This was the place. It elated her to realize the fact, to recognize the echo of her horse, struggling on the icy path, to hear the drum, to smell the wood of the fires, the crack of the crude hide tents that had been erected outside the arched gate of the ruined fortress.
Eyes watched her from the thorn woods. She rode past the fires. These people had lived here for years; the places showed all the signs of long habitation. Only the children were courageous enough to step out of hiding and watch her. They were dull-eyed and fur clad, with hair bound up into a bunch at the crown and the rattle of bones and polished stones around their limbs. They were like the boy she had seen at Oak Lodge …
The drummer was a woman cowled in black, who watched from a low tent, half obscured by hides, furs and wooden carvings. Tallis saw a gaping split in the cliff wall, and the small fire that burned deep inside, illuminating the cluster of wooden statuettes, some standing, some dangling from twine, at the entrance to the cave.
She rode on, ducking below trees, shivering as she passed the guarding statues at the crumbling gate. They were beasts, not men, but they had about them the features of nightmare, of ghosts, and though she recognized the animals of the forest in limbs, teeth and eyes, what struck her most powerfully was the element of madness in them.
All things in this world were born from the minds of men and since all men were mad, they were mad creatures, madly running …
So Tallis at last entered the stone corridors and galleries which had once led Harry to the first forest, and a forbidden land in whose winter embrace he had become lost. The cold stone whispered to her. She climbed stairs and peered through wide windows at the canyon and the forested land that stretched away to south and west. She entered small chambers, stood at the side of a great hall, its roof decayed, dark creatures flying through the sagging beams, the falling eaves. She knew this hall well, with its huge fire and its marbled floor. She went to the place where the King had sat. She stood where she had seen Scathach in the story, his face now indistinguishable from the young man with whom she travelled. One remembered again the anger in his eyes as he had faced her across the table. And she realized that the anger had not been directed at her at all. He was looking at her for help – he was pleading, through his fury, for the assistance of his sister … it was just that, in his youth, he could not control the emotion in his face, and she quivered with the imagined rage, only now recognizing the desperation in his eyes.
Who was I? Why do I feel so old? If I was his sister in the story, why do I feel so old, so cold?
If only she had looked more closely at his eyes. In them she might have seen her reflection. She might have understood by now.
There was something comfortingly familiar in this maddening ruin, this mythagoscape, generated by a burned airman many years in the past, created by him as he journeyed to the innermost and most ancient place of all. Glimpses of her stories made her smile. Echoes of Harry made her sad. Although her body was cold, she felt enclosed by warmth, as if her brother’s arms were around her, and she was snug and safe against his chest. She touched the stone of the walls as she might have touched a cheek, deliberately and lingeringly. It was so dark, so strange. There was damp quality to it, an odd stickiness. The patterns in the hewn rock were evocative, thin traceries of crystal, she imagined, beautiful whorls and arches, as fine to look at as the fine lines on a mother’s face.
She recognized the stone for what it was, but the thought did not engage her, did not surface. It was stone which was not true stone, and she continued to question that oddity, even though the answer to the slight conundrum was obvious and all about her.
Wandering aimlessly, she ascended towers and followed twisting galleries deep into the cliff. Dusk was giving way to night and the fires outside the gate burned brightly. Fine snow fell and transformed the image of the wood. Wind gusted through the empty skull of the fortress, the ragged breathing of a dying man. And in one room she found the tattered remnants of a standard, white, emblazoned with the image of a bird.
From this room she could see out through a wide window into a dense stand of woodland, which seemed to crowd together, not quite hiding a track leading to a small cave. She was high on the cliff, here, and the ledge was close to the darkening sky. She imagined that to walk that track, and to climb the rough-hewn rock around the mouth of the cave, would bring her to the top of the canyon. From such a vantage point she might see across the land for ever – to the edge of the wood in all directions …
The room felt homely, cold and damp though it was, and dark. She walked around its edge. She tried to imagine Harry being here, huddled by a fire in the centre of the space, staring at the cave, reaching to the first forest, drawing the Ancient close to him.
Pale moonlight lanced through winter skies, the clouds withdrawing for a moment so that the bleak, whorled stone gleamed silver, reflecting back the cool rays.
Something in the stone …
She crossed the room, reached to touch the glistening object embedded in the rock. It looked as if the rock had flowed around the pistol, curling strands of stone that gripped the barrel and the trigger-guard. But the shape of the revolver was clear to see, the metal now corroded, the wood quite rotten. Yet not so rotten that it had obscured the carved initials at the base of the grip.
H.K.
Harry Keeton!
Her brother’s pistol, then. She thrilled to see it, to touch it. She could not dislodge it, but she stood there, staring at the weapon. Its barrel pointed to the cave. Its presence occupied the room.
Following by instinct, following the trail of mind and memory that he had left, she had surely and with great purpose come to the final place of Harry’s death –
From here to rebirth was just a single step …
So she stepped out through the wide window, towards the cave. To her left the land dropped away to the river below, sheer and terrifying. She could see a flicker of fire, Wynne-Jones’s fire. The river sparkled by dusklight.
There was a sound from the gorge, a strange whirring. She saw a dark, circular shape rising from the depths, ascending the sides of the canyon. It was like a dark wheel, flecked with white. It chattered … Fascinated, she watched as this object rose towards her, and only after several seconds did she realize that it was a screeching flight of birds, whirling on the updraught towards the freedom of the skies. She crouched as the great flock screamed past her, wings humming; some of them tangled in the trees, a few panicked as they shattered themselves against the stone of the fortress, or flew frantically in the confined space of the room; but most of them circled above her head, then streamed away to the south, lost against the fading luminescence of the sky.
This sudden, panicked flight interrupted the mood of closeness to her brother. Teetering on the sheer cliff, Tallis peered down at the river. She heard her name called from below, the sound distorted as it echoed from the depths. She grew instantly concerned and retraced her steps to where she had tethered Swimmer of Lakes.
Leading the animal by its reins, she descended the steep path towards the place of tents. She skirted the fires, seeing no sign of movement, then realized that someone was running through the dark trees towards her. The figure came up the path and into the sparse firelight, stopped, chittered, then darted on, arms waving as it ran.
‘Holly-jack!’ Tallis called, and as if it had understood its name the Green Jack stopped a moment, stared sadly at the woman with the horse. It was certainly the evergreen jack, her holly skin torn and ragged, now, her thin body shuddering. She looked as if she had been attacked. As Tallis watched her, so several prickly leaves dropped from her chest, and the creature touched the broken stems as if in pain. Then she turned and ran on, towards the gate to the ruins. Perhaps she was aware of what lay above her, or perhaps she just ran blindly.
Then Tallis realized that Holly-jack was running out of fear.
A wolf bounded into the place of tents, stopped and straightened like a man.
Swimmer of Lakes panicked and reared. Tallis dragged the animal down and soothed it, stroking its muzzle and whispering soft words. The Scarag stood, half visible in the dim light, swaying slightly and working its wet jaws. The stink of beast and forest was strong. It took a rapid step to the side, deeper into shadows, then turned its skull features to stare up the path. As it moved it creaked and crackled, an old tree moving over crisp leaves. Skeletal arms lifted, one pointing; eyes that were just holes in maggoty wood seemed to seek compassion from the human. A mouth that trembled and opened to expose pointed thorns for teeth seemed to work to speak; over all, the shape of the woodland creature was that of a wolf, but a bare boned wolf, its fur gone, its flesh shrunken on to the jutting bones of its body.
It dropped to its forearms and padded slowly to left and right. It sniffed the air. It uttered a doglike howl, then raced past Tallis, moving so fast on its hind legs, bent forward, that she could hardly follow its motion. It had entered one of the tents, but a moment later emerged and raced at Tallis, light reflecting in dull eyes. She was carrying a small spear and only just had time to raise it and thrust it at the Scarag. The point passed through its body as if through tree fungus. But the creature stopped. She withdrew the weapon, struck at its head and it staggered. She impaled it through the ribs a second time and the point took and held, and this time when she jerked the Scarag to the side it came with her, clutching at the killing wood.
Wolfish cries, a sharp wail, a barking death cry; then Tallis had swung the winter monster across the ledge. As it tumbled through the air it stretched out its arms. She thought she heard an owl cry, and the falling shape, black now and only just visible, seemed to sweep suddenly to the left, soaring, then falling, turning a round and white face to glance at her as it vanished into the gloom.
Let free, and panicked by the Scarag, Swimmer of Lakes had bolted. She could hear the animal below her, struggling on the icy path, and she followed it down. When she came to the river the horse was standing there, head hung as if abashed. As Tallis approached it whinnied loudly, then stamped and backed into the trees. She realized that it was not shame that made it cower, but further fear.
She looked along the river to where Wynne-Jones’s fire burned. She could see a single horse, but no sign of men. Something, though … something tall, something like an animal … quite motionless …
She approached it cautiously.
What she had seen was a Scarag, impaled through the jaw and hanging limp on Scathach’s lance, which had been driven into the ground. The creature twitched, then was still. Its long fingers curled in agony, then relaxed. The fragment of an oak leaf, brown and dead, quivering on its neck, let Tallis know that this had been the leader. A second Scarag’s head lay by the fire, its mouth stretched open, wolfish features hardly recognizable. The corpse lay on the ground, arms and legs detached from the body. Tallis noticed that the beginnings of feathers had sprouted from the dry-bark skin, interrupted in their growth by the sudden death of the creature.
Where was Scathach? Where Wynne-Jones? The snorting of a horse drew her attention to the right, and she saw Scathach’s stolen mount, roughly tethered. Behind her, a stone fell into the river and she turned, glancing up at the fires on the cliff and the dark clouds above the crags and ramparts of the fortress.
Movement …
It was all around her. She swung back, weaponless and frightened. She reached for the fire, intending to pluck a brand, but something grabbed her arm and swung her round. Teeth sank into her cheek. She screamed and struck at the wolf. A spear point cut through her fur robes, pierced her skin, then drew back. The wolf had become still, then it sagged. It fell in her arms, lay on its side. Scathach had impaled it from behind, the point going too far and penetrating Tallis. She rubbed her belly and touched her face tenderly, smearing the blood and pressing the shallow bite wound. Scathach said nothing. Tallis said, ‘I killed one on the cliff. Holly-jack was fleeing …’
‘Then only the shaman remains.’
‘Will it attack like the rest?’
‘It needs life. It will kill for blood.’ He looked around urgently. Tallis stood by him. The smell was overpowering as the winter green decayed faster around them.
‘Where’s Wynne-Jones?’
Scathach said, ‘He took his horse and returned south. He said he couldn’t live without his journal …’
Tallis was furious. ‘You let him go?’
‘He went,’ Scathach said bluntly. ‘There was nothing I could do. These creatures probably killed him a day ago …’
A day ago? But she had only been on the mountain for two hours, three at the most. What did he mean? When she asked him he seemed astonished by the question.
‘You’ve been up there for two days. I’ve been very patient!’
‘Two days!’
Her shock seemed to mollify him. ‘A lot longer than you promised. And now it’s my turn. I have to go to the field. My father has made everything clear to me. The Jaguthin are there; my friends … my whole life. I must meet them again, fight with them, be re-joined with them. That way I can be liberated from them, receive my freedom.’
‘And what will you do then?’
‘Return to your world. Continue my father’s work.’
But you’ll die, she thought sadly. You’ll die beneath an oak. You’ll be burned on a pyre. There is only one freedom to be gained by travelling to Bavduin. The freedom of violent death.
Tallis was dizzy with the pace of events. Wynne-Jones had begun the return journey to the land of the Tuthanach. But she wasn’t ready for him to leave! Now that she had found the place of Harry’s entry into Lavondyss, she wanted the old man with her. She wanted his advice, his insight … even his help! And how would he cross the marsh? He had no talent for opening the thresholds, the hollowings …
‘He’ll die. He’ll never make it home. Not without help.’
She glanced at Swimmer of Lakes. Had the horse really understood her promise, she wondered? If it had, if such magic worked in this realm, then Swimmer was the old man’s only hope of returning. And if he returned safely to the Tuthanach, then he might survive the boy Tig long enough for Tallis to return and question him after whatever journey she might soon take, through the highest room of the fortress, through the cave: in Harry’s footsteps.
She told Scathach what she would do. ‘If he has this horse he has a chance. But don’t leave me. Don’t go up the cliff until I return. I want to come with you to Bavduin. I want to be there when you find the others.’
‘Then hurry,’ the man said. ‘I’ve waited two days for you. The others will be looking for me. We must enter the battle together. I can’t let them down.’
‘Wait for me’, she urged. ‘And watch for the Daurog shaman. He was young. He’ll be dangerous.’
‘I can look after myself,’ Scathach said grimly, and nodded to the twitching corpse of the Scarag leader, still dangling from the lance.
Tallis mounted Swimmer of Lakes and returned to the south, kicking the horse, challenging it, urging it to run faster through the night, back towards the swirling zones of seasons.
She found Wynne-Jones resting in the overhang of a rocky outcrop, exhausted, wretched, starving. She caught a bird, plucked and cooked it, fed the meat to him in slivers. She made a broth from the bones, using roots that flourished in the summer season, and after a while he had recouped some of his strength. But he would not be dissuaded from his task. He would not come north again.
‘What point is there in finding the site of my son’s death? I know it’s coming. I don’t want to see it. You have your own journey to make, I have my own death to avoid. But I would sooner have my journal and fight against Tig than die, frozen, wolfmeat, without anything to remind me of the pure pleasure I’ve had during my life. And those accounts are important to me.’
‘Tig will have burned them,’ Tallis said. ‘He burned your rajathuks.’
‘Yes. He will have burned some of the parchment sheets. But I’ve be
en in the wood for many years and there is a lot more to read than what I keep in the shaman’s lodge. Those few pages will have gone, but the bulk of it is hidden. Only Morthen knew where … dear Morthen …’
He looked sad. ‘If you find her, bring her back to me …’
‘I’ll try. And I’ll bring you Scathach too.’
‘How can you? You have already seen his fate.’
Tallis smiled. ‘A wild rider, a woman, was reaching to tug him from the pyre. She seemed to love him. Perhaps he wasn’t dead as yet. But as you said to me in the lodge, he will be reborn after his death as a warrior. So it’s a question of recognizing him …’
Wynne-Jones’s hand closed round her wrist. ‘I wish you luck. I hope you get there. I hope you find Harry.’
‘I’ve found him. I found his pistol. He was there, in the castle. That is the way to Lavondyss. There is a cave there. All I need to do is find how to open the threshold through that cave.’
Wynne-Jones smiled wanly, scarred face warm. She did not fail to apprehend the knowing gaze in his good eye. ‘What is it?’
‘As you follow him through the first forest,’ he said, ‘Remember this, if you can … keep asking yourself the question: why did he fail to return. What trapped him? Don’t make the same mistake. Don’t follow too fast. Keep watching for signs of winter, of wood, of birds. Somewhere in all the confusion of image and story which you have carried with you is the reason for Harry’s failure to return.’ He settled back. ‘I wish I could help you more. I can’t. But I am certain that the mistake he made is somehow lodged in your stories. You must enter Lavondyss as a child, not a woman. Watch and hear with a child’s senses. You may see the mistake he made, and manage to avoid it …’
‘Thank you for the advice,’ Tallis said. ‘My gift to you, in return, is my horse.’
‘But I have a horse.’