by Marc Secchia
“I say–”
“Look here, Zephyr, compared to Earth, this world–Feynard–is a primitive backwater! A bucolic paradise housing uncivilised animals. You have no technology, no advanced tools, no industry, no medical facilities, medieval weaponry–”
The Unicorn stomped his hooves angrily. “Are all your kind so ill-mannered? How dare you call me an animal? My ancestors studied the stars before Humans ever set foot upon the Seventy-Seven Hills!” Kevin shrank back against his stool. “Your kind know nought of what it is to act with common civility! Humans are warmongering peasants with a penchant for–”
“Did I come at a bad time?” It was Alliathiune, returned from her peace-making amongst the Hedgehogs. “Noble Kevin, that fork is no sword. Zephyr, you know the laws about magic.”
“I demand an apology!”
“By Elliadora’s peace,” she said acidly, “the food will spoil with all this heat in the room! Have you riled the good Unicorn once more?”
“I didn’t mean anything, truly I didn’t.”
Staring at him with disconcerting compassion in her eyes, Alliathiune touched Zephyr on the shoulder and said softly, “He meant nought, noble Tomalia; my friend. All creatures know the one-horns are an ancient and proud people, the very pinnacle of society in the Forest.”
“Now you jest!” But he backed down without apparent acrimony. “I am too quick to anger, noble outlander.”
“And surely, Zephyr is among the most tolerant and broad-minded of Unicorns.”
“Nonsense. Your manner speaks veiled excitement, gentle Dryad.”
She slapped him crossly. “Are there no secrets where you are concerned?”
“Guile is not in your sweet nature.”
Sweet? That was not a word Kevin would have used to describe Alliathiune. A volcano about to erupt, more to the point, or an unexpected summer thunderstorm. He could make neither head nor tail of her relationship with the Unicorn–the sudden changes of mood from playful to acerbic to deadly serious made his head spin. At Pitterdown Manor, the status quo was maintained by a bevy of servants and Father’s express dislike of the slightest noise or disruption. Kevin too loved his peace and quiet. Back home, a banging door would have been a memorable occasion. He loved order too, he liked things just so thank you very much, everything in its proper place and for a proper reason.
“Impertinent scoundrel!” exclaimed the Dryad, turning to Kevin. She was so brim-full with pent-up excitement that it fairly sparked off her skin.
“Waycrust?”
Alliathiune sucked in what she had been about to say and raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Newly versed in Forest manners, good Kevin? I accept, by the Sacred Grove of Elliadora’s Well.”
When he had repeated the little ceremony, and the waycrust had passed once more around their little company, Zephyr explained, “The Sacred Grove is a Dryad holy site, said to exist at the foot of the Well itself. Now please speak, good Dryad, before you burst.”
“I dreamed, good Kevin,” she burst out at once, “that you had stumbled upon something of importance. It was the oddest incident–one moment I was speaking to the Hedgehogs, the next I envisioned you standing with a blighted leaf in your hand and the light of discovery in your eyes. They thought I had taken a strange turn. But I just wondered if you had discovered anything, any clue at all about this Blight?”
He shook his head. “Was that the substance of your vision, Alliathiune?”
“Nought but an odd notion.” She sighed, and he saw the tiredness and strain pulling like quicksand at her strength. “My hopes are too fragile.”
“Er–don’t cry, um …” Kevin paused awkwardly. Then he had a minor brainwave. “Alliathiune! You say you saw me holding a leaf? That means I must have been examining a tree–a blighted tree.”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “And?”
Kevin was appalled as she then proceeded to clean her hand on her dress. What perfectly dreadful manners! “My dear old girl, don’t you see?” he said.
“I am neither your dear, nor old!”
“Sorry. Forgot my manners. Only taking my example from you.”
Kevin’s voice trailed off as he realised what had popped out of his mouth. But the Dryad only chuckled. “You are a Tomalia in Human skin, good Kevin, with your love of wordiness. By the Hills, speak your mind plainly!”
“It means I was beside a tree. Maybe–this is farfetched, I know, but let’s just go along with it–I have to go find a blighted tree to have this idea.” Maybe he was clutching at straws, or maybe it was a puppy-dog desire to please, he thought. “What do you say? Is that the way these visions work? Zephyr, are there any such trees in the vicinity?”
“Near Thaharria-brin-Tomal? I should think not–our Unicorn magic is too strong.”
But Alliathiune mused, “There is a place but a short turn of the glass from here, where two lighttimes ago such a tree was reported.”
The Unicorn shook his head like a negation of impending doom. “It cannot be!” But her head shook sadly, just once. “This troubles me deeply. I had thought our magic stronger–that it could hold the Blight at bay beyond the borders of Unicorn lands. There are ten turns of the glass in a lighttime and fifteen to the darktime in this season, good outlander. A short turn is less than a turn but more than half a turn.”
“Do you truly think …?”
A twenty-five hour day, Kevin translated in his mind. Close enough to Earth’s measurement. Close enough that he could almost believe he was somewhere on Earth, save for the obvious differences he had seen out of his window, and learned about from his Unicorn tutor. If this was an illusion or dream, it was amazingly detailed and internally consistent, from the unique trees and flowers, to the hand-sized moths fluttering about their darktime fairy lights which lit the Unicorn village, to the different characters he had met so far. Thinking about it would only give him a migraine.
He said sullenly, “I do, but I cannot walk. I’m too weak.”
They all three looked at each other sombrely. Then Alliathiune made an impatient clucking sound. “Come, good Zephyr, the evening grows no younger. What have we to lose in this venture? Hope is scarce. Summon a litter, and the X’gäthi, and let us partake of a stroll together!”
Zephyr clicked his hind hooves together with military precision. “As you wish, Allämiuna.” As he trotted forth, Kevin’s eyes followed him curiously. One moment she had been treating him as an equal, the next, as a servant–addressing him in an authoritative tone not dissimilar to that which Father used on the servants at Pitterdown Manor. The sudden connection shocked him. Was she like Father and Brian? Why would she act so? Why had Zephyr reacted so meekly? Was he, too, somehow afraid of her? She was too strange and alien to understand.
Once, long ago, he had been sitting in the Library reading, when he happened to look up and see a hawk swooping down on a rabbit right on the lawn outside the window. He still remembered that belated shrieking of terror just before the strike, the crimson blood blooming around the talons as the hawk’s wings beat rapidly to lift off again. That was the kind of fear inside of him now–he was the rabbit, she, the hawk.
* * * *
Matters progressed with bewildering speed. Firstly, Bock turned up to unlock Kevin’s chain. Then a squad of dark, wraithlike creatures called X’gäthi, a word containing a glottal stop Kevin struggled to reproduce; creatures similar to men in height and build, but with an extraordinary quickness and hardness about them, appeared in the hallway of Zephyr’s house to escort them and to bear his litter. From his lectures, Kevin understood that the X’gäthi were carnivores, hunting and killing their prey barehanded, and regarded as the pre-eminent fighters of Driadorn. They were a once-proud race of the Old Forest, who had risen under the Dark Wizard Omäirg in the elder days to make war upon the races and subjugate them to their will, drawing other ambitious creatures into their fold until the first recorded major conflict in the Seventy-Seven Hills ignited. Following their
defeat in the bloody battle of Thäos-brin-Thäthan, the place where later were planted the Gardens of Sudibar Treefriend as an enduring memorial to that slaughter, the X’gäthi were bound by a mighty working of magic to ten thousand Leaven seasons of servitude to the Unicorns, in reparation for their evil deeds. This time had run a little over half its course.
Five thousand years of recorded history! Kevin caught his breath at the thought.
Strong hands bore the litter through the spotless corridors of Zephyr’s home, until for the first time since his arrival upon Feynard, Kevin found himself beneath overcast skies, which appeared light only because of evening’s gathering gloom beneath the heavy boughs of the ancient trees that shaded Thaharria-brin-Tomal. There was a dampness of fine drizzle against his cheeks. Had he been less preoccupied with the prospect that his allergies would flare up and choke him like weeds strangling a young plant, he might have noticed how natural and flowing was the Unicorn architecture, how cleverly interwoven with the Forest to bend or break no growing thing, and how the Unicorn houses were constructed of one seamless portion of wood, as if nurtured and shaped exactly as needed. But his face was as pale and cold as ice. The inner demons descended upon him in full battle array. The blankets he drew closer to his frail frame, as if this action could somehow ward infirmity, and he stared without seeing into the deep wooded shadows as the party of some dozen or more X’gäthi, led by Alliathiune, set off down a narrow footpath between the Unicorn dwellings.
He did not wish to see, so he did not.
He looked on dully as Zephyr sparked small, floating lights off his horn to hover above their company and light the way.
As they passed beyond the magic-lit byways of Thaharria-brin-Tomal into the deeper woods, Zephyr dropped back to solicitously inquire of his health. But for the most part, they walked in silence, setting a pace that Kevin knew in his heart he would never, ever be able to match afoot. He closed his eyes and turned his mind to the matter of the Blight.
But when Alliathiune indicated they had reached the desired place, he had reached no further conclusions, only further questions. Several possible lines of investigation had presented themselves, however.
“Here we are, good outlander,” said Zephyr, unnecessarily. “Proceed.”
There was a long and very awkward silence as a dozen pairs of eyes fixed upon him. Acutely aware that the success or failure of this excursion depended on him, Kevin sat in frozen tableaux, until the Unicorn came to his rescue with a tiny, sympathetic shake of his mane.
“Which tree should we approach, good Dryad?”
“Any,” she shrugged, with a sadness like lakes of unshed tears behind that simple syllable. “All these trees feel the first touch of Blight. Here, this leaf. And this. Can you not see?”
Zephyr brightened his lights with a flick of his horn, and commanded, “X’gäthi, lend the outlander your strong arm!”
Kevin found he was able to struggle to his feet and hop carefully over to the designated tree, leaning heavily all the while upon that powerful arm. Though the bulky cast on his broken leg made movement awkward, the X’gäthi warrior betrayed no weakness. His face was set as stone. But when Kevin began to stumble, he was there with all the swiftness of thought–and one of his companions too–to correct the misstep. He swallowed. Their movement had been like a flicker of shadow across his vision. No need in their company, therefore, to fear the predators of night! Something within him uncurled.
He bent to examine a low-hanging bough. It smelled of cinnamon and damp. He leaned closer. Rot? Perhaps it was just the loamy soil, cool and ever so unfamiliar between his bare toes. Goodness! He leaped backward with a shriek, surprising both Zephyr and Alliathiune but not the stolid X’gäthi, who caught the outlander up in his arms and instantly whipped him away from danger. A sword came whistling down where he had stood, and the X’gäthi gave a low bark of laughter, the first emotion any of them had displayed. Almost before Kevin could register the fact that his blade had jerked to a complete standstill about three inches above the turf–a display of astonishing mastery–the weapon returned to his belt with a stylish twirl.
Zephyr gasped, “What is it?”
“By the Sacred Well, it is a beetle, Kevin!” Alliathiune exclaimed in disgust. “Oh, that is–” he flinched and wished the ground would swallow him whole “–the most utterly pathetic … ridiculous! It’s a stag beetle, everyone. Your average seven-tined stag beetle found in the bottom of most gardens. Harmless.” She shooed it away with her hand. “Some warrior you are!”
She and the Unicorn exchanged glances. For moon upon moon, Kevin knew, the vision had shown them a powerful warrior and leader who would serve Driadorn with great skill and courage. They had taken this vision to heart and shared it with the potentates of their respective realms–the Unicorn Council, the Dryad Queen, and others. Now, their glances said, they were wondering if they had been mistaken.
Kevin had been about to ask Alliathiune to confirm the odour, but now his shame burned away his courage. He hunched forward, aware that every stare on the back of his neck was laughing at him. He summoned his old mental tricks. Kevin liked to think of his mind as a machine, ticking away, orderly and systematic, a precise and powerful tool, that if applied correctly and given sufficient scope for reflection, could cut through the fabric of mystery or problem and resolve it. So he bent to, minutely examining the topside and underside of a spotted leaf, letting his senses do the work. His fingertips felt odd–rather than their usual numbness, there was a kind of prickling and itchiness, as if his allergies were beginning to act up. Oh, he had suspected … shut it out. Concentrate. Harder. Breathe it in. With an apologetic glance at Alliathiune, he tore the leaf and put his nose right to the serrulated edges, trying to get a sense of the rot. The stag beetle was back–one of the X’gäthi picked it up and tossed it into the night. He shuddered. Dinner rumbled ominously within his gut. Oh dear, what bad timing that would be! Like a ruthless dictator, he clamped down on these errant thoughts and returned his mind to the task at hand. Now, that odour–so peculiar, yet so familiar–what could it be?
“Any progress?” asked the Dryad, breaking his train of thought. Kevin grunted in irritation. “You’ve been there for ages.”
“Ages?”
“A fair length of time.”
Looking about, he noticed with surprise that some of the X’gäthi had moved off, keeping guard, and Zephyr was patiently cropping a tuft of juicy grass nearby. “So it seems.” He stood upright, easing his aching back. “What make you of this Blight, Alliathiune?”
The Dryad stared at him, before shrugging with a delicacy that suggested stress and sore shoulders. “I sense illness all around us,” she said. “No part of the Forest is left unaffected by this malady. I feel corruption and decay where there should be none. Now there is but hints and isolated signs, but soon I fear it will become pervasive. I am bereft of hope, good outlander. You are our last chance.”
“I meant, where do you think it comes from?”
Alliathiune glanced up at him from her diminutive height–disconcerting, given his own deplorable lack of stature, and it made him feel absurdly protective of her, as if the powerful creature needed any protection–and frowned. “What does it matter where it comes from, good outlander? It is; it exists! We must do something to combat–”
“No.” He was on surer ground now. “We must first understand it. Where does it originate? What does it do to the Forest? How does it spread? Only when we understand these things, will we be able–”
“I don’t see this trip as particularly constructive, so far,” she retorted, putting her hands to her hips. “If someone would do less running away from beetles and more about the Blight, that would be good, wouldn’t it?”
Kevin snapped, “Well, if other people would just be quiet and let a man think.”
Alliathiune gasped. Colour rushed to her cheeks and she stamped her foot. “By the Hills, you are the most frustrating, obnoxious …! Oh! I’m–I
’m not speaking to you anymore!”
And she whirled on her heel, muttering away. Kevin looked after the feisty Dryad, breathing hard, feeling obscurely satisfied. Perhaps the Jenkins was not such a wimp after all. Ha!
Kevin returned to that elusive thought; to the niggling suspicion that he was missing something right in front of his pimply nose. Gosh, Alliathiune had amazing hair, right down to her waist! And how could she even imagine she was fat? Her legs were trim and attractive, and … the Blight, darn it. Could he not concentrate for one second?
Each tiny spot was as black as soot, sharp as a pin, extending right through the leaf as though drilled there by some type of stinging insect. He had never seen anything like it. For all he knew, it could be an insect-borne plague. This was a vector he had not yet considered. From the corner of his eye, he saw Alliathiune glancing at him as if about to speak, but he ignored her and she bit her lip before spinning away again. She had no idea how distracting her behaviour was, he thought crossly. How could he ponder these mysteries when she was constantly hopping to and fro like a bored frog? He focussed in on the leaf once more. There must be a clue. He inhaled again. That faint rankness was like rotting compost, no, more like old engine oil. Squeezing the spots produced no hint of the black exudation he had dreamed of. Perhaps another line of inquiry was needed. And for that he needed the Dryad.
Kevin felt he would rather stroke one of those bristling Hedgehogs. “Ahem. Alliathiune?”
“I am not speaking to you!”
He sighed. Moses clearly did better drawing water from a rock in the desert. “I need your help. Please.”
“Oh, asking for help, are we? Am I allowed to speak now, good outlander?”
“How could I stop you?” Kevin bit his tongue in horror as the words spilled out, but she only arched her left eyebrow, inviting the question. “Well, um–about this corruption you speak of. Where do you sense it?”
“Everywhere.”
“No, hold on. Let me be clear.” Kevin sensed a stirring in his mind, a feeling as familiar as old slippers, the feeling he got when a problem began to yield its secrets to his exceptional intellect. In his ever-humble opinion. Could he imitate a Unicorn, speaking for days on end with perfect recall? And what, for all his Library-learning, did he know of Feynard and Driadorn?