Authors: P. S. Broaddus
I can feel that he’s right. The air is freer, although not fresh. I also notice our voices and footsteps travel before echoing.
“This is a good spot.”
Tig is silent. He can feel my pain, and he can see my left side. His instinct tells him I can’t go on. I feel a slight curve in the tunnel wall and lean against it with my good side. A buzzing starts in my head. Tig is talking, but I can’t tell what he is saying.
Several hours must have passed. I know because my mind tells me so. I also know because my body is now so stiff I can’t move. Tig is growling, next to my head. I open my mouth to ask him what’s happening, but my tongue is swollen and doesn’t let me form the words. A moment of sheer panic runs through my entire body. My left arm shivers, and I whimper at the movement.
Tig’s whiskers brush against my face, then jerk away, and another low growl. “Something’s coming. Several somethings.”
He goes quiet, and I’m mutely irritated. Tell me about the somethings. As if he read my mind he says, “They’re small. Not hunters.”
What could be here in the dark, under the Valley of Fire? Giant insects? I can’t think of anything nice. Tig rustles and leaves me. I move my mouth to call him back, but no sound comes out. Instead I hear a yowl and a hiss. I jerk again and try to push myself up. The hissing and spitting continues. A chirrup. I freeze. Even Tig stops hissing and settles for a low continuous growl. Another chirrup. A little like a bird, but not quite. Something like a spring frog. Tig settles back against me. His fur is on end.
“There are several of them. They look like . . .” He pauses, and I can tell he doesn’t know how to describe them—which is unusual. He has a lot of practice with description. “. . . salamanders, but they’re walking upright. They stand about two feet high, and that’s what you hear, their chirping—or whatever it is they’re doing.”
Tig’s tail is twitching, and I can feel his muscles tense. I struggle again to sit up. “Hold on. They’re talking together.” My senses are playing tricks on me, but despite the echoes, I can tell that the chirrups are all in one location, and aren’t moving.
“One is coming out of the group, its—hands, I guess—are in front of it. It’s bowing now.” Tig is silent for a moment more, and I sink back against the cool tunnel wall. I decide I don’t care. They can eat me. It’s not so bad, being prey and giving up at the end. It’s like a sweet release.
“This salamander is indicating they have food, and I think it’s saying something about your arm.” Tig’s whiskers brush against my face. “If we were looking for something in here, I think this is it.” His paw touches my face. The pads on his paw are cool and feel good. He says something else that I don’t understand. I feel unconsciousness taking me.
I jerk my arm and scream, but my scream doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound like me. It is a horrible choking gurgle, too high and weak to be my voice. Something is touching my arm. Sharp hot needles of pain shoot from my arm into my side and travel to my teeth. I groan, but they don’t stop messing with my arm.
Tig’s voice sounds far away. “Easy, Ess. We’re just trying to help.”
I try to focus on the implications of “we.” Another shock of pain makes me feel sick, and mercifully, the rest of my senses join my sight by fading into darkness.
Chapter 8
I
t is one thing to hear monsters bump in the night. It is quite another to never be able to light a lamp to chase them away.
I recall a long time ago, a few years after I first went blind, I had my first bad tumble and became terrified of the world around me. I curled into a ball under my blankets and rocked and cried for months. I barely ate, and I jumped at the slightest sound. Mom would try to hold me, but I would scream and cower in the furthest corner of my bed with my back against the wall. I developed a strange habit of knocking my hand against my leg. The gentle “thump, thump, thump,” from my tiny fist on my leg became the defining sound in our home, and a hard lump grew on my leg where the muscle knotted.
Mom and Dad and Tig eventually, patiently pulled me out of those dark and horrible months, but for years I still felt the fear claw at my throat. My breathing would become shallow and my chest tight. I felt lightheaded, my carefully trained senses would become blurred, and I could barely hear through the ringing in my ears. In those moments, I felt like hiding again, and sometimes I would compulsively tap my leg. But I haven’t hit my leg for years.
Now I’m awake, curled into a tight ball with my hand tapping my leg. I must have been here for some time because my leg is already sore. I try to tell my fist to stop so that I can listen, but my brain is slow and sticky. It takes several tries before my hand receives the signal. I pin my hand underneath me to keep it still, then I reach out with my senses to see the world around me. As I drift back into consciousness my senses jump to the alert, looking for danger. I’m hurt, and I’m in a strange place.
Uncle Cagney once told me that nearly all of what people know and understand about the world is from their sight. “You can’t replace your sight, Lady Ess,” he had said, “so you’ll have to make the rest of your senses take up the slack.” I took him seriously and honed my senses of hearing and smell by the hour, with Tig ever present to coach and correct.
Tig. I hear the gentle thrumming. It reminds me of rain on the roof of our house a long time ago. I had almost forgotten rain sounded like that. Even in my half-awake state, I know my surroundings and situation have changed drastically. My senses tell me I am not in danger. Not immediately anyway.
My arm is my next focus. It’s stiff, but not hot or cold. It is a comfortable warm. It’s wrapped in something soft and inflexible and itches like crazy. I don’t move to check it with my fingers. I’m not ready to give away that I’m awake. I move on. I’m lying on a bed of what feels like the same soft, scratchy material that covers my arm.
Tig is purring next to my leg. His tail is still. I can imagine his eyes are half closed. I move my hand ever so slightly to let my fingers get a better look at the material under me.
“Ah, you’re finally awake.” Tig’s eyes may be half-closed, but that means they are definitely half-open. I let down my defenses, push my hair out of my face with my right hand, and reach over to feel my arm. It is entirely encased in something hard and packed with the softer material.
“Can you move it?” asks Tig.
“I think so,” I say, as I feel him pad up to my head.
“I doubt you’ll be able to bend your elbow though,” he says.
“Who are they?” My voice is hesitant, but Tig seems at ease and that helps.
“I think they want to introduce themselves,” he chuckles.
I don’t have time to ask before I hear the chirps and chirrups coming from some way off. I sit up, and after an initial wave of dizziness, realize I am okay. My arm hangs stiffly and heavily next to me. It doesn’t hurt, and the fever is gone. The only thing uncomfortable is my stomach. I’m starving.
Something enters the room. I try to recall the last thing Tig said before I passed out. Salamanders? I can tell it is small, and I remember part of what Tig said when they first found us: “They aren’t hunters.” I can smell it now. They don’t eat meat. They move poorly, shuffling along at an awkward gait. I listen to the scuffling sound of their feet—even a little clumsy. I feel some of my tension slip away. They can still be dangerous, poisonous perhaps, but they are no relation to rock basilisks. I am about to ask Tig about whether they appear armed, but I almost fall off my pallet when I hear the Lingua Comma in the salamander’s shrill lilting whistle.
“Does the Wounded Lady of the Land Under the Sun and her Companion also from the Land Under the Sun speak the Lingua Comma?”
My mouth hangs open. I feel for Tig and put my hand on his head. “Did that salamander j-just speak?” I stammer.
I can tell Tig is gawking as well, but he recovers more quickly than I do. “It did. I suspect it wants an answer,” he whispers, “Oh Wounded Lady of the Land Under the Sun,” he adds in a mockingly deferential tone.
“I—how do you speak Lingua Comma?” I blurt. “And yes, I speak it too,” I add, interrupting myself.
“Obviously,” says Tig.
“Excellent!” I hear the chirping whistles in front of me. I turn my head toward Tig again, hoping for explanation, description, anything.
He reads my expression. “I have no idea. They haven’t said a word to me.”
“Wounded Lady of the Land Under the Sun.” I jerk my head back to face the salamanders. “The Glorious race of Urodela welcomes you and your Companion to the Kingdom of Crypta, Ruled by Queen Crypthania the Eight Tens and Seven.”
After a second I remember to close my mouth. “Th-th-thank you, and thank you for helping me with my arm.” I am still stammering, but I can hardly help it. I lift my arm and start another “Thank you,” but interrupt myself again. “How do you speak Lingua Comma?”
“Magic, Wounded Lady of the Land Under the Sun.”
I didn’t think I had any air left to exhale. I feel dizzy again.
“Would you be so kind as to give us your introduction, Wounded Lady of the Land Under the Sun?”
I put both hands on my knees to keep the room from tilting. “I—I’m Essie—”
“Allow me, I think,” says Tig, cutting me off. My reflex wants to argue, but I am both grateful for his command of the situation and surprised. Tig is breaking his unspoken vow of silence to the rest of the world.
“Allow me to introduce Lady Essie Brightsday, of the Celebrated race of Men, daughter of Keira, daughter of Killian, First Champion to King Mactogonii, Kingdom of Mar, Land Under the Sun.”
My eyebrows shoot up. That sounded pretty good.
“And I am Tigrabum, Essie Brightsday’s Companion, Guide, and Protector.” I turn my head toward Tig and frown.
Companion maybe
. . . “I claim the lineage of None, of the Magnificent race of Felis, and answer to no king nor kingdom.”
“Thank you, Tigrabum, Essie Brightsday’s Companion, Guide, and Protector.”
The word
protector
annoys me. I interrupt the salamander in front of me. “You can just call him Tig.”
“Excuse me,” Tig interjects, “I—”
“Of course Lady Essie Brightsday, daughter of Killian husband of Keira—”
“And I’m just Essie.” An awkward silence lasts a few seconds. “How again did you learn Lingua Comma?”
“Magic placed upon me by your own King Mactogonii from the Kingdom of Mar, Land Under the Sun.”
After the salamanders—or Urodela as they call themselves—have gone I remain sitting on my pallet, too stunned to move. I’ve been invited to some sort of banquet, which will be attended by “Queen Crypthania of the Kingdom of Crypta.” It sounds a little conceited to me. To name your kingdom after yourself—but maybe it’s the other way around. I dig my fingers into the hairy moss. King Mactogonii. Urodela speaking Lingua Comma. Magic. I never heard of magic being used this way. Of course I think of Tig. My hand strays to the back of his ears. I know he’s probably thinking the same thing. Thinking of using magic to let animals speak gets me thinking about my eyes.
Could magic restore my sight?
I feel dizzy again. Tig has been unusually quiet. I cock my head toward him, inviting him to say something. Not that he ever waits for my invitation.
“Well, that was both interesting and confusing.”
I nod, but don’t try to respond yet. There is too much to process. My legs dangle off the pallet I am sitting on, so I let my toes explore a little further. This isn’t a rock cavern, at least not a bare rock cavern. The floor is covered with a thick spongy moss. I feel the bed I was lying on and decide it is probably made of the same moss after it has been dried. I absently comb my fingers through my hair. My fingers get stuck. It is such a tangle I can hardly tell what’s moss and what’s natural.
A soft pattering announces something is returning—the awkward gait of a salamander. I focus on the soft steps and am able to separate the pattering—two, no three salamanders. The three Urodela chirp into the room.
I focus like I have been taught, taking in sounds, smells, echoes, and feelings. They are about two feet tall when they walk on their hind legs. The tiny footsteps are muffled in the moss in the room, so it is difficult to gauge just how much they might weigh, like Tig taught me, but I judge they are just a bit larger than Tig—maybe thirty pounds. They smell damp and musky, but clean, and are not hunters or scavengers—they eat plants. I can tell that they are looking at me. Unsure what to say, I dip my head in greeting.
“They did a good job on your arm,” says Tig.
“Thanks for taking care of my arm,” I say. The only response is a chirruping “Hello!” and several whistles.
“It doesn’t look like the one who speaks Lingua Comma is back,” says Tig dryly. For the next few minutes they continue to chorus the single word, “Hello.” I try to interrupt a couple of times with a “Where are we?” but none of them appear to be listening.
I turn back to Tig. “Pretty fixated on that greeting.”
“I hear that,” says Tig.
I turn back to the two hello’ers and give them a “hello” in return. They increase their volume and try to repeat
hello
at an even faster rate.
“You just sent them hopping up and down,” says Tig. “They’re giving me a headache.”
I feel like I could be a little annoyed too, but at the idea of these little creatures’ antics and the constant repeating of “hello” in their chirruping songlike voices I can’t help but chuckle. The chuckle turns into a laugh, and in just a moment I lie back on the bed, and I’m laughing so hard the tears roll down my cheeks, and I can’t stop. Finally the hiccups get me, and I am able to control my laughing again.
I hear tiny feet patter up to me, but I still jump when little hands push some kind of soft, light material into my lap. With that, I hear the chirps turn and the patter of several feet scampering off in the direction they came from. A small scuffling and a chirp from near my feet tells me one is left. I feel a tug on my hem. I lean forward on my pallet and let my hands look for me. I move slowly—I don’t want to scare it, or be bitten.
The last thought makes me pause. “Tig, do these things have teeth?”
“That is terribly impolite to talk about our hosts as
things
right in front of them,” says Tig, and I know he is serious because that is how people talk about him; like he’s a “thing” or an “it.” I feel heat rise in my cheeks. I take his response as an answer and address the Urodela at my feet. “Hello?”
It chirrups in reply, but does not say “Hello” like the others.
Tig slides over to sit beside me. “This salamander looks younger—at least, it’s not as big. The group brought what might be clothes. It’s trying to give you what looks like a shirt.”
I push my hands forward and feel the material—soft and even a little stretchy. Nothing like my own. I run my hands over the material, trying to feel out the design. It crackles with static, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
“Wow.”
I gently pat the salamander’s head and rub the back of its neck. It lets out a soft gurgling chirrup. Its skin is rubbery, dry, and cool.
“What about the clothes? What do they look like, Tig?”
“Well, it is some kind of blue. Looks like a warrior’s tunic that has been cut down,” says Tig.
“A warrior’s tunic?”
“And there are some leather trappings. Pants and a shirt. It’s definitely a warrior’s. There are armor plates sewn into the leather,” Tig says, his voice curious.
“Really?”
I’m excited despite myself. Leather armor. That’s neat. I wonder if it might have been the king’s, and I hesitate.
“What?”
“Well, if it was the king’s,” I say slowly, “is it okay if I wear them now?”
“
Was
the king’s,” says Tig. “Key element of ownership.
Past
ownership. Also, think of it this way, if we ever bump into the king you can give him his armor back.”
I run my fingers over the tunic and the leather armor. The static crackles and hums again. “Do you see that?” I ask.
“See what?”