by Marc Secchia
“Pah, this fodder is disgusting!” said he, curling his lips apart over a mouthful of anaemic grass. “Barely fit for equine consumption! Good Kevin, cleanliness is a matter of personal taste and some small magic innate to Unicorns. Useful, don’t you think?”
“Er–yes. Could you …?”
“Hrr-ibrrali! I’ve never tried,” he admitted. “I thought you Humans preferred to wash in streams. You are a touch pungent.”
“He doesn’t have your sense of smell,” Alliathiune chipped in. “I imagine bathing in freezing mountain streams isn’t entirely to your taste, good Kevin?”
“Goodness no! Don’t you feel the cold, Alliathiune?”
“Me? Not like you, evidently.” She compared her thin dress and bare legs to Kevin’s fair swaddling of warm clothing, cold-chapped lips, and streaming nose, with an unfavourable gleam in her eye. “You poor thing. You really suffer, don’t you? Your lips are turning blue.”
“It’s because I am unwell.”
“It’s not just for decoration?”
Kevin flushed at her tone. “You can talk!” he muttered.
“What’s wrong with … oh, you mean these!” said the Dryad, making the patterns on her arms undulate as though caught in an invisible breeze. Kevin blanched. “You don’t like my magic very much, do you, good outlander?”
“Well, I–”
She said waspishly, “You don’t like what you don’t understand. I wish you’d get over it, because while teasing you provides a degree of entertainment, you might react inappropriately at a crucial moment. By the Hills, you’re turning the same colour as your hair! How queer–red face, red hair, and blue lips. I couldn’t paint it more vividly in oils!”
He cringed. This jesting was abuse of a different kind, comparable to what Father had dished out over the years. It cut him to the quick, and he half-turned from her accusing presence. Nothing in the world could have convinced him to stand up for himself at that moment. The lessons of acquiescence and silence had been thoroughly instilled, accompanied by the cruellest beatings that belts, fists, feet, cricket bats and the dreaded mahogany cane could apply to human flesh and spirit. There must be a reason people vented their indignation upon him, Kevin thought dully. He must deserve it somehow. He was a feeble and craven sort, a bad person, irredeemable. He was a millstone hanging from Father’s neck.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Alliathiune start to reach out, but then she snatched her hand back as though she would rather pet a fire, and marched off a short ways. She made an angry gesture and beat her fist on her thigh. It struck Kevin that she must regret her words. He stared after her, running this unprecedented idea through his head. Ugly words, but soon spent and even more quickly regretted.
“Come,” said Snatcher, his huge paw suddenly covering Kevin’s shoulders, “Lyredin’s Way is hard upon us, but a short turn to the north. Good outlander, here is a place to bathe and gather your strength for the trials ahead. Hot springs–such luxury as is unheard of in all of Mistral Bog. Even I shall give the good Unicorn’s nostrils their peace.”
Zephyr said, “Hot springs? There are none known in these parts.”
“Few know this secret, good Unicorn, and I would ask that it remains so–or the Fauns would despoil them for the simple pleasure of ruinous work.”
“Very well, resourceful Lurk. Lead on.”
Snatcher said, “Come, my lord, your steaming bathtub awaits. It is bathtubs that Humans use, isn’t it? I have read about them.”
A slow, silly grin spread across Kevin’s face. Nothing in the world had ever sounded so good! “You’re having me on, Snatcher!”
“More to your left, good Kevin, the going is easier.” Snatcher steered him by a gentle but irresistible pressure on his shoulder. “On my dubious and widely maligned honour as a Lurk, I swear this is the whole truth. Nought more than a gentle stroll shall lead us hence, whereupon you may bathe your weary feet in fragrant, steaming pools, and cleanse your lamentably soft hide in the finest–admittedly slightly sulphurous–water this side of the Well itself.”
And he chattered on, as naturally as if strolling along the rough shores of Mistral Bog was something gigantic Lurks did with Humans every day. Kevin glanced back to see Zephyr following with a wistful air. Quietly, he recalled what the Unicorn had begun to hint at around a campfire two evenings before: his outcast status amongst the Unicorns, the grief he still felt at his parents’ loss, the loneliness he welcomed when his long journeys removed him for moons at a time from the scorn of his fellow Unicorns–how Zephyr must long for simple friendship and fellowship.
Kevin knew that emptiness only too well.
Snatcher led them by a faint track northwards, sticking near the murky expanse of Mistral Bog where the ground was less broken. At length they entered a patch of jumbled boulders, and by a cunning route, picked their way to the entrance of a cave superbly hidden beneath the skirts of a round rock thrice the height of the Lurk. Here they paused for Zephyr to ignite several special wands of wood called ‘illumithär’ in the Unicorn tongue, which glowed steadily in the hand without burning or smoke. Kevin accepted his wand a trifle glumly, wondering why the Unicorn once again eschewed his magic. Fear of the Fauns, this time? What use was magic if it could not be used?
“Now,” he heard Zephyr mutter to Alliathiune, “remember your decency, good Dryad! Humans are shy and private creatures by nature, not given to communal bathing as is commonplace amongst other creatures–especially your kin.”
“They have a nudity taboo?”
“I haven’t asked specifically,” the Unicorn said sententiously, “but I shouldn’t be surprised. Recall how he offered you his cloak whilst you repaired your apparel after the attack of the Black Wolves?”
“A civilised gesture, indeed.”
“It was intended to preserve your modesty.”
“I assure you there is modesty amongst Dryads, noble Zephyr!”
“What, a loincloth to cover the essentials?”
“Ha, says he who wears no clothing whatsoever!”
“What a preposterous notion. A covering for Unicorns? Please, only for ceremonial occasions, for such would conceal our inherent magnificence.”
“What’s preposterous is your ego! Anyhow, I’ll grant the outlander has redeeming qualities. It’s a shame he won’t admit his wizardly powers and use them directly to aid our cause. Has he some private agenda?”
“This I too have marked, noble Dryad. It challenges our earlier assessment, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Elliadora’s Well will furnish a modicum of proof, if my vision is true.”
“May our Mother Forest be healed.”
Kevin’s ears burned. They thought their whispered conversation was private, but the narrow entrance to the caves transmitted their words clearly.
He found the air within warm and humid, with a strong but not unpleasant mineral tang. Snatcher pushed ahead, his tough skin scraping both sides of the narrow entrance, for which Kevin was grateful. Any creature hiding within would first encounter the Lurk!
“As for a private agenda,” he heard Zephyr muse, “I doubt it. His actions do not appear premeditated. He lacks not the ability, but the belief in his ability.”
“He’s surpassingly selfish and lacks the most basic tact!”
“And your attitude is guaranteed to bring out the very worst in him!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kevin coughed pointedly. He could no longer pretend not to be listening.
“Here we are, noble ones,” said the Lurk, stepping into a long, winding chamber. He held up his illumithär stick. “We call this place ur-malläk tyak, the ‘waters of bubbling reprieve’ in your tongue. To your left the waters become hotter, such as would please our X’gäthi friends, where ones of soft paws should be wary of the searing stones. Good outlander, there is ahead a yellow outcropping–do you see it? That is soapstone. Simply break off a piece and gently scrub your hide to cleanse it. Nobles, your ste
aming pools await.”
“Good Lurk, you have outdone yourself!” cried Zephyr, pressing forward eagerly.
Kevin crouched to dip his hand in the balmy water. Ah–wonderful! The Unicorn had already sunk in as deep as his belly. He telekinetically removed his travel packs with precise flicks of his horn. The X’gäthi spread out to quickly reconnoitre, but there appeared to be no danger, for by the time Kevin had removed his cloak and unlaced his boots, two or three of their number had melted into the shadows near the entrance, and the rest voiced low, carefree barks in their guttural language as they waded eagerly toward the hottest pool. It looked scalding–Kevin had no intention of going near that bubbling kettle!
There were four or five interconnected pools scattered along the length of the main chamber, which had some rocky parts and some small, sandy coves along the pools where one could find a degree of privacy. He was too timid to venture far, however, and disappeared behind the nearest boulder to shuck the balance of his clothing. Goodness, it did smell rather ripe, particularly at the armpits! He regarded his scrawny limbs with the usual distaste.
“I say,” he pinched his left bicep. “Is that a hint of muscle?” Indeed, as he glanced down at his torso, Kevin found he could no longer count his ribs. “Health,” he muttered darkly. “All that toad oil and whatever else they’ve been feeding you.”
A particularly fetching set of bruises on his upper arms and torso told the sorry tale of his tangle with the glüalla, and his foot was swollen and purple where the eel had bitten it, doing some damage even through the tough leather of his boot. Gingerly, he immersed himself. A long sigh of pleasure escaped his lips. Good grief, how easily one forgot life’s simple luxuries!
“Will you be leaving us?” he heard Zephyr ask.
The Lurk’s answer was almost too low to be audible. “This is uncertain in my mind, good Unicorn.”
Kevin floated closer.
“I do not follow, good Snatcher.”
“Of what further use could I be to you and your companions?”
“Legend has it that the last time a Lurk ventured from his home, was to join the war against Ozark the Dark, where he greatly distinguished himself and brought untold honour to the mighty Lurks of Mistral Bog.”
“Good Zephyr, we both know what became of that honour.”
“I believe,” the Unicorn nickered softly, “that we speak of your sire.”
“My grandsire.”
“Indeed?”
He made a keening noise like the echo of a sob. “Such a tale hearkens to sadder times.”
“I’m truly sorry, noble Lurk. Yet I declare to you now that there are some who do not forget so quickly. Perhaps the time is ripe to regain that honour.”
“Your ideals are ever lofty, noble Unicorn, and your purposes too high and noble for such a lowly creature as I. If you conceive a need for my poor services, then speak, and I will be honoured to serve.”
By now, Kevin’s drifting had brought him out into the open. Both creatures looked up as he slipped unexpectedly and sank with a gurgle under the water. With a gruff laugh, Snatcher surged forward and righted him with a flip of his huge paw.
“Have you drunk sufficiently of the ur-malläk tyak, good Kevin?”
He spluttered and gurgled something unintelligible, and coughed severely.
“That’s what comes of eavesdropping!” Zephyr accused him. “A thoroughly disagreeable habit. You look like a drowned rat!”
“I wasn’t … intentionally.”
Zephyr added two choice words from the Unicorn tongue that made Snatcher’s nictitating membranes flicker in amusement.
Kevin gazed up past the Lurk’s shadowy bulk to his luminous eyes, forgetting for a moment the alien nature of this creature, and whatever he saw there, it made his back straighten imperceptibly. He nodded slowly. “I may be mistaken,” said he, selecting his words with the care a jeweller takes over picking the right stone, “but I suspect that the Lurk’s concern for our cause runs deeper than a mere escort through Mistral Bog. Are not the waters of his homeland being poisoned? Will Lurks sicken and die too like the good trees of Driadorn? His heart is burdened. And I, for one, who seem unable even to take a bath without attempting to drown myself, would consider it an honour and a privilege to travel in his company.”
“Well spoken indeed, good Kevin!” Zephyr nodded, and with a poetic twirl of his horn, he added, “Your sentiments mirror my own like the never-rippling waters of the Pool of Stää.”
Snatcher took stock of this. “Good outlander, your allusion is inaccurate with respect to Lurk physiology, for we have not one heart but three, but in all other respects you have spoken with wisdom and insight beyond your years.”
“Thank you.”
“I would counsel, however, that amongst Lurks I stand alone in my desire to help the other races of the Hills. My brethren consider the history to which the peerless Unicorn referred a betrayal of reprehensible and unforgivable proportions. Were you to come bearing the riches of Thaharria-brin-Tomal, to plead until your knees were raw to the begging, they would not crook so much as a single digit to offer service.” He sighed. “On our own, I believe that Lurks will not survive. But come, let us turn our thoughts to more cheerful paths. What of the Dryad? Does she support your–”
“This Dryad,” Alliathiune replied pertly, “speaks for herself.”
Zephyr rolled his eyes. “Is there no privacy? Have you been listening too?”
“You spoke not as one eager to conceal his conversation,” she replied, with a defiant tilt of her chin. “Although I was at the next pool, washing my hair, voices echo–especially your dulcet tones.”
“Humph!”
“Zephyr, you’re a right old stick-in-the-mud sometimes!” Tiny Alliathiune struck a stock pose, hands on hips, and stamped her foot. “How dare you speak about me behind my back?”
Kevin smothered his laughter beneath a poorly faked cough. Even with no more than a blanket tucked about her torso for modesty’s sake, she was formidable. His green eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ahem!” he cleared his throat. “May I request, children, that you refrain from squabbling in my bathtub?”
“Your bathtub?” Alliathiune spluttered, “Well I … good outlander–”
“Zephyr was merely seeking your opinion on an important matter. I hardly see what there is to quarrel about.”
She waggled her forefinger at him, rescued the blanket from a subtle slide that had suddenly doubled Kevin’s pulse-rate, and declared, “For one who speaks and behaves with such apparent meekness and hesitation, good outlander, you certainly show your teeth on occasion!”
Hot shame flooded his cheeks. “I-I’m sorry, Allia–”
“Stop right there!” she cried. “Don’t you dare apologise! I like it, that’s what I mean.”
“Pardon?”
The Dryad smiled brilliantly. “I like it.” But before Kevin could rearrange his bewildered–well, gaping like a goldfish–expression, she turned to the Lurk. “We are already in your debt, noble ally. What repayment is possible? Yet as the Leaven seasons turn about the Sacred Well, such an opportunity may arise. It is no mere coincidence but part of a wider purpose, I hold, that we are rewarded with your companionship. I, too, request the honour of your company.”
With his arms crossed, the Lurk bowed from his waist until his snout almost brushed the water. He murmured, “You are too kind, nobles all.”
Kevin stared at the Lurk with a sudden flash of insight. What secret torments encumbered one of his high intelligence? The sigil of the once-victimised was emblazoned on Snatcher’s character–had his own miserable existence not uniquely placed him to recognise it? There was a grave and crippling uncertainty, a need to seek the approval of others, a basic lack of self-belief utterly–and bafflingly–at odds with the Lurk’s manifest prowess. Contrast him with Alliathiune or Zephyr, both self-confident to the point of arrogance. His eyes flickered to the Dryad, facing away from him as she brushed the snarls out of her
long, green tresses with tiny noises of discomfort and frustration. It was different in her, though. He was unable to reason why. To his intuition, the prickly exterior she often displayed did not tally with other things–her great love for the Forest, her passion to challenge the Blight, and her evident care for all living things. Vague shapes in the mist, these conjectures, and yet he sensed their truth. His eyes, having lingered so long on Alliathiune that Zephyr harrumphed meaningfully behind him, jumped guiltily away. Goodness, she was a terrible distraction! No wonder she was so paranoid, with a weasel like him leering out of the shadows.
Filled with disgust at his inner feelings and motives, Kevin stole away to a quieter place to be alone with his thoughts rather than inflicting them on the others.
* * * *
Alliathiune must consider him the feeblest creature upon the Seventy-Seven Hills, Kevin thought bleakly, trying to put one aching foot before the other while ignoring the springy pace that his companions set. Lyredin’s Way was far too steep and challenging for him. He was falling behind once more–which he had become quite accustomed to–and four of the X’gäthi had dallied to carry him up the difficult parts.
“I’m sorry,” he kept panting. “Just leave me behind. I know I’m a useless burden to you. Please, let me rest.”
But even though their toothy smiles never faltered, they pressed him mercilessly. What an injustice, being born with such a delicate constitution! While Snatcher’s hot springs had been wonderful, he was allergic to something in the water and now had a fiery rash behind his knees and inside his elbows. No rest for the wicked. He mopped his forehead. This jolly humidity combined with the exercise was making him sweat like a pig! His skin stung like disinfectant applied to a cut where the nisk flies had turned his face and neck into a personal playground. He had never worked this hard in his life. He had never been able to.
The narrow trail–clear even to his inexperienced eye–doubled back and forth up the side of a towering, rocky pinnacle, and the footing was treacherous. Were it not for the X’gäthi he would have twisted an ankle long ago. As it was, the loose, mossy boulders were staining his clothing a delightful khaki colour, and his hands were torn and muddied from grasping uncomfortable handholds during the climb. There must be a blister the size of Scotland on his left heel. Kevin paused to wheeze unhappily. Goodness, what if he had an attack–out here, without his pump? He would die! Either that or some ravening monster would eat him first. But despite his morbid imagination, he was beginning to suspect he was well and truly trapped in Feynard’s extensive Forest. There was no hope of return. He may as well play along, for what else could he do? He was only grateful to be many miles distant from Mylliandawn and her revolting threats.