by B. J. Beach
A quarter full, the moon crawled up the sky, its pale light frequently obscured by scudding clouds. Beside a low rocky outcrop at the crest of a long shallow incline, Megan came to a halt. A large thick cloud, moonlight edging it with silver, drifted south, leaving the moon clear to shine on Corlin’s right shoulder.
The minstrel was puzzled. “C’mon lovely girl. Why’ve we stopped?”
A gruff voice came from his left. “Don’t be alarmed. Your mare stopped because I asked her to.”
Seated on the top of the outcrop, his feet dangling over the edge, was the bow-legged character with the straggly beard. He waved a hand in the general direction Corlin was heading. “You’ll be on your way to the forest then? Not an easy journey at night. D’you know where you’re gonna rest up?”
It was Corlin’s turn to wave a hand in an effort to bring a halt to the man’s potentially endless questions. Not only that, the man was beginning to irritate him. “Yes, I am going to the forest. I have no choice. Megan is sturdy and sure-footed and it won’t be the first time I’ve slept in the saddle. So, I’ll bid you goodnight.”
He kneed Megan forward, but the mare braced her legs and stood her ground. The bow-legged man sprang to his feet, stood on top of the rock and peered down at the minstrel. “I reckon that mare’s got more sense than the one riding her.”
Jumping down from the rock, he seemed to float to the ground. Before Corlin could make a move, the man had a grip on Megan’s bridle and was leading her off the road and across the coarse and boulder-strewn grass of the moor’s edge.
A warning edge to his voice, he called softly up to Corlin. “You’ll not be sleeping in the saddle if you try and cross these moors tonight Corlin Bentfoot. You’ll be lucky if you make it across with a sound mind.”
He made a noise in his throat as if he was agreeing with himself. Corlin wondered what he was talking about and looked all around, but decided not to argue. It seemed as if he was to have lodging for the night after all. He relaxed in the saddle, wondering how this man with bow legs and straggly beard knew his name, but after the events of the past few days, it was getting that nothing surprised him much anymore. He noticed a thick fog rolling like newly sheared fleece across the moor, just as his guide led them up to the face of another large rocky outcrop. Letting go of Megan’s bridle he brushed his hands across the black rock’s glistening white-veined surface. Corlin didn’t bother to stifle a yawn as the granite face shimmered away to reveal the low entrance to a cave. Very desirous of keeping his head attached to his shoulders as long as possible, Corlin dismounted and followed Megan and their bow-legged guide into the hillside.
* * *
Just large enough to accommodate the two men and the horse, the cave was little more than a bolt-hole. Nudging Megan to one side, the bow-legged man clambered up onto a broad ledge part way up the cave wall.
He held a hand out to Corlin. “Can you get yourself up here?”
Grasping the proffered hand, Corlin braced himself with his good leg and scrambled up beside him. “Why are we up here?”
His companion put a gnarled finger to his lips, and reached towards the wall. From a narrow irregular hole, he pulled out a rolled up turf which he placed carefully beside him on the ledge. Cold air and pale moonlight streamed in through the rock. Signalling that Corlin should stay on the ledge and watch through the hole, the man dropped lightly to the cave floor. Corlin knelt on the ledge and watched.
The thick white fog curled and rolled like ocean waves, yet never rose more than about three feet above the ground. Corlin was just beginning to wonder what he was supposed to see, when something dark, long and slender poked above the fog, waved around for a moment, then vanished back into the gently swirling layer. He blinked, then swallowed hard as two more of the long dark objects appeared and waved about for a few seconds before dipping out of sight. Minutes later dozens of the things, which Corlin could only think of as stalks, were popping up through the fog, waving around and vanishing again. More unnerving than the mysterious stalks were the high-pitched hissing squeaks and the rapid and continuous clicking noise which accompanied them. The waving stalks and mind-jarring sounds came steadily closer, and eventually Corlin found them unbearable. As fast as his jangled nerves would allow, he stuffed the roll of turf back in the hole and eased himself down off the ledge. Squeezing past Megan, he lowered himself onto a pile of straw and dried heather, beside the bow-legged man. Together they sat, not speaking or moving, as the incessant sound of scratching, tapping and clicking reached them through the dense rock.
After what seemed to Corlin like hours, the sounds gradually faded and all was quiet. He kept his voice low. “What was that? I’ve never heard such an awful noise!”
His companion murmured “Not a ‘that’; a ‘them’. They’re hunting.”
Corlin blinked into the chill and stifling darkness of the cave. “Hunting what? You mean they were hunting us?”
“No. But they’re stupid. They’ll tear anything apart that moves, before deciding whether they want to eat it. Human flesh is not to their liking, but they tend to forget. Their preferred food is rabbits, with the occasional sheep if they can find one that’s strayed.”
Corlin swallowed hard. “So, what are they?”
He felt the man shrug. “No-one really knows. Only one man lived long enough to make it back to the village, and he’d lost his mind. He died babbling, and nobody could make sense of it.”
“Do they come out every night?”
The man chuckled. “No, thank goodness. But there’s certain signs what tells us they’re coming, mainly that strange thick fog they brings with ‘em. Just after you left the village, all the sheep were rounded up and penned. Now, let’s take a peek and see what’s what.”
A gust of cold air round his legs and a minimal improvement in visibility told Corlin that the man had opened the cave entrance. A few minutes later he wandered back in. “All clear. No sign of ‘em. You stay here ‘til it’s light. They won’t be back.”
Before Corlin could say anything, the man was gone. Resigning himself to the fact that sharing a small cave with a horse was preferable to sleeping outside on the open moor, he unsaddled Megan. Using her saddle as a pillow and covering himself with her saddle-blanket, he lay down on the pile of straw and heather, his gimalin tucked snugly between himself and the cave wall.
13 - On the Way to the Whispering Forest
With Megan saddled, and nothing handy for breakfast, Corlin was eager to be away from the bleak moor and back on the road. The morning was fresh, the clear air, blue sky and a bright but watery late winter sunshine banishing the previous night’s weirdness to the back of his memory. A few yards from the other side of the road he noticed a broad swath of rough grazing near the top of a small rise and steered Megan towards it; at least one of them would have breakfast. He dismounted while she grazed, and stood leaning across her saddle, letting his gaze travel along the road’s long brown length until it was hidden from sight by a dip in the ground. A fire of anticipation rose in his chest and he reached across to gather Megan’s reins. Something glinted in the coarse grass in front of his feet. He crouched down, peered for a moment then picked up the shiny greenish-black shape. It was very light, a little smaller than the width of his palm, and at first he thought it was some kind of rare glass. He ran a finger-tip over it, and thought he could feel very fine ridges on its surface. Not sure what to make of the oddly shaped piece, he slipped it into a pocket, clambered into the saddle and took to the road again.
The dip in the ground was further away than it actually appeared, and Corlin heard the bubbling and rippling sound of water long before he reached it. Wide, shallow and gravel bedded, the stream cut a fast-flowing channel through the moor as it rushed south on its journey to the distant sea. Knowing that the water wouldn’t bother his sturdy mount, he kneed her forward, letting her stand for a moment or two and quench her thirst before scrambling up the rise on the far side. The prospect of a clear run
through open country faded rapidly as they climbed onto higher ground. At the top of the rise, with a clear view of miles of rock-strewn moorland, Corlin looked to his right, grimacing at the thick pillows of purple-black thunderclouds rolling out of the north-east. Ahead of him only a few scattered rocky outcrops were all that looked as though they might provide any kind of shelter.
He patted Megan’s neck as he thought out loud. “Half an hour I reckon, lovely girl, then it looks as though we’re in for a soaking.”
Urging her into a canter, he headed for a huge granite bastion which stood back from the road about a mile ahead. Deep and sonorous rumbles of thunder announced the approaching storm, along with something else it carried with it, an acrid odour that hung in the moisture laden air. A WestLander born and bred, Corlin was well used to thunder-storms, how they felt, how they behaved and how they smelt. He’d never known one that stank like this. It was nasty, the vapours it carried irritating his nostrils and catching at the back of his throat. He turned Megan’s head away from the livening wind, dismounted and led her into the lee of the massive towering lump of granite. There was every chance they would still get very wet, but at least the rock would shield them from the worst of the storm. He had just unfastened his gimalin and tucked as much of its length as he could inside his jacket when the edge of the storm-cloud met the edge of the sunshine. The first large raindrop bounced like a pebble on the wide brim of Corlin’s hat.
The voice came from somewhere above his head. “You’ll be standing there a long time waiting for this to pass.”
Corlin didn’t need to look up and get any wetter to recognise the voice. He waited for the bow-legged man to come down and join him. He even half expected to see an entrance open in the face of the rock. Instead, to his mild surprise, it stopped raining, but only over the spot where he and Megan were standing.
The bowlegged man appeared just in front of Megan’s head. “I can’t do anything about the weather, but that shielding will make it more bearable. It should stay with you for about an hour, if you can get to where you’re going in that time.”
Although grateful for the magic which would keep him dry, Corlin had no intention of enlightening the gruff-voiced man of his destination. “Thanks. No doubt we’ll meet again before long, and as you seem to know my name, perhaps you’ll be so good as to tell me yours.”
The straggly beard waggled as the man’s mouth opened to release a hearty chuckle. “You know it already, Corlin Bentfoot. How many magicians have you come across on your travels?”
There was a long pause as thunder rumbled and rain hissed to the ground all around them. Then Corlin’s mouth fell open with the surprise of recognition. Before he could say anything the magician had vanished. The minstrel gave the matter some serious thought as he strapped the gimalin back on Megan’s saddle, mounted and headed once more for the road which was now beginning to resemble the stream they had crossed earlier, if not quite so deep. All around them the heavy rain bounced off rocks and coarse turf, but he and his mare stayed perfectly dry. Corlin felt as though he was riding in a bubble, and the view of miles of moorland ahead made him feel certain that the bubble would burst long before he reached shelter. Every so often the wind blew holes in the sheets of driving rain, and he fancied he could see a long dark cloud along the horizon. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t a cloud. It wasn’t moving.
Determined to enjoy the unique experience of staying completely dry while riding through a downpour, he kneed Megan into a canter. They drew nearer to the shadow on the horizon much faster than he would have thought possible, and as its outline became clearer he began to suspect there was more to Grumas’ bubble than a rather novel way to shelter from the rain. He also felt certain that once he entered that shadowy depth which lay ahead, he would be caught up in a very different kind of storm. As if reading his thoughts, the magical barrier dissolved leaving him and Megan exposed once more to the elements. His uncomplaining mount flicked raindrops off her ears as icy rain blew into Corlin’s face. Slowing to a trot, he pulled the brim of his hat forward to shield his eyes and kept going. A few minutes later he realised that the downpour had eased to a soft windblown mizzle and the rising breeze was bringing with it hints of that same acrid odour which had troubled his nose and throat earlier. Wafted away as quickly as they came, they were temporarily forgotten as he raised his eyes to see where the road was taking him.
A hundred paces ahead the road veered sharply to the left, running in a long and gradual curve out towards the edge of the moor and widely skirting the tree-line of a vast forest which stretched as far as his eyes could see. Even though it still appeared as an indistinct greyish mass stretching from almost one side of the moors to the other, he was certain that it could only be the infamous Whispering Forest. Knowing that his own success was the only chance of freedom for his younger brother Clies, he felt nervous but at the same time buoyed up, keen to get into the forest’s heart and locate Malchevolus’s clock. Easing Megan to a walk, Corlin studied the seemingly endless expanse of heavy-limbed trees which lay ahead of him. The impression he felt most strongly was of an incredibly ancient entity, one which harboured many secrets, some of which he sensed would be best left undisturbed.
At the angle of the road he stopped, frowned and climbed out of the saddle. Crouching down he touched the road, picked up a small handful of dirt and let it trickle through his fingers. It was thin, sandy and bone dry. He ran his hand over the winter-brown grass at the side of the road. The grass wasn’t just dry, it was dead, and Corlin realised that this ground hadn’t felt the touch of rain for years. He stood up and looked across the desiccated brown slope which lay between the road and the tree-line. Dead, dry leaves still clung tenaciously to some of the winter-stark branches of tall deciduous hardwoods, interspersed with stands of evergreens and conifers, their dark presence accentuating the brooding and quietly threatening atmosphere which pervaded the very air around them. Rather incongruously Corlin wondered how far the searching roots of these forest denizens would have to go down to reach ground-water.
He turned round and looked back towards the open moors. Over a mile away the thunderstorm was still making its way steadily south-west, its progress punctuated by an occasional sonorous rumble. Above him, the sky was a flat leaden grey, but spared not one drop of moisture for the parched ground below it. Megan had wandered a little way off and was nibbling dejectedly at some tufts of coarse greenish tinted grass on the other side of the road. Corlin gathered up her reins, clambered into the saddle and urged her steadily forward down the long dry slope towards the looming forest. All was very quiet. No birds sang, and no tiny creatures rustled in the sparse undergrowth which sprawled in a haphazard tangle round the base of the nearest trees.
To Corlin’s surprise, as they drew closer, Megan balked, almost wrenching the reins out of his hands in her haste to turn back up the slope. He let her have her way, not only because he trusted her judgement, but because he also had an ulterior motive. Letting her take him onto the comparative comfort of the dry road, he used his more elevated position to scan the forest edge. There seemed to be no obvious way in. Staying on the top of the rise, Corlin kept Megan to a walk, keeping parallel to the tree-line as he searched for an opening or some sign of a disused road.
Half a mile further on, he found it. Not obvious at first glance, but just different enough to be noticeable to anyone deliberately looking for it. Their upper branches meshed and interlocked, a pair of tall, heavy-girthed elms stood side by side, far enough apart for a horse and rider to pass comfortably through. He turned Megan’s head towards the downward slope, hoping that this time she would be more amenable. Branches began to tap against each other and dry leaves rustled, making an eerie skin-prickling sound like a crowd whispering. Another few paces further on and Megan’s ears went back, as her legs braced in a whinnying head-tossing refusal. Corlin let her stand, holding her on the spot as the trees continued to rustle and whisper, undisturbed by any breath of wind. Then he r
ealised that someone was repeating something over and over, a hoarse crackling voice struggling to make words as if someone had the speaker in a stranglehold.
Corlin listened, and his blood ran cold as he finally made out the words. “Take... the creature...out. It must...not enter. Take the...creature...out.”
He sat and pondered who the speaker might be and what they meant by ‘the creature.’ Was it himself or Megan that ‘must not enter’? Taking a firm grip on Megan’s reins and his own courage, he called out “Grumas? Is that you I can hear?”
Branches near the forest’s edge thrashed and rattled as the voice repeated “Gru...mas. Gru...mas. Grumas.”
As much to steady his own nerves as anything else, and not wanting to cause Megan any more distress, he turned, the forest’s mocking tones following him as he rode her back up the slope until she was well away from the dead and dry perimeter of the forest. He didn’t quite know what to make of this Whispering Forest, but one thing was certain; he had to go in there.
14 -Terror Beneath the Trees
To the southern end of the forest the afternoon sun was beginning to break through, casting a weak watery light on the tops of the trees, but failing miserably in its efforts to penetrate the heavy growth of branches and reach the shadowy forest floor many feet below. The whispering continued, the sound of voices uttering, not recognisable words but a constant susurration, reminding Corlin of the wings of a thousand birds in flight. A quick check of the sun’s position told him he had about four hours to reach the centre of the forest, find Malchevolus’s clock and get out. A plan began to form in his mind, and he smiled at the simplicity of it. Whether it would work remained to be seen.