Graynelore (9 page)

I had a sudden fancy; the opening I could see was obviously the entrance to an underworld, perhaps a circuit of tunnels that would lead us on to the Faerie Isle, or to a dwarven hole, at the least.

(It was neither.)

Without hesitation or debate, one after the other, my entire company stepped through the opening. How could I, the only grown man among them, not follow their lead?

We stepped into what I sensed was a cavernous chamber, though one completely taken up with the dark (and unnaturally so). Outside, a veil of heavy cloud had begun to creep upon the town. At best it would make for a poor grey evening. Nevertheless the remnants of the daylight should have seeped into that greater space. It did not. It stopped at its entrance, as if deliberately shut out. The darkness was a solid curtain, or else the mark of a closed door. This was a private place; an otherworld where even the fading light of day had no business without a firm invitation.

The cavern remained always just a cavern, only I had no sooner stepped across its threshold and into that utter darkness than it began to change – not avert, but transform; the stuff of faerie. What happened was this: all at once I could see a way through the darkness. Not in the way of my eyes becoming used to it. This was altogether different, if immediate. Without the use of my eyes, I was
allowed
knowledge of that dark space. An enchantment was lifted or the gift of blind-sight was bestowed upon me. Either way, I was made aware not only of its extent but also of the nature of the welcome that awaited me there.

This enlightenment did not make me any the braver, nor did I feel better for it. Rather, it reminded me of how little control I had over this foolish adventure. Since the very outset I was never the guide, but always the guided; a beguiled man, blinded by my own ignorance and left groping in the dark – like a weedling babbie – until I was shown the way. I did not like it. Nor did I yet truly believe in it.

Does your narrator’s continued nagging doubt exasperate you, my friend? Would you have me eagerly embrace this shadow-land? Is the knowledge of a lifetime so easily dispelled by the passing of a few hours among a company of strangers? I say not! I had heard Lowly Crow’s impassioned testimonies. I was
trying
to come to terms with these bloody fey creatures! Only theirs was the miraculous transformation, not mine. Do not expect it so easily of me! Rogrig Wishard was always the man first, and ever so!

I was become wary. My inbred instincts were beginning to reclaim me. Should I have followed Lowly Crows? I had the sense of there being numerous figures in that cavern – certainly more than I knew – standing or sitting about in the darkness. I was aware of their presence. And if I could not see them naturally, I could hear them. Their breathing…A fidget was scratching. There was the sound of movement, as someone shifted their body weight from one foot to the other. And there was a bird – no, more than one – birds now! I could hear the slight raking of their claws, as they moved about upon some rocky perch; hear the gentle pecking of a grooming beak.

And the air was filled with a mixture of common smells…the sweet odour of a woman’s sweat…old clothes, too long unwashed…rusted iron (was someone holding a sword?) Cold stone…cold, cold stone…anxiety…even fear? There was the leather of worn boots…rotting wood and damp…It was a dank cave, its floors, no doubt, constantly awash…

It was not a sweet hole, then.

We had all been drawn to this place separately and yet together. (And now inseparable, it would seem.) For me, it had begun with the Elfwych, with a severed head, and Norda…that was the first connection…I had felt it again when I met with Lowly Crows upon the mire. Even now, as I stood there in the dark, that mystic bond between our gathered company was growing ever stronger. If I was still fighting hard to deny it! After all, this was just the sort of careless mess my whole life’s training had taught me to avoid. Had I really allowed myself to be lured here? Was this not simply a robber’s ambush after all? It bore all the marks.

‘Did your father never warn you? You must not follow strange young women into dark enclosed spaces.’ This first voice was mocking – a faerie slight? It was as if its owner had plucked my thoughts out of my head and thrown them carelessly back at me. But there was a caution there too. And with the voice there was suddenly extra light in the cavern: again, no common thing, not light to be seen with the eye; but ethereal light without a natural source. Almost as if it had been spoken into being; was a part of the words. Though, not yet enough light to reveal the protagonist, only enough to ease the darkness a little.

Other voices began to join in.

‘Maybe this man is an idiot?’

‘Maybe he is a great warrior, come to show off his sword!’

‘Well, you know what they say about Wycken girls, especially upon the Winter Festival. Maybe he thinks our Lowly Crows is up for it? And him only a poor innocent lecher led astray?’

‘Maybe you have got the guts to show your faces?’ I said. Though I knew myself bated, I could feel my anger rising above my trepidation. ‘So I can knock your teeth down your throat—! Lowly Crows, where are you?’

I heard the flapping of a bird’s wings.

‘Patience, Rogrig, and rest easy, I am here. My companions only jest. They are making fun of you.’ With the sound of her voice, yet more of that ethereal light filled the cavern, enough now to expose something of the figures standing there. Wily Cockatrice and the youth, Dogsbeard, were clear to see. Though there were others still only a vague mass, perhaps keeping deliberately to the shade? I supposed that was where I might find the pair of coquettes…

There was a short ripple of not so innocent laughter. Could they
all
read my mind? Or maybe, if they were among the shadow-tongues inside my head, was my voice but a shadow-tongue inside theirs?

‘Enough of this foolishness! We are each of us come to this place in good faith. Let us get down to our business here,’ demanded Wily Cockatrice.

As she spoke, I felt the mood of the whole company change. The laughter, the mocking jollity, was suddenly gone. The very air was thick with concern. ‘Is this gathering complete? Are we enough for our common purpose, at last? We have waited long enough for it. Can it be done?’

‘Business? What common purpose?’ I asked.

‘Oh my…Tell me he knew. Lowly Crows, tell me he knows why he is here?’ Wily Cockatrice rolled her tongue, gave a deliberate rattling hiss. If her pipe had been in her mouth there would have been smoke billowing.

‘Aye, and be mindful, crow – There are many among us now, whose prowess is so diminished, so diluted by the passage of time, they can do no more than bear this company witness.’ An elder-man had stepped out of the shade to speak. He was stooped with age, but was also crooked and wiry, in the way of a tree as it naturally grows. ‘Yet they came to us all the same. All the same!’

‘There was little enough time…I—’ the crow began to explain, only to be crossed by the elder-man.

‘It was dangerous enough for each of us on our own,’ he said, his annoyance rising. ‘Aye and ever so! Meeting together…in a company of strangers…was a greater folly.’

‘What sense, Wood-shanks? How else were we to do this? None of us are powerful enough on our own,’ said Lowly Crows, matter-of-factly. ‘We must complete our Ring. Only then—’

‘
Our
Ring?’ I interrupted their growing argument. ‘What?…Are you trying to say this is a Faerie Ring? This is another bloody meeting of a Faerie Ring upon the Winter Festival?’ I let my hand rest heavily upon the hilt of my sword (if only for its comfort).

‘This is not a game we are playing, Rogrig,’ said Wily Cockatrice. ‘We are not here to dance around a bonfire! Unless, of course, you know better; then you can tell me—’

‘You still jest, I think…’ I said. ‘You are after the makings of a Ring of Eight? Is that it? You are putting on a show!…And then what? Do not tell me! Let me guess the end of your riddle. You are going to raise the Faerie Isle and restore the world to its former glory…’ I could not disguise my contempt, nor stop the deep sigh rising in my throat.
‘
I know this story well enough. Upon Graynelore, what three year old babbie does not? For fuck’s sake! It is a Beggar Bard’s tale. It is a ridiculous fiction.’

The strength of a growing anger – not all of it mine – seemed to resonate physically in that dark hole. Inside my head the shadow-tongues were groaning with despair.

Several
real
voices began to speak together. ‘How long have we waited, how many lives…eh? Wasted…unknown…forgotten…unlived…How many fruitless generations has it taken us to find each other out? Just to hear this fool of a man insult us?’ There was a sense of frustrated, agitated movement among the shade, if I could not place its whereabouts.

‘Too many and too long, no doubt…’ replied Wily Cockatrice. ‘Only, be at peace with this, Wishard…This place is protected yet, I think. For certain, no
ordinary
man can pass within its boundaries. The darkness will not open to them. They do not see us hidden here…soon lose themselves within the cavern’s deepest chambers.’

Though the ancient crone was speaking in my defence the implication of her words only fed my growing anger. ‘Pah! You mean you leave good men and true to wander in the dark here. Until in utter despair and certain madness, they expire! Is that it—? And why? To keep, yourselves
secret
…?’

‘In truth? This was not of our doing, Rogrig,’ said Wily Cockatrice, momentarily contrite. ‘It is a safe haven stumbled across, not made. There is an ancient spell at work here. Not so subtly crafted, perhaps, but far beyond any of our skills. And it works. It has served its purpose, these many years.’

‘Though I fear not for much longer, if this common man has found his way among us,’ said Wood-shanks. The elder-man drew back into the shade as he spoke.

‘Oh, I am certain this is no common man,’ replied the ancient crone. ‘Rogrig Wishard belongs here with us. He just does not want to admit it.’

‘I am not so sure. Perhaps he is only a lost fool after all, or a broken man? Worse…is a bloody spy, for some arrogant, petty Headman.’

‘I am no spy!’ I said, turning myself about, trying to find my accuser in the shade.

‘There is a way to prove it…’ said Wily Cockatrice, quietly. The weight of her comment was a far heavier burden than it might have appeared; for there was a long moment of uneasy, thoughtful silence.

‘What…you mean, you show me yours and I will show you mine?’ For the first time the fat youth had openly spoken. His voice was thin and bright and unbroken. His words sounded in jest.

‘How childish of you…Oh, but forgive me, I forget, Dogsbeard, you are a child still, are you not?’

‘Aye…I am a child still and childish with it, no doubt, but I am also right, I think!’

‘And still conceited with it too, I see. However, I agree with you,’ said Wily Cockatrice. ‘If a greater proof of our worth is required, it is time for our gathered company to fully reveal itself; each to the other. We are, all of us, well aware of our Lowly Crows, who long since threw off her mantle…’ At the mention of her name the crow, shifted upon her perch. There was just light enough around her form to reveal the movement. She turned her head aside and pecked self-consciously at her ruffled feathers. ‘Now is the moment for us to match her candour.’

‘But my, Wily Cockatrice…Such a revelation is a dangerous thing!’ There was more than one voice of dissent come out of the shade. ‘Aye, if knowledge of our true worth were ever to be openly revealed to a greater world we would, all, be risking our lives upon it.’

‘Do not worry yourselves so,’ said Lowly Crows. ‘If this Rogrig Wishard proves himself, false, after all…we can always kill him.’ There was no hint of humour, no faerie slight.

If my hand stiffened about the hilt of my sword, I chose to remain silent.

‘Then let us not waste any more breath upon words,’ said Wily Cockatrice. ‘If we cannot put our faith in ourselves, who are we to trust?’

It seemed the decision was made.

There was an immediate change to the darkness. There was neither more nor less ethereal light, only a difference within it. At several points the darkness resolved itself into another nature. Put more simply, I might have said that together the figures in the shade let go their faerie Glamour and revealed themselves (which is the truth). Only – sometimes neither words, nor even the truth are quite enough.

Lowly Crows aside, where before I presumed the darkness was hiding only an oddly assortment of grown men and women, a grotesque crone and a conceited youth, the vision before me had inextricably altered.

(Forgive me my friend, I will hesitate here, for fear of you not believing this revelation so simply put.)

There was now…a pair of unifauns…an elf…a dryad…and, most spectacular of all, a dragon. Aye and other fey creatures too, besides, if less well defined…

To speak their names is to see them all.

Surely, if ever you had an imagination, my friend, you know them well enough – if only from some childish dream. Yet, to stand before them in reality is not to be compared. What I saw of them was perhaps only a glimpse against the changing feral light of that cavern, but what I did see, and remember still, is most vivid. The flesh and the bone of them; the fur and the cloven hooves; the pointed drawn teeth and the scales: with all the weight and stature of true wild beasts (and yet not wild beasts at all, but each of them a greater breed apart).

The single-horned unifauns, Sunfast and Fortuna, stood together, instinctively a pair; their every slight movement made in perfect unison. Fine boned and elegant, a mirror of their human selves, they stood fully naked but for their braided goat’s hair.

In the fey light of the cavern the green skin of the elf appeared grossly rough and gnarled, yet his eyes remained childishly young. While the dryad was less manly wood-nymph than a stout living tree. And Wily Cockatrice was the image of her namesake; standing four-square upon the ground, an ever coiling tail endlessly wrapping itself around and about her.

‘You…are truly…a…a, dragon, then?’ I said, clutching for the words.

‘Oh, do not look so innocently shocked!’ A slight trail of smoke drifted from her elongated snout as she spoke. ‘We are all of us the same here. Whoever we are, whatever we are. The very same! We all seek the same answers…And technically, I am a wyrm, Rogrig, not a dragon. I do not fly.’ She slowly turned the great mass of her body, exposed the scales upon her wingless back.