The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

‘Howzat!’ Bolldhe exclaimed, confidently believing those shackle-boards led out onto a jetty or some other dead end.

  But the thief was on home ground here. With Bolldhe clattering noisily along the loose planks in hot pursuit, the thief leapt off the end of the walkway, and landed not in water, but on firm ground. Straight away the dark shape sprinted off into the night.

  Bolldhe snarled in drunken rage, but did not hesitate. He followed the barely visible shade of his quarry over muddy but reasonably firm ground, never once thinking of giving up. He was confident that he could outrun any thief that was carrying a sack in one hand and a heavy axe in the other.

  For long minutes they ran. Uphill, always uphill. And the higher they progressed, the firmer became the ground. But just as Bolldhe seemed about to catch up, the thief suddenly vanished.

  ‘Wha’! Where . . . ?’ Bolldhe cursed between wheezing gasps. He was by this time almost completely sober. ‘Come out, ya . . . ya bastar’!’

  It was only then that he realized he was now right out on the moors, a long way from town.

  Nothing stirred out here on the dark moors, save perhaps for a light summer breeze that ruffled his hair. Not a sound could be heard. It truly was profoundly dark and lonely out here.

  His leg brushed a stand of reeds, and immediately a tremendous cacophony of brain-penetrating squeals, wails, grunts and groans burst into the night, right by his side.

  Half a dozen yards away, Bolldhe picked himself up where he had landed, and breathed deeply. ‘Rails!’ he cursed, damning all marsh-birds to hell, then took some time to regain his composure.

  What was that? A chink of stone, off to the left! Bolldhe stalked silently over to where he thought the sound had come from, and almost fell down a hole.

  He patted himself up and down, but to his dismay found his bull’s-eye lantern was not in its usual place; he must have left it back at the temple. Cuna-on-a-kebab! That thief hadn’t taken it, surely? No! Of all the things!

  He ceased his useless worrying; he did not know yet if it was gone. He investigated his clothing further, and was consoled to find his flint and steel. Moments later his probing hands alighted upon a length of dry timber amongst a pile of debris, near the hole’s entrance. Minutes later, he held a dim and flickering torch in his hand.

  A long mineshaft sloped away into the dark before him. Barely hesitating, Bolldhe descended into its subterranean levels.

  Almost immediately his foot slipped on the loose, wet scree of the shaft, and he fell flat on his backside. He cried out in pain and swore vehemently. But far from taking greater care, he sprang back up onto his feet and plunged further into the darkness. Anger and self-reproach at his foolishness spurred him on ever more determinedly, till, barely a dozen paces later, he slipped again, lost his balance completely and pitched forward into the darkness.

  When he came to, Bolldhe’s head was throbbing painfully and he felt horribly queasy. At first he could see nothing, but after a while he sensed light before his eyes, and it was gradually growing brighter. Soon its piercing glare shot needles of pain through his bleary eyes and into his bruised and jellied brain. With an odd sense of detachedness he watched the light as it pulsated luridly. All the while, sharp stones pressed painfully into his cheek.

  Torch! he suddenly remembered, and heaved himself groggily to his feet. He picked up the makeshift torch just as it was about to go out, and breathed life back into it. Slowly the flames grew, and he held the stick of flickering wood out before him.

  With a sudden rush of blood to his head, he felt violently sick. He lurched sideways, and collided with the wall of the shaft. Extending his free hand against its surface, he managed to steady himself and his spinning world. Then he began breathing slowly, deeply, steadily.

  Can’t have been out for long, then, he thought as he looked down at his torch. He tried not to think what could have happened to him down here, and instead concentrated his thoughts on images of cool, leafy forests and sparkling waterfalls. That usually worked. Soon he noticed that ice-cold water was running down the wall and trickling soothingly between his fingers. The buzzing in his head gradually subsided.

  Hauger-ale! he cursed. They can stick it right up their secretive, closely guarded little backsides!

  A few moments and several lungfuls of air later, Bolldhe’s legs finally stopped shaking, and he could stand upright on his own. He peered into the darkness around him, and decided to get this over with as soon as possible. The torch, if it could be called that, cast little light; he would have to rely on his ears more than anything.

  ‘Stupid!’ he muttered as he explored the mineshaft. That was the trouble with travelling for too long with others. He hated getting drunk; hated the sickness; hated the befuddlement and incapacitation; he hated the way it made one act so stupid, like a kid at his first grown-up party.

  And he especially loathed the way it opened your mouth so wide that anybody within earshot could see right the way down into your soul.

  That was the trouble, really. He was just so unused to company that whenever he did mix with others he ran the risk of making a real tit of himself. But he was sober again, and now he meant business.

  Bolldhe soon discovered that the torch was next to useless in these dark passages. The little light it provided, as he held it directly before him, only managed to dazzle him, and there was not enough room above his head so that he could hold it up higher. He tried holding it a little behind his head and to one side, but that was too awkward; and when he held it behind his back it nearly set light to his deerskin tunic. Bolldhe swore in frustration and groped his way ahead.

  These passages smelt awful. The reek of refuse tips, stale cellars and urine made Bolldhe wrinkle his nose in disgust. He was used to scummy backstreets, but at least they were out in the open, not fifty feet underground. This smelt like the lowest level of the five-tiered city of Qaladmir, where even the lepers wore masks to filter the stench . . .

  Fifty feet underground! The thought alone was enough to clamp a steely hand of terror around Bolldhe’s heart. He hated caves at the best of times, to be trapped so deep underground with only bare stone all around you! He fancied he could hear the screams of men and children, and the washing of the sea . . . and something so much worse . . .

  This had happened before. There had been times in his life when this cave-fear had taken him. He did not understand it, and furthermore he did not want to admit to it.

  More deep breaths, more mind-stuff, more control. He was Bolldhe, remember. He was Bolldhe . . .

  Again, he forced himself to concentrate upon the search. He studied the walls, the roof, the floor. The floor, what a mess! It was strewn with a hundred different types of debris and filth. Apart from the rusty and mouldering remains of mining tools, there were also slides of fallen rock, collapsed timbers that half-blocked his way, household refuse from the people who lived above and, rising up out of all this, the occasional skeletal hand, skull or ribcage. Whether these originated from humans, beasts or something more sinister, Bolldhe did not care to ponder. And between it all were pools of that same stinking, oily water he had noticed in the mine just after Nym-Cadog had vanished.

  Bolldhe picked his way forward extremely carefully. He guessed that this part of the mine, closer to the surface, would serve as a refuge for the odd outlaw, drunken vagrant or other scabrous low-life that might pass this way from time to time. He wondered whether the thief who had stolen his axe was one such.

  After five minutes he came to a dead end. The passageway abruptly finished with an immovable pile of fallen rock. Bolldhe held his glowing stick inches away from the bank of rock and studied it carefully. His probing eyes could discern no sign of recent disturbance. It was impossible to be sure, but as far as he could tell, in this almost non-existent light, it looked as if none of this had been touched for years.

  He sighed; maybe his quarry had not come down here at all. Then, he reflected, it was possible that he had missed a side passage on the
way. Not very likely, but possible. He would have to check . . .

  Bolldhe instantly turned around, and instinctively grabbed for the axe that was not there. He stared intently into the darkness ahead, heart suddenly pounding madly.

  What in the name of the wee man . . . ? Why had he started like that? He had not heard anything, nothing at all . . . yet he had felt something. Something evil, right behind him. His eyes strained to pierce the darkness beyond the glowing brand he held, almost willing his sight to extend further than its pitiful radiance.

  The hair at the back of his head prickled like a living animal. He could still see no sign of anything, but something had made him start, something right behind him . . .

  Bolldhe rubbed the nape of his neck with a wet hand. This spooky old pit was getting to him. It must have been his imagination. Yes, he was scared, still very scared, though now managing to push his fear to the back of his mind. But in any case, he was not going to hang around here a moment longer; the makeshift torch was on the point of sputtering out for good, and he had no intention of finding himself stuck down this damnable pit without any light at all. If there were indeed any side passages he had missed, maybe he would find them on the way back out.

  As swiftly as he could whilst resisting the urge to panic and bolt, he started making his way back. He had almost reached the place where the passage met the shaft leading up to the surface when he did spot another opening. It was a small side passage, barely four feet high, that plunged down steeply into utter blackness. The stench from this hole was worse than the rest of the mine, and hinted at ‘something’ lurking down there. Not so much a presence, more like an aura, it almost shouted at him to retreat.

  Bolldhe, however, had not got where he was today by listening to his feelings. If he had been the sort who was easily constrained by his fears, he would never have even left Moel-Bryn. Perversely, he decided to check this new way out.

  He bent down and entered.

  Straight away he knew this was not the right decision. Every particle of his being screamed at him to turn back and run, to get out of this godforsaken tunnel immediately. He could sense that he was entering a place that contained within its heart a great evil, and a deeper shade of darkness that had no tolerance for the living.

  The shaft led down to all this horror, and bit by bit Bolldhe lowered himself down towards it.

  He had to stoop and choose his footing carefully. Whatever lay down there, he did not want to tumble into it. One hand clasped the wall to brace himself; his eyes were as wide as lantern lenses.

  As he made his slow progress downwards, he began to hear his careful footsteps echoing back to him. Each measured pace he took repeated itself dully like a gritty chink, off in the distance. He listened with growing concern, and thought it odd that, in such a confined space as this, where all sound fell dead, there should be any echo at all. But as he continued, he soon realized that these reverberations were not emulating his footfall with very much accuracy. His tread was careful and regular; the echoes were decidedly not.

  He stopped abruptly and listened hard. The sound of his footsteps ceased at once – but the echoes, carried on – chink, chink, chink . . . Bolldhe’s heartbeat doubled in speed, and his head felt thick with pumping blood.

  Then he heard them, the voices so quiet he was not sure at first that they were not merely the slight eruptions of his own restrained breathing.

  No, voices – tiny, chilling, macabre voices, squeaking in laughter and eerie song, only just audible above the tapping of their tools. From all around the traveller they came, yet sounded so distant they might originate from deep within the rock itself. Either that or they were just memories, vestiges of sound from a distant past.

  Then the name came to Bolldhe as clearly as if it had just been spoken: Knockers. The huldre-miners. More tales from his childhood, come back to haunt him.

  Little bastards, he cursed fearfully, they’re mocking me!

  He had to go on. This he knew for sure. Knockers were not considered to be dangerous unless one crossed them or returned their mockery. If he gave in to his fear now, he would likely spend the final few hours of his miserable life hurtling round these lightless passages in blind, screaming terror. Furthermore, Bolldhe realized with unexpected insight, if he were to turn back from this now, he would never be able to confront the horror that might await him on Melhus Island. As it had always been in his life, Bolldhe had to conquer his own fears.

  But there was also a feeling in him that he could not shake off: that, in some inexplicable way, this old silver mine had something to do with his destiny.

  He continued down. Soon he sensed new passages branching off to either side of him. He held the torch, now little more than a candle-taper, out into the left-hand opening, shielded his eyes and peered in. There must have been some residual gas in here that he could not smell, for the torch’s flame suddenly turned a greenish-yellow, bloating and undulating strangely like a thick syrup. By its garish light he could see old wooden rails reaching back along the length of the passage, wherever they were not covered with heaps of fallen earth. There was also an old derailed mine-cart, overturned, broken and decayed, its wooden wheels smashed and its brass bindings green with age.

  Bolldhe backed out of this passage and turned around to investigate the other. This one was darker, reflecting back none of the torch’s light at all, despite the fact that the additional gas here was causing it to burn even brighter. He peered into the strangely dense darkness in fascination. It was so totally lightless in there that when he extended his hand into it, torch and all, it simply disappeared, and he was back in darkness once again. It was as if he had immersed his arm in a pool of tar.

  In his bemusement, he failed to notice that even the Knockers had gone silent.

  Then a white hand lunged out at him from the wall of darkness and slapped him hard across the face. Bolldhe screamed in terror, and an entire chorus of high-pitched laughter erupted throughout the mine. He struck out instinctively, lost his balance, and the torch fell from his hands and bounced away down the incline. In its sudden flare he caught a glimpse of a dark figure leap out of the side passage and scramble away from him up the steep shaft.

  Despite the bells of panic that were clanging in his reeling mind, Bolldhe knew that any danger from his attacker was now over. It was just the thief, still on the run from him. But this consoled him little, for he now found himself tumbling head over heels into the pit below – down into the very source of the fear.

  With a jarring impact that drove the wind out of him, he landed in the chamber underneath. He rolled over painfully on the jagged, splintering surface of the floor, leapt back onto his feet in the same movement, and stumbled in blind hysteria over to his fallen torch. He snatched it up in violently shaking hands, and stared around himself.

  The chamber – or whatever it was – fell away from the pool of torchlight into darkness; its size could not be guessed. All that could be seen was a large, empty, wooden chest with a smashed lock and its lid open.

  But there was something else in this room. Just on the very edge of darkness. The fount of all the instinctive fear assailing Bolldhe all this time, that fear that he had been so determined to overcome. This had nothing to do with the thief or even the Knockers, but was something entirely different. He could sense an overpowering aura of evil down here with him, could feel its age-old malignancy boring into his mind. It was so potent he could almost smell it.

  There was the briefest of movements, like the fluttering of a departing soul, and Bolldhe was gone.

  ‘So basically,’ Nibulus stated patiently, ‘what you’re telling us is: you’ve lost your axe.’

  Bolldhe glowered and turned away from the big man in contempt. He should have known better than to try telling this lot. As far as they were concerned, the drunken idiot had simply allowed his axe to be stolen, failed to recover it, and now wanted them to provide a new one. All this talk of hidden mines was about as relevant to
them as yesterday’s weather forecast.

  It had taken Bolldhe less than half an hour to reach Myst-Hakel. Gasping for breath and dripping with sweat in the humidity of the night, he had finally reached the sanctuary of the temple. All the others awoke blearily from their inebriation and stared up at him in alarm. But he had merely waved a dismissive hand at them and staggered over to his mattress. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

  In the morning they were woken early by Job Ash. He had brought them a breakfast of raw tentacled mollusc in fish-oil (which the green-faced diners had picked their way through with a kind of stunned disbelief) and cheerfully asked them if they had enjoyed their night out. None of them had been inclined to enlighten him but, later on, Bolldhe drew the boy aside and asked him what he knew of the mines.

  But Job’s dumbly smiling expression did not waver.

  Stupid bloody savages! Bolldhe snorted irritably.

  Finwald suddenly called out from his vantage point at the window. ‘You’re not going to find out anything from that boy. He probably knows as much about those mines as I know about peat-cutting. I’ve been talking with some of the locals here, and I don’t think anyone goes near the various mines or holes around here. Remember those deep sinkholes we passed on the way here? And all the bottomless pools? From what I can gather, this whole area’s dotted with them, and apparently they’re considered taboo. Something to do with those huge bats, I think; the locals see them emerging at dusk, as if they’re flying straight out of the underworld itself.’

  It was clear that Bolldhe would discover nothing of the mines – or more specifically the evil down there – from the locals.

  ‘If you like, I’ll go with you,’ Finwlad suddenly offered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To the mine. You need to get your axe back, remember?’

  ‘My . . . The thief’s got that,’ Bolldhe replied, puzzled by Finwald’s offer. ‘What d’you care, anyway?’

  ‘It just sounds interesting, that’s all,’ Finwlad protested. ‘Mazes and hidden chests . . .’