It was the sight of Roges’s face that had made her think of this, Roges’s face as he brooded over Beedie who, though she was beside him, did not see the way he looked at her. In that silken passionate look which reverberated like soft thunder was what she had felt in the summer garden. And it made her think of something more, of that same expression seen fifteen years before on the face of the Wizard Himaggery. Twenty years, he had said. Return to him in twenty years. Over three-quarters of that time was gone. Well, she could not think of that now, not with Handbright’s child soon to be delivered, and Mavin soon to take it away to be safely reared as a Shifter’s child should be reared – not with the chasm to be explored – and all these lands beyond the sea.
She moved out into the chasm, away from the root wall, attracted by a hard-edged shape which spiraled down toward her. It was one of the rigid frameworks webbed with flopperskin which the Messengers used to fly between bridgetowns, gliding on the warm, uprising air to carry messages from Topbridge to Harvester’s. She flew close, wondering what brought a Messenger to these depths.
It was no Messenger. The kite held a young man’s body, shrouded in white upon the gliding frame, staring with unseeing eyes into the misty air. There were embroidered shoes upon his feet, a feathered cap upon his head, and his hands were tied together before him with a silken scarf. Someone had decked the beloved dead for this last flight. Someone had set dreams aside, love aside, to grieve over this youth, and in that grieving, had realized there would be no more time in which to dream.
She flew aside, eyes fixed upon those dead eyes, as though she might read something there, accompanying the body down as it fell, turn on wide turn into the narrowing depths. At last she let it go, watching as it twirled into the chasm, softly as a leaf falls, the bright feather upon the cap catching at her vision until it vanished in mist.
No more time in which to dream. Twenty years. The bird body could not hold the pain which struck at her then, a shiver of grief so great that she cried out, the sound echoing from root wall to root wall, over and over again, in a falling agony of sound. She did not often think of herself as mortal.
“I will return,” she promised herself. “I will return.”
And was Himaggery still alive in that world across the sea? Must be, her mind told her sternly. Must be. I would have known if anything had happened to him. I could not have failed to know.
There, in the chasm mists, the Mavin-bird sang its determination and decision, even while it sought for mystery in the chasm with wide eyes.
Back in the guest rooms of Bridgers House, Roges lay with his head in Beedie’s lap and read to her.
“‘In the time of the great builders, the outcaste Mirtylon (he whose name came from the ancient times above the chasm) took captive the maiden daughter of the designer of Firstbridge, the Great Engineer, she whom he called Lovewings after the love he bore her mother who had died. For the Great Engineer had forbidden his daughter to marry Mirtylon, though he had sought her in honor and in love, for the Great Engineer feared to lose her from his house.
“‘And Mirtylon fled from the wrath of the Great Engineer, into the bottomless depths of the chasm, root to root, with his followers, losing themselves in the shadowy lands beneath the reach of the sun. Then it was the Great Engineer wept and foamed in his fury, for taken from him was what he held most dear in all his life, for Lovewings had gone with them. And he fell into despair. And in his despair he failed to set the watch upon the bridge, and in the night the great pombis came, lair upon lair of them out of the darkness, driving the people of Firstbridge down into the chasm to the half-built city of Secondbridge, called by some Nextdown. And though many came there for refuge, the Great Engineer was slain together with the Maintainers of his house.
“‘But unknowing of this was the outcaste Mirtylon and unknowing of this was Lovewings – who would have been greatly grieved, for she loved her father – so she married Mirtylon of her own will and lived with him in a cave at great depth upon the root wall while those who followed him drew great mainroots together for the establishment of the town of Waterlight. In those depths the light was that found deep in river pools of their former lands, mysterious and shadowy. And in time the bridgetown of Waterlight was built, and Bridgers were sent from it to build a stair along the morning-light wall which should reach from Waterlight upward to the rim of the chasm. And in time the Bridgers so sent met the Bridgers of Nextdown upon the root wall, and the news of the death of the Great Engineer, her father, came to Lovewings.
“‘Then did she feel great guilt and great despair, accounting herself responsible for what had occurred, for she well knew with what value her father had held her. And she went to Mirtylon and told him she would go away for a time, to expiate her guilt in loneliness after the manner of her religion, but he would not let her go.
“‘And by this time the stair which Mirtylon had ordered to be built stretched upward from the depths into the very midst of the chasm, to the new-built bridge of Bottommost. Forbidden to expiate her guilt Lovewings took herself to the highest point which had yet been built and threw herself into the depths so that none saw her more. This is the story told of her, for none knew the truth of it save that she had climbed the stair and came no more to Waterlight.
“‘And Mirtylon despaired, ordering that the stair be shattered, that none might walk that way again. So it was broken, and all connection between Waterlight and the other cities of the chasm was cut off.
“‘Still the Messengers flew between the bridges, and there was trade of a kind between them, with much gathering of gems and diamonds from the Bottomlands by those of Waterlight, and much trading of this treasure for the foodstuffs which grew high above. And though people of the bridgetowns were curious as to the source of the treasure, the secret was well kept by the people of Waterlight who would say only that the treasure was gathered at great danger to themselves from that which dwelt in the Bottomlands below.
“‘Until came a day the Messengers flew to Waterlight to find it gone, its place empty, the roots severed, the people gone, all in one night, vanished as though taken by a Demon or devil of the depths.
“‘And of Mirtylon many songs are sung, and of Lovewings, and of the vanished bridge which is called Lostbridge, and of the shattered stair…’”
“And that,” Roges said, “is that. There’s another story here about Lovewings. You want to hear it?”
“No,” said Beedie definitely. “It’s depressing. All that guilt and’ foolishness and throwing themselves about. I would like to know where the bridge went, though.”
“So would Mavin,” said Roges. “And I doubt not she’ll find out, one way or another. Whatever she may be, she is very positive about things. I wonder who she is – what she is…”
“I don’t know. She’s like the birdwoman. I mean, there are two of them, sisters. That’s all I know. What I think about how she came when I was caught on the root, dying in the smoke, I know I should be frightened of her. But I’m not. She’s just not scary.”
“I think she’s scary.” Roges was serious, worried. “Though I try not to show it. She knows things. That’s scary.”
“Oh, the theo … theor … the whatsit knows things, too. And I know things. And some are the same things, and some are different things. That’s all. It doesn’t matter to her! It shouldn’t matter to you.”
Roges laughed, burrowed the back of his head into her lap, reached up to touch her face. “Beedie, you don’t have any doubts at all, do you?”
“Hardly any,” she agreed, in surprise that he should ask. “It seems an awful waste of time. You just do things, and if it doesn’t work, then you do something else next time. Sitting around having doubts is very wasteful. At least, it seems so to me.”
“Don’t you ever worry about whether things are right or wrong?”
“Daddy and mum taught me what wrongs are. I don’t do wrongs. I take care of my tools, and I don’t risk my neck on the roots, and I’m caste
ly in my behavior – mostly – and polite to my elders. I don’t tell lies. What else would you like to know about me?”
“Are you religious?”
“Oh, foof, Roges. You know I’m not. Just enough to make sort of the right responses to noon prayers, and that’s about it. Are you?”
“Some,” he admitted. “I wonder about the Boundless a lot.”
“Maybe you should have been a Birder.”
“Maybe I was born a Birder. No one knows. I was found on the root wall, a foundling.”
“Oh, Roges. That’s very sad. Why, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know. Never knew. Tried not to wonder.”
“I’m sure I know,” she said, grinning at him, not letting him see she was beginning to tear up again. “You were so beautiful a baby that everyone looked at you all the time. Your aunt had an ugly baby no one ever looked at, and it made her so jealous that she stole you away from your mum and daddy and hid you on the root wall, giving out the slow-girules had carried you away. And ever since then they’ve been longing for you, unable to find you at all.”
“Not very likely,” he said. “They’d have found me by now.”
“That could be true. Well then, we’ll say they got very sick from their loss, and they both almost died from despair. And their elders told them they had to give the mourning up.”
“Now who’s making stories about guilt and despair?” he asked her in mock fury. “Beedie. You’re a crazy child.”
“I’m not a child,” she said, suddenly deciding it was time to prove it to him. “Not a child at all.”
They were interrupted by Mavin’s voice from the doorway, warm and amused. “I see I interrupt. Well, such is my fate. I have found the broken stairway, young ones.” They turned to her, a little dizzy and unaware, not believing her at first, faces questioning. “True! Surprisingly, it is still there. Nothing has eaten it. It hasn’t rotted. It is hatcheted away at the top end, but the rest of it goes down and down – overgrown a little, true – into the depths.”
Then they were both on their feet, the books – and other things – forgotten for the moment. “Did you go to the bottom? Have you seen it? Shall we go now?” asked Beedie, ready as ever for action.
“I saw only a little. The light is scant enough at this depth, and what is there is waning. I think we will go at first light tomorrow. While I saw no signs of the gray oozers on the morning-light wall, it should be easier to avoid them in light. So. Let us go in light, such as it is.” And she stretched herself upon the bed in the room. “Go on with whatever you were doing…”
“Oh, Mavin,” Beedie growled. “You are not always very funny.”
“Not always,” agreed Roges in a wry voice. “I think it would be a good idea for all of us to get some rest and a good meal here at Bridgers House tonight.” He took up the books, placing them in a neat stack on the table beside Mavin’s bed.
Mavin leafed idly through one of the books, scanning a few pages while Beedie talked about the story of Lovewings and Mirtylon and how sad it was, then let her eyes close.
“Mavin … Mavin. Are you asleep?”
“Trying very hard to be, sausage girl.”
“Do you think old Slysaw is still following us?”
“I can guarantee he is, child. At this moment, he is two-thirds of the way down the stair to Midwall. He will rest in Midwall tonight. Two nights hence he will rest here in Bottommost. And the day after that, someone will show him where the broken stair is.”
“Do you think we will get proof he killed my family? That he set fire to the mainroot?”
“I don’t think it matters, root dangler. Whether we get proof Mercald would accept or not, I have enough to suit me. You may depend upon it. Old Slysaw Bander will not return from the depths.” And then there was only the gentlest of snores, like a dragon purring, as Mavin slept.
There was a traverse of considerable extent across the root wall between the morning-light end of Bottommost and the place the old stair began, its splintered end well hidden behind a cluster of side roots and a fountain of fungus. The Bridgers of Bottommost were so excited at the thought of finding the old stair, however, that they had worked most of the night while the expedition slept to build a temporary footbridge across the root wall. Except for Mercald, the expedition crossed it without difficulty, and Roges solved the Mercald problem by carrying him over on one shoulder. Once the stair was reached and they had burrowed into it with hatchet and knife and much flinging aside of great blobs of fungus, Mercald was able to stand once more, though it took him a little time to be steady on his feet.
“It’s hidden,” Beedie said, looking down the stair in the direction they would go. “The roots have grown all over the outside of it.” Indeed, it was like walking through some dusky cloister, the roots on the outside of the stair making repeated windows into the chasm so that they walked first in shadow, then in half light, then in shadow once more. “How far down does it go, Mavin?”
“I didn’t find out. Just found that the stair was here, then flew up above to check out old Slysaw. Shh. Here’s the Thinker coming along behind. I’d as soon not talk with him about my private habits. Hush now.”
They set a slow pace at first, warming up to it as the day warmed, easing up again when they had eaten their midday meal, then slowing still further when the afternoon wind began to blow down the canyon, whipping the root hairs over the stairs, making their eyes water.
“I postulate a desert at the lower end of this chasm,” said the Thinker, wiping his eyes so that he could see his note book. “Quite large, very dry, very hot. At the upper end of the chasm a range of mountains, perhaps a tall, snow-capped range…”
“Actually,” said Mavin, “it’s a glacier. A monstrous big one.”
He did not ask her how she knew, but simply plunged on with his explanation. “The sun heats the air over the desert. It rises. The air in the chasm, being cooler, flows out onto the desert. The air over the glacier, being cooler still, flows down into the chasm. We have wind each day from afternoon through about midnight, by which time the desert has given up all its heat. Then the hot springs in the chasm begin to warm the chasm air once more. The lower we go in the chasm, the stronger the winds will become. That is, unless there are many barriers down there, narrowings, turns, fallen rock. In that case, it might be strongest above the bottom…”
“Is that true?” Beedie whispered to Mavin. “Is that really why the wind blows every day? The Birders say the Boundless does it to move the smoke away, so we won’t suffocate.”
“Is there any reason it couldn’t be both?” laughed Mavin. “I suppose the Boundless can use deserts and glaciers to sweep smoke away if it wants to.”
“The way I would use a broom,” said Roges. “Why not. Still, it makes traveling difficult.” He wiped away a clot of wet root hairs the wind had driven into his face. “It wasn’t this strong on Bottommost.”
“It was stronger than you felt. The buildings on Bottommost are all built facing down-chasm, away from the wind. Besides that, they’re all built with curved backs, I noticed, and there are wind shields along the streets.” Mavin leaned out into the chasm to look down. She was now the only one of the party not constantly wiping streaming eyes, though the others had not noticed the clear lids she had closed to protect her own eyes from the wind. “We may have to find a sheltered place and wait until the wind drops before we go on. I’ve brought fish lanterns, so we needn’t camp in the dark. Hss. What’s that?” She pointed away along the root wall, toward a distant shadow. Roges and Beedie thrust their heads out, drawing them in immediately.
“I can’t see anything,” Roges complained. “What did you think it was?”
“A shape,” she replied, still peering into the chasm. “Only a shape. Vaguely manlike. Perhaps it was nothing, only a shadow.”
“Probably just a shadow. Our eyes are tired. I think stopping for a time would be a very good idea,” said Mercald apologetically. “We’ve been cl
imbing down since early this morning, and my legs have cramps in them. Both.”
“Well then, why not. Start looking for some kind of declivity or protected spot. We’ll stop as soon as we find one.” Mavin drew her head in and clumped along behind them, her face both thoughtful and apprehensive.
Beedie moved ahead, Roges close beside her, searching the root wall. There were many small holes, but none large enough to offer shelter to the group. Then they came to a fairly flat stretch of stair solidly overgrown on the chasm side with only a shrill shiver of wind entering from the bottom end. “We could close that off,” said Beedie, measuring it with analytical eyes. “I can cut some short lengths of ropey root, and weave a kind of gate across it, then we can put a blanket or two across it to shut out almost all the wind.” Without waiting for the others, she began to hack at the wall, pulling down lengths of shaggy root. Roges tugged them to the opening, thrust ends into the root wall and began weaving them together, hauling and tugging until the woven gate was in place.
By this time the others had arrived, and Mavin fastened her blanket to the gate, tying it along the sides. It felt as though the temperature on the stair went up at once, just from excluding the cold wind.
“I suppose it would be too much to hope for that there’d be some deadroot along here,” Mercald commented. “I’m thirsty for tea.”
There was usually deadroot up under the thatch along the wall, and a few moments’ scratchy burrowing brought a pile of it to light. It was brittle enough to break and dead enough not to threaten them with lethal smoke, but it was soggier than they were accustomed to burning. Roges had trouble lighting it upon the portable hearth. However, once started, it burned readily enough, the smoke roiling upwards along the stair. They sat in the firelit space, hearing the wind howl outside, all of them aware of some primitive, fearful feelings concerning darkness and the creatures which dwelt in it. Mavin found herself listening to the wind, listening through the wind, trying to hear what other sounds there might be in the chasm. There had been a manshape upon the root wall, and yet not exactly a manshape. It should not have been there. There were no men in the bottoms. She knelt, thrust her ear against the root stair, but there were no hostile sounds, no rasp of great slug teeth, only the thrumming of the wind upon the root fibers, the monotonous hum of steadily moving air.