The Obsidian Quest [Search for Earthlight Trilogy Book 1]
Page 11
"It's probably dangerous walking anywhere near Mount Cook at all,” John ventured. “The sheer noise of the fall could have loosened rocks and ice in other parts of the Alps."
"The Lady—we must reach the Lady.” Peter folded the map and thrust it into his pocket. He bent and grabbed Dreyfus's collar with one hand and one of Jamie's hands with the other. “All hold hands and concentrate. Think about the Lady. Concentrate as hard as you can on what you remember most about her."
Obediently they joined hands, with John holding on to the other side of Dreyfus's collar. They all remembered the powerful emotions induced by the Lady's presence—the longing for her to be always there—but Peter's most lasting impression was the yearning created by the eerie music that always either heralded her arrival or announced her departure. He struggled with all his might to remember at least a few notes of it—striving to recall what the music had sounded like. His efforts seemed to him so puny that a dry sob escaped from him.
He was about to tell the others to stop when he thought he heard something—a single far-off note. No—it was gone. Another sob escaped his lips, but he was completely unaware of it. He strained his ears again and the other two, although not sure what was happening, remained silent and did the same. This time they all heard it—the clear eerie sound floating across the mountains, dragging faint echoes in its wake. Excited, they dropped each other's hands to look for the source of the music. There was nothing to be seen, however, except a lone bird winging its way above the peaks. Briefly, indifferently, Peter glanced at it, for it was the only thing moving in that bleak landscape.
The bird drew nearer, seeming to be on a direct flight path to Mount Cook. It landed in the snow a few feet away from them.
"It's a Kea!” Why is a Kea flying at this altitude? Peter wondered.
The mountain parrot waddled toward them and Peter noticed it held something in its beak. He knew the Kea was a cheeky and decidedly nosy parrot, capable of stealing anything it fancied, and he was curious to know why this one had landed on top of Mount Cook. He was about to step forward when the Kea took to the air and for a moment Peter thought he had frightened it away. However, it flew straight for him and landed on his shoulder. When he put up a tentative finger, the Kea thrust into his hand what it was holding in its beak. It was a folded note. As the Kea dropped back onto the snow, Peter found himself again unfolding a piece of paper with shaking hands.
"'Tell Jamie to sing the following',” he read aloud. Underneath this were three bars of music.
He held the note out to Jamie.
"There are no words,” Jamie protested.
"Surely you can sing without words.” A horrible thought occurred to Peter. “You can read music?"
Jamie gave him the most withering look of which he was capable. “'Course I can! My sight reading could be improved, though—at least so my singing teacher always says.” When Peter groaned, he continued reassuringly, “Oh, don't worry. This looks simple enough. The beginning usually is. A piece of music gets harder as it goes along."
Jamie cleared his throat and tentatively tried the notes out slowly and softly, singing the sound ah instead of words. He sang the phrases again more confidently, then tried them a third time at a faster, more appropriate speed.
He cleared his throat again. “Okay. I think I've got it.” He opened his mouth as though about to start and closed it again. “Gee! I don't think I've ever been so nervous before!"
"I don't think you've ever had four lives depending on your performance,” John said.
Jamie, about to open his mouth again, closed it and gave his brother a scathing look. “Thanks for the reminder."
This time he threw back his head and, addressing the mountain range, began to sing. The Kea, about to take off, dropped back onto the snow in surprise.
If the Kea was surprised, however, Peter was astounded. From Jamie's tentative tryouts he had not expected the magnificent sounds he heard. Jamie possessed an extremely fine voice, stronger than most trebles and a match in technique for many sopranos, but with a purity exhibited by few of the latter. This time, however, he outdid his own best performances.
As the last long, ringing note died on the alpine air, they all received another shock as their feet left the icy rock and they floated up and over the blasted side of the mountain. Yet a third surprise awaited them when they were able to see the path of the avalanche. Each of them, spreading his arms out like a bird riding the air currents, hovered for a few moments over the great black scar, desperately trying to see if there was any sign of their mentor and guide.
Hope surged in Peter with the exhilaration of flying and the realization that they were saved. Perhaps they could go down and have a look.
He strove to touch down at the bottom of the avalanche but it felt as if something pushed him back. It was as though a physical barrier had been erected between him and the mountain. A glance at the twins showed they were experiencing the same force. Even Dreyfus was unable to reach the enormous pile of debris where Merlin lay in a broken heap.
"No good,” Peter shouted.
As soon as he gave up attempting to land, he felt himself gently propelled downwards and away from the terrible site. They landed at the foot of the mountain below the scar. Although they craned their necks, it was impossible to see anything from where they stood.
John broke the silence, awkwardly, addressing his brother. “That was some performance."
Jamie's distressed gaze left the mountainside and swivelled to his brother. Deliberately he misunderstood what his twin had said. “Yes, it sure was. I've often dreamed of flying like a bird."
"He meant your singing, you daft idiot.” Peter spoke automatically; he was having trouble bringing his attention down from the blasted mountain. The face he turned to his new friends was white and strained, but the full force of their loss had yet to hit him.
Jamie looked uncomfortable. “I surprised myself. There seemed to be ... something ... up there. Didn't you feel the power?"
"Something was certainly stopping us reaching where Merlin fell.” Peter scanned the mountain slope for the umpteenth time. “It didn't feel evil, though. The barrier felt neither good nor bad. It was just there."
"If it was evil, mightn't whoever put it there have enough power to stop us from sensing the evil?” John ventured uneasily.
"Let's try calling on the Lady for help,” Peter suggested.
They all joined hands and concentrated as before. For a while nothing happened. About to drop his hands, however, Peter thought he heard the Lady's music—faint and far away—and he redoubled his concentration. The Lady's voice spoke into his mind, and that too was so faint it was difficult for him to understand the words. “No, no—must go—Hidden City—the Reborn. Go—go."
There was no more. Disconsolately, Peter let his hands fall to his sides. The others looked at him impatiently.
"Well, what did she say?” Jamie demanded. “You obviously heard something we didn't."
Peter said slowly, “She said no, and that we were to go to the Hidden City—and then something about Reborn.” He said no more as he didn't want to worry them. Instead he withdrew the map from his pocket and they studied it again. “It looks as though this hidden city is on the other side of Mount Cook.” He looked from the map to the surrounding terrain. “Obviously that's the direction we're supposed to take,” he finished, pointing.
Without more ado, they set off. It was as they trudged along, thinking about what had happened on Mount Cook's summit, that full understanding hit Peter. He had lost his master, guide and friend. But on the other hand he had also lost his uncle. Gradually the numb feeling disappeared and the ground became more and more blurred through the veil of his tears.
"I think we should stop for something to eat,” Jamie suggested, concerned for Peter.
Jamie and John soon had a small fire going and within a short time they were sitting in a circle drinking hot soup and breaking hunks off a loaf of bread.
Next morning they held a council. Peter consulted the map.
"It looks like we have several more days of walking. We have enough food for seven days. Surely that should be plenty. There's some special trampers’ stuff among the food: Merlin's own secret recipe. Or so he says in a note enclosed with it. One biscuit at breakfast, lunch and dinner time is sufficient food for a day's tramp, apparently. Perhaps we should have some every day."
They packed everything and set off again.
"What are we going to this Hidden City for?” Jamie asked as they trudged along. “And what does ‘reborn’ mean anyway? How can anyone be reborn?"
Peter looked at him listlessly. “I don't know. Maybe Merlin would have explained everything to us."
"It's Christmas Eve soon,” Jamie said gloomily. “At this rate, we're going to miss Christmas altogether. It's going to take ages to get round this mountain."
"Oh gosh!” Peter cried. “Aunt Angela's all on her own—and she doesn't know what's happened to Uncle Paul ... Merlin yet."
Deep gloom settled on them. They were climbing and the gradient was getting steeper and steeper. They trudged along doggedly, heads bent. At the top of the slope Peter stopped and suggested they sit down for a short rest and a drink of water. He poured half a cup for each of them before half-filling a bowl for Dreyfus and placing it on the ground. Dreyfus made eagerly for the bowl. As he bent to drink, however, he jumped back as though a bee had stung him. He stood a foot or two from the bowl, looking at it and whining.
Peter gulped down the last mouthful in his own cup. “What's the matter, old boy?"
However, Dreyfus seemed not to hear but continued looking at the bowl. Ears pricked forward, he kept up his soft whimper. Peter could see nothing wrong with the bowl and there was certainly nothing amiss with the water, for he had drunk some himself. Reluctantly he approached the bowl and bent over it. He, too, jerked back with a gasp. Surely there was something moving on the bottom of the bowl? Cautiously he leaned forward to look again. This time he didn't draw back but concentrated on the water. His heart began to pound. Had he heard, faint and distant, a few notes of the Lady's unearthly music? Straining to hear, he leaned closer to the bowl and was sure he could see the Lady's face, coming and going, flickering and wavering like a bad television reception. Her lips moved, but Peter could hear nothing.
"I can't hear you.” In his frustration he found himself shouting, awaking all the echoes.
He thought he saw relief flooding the indistinct features. This time she spoke into his mind, but the reception was again extremely poor and her voice weak. “Throw ... water ... come ... quickly...."
"You want me to throw this water into the air?” Unconsciously Peter found himself answering her without words.
The answer came like a gentle breath of air: “Yes"—and the Lady's face vanished.
The twins gaped in astonishment—and even Dreyfus cocked his ears and widened his eyes—as Peter picked up the bowl and tossed its contents as high as he could. The water went up in a great kaleidoscopic arc and drops splashed around them like fireworks. Momentarily blinded, they took a few seconds to realize that where the water had fallen a neatly paved road stretched upwards, disappearing in a curve around the mountain. Without a word Peter heaved his knapsack over his shoulders and stepped onto the road, followed unhesitatingly by Dreyfus. When the others saw that boy and dog were moving away from them in spite of standing still, they grabbed their own packs and ran after them.
Wordlessly they looked first at the road ahead and then back at where it had started. But there was no longer anything to see behind. The road disappeared into a mistiness that was more like an unfocused film than actual mist. The view from the sides of the road was the same. Abruptly real mist merged ahead into the roadway and the road itself disappeared without them seeing how or where it went. They were left standing somewhere on Mount Cook—or was it another mountain?—with forested valleys spread out below bisected by glinting streams and rivers.
A bloodcurdling noise drifted from the mist ahead.
"Wh-what was that?” John said, while Dreyfus made a sound like a cross between a whine and a growl.
"It reminded me of the cathedral organ,” Jamie said helpfully. “But of course there can't possibly be a cathedral let alone a pipe organ in the middle of the mountains."
The long, moaning sound came again, followed by a higher-pitched note and a lower one. All three boys strained their eyes ahead into the mist. As they looked, the mist parted briefly. For a split second they could make out a shape. It looked like a giant facing in their direction. The mist rolled and curled around the figure, hiding it while showing another. As the three boys stood petrified, they were able to make out that there were at least five figures—and possibly more.
"They're not moving,” Peter whispered, his mouth suddenly dry. “Are they real?"
Heart pounding, he moved forward. The giants still didn't move. The mist rolled away and Peter, Jamie and John found themselves staring at a group of the ugliest statues they had ever seen, grouped in a circle. Sitting and standing in uncomfortably twisted attitudes, the statues stared sightlessly at them. Their mouths were open and their heads were hollow, and it was the wind soughing through these openings that created the moaning sounds.
"They make my spine crawl,” John said.
"Even though I know they're only statues and they can't hurt me, I must admit I feel the same,” Peter said. “They make me want to run back the way I came."
With intense concentration, he managed to ignore the feeling and walk forward, passing through the center of the circle of figures. It wasn't until he was on the other side that he could see where he was supposed to be heading. The plateau on which the figures stood sloped down toward the mountain, where there was a cleft in the mountainside. It beckoned to Peter with immeasurable power.
"Come on! This way."
He ran at such a pace the others feared they would lose sight of him. With Dreyfus bounding in front, they made a dash between the statues and followed Peter into the gap in the mountain. Hardly had they passed through the opening, however, than they ran straight into Peter, who had stopped just inside.
"Oh!” Jamie said. “It's only a hollow in the mountain."
"No, it's not,” Peter said. “It can't be because it's been calling to me—drawing me to it like a magnet."
He turned to the wall of rock and examined it, feeling the surface with his fingers. There was a grinding sound and they all jumped back. They watched in amazement as the wall pivoted inwards. Peter and Dreyfus led the way. Once they were all inside, the rock pivoted back with the same grinding sound. It closed with a crash and they were left in darkness.
"Has anyone got a torch or a match?” John said in a small quavering voice. “I don't like the dark."
He felt Jamie grope for his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.
"I've got both torch and matches,” said Peter a trifle gruffly—he too was afraid “—but they're in my pack and—"
He stopped as he noticed the darkness ahead was receding in the growing light of torches fixed into the walls at regular intervals. The steadily burning flames revealed a wide corridor hewn into the mountainside. At the end of the passage was a huge pair of black doors inset with heavily carved panels. They sent out a strange magnetic force which the three boys and the dog couldn't have resisted even if they had tried. With Peter leading, they moved slowly, like automatons, toward the doors. When Peter reached the doors he noticed there were no handles and no keyholes. The black surface showed smooth and shiny in the torchlight. He placed a tenta
tive hand on one of the carved panels and found himself touching not wood but something icy cold.
"They feel like cast iron. They must weigh tons. We'll never move them."
But as he spoke there came a sound like the creaking and grinding of little-used machinery. Slowly both doors swung inwards. The boys held their breath. Above the frightful noise each could hear his own heart pounding. When the doors stopped moving Peter led the way, Dreyfus all but glued to his side.
The torches in the corridor outside threw little light into the space beyond. Peter's mouth was dry as he stepped out of the circle of light into the blackness ahead. They all jumped when the doors ground closed with a resounding crash, leaving them again in total darkness. They stood huddled together for comfort, each clutching at the boy nearest him. As they waited the darkness gradually lessened. Here, too, torches in the walls were beginning to burn.
The flames all burned steadily, indicating that there was no open way ahead leading back to the sunlight. Trying to steady his thumping heart, Peter drew in a deep breath. Despite the lack of air movement the atmosphere smelled fresh and clean.
The light had grown enough for them to take in their surroundings. And it was the strangest place they had ever seen. The chamber was enormous, with row upon row of what looked like stone coffins. In the distance was a platform on which stood a pair of more important-looking tombs.
Peter felt his skin prickle. “It—it looks like a burial vault."
His heart stopped hammering as his senses told him there was nothing evil ahead. There was no sensation of ill-will in this awesome chamber. In fact, something reached out to him and drew him forward. He obeyed his instincts and advanced to the nearest stone casket. It had no lid. He looked inside and saw a man dressed in a simple long white robe. His hands were crossed on his breast, his eyes were closed and his face was drained of color. Gently Peter touched the folded hands. They were ice-cold.
"He's dead,” he said woodenly and moved to the next one. Some of the stone coffins contained men, and some women and children—all dressed alike. There were thousands upon thousands of them.