Rhapsody: Child of Blood tsoa-1

by Elizabeth Haydon

  He gave Rhapsody a nod, by which she knew he meant for her to go about her business while he surveyed the terrain. When she reached the gentle summit of the central hill Rhapsody took from her pack a burlap sack full of seeds and her hand tools, as well as her flute. A harp would have served her purposes better, but she had left hers at the House of Remembrance in the crotch of the oak tree, playing its song of healing, protecting it from the corruption that had almost killed it.

  She cast a glance over at Achmed, reassuring herself that she could still see him, then set about digging in the earth, taking a sample to determine the type of soil that lay beneath the grass. To her surprise the newly thawed ground, warm in the light of almost-spring, was loam-like and fertile beneath a thin layer of rocks, rich with nutrients. She had guessed the shelter from the wind and elements would have left it more barren. She was glad to be wrong.

  Rhapsody touched a small patch of highgrass and called forth the fire she could feel in her soul. Instantly the brown weeds burst into flame at the base, burning out quickly under her hand.

  She pulled the now-dead scrub out by the roots and dug into the earth, turning it to the depths the seeds would need for best planting. They were hearsease, a flower she had loved in the old land that had been brought by the Cymrians to this one, its blossoms often given as a sign of condolence and planted on graves or battlefields in memory of loss. It had seemed the obvious choice. The plantings would grow to cover the mound by midsummer, and come back each spring until the whole of the canyon bloomed with it in a year or two.

  The wind moaned again high above her as she opened the burlap sack and drew forth a handful of seeds. She sang along in tune with the wind as she planted them, a song of atonement and comfort, seeking to bring consolation to the wounded land.

  When the earth was back in place she took the highgrass and covered the area to hold in the moisture from the rain and protect it from the wind. Then she moved a few feet away and repeated the process up and down the sides of the hill.

  She had planted most of the mound when the trowel slipped from her hand and disappeared into the earth. Rhapsody was astonished; the hole she had dug was no deeper than her hand, and certainly could not have held the tool. Perhaps she had hit another hole or pit of some kind.

  She called to Achmed and began moving more of the dirt away. By the time he had crested the hill she had located a small crack, about as wide as a string, with a larger hole in the middle big enough to have held the tool, but not deep enough to have swallowed it.

  "Look at this," she said to Achmed as he put his weapon down. "It ate my trowel."

  "It's been undisturbed for centuries; perhaps it's hungry."

  Rhapsody peered down into the crack. "It looks hollow down here, but I can't see the bottom."

  "Let me look." Achmed moved above the crack and stared down into the tiny hole. She was right; there was a depth past the surface of the soil. He closed his eyes again and made use of his path lore once more.

  His mind raced through the hole and down through the crack in the earth. It was enormously deep and regular, almost cylindrical past the layer of rocks, becoming a tube of sorts in the ground.

  A hundred or more feet down the tube widened out and emptied into a vast underground cavern, the firmament of which they were standing above. The dome of the firmament was several hundred feet above the bottom of the cavern, and the grotto was filled with water.

  "It's an underground lake of sorts," Achmed said, standing erect again. "Shall we go exploring?"

  "Yes, of course," Rhapsody answered excitedly. "Just let me finish up here; I'm almost done. Why don't you get out our noon meal while I put these last few seeds in the ground?"

  Achmed nodded and opened his pack, noticing that the song of consolation she was singing had changed in tone to far more cheerful than it had been before.

  When she finished she picked up her flute and sat down on top of the hill in a shaft of sunlight. She began to play the song she had sung; it blended with the wind and softened a little the discordant wail bellowing down from the peaks above. It had all the sorrow of a maypole dance; she was having a hard time containing her excitement at the thought of the upcoming adventure. He shook his head and smiled to himself as he began to eat.

  After a brief search of the meadow they located the passage down. It was cleverly hidden in the darkest part of the canyon, in an alcove that always seemed touched by shadow. Achmed had not seen it when he was canvassing the place.

  He led the way, while Rhapsody concentrated on not slipping on the lichenous path, overgrown with slime. She shuddered; the dank air reminded her of being on the Root, and it was all she could do to keep going as the tunnel turned and she could no longer see the light of the meadow.

  "How deep do you think it is?"

  "Three, four hundred feet, taller at the center. Maybe a thousand at the highest point."

  They followed the path down for a long time. Just as Rhapsody's stomach had had all it could take, they came out into a huge grotto, a cavern that stretched out into seemingly endless darkness.

  It was lighted from above by a series of tiny holes in the firmament like the one that had swallowed her tool, and the light was strong enough to have produced plant life all along the shores of the massive lake that filled the base of the cavern. The scent here was less dank and more fetid, like stagnant water from a swamp, even though there was a current in the lake.

  Down at the water's edge was a copper structure, rectangular in shape and sealed with wax, its sides ornately engraved with intertwining patterns. Buried just beneath the surface of the sand before it lay the remains of a series of metal rollers, once held in place by an iron trackway. Time and water had fused this system into a mass of rust.

  The front wall of the copper structure was hinged on the bottom. After careful examination they determined it was a storage place for a rowboat that had once been moored nearby. The rusty iron mooring still stood in the sand, fragile and encrusted with algae.

  Achmed pried the copper structure open and found the row-boat and a metal oar still inside, resting on a bed of rice. Rhapsody had initially thought the rice grains were vermin larvae and leapt away as they spilled out onto her feet. Achmed had taken great pleasure in her embarrassment and laughed for several minutes while he pulled the rowboat out of its drydock to examine it.

  It was made from wood covered with thin hammered sheets of copper, which had turned green but had managed to preserve the boat's integrity over time. The vessel was free from holes, though the wood showed signs of dry rot, and he knocked on it several times to check the soundness of the floorboards. He must have deemed it seaworthy, because he turned it over again and shoved it into the lake.

  "Can you swim?"

  "Yes," Rhapsody answered. She glanced across the lake. In the distance she could see something, a structure of some sort, on the far shore. "Can you?"

  "Somewhat. Enough, I suppose; it doesn't appear very deep." Rhapsody eyed him doubtfully. She would guess it to be at least seventy feet in the middle. "Are you game?"

  "Of course," she retorted indignantly. "I'm the one who can swim. Let's go."

  She climbed into the boat, and Achmed followed her after locating the other oar. It, like its twin, was made of a metal neither of them recognized, and was surprisingly light and free of rust or tarnish.

  They rowed across the lake, taking turns at the oars. While Achmed rowed, Rhapsody looked all around her in amazement. The dome above her was higher than she could see in the light that flooded down from it, much like looking up into a cloudy sky. The lake was clear and pure a few yards from shore, so that they could almost see the bottom, even in the middle. They were able to discern the movement of fish, and a wind was noticeable on the water, though nowhere near as strong as it would have been aboveground.

  Stalactites and stalagmites protruded from the ceiling and the floor of the cavern on the outskirts of the lake, glistening in crystal iridescence. Now and
then one of the toothlike structures would catch a stray sunbeam and flash it over the surrounding walls and water, leaving gleaming patches of light that glittered for a moment, then were gone.

  A waterfall was visible when they were almost over to the far shore, tumbling from a rock ledge that jutted near the top of the cavern where the grotto wall met the dome. It was roaring, swollen with the spring rains, and Rhapsody was enchanted with the music that it made as it fell into the lake and echoed in the cavern all around them.

  "This place is beautiful," she said to Achmed. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  Finally, as they approached the shore, the structure they had seen from across the lake came into view. It was a small cottage, centuries old, standing not far from the shore of what appeared to be an island. An equal expanse of water was visible behind the island, setting it almost exactly in the center of the lake. The house was dark, and stained by dusky patterns where ivy or something like it had once grown. It seemed structurally sound, but it was impossible to be sure from the boat.

  Rhapsody wriggled with impatience as Achmed maneuvered the boat into its ancient dock; it was all she could do to keep from leaping from the craft and wading to shore. He had probably not had much experience piloting boats before, she realized in amusement. This was the first time she had seen him not the master of the task he was undertaking, and she was enjoying it. Apparently he was not.

  "Make yourself useful—tie off the rope," he instructed through his teeth. Rhapsody hid her smile and complied. She climbed out of the boat after him and followed him up the shore.

  At the top of the shoreline where the sand met dry grass they could see the whole of the island. In addition to the small cottage they found what once had been flowerbeds, now long dead, and a marble gazebo set a considerable way back from the house. The marble structure was solidly encrusted with centuries of grime, like the house, but also bore the ancient marks of fire damage, black stains that spread irregularly across one side of the gazebo.

  From the moment they set foot on the island they could both feel it, a mournful, pulsing anger inherent in the place. It did not scream of evil, but rather of rage, and sorrow beyond measure. Rhapsody shuddered and moved closer to Achmed, but he seemed oblivious of the feeling. He had seen birthplaces of hatred before.

  They did a quick reconnaissance of the island, but it was hardly necessary; the utter absence of any other living presence was obvious. Achmed looked carefully at the chimney, examining the bricks, which were still held in place by the ancient, crumbling mortar. He nodded toward the door of the cottage, and Rhapsody followed him inside.

  The odor of lost time was heavy inside the place, the scent of mold and musty fabric, stale air and decay. Rhapsody drew her sword and held it like a torch in front of her, her eyes sparkling in wonder.

  The parlor opened to the right, with a small staircase leading upstairs on the left across from the front door. Achmed let her pass ahead of him with the glowing sword, his eyes scanning the architecture. It bore many of the hallmarks of the Lost Island, as did some of the furniture. It was from the Cymrian era, though that had been obvious from the beginning—the Bolg certainly had never set foot here. He opened the front door as wide as it could be opened and added stale air to the dank place. The parlor contained a fireplace on its outside wall, a beautifully carved mantel above it thick with dust. It probably had once been a cozy room, and it led into a kitchen area that spanned the entire back of the house.

  Achmed examined the enormous hearth and food-storage areas with interest. The sophistication of the design was higher than was commonly in use in this land now, indeed, even more than in Canrif, with multiple depths in the hearth for different kinds of food preparation, and a dredge dug from the lake to cool the brick storage areas and pump water into the house. Pipes fashioned from copper ran through the ceiling into the area upstairs.

  Rhapsody had circled around the back of the staircase and found herself in the dining room, furnished with a small oak table, still in beautiful condition, and four chairs. A huge window wall was fashioned out of blocks of glass, clear in the central panes, but the exterior ones had been carved like prisms.

  This side of the house faced the waterfall, and doubtless the view was the reason for the window wall. It was also a western exposure, and Rhapsody speculated that light must come through at the junction of the rock crag and the dome of the firmament. No doubt the filtered light of the setting sun added to the atmosphere of an evening meal here, accentuated by the rainbows that the prisms must have cast around the room. She wished she could have seen it in its glory.

  She walked through the doorway that led back into the front hall to find Achmed there, starting up the stairs. Rhapsody followed carefully, pulling the cobwebs away from the ceiling above the steps.

  Once upstairs he had gone to the left and she stood in the doorway behind him. It was a small empty room, its only interesting feature the turret from a small tower she had failed to notice from outside, with a curved bank of windows and window seat. The fabric on the window seat had rotted beyond recognition, but the glass of the windows was intact. It was Rhapsody's impression that it had been a study, though there was no furnishing to confirm that belief.

  Across the hall on the other side of the staircase was a larger room, its nature made obvious by the large bed against the staircase wall. The headboard was carved in dark wood, and even the years of dust could not obscure the masterly craftsmanship and beauty of it.

  A fireplace took up the wall opposite it, sharing a chimney with the hearth in the parlor, the mantel a smaller version of the one downstairs. It had a window that looked out onto the lake, caked with grime and mildew. The floorboards had begun to rot, and Rhapsody walked carefully, fearful of crashing through the ceiling of the room below.

  There were two additional doors in this room, one on the same wall as the headboard, leading to an area over the stairs, the other over the kitchen. The area over the stairs turned out to be a cedar closet with nothing in it but a small chest of carved mahogany. In it Rhapsody found a tiny gown of white lace and colorful embroidery, sized to fit a very young infant. She returned it carefully to the chest and left the closet.

  Achmed had already opened the other door and was leaning on the frame. She came up behind him and peeked into the room beyond.

  It was an indoor bathroom like the ones in the Cauldron, with a large tub, beautiful despite its centuries of tarnish and dust. The floor was made of marble tiles, and the copper pipes she had seen downstairs ran to the privy and the sink as well. Both the tub and sink had pumps beside them, and the basin and tub floor had discolored where the water had dripped for years.

  "Seen enough?" Achmed's voice broke the age-old stillness, causing Rhapsody to jump.

  "I guess so," she answered, reluctant to leave the fascinating house. She followed him down the stairs and out the front door, casting one last wistful glance around before closing the door again.

  * * *

  The small gardens had apparently gone largely untended even before they had been allowed to die, Rhapsody determined. The stains on the house and the ground suggested climbing roses in at least two places, vines that had been allowed to spread, unchecked and unpruned.

  It seemed a shame to her; in her mind she was already imagining what the place could look like, covered in plantings, tended lovingly, with an eye toward balance and the strange light conditions beneath the ground. But even as she fantasized about the quintessential gardens, she knew that nothing could grow here now, anyway. There was something fundamentally wrong with the place, a disturbance in the very nature of it that would counteract anything growing or blooming, an anger that had penetrated the soil.

  Achmed was already approaching the gazebo. It was situated on a small rise on the other end of the island, strategically placed, no doubt, but for what strategy he could not tell.

  He walked around it, examining its placement on the ground. He determined it was p
robably carved on the spot where it stood, a fact that fascinated him. Its sculptor had been a master, with an eye for stone. Even an untrained eye could see that the original marble block had been positioned perfectly to allow for the accentuation of the stone's best features. It was smoothly hewn and polished, with delicate engravings along its roof and six columns supporting the dome.

  Rhapsody wandered up one of the two sets of marble steps leading into the gazebo. Within it there were two semicircular benches facing one another in opposition, forming an S shape in the center of the rotunda. They were carved from the same stone as the gazebo itself; in fact, she thought perhaps they had been carved as part of it.

  At the far end of the building was a battered birdcage lying on the gazebo floor, its door broken off, next to what must have been its stand. Both pieces were remarkable in design, and wrought from what looked like gold.

  The stand was taller than Rhapsody herself, and the birdcage was big enough to hold a small child. It was black with tarnish and soot from whatever fire had coated the gazebo itself, but seemed more or less intact. She marveled at the craftsmanship of the cage, so strangely out of place in the Bolglands. Rhapsody reached over and touched the tiny door.

  As she did she was blown backward by the force of the vision that overtook her. Time slowed to a torturous pace, and she saw the gazebo as it had been long ago, its columns gleaming white in the darkness of the garden.

  Before her stood a man, human and full-bodied, with a thick gray beard and heavy, dark eyebrows. He wore robes of linen painted with gold, and his face was contorted with a rage that made his eyes smoke.

  Slowly, second by second, she watched as he drew his arm back and swung, a powerful, grievous blow aimed squarely at her face. She felt the air around her shatter and pain wash over her, the force of which left her face stinging, as the columns of the gazebo swirled around her and tilted. And then the darkness of the vision dissipated and she was staring up at the cloudy firmament, her head in Achmed's hands.