The Riddle and the Rune

by Grace Chetwin

  Creeks he found a-plenty to keep his water bottle filled, but by the fifth morning, the bread and cheese were almost gone and hunger shrank his belly. All he had for breakfast that day were a few shriveled berries that even hungry birds had disdained. He must find food soon or perish. It was too far to turn back now.

  On, on, Wind shrilled. Things will get better, you'll see. Beyond those mountains ahead the land drops far. It’s warmer there. Things are sprouting tender and green already, and you’ll be sure to find something to eat.

  “If I ever get there,” Gom answered, eyeing the knobbly spine of low rounded peaks that he must pass to reach it.

  By noon, the plateau had come to an end, and the ground was rising. Gom was soon climbing up steep rock face scored with deep clefts—massive cracks big enough for him to shelter in—and pocked with small black holes that promised caves.

  All his life, he’d lived among the mountains. Even Clack, at the foot of Windy Mountain, was still high up. The idea of going down into lowland, real lowland, rallied his spirits.

  It couldn’t quite give him the energy to travel faster, though. Only food would do that. Nevertheless, he struggled along, pulling on his staff until late afternoon, when his strength finally gave out.

  Not to worry, he told himself. Perhaps if he stopped now, he’d have enough energy by morning to make that last push over the range—or through it, if he were lucky enough to find a pass.

  Looking about for shelter, he spotted a small dark hole about twelve feet above where he stood. A cave. He stared upward. The staff was a problem, for he’d need both hands to climb.

  On a sudden idea, Gom felt around in his pockets and pulled out a spare bootlace of long and sturdy leather. He tied it firmly about the staff at hand height, then knotted the loose ends together, making a loop. Was it big enough? He put his head through the loop, slipped one arm through it, then slid the staff around until it hung squarely at his back. Pleased with his ingenuity, Gom began to climb the sheer rock face.

  Have a'care, Wind warned him. That cave may be occupied.

  Wind was right: it was.

  Reaching level with the cave, Gom peered in. A huge dark shape lay curled up in the back corner: a great brown bear, creature of fierce, uncertain temper that Gom wouldn’t presume to tangle with, not even up on Windy Mountain, where he knew every one. It appeared to be still locked in winter sleep.

  Yet even as he stood watching, it stirred, and turned over. Gom left, fast.

  It was almost dark before he found another shelter, a second cave, which he entered against Wind’s most urgent warnings.

  Remember what you found the last time! Agh, you may be sorry.

  The cave was small, and sheltered—and empty.

  With a triumphant wave to Wind, Gom went in. It was indeed a good find, with solid walls, no holes for chilly draughts. Or sudden bear.

  Gom stood the staff by the back wall, and sat down,

  leaning against the rough stone, and gazing out at the twilit sky. He took a good swallow of water, then lay down to sleep, rubbing his middle to comfort it. If only he weren’t so hungry, he thought, for with hunger came such cold. He pictured a small fire burning in the middle of the floor, throwing welcome golden light onto the walls, filling the tiny shelter with snug warmth. But there wasn’t the smallest twig of a tree on this bare rock face.

  He sought the rune for comfort, slid his nail along the grooves etched in its smooth, shiny surface. Why had Harga left it with him? And why, if Mandrik spoke true, was he supposed to take it to her? If Harga really were the most powerful wizard in the world, couldn’t she get it back herself in a finger-snap? Gom frowned. Did even wizards have their limits?

  The sun was suddenly gone. The shadows in the cave deepened, smudging the sharp rock walls, filling the corners with menace. Gom glanced around, thinking of bears—and skulls. Stop it, he told himself firmly. Another few hours and you’ll be on your way.

  Shadows flowed together into one dark mass, enveloping him. The moon rose, faintly outlining the cave entrance in silver.

  He lay on his side, and drew his knees up. “Mother,” he murmured, huddling into the warmth of his jacket. “Where are you? When shall we meet?” With his hands clasped about the rune for comfort, he lay facing the dim moonlight and drifted.

  When he came to, the moon’s radiance filled the cave. Atop the staff, the sparrow’s tiny black seed-eyes gleamed mysteriously.

  All at once the light cut as a huge shambling shape blocked the cave entrance.

  A bear!

  Gom went stiff with panic.

  A bear, and there was he, lying in the middle of its floor!

  Chapter Two

  FOOL, FOOL, and fool again, to have ignored Wind’s good advice! He thought of running, but where? There was only one thing left to do and that was as his wild friends did on Windy Mountain when faced by danger as sudden and as close: he kept still.

  It wasn’t easy. The bear entered the cave and shuffled toward him, until it was so close that Gom could see clearly the hairs on its body glistening in the moon’s rays.

  He stared up at the giant figure, waiting for the bear’s growl, for the huge paws to come down and claw him up from the floor. To his surprise, the beast stayed upright, looking down at him, motionless.

  Gom tried his throat again, and this time, found his voice.

  “Hello, and good evening,” Gom stammered in bear, trying to sound calm and normal. The bear didn’t answer, but only stood over him, just as though, Gom thought, it were waiting for something to happen.

  Something did.

  With a sudden flirt of wings, the wooden sparrow darted from her perch atop the staff to light on the bear’s right shoulder. There, quickly, deftly, she settled her wings back in place and rubbed her beak against the bear’s great hairy neck. Then to Gom’s further amazement, she looked at him and spoke.

  “You called upon your mother, Gom Gobblechuck? Then Harga answers you. Hear this:

  From Air and Earth comes seed;

  By Fire and Water is tempered:

  In Wood is kernel’s secret essence known,

  And purpose comes to light.

  “You know what that is?”

  “It sounds like a riddle,” Gom answered, his eyes fixed on her.

  “Quite so. A little box of simple treasures: plain words with deep and secret meaning. If you would meet Harga, find its key. Dear boy,” she said, spreading her wings, “your mother watches for you, and hopes for you on your path of experience.” With that, she fluttered down from the bear’s shoulder, brushed Gom’s cheek lightly with her passing, then flew back to her perch on top of Stig’s walking stick.

  The moment she was settled, the bear lay down beside Gom and curled its great body around him, enveloping him in comfort and warmth. Funny, Gom thought drowsily. He didn’t feel at all afraid in the bear’s embrace: but rather secure and content as he had the nights he and Stig had gone to bed happy with their hard day’s work, while the mellow fire threw its brightness about the hut walls. He sighed deeply, and, the bear’s earthy breath upon him, closed his eyes.

  “Mother, Father...”

  Gom awoke with both names upon his lips. He stretched, surprised to find himself warm, and not stiff at all. Remembering, he sat up. There was no trace of the bear: no sign that it had ever been. He ran to the cave mouth and looked out. Empty landscape stretched away down.

  He went back inside the cave, brushing his cheek lightly with his fingertips. Had the sparrow really come alive last night? Or had it been but a dream? For answer, the words of the riddle sprang to mind, clear and in their entirety.

  “From Air and Earth comes seed,” Gom murmured. “By Fire and Water is tempered: in Wood is kernel’s secret essence known, and purpose comes to light.” He took the staff and stroked the sparrow’s head, the tiny wooden feathers that Stig had carved there. Wood. She was made of wood. But what had that to do with kernels and essences? He looked her squarely in the eye. “
It makes no sense,” he said. She stared back at him, unblinking.

  “From Air and Earth comes seed.” Didn’t seeds come from plants? Setting down the staff, he took out his pouch and, removing his larger treasures first, he shook out his precious Windy Mountain seeds into his palm. Fine and light, they lay on his hand like grains of golden sand. Who’d ever guess that from such tiny things would come loder trees with strong curving branches high as any oak, and golden leaves as delicate as birch or mulberry?

  Wind caught the seeds, scattered them mischievously onto the cave floor. Muttering, Gom got down onto his knees, scrabbling to retrieve them.

  Air only dispersed seeds: earth but gave them root. Everyone knew that, even Maister Craw, who didn’t know much of anything save how to raise cabbages.

  Having found what seeds he could, Gom was just about to restore them to his pouch when he set it aside and instead pulled out the little wooden box.

  A little box of simple treasures...

  He opened the lid and carefully dropped the seeds inside. Reclosing the lid, he shook the box once or twice, listening to the whisper of small dry seeds within, then put it away. Now it was a treasure box indeed.

  What a strange experience the vision had been. A gift and a touch from his mother—and a challenge, too: solve the riddle and be reunited with Harga at last.

  If all that separated him from Harga was that old riddle, then—a smile spread slowly over his face—his troubles were surely over. Hadn’t Stig always said what a quick and clever mind his son had?

  Gom collected his other treasures and restored them to the pouch, whistling in great self-satisfaction. Why kill himself running all over the place when all he had to do was stay right there and simply set his brain to work? With luck, he’d have the answer by elevenses!

  He put the pouch away and stood up. To think: that very day he could well be handing Harga her rune. He slipped the stone from under his shirt and held it to his cheek, his mother’s magic talisman that had saved him from the death’s-head’s cold.

  The death’s-head! He glanced to the sparrow in consternation. Harga couldn’t know about it, or the sparrow surely would have said. Maybe things weren’t so simple as he’d hoped. Dare he stay in that place and wait for his mother to come? He looked toward the entrance uneasily. What if the death's-head came instead?

  Better move out of there, he decided. And think as he went along.

  He grabbed the staff, and moved out quickly into the open.

  * * *

  All morning Gom climbed the stone slopes, expecting at any moment to reach their crest. After all, the peaks weren’t so high, not high enough for a snow cap, at any rate. But every time he topped one slope, another lay beyond it, going ever up. His knees began to tremble, and his belly hurt. Then he got a stone in his boot. Glad of the excuse to stop, he sat, took off the boot, and shook out a sharp granite chip. The sole was almost worn through, he noticed, pressing on it with his thumb. He slipped the boot back on, and retied the lace. Another day’s hard going, two at the most, and he might as well be walking barefoot.

  He climbed on.

  Elevenses time came and went uncelebrated. He was so hungry by now that he could scarce think on the riddle at all, though he did try. Earth, water, fire, and wood. All to do in some way with seed. But how? He shrugged, looking to the sky for answer.

  A single black speck circled above him, too high to identify. Gom shaded his eyes. It could be a buzzard. Or a hawk. He knew both well enough. Buzzards mostly lived on carrion, picking the bones of dead things found lying under the sky. Hawks swooped with deadly aim on living creatures whose only mistake was to stray in the open at the wrong time.

  He studied it for a minute or two, until he had the uneasy feeling that it, in turn, was watching him. Gom narrowed his eyes, the better to see. Buzzard, or hawk? Scavenger, or bird of living prey? He still couldn’t be sure, though the neck looked long for a hawk’s. In any case, a hawk wouldn’t go for him. Small as he was, he was no rabbit or squirrel.

  Some comfort, that! If not hawk after live prey, then it must be buzzard after worse. The way those birds could sniff out the dead and the dying was remarkable. Gom remembered how those birds would hover over certain spots on the mountain, proclaiming by their very presence some poor creature stranded below.

  Gom stopped still. Could it be a buzzard?

  Was he even worse off than he felt? Panic rose inside Gom then, pumping his heart, quickening his breath. He saw himself succumbing to hunger, falling headlong to lie out there, unmarked—save by that deathly sentinel. He pictured it slowly spiraling lower and lower, then swooping down at last to pick his flesh.

  He tried to go faster, but, oh, what a struggle it was! Where, he thought urgently, was that mountain crest?

  Gom stumbled along, one eye seeking out the best way to climb, the other on the circling bird, until his breath began to labor. He was climbing more steeply now, and the staff was becoming an encumbrance, but holding it made him feel secure.

  Out of breath, he paused momentarily to take quick stock of the way ahead. To Gom’s dismay, about a hundred yards farther up the slope reared sudden rock face; a cliff, too steep and too high to climb in a hurry. But in it, to his right, he glimpsed a dark cleft, little more than a crack in the cliff but surely space enough to shelter him from the bird.

  He was just making for it when he heard the beat of powerful wings. The bird had come much lower. It was big: bigger than any hawk or buzzard that he’d ever seen, with a wingspan wide as four arms’ lengths, and pinion feathers spread like giant fingers.

  Neck outstretched, it banked and dove straight at him.

  Gom threw himself down and rolled, shielding his head with his arms, felt a shock of air from the giant wing beats.

  Looking up, Gom glimpsed sharp-hooked talons, and a vicious beak. Not buzzard, not hawk, not any bird he’d ever seen. His stomach tight with fear, he picked himself up and ran for the nearest shelter, a round boulder poised on the slope, as though snagged in midfall.

  Peering out, Gom saw that the bird had turned about and was preparing for another sweep.

  Crouching, Gom shrank under the boulder’s overhang. The bird swooped down, and, quick as a snake, thrust out its long neck to strike. Its beak clicked sharply on the stone face, missing Gom by a breath. Screaming in defeat, the evil thing retreated.

  Gom closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. Much good his shelter was: the bird had but to keep him there until he could no longer resist.

  He waited a moment, two, listening, then risked a peek. The massive shape arced high above him, gray wings darkly translucent against the bright blue sky.

  Gom’s hand trembled about the staff. His whole body was shaking. Why, if he were to stand at that moment, his knees would buckle under him. Was this how rabbits felt, he wondered, when cornered by hawks? Squatting in the cramped shelter of the overhang, Gom pictured the creature waiting above, high enough to draw him out, low enough to catch him when he came.

  That thought made Gom angry. His chin went up. He was no rabbit. He was Gom, a human boy, with wits to match any bird’s, however big and cunning.

  Come on! Wind shrieked urgently. That is no ordinary crack, as you can tell by my voice, but a pass leading through to the other side of the range. Reach it, and you'll not only be safe from the bird but you’ll save yourself a climb!

  Wind’s whine vibrating across his ears, Gom eyed the distance to the cleft with even greater interest. Not a blind shelter, but a shortcut, a safe escape route! Could he reach it?

  One hundred yards had never looked so far!

  Gripping the staff tightly, taking comfort from its solid weight, Gom crawled from under the boulder and scrabbled up the slope on all fours.

  He’d gone but a few yards when the bird’s shadow covered him and once more the sound of beating wings grew loud.

  Shouting in desperation, Gom struck out.

  In that instant, pain seared his shoulder, but
the bird’s screech rang harshly in his ears. The staff had hit its mark.

  Gom had no time to rejoice. He stumbled, and went headlong, the staff flying from his hand. Blood oozed from his shoulder, soaking his jacket. Picking himself up, he seized the staff with his good hand and scrambled for the pass. His boots slipped, sent him staggering back a few paces, but with an effort he checked himself, then pressed on.

  As he squeezed into the rock cleft, the bird rushed him, but mercifully, it was too late. There came another screech, this time of rage.

  Gom slid weakly down the rock face, and sat, doubled over.

  Presently, he stirred himself, and peering upward, saw a crooked sliver of sky. Gom breathed out in relief. He was safe for a while at least, for the bird couldn’t possibly dive down there.

  Leaning heavily on the staff, he pulled himself to his feet and moved on. It wasn’t easy. The floor of the pass rose sharply, and shrank in places to a crevice scarce wide enough for Gom to set his feet. Several times along the way its walls, too, grew so narrow that Gom had to slip off his pack and squirm through sideways, pulling the pack after him. But, as he reminded himself, at least he was safe from predatory birds!

  At last the pass floor turned downward again, then leveled out and widened, and Gom saw with relief open space ahead. At last he’d reached the mountain’s other side. From there, if Wind had told right, the range fell away down into lowland.

  Gom paused uncertainly, thinking of the bird.

  Was it still waiting for him back on the plateau, or had it guessed that he’d found a way through and out this other side? Whichever, he couldn’t stay there for long.

  He stumbled on, step by painful step. Then suddenly he was teetering on the brink of a precipice high above open rolling land: little squares of fresh spring greens and yellows all pieced together neat as the patchwork covers worked by the wives of Clack. Tiny white dots speckled the land, farmhouses, probably, and among them lay a sprinkling of bright green pompoms: trees, in leaf already! It looked wonderful: wide, and friendly, and inviting. Gom stared down, quite forgetting the bird. Maybe— his belly rumbled at the thought—he wouldn’t have to scratch around for wild roots after all.