Feynard

by Marc Secchia

  “Come,” said he, reaching out to the Human. “If our stuck-in-the-mud friend wants to show off, then we’ll give him what he wants. How’s about a race?”

  “How does one–oh, my goodness …” This was as the Lurk lifted him off the ground. “Oh dear! Snatcher, are you sure … heeeeeeelp!” His cry echoed amongst the crags as the great thews of Snatcher’s thighs twanged, springing him into action like a champion sprinter surging out of the blocks, every fibre and muscle focussed on the outmost output of power to accelerate his body up the mountain path. Once in his early years, Kevin remembered riding a fast elevator in an office tower somewhere in London. They had been visiting Father at his place of work–a surprise that earned Mother a black eye that same evening. But oh–he didn’t know which was worse, the sickness or the exhilaration of wind rushing in his hair. He closed his eyes and hung on for dear life, profoundly grateful for having skipped breakfast.

  The straining Unicorn came closer and closer, fairly whizzing up the side of the mountain as he wove the magic of his horn about his party. There was a moment when he thought Zephyr might catch up, but he flagged right near the end and slipped back a yard or two. Thus it was, tumbling over the brink of the Well next to the Barlindran River, that the company crashed together into an unseen barrier and fell down in a tangled heap on the shores of a vast lake.

  “Ooh,” groaned Kevin, extracting his elbow from Akê-Akê’s midriff. “What happened?”

  “Get off, you fat oaf!” cried Alliathiune, taking exception to the fact that he was sitting on her thigh.

  Kevin began to scramble to his feet, dusting off his trousers with annoyed slaps of his hands.

  “By the Hills, what is that thing?” Zephyr brayed.

  The depth of horror in his voice was sufficient to still any further horseplay. Quickly, the party untangled their respective limbs and stared across the water.

  Elliadora’s Well was a lake on a mountaintop, Kevin saw, a crater lake in the bowl of a massive, mile-wide ancient volcano–that was the best comparison he could make. Around the rim, which in places jutted to heights of a hundred feet or more above the placid surface, was a regular succession of notches that must release the waters of the seven great rivers of Driadorn from this single, vast reservoir. What almighty springs must feed the lake from beneath he could but imagine. But it was fifty yards to their left that all attention was drawn. For there, standing upon a slab of rock projecting over the crystal-clear waters, was a machine.

  From their reactions, he deduced that the Forest-dwellers knew nothing of technology. Akê-Akê immediately fell to disputing its possible origins with Zephyr. Alliathiune looked lost. Snatcher looked on silently, taking in the scene.

  Kevin saw a robot of metallic, humanoid construction. Silvery parts glinted in the morning sunshine. The twin arms worked tirelessly, each dipping a metal bucket into mid-air and then tipping its filthy contents into the waters of Elliadora’s Well. Kevin rubbed his eyes. He could see a foul, oily stain spreading from the site of the robot’s efforts. Why, that smell–he knew that smell! It burned his nostrils, making his eyes water and his sinuses hurt. It was then that the memories burst into life in his mind. What had eluded him before, became staggeringly obvious. He clapped one hand over his mouth in horror, and his heartbeat stumbled in his chest.

  It was sewage. Raw, caustic waste, the very worst an industrialised nation could produce. Growing up in the back streets of Liverpool, close to the canal, he was more than familiar with the smell of effluent. He had been plastered with it countless times and twice fished out of the canal because of the pranks of Brian’s friends. Small wonder that the Forest was being poisoned if raw feculence was being dumped into its river system! And from the oils shimmering on the Well’s surface, he wondered what other toxins or corrosives were present in that filthy mix.

  He counted silently. One bucket every four seconds, per arm. Two arms working in tandem. Each bucket he estimated at ten litres. That was three hundred litres a minute. That was–his mind blanked momentarily–close to half a million litres a lighttime? No wonder the Forest was sick!

  But what–what on Earth–was a robot doing on technologically backward Feynard? Was this creature of Earthly manufacture? Who had placed it here and set it in motion?

  Zephyr prodded the unseen barrier with his horn, trying to determine what it was that had halted them. He muttered incantations and released different powders, pacing back and forth in a state of great agitation. But nothing had any effect. Kevin too reached up to run his hands over the curious plasticity in the air. Pressing against it would yield slightly but then the barrier sprang back unchanged. Finding an old stick on the ground, he probed cautiously, but it was like stirring a glutinous soup. He threw it, but the stick bounced back and struck Akê-Akê on the nose.

  As if this were some signal, the others pressed forward now too, eager to test their wiles against this obstruction. And so, for the next turn or two of the glass, they cast all the varied magical resources of their party against the barrier, but made no progress whatsoever. Even Kevin made an attempt to breach the barrier using his Key-Ring, but he was so violently repelled that only the quick reactions of the X’gäthi saved him from taking a very long swim to the base of the waterfall, where he would surely have had his brains dashed out on the rocks below.

  At this, Zephyr came to his senses and called the company to order. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop! We should not exhaust ourselves. Peace, good Alliathiune, and do not weary yourself. You are still not recovered from Shilliabär.”

  The Dryad mopped her brow. She looked wan and angry. “What curse is this?” she whispered. “A master wizard has set this abomination working, mark you my words!”

  “Undoubtedly,” said the Unicorn. “Although, this is magic of a type unfamiliar to me. From where does it snatch that smut that constantly refills its bucket? And what is that foul odour? It is as if all the cesspools of Libir-adän were distilled and their putrescent essence poured into this most holy place. I am aghast, my friends. I am speechless.”

  That was unlikely, Kevin thought to himself, resolved at once to keep his knowledge secret until he could figure out what it might mean. Surely Feynard was too backward to support the kind of heavy industry that would produce such pollutants? Or was it simply sewage–but such a concentration of the stuff? He eyed the oily water unhappily. The only thing he knew for certain was that it was pure poison to the great Forest. No wonder the trees were dying.

  And he found that the taste of vindication was like a sour apple in his mouth.

  Alliathiune brushed back her hair and looked helplessly at Zephyr. “How do we break through that barrier, good Zephyr?”

  “I’d have to study it more closely. I’d need time, and the resources of a whole team of researchers. Even the good Human’s magic avails us naught–I’ve shared with you, have I not, how invaluable was his contribution in saving your life in Shilliabär?”

  “Indeed you did.”

  “Time is a luxury we cannot afford,” rumbled Snatcher.

  “That much is clear!”

  “How does the water pass through?” Kevin blurted it out. “I mean, it might be a stupid question–”

  “No, go on!”

  “Well … uh, thanks for the encouragement. What I wanted to ask was, does the barrier go all the way around Elliadora’s Well? Or through the rivers and the mountain? Is there any breach or weak point by which we might gain access?” He swallowed nervously. “We can’t stop that robot until we get inside.”

  There was a shocked silence.

  “What, by the Hills,” said Zephyr, “is a robot?”

  Kevin turned as pale as ice. “A robot is a kind of machine, which–you don’t have machines, do you? No technology?” A shaking horn and several perplexed frowns constituted their reply. “What about clocks? How do you tell the time here?”

  “Any creature can tell time simply by looking into the skies, or less frequently, considering the st
ars.”

  Zephyr’s deadpan humour nearly made him flounder. “Well, it’s like a device,” he said doggedly. “We have many such devices on Earth to help us. They work automatically under their own power to do certain menial tasks or tasks too precise for Human fingers to carry out. Once a robot is switched on, it will keep on running until it uses up all its energy, or breaks down.”

  “It’s an automaton!” Alliathiune made the connection. “It’s a self-perpetuating spell, Zephyr!”

  A troubled look crossed his face. “Your Earth must be a dreadful place indeed, good outlander.”

  He muttered, “Earth is beautiful, thank you very much, and though it has its problems, it surpasses Feynard in many respects.”

  The Unicorn merely harrumphed good-naturedly and added, “Automatons, good Kevin, are a construct of dark wizardry often used to carry out the more menial tasks–as you suggested–that are beneath the dignity of a wizard, such as cleaning or cooking or spying on thralls. As it is running in the most powerful place for magic in all of Driadorn, the magic will not run dry. We have to find some way to stop it.”

  “Well, I’m hungry!” declared the Dryad. “Why don’t we discuss this matter over breakfast, good companions all? I, for one, think better on a full stomach. Zephyr, do you think you could handle another levitation?”

  “By the skin of my horn, yes.”

  “Then let us return later with a plan and renewed energy.”

  * * * *

  Breakfast was a swift and tense affair. No creature spoke, but many were the grim looks that were directed upwards to the Sacred Well’s rim. Akê-Akê was the first to leap to his feet and begin pacing in tight, angry circles, deep in thought. Then Zephyr began to chivvy the others along, and within minutes the company floated up to the Well once more, champing at the bit as it were.

  By noon, tempers began to fray. They were all discouraged and drained, their every effort having been countered or frustrated by the magical barrier.

  Alliathiune had first summoned a flock of small birds to examine the reach and height of the mysterious force, finding that it extended about one hundred feet in all directions from the automaton. Perhaps it was generating the barrier? They had no way of telling. She then applied her magic in the summoning of storms, minor earthquakes, and several magical creatures with different properties, but even multiple blasts of lightning, while her companions huddled underneath cloaks, simply crackled harmlessly off the impervious surface. Zephyr went about his work rather more methodically, with less drama, but even his most subtle artifice was insufficient for the task. He then gave way to Snatcher, who liquefied a patch of rocks, summoned worms of an uncommon foot-long kind to his aid, and threw several waterspouts at the barrier, all to no avail. His most powerful attack involved a dazzling, coruscating kind of body armour–it had the Unicorn murmuring in wonder–and an all-or-nothing charge, which for once occasioned a reaction from the barrier. As it vibrated like a bell under the sustained force of his attack, Snatcher was enveloped in a searing conflagration and then blasted away into the middle of the lake. Luckily Lurks have gills, which Kevin knew since their discussion of Lurk anatomy, and after an anxious wait, he surfaced near to the shore and waded towards dry land.

  “This time,” he said to Alliathiune, “I will need your help.” Both of his hands were blistered and swollen like melons.

  “Break out the toad oil,” she grinned, winking at Kevin.

  “And we’re nearly out of Aïssändraught!” lamented the Unicorn, who was partial to the odd nip. Apparently it had an intoxicating effect on Unicorns, or so he claimed.

  Last to try his hand was Akê-Akê, who conjured up an astonishing variety of magical creatures to test the barrier, but apart from a notable two who perished instantly, frazzled by the powerful force, he had no better success than the others.

  “Lunch!” Zephyr commanded, leading the way.

  Between mouthfuls of sweet, juicy grass that he extolled at considerable and surpassingly dull length, the Unicorn explained that now was probably a good time to call the Council of War. Kevin was vindicated, he declared loudly, heaping such praises on him that Kevin’s ears frankly began to burn, and he knew not where to look as the others teased him for a space with cries of ‘mighty high wizard!’ and ‘our champion!’ Alliathiune’s vision was also vindicated, and so too their choice of companions for the ‘long and arduous journey’. The company had discovered the source of the Blight. They were the first civilised creatures in hundreds of seasons to lay eyes upon Elliadora’s Well and the Sacred Grove. And help was at hand, he explained, for by harnessing the natural wellspring of power in this area, he would be able to create a portal that would allow other creatures to travel instantaneously to and fro. He could ‘point’ the portal to different homelands with little difficulty–once it was set up. That, he said modestly, would take at least a lighttime and a darktime to prepare.

  One by one, nods were given around the circle. It was time to pass the baton. Alliathiune remained pensive, and mentioned aside to Zephyr that she would attempt a Seeing during the darktime. Perhaps the greater level of magic here at the Well would allow her to pierce the future.

  These developments left Kevin in something of a quandary, for with spare time on his hands, and energy–an unthinkable notion even a few weeks ago–what should he do? Had he only been away from home for … goodness! Had the servants missed him? Or would they be quietly grateful he had disappeared? He rather suspected the latter. And what if Father found out? A chill shadowed Indomalion’s warm rays, but he found that what had been his life at Pitterdown Manor, now felt impossibly remote. As he looked down at his wavering reflection in the plunge-pool beneath the Barlindran’s pretty waterfall, the only things that reminded him of those years were the scars of his burns and his ruined ear. He explored the rough edge self-consciously. None of his companions had commented, but he saw it sometimes in the way they looked at him–Alliathiune in particular. Was it that the nurses had always shown him their cool, professional façade, rather than the caring of a Dryad? She wore her heart on her sleeve. He looked around him, but no one was watching. Alliathiune had wandered down to the Sacred Grove to sing Dryadsong to the trees, Zephyr was engrossed in mixing up some concoction of powders using his telekinesis, and Akê-Akê had nodded off in a warm spot with his hands folded over his belly. Snatcher fiddled with his club–sharpening the points, by all appearances. He wished the Lurk were not quite so jolly intimidating!

  As the afternoon wore on, Kevin did some exploring down near the Rhiallandran, shadowed by two of the X’gäthi. Alliathiune meditated, sitting cross-legged upon the white circle between those great trees. He wondered if she was hearing from Elliadora, or some similar superstitious nonsense. What his companions believed did not gel with their evident intelligence. The notion of scientific rigour had bypassed Driadorn, he decided with an uncharitable smirk–it was a good thing they had sought his services against this Blight! Where would they be now without him? Naturally, in his pig-headedness, the converse of this question did not trouble him.

  Towards twilight, the point of Zephyr’s labour became clear. He had laid out on the meadow a large seven-pointed star of white cord, magical powder, and lights that twinkled like fairies at each juncture or point of the star. Within this he had described a circle, and within that, a heptagon almost solid with an intricate tapestry of mystical symbols that shimmered faintly with a luminescence that Kevin was beginning to associate with the presence of a phenomenon these simple creatures called magic. Zephyr trotted along the lines of the star now, tracing incomprehensible signs in the air with his horn. These fell like a frosting of snowflakes upon his design, adhering as though by magnetic attraction to the lines he had first drawn. He wove his spell with a ferocious intensity of concentration–no one dared disturb him, not even Alliathiune, who had learned a few new things during her communion with the Sacred Grove and was evidently bursting to share them with her companions. She fairly sparke
d with renewed energy, and her cheeks were now entirely restored to their natural shade of green.

  The Dryad spent the early evening summoning small birds to convey messages to the different peoples that they expected to attend the Council of War, and Kevin watched her covertly from time to time, trying and failing to understand how her rapport with small creatures worked. Her talent with animals was abundantly clear.

  * * * *

  For the first time in ages, Kevin stirred from his bedroll in the morning without a single nightmare having disturbed his slumber. Most darktimes, dreary and wearying thoughts of Father or Brian would intrude, or his overheated mind would simply refuse to shut down and keep running through things–sometimes very silly things–that he had read or considered recently. Perhaps it was the beauty and solitude of this location, or its ambience of tranquillity, but he certainly was grateful for the peace from those inner demons. He tousled his hair and wondered when it would ever see a brush again.

  Something thumped into his ribs. “Ouch!”

  “Good morning, outlander!”

  “Allia–” his hand fell upon her hairbrush “–that was sore!”

  Her hazel eyes sparkled at him. “It was not, you baby.”

  “Was too.” But it was no morning to be grumpy. “Goodness gracious, what’s Zephyr up to?” He picked up her brush, which was patently wood-carved even though the tines were finer than he would have thought possible, and tried in vain to rescue his gaping jaw.

  “Just over by the Rhiallandran there’s a small pool where you can wash.” Her tone suggested he could do with one, too. “It’s impressive, isn’t it? It’s a rare wizard who can erect a portal all by himself. Looks like he’s nearly done.”

  Forgetting all about his sore ribs, Kevin stared at the coruscating centre of Zephyr’s seven-pointed star. It took him several half-asleep seconds to figure out that what he was seeing, was the pattern Zephyr had laid out last evening raised into a vertical position. Three points of the star were buried in the dewy sod, so that the perimeter of inner circle inside appeared to brush the grass blades. Within the immobile star, the circle rotated anti-clockwise at approximately one revolution every two seconds, and the heptagon within rotated clockwise with ever-increasing speed, already too fast for the naked eye to follow. The whole construct pulsated with an eldritch light. Looking at it, Kevin had the disconcerting sensation that he was being pulled forward into the spinning centre, and he looked away with a shudder.