The Land's Whisper Page 4

  He was acutely aware of the bare flesh of his chest.

  The wolf from below thrust the slammed—but now unlocked—door open with an impressive smack from his burly neck and clambered up effortlessly. He was an enormous creature with onyx eyes, umber brown fur, and a fearful grin. He filled the small room with his bulky frame, easily half the height of a man, and loomed before Darse. He was dripping wet and smelled of nectar and wet dog.

  “I have seal for you,” he said in a rumble. Drool slid from the side of his mouth and pooled beneath him.

  Darse clambered to both his feet, shaking and shocked. His heart raced as he eyed the monster warily.

  “I have seal for you,” the wolf repeated.

  Darse nodded and swallowed, not understanding.

  The wolf snorted at the man’s reaction. He stretched his muscles as though about to shake free of the dripping water, but he halted mid-movement as his piercing eyes took in his surroundings.

  “May I offer you anything?” Darse asked shakily.

  “I am no visitor,” the wolf asserted. His black eyes bore into the man, and Darse caught amusement there. It did not have a calming effect.

  “I have seal for you.”

  “Seal?”

  The wolf flipped open a white pouch that hung snugly around his neck. It could have been taken for a collar at a first glance, but this was an animal unlikely to be owned by another. He held the pouch under his paw and, with a practiced flick of his jaw, shook a letter out and adeptly sent it flying in Darse’s direction. It hit the man’s hand and fell to the ground. Darse stared, bewildered, before finally crouching down and retrieving the envelope.

  The thin paper was remarkably dry and as smooth as satin, with a musky scent. He broke the sealed wax—a clear-gold inscribed with a simple image of a fish’s tail—and slid the tiny note out into his palm.

  Concisely, it read: Massada invites you to return.

  Darse gaped, stupefied. He looked to the wolf, but the filthy creature was already retreating down the stairs. “Wait. When do I go? What am I to do?”

  The wolf snapped his head up and stared hard with savage eyes. As though sensing the fear that flowed fast in Darse’s blood, the wolf smiled. His lupine teeth curled the gesture—whether volitionally or not—into a sneer.

  “I only deliver through the portals,” he replied. He shuffled back to make his exit, hesitated, and spoke, “The canal is open. You’re free to enter Massada at your instinct.” He bowed his snout and growled.

  Darse felt every bone in his spine tingle. The wolf bounded down the stairway. Darse heard a splash as the creature took to water.

  Darse peered into the dark, but only after a few minutes of silence did he see the mass of white envelopes strewn before the cellar door. There were dozens of them. They all read his name on the outside, just as the one clenched in his fist, except paw prints and muddied water had soiled the thin letters below to a mess of pulp. Darse shuddered thinking of the number of wolves that had been scratching beneath his house.

  Not exactly tame. Not exactly wild. Just like da said.

  Darse shivered as a slight breeze stole up from the stairway and swept upon his bare chest. He closed the door with a hasty crash, and fumblingly clicked the lock again in place. He flopped the rug flat and slid the table to its original position as if the semblance of order might somehow restore his mind. It was early morning, but he stepped to the stores cupboard and retrieved a smooth brown bottle. He poured himself a liberal amount and stared at the mug in a frozen stupor.

  A wolf in my house. From the portal downstairs. From Massada.

  His fingers found the mug and he drew it to his lips. The liquid seared his throat but warmed his belly, and he felt the heat travel to his limbs and relax them. His breathing evened from the quick rasps, and he took another sip. He shook faintly as he peered down at the silver key resting upon the wooden table. It gleamed up as though it expected answers.

  Could Veronia really know Bren? Or is that still just a dream?

  He pushed the cup away, but only after another hasty gulp. It stung his senses even while it soothed them. He knew what he must do.

  ~

  Darse sat before the fire, thankful for its blinding heat. His face seared under the surge of hot air, but his back still ached and clenched from the greedy chill behind him. He wrapped his old afghan absently around his shoulders and mused.

  His small house creaked as the night air crept in and the wood settled for the evening. It was nearing twilight, and Darse had several candles and an oil lantern ready should he need to leave the blazing light of his fire. Absently, he stoked the flames. Sparks and smoke jumped and flickered, but he gave them little notice.

  Can I truly think to leave him? Can I live without him? He is practically my—

  “You’re not being fair,” Brenol said again. His face flushed a crimson that highlighted his freckles and ruffled red locks.

  “It just isn’t that simple, Bren. It’s not simple at all.”

  The conversation was not unfolding how Darse had foreseen, and now his gut began to tighten and knot. My past is tied to this strange other world, but my present is so twined up in this boy, Darse thought. I know I must go, but…

  “Then explain it.” Brenol narrowed his eyes into a glare and fixed it upon the older man. All the boy could feel was anger, stirring and boiling hotter.

  Darse again prodded the logs, wishing his tongue would find the words. To reveal the truth to Brenol would be a breach, but to be silent was a tarnishing of love. He could only choose the former, yet his long-held silence made that path unfamiliar and excruciating.

  “Stop poking it, old man!” Brenol fumed. In the small home, the shout seemed blaring.

  Darse’s sea-blue eyes lifted. The dark jade of Brenol’s flashed, and the accusing glance wrenched Darse’s stomach anew. The youth’s thin face appeared almost gaunt in the shadowy evening.

  “If…” Darse began.

  “If?”

  Darse sighed. “It’s not so easy to speak of this. I’ve held it inside my whole life.”

  When Darse did not continue, Brenol asked through clenched teeth, “Can you at least tell me why you can’t tell me?” The words felt imbecilic rolling from his lips, but he could barely control himself in the crashing inner tide of fury.

  The older man glanced thoughtfully at the crackling flames. “There are several reasons,” he began.

  Darse thought back to his own childhood, to his father revealing the secret of the portal and the other world. In that moment, the mystery had drawn his mouth open in a soft “oh” of understanding. Sim had suddenly fit in the young Darse’s mind like the pieces of a jigsaw smoothing together into a single picture.

  Perhaps I’ll make sense to Bren too now, in a new way.

  And you think he’s as introspective? Darse, don’t be a fool, the man chided himself.

  Despite his remonstrations, Darse knew he could be silent no more. He had shared his life with this boy. Their friendship had grounded them both when all else on Alatrice had wavered. It was too much to leave with those eyes on him still harsh and confused. It was a chastening Darse could never bear.

  Then do it quickly, you old fool.

  He inhaled, and plunged. “Massada isn’t just a story. I have a portal here. My mother was from Massada. I was born there.” His open palms swept through the air in hurried gesture. As the words flowed out, they left him with a bitter taste; this was not simply his own secret. He now spoke of a hidden world full of lives and souls, and he had promised his father to safeguard it with his honor.

  “You’re a liar.”

  Darse narrowed his eyes at the boy, but something in that young face softened the man. Darse understood Brenol and his imperfections. He had known the boy for orbits. He could see with the practiced eye of the aged that one day Brenol would be so much more: strong, controlled, honorable, good, kingly. Something in that small forethought tickled at him, as though there was a depth
to it beyond mere musings, but he let it settle.

  “Wait a moment. I’ll show you something,” Darse said.

  He stood from his seat and let the comfort of the blanket fall to the ground. Cold wrapped him as he methodically set to lighting his lantern. He then stepped across the dark room—the lantern’s brass handle creaking beneath each movement—to the far wall where a trunk lay dusty from disuse. Brenol had barely ever given notice to the yellowing box; his friend had never once opened it in his presence. Interest sparked in his green eyes. He leaned forward, hands upon his knees.

  The man extracted a few diggings from his pockets before selecting a rusted key and feeding it into the dark hole.

  Darse peered at him sideways. “I’ve never shown this to anyone. You must keep it a secret, you understand?”

  Brenol nodded, hardly breathing.

  Darse bent again and pilfered through the trunk, until he rose hugging a small box the size of one of Brenol’s lesson books. Darse gingerly set it between them. He lifted the lid, and dust fell like a sheet before rising in a cough-inducing cloud. Brenol squinted at the paper Darse held before him.

  “Look,” Darse whispered, unfolding the yellowing page with reverent care.

  Brenol bent to examine the find. It was an aged map of Massada, beautifully drawn in vivid colors. It was realistic and intricately detailed. The terrisdans of Massada were each labeled and had lines to display blue rivers cutting through the countrysides. The mountains were gorgeous, artfully drawn purple peaks, with names upon each rise and plateau. The inks—although the paper had aged into a lemony beige—had remained intact and vibrant. Brenol’s interest was already keen, but when he looked through the hand glass Darse laid before him, he gasped. The glass revealed pictures of creatures in precise areas as the marking of species’ communities: umburquin, juile, human, ignalli, frawnish, maralane… It was beyond intriguing.

  “The paints and ink for this…they must have cost a treasure.”

  Brenol pored over the paper, and Darse felt an unforeseen delight ignite within him. He himself had known that awe; his father Sim had slipped the map between book and small nose, laughing at his stammering son. Yes, the mystery had once filled Darse mind like a song. It had long since grown stale with waiting and disappointment, but now Darse found the amazement from his youthful friend drawing the secret to life in him with a renewed awe.

  Brenol gaped at Darse. “How did you make it? Where did you get the supplies?”

  Darse smiled, shaking his head. “Don’t you see? This isn’t mine. All these stories of Massada that I’ve told you, this map, everything—it is real, Bren. It’s not a trick. This is real. And I’ve been called back.”

  Brenol stared hard at the man’s face. Darse’s eyes pleaded tiredly, his weariness aging him more than the salted locks littering the brown. Brenol flipped the map with his fingers. Something stirred within the boy like a dream or a memory lost in a haze. The sensation was new and almost entirely opposite to his natural manner of thinking. There was a profoundness to the moment that made him blink hard, as though somehow that small action would bring understanding.

  Brenol finally spoke, slowly, “But it can’t be.” His voice lifted at the close as if in question.

  Darse rose and crossed over to stare out the black pane of glass.

  Something in the shadowy profile drove the last doubts from Brenol. “You really are telling the truth?”

  Darse nodded. He returned and tenderly tucked the map back into its box. The folds of it caressed his fingers familiarly, and he felt another wave of excitement. The man paused; it had been so long since he had breathed the anticipation for Massada. It almost made him feel young again. He smiled at himself derisively before turning to his friend.

  “But, Massada?” Brenol’s eyes were wide in bewilderment. “You? And all these stories…”

  “History,” Darse replied.

  “But the people. Do they speak a different language? Are they different?”

  “They speak like us in most ways, at least that is what da always said.”

  “Ok, tell me again.”

  Darse laughed despite himself. He straightened his frame and peered at the boy. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” Brenol breathed in wonder. “What do you mean calling you back?”

  ~

  The night wore on, and Darse stoked the flames to fight the crippling chill. He showed Brenol the few artifacts he had received from his father, as well as the invitation from the morning, yet nothing could entice him to reveal his dream and the eerie, beckoning voice of Veronia. He knew Brenol must not have any excuse to come with him, regardless of whether the dream contained any truth.

  As Darse pondered this quietly, the boy interrupted his thoughts. His voice was strained and somber. “Darse…when are you leaving?” Brenol’s jade eyes refused to leave the floor.

  “Morning after next. I will lock the place up, but you can use it whenever you like. It is yours unless I return.”

  Unless. The word drained the pink from the youth’s face.

  Brenol clenched his jaw—whether consciously or not—and spoke again to the floorboards, “Can I…will you show me the portal?”

  Guilt girded Darse like a tight belt, and he fought to find an excuse, but there was none he could form. Slowly, he nodded, meeting Brenol’s eyes. In them, Darse perceived much conflict and pain, and it racked him with doubt.

  What am I doing? I think I can leave him?

  He stood, and before making any move to direct the boy, he pulled him into a tight embrace. Brenol was stiff in his burly arms, but Darse did not care. He willed the moment to memory, as if he might somehow be able to inhale its fragrance when he most needed it later, and released the youth reluctantly. Brenol said nothing and followed the man with white fists balled at his sides.

  Darse again removed both table and rug. Brenol watched with wide eyes; the most ordinary items in this familiar home were transforming to the wondrous. He rarely knew moments of speechlessness, but this night was filled with an unending wash of them.

  Darse knelt upon his haunches after removing the silver key from his pocket. He glanced up to Brenol, whose face was pinched in hungry eagerness, before turning it in the lock with several melodious clicks. He lifted the grainy door up—just a span of several digits—and peered down into the darkness cautiously.

  “No one,” the man said in a relieved huff. He now opened the entry fully, stepped gingerly across the pulpy mess, and waited for the youth to join him on the stairs.

  Brenol followed. He creaked down the steps, his stomach slipping around in somersaults. Before him was no basement or cellar. It was not even house. Yes, the house stood sturdily above him, but where a foundation should have been, lay a pool. It began only a few strides from the base of the stairs and flowed out into a cavern of darkness. There was no logic to it, and his mind fought to make sense of what could not truly be.

  The boy glanced to Darse, who nodded at him knowingly. He had felt the same swirling emotions many orbits ago when his father had led him to this very place. It was an excitement, a wonder, an adventure, but most of all it made one’s insides melt into a vulnerable fear. Standing before something so mysterious, unpredictable, and dark was enough to make any knee quiver.

  Brenol shuffled down the remaining steps and onto the soil, hearing the gravel rub against the bottoms of his shoes. His own breathing sounded deafening in the space, for all was silent, secret. The water of the pool glistened, and unearthly lights danced upon the surface like floating candles, yet without tallow or flame. Brenol started at the sound of the door softly thudding shut as Darse followed, and the thin beam from the house’s lantern vanished. Brenol’s eyes adjusted after a moment, lingering upon the lights bobbing atop the dark screen.

  The pool, upon first sight, was not altogether very large. It was but a shallow basin meeting seven steps. Although there were no openings to the outside air, a breeze tickled gently ag
ainst Brenol’s bare neck and hands and filled his flaring nostrils.

  The rich scent seemed familiar, though also entirely new to him. It was a soft fragrance, one of new and growing life. It tugged his spirits in a hundred different directions, and many orbits later he was only able to articulate it blandly: It made me feel alive. More human.

  As the youth breathed the damp, either the enchantment of the place took effect or his eyesight cleared, because suddenly he discerned far more. The pool—or what he had believed to be a pool—was much grander than a simple puddle under a house. His eyes widened while his vision leaped ahead to the lengthening canal, and longing gripped his ribs. The tug was almost unbearable.

  Darse gaped in wonder. “It seems to go on forever,” he whispered in the surreal stillness.

  Brenol spoke in a barely audible sigh. “Thank you.” He peered up at Darse in seriousness and felt the tight cramping of his chest ease slightly. “Thanks for showing me.”

  “I’ve never seen them before—the lights. They weren’t here before. I used to come down here and wonder about this portal, but the pond was always small and dark. It must have been recent that the lights were lit. With the invitation.” His voice was quiet. “They will disappear again when I leave.”

  Brenol did not speak. He just stared.

  Darse glanced down at Brenol, suddenly frowning. Both his lives stood in the same space: the portal that had gnawed him raw since childhood, and the boy who had all but become his son.

  How can I leave him? I ache in missing him already… He turned his vision ahead to the growing waterway—although his eyes were fixed upon memory, not scene. He thought of the transformation he had seen over the orbits from the maturing boy.

  “Bren, I…”

  Again, Brenol sighed and nodded. He was not always capable of seeing another person’s perspective, but in this moment he could hardly do anything else. For how could someone bear to not go? To carry this secret for an entire lifetime and not open it? To tarry and possibly lose it? It was far too grand and exciting to live without exploring and discovering.