The Land's Whisper Page 19

  And on they went.

  ~

  If Brenol and Darse had not sensed it before, they soon did; Selet was indomitable. It was reluctant to let any come or go easily, painting the earth with crags, steep cliffs, rocky ravines, dunes, and impenetrable woods. It was hopeless, or at least would have been without the map. With the map, they were frustrated and exhausted but managed to eke through. By dusk the two had yet to reach the Barn, so they settled into making camp in the misty chill of the rocky expanse. They ate in silence and huddled together beneath their thick blankets, wishing the cold away. The dawn brought little heat, the sun rising slowly in the sullen gray sky. They again ate in silence and trudged forward.

  Within an hour, they had set eyes on the Barn and were astounded by her fury. The robed stranger had not lied: she was indeed more than they could handle. White foam, sharp rocks, pounding rapids. It seemed impossible that any would dare to navigate her wildness.

  Darse and Brenol followed the river on the northwestern banks, which held a nicely trodden path. This seemed completely out of character for Selet, and for this they rejoiced. The turn of luck brought greater spirits and lighter hearts. They carried hopes of finding a crossing before lunch.

  Selet, however, had other plans. As the two came around a bend, the path cut directly into a wooded glade, leaving the water crashing along its own thunderous way. They halted.

  Darse sighed. “I guess it was too much to hope it would continue on. Where does the map say this leads?”

  Brenol shook his head. “Didn’t you hear me before? This trail isn’t on the map.”

  Darse winced as if he had stepped on glass. “Really? I went deaf in my joy over finding it.” He gazed at the river lines on the map, as though wishing could materialize a hint as to what lay in the wood north of them.

  “I say we follow the path.” Brenol’s eyes shot up to Darse, almost pleading. “Darsey, it’s got to lead somewhere that has a bunch of people.” They both slid their eyes to the river’s edge. It was a daunting sight. “And those rocks are close to impassable. Just look at them.”

  He did. Sharp and cold, they would make it very difficult to make any real progress along the side of the waterway. It would be a slow, arduous, and notably dangerous route.

  Darse sighed. He could feel all the muscles in his body revolting against his decision. Still, he spoke, “No. Bren, we need to stay by the river. We have to make sure to not miss the crossing. I don’t think we should go wandering down this path…” He let his eyes snake up the smooth trail into the wood. It looked so inviting, so calm, so easy. It enticed him down to the marrow.

  The boy’s face turned sour. “There’s no sense in wandering by the river when it’s faster by the road. And we were told to stay on the paths.” Brenol puffed out his chest slightly with the last statement, recognizing the power of the argument. He glanced sideways at Darse to determine if it had brought about any effect.

  Darse sighed again. He looked down uneasily at his friend.

  Brenol perceived his wavering resolve. “Darse. The path is the safe way. Let’s follow the path.” Brenol’s index finger extended out vehemently to the worn turf. It was so smooth and worn it was a wonder the masses were not frequenting it at that moment.

  Darse shrugged wearily. His eyes wrinkled at the edges, as though his mind were wincing in reluctance. “Don’t misunderstand me, Bren. I certainly think that way is nicer…but that honestly is part of the problem. I see easy in Selet, and it immediately makes me wary. It’s unnatural here…” His voice trailed; they both knew to speak further would be foolish.

  Darse palmed his eyes, leaving smears of dirt across his features. “But we shall go.” His voice was tired, like that of a much older man.

  Brenol paused—hesitation passing over his heart like a shadow—but it dissipated in the blink of an eye, for he quickly shook away Darse’s words, groping instead for the comfort of the lane. They left the thundering roar and shuffled into the muffled thick of the woods. The path was smooth and soft, rolling peacefully before them, granting a wary reassurance against the dense surrounding growth.

  CHAPTER 15

  To live is not merely to evade pain.

  -Genesifin

  The road loped north and ambled along for a matrole before settling into a more easterly direction, much to Brenol and Darse’s relief. It appeared that this was, as hoped, the route for following the river, just not in its sight. The thick of the woods engulfed the two in a stifling softness, but the path helped to push away the threatening sense of claustrophobia. They barely spoke, and when they did it was always in whispers; the forest’s silence was imposing without reason.

  Feet were rested and stores were nibbled on a large, lichen-riddled stone, at what they guessed was late morning. They judged their approximate location on the map and continued forward determinedly, not displeased with their progress.

  Less than an hour after their stop, the path began to narrow. Neither spoke of it, although both noticed, and fear suddenly laced the edges of their thoughts. Within a hundred strides, the road tapered until it was no more. It simply stopped. As mysteriously as it had begun, it ended. Woods now encompassed the travelers.

  Brenol sighed, and his shoulders sagged forward in defeat. “You were right. You’re always right.” He glanced around irritably, kicking some bracken at his feet in frustration. Pieces flew in every direction. “Let’s turn around,” he said, resigned and sapped.

  Darse glanced at the boy and then back down the path. His jaw dropped; even the tapering path no longer remained. He ran back to what should have been the clearing, kneeling down to examine the earth with desperate fingers. The path had slipped away like a deck of cards behind a cuff. Darse cursed softly under his breath, hating Selet and its games.

  “Where’d it go?” Brenol asked, walking the distance to his friend.

  Darse ignored the boy and stood. “We’re being toyed with. I am done. Done.” The finality in his voice could have cracked stone.

  He stood for a moment, and eventually turned to Brenol. “What if we tried to simply work our way back to the river without backtracking? Just head southeast?” He was not really asking. Darse leaned over the thin paper of the map.

  Whether the trick was Selet or another, we’ll keep our eyes focused and get out. Darse’s face was stern and creased. “We have a map…it isn’t like we are really going to get lost…”

  Brenol nodded in agreement; they did not have many alternatives. Plus, if he pondered the missing path for long, it could only lead to fear. The land’s eye hovered on his back hotly. Like it thinks this is funny… Goosebumps played up his spine.

  Darse pointed ahead, solidifying the direction in his mind. I refuse to be a joke to this terrisdan.

  “So much for sticking to paths, huh?” Brenol replied.

  “Hmmph,” snorted Darse. Cynicism elongated his face. “It’s time to nip the nonsense and forget the scary stories. Let’s be practical… I don’t know why I let this place cloud my mind.” Darse’s lip curled in disgust, whether at himself or Selet, Brenol was left to guess.

  “We go northeast,” he said stoutly. “This place isn’t going to decide where I go, and this place isn’t going to terrify me. If we hit Trilau, we hit Trilau. If we decide to circle the entire land like a cat before arriving in Graft, then we will do that.”

  Darse’s words had the effect of smelling salts, and the two shook to life, marching off through underbrush and tree. The land gave no indication of hearing Darse’s speech, and so Brenol, instead of fearing, fought to suppress a smile; Darse was bent forward in attention, with teeth a-grit and eyes defiantly enraged.

  He doesn’t get angry easily, he thought. But it isn’t pretty when he does. I’ve been the coon in front of that hound nose before. And I hope never again.

  ~

  The sun stole away even though it was only just passing midday. The air began to cool, and a light rain sprinkled down. Fog settled upon the ground, robbing
their vision of the earth as if they walked upon cloud itself. They did not have rain gear and, without shelter, soon found themselves sodden and irritable. The scents of the moist, earthy peat and their grimy bodies mingled together into a fragrance highly reminiscent of wet dog.

  They trudged without talking, for speech would only draw out complaints. Their skin grew white with chill, and their feet squished with every stride. After a time, the two found a path, narrow but walkable, and began to follow it in single file. Darse consulted the map frequently, for they were now wary of the land and of falling far from course in the foggy wood. He meticulously wrapped the paper each time before stowing, determined to keep it safe and dry.

  Brenol trailed Darse’s steps in a blurred state. He had long ago discovered misery’s monotony, and all he could do was continue, longing for something more. Whether it was the flooding rain or the stink of his drenched clothing, his memory flickered awake and drew him back to a time in Alatrice when he was about ten orbits old.

  “Tell me a story about Darse,” his mother said.

  This was not an unusual question, but her timing surprised him. He stood gaping at her, puddles forming at his feet. It had been a long day at the school house, and the torrents pouring from the sky had soured him during the matroles home.

  She handed him a towel. He was surprised at her thoughtfulness. He wrapped himself and inhaled lavender and soap.

  “A story…” he began, but stopped. He looked up at her and tilted his head sideways. “Why do you always ask that?” It was true, she continually pestered him with requests for stories, and most especially of Darse.

  Her cool eyes stared at him with an unusual twinkle. “If I tell you my reason, don’t you think the point will be lost?”

  He shrugged but settled into a seat contentedly. She was rarely this playful. It awakened something like joy within his heart. He allowed it to flicker but did not kindle it further. He knew she would snuff it out soon enough.

  And she did. His mother gazed back, her face suddenly turning severe. “To know you. And that traitor.”

  He had fumed for a time, but eventually had picked up the habit of asking for stories himself. His impulse issued largely from the drive for entertainment, although he could not help but wonder, at times, if it had been a desire for something more, something that he refused to uncover in the raw light of day.

  Brenol pushed aside his musings. He did not know when he would see her again, but he hoped to always remember her with the clean towel outstretched. The rest was not worth preserving.

  “What are you thinking about?” Darse asked. Brenol realized his friend had been looking back at him for some time.

  “Oh.” He let out a surprised laugh. “Will you tell me a story?”

  Darse’s shoulders slouched in weariness, and he began moving again. “How about you tell me one of yours?”

  Brenol pressed his blue lips together, thinking. “About what?”

  Darse did not answer for some time. Brenol began to think Darse had not heard him. Finally, the man replied, “When you realized you wanted to work wood.”

  Despite his misery, Brenol laughed again. “There’s no story to that,” he said, but continued, “We both know I am no farmer, except maybe in Coltair. I could homestead and trap like you, as long as it didn’t involve growing things, but it doesn’t seem very interesting. And I’d hate making clothing like Ma. No. No hemming and sewing for the rich.” He frowned at the idea and the memories it conjured.

  “But I like building. I like the feel of wood. I like to think about how I would shape it in my mind, and then try to do it… That’s it. No story.” Brenol did not care to voice what they both knew; it was unlikely he could afford such luxury. He would undoubtedly work the land as Darse had taught him. Life on Alatrice was not one of dreams but of practicalities. Apprenticeships and conscription passes were not cheap, and eating was a higher priority than fulfillment. They walked on in silence.

  The fog grew denser and denser, and their eyes squinted forward painfully. Soon they could not see their own feet through the thick cloud upon the soil. Brenol had stopped momentarily, checking the map’s place in the pack, when a strong thud startled him from the stupor of misery.

  “Darse?” Brenol’s asked. His voice sounded thin and tremulous. He squinted about, but the gray mist made it impossible to see more than a stride in any direction.

  Brenol stretched out his arms in a blind grope forward, and suddenly his straining ears picked up a quiet moan. Brenol checked his movements to listen attentively. “Darse?”

  “Y-yes. I’m here,” said a feeble voice from the ground.

  Brenol leaped forward impetuously to help his friend but was halted mid-movement by a barking order. “Wait! Bren, freeze!”

  The boy jerked to a still, terrified to even move his fingers.

  “I’m in a pit,” he said. “You might want to avoid joining me.”

  “How…”

  “I imagine that it’s a trap of sorts. It looks man-made. It isn’t a natural ditch at least… Move your feet slowly to find its edge. It’s a nasty little fall.”

  Brenol knelt down and wormed in the direction of Darse’s voice. His fingers groped through the sludge, maneuvering the tiny distnace that felt like matroles. Eventually his hand met emptiness. He strained his eyes through the fog and gloom, and the nearest side of the pit became clear.

  Brenol swore.

  “You didn’t mention the barbs.”

  Brenol could not see Darse, but his imagination jumped to life. It would take little to be torn apart by the various protruding spikes that lined—at least the top of—the pit. He did not want to guess as to the base.

  “You ok?” Brenol spoke into the gray.

  “Pretty wet,” Darse retorted dryly.

  Brenol grimaced. It must be bad.

  “Any idea how far you fell?”

  “Hang on.” Rustling ensued, trailed by strained grunting. A hand raised up before Brenol’s vision. It was just a touch below the edge, shaky and white.

  “An arm’s length more than me,” Darse said.

  “I’ll try and find a way to help you climb out. Stay back from the needles.”

  Darse grunted. He did not require that instruction.

  Brenol scrambled from the ledge and fumbled to his feet. His legs were cold, heavy, and awkward to move, yet he forced them forward stiffly. As he plunged from the path into the dense growth of green, he took in a sharp breath. Strangely, the fog was not as deep amongst the trees. It was merely a thin mist here. Whatever the reason, the wash of color was a relief from the dismal gray monochrome.

  He threw his pack to the damp ground and clumsily sought for rope with frozen fingers. They closed numbly upon the coils, and he set to work finding a sturdy trunk, then looping and knotting the line around it. He tested its fastness by leaning back upon it with his own weight and returned in a stumble to the blinding mist. His eyes and body strained forward for both sound and sight.

  Where is he?

  Groping with trembling hands, Brenol checked his bearings, but did not have much to direct him. The sea of gray was everywhere. The lush forest could not even be seen from where he stood.

  “Darse?” he called, hoping the fear was hidden from his voice.

  “Just drying my things down here,” Darse replied dryly. His voice sounded strangely slurred, but Brenol let out a sigh of relief and moved cautiously toward him.

  “This fog is making me stupid. I nearly lost you, Darsey.”

  “Glad you didn’t. What have you worked up?” Darse asked.

  Brenol bent down, feeling for the hole. The movement of Darse’s hands waving caught his eye before his fingers could trace down the side.

  Is it clearing up? At least a bit, Brenol thought gratefully.

  He threw the line down into the gray underworld. Darse wordlessly tossed his own pack up and began to labor his way out. It was a formidable task. While it was not a great distance to ascend, the
needles lining the walls—extending the full length—required meticulous attention if they were to be avoided. The varying lengths—half a digit to a sinister three—were impossible for him to extract, even when he tugged until his limbs quivered and vision blurred, and Darse whimpered at the few that grazed his already torn flesh. Eventually, Brenol hefted Darse’s pack upon a section of barbs to protect his friend’s final ascent and helped the bedraggled man up to lay weary and bleeding upon the muddy path.

  While Darse caught his breath, Brenol bent carefully over the hole to examine the needles again. Sharp, metal, thin. Just slivers of shine. He shuddered.

  “It’s time to get out of here, Darsey.”

  “I think that’s a fine idea,” he replied. Darse’s face was grim and tight. The fear housed in those eyes would not be patched as easily as his cuts and bruises. He picked up the damaged pack gingerly, reserving his movements to what was necessary, while Brenol darted back to the thick to loose and stow the rope.

  The boy stood gaping, again perplexed by the lack of fog just steps from the path. “Hey, Darse, come in here,” Brenol called.

  Darse shuffled his way off the thoroughfare, breathing heavily and fighting dizziness. The green world enveloped the two, and the brume behind appeared as a bleak and impenetrable wall.

  The sudden change only confirmed a fear that had been resonating in Darse’s mind as he lay like prey in the pit. But suddenly his thoughts swirled into pudding, and his lungs felt heavy and exhausted in their movements. He sagged as his vision spun from hazy to black. His ears registered a thud of flesh upon soft ground as his crumpled body met the bister earth. For a moment, he marveled at the lack of sensation, the easing of pain.

  Brenol’s eyes widened in disbelief. He dropped down at once and grasped the lifeless hand. A whisper rose from the sodden body.

  “…anything stupid. Think. Poison. Being hunted.” And his blue lips went still.

  The words made Brenol’s bones shrink inside him.

  Hunted.

  ~

  Footsteps approached, still a distance off, but clamorous enough to reverberate in the isolated wood. They sloshed sloppily upon the sodden path: slow, and without any trace of caution in the fog. They neared, and brought with them a humming. It was a mindless tune that betrayed a fatuity, or perhaps an insanity, behind it.