by C F Welburn
The populace of Shale seemed to consist entirely of gillards, who had stopped to watch their approach. Somewhere a bell was tolling, reaching out to them across the breaking waves. There was quite a gathering by the time they dragged their boat up the wet shingle, but it was curiosity rather than malice etched on their faces.
“Greetings travellers,” a gaunt gillard leaning on a weathered staff said; the gills under his jawbone gaped and retracted in the unsettling way of their kind. His skin was a silver-grey, and the area between his eyes was smooth and noseless.
“Greetings, folk of Shale,” Balagir returned, pleased that the place at least seemed civilised. Young gillards peeked between the legs of the elders, and a quiet whispering existed just beyond deciphering. All the while, the deep bell tolled solemnly in the background.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“We come on a personal errand and must visit the centre of your isle. We would, however, be happy to trade and give you tidings of the outside world.” The gillard nodded and was about to speak when an older companion whispered in his ear.
“First, let me introduce myself. I’m Jerowa, spokesman of my people. Many here do not speak your tongue, so don’t mistake their silence for rudeness—nor our fascination; we get few visitors.”
“We appreciate the welcome, Jerowa. I’m Balagir, and I speak for my men when I say we are pleased to visit.” The old gillard whispered more.
“Forgive our presumptions, but I’m informed that you bear not the aura of sailors, but that of ashen. Is this true?”
“It is indeed. A number of us are ashen.”
“The elder has encountered your kind before, though not on Shale for many years. We would like to ask a favour of you.”
“Then you know of our ways? That we will work for smoke?”
“Yes, though we do not understand such a strange custom. Would it be something you would be interested in?” Balagir looked at the others, who acquiesced feverishly. It was akin to asking a dog if it wanted a bone.
“We would hear your offer.”
Jerowa was pleased, and though his eyes remained emotionless, his fishlike lips touched upon a smile. “Good. Your visit heartens us. For although all appears well here, an illness lies at the heart of the isle.”
“I see,” Balagir said ominously. He had expected no less. “Go on.”
“There’s an old temple to the centre, and within it a ghoul roams. He plagues us. He makes demands.”
“And I assume your people are tired of meeting these demands?”
“You ashen are as astute as the tales lead us to believe.”
“And what of these demands?”
“I’m sure you know a little about our race? That we dwell as much in the water as we do on the land.”
“The gills suggest as much.”
“Quite. But now we’re bound to this island. As a bird who wishes to fly becomes egg bound. We cannot leave, for the ghoul has charged us with an endless task. I’m sure you can hear the bell?”
“I had noticed. Why’s it ringing? I knew not that gillards held stock in such materials. Mortar and metal seem more land dwellers’ affairs.”
“Indeed. It’s incessant and fills our waking hours.”
“Why not refuse?”
“Because this island’s heart pumps fire. Its veins run red. Even gillards could not outswim it and would be boiled alive.”
Balagir frowned. “And this ghoul controls it?”
Jerowa nodded. “Such are his demands, illogical as they seem. We must ring the bell, night and day. Should it falter, the ghoul will anger.”
“Would you give me a moment to discuss it with my men?”
“I would expect no less.” Balagir nodded and turned to the ashen.
“What do you think? Imram, have you read of ghouls?”
“I’ve never encountered one, but for all I’ve learnt, his request makes no sense. Ghouls are trapped souls, traditionally tormented by some past wrong. I can fathom no reason behind such human customs or cruelty.”
“As I thought. It seems some trickery is at play. Kolak, any experience?”
“Once,” he said, shuddering. “And I agree with Imram, this seems strange for one whose sole intent is an end to lingering.”
“Drak, Goffle?” They both shrugged. They might lack experience with such creatures, though Goffle could have passed for one. “Well, our path lies that way. Two birds and all that...”
“As long as there’s smoke, count me in,” Drak said. “Feels an age since my belt’s been full.”
The others nodded, and he turned back to the expectant crowd.
“We’ll deal with this ghoul of yours.”
“Really? Oh, blessed are the water nymphs for leading you to these shores. This day was surely foreseen.”
Balagir felt his belt rumble and straightened.
“Perhaps first we may inspect the bell tower?”
“Of course. Follow me.”
They obliged, filing through the muddy streets with a trail of curious gillards in tow. The tower, far from resembling human construction, seemed to twist upwards, formed from the blackened rock of the island itself. The steps were narrow and uneven; as such, Balagir and Imram went alone. On an upper level they found an old gillard, pulling at sally and rope, eyes clenched shut; scaled hands white with calluses. So intent was his concentration, they dared not disturb him. Next they ascended two more levels and inspected the bell. A huge iron thing, large enough to cover a man. In itself it was perfectly ordinary, but how it had been cast or brought to the island was beyond fathoming.
Back on the ground, they bid farewell to Jerowa and struck inland, through thick, knotted trees and tangled vines. Although they aimed towards the jutting black rock at the isle’s centre, it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead, and the thick canopy dimmed the day to a dusky light. Without warning, the rock suddenly rose before them in an impossible peak, thrusting the jungle aside as goat’s horn does its fleece.
A dark entrance awaited them, and before it, on a rock, sat an ugly-looking ‘gnilo.
He looked up from the length of vine he was chewing, his mouth moving curiously as a cow chews cud.
“You’re no gillards,” he said at last, in a voice thick from silence.
“And you’re no ghoul.”
“S’right. I’m a ‘gnilo.”
“I know what you are,” Balagir said. “What trick are you playing on these folk? Why punish them so?” The ‘gnilo threw his snack aside and leapt to his bare feet.
“Trick? ‘Tis I who is tricked.”
“It’s not you we find ringing the bell.”
“No longer, but for an age I did.” He splayed his hands and, true, they were calloused and rough with old blisters.
“And now you have the gillards do it? Strike fear into their hearts? Trap their people here.”
“You think I wanted this, eh? You think I don’t regret ever setting foot on this wretched rock?”
“Explain yourself, for we come to put an end to it, one way or another.”
“You can’t!” he shrieked, mortified. “The bell must ring.”
“On whose say-so?”
“Yakku’s.”
“And where is this Yakku?”
“Everywhere. Beneath your feet, in this vine, in that rock. In the red, boiling blood!”
“How so?”
“Yakku’s the isle. It lives, smell its breath.” Balagir inhaled, but only a strange sulphuric smell leaked from the cavern’s mouth.
“He’s mad,” Drak needlessly observed. Mad he may have been, but deaf he was not.
“You come here to insult me, eh? How about Yakku kill you now? Is that what you want?”
“How about we stop this nonsense,” Kolak growled. “Cease that confounded cacophony and set those gillards free. You’re tormenting them.”
“And me? Nobody cares about Ol’ Hob. The fish people, yes. The ‘gnilo? No. We’ve always been looked
down upon.”
“Your height should not enter into this,” Drak said.
“Rah! I’ve had enough. Be off with you smoke-eaters! You stink of old fires.”
“We’ll be gone when we’re ready,” Balagir said. “First you must lift this burden off the gillards.”
“And Ol’ Hob goes back to the bell? Ha ha. Hahahahaha. I think you’re the mad ones. Oh yes. I’d rather Yakku make quick work of us all.”
“Don’t make us carry you back there and show them that their ghoul is no more than a deluded ‘gnilo.”
“You could not. I’m full of power. Yakku fills me. Just try, I’ll smite you.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Drak said, drawing a net from his sack and casting it over the ‘gnilo’s head. Ol’ Hob thrashed and stomped his feet in indignation, though it served him little good.
“Aaiiiiiiii! You’ll regret this!” he screeched. “Yakku will burn you slowly, inked one.”
“Tell him to burn that bell whilst he’s at it,” Drak retorted, hoisting the net towards a nearby tree.
“That’s some smoke earned,” Kolak said, satisfied. “Now what of the smoke you promised us, Balagir?”
“For that we must enter. There’s something I need from within.”
“Then let us at it. All this talk of burning is making me long for the fire.”
His words were true; too much water and too little flame had left them all anxious. Without further ado, they hung the net from the tree, leaving the ‘gnilo kicking and snarling, and crossed the mountain’s sulphuric threshold.
Within, Balagir drew out the star-wand and led the way. The passageway was narrow and rough. A simple stumble could remove most of the skin from one’s knee; to lean heavily on a hand would lacerate. There were several twists and turns and various dark passages leading off.
With the combination of the wand, the kalaqai, Drak’s monocle, and more than a little luck possibly emanating from Era herself, they descended without mishap. They paused only when Drak exclaimed that the walls were alive. Balagir borrowed the eye piece and saw for himself that they writhed in an unsettling motion. Only when they spied a tail flick through a crack and vanish did they surmise that the hollowed walls were packed with snakes; tangled so tight as to be a solid structure, slithering, twisting within the rocks. With crawling skin, they hastened on.
Eventually the passage opened into a large chamber. The star-wand fell dark, as the room was now bright orange, illuminated by a river of molten rock about its edge. Their faces shone with sweat from the heat. The river shimmered orange, white, and black, and when he kicked a rock into it, it burst into flame and smouldered out of existence.
They leapt the narrowest stretch with care and then kept a safe distance from the strange liquid, making their way to a statue that stood in the centre of the chamber’s makeshift isle. The statue was a huge snake, but its body reared upwards and bore more than a small semblance to man. Upon its face was a thin mask, seemingly forged from the same hard, rough rock as the rest of the island. From a crack in the ceiling, the dim sound of the distant bell could just be heard over the bubbling river. It was strange that the sound reached this far, but the tower being part of the same rock enabled the tolling to travel surprisingly well through its coiled, convoluted chasms.
“Yakku?” Kolak asked, his hard jaegir eyes fixed upon the figure.
“Apparently so,” Imram said. “No wonder that poor fool ‘gnilo was terrified.” Balagir reached for the mask.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Drak asked, looking around.
“It’s what we came for,” Balagir said, proceeding. He took it, examined it, and dropped it in his pouch. For a moment they froze, expecting something terrible to happen, but all remained as it was, and they let out a long, communally pent-up breath. Smoke circled each of them thrice from the oath Balagir had had them complete.
“Let’s get out of here,” Goffle said, his wounded cheeks looking more creased and vicious than ever in the glistening red glow. Nobody argued.
They found Ol’ Hob where they had left him, though the fight had gone out of him by now. He stared at them sullenly as Kolak swung him over his shoulder, and they trudged back through the forest.
When they came to the bell tower, Balagir and Imram made the climb.
“Where are you going?!” exclaimed the ‘gnilo, panic-stricken.
“To get some peace and quiet,” Balagir said.
“You fools! You’ll doom us all!”
“We’ve seen your Yakku,” Drak told the netted creature. “Rather stone-like. Tell me, when he spoke, did he sound like the hissing of snakes?” Ol’ Hob shuddered.
“You’ve seen him? And still you choose to defy him? Oh, then we will meet our end here.”
“It was nought but a statue,” Kolak rasped. “Calm yourself. Once that bell stops rattling your senses, you’ll see.” Ol’ Hob merely whimpered and watched with dread as Balagir and Imram entered the tower.
The enslaved campanologist toiled on, and when they touched his shoulder, he started, free from the trance which got him through his chore.
“You may stand down now, old gillard,” Imram said kindly. His eyes went wide, and he shook his head violently, continuing to ring.
“It’s all right,” Balagir said. “We’ve found your ghoul. It was a ‘gnilo gone mad, likely through isolation. He heard voices and put you up to it.”
“A ‘gnilo?” croaked the old gillard uncertainly.
“Yes. Small fellow. Irascible temperament. Ring any bells?” He couldn’t help himself, despite Imram shaking his head in reproach.
“I wish I could believe, but the curse... I must continue. Without assurance, I’ll not doom my people.” Balagir was about to ask how that could be possible, when he recalled the mask. It showed the future, or so Hendy had claimed. There hardly seemed a better time to try it. It was rough to the touch, but fit snugly to his brow and bridge of his nose.
What he saw left him disorientated. Later he described in great detail to Imram and the gillard how he had seen himself and his companions amongst the gillards on the shore. That the campanologist had been with them too, and that there was celebration and singing; a great feast with music and merriment. He had seen it all so clearly, it felt like a memory rather than something which was yet to happen.
Clearly sceptical, Imram tried it next, and his jaw hung slack as he pre-lived the glory of their success. Next Balagir held it to the eyes of the ringer, who, by the time he had finished beholding the premonitions, had ceased to ring. The clapper chimed rapidly as the bell came down to a blissful tranquillity. When he handed Balagir the mask, he had tears in his eyes and embraced him fiercely. For the second time that day, the black smoke circled them, and Imram clapped Balagir on the shoulder in silent victory.
Back on the shore, all was as foreseen. They were welcomed with trepidation at first, then a wary relief, which dared grow to shouts of triumph. Even Ol’ Hob, who had refused to speak, looked around in wonder, a haze lifting from his eyes.
Then the music started, a tune already familiar from his vision, and a great banquet was prepared. The gillards chanted and dubbed them saviours and all other good names. They would surely become a part of gillard folklore when one day these tales had faded to legend. Such was the scope of their deed!
When they had eaten and drunk their fill, and the day was growing old, they made their excuses to leave. It took them some time to convince their grateful hosts that they could not stay until dawn. Indeed, they were itching to be off. It had been a long while since any of them had had such smoke in store, and their time on Loral had only intensified their desires.
The gifts bestowed upon them, humble as they were, required several trips by rowboat. Finally, just before dusk, they were able to pull away from the shore. The crowd stood waving, and several of the fleetest gillards flanked them for some time until they were past the reef and safely on their way.
Res and the sailors could only sha
ke their heads in wonderment. They were good men, but simple sailors. What the ashen had done was beyond their understanding, and they performed their tasks without questioning their captain and his odd companions.
“To Farthing,” he instructed Res, who whistled, making the crew jump to his command like trained hounds.
Balagir stood at the rail, watching the island slip away.
“Would you mind me examining the mask?” Imram asked curiously. Balagir hesitated, holding the scholar’s eyes before handing it him.
“An item of true wonder,” Imram said, turning it in his hands. “I think I read of one such mask, though it was believed lost.”
“Nothing remains lost forever,” Balagir said. Imram grinned, enjoying his philosophical tone.
“I hope you’re right, Balagir. But at least we’re no longer lost alone.”
Balagir smiled and looked out as Imram tried the mask once more.
A few moments later, the wild-haired ashen gasped.
“What is it?” Balagir demanded.
But instead of answering, Imram turned and yelled: “Full sail!”
Shaken, Balagir went to look through the mask, but foresight was no longer necessary. Imram’s pale face drew his attention to the shore, where he watched for the second time the unfolding of events, and Balagir could but stare with helpless dread.
The gillards still stood on the shore, Ol’ Hob amongst them, dancing drunkenly. Some commotion at the back of the crowd started them scattering. Balagir squinted through his spyglass. The entire island was slithering. The ground writhed as snakes poured out from the trees, through legs and over the feet of shrieking gillards, towards the sea, which positively broiled with their mass. The gillards were stricken with disgust and horror, but were otherwise unhurt.
That had been but a warning. Next came a rumble so loud every sailor on deck turned their heads towards the island. It shook then, so violently that not a gillard remained standing once it had subsided. In the background, the old tower toppled, and the peak where the temple had been collapsed in eerie silence. The next few moments of uncertainty and disbelief seemed to last an extraordinarily long time.