The Land's Whisper

by Monica Lee Kennedy

  Brenol lingered between trees for a moment before his eyes rested upon his friend. “I really don’t have much to tell, Darsey. Are you trying to ask me something else?”

  Darse cocked his head a digit to the side, then paused, confused. He had not intended anything with his query, but Brenol’s question tugged an eerie sensation awake within him. Not knowing what else to do, he closed his gaping mouth and attempted to wipe the uncertainty from his face.

  “Nothing, Bren. Nothing,” Darse finally said, letting his premonitions subside into wisps of dream.

  ~

  Darse felt himself growing sloppy. Each day convinced him more and more that Arman’s assumptions had been utterly wrong. Jerem was not there. They had fought the maralane, left the juile, and wasted precious time in order to traipse around in the miserable swelter of this island. What had appeared paradise was proving to be perdition.

  Ordah promises a portal for Bren. But can I trust him? What if we never find Jerem? Or Colette?

  He sighed deeply and fingered the long blade at his side. Ordah had given him a knife, but Darse doubted he would be able to wield it well in a fight. He almost wished he would be forced to use it. At least then their presence here would not be meaningless. He willed his mind to attention and scanned the scenery yet again for the unusual.

  It was but a minute before his thoughts returned to the same, unending circuit: What are we doing here?

  He glanced at Brenol and shook his head in frustration. Abandoning his original path, the man left the ring of palms and strode with purpose toward the center of the island, where the jungle grew thickest and the towering rock exploded into the sky. Darse whacked with both hands and knife to clear his path. He cared little about the obvious trail following his efforts.

  Likely the only action this knife will see, he thought bitterly.

  Upon reaching the rocky base, the man dripped with sweat, and his lips cursed the damp air that drenched his lungs. He did not tarry but threw his weight and muscle into battling up the awkward mount. He only glanced below once as he heard Brenol progressing behind him and matching every effort with surprising ease.

  It took a heaving hour to scale up to its tip, but the stony height offered much for the eyes and was a task a person could tackle with purpose. Darse let the straining movement wash away his thoughts until, finally, he dragged his body up over the last drop and breathed deeply in recovery. He stared out to the turquoise waters and drank in the beauty of azure liquid meeting sky and black sand merging with lush jungle.

  For that brief second when I saw this on the boat, it looked like an enormous maralane sword piercing the heavens. He wondered if the maralane could see him now, or if the isle was concealed from view even for them. It seemed odd that there could be such an obvious display of power in a place of neutrality. He ruminated and waited for Brenol.

  The boy emerged with a grunted hoist and surveyed his friend with a quiet expression.

  “You aren’t out of breath,” Darse remarked.

  Brenol exhaled in a soft laugh. “That’s because I climb it every morning at sunrise before Ordah wakes.”

  The man issued out a booming laugh that carried out over the trees and to the waters below them. He winced slightly at his folly but brushed away all fear with the ever strident reality: Jerem has never once stepped onto this island.

  “I’ve wondered where you stole off to.”

  “Darsey?”

  Darse kept his vision upon the turquoise water. “Hmm?”

  “He isn’t here, is he?”

  “No.”

  “So we came out here for nothing?”

  “It would seem so.”

  Brenol bit his lip in thought. “I don’t understand.”

  The man arched his eyebrows up and turned to fully face the boy.

  Brenol burst out, “Why were the maralane so reluctant about it then? And why did Ordah act like he did to Arman? And then agree on coming out in the end after all?” He left the unspoken question linger in the air, although both knew its presence: How could Arman have been wrong?

  Darse nodded in understanding. He too, had wrestled with the same questions every dawn, every step upon the island, every meal taken. His head continued to bob slowly as though the motion alone could bring order. The vast waters twinkled in the afternoon sun, and sweet breezes swept up to meet them on the acme. At least for this moment, Darse wordlessly released the burden to the sparkling blue and allowed himself to not have the solution. His nodding slowed to a still.

  The boy though, shook his own head in stiff negation and clambered down to his knees to begin lowering body against crevice, cranny, and rock face.

  ~

  “You’re early,” Ordah growled. He was crouched a few digits from the ground examining some indecipherable scratchings he had made with a short stick.

  “You’re late,” Brenol replied gruffly, allowing the full force of the statement to work its blow.

  “Ah, we have come to that now,” he said with a scowl. Ordah stood and let the stick clatter to the earth, wiping his thin hands upon his trousers. He bore his gaze into the boy, but the fiery green eyes did not falter. “What do you want to say? Or are you ready to practice combatives?”

  It was a pointed comment. Every night since they had arrived on the island, Ordah had been teaching them how to engage an enemy, fight, and wield their knives. Darse was more practiced than Brenol, but neither felt adept. Every night they curled up later in their blankets with new bruises and sores, as well as an ever growing distaste for the man. He was adroit, but he exhibited far too much pleasure in beating their unskilled bodies.

  “What’re we doing here?” Brenol asked.

  Ordah scowled. “Finding Jerem.”

  “I mean, what’s really going on? He isn’t here…but you believe he is.” Brenol frowned in incomprehension. “You didn’t want to come, but now that we are here, you are pawing around like you’re sure he is hiding somewhere.”

  A flicker of surprise played across Ordah’s features. He rubbed his square jaw with dirty fingers while observing the boy.

  Brenol thought about the nurest desires that continually clawed at him and suddenly he saw Ordah differently; while Brenol fled from his darkness, it appeared like Ordah settled into his. Suddenly, the pazor-bull eyes seemed pithless and weak.

  The youth narrowed his gaze and spoke sharply, “She’s a real girl. And you’re playing games with her life. I may be just a boy. And I may be corrupt like everyone thinks and says. But you’re choosing what I’m at least trying to run from.”

  Spewing the words out was like smashing a dam; he had not been entirely aware of his deep resentment toward Ordah, but now it poured out with unrelenting force. Brenol felt his lips curl back in disgust, and he boiled with loathing.

  The prophet scowled and he clamped his jaw until his teeth ground together.

  “Or are your maralane more important to you?” Brenol shouted. “More important than your own world?” The boy kicked the dirt beneath his feet in sullen ire and pointed a sharp finger at the prophet. “I believe you saw Jerem. You saw and ignored his evil.”

  He spun on his heels to leave; he was weary of company.

  “Wait!”

  Brenol barely arced his neck to take in the prophet, but upon seeing the haunted features, his own lips parted in surprise, and he turned to face the man fully. Ordah was white as milk and far from the stalwart figure who had stood before him minutes ago. It was as if he had shrunken.

  If I were a wolf, I could smell his fear, Brenol thought in awe.

  “I’m trying. I want to. I must. Help me. By the Three, help me save her.”

  ~

  Colette stirred. The dream world was so thick upon her. Its wisps clung like unyielding gossamer, and her eyelids refused to budge. They were so heavy, so heavy…

  She longed for something. But what? Her throat ached in dryness until through the haze she recalled its name.

  Water.


  She wanted water. Her mouth stung and her lips burned, for naming the need had only intensified her thirst. She could think of little else.

  A strange sound echoed around her, and with horror, she suddenly recognized it as her own moaning. Has this happened before? The sound did not stop, and her own terror grew, for she knew—how can I?—that noise beckoned danger.

  Her limbs were leaden and unresponsive beneath her, yet her chest managed to convulse in sobs. There was no control, just her body reacting as it pleased. She wished she could at least drink of her own tears.

  A light came, and her body stiffened involuntarily. Even her sobs ceased. Why?

  Colette wished, she longed, she ached—but for what? A spark of a picture flitted across her mind like a butterfly wing. A man? A person? The memory refused to flicker its ray of hope again, and she was left to the whims of her deadened frame.

  Gentle hands elevated her head and propped her neck aright. She remained unable to raise her eyelids, but at least the soft groaning had ceased. The hands parted her lips and delicious liquid cascaded down upon parched tongue and throat. She gasped for air but the water coursed down mercilessly and her muscles obeyed under the rush with choking gulps. Soon, she felt a strange indifference, wondering if it would ever cease, and began to drift away. Eventually the flow stopped, and her lungs sucked in air gratefully.

  Next, food was spooned down. It was thick and mushy and foul. She groaned, but the hands did not relent. She wondered if she would ever wake, for this could only be a terrible dream.

  Water again filled her throat and her weak muscles complied in sputtered swallows. The hands wiped her face clean, and it was then her heart thundered awake in fright.

  Something about that smell…

  Colette’s head was lowered, and she felt the dream world again begin to wrap its fingers around her, but a stubbornness in her pushed back.

  Something. I must do something?

  Another wisp of a memory came to her, but this with vivid clarity: her mother, extending her hands out in welcome and wrapping her arms around her snugly. The picture comforted her. Yes, her mother. Her mother was so lovely.

  The hands. Colette felt them again. They were warm and wandering, and it was then Colette realized her skin was bare beneath them. They caressed her, petted her, traveling from her chest down her body like snakes. Her insides roared in revulsion and she longed to scream, yet no sounds escaped, nor could any movement be mustered. Hot breath raggedly swept upon her neck and a fighting desperation filled her. She wished she had allowed the dreams to take her earlier, for now the nightmare ravaged her entire, and his scent was thick and his body searing.

  Three, save me.

  ~

  “What do you mean, they knew?” Brenol’s surprise had drained all fury, leaving him bereft of the courage that had coursed through his veins but minutes previously. A clattering of stones behind him signified Darse’s presence, but Brenol did not turn his eyes away from the shrunken prophet.

  “What’s going on?” Darse asked cautiously. He peered at each in turn and was puzzled by the expressions that resided in the two faces.

  “He is here,” Ordah said. His voice rumbled but was as hushed as a whisper. The steely eyes were lowered in shame.

  “I know you think that. You’re running around this island like a maniac. But what do you mean?”

  “Jerem is here.”

  Darse furrowed his brow. “Enough riddles. Just speak.”

  Ordah inhaled with effort and tumbled out his story. “Jerem is here. I don’t know where, but he’s here. He came with one other, possibly two, in the same craft we did. Obviously at a much earlier time.”

  “How do you know?”

  The prophet licked his lips nervously. “The maralane told me.”

  “Why would the maralane help him?” Brenol asked.

  “Stop your assumptions,” Ordah replied. A lethal undercurrent swam beneath his words, raising the hair on the boy’s arms.

  “So they came here…” Brenol led cautiously.

  “But I don’t know where they are. There’s no way one, let alone two or three, could escape notice. We’ve shifted searching patterns, we’ve covered every hand span of earth. But he’s not here.” The prophet raised his hand to his forehead in exasperation.

  “It would seem it’s time for you to tell us all you know,” Darse said firmly.

  Ordah all but snarled. Any element of contrition washed away as the stony eyes hardened.

  Darse broadened his shoulders and straightened his back. His legs parted into a sturdy brace, creating a fortress of flesh. Brenol knew the glint in those golden eyes. He also recalled the biting scrapes and bruises that he licked every night after Ordah’s lessons. Swiftly, he rushed between the two and held out both hands in a conciliatory motion.

  “Ok. Easy.” He met Ordah’s steely eyes, and, despite feeling every lacking orbit in his body, held the gaze. “So we don’t need to know your secret—or whatever it is that you’re thinking. But we’re still missing things we do need to know. Let us start there?”

  Ordah parted his lips to bare his teeth in a furious grimace, but Brenol accepted it as agreement. Darse did not move, watching with narrowed eyes.

  The boy closed his eyes for a moment. There was something tickling at the back of his mind, but it was too vague to grasp. Eventually, he sighed. “He’s here. And we know he didn’t leave?”

  Ordah gave a single nod of the head.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Moons.”

  Brenol felt his brow furrowing in judgment. He really has been toying with her life.

  Ordah must have read as much in the expression, for he snarled. “I never knew Jerem was out here. Never. Not until Arman suggested as much and I spoke to the maralane.”

  Brenol again held up his hands as though to calm a rearing stallion. “Ok, ok. Tonight we rest and think. We’re merely missing something.”

  Ordah, then Darse, gave their begrudging consent and dispersed to their own musings and personal space. Brenol shook his head in wonder; one moment he felt so young he could barely cope; the next, he was mature and directing his elders. It was straining and left him feeling the world was a-tilt.

  The night eventually approached, and Darse ambled up with soft steps and somber expression. He granted the boy a small dip of the head and curled into his blankets in weariness. Brenol respected the imposed silence.

  Their camp was but a small section between three rising sheets of rock, open to the whims of the weather, yet it afforded them protection from wind and eyes. Tonight Brenol was glad to be away from both, for the evening air had already dipped to a shuddering chill. He hugged his arms to his body and seemed to hear the wind whispering words of horror.

  It’s nothing, he insisted, but the wind’s voice nevertheless worried into him like a worm into rich fruit. He shivered and collected the blankets around him, wishing as he did every night that they could have a fire.

  The breeze tore over the waters and howled around the rocky shelter. Jerem is close, it said. So close.

  There is a portal here, the wind tickled in his ear. A portal…

  He shook his head; it was nonsense. There was no terrisdan here to speak to him. This place was neutral, powerless.

  Brenol feared he would never find sleep but barely closed his eyes and was unconscious. His dreams were dark, and the nuresti collector—with the face of Crayton—pursued him on land and through tunnel, finally wrapping his wretched fingers around him in a throttle.

  Brenol woke with a sharp inhale, and his eyes flew open to find Ordah shuffling gingerly back into camp. He held up a small, glowing piece of cloth. It offered barely any light but was enough illumination to direct his movements. The prophet wrapped himself in his blanket and sat staring into the sparkling sky.

  “He never knew how to let go,” Ordah said softly.

  Brenol raised his eyebrows.

  “My mother tried everything,” Ordah
continued. His voice was hushed and low, like the purr of a great cat. “But when Jerem got his mind focused on something he wanted? He became unstable. All else fell away. The world could collapse and he’d never notice so long as he got what he wanted.”

  Brenol raised himself to a sit and stared at the prophet. He had never heard the man speak so calmly, let alone reveal anything private.

  “And my parents… They all but stripped Jerem’s hide bare when he failed. Then they drowned him in gifts when he did well. So he got better at concealing… I hated Jerem for how much they attended him…”

  Silence drenched the shelter, and the stars beamed down softly. Brenol, though sitting, was drifting back to sleep when Ordah resumed. “They made me promise I would help him.”

  “What did they want you to do?”

  “Ridiculous oath for a child,” he said as though not hearing. “I left to train when I was eleven. When I returned…”

  Brenol stared and waited, breathing slowly and listening to the night. Finally, he asked, “What happened when you came back?”

  “He had killed them.”

  Brenol nearly choked. “What?”

  Ordah’s voice was even and unflinching. “They died in a fire. But I’d seen it in my visions. I’d thought it was an ache for home and family. Me trying to figure out my intuit as a student… But I know what he did.”

  “What did you do?”

  Ordah chewed the silence and its judgment. “Nothing,” he whispered after some time. “I was but a child.”

  “Could you have done something?”

  Ordah did not answer. There was no answer that could remedy such guilt.

  CHAPTER 27

  A nurest must continually work to perceive the ordinary;

  his vision is engrossed in the exceptional.

  -Genesifin

  The sun broke slowly past the water and set the sky alight. The black sand still retained its coolness from the night, and Brenol wiggled his toes deep into the dark smoothness. From their standpoint on the shore, the life of the island seemed fertile and green and luxurious. It really did look like paradise here.

  Oh, thought Brenol. It was as if the peace of the morning had shaken out the nagging element that had rattled around inside him all night. His gut turned to cold stone.