Lightmaker

by Kevin Elliott

  Caliper stopped and pointed due south. ‘If we cut across here, we’ll reach the forest edge sooner.’

  ‘I thought you’d not been here before,’ Frinelia said.

  ‘This way.’ Caliper charged into a bank of ferns. He flicked his fingers, and the fronds parted around him. They followed his route, and a horde of inch-long woodlice tumbled from a log onto the black earth. Phos shuffled her feet to keep clear, and after twenty yards they emerged onto a grassy plain. A broken stone wall stood fifty yards off, and beyond stalks of unharvested barley rotted under daylight. Further on, straggling hedges lined distant fields stretching out to the far southern world wall’s stony barrier of hazy blue.

  Phos wrapped her hands around her damp tunic. A gravel path drifted between the wall and their forest, a bleached contour that ambled past an abandoned cotter’s shack. Far ahead a grey-green mountain rode the dawnward horizon – watery with distance.

  Frinelia’s voice quavered. ‘You should see Morzenthal’s hill now; it’s still a day’s walk away.’

  ‘It’s there,’ Phos said.

  ‘I wandered this way two months ago, and there wasn’t a path, so what dragged this one here?’

  Phos stood beside Caliper. ‘When do we meet Christina?’

  The miller shrugged. ‘Can’t say. We’ve never truly met; she sends moving pictures of herself you can see through, and they’re twice my height.’

  ‘Whizzy,’ Phos said. ‘So she’s at Morzenthal?’

  ‘Must be. Has to be.’ Was Caliper trying to drink the hill with his stare? He crouched, and gravel crunched under his boots.

  ‘This track’s fresh. Look, it’s flattened this grass.’

  ‘The road’s following us?’ Mitch prodded the gravel. ‘Did Christina drag it here?’

  ‘There’s much she won’t say.’

  Forest on one side and a battered stone wall on their right, and ahead rich grass carpeted a spine of hills rolling dawnward. Two ruined stone cottages grew from the wall, and a rusted plough crouched beside a gaping doorway. Children had played here years ago.

  Phos rested her hands on the moss-laden stone wall. It felt warm under the sun’s arch light. ‘They said roads shifted to freshen the world, and new paths meant new friends or your dad finding new work.’

  ‘No road travels this fast.’ Frinelia nudged gravel with her foot. ‘But yes, you’ve heard our approved story.’

  ‘But you can’t prove nature works to help us; you pick evidence to fit your ideas. Roads might move for their own reasons.’

  ‘Our words glued society together.’

  ‘But now nature fights us, and your words don’t work.’

  ‘I’ve no answers, nor does any cleric, but clues may linger at Morzenthal,’ Frinelia said.

  ‘Can you describe the place, and tell us about the dangerous parts?’

  ‘Imagine a vast drum pressed into the top of the hill ahead. A circular arena lies in the centre, surrounded by stacked rings of curving corridors wider than any barn. People huddle in a tiny fragment of the city – we’ve brought in plasterboard sheets and curtains to carve out dormitories and living spaces – but most of Morzenthal remains a mass of echoing passages. The carousel circles the arena’s base and houses the most perilous exhibits. The elders try to seal the entrances, but the exhibits often escape.’

  ‘Have you been inside the carousel?’

  ‘Decades ago. I saw statues that recoiled at my approach, musical instruments that played themselves, masks that altered your vision, and mirrors that chose what they reflected. Clouds of twittering paper birds sliced my skin until I ran. A handful of exhibits have a use, while others can break your limbs with a stare. What’s safe one year is lethal the next, and two or more exhibits may agree to combine into an artefact with unguessable powers. Even sneezing can trigger the exhibits, so tread carefully if you enter.’

  ‘And everything’s Christina’s size.’

  Frinelia nodded. ‘Many rooms take minutes to cross, and we’ve fitted extra steps into many staircases. I’ve looked into immense shafts that pierce several floors. They’re empty now, but many people believe the original builders could fly.’

  Phos walked without speaking. Images brewed inside her mind: floating monks polished brass cogwheels while eating from flying trays. She smiled: even retired priests would jot down thoughts and ideas, and she might uncover books or ways to test ideas. Morzenthal meant her world had grown.

  Their path curved left to skirt a rounded hill where soil and grass had slipped to expose a scar of white rock. The stone wall gave way to an untrimmed hedge, and underneath, dark green needles spilled over earth.

  ‘Part of Morzenthal still sticks up above ground. Once we’ve passed this bend, you’ll notice the roof and high towers. My ancient eyes will only see blurs.

  ‘Everyone wears out,’ Caliper said. ‘I used to lob grain bags into carts.’

  Mitch frowned. ‘The world’s ageing too.’

  ‘What can you see now?’

  ‘The hill spreads out, and….’ Mitch swivelled his head. ‘It’s exactly halfway between the world walls.’

  ‘Few notice that detail,’ Frinelia said.

  ‘There’s stonework on the hilltop, three towers linked by curving walls.’

  ‘You can’t spot the fourth tower from here, but there’s our destination, a long climb with weak tea at the end. One more thing to spot.’

  Caliper shielded his eyes. ‘Is the higher grass pale?’

  ‘Grass at altitude is often pasty. Look higher.’

  ‘The vault above Morzenthal is dark,’ Mitch said.

  A faint patch of grey clung to the distant rocks, and Phos stared – the spot seemed unreachable.

  ‘Is there a link?’

  ‘No one knows,’ Frinelia said. ‘Our world holds five similar cities, and each shows a similar stain on the vault.’

  ‘You’ve seen the others?’

  ‘Only Morzenthal still holds people, and the young rarely come, so more rooms fall empty each year.’

  ‘Is there food?’

  Frinelia’s lips puckered. ‘There is a room the desperate call a kitchen, and a substance the daring call food. I won’t describe anything, but you’ll experience it.’

  Their path curled downward into a valley lined with young birches. Golden leaves coated the gravel and rustled underfoot, and she smelt honey. Maroon reeds clustered on the path’s left side, thicker at the top, scars of purple against the ghost-white birches. Their travelling road had sliced through several reeds to scatter stalks across gravel, and brick-coloured dust billowed over their bodies. Phos’s eyes watered as dust stung her throat, and Frinelia began coughing. Each of her hacking barks spawned the next.

  The priestess sagged against a tree trunk, and the others surrounded her while dust turned their daylight crimson. Caliper patted Frinelia’s shoulder.

  Mitch sniffed the air. ‘What’s that plant? Has anyone seen similar?’

  Caliper picked up a strand and rubbed it between finger and thumb. ‘Strange…like…No…. This needs washing off.’

  ‘I’ve a waterskin, and Phos—’

  ‘No – we need to get underwater.’

  ‘There’s a brook further on….’ Frinelia’s face turned purple, and she slumped forward, but Caliper swept her up and cradled her in his arms. He stumbled and her head lolled back, but he raced forward.

  Phos’s skin burned. Her undershirt pinched her chest as unseen needles stabbed her lips. Caliper loped ahead, but his feet crushed more of the maroon stalks, and dust rolled across their path.

  ‘Where’s the stream?’ Half roar and half question. Caliper shifted Frinelia’s body to lodge her head on his shoulder. A branch whipped Phos’s face, but she kept running as Caliper vanished into the forest. She raced around a tree-lined bend, and the miller stood twenty yards ahead, staring at a black road slicing through the wood and covering their gravel path. No, not a road; the surface slithered. This was a five-yard-wide st
retch of stinking tar.

  Caliper let Frinelia face the blackness. ‘Is this your stream? What happened?’

  She rasped out a croak before vomiting out a thin stream of liquid, but Caliper lifted her up again and waded into the sludge.

  ‘Get under, Phos – this might be water.’

  Phos stumbled forward but reeled at the fish-head-and-dog-muck stench. Mitch sobbed and toppled face first into the morass, but ahead Caliper crouched and gulped air before easing Frinelia and himself below the surface.

  Her skin blistered as she stepped forward, and her feet slipped. The slurry rushed at her to surge into her mouth and nose as she sank. Impossible to scream or think; the black tar trapped and crushed her – no telling where the surface sat. Her lungs burned. Phos shoved her arms forward, and her fingertips rasped the stream’s stony bed. She tried dipping her feet, but her arms rose. Too much – slime slid into her throat.

  Agony gripped her neck as her collar bit into her and wrenched her upward. Light punched her eyes as she vomited mud, but Caliper clutched her shoulder, and his fingers swept muck from her eyes. Black mud plastered his hair against his skull as he smiled, and her feet scraped against the stream’s bed.

  ‘All right there?’

  Her skin tingled as gobbets of sludge dripped from her hair. Frinelia sprawled on the far bank, slathered in mud but moving, and Mitch waded towards her using the furrow Caliper had ploughed through the slime.

  Caliper slapped her back. ‘You’ll manage.’ His voice squeezed past the muck in her ears, and she followed him to the bank before he eased her up.

  ‘Phos?’ Frinelia’s voice had recovered.

  ‘I’m better.’ She squeezed the tremble from her voice and made herself look at the priestess. ‘How’s you and Mitch?’

  ‘We’re breathing, but we both need washing, and we may not make Morzenthal tonight.’ Frinelia raised herself on one arm and brushed mud from Phos’s sleeve – the gunk had dried. ‘Amazing how this mud changes once it leaves the stream.’ She sank back onto the earth and stared upward.

  Mitch rattled off questions. ‘You recognised the pong, Caliper, so what was that brown dust?’

  ‘It smelt of rotten flesh, and there’re stories from dawnward about that dust: you’ve to wash it off, or you’ll stop breathing.’

  ‘And if it won’t wash off?’

  ‘Small boys can’t ask any more questions.’

  Mitch frowned. ‘The church says everything has a use, so what’s the dust for?’

  ‘No idea. Nothing makes sense now.’

  ‘Look the right way and you’ll find the sense.’

  Caliper laughed. ‘I’m thinking of Frinelia’s tiny machines knocking back the cider.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re broken,’ Phos said. ‘Someone made these machines, but why aren’t they around to repair them?’

  Caliper sat and slid off his boots. ‘I’ve no answers, Phos, but maybe our world’s a windmill without an owner. Leave long enough between repairs, and gears strip themselves and sails rip apart. Nothing lasts forever.’

  ‘So Frinelia’s broken machines built those stinking reeds?’

  ‘We’re writing stories here, and perhaps one story tells the truth, but we’ll not know which one. A broken gear will scream, but the noise is an accident. Those reeds can kill, but that’s not what they’re for; the killing happens because they’re broken.’

  Frinelia sat up. ‘You’re thinking again, Caliper.’

  ‘Should I stop?’

  ‘Continue for now. These threats may be accidental, but we owe you thanks: your composure in that murk was impressive.’

  Phos watched the miller strip away his overalls to winkle out clumps of earth. He stood and gazed at their path as it wound up a hill. Two kinds of strength flowed through Caliper: strength buzzed through his muscles while passion set him flying into the blocks in their path. She’d need strength to survive, and she’d find it here; Caliper might not be a teacher, but he was a lesson.

  Her tunic had ripped around her collar, and she fumbled at the cloth without thinking. Watching a strong man wouldn’t make her strong, but together Caliper and Christina might give her a chance at learning, and this journey might breathe life into her second syllable. Doubt lingered – could she trust him – why wasn’t he explaining those exploits? Phos stood and followed him up the hill.

  Chapter 14: run through falling night

  The grass past Torzene gleamed as if the land had stretched after a long sleep, and sweetness lingered on the breeze. Golden-brown beechnuts crunched under his feet as scarlet butterflies hovered before his face. Caliper strode upward. The path twisted but always rose, shepherded between two winding earthy banks glazed with blue-marbled crocuses. No one denied that each muddy step carried him closer to Christina.

  ‘Not too fast.’ Phos yelled.

  More than mud had touched his hands in that murky stream; a delicate stroking had nudged his arms towards Phos. Their first touch? Exploits coiled inside his body, and half of him wanted to hurtle screaming towards Morzenthal, but he leaned against a beech’s gnarled trunk and gazed upward as the others climbed his way. Enough breeze trickled over the banks to set the flowers nodding, and he could dream for a heartbeat. Did Christina keep a similar garden, and did banks of crocuses bob in the wind at her home?

  Phos shuffled upward. She’d scraped mud from her face, but her eyes had reddened, and her tunic sleeve flapped around her elbow.

  The four continued without words, and Caliper steadied himself to match Phos’s trudge. Ahead, the grass lining the path gave way to rich brown soil that waited for plants, and orange blooms looking like roses attacked by a mangle appeared around a curve while copper-coloured thistles swayed in the thinning forest. Mitch raced towards a dark brown knot of fungus throttling a tree, but an angry buzz made him recoil.

  ‘Stay clear, Mitch,’ Frinelia said.

  ‘Any idea what happened to your stream?’

  Frinelia paused and leaned on her stick. ‘With more time, I’d head upstream and investigate, but even with this path, we’ll struggle to reach Morzenthal tonight.’

  ‘Nothing lasts forever,’ Mitch said. ‘Not even trees and streams.’

  Phos glanced up. ‘You get saplings when the old ones die.’

  ‘Ah, but now we’ve trees that won’t grow straight, and any breeze uproots them. What happens when sickness spreads?’

  ‘No fruit or vegetables.’

  Caliper chuckled. ‘There’s a relief. I hate tubrel: there’s no taste.’

  ‘You can stuff tubrel,’ Frinelia said.

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘Two days at Morzenthal, and you’ll yearn for tubrel.’

  Caliper fell silent. The day still promised hours of light, and they’d climbed hundreds of yards, but was this too easy? Feeling Christina’s fingers brushing his had left him with a hunger for her voice, but she’d stayed mute since, so was she sharing words with other men?

  The path led into a clearing where a ring of beech trees circled a patch of leaf-carpeted grass. Phos tottered towards a tree and slumped onto the earth, and Frinelia and Caliper rested beside her. Mitch walked to the ring’s edge to pluck a pale blue flower where six beaded rings nested together to form a hollow ball.

  Caliper watched. ‘Seen one of those before?’

  Mitch shook his head and sat. He flicked the beads on one ring and coaxed out a thin tinkling like metal straws rubbed together. His fingers switched to another ring. After a few moments the boy cracked his fingers and churned out a decent version of ‘Cats and Dogs’. Phos combed her fingers through her hair, and two muddy chunks fell onto her lap.

  Caliper stretched out on the ground as the beech leaves jostled in the breeze, but the sickly reek brewing from his overalls needed sorting, or no one would sit beside him without the retching.

  He’d never seen a henge inside a wood, so Christina wouldn’t appear here, even though the woman was built of surprises. Caliper tucked his arm
s beneath his head as wind stirred the branches above, and the leaf sounds grew into waves of restless murmuring; he imagined her whispers seeping into his mind.

  The rustling leaves chimed, and daylight mellowed into a golden blur as if fog had rolled across the sky in a single heartbeat. Caliper jerked to his feet and blinked, but the shimmering light stayed, and the surrounding trees breathed out a whispered hum.

  He staggered forward. ‘Are yous catching this? The leaves are ringing.’ Mitch’s music stopped, but the tinkling continued.

  Phos smirked. ‘Been on the cider again?’

  ‘You’re not noticing?’ Caliper snatched a leaf from the air, and a tingle screwed through his palm as his fingers squeezed themselves into a fist.

  ‘I’m seeing nothing.’

  ‘Exploits affect your vision,’ Frinelia said.

  ‘I’ve drunk nothing, and I’ve never seen these blurs before.’ His words sounded as if he’d dunked his head underwater. Christina often came when he drifted near sleep; he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing and tried to remember her stroking his fingertips.

  Nothing. Only a fishy stench burping from his greasy overalls. The metallic tinkling above faded into a papery rustle, and opening his eyes brought back the world’s dullness.

  ‘I can’t tell what she’s doing, but let’s move and get closer.’

  Frinelia stood and brushed herself off. ‘We’ve exhausted Phos and Mitch, so Morzenthal may be out of reach tonight. You look shattered yourself.’

  ‘Our clothes are still damp,’ Phos said.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m not ill, just….’ No word fitted, and he pointed up the path.

  Muscles groaned as he trudged forward. Their path drifted up and onto a ridge of grassy hills, like a winding finger stretching forward. Below, the plain showed a net of dark hedges cambering up in the distance to meet the curves of the world walls. Ahead, their path rose over a darkening grassy slope crowned by a thin thread of grey stone, and Frinelia pointed.

  ‘Morzenthal’s path, but the city is some way off.’