O O O
Colin was deep in a dream where he stood before a great red sun that filled the sky and burned everything beneath it. The clatter of a wagon startled him out of the dream, and he sat up rubbing tired eyes. The wagon came to a halt just beyond the bushes. Colin silently pushed several branches aside and saw Bekka there, staring at him. Dian Cecht, perched on her shoulder, stared at him as well with unblinking yellow eyes.
“Come,” was all Bekka said, and her tone was something Colin had never heard from her before—worry. She sat upon one of the great wagons used to transport damaged mekaniks, and she held the reins of two great oxen in her scrawny hands. Colin could just see the chest of the beast above the lip of the wagon, covered by a large tarp. Bekka had changed from her work clothes to a suit of leather he had never seen before. It looked ancient, even in the moonlight, and it was made of the deepest green. He could make out the tracings of leaves etched into the leather. The distinct outline of a dragon’s tail wrapped around the sleeve of her outstretched arm, and the dragon’s head drooped over her left shoulder. The armor was extremely loose on her wiry frame, looking far too big for such a scrawny, old woman, but Colin found himself thinking that it looked perfectly natural on her, as if she’d always worn it.
He slipped the loaf back in his pack and stepped out into the bright moonlight. He heard a rustling in the bushes behind him and instinctively reached for his dirk. Two massive, dark gray muzzles poked through the bushes, followed by the rest of Bekka’s two wolfhounds. They stood almost four feet at the shoulder, and Colin realized suddenly that facing them would be pointless with a dirk, or even a sword.
“We couldn’t ask for a better escort,” Bekka said as Colin turned and climbed up into the seat next to her. “I can take you another kilometer towards Loch na Súil, then I must turn south.” Colin settled in as Bekka shook the reins. The oxen moved with a start, and the wagon rolled off down the cobbled road.
“What did Captain Byrne say?” Colin asked when the silence had grown thick enough to cut.
“What I expected,” Bekka snapped. “The Zylet ambassador got wind of the Leitrim rider and delivered an ultimatum to Fian. Either we capitulate to them and their god, or they roll in and do to us what they did to the others.” Bekka shook her head. “Not again,” she said under her breath, but it was loud enough for Colin to hear. She turned to him and her eyes were imploring. “I’ve seen this too many times, Colin. Too many.” She pulled on the reins, and the oxen came to a slow, clattering stop. “I’ve got the breather gear in this bag.” She nodded to a cloth bag between her feet. “I know it’s heavy, but you’ll have to carry it all the way to the loch. She reached behind the seat and grunted as she pulled out a long, heavy rod with a mechanical claw on the end. The shaft was two meters of brass with a leather strap, a handle, and a lever on one end. There was a reticulated claw on the other end that looked big enough to grip a man’s head. “Here, you’ll need this grappler. Do not try and hold the power source in your hands, whatever you do. Bring the casing to the bottom with you, and place the power source inside before returning to the surface.”
“How do you know the power source is down there?” Colin asked as he took the grappler from her and leaned it against the back seat.
“I’ve always known, Colin. I can feel it… pulsing down there in the darkness.”
He turned and stared at her, but she kept her eyes on the road. Thoughts of how old she really was danced at the edge of his reason, the possibilities stretching his young mind to its limits.
“But how will I find it?”
Bekka reached into a cloth bag at her feet and pulled out a rectangular box the size of her hand. “I made this.” She handed it to him, and he examined the thing closely. It appeared to be made of copper, its smooth casing covered by runes Colin couldn’t identify, despite all Bekka’s teachings. In the center of the device was a glass lens about six centimeters in diameter. Inside lay a silver needle glowing with its own inner light, swaying left and right as he moved.
“It will lead you right to it, Colin.”
“How does it work?” His curiosity got the better of him.
Bekka hesitated for a moment, pondering her words very carefully.
“Magic.” She gave him a mischievous little smile that he took to mean she was joking and either didn’t intend to share the secret or lacked sufficient time. “Place the breather gear and that housing in your pack,” she added, straining to push the heavy bag between her feet. “You can use the grappler as a walking stick. Don’t worry, you can’t break it.”
Colin grabbed the sack, hefted it to his side and began transferring the equipment into his backpack. Once everything was inside, he secured the cover. “Where shall I meet you?”
“Carrowmore. I’ll be hiding in the cave and finishing up my work on the mekanik. I still have some modifications to make.”
“But Carrowmore is south of Geevagh. Will you be safe if the Zylet troops come?”
“Don’t worry. They’ll never see me. I’m more worried about you. You’ll need to be extra careful when you come back south. “
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“And leave everything behind except the housing and power source inside. If you live through this, you can come back and get everything later.” He nodded to her. “And Colin…” Bekka turned to him and grasped his shoulders, looking deeply into his eyes. “You can’t fail. This is the most important thing you’ve ever done. You’re the only one I trust to do it.” She released his shoulders and smiled at him. “Now get going.”
“I won’t let you down,” he assured her. Without another word he hopped down from the wagon and strained to sling the heavy backpack over his shoulders. He grunted as it settled into place, and he suddenly wondered if he could make it to Loch na Súil. Walking around the oxen, he stepped onto the verdant, green turf of the Irish countryside and set off towards his goal.
“Luck, Colin,” Bekka shouted.
He turned and stared at her in the moonlight. “You too!”
Bekka shook the reins, and he watched the ox team turn the wagon around, heading cross-country in the general direction of Carrowmore. Dagda and Ogma ranged out to the left and right of the wagon, disappearing into the moonlight and spotty underbrush that dotted the landscape. With a leap, the great raven Dian Cecht leapt from her shoulder and sailed up into the sky on broad, black wings, circling lazily around the wagon as it trundled southward.
Colin shrugged his shoulders to ease the pain as the straps cut deeply into his flesh and bone. The heavy gear strapped to his back weighted over a hundred pounds. It was eleven kilometers to Loch na Súil, and it would be another thirteen from where he stood to get to Carrowmore. On the trip south, he would only be burdened with the housing and power source, but that didn’t make him feel any better. He took a heavy step towards the loch, and then another. And another. The weight tore at him, testing his body with the strain and his mind with doubts of his ability to complete his journey. But he’d given his word to Bekka, and deep down he had to believe that it would be enough.
One kilometer became two. Two dragged out into three. With each step his body ached just a little bit more, and his legs burned. He was grateful for the grappler, for despite its weight it helped him keep his feet. The moon traced its way across the sky, and soon the east faded from black to gray to rouge. Colin’s legs were agony beneath him, nothing more than two blazing pillars that threatened to fold with each step. His arms had grown numb, and he could barely move the grappler forward as he walked. It was devotion that buoyed him, his devotion to Bekka, and his sense of duty to the people of Geevagh kept his arms and legs moving when his will tottered on the brink of giving up.
The sun rose and finally perched upon the horizon, its glow hazy through blanketing mists that covered the countryside. Colin got his bearings and discovered that he was only a kilometer from Loch na Súil. He dared not rest for fear of not being able to get up again. He spotted
a hedgerow to the north that would lead him directly to the loch. He grew warm as the sun rose, and sweat poured from him in rivulets that soaked into his leathers. He dreaded the blisters he knew he would find on his shoulders and feet when he reached the loch.
The hedgerow bent north, and just beyond the bend lay his goal. Sunlight bathed the countryside in deep and pale greens alike, but the surface of Loch na Súil was nearly black, its surface as smooth as a mirror.
Colin collapsed upon the shoreline, crying out in pain as his legs finally buckled beneath him. Shrugging left and right on his back, he pried his shoulders out from the straps that had dug trenches into his flesh, wincing with each movement. Fatigue beat against him, but devotion and duty helped him maintain consciousness. Rolling over, he got to his knees and emptied his backpack. The loaf, crushed beneath the weight of the equipment, beckoned to him, and he tore into it like a starving wolf into flesh. The water skin found its way into his hands next, and he gulped again and again, nearly emptying it.
With his belly full, he found his strength somewhat renewed and rose to his feet. Kicking off his boots, gasping as blisters on the bottoms of his feet were scraped and torn, he quickly pulled his leather shirt and pants off. His shoulders were raw where the straps had pressed into him, and a line of torn and bloody blisters dotted his flesh on each side. He bent over to pick up the breathing apparatus, and his legs betrayed him, dropping him to the ground. With a mumbled curse and then a prayer to Nuada for strength, he stood again. The breather was a gleaming half-sphere of polished metal nearly the size of his back, and its underside matched the contour of his back. A storage sack dangled down each side of the breather for when Colin would gather oysters and crabs. Bekka had a taste for both, and they were the reason she had invented the thing.
Two finely sewn leather sheaths poked out of the top of the breather, one on each side, and Colin knew that their interior was comprised of layered cow intestine, one sheath inside the next, and each layer been cured and lubricated with specially treated oils. Both tubes connected to a facemask made of glass, copper and leather that allowed the wearer to breathe underwater. The facemask also had glowlamps on each side that allowed some visibility in dark or murky water.
Colin hefted the breather, groaning as his neck, back and legs all protested at once, and slid it over his shoulders. His skin screamed in pain as the straps settled into place. He picked up the casing and slipped that into the left-hand storage sack. Ignoring the pain, he reached around and grabbed the facemask. He set it over his face, pulling tight the two leather straps at the back. As he breathed, air came from the breather through the in-tube, and exhaling sent it out through the other. Colin didn’t know what was inside the thing, but it allowed him to spend up to an hour underwater, essentially breathing his own recycled air.
He struggled to lean over and not fall again as he picked up the grappler and the pointing device. Checking the device, he saw that it was pointing directly to the center of Loch na Súil. Then something occurred to him. He turned the device on his side and gasped as the needle dipped downward, indicating that the power source lay deep within the small loch. A quick estimate placed id least seventy feet below the surface, and fear gripped him like a noose. He could only hope that the power source wasn’t buried under so much silt that he would not be able to get to it… and that he was going to be able to get back out again.
Sighing and praying for just a little bit of luck, he strode towards the water and waded into the chill murkiness of Loch na Súil, gasping as cold water washed over his bare skin. As his head went beneath the surface, his breathing grew fast, almost as if he was gasping, but after a few strides he drew slow, steady breaths and proceeded deeper into the loch. The water was only slightly murky, although his feet and the grappler stirred up great plumes of mud from the bottom, and the bottom sloped more quickly than other lochs he had been in. There seemed to be a curve to it, almost as if it were shaped like a great, muddy funnel. As he descended, the water grew inky black and colder. He could just make out the silver needle in the murk if he held it up to the faceplate, but beyond that he was blind.
Deeper he went, further and further away from the shoreline. He estimated he was forty feet beneath the surface when the mud beneath his feet grew firm and the incline increased. He started to feel something like a current, a pulsing sensation made of heat, not water. The temperature suddenly rose, and another forty feet found him walking upon a solid surface, the muck no longer squeezing between his toes. He could feel jagged cracks beneath his feet, as if he walked upon an open plain of sunbaked mud.
The incline had grown so steep that he could barely keep from sliding, and the water grew hotter with each step. Through the murk he could now see a hazy, red glow coming from below, like a red iris set in an eye of hazy ink, and the portent of that image was not lost upon Colin, who knew the history of the power source well. He could now hear a hissing sound coming through the water, faintly at first but growing in volume as he advanced.
The water around him was hot now, almost unbearable, and the surface beneath his feet was steep enough that another step would send him sliding to the bottom. A fierce, ruddy glow came up at him from about fifteen feet below, turning the water and silt around him to the color of blood, and the hissing sound pressed against his ears, as if a blacksmith had dropped hot iron into a bucket, but the iron refused to cool.
He slipped the pointing device into the right-hand sack and pulled out the casing. The metal felt even colder in his hands now that he was immersed in hot water, and the runes wrapped around the metal appeared to be glowing with a pale inner light. At first, he thought it was a trick of his eyes, but when he held the casing close to his face, the lettering was much brighter than the metal. As he watched, fascinated, realizing that the inner light was pulsing faintly and doing so in a precise rhythm with the heat pulsing across his body from the power source.
The heat was starting to get to Colin, and he would have to drop into the pit at the bottom of the lake in order to get the power source. Fear that he would not be able to stand the temperature of the water when he reached the bottom filled his thoughts, but he had little choice. Resolved to move as quickly as possible, he tightened one hand around the grappler and clutched the housing to his chest with the other. He stepped forward and let the weight carry him to the bottom. The temperature of the water became unbearable, and he clenched his teeth with the pain. As he touched the bottom, his skin felt as if it was being scalded. The light was nearly blinding now, as if someone had dropped a miniature, red sun into the bottom of Loch na Súil, and the hissing filled his ears. Colin quickly worked the latch on the casing, and the back opened up with a brief burst of bubbles. He set the casing on the smooth, hard bottom of the lake before him and angled the grappler towards the bright, hissing sun that filled his world.
His hands started to burn as the grappler closed around the orb. He clenched his teeth tighter and tried to ignore the pain. Stepping back, he moved the orb over the casing and released the grappler. The orb settled into the interior of the casing, and as it did so, the housing slowly closed of its own accord. As the doors closed on the orb, the runes covering the casing flashed once in blinding bluish white, and then they settled in to a bright pulsing of cool blue. Darkness folded in around Colin, and the heat immediately started to ease.
As his eyes started to adjust, the two glowlamps and the light from the casing shed enough light to see by. Colin slid the casing into the store-sack and started clawing his way up the steep, smooth side of the pit. He had to hammer at the side with the grappler, breaking it away like baked clay. He dug out a hole big enough for his foot, stepped up into it and work the next hole. It only took six of these to get up far enough that he could walk out.
Exhaustion beat upon Colin as he finally made it to dry land, and he collapsed in a heap, gasping. His skin was still ruddy, and his hands had started to blister from the heat of the water.
“No rest for the we
ary,” he said quietly as he did his best to focus his strength. Colin stripped off the breathing apparatus, left the grappler where it lay, and put his leathers back on. It took him a few minutes to eat the rest of the bread and finish the water. Finally, looking south, he stood up and started off at as fast a pace as he could manage. He had slung the store-sack over his shoulder, and the chill of the casing soothed his skin as it bounced against his back in time with his stride.
Freed of the weight he had carried on his hike north, Colin felt somewhat renewed, and the kilometers slid beneath him. His legs were not as sore, presumably as a result of being submerged in the hot water. The sun was warm above him, and the green of Ireland stretched out in every direction. The sights and smells refreshed him, and for a short while Colin drifted away from his pain, from his worry for Bekka and Geevagh and the people that lived there. He simply enjoyed the beauty of creation that surrounded him as he walked from glade to forest to glade.
He had come about nine kilometers, leaving Geevagh behind him and to the east when he spotted a column of black smoke and his ears picked up the dull thumps of artillery. The smoke rose to the southeast of his path towards Carrowmore, and through it he saw the shapes of two armored airships in Zylet colors that appeared to be firing cannons towards the ground. He didn’t want to waste any time by changing his course, but fear for Captain Byrne and the other soldiers ate at him.
The forest that bordered Carrowmore came into view, and Colin hastened his pace. The cave was only two kilometers away, and the trees swallowed him as he entered the cool, green shade of oaks and underbrush. Colin picked his way through the forest, and the green hillside of Carrowmore rose up to his left. Through the trees Colin spotted the black husk of a mighty oak struck by lightning decades before. It marked the entrance to Carrowmore, a pair of stony caves that cut into an otherwise green hillside. A short distance from the hillside Colin spotted Bekka’s wagon. But as he drew closer, there was something wrong with the hillside beyond the tree. The caves were gone. All he could see was turf and shrubs covering where the cave entrances should be.
Fantasy Short Stories: Five Fantastic Tales Page 6