon?” he heard Liz Hen whisper to Dokie. “I have a feeling some of us won’t make it out of here alive.”

  “I do hope you’re wrong,” Dokie said softly, scratching at his rear. “I do hope you’re wrong.”

  The passageway sloped down and to the north. It was cold, musty, and bitter. Within just a few short steps, the tunnel became so dark it ate the torchlight. Large chunks of rock and wood littered their path. Chisel marks peppered the cavern walls on either side. The tunnel continued down. It grew colder. Nobody spoke. But the sounds of their travel never quite disappeared. The click of the ponies’ hooves, their snorts, Liz Hen’s heavy breathing, all just bounced from wall to wall and back again, circling about, growing louder, deeper, softer, splitting behind them, returning ahead. Creating such a ruckus was unavoidable. The Sør Sevier knights will have no trouble finding us in here, Nail thought. These caves were a death trap.

  They followed this singular dark corridor for what felt like hours before it split. Water dripped endlessly from a gnarled rock that hung low over the intersection. The tunnel forked in a perfect Y; the right path led up, the left down. Nail did not hesitate. He knew these tunnels well and chose the path leading up. They followed it for some time.

  Hours passed as they walked. Beyond the torchlight lived a deep blackness. In some places, the ceiling was low and they had to duck and push the ponies through, sometimes removing the sack strapped to Bedford Boy’s back. Nail was expecting the toilsome work, having experienced the like with Shawcroft and Bedford Boy before. But Liz Hen grumbled that the ponies were holding them back. “When will we be out of this damnable place?” she kept asking.

  During the quiet moments, Nail listened for the sounds of pursuit. He could hear nothing. Onward they went. The narrow mineshaft had soon become a twisting and turning maze of passageways. Numerous tunnels branched off at all angles. At times their path would open up into cavernous rooms. Some caverns had steps carved into the stone, rising straight up, others had stairs spiraling down into the dark. There were ladders disappearing into dark pits in the floor and ladders climbing up into holes and cracks in the ceiling. But Nail avoided those, never hesitating in his course, the others shuffling along behind. Nail had swung a pickax in most of these rooms and tunnels. Always with his master over his shoulder, holding a torch aloft, barking orders, making sure he swung the ax just right. Rake the stone away from the wall with the horns of the pick. Never dig at the rock with your hands. Let the tools do the work. With Shawcroft it was patience and perfection in everything. To Nail it had all been so pointless.

  After a while, Nail stopped and untied a water skin from Lilly’s back and let the others drink. The glow of the torchlight created a pocket of light around the group, burnishing their faces in a sullen amber glow. Zane’s freckled face was pale and more pouchy-looking than ever. Everyone’s faces were lined with worry and fatigue.

  “Are you doing okay?” Stefan asked Gisela as she drank from the water skin.

  She took several gulping swigs, then handed the skin to Zane. “I’m scared,” she said, wiping water from her face with the sleeve of her shirt.

  “Me too.” Stefan kissed her gently on the forehead. Gisela clung to him as if longing for some reassurance that she was not alone in this dark place. Stefan’s armor gleamed in the torchlight. Nail examined his own rust-splotched breastplate. It was splattered with blood. The skin on his face was tight and numb—and then he remembered he was still covered in blood from the battle. He felt the gash on his head through his matted hair. He must look a bloody sight in the torchlight. And to think, the battle was only yestermorn. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  A whisper of breath touched the back of his neck and he shuddered, thinking he heard the metallic clinking of armor in the tunnels behind them. It was time to move on.

  Another hour dragged by as they walked. The mine was cold and lonely, and they rarely spoke. Each fork in the road led them ever upward. Beyond the torchlight, everything was submerged in a swamplike blackness. They stumbled over piles of broken rock where large stretches of ceiling had fallen. They skirted dripping stalactites that brushed the floor. They stepped over cracks that could snap an ankle. Some cracks in the floor were so wide they had to lengthen their stride just to clear them, then gently coax the blind ponies leg by leg, for fear their sticklike limbs might get caught.

  Nail was sure of their path and told the others that the bridge Shawcroft had told him to aim for was just around the next corner. Zane vomited up a bloody stream against
the wall; the sound of his retching was thunderous. When the sounds of Zane’s vomiting died, they heard the distant barks of the dogs float out of the darkness behind them.

  Heart pounding, Nail ushered the group quickly around the bend and into a large cavern, the walls barely discernable fifty feet around them in every direction. In the torchlight, the dark slash of the open pit before them extended from one wall of the cave to the other, completely cutting off their path. The chasm was black and bottomless. Nail had thrown a rock into it once and never heard it strike bottom. Above, the ceiling was also nonexistent. The opposite rim of the chasm was over twenty paces away; shovels, picks, buckets, and other mining tools lined that edge like a row of pale teeth in the torchlight. Across the chasm, on the far side of the wall, was the dark oval opening of a tunnel Nail had never explored before.

  To their right was a narrow stone-and-mortar bridge that spanned the chasm, about three paces wide and a foot thick. The bridge Shawcroft warned me never to cross. The thought of crossing it now sent a ripple of fear through him. His master had earlier said it was indeed safe. But it didn’t look safe, bowed in the middle and drooping. Most of the mortar holding it together looked to have crumbled and fallen into the pit.

  The voices of the knights behind them were growing louder.

  “I can’t cross that,” Gisela said.

  “We’ve no choice.” Nail’s heart fluttered anxiously as he led Lilly toward the narrow causeway. He placed one foot tentatively on the crumbling stone, leg shaking as he did. Lilly sensed his nervousness and stepped back, pulling on the reins. “Come,” he said in a voice that cracked with fear. The pony followed him, her eyes covered still.

  Nail, torch in one hand, the rope leading Lilly in the other, traversed the chasm as fast as he dared. He thought he heard the stone bridge cracking under Lilly’s weight, gray mortar sloughing off into the pit. But they both reached the other side.