by Ted Neill
The stallion was fast and the sound of the other horses already distant behind Gail. She turned around a bluff and crossed a ridge only to encounter a new problem. Two more soldiers, surely part of this same search party, were snapping the reins of their own horses, goading them up the hill in her direction. Her stallion had no desire to rejoin their numbers. He came to a stubborn stop along the ridgeline, his steps stuttering, for the drop on either side was steep.
The hesitation was costly. Soot squawked in alarm overhead. Gail turned just as the sergeant came galloping down the hill, rocks tumbling beneath the hooves of his horse, a horse with eyes rolled back in fear as his rider pulled the reins with one hand and lifted his war hammer with the other just before slamming it into Gail’s chest.
Chapter 8
Voices
“We don’t sleep until we have to,” Val said. “We go forward.”
The jays did not fly on ahead or above them now, but rather perched inside the protection of the elk’s crown. Haille walked with his hand on the hilt of Elk Heart. It was difficult to shake the feeling now that their presence in the woods was some sort of violation and that it was only a matter of time before the forest moved again in retribution.
When night came, it was sudden: shadows gathered in the open spaces of the woods like oil darkening water, then rushed out to consume their party. Haille guessed that it was not even truly night yet. The sun was probably setting, but with its rays cast over the woods and not into them, night emerged from all the places where it had been hiding: behind trees, under leaves, and inside hallows. Along with darkness came the noise. The forest became a racket. First with chirps, like crickets, then with howls, and later even moans. The thunder he had heard before at a great distance returned closer now and it was that sound, more than others, that made Haille jump. A few times it sounded just within a stone’s throw of them. It was Cody that figured out its source: the trunks of the trees were full of hallow spaces. He was able to reproduce the same sound knocking on one of the trunks and the roots that flared out to buttress the trees.
“There is your thunder,” Cody said. “Likely it’s just tree-walkers doing their thing.”
“Hopefully,” Katlyn said.
Val offered no comment on the noise. Actually he said nothing at all and his silence was a tacit acknowledgement of the strangeness around them. He followed the elk and the elk trod, head-down and forward, eyes darting, ears twitching, nostrils flaring.
Even with the noise drowning their own voices out, Haille was reluctant to add his own to the chorus. It was not the place of trespassers to speak.
Along with the noise came movement, creatures skulking through the bushes and overhead in the trees. They saw none but Haille knew they were there, boars, rats, and the like. He had seen their desiccated bodies in the treetops, wrapped in vines. The temperature fluctuated dramatically. There were pockets of hot, close air, stifling like an attic, then other clearings where it was damp and cold and their breath rose in clouds. After passing through a particularly cold passage and entering a milder one, Val stopped and suggested that they break for water. Haille and Katlyn almost immediately fell asleep, but this time no harm came of it, for Val and Cody remained vigilant.
“How long did we sleep for?” Katlyn asked as they got up and began to march once more.
“I don’t know, it felt like just a few moments, but it could have been longer. My sense of time is all scrambled here,” Haille said.
“It’s the noise. It gets in your head,” Cody said. “You were only out a few minutes.”
The hours went painfully on. As Haille continued to walk, drowsiness blurred the line between sleep and wakefulness, dreams and reality. The faces of those creatures strangled in the treetops came back to him, hideous and nightmarish. Dead faces, exposed teeth, empty eyes. He hated them.
But eventually the tone of the noises around them changed—it was the difference between a song shifting from a minor key to a major one—and a lightening of the darkness soon followed. The screeches and hoots subsided and were replaced by the chitters and tweets of creatures of the day, which were still wild and mysterious, but somehow less threatening. Day reasserted itself and although they still dwelt in the deep shade of the woods, the dim daylight of the forest had never seemed so bright to Haille’s eyes.
The elk brought them to a stop in a clearing with a floor of green ferns with purple stems. He tore up some of the foliage with his antlers and cleared a space for them to sit.
“I guess he thinks it’s safe to rest,” Val said.
“Aye, I’ll take first watch Captain,” Cody said, walking the perimeter of the clearing. Haille liked the space. The leaves above were green, not the inky color of the leathery leaves in other parts of the forest. As a result, the whole place was cast in emerald shade. The smells were even congenial. The musk was familiar, almost like the air of Worthorn, the forest of his home. Nearby mushrooms sprouted from a log covered in red moss. The moss, although a strange color, was otherwise no different from moss he had seen on long hikes in the woods with Yana. The same was true of the mushrooms, which were only unique because of their gold caps. Perhaps, had he been raised in Sidon, all this would be normal to him and Worthorn would be exotic and strange. Sidon surely was mundane to the gray slug that slimed along the forest floor weaving between the leaves next to Haille’s boot.
When he woke, it felt hours later, but the clearing was still cast in a green light. Cody and Katlyn still slept and Val spread food out on a blanket he had opened over the ferns. Sapphire hopped from the captain’s shoulder to the blanket where she searched for crumbs. The elk was off on the edge of the clearing, Azure and Cyan in his antlers. Haille felt refreshed, but he knew he needed more rest, a good night of uninterrupted sleep. He reckoned that was something he would not have until they reached the end of the forest. If only they could have packed a surplus of it away like the bread, water, and dried fruits they carried.
Val woke up the others and the four of them spoke, even joked and laughed over breakfast. It was good to hear those sounds, Haille thought. When they started off again down the road he felt stronger, braver, the woods less intimidating. This day they heard the sound of creatures passing in the brush alongside them, but Haille told himself these creatures, like the tree-walkers, were just curious. Their presence did not bother him much, except when at one point they stumbled into a clearing where some bluish, humpbacked rodent feasted on the carcass of another. The live one shot away into the wall of brush. The dead one was something unrecognizable with bones sprouting from its gaping, bloody carcass.
As the light began to fade again, Haille tried to remain hopeful that this night would not be as bad as the last. Val had them stop for something to eat. “Fortify us for the night,” he said. Haille, again, was not as hungry as he expected. Katlyn encouraged him to have some dried fruit and one of the hard boiled eggs that was left. Haille forced both down and then could eat no more. He would have preferred sleep. When they started off again the shadows were already spreading.
Haille could feel his optimism draining away. It was as if the day had not existed at all, so suddenly he felt thrust back into the madness of the angry nocturnal forest. This time the screeches and howls felt so much closer and more ardent. It was as if he could even sense aggression articulated in their grating noise. He told himself that in a few hours this would pass. It was something he repeated in his mind like a snippet of song stuck there, but even this began to irritate him.
Although the thunder no longer disturbed Haille, there were other sounds that took its place: low moaning like an old man dying; a hissing like a kettle of boiling water; a rattle like a baby’s toy; a deep-throated croaking; a mocking kissing sound. Then there were a variety of calls and barks that after a time sounded like words he knew: gripe, gripe, gripe; kettle, kettle, kettle; spine, spine, spine; horse, horse, horse; hat cat, hat cat, hat cat. Others sounded like words but words of a different language: remporwill, re
mporwill, remporwill; aipes, aipes, aipes; moressssss. The noise was infernal, like hammers beating on his ears, a throbbing that drowned out the rhythm of his own heart.
“Haille, are you all right?” Katlyn asked, her own voice just adding to the cacophony in his mind.
“Fine, just fine,” he said. “I just want the night to be over.”
“But Haille, it is,” she said, stopping.
Haille tried to stop but instead swooned forward. Cody reached forward and caught him.
“Whoa there, Prince,” he said. “Val, I think we ought to rest.”
Haille was glad for it. He had not noticed, but the leaves were outlined in light. Strange, he thought, the light outside him, which usually was such a balm to his spirit, had failed to affect him this morning. It was as if the darkness of the night had seeped into him and he had carried it with him into the day.
“Cody,” Val said. “I think you are right.”
Haille slept, then they marched. They ate, then they marched. They each slept for short spells, but then they marched again. They were marching and at times Haille felt as if he were sleep-marching. He understood now that the danger of the forest was never starving or dehydration, but the madness that came with the endless trekking, the weariness, the lack of sleep.
That night the noises returned again, but this time the shift from day to night seemed less a shock, for as the sounds resumed, Haille realized they had never left the back of his mind in the first place; they had continued there during the day as well, like an incessant, dissonant song. Perhaps, he thought, if the sounds became monotonous they might become mundane. Haille marched on.
After a few more days of marching, Haille felt swallowed, as if the woods were a great living beast whose maw they had dived into. They still lived only because this beast of the woods was too great and majestic to be bothered by insignificant pests like themselves. Other times, as his spirit yearned for light and his mind for silence, he wondered if he had died. Perhaps, they had wandered into the underworld and were now buried alive in catacombs where the feet of the earth stood. Perhaps, this was hell.
In another day he could hear the sounds of the night turn into voices. When he first heard their faint whisperings they were speaking too softly for understanding, but they were definitely speaking to him. Calling his name.
Haille.
In another day, he could see them. Black on black, weaving amongst the trees, shadows that were soft-footed and slid like ink among the trunks. After a while, they were all that was real to him. His friends, the shadows told him, were just props in some play that was silly and childish. He agreed, then the shadows left, daylight chasing them away. This time, in their absence he felt a loss. He yearned for them. He was beginning to hate the dawn. Why would one want to exist in the day anyhow? It was night that ruled. He could see that in these trees. He began to resent those creatures of the day and soon his friends as well.
“By the stars above, that noise gets into your head,” Cody said, red eyed, weary.
“It’s like my thoughts are coming apart,” Katlyn said. “How do you cope, Haille?”
“I ignore it,” he said.
Like I wish I could ignore all of you.
To Haille only the nights mattered. Days could be measured by the hard tack that was disappearing, by the lightening waterskins. How far had they come? How long had they marched? His memory of the daylight was fading. There was nothing else but shade.
During the day, Katlyn tried to lean against him while she slept. He tolerated her touch, pretending to sleep himself, but when he closed his eyes he only saw those inky shadows. He strained to hear their voices, voices that were perpetually on the edge of comprehension.
After one rest-break, Cody called to him, “Haille, you forgetting something?”
Haille returned his question with a blank stare. Then Katlyn came up alongside him, carrying his sword and rucksack that he had left behind on the ground.
“You have not been yourself these past few days,” Val said to him once they were underway.
“Just tired, that is all,” Haille said, trying to hide his resentment that anyone was speaking to him at all. Why had he decided to travel with this lot, he wondered? How much sooner until the darkness of night would return and the shadows would once again accompany him? All that mattered to him were those nocturnal companions.
They did not disappoint. They returned at nightfall, louder now, an insistent chorus. Their numbers had grown: a ring of dancing blackness. This night he could almost reach out and touch them. They flitted right through the elk’s antlers, and yet the creature was oblivious, as one is oblivious to an insubstantial shadow passing over his back. Haille was weary. So weary of all this marching. The road going everywhere and never reaching anything. And yet the shadows were jubilant and lively. Their journey to Karrith became so pointless to Haille, the endless walking, the progress of the material world. The foolishness of it all became painfully apparent to him. What were they doing in this forest carrying on as if they were in sun-drenched Worthorn? This was Sidon, realm of shadows. They were fools. Complete fools. This was all wrong and he knew it to be.
“Yes. Yes.” A voice whispered to him. Could he answer? Dare he? Would the others notice? Would he ruin the bargain he had with the watchers?
“You must leave them,” the voices said. “You must leave them. Come to us alone. Leave. Leave. Leave.”
His disgust rose in him like vomit, until the urgency was the same; he turned and darted off the path crashing through the brush. He heard the others call to him, but their voices were grating on his ears and only reminded him of his need to be away. Now the hissing of the shadows rose in celebratory chorus. He followed their sounds and caught glimpses of their figures, always just darting out of his sight, like a runner that was slightly quicker than he. But he knew, he knew, if he only followed . . . the voices grew louder every moment, they would reward him. He ducked under a low branch. He told them he was coming. He was coming. He ran. His heart was in his throat, his breath thin in his mouth. He felt dizzy, as if he were being lifted up. He felt sick from the exertion. Animals scurried away, terrified. He knew they were not just scurrying away from him, but from the watchers. They were foreboding. They were feared here. Of course they were feared, they were all powerful. They said so in their whispers in his ears.
They were all that was real here in the madness of the dark forest. And he was ready to surrender to become one with them. He had been lonely all his life, he realized, and this was a pain he knew he would never be able to bear. It grew and exploded inside him, making him run with abandon, briars whipping his face. He unsheathed his sword and dropped it at his feet. Now the shades moved closer. They had not liked the sword, he realized now. He could feel the darkness on his body. There was such acceptance here. He was just on the edge of communion. He was almost one with them. He could see their shapes moving and dancing just ahead.
Then something else flashed before his face, so bright and white that she eclipsed the darkness. Aurora, Garn’s dead daughter—the girl Haille was supposed to heal—skipped and leapt over tree branches. Tiny suns orbited her head, burning brightly against the dark backdrop of the forest. At her feet, flowers appeared that had not been there before. She was incongruous with the gloom of Sidon and seemed to be there and yet not there at the same time, as if what Haille was seeing was just a vision of her, somewhere else, a sunny field after a spring shower.
Haille was filled now with the urge to follow her. She cast a glance past him then continued on. Gone were the signs of sickness in her face. Now her cheeks were rosy and full, her eyes clear. Haille called her name, but she did not hear him. He turned to follow her. But as he did so, he felt a relentless, desperate tugging upon him, from the darkness, from the shade. That was where he ought to go, into the darkness. He turned back and started forward.
“Haille, no,” he heard Aurora say. So she had seen him. He tried to turn back to her, but could not.
He felt himself walking forward, toward the dark, against his own wishes.
“Haille, stop.”
This was a new voice. His motion, as compelling as it was, came to an abrupt halt. The voice was clear . . . in a way the voices of his friends were not. The others’ voices had become muffled in the past days, even his own thoughts had become so. But this voice rang out as clearly as the peeling of a great bell. It was all around him and through him as well. It startled him, like a splinter through his skin, a spear through his body. The darkness he was running into remained before him, standing like a portal, but he realized that it was not the only presence here. There was light behind him. He turned.
He saw Aurora, standing by and watching him, but she was small compared to the great figure that stood beside her. The woman wore blue and white robes, which floated about her like garments submerged. Her eyes were hazel but with flecks of auburn about the pupils, like flares of an eclipsed sun. Her shoulders, he knew, were freckled. And he knew her name as if she whispered it to him without speaking. Aurora smiled as if sharing a great secret.
Airre’Soleigh.
Mother.
At once she was young and old. He could see her as a young girl in an orange dress dirtied from forays along a muddy stream. A teenager, sweaty in the forge, bent over an incomplete bracelet, a flat strand of chestnut hair across her face, her cheek bones like plump fruit. If he could only touch them. Then she was older, sad, defeated in a birth chamber. Then young again, her face bright, her chest full like an overflowing basket, as his father had seen her.