In the Darkness Visible

by Ted Neill

  “Indeed it would be, but the living must be careful with the prophecies offered by the dead.”

  “We can’t trust our loved ones? They want the best for us.”

  “Do they or do the dead want the best for themselves? Offerings, devotions from the living as if they were gods, as if it were their place to stay in the world.”

  The whirlwind from the night before briefly returned to her mind. Nothing made sense. No, that wasn’t it. It was just that this man Omanuju had a way of questioning everything she took for granted. It made her uncomfortable. “Isn’t it? Aren’t they supposed to stay here to help guide us?”

  Omanuju leaned back, crossing his legs. “Not for me to say, except that the dead are different in the afterlife than when living. They are more . . . selfish.”

  The conversation was moving in a direction too arcane and disturbing for Gabriella. She found herself wanting for a response. When she could not think of one, she turned to a different subject.

  “My father knew you.”

  Omanuju nodded while sipping from his cup. “Aye, he did know a close friend of mine and me years ago.”

  He was silent after that, and Gabriella’s mind drifted to the more practical. “Can I go home now?”

  “That is a good question,” he replied, his eyebrows rising. “What do you want to do?”

  Gabriella was surprised. Usually adults told her what to do. And she honestly didn’t want to go home. “Could I offer to go, in search of the treasure, I mean?”

  “This will be a dangerous voyage, Gabriella.” Omanuju looked directly into her eyes.

  Gabriella’s face grew warm, but she suddenly felt inspired. She was so tired of her life, tired of being nobody. “The dead thought I should give the prophecy. Maybe I am strong enough?”

  Omanuju didn’t respond, but didn’t contradict her either. So she pressed on.

  “Who is Nicomedes?”

  “Was. A genius, an inventor and later in his life, a philosopher. He lived on the Eastern Continent.”

  “What is his treasure doing here on Harkness? What do we need to do to find it?”

  Omanuju smiled and poured himself some more tea. “What makes you think it is on Harkness?”

  “I just thought—the dead . . . .” Her voice trailed off. She did not know why she had simply assumed the treasure was on their island and not on another island in the archipelago. “Well, I still want to go.”

  “Aye, then. Time comes for all of us to grow up. Your time may be here. Powers are stirring, my dear Gabriella. We may face danger, conflict, enemies. We will need allies. Will you be mine?”

  Suddenly she did not know what to say. Maybe this was a terrible idea. After all, what had she to offer this mysterious and learned man? She wasn’t sure if she was a medium or just a foolish girl with a fever. She was Gabriella Carlyle, the girl with the cursed brother.

  But she sensed that made no difference to Omanuju Ant. She realized she needed his help, to get out of the House of Healing, to get home and to set things straight after so much confusion. And mostly to be someone different.

  “Yes, I will be your ally, if you will be mine.”

  “Done,” he said, draining his cup. He rose and took his cloak from where it hung on the wall. “I will see you soon.”

  Gabriella spent the next few days recovering in the House of Healing. Her mother brought her hot broth to drink and, later, when she felt better, fried cod. At night, her mother would tell her bedtime stories like she had when Gabriella was young: tales of Zomar the Sailor or Blue Scar the Pirate—old myths of their people. Gabriella saw no more sign of Omanuju. Jacob the high priest often visited the House of Healing, and although he did not come into her room, Gabriella could hear him conferring with the old women who served as healers.

  Autumn winds blew in from the north, tossing the trees, scattering leaves, and carrying rain. Between the warm blankets, listening to the patter of raindrops, Gabriella was lulled into dreamful rest. In her dreams, she remembered walking to Lucy Porter’s farm on the day of the Harvest Moon Festival. She could remember spending every previous festival at Lucy’s farm with other girls, carving lanterns from gourds and mixing spices for apple butter. But that day Mrs. Porter had met Gabriella at the end of the lane that led to their cottage, the gate closed between them.

  “Don’t come any closer, Gabriella.”

  Gabriella had been dumbstruck. “Mrs. Porter, I don’t understand.”

  “Because we know about your brother. He is not right. He is cursed.”

  This fear, tinged with hate, had never made sense to Gabriella. She felt fine. Her family, although by turns concerned and frustrated by her brother’s strange habits, were not “sick” themselves. Whatever was wrong with her brother, it was not like a cold they could catch. Then she noticed the rock in Mrs. Porter’s hand.

  She had turned back that day. No stone had been cast, but her sense of fairness and of the reasonableness of adults was wounded beyond repair. In her dream state, she stepped from one year to another in the span of heartbeats. It was she who held the rock now. She had picked up one of the stones hurled at her brother by Todd Berger. Dameon had wandered out of the yard. Gabriella and her parents were not as vigilant in those early days. They had not realized what an easy target Dameon was for bullies. And so Todd and his twin brother Eric had used him as a target for their sling shots. This time Gabriella retaliated and flung the rock back.

  By luck—or misfortune, it depended upon one’s perspective—the stone struck Todd in the head, opening a red dripping crescent above his eye, leaving a scar that would last a lifetime. No longer would people confuse the twins, for she had rendered them un-alike. That would teach them, she thought.

  But in her dream-state she still remembered her indignation when her father had told her that she should not have thrown the rock. He had made her apologize and of all her memories, that was the one she remembered most: her anger, towards Todd and Eric, towards her father, but most of all, towards Dameon.

  She woke, unsure if it was her own fury that had roused her or noise. The House of Healing was a constant stir of creaks and groans as healers tended to their patients throughout all hours of the night. But this noise had been closer, the creek of a board in her very room.

  She was not alone.

  No sooner had she realized this than a hand settled over her mouth.

  “Sorry to startle you,” Omanuju said. “But we must go.” He slowly lifted his hand.

  The fire had died down into embers, but in the dim light she could see that he was dressed for travel, his colorful cloak over his shoulders, a satchel on his arm and a sword at his belt. The curtain at the window billowed with a chill breeze, and she realized it was open. He must have come in that way.

  Despite her fears, she somehow trusted this strange man she scarcely knew. He handed her clothes, and she pulled them on over her sleepwear. She was glad for the extra layers for once they crawled out the window, she realized that the autumn winds had brought colder air. Her breath circled about her head in a cloud that caught the air of the moon, which was but a sliver over the harbor.

  They went by foot through the village and down the harbor road. It was late enough that cottages were dark but not so late that early risers such as the bread bakers and moon-fishers were out. Omanuju walked at a hurried pace, and more than a few times Gabriella had to run to keep up with his long strides. Fortunately she knew the paths well for they were nearing her own home. Omanuju stopped outside their gate, reached under his cloak, and handed her an envelope.

  “Go inside. Move quickly and quietly. Do not wake a soul. Put this on the hearth where your parents will find it. Make haste . . . we have leagues to travel before sunrise.”

  Gabriella obeyed, opening the gate forcefully, knowing that it would squeak less if moved swiftly. She tiptoed up the stairs, avoiding the middle step that always creaked, and pulled on the front door. It was locked tight. She had expected as much. She was tempt
ed to leave the letter on the doorstop, but there was another reason she wanted to go inside: she was cold. She could smell rain in the air, and she wanted warmer clothes and her sealskin cloak. She crept around the side of the house, reaching the window of the bedroom she shared with Dameon. So slowly it was almost painful, Gabriella swung open the unlocked window, then crawled inside.

  The familiar smell of her own home surrounded her—fresh bread, pine timbers, and a smoldering fire. Dameon’s measured breathing came from the lower bunk. She crossed the room, fumbled about the clothes tree until she found her cloak, wrapped herself in it, then stuffed a few extra items—trousers, tunics, socks—into a leather carryall. She made her way by feel into the main room of the cottage. She could hear her father snoring.

  She felt a sudden pang of guilt for leaving them, followed by a sense of panic. What was she doing leaving with the strange man? She turned back to the letter and, without hesitating, slipped her thumb under the unsealed flap. She pulled the letter from the envelope and held it close to the fire place so she could read it.

  Mark and Marissa,

  The fates have spoken for good or ill. The enemy moves close. I have taken Gabriella to pursue the prophecy and will return in time to pay Mab Miller. I will protect her with my life.

  Yours,

  Omanuju Ant

  Gabriella wiped her face with her hands. Her emotions spilled over one another, like a pot boiling over, so that she could hardly name one without another taking its place. There was fear at whatever circumstance they had blundered into with the Servior, curiosity as to why she had been singled out, exhilaration at what was clearly an adventure, and wild hope that perhaps things could be different in her life now . . . better. If she fulfilled the dead’s prophecy, perhaps they would grant her a wish. Perhaps they would heal her brother.

  The edge of the page flared bright orange and curled. She had held it too close to the coals, and the parchment had caught fire. She waved the page back and forth in the air, but the flame only grew until she smothered it with the hem of her cloak. She sat still in the darkness, scarcely breathing, waiting for the sound of her father’s footsteps, but his snores continued uninterrupted.

  She replaced the letter, first checking to make sure it was still readable, then she slipped across the cottage to her bedroom where she paused to listen for Dameon. She did not hear the familiar sound of his deep breathing, but she did not hear him stirring either. The last thing she needed was for him to follow her. Reluctant to lose more time, she crawled over the sill, and ran into the darkness.

  Chapter 7

  Ghede

  Omanuju was waiting at the edge of her family’s property. They followed the wagon road until it bent south towards Mab Miller’s land and the tower. Instead of turning, Omanuju struck a path directly into Frank Gregory’s potato field and continued into the forest on the far side. The woods here were thick conifers that even on a bright day blocked out much of the sun from above, making a permanent dusk beneath their boughs.

  At night the space underneath was pure blindness, yet Omanuju still managed to find his way, warning Gabriella of stones and roots that might trip her. Their path climbed rocky slopes and descended into dells with noisy streams that Gabriella could hear but not see. But mostly their path climbed, the descents becoming less frequent, and after a time they only ascended, Gabriella’s heart beating loudly in her ears and her breath coming in ragged gasps.

  Despite Omanuju’s warnings, Gabriella still managed to stumble and trip, so much so that when they reached the island’s interior highlands, her knees were scraped and her palms stung from catching herself. Omanuju helped her over one last set of boulders and then stopped. Here the island opened up to its own sea of grass that covered most of the rolling land of the interior. No longer beneath the trees, they could see the stars stretching from one horizon to the next. The sliver of moon had tracked into the center of the sky. Compared to the darkness of the forest, this meadow was positively bright. Gabriella could make out the shape of undulating hills and ridges silhouetted against the spray of stars to the south and west.

  Omanuju rummaged through his pockets, drew out a small object hung on a strip of leather, and handed it to Gabriella. She took it in her hands and studied it, running her fingers along the length of leather.

  “It’s a whistle,” Omanuju said. “We’re far enough away from the village now to sound it.”

  She obeyed, putting the tiny instrument to her mouth. Although polished and gleaming like metal in the moonlight, it was not cold to the touch. Rather it felt warm on her lips. Its call was a sweet note that nonetheless pierced all other sounds around them—the wind in the evergreens, the chorus of crickets, the mournful call of a night lark. All the natural sounds around them diminished as if arrested by this one note that swelled with her breath and filled the wide chamber of the night, all the way to the starry vault above. When she had finished, the sound still echoed in her ears. She looked to Omanuju for some sign of approval. When she held out the whistle to return to him, he shook his head.

  “Keep it . . . you might need it later. Now listen.”

  She hung the whistle around her neck and turned her ear to the meadow. She could hear hoof beats approaching and she imagined a horse of some kind. Before long it was upon them, but as the hoof beats neared, she realized that this was no horse. It was the right size, but the shape was off—the head a measure too short. The ears were misplaced—too far out on the sides—and the shoulders a hand’s length too high. The moonlight moved across its fur like the shine on iridescent ink. Gabriella caught her breath when she realized that a rack of gleaming antlers crowned the animal’s head.

  “An elk. Of course, Old Man Ant is for Old Man Antler,” Gabriella said, not realizing she spoke aloud.

  “Careful who you are calling old,” Omanuju said, his teeth flashing a smile. He bent down to the rocks they stood on, pulling forth two saddle bags that he slung over the waiting elk.

  Gabriella was still trying to take the creature in. The fur was a dark grayish brown if she discerned it correctly in the weak light. The underside of the neck was white and shaggy. But it was the animal’s eyes that were most striking. When she caught the moon’s reflection in them, she was startled to see the animal looking back at her in a steady, almost knowing stare. She stepped backwards, feeling self-conscious as if she had been caught staring at a stranger.

  “Is he tame?” she asked.

  “Tame? I don’t know if I would say that, but he is a friend. He will carry us where we want to go.”

  “We’ll ride him?”

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, swinging onto the elk’s back and offering his hand. Gabriella took it and sprang up behind Omanuju. Once mounted, without warning, the animal sprang into motion, galloping through the waving grasses. Gabriella felt a dizzy sensation in her ears, and her body felt oddly off balance as the elk accelerated. The wind rose to a howl around them, making an eerie howl in the antlers. The hooves beat out a furious tempo, and the feathered heads of the grasses hissed as they parted in front of them, then closed in their wake.

  The sun rose. Leagues of hills rolled out to either side like waves in the ocean of grass. She had never imagined her own home island to be so large. As the light grew, she had a better look at their mount. It was a subtle gray-brown color that was well suited to blend in with open fields or shady woods. Its coat was shaggier than a horse’s, but she liked it for its softness and length, allowing her to twirl it about her fingers and even grab hold of to steady herself when they bounced over a stream or leapt a gully.

  It was midday when they stopped at a cluster of boulders that rose like a small island from the sea of grass. Omanuju dismounted directly onto the top of the stones, and Gabriella followed, leaning against the elk to regain her balance. After so many hours of riding, even the stationary rocks felt as if they were rising and falling.

  The elk drank from a nearby stream as Omanuju tore chunks from a brown
bread loaf to share with Gabriella along with some hard, white cheese.

  She was hungry and the ride had been long, but her spirits were not diminished. She skipped across the rocks and took the offered food. The day before she had been languishing in bed, a girl with an imbecile brother, and surrounded by well-intentioned but befuddled healers and priests. Omanuju, by contrast, was decisive and learned. What he did not know, she was confident he could find out. Now he had helped her to ride an elk, see parts of the island she had never dreamed existed, and—perhaps most importantly—freed her of her brother.

  It took her a few minutes for the reality of her freedom to sink in. Even as she ate, she caught herself breaking the bread into pieces, ready to share with her brother. As she explored the rocks she found herself examining them for places where Dameon might trip and fall. She had to remind herself that he was not with her and that she could—for once—simply look after herself.

  And the prospect that he could be cured forever made her spirits soar. She was captivated by this notion she had planted in her own heart—that if she fulfilled the dead’s prophecy they would cure Dameon. How could they not if she and Omanuju saved the tower from falling into the hands of the Servior? Small healings occurred regularly. Although the dead had not been known to cure Stanley Farmish, the half-brained village idiot who was not even housebroken, or Joel Orange, who regularly saw spirits and heard disembodied voices to the point of madness. But surely for this quest, her brother might be changed.

  It made saving the tower all the more urgent.

  “Do you think the dead will cure Dameon if we succeed?” she asked.

  “Cure him?” Omanuju sounded surprised. “He is different, but surely he is not sick.”

  “But Omanuju, even you must know of his . . . peculiarities.”

  “Aye, I do.”

  “It makes him difficult.”

  He took a bite of his bread and looked out into the waving heads of grass. “I have known others like Dameon, and believe me, he may have qualities yet undiscovered and underappreciated.”