Dreamlands (18 page)

“Hush,
man!” Erik said.  “I’m in no mood for ghost stories tonight.”

“Some
luck,” Orvuhlt said.  “First walk on land in weeks and we’re camping with
haints.  Probably all wake up with our throats slit.  Me, I won’t
sleep a minute.”

“Then
you won’t mind sitting first watch,” Erik suggested.

“Might
as well take mine too,” Jome chimed in, “if you’re not tired.”

Marthin
alone was silent, preferring to sit and hug his crossbow to him.

Finally,
Jome launched into a story about the sexual proclivities of tinkers, especially
cautioning Marthin on their habits.  In matters of depravity the man was a
scholar.  Even Orvuhlt stopped licking his lips for a time.

Though
a watch was kept through the night, we slept undisturbed.

* * *

When
I rose the next morning, I found Erik already waiting on me.

"Get
our casks aboard and be smart about it,” I said with phony bluster.  “Once the water’s
up, we’ll be off."

"I'm
afraid not, Captain," he replied, pointing at a great, anvil-shaped cloud on
the horizon.  Such a formation always foretold a storm.  "The hammer's
about to strike."

“We’ll
ride it out shipboard,” I said.  “See that every man’s skin is filled as tight
as those tuns.  Let’s get moving before the chop gets worse.”

We
all worked with a will, trading off jobs as we ferried the water from shore to
ship.  Soon, with the boat stowed and everyone snug below decks, I was hopeful
the girls in their crumbling village would be forgotten.  The Peregrine rocked
with the swells, but the cove would protect us from danger, and I allowed a
dice game (for wooden chits, not money) to keep everyone occupied.  With a bit
of tarp rigged overhead to keep off the rain, Ajer Akiti and I sat on deck watching
the storm.  I was less than sanguine however.  My father’s mantle clock was ticking
in my head, and I felt as though I waited on a deadline without knowing its
nature.

“It’s
Orvuhlt, sir,” Marthin cried, shocking me from distant memories as he climbed
up from the hold.

“They’re
not fighting over dice already,” I declared.

Erik
appeared close on his heels.  “It’s not that,” he said.  “Orvuhlt’s not
aboard.  He must’ve stayed ashore.”

As
quickly as we could the four of us untied the boat and wrestled it back into
the water, and after ten minutes fighting the waves we were back on the beach. 
Leaving Marthin to guard the craft against misfortune, Ajer, Erik and I ran
towards the village, above which a brilliant light shone.

The
beacon which had first drawn us to that fateful shore burned again over the
great hall, atop a spire and roof which earlier that day had not existed.  Windows
of stained glass had replaced empty rectangles, and where yesterday had been a
gap in a ruined wall, a sturdy oak door stood open.  What we saw on its
threshold brought our headlong rush to a staggering halt.

Beneath
an elaborate chandelier a polished stone table was piled with delicacies:  venison,
beef and pork, duck, partridge and smaller fowls I could not identify.  Every
dish was meat, with no apple or cake or hunk of bread.

The
girls were all present, and transformed as well, from deprived and pale to blushing
good health.  They were clothed in silk, their glossy hair confined by braided
cord or circlet.  Though dressed like highborn ladies, they neglected the silver
table settings, along with any pretense at etiquette, and were attacking the rich
fare like starved prisoners.  At the head of this gathering Orvuhlt sat like a lord,
a goblet of wine at his lips and Lyss on his knee.  She worked one hand between
his legs, and with the other pushed a rib bone into her mouth.  The final touch
to this fantastic debauch was the sourceless whine of a high flute, accompanied
by the sound of erratic drumbeats, deranged music that crawled on my skin like
a living thing.

Water
puddled on the heavy carpet at our feet as we stood stupefied before this
spectacle.  My duty as captain insisted I get Orvuhlt away, but every instinct
pushed me back from the incomprehensible scene.  I had taken the first step
towards the unreal banquet when a massive thunderclap shivered the hall.  The
beacon above us flickered like an electric light on a faulty circuit, and went
black.  Seconds later, it was replaced by the dim glow of a dozen storm lamps,
their metal caps sizzling in the rain.

The
roof was open to the sky once more and the three of us were swaying in the
midst of a gale.  The drums had become the staccato crack of thunder and the
droning flute a relentless wind in the chinks of ruined walls.  When I mopped
the pouring rain from my eyes, the enchanted finery which had filled the great
hall was gone.

The
slab of table was covered in several grotesque humps, which I eventually
discerned to be mounds of flesh.  The first was an animal similar to a deer,
but with back-curving horns.  It was covered in a mat of flies, made restive by
the pummeling rain but determined to continue their business.  Further along
were three human corpses.  The first was recently dead.  The second, beginning
to bloat, was responsible for the horrid stench which had replaced the smell of
roast meat, and the last was a desiccated husk long expired.  The smallest girl
was worrying the skin from its tibia.

Orvuhlt's
laughing face had turned grizzled and ashy.  It and his seaman's tunic were
washed in the red blood of the celebration.

"You
see," he cried with a sob verging on a terrific madness, "a feast,
Captain, a feast!"

The
feral girls continued to grunt and tear at their foul repast, occasionally
scuffling and scratching at each other, and paid Erik no heed as he gingerly made
his way behind them towards Orvuhlt.  Shoulder-to-shoulder with Ajer, I drew my
sword, frantically seeking something to defend against.  Of every thing in that
cursed hall, the illusion had left one detail unchanged:  the statues in the
alcoves.  I sensed then that their forms had not been worn by rains or time,
but were just as they had always been.  It seemed to me that they watched, and that
the one behind the lord's seat watched most closely.

I
saw Erik stumble in the discarded bones and muck along the table, grabbing at
one of the enigmatic figures to right himself.

“Get
out of there,” I called and he obeyed with haste, though if he had seen what I
had he may have moved quicker yet.  The things in the alcoves were leaning
slowly forward.

I
sheathed my cutlass, and leapt up onto the table, scrambling over the piled
corpses and offal.  Squatting before Orvuhlt, I shoved the deranged Lyss aside
and shouted at him.  He tittered at me in reply, lifting a wine bottle to his
lips.  I knocked it from his hands and went to lift him bodily from his seat,
but he was wet, and slippery with filth.  I could find no purchase, and looking
up I saw the faceless aspect of the tallest statue looking directly over his
head.  Gagging on the stink of rot, I tried to disengage, but Orvuhlt had latched
on to my arm, trying to sink his teeth in me like an animal gone mad.  Panic
was stealing up my spine when Ajer planted his sandaled foot on Orvuhlt’s
sternum and wrestled me free.

Outside,
my back to the cursed hall, I took gulping breaths as Ajer indicated the
necessity of reaching the ship at once.  She was the only shelter from the
storm, other than the village.

“It
may be too late already,” Erik cried.  Whatever else he said was drowned in the
wind as we raced back to the boat.

Marthin
was waiting with two hands on the small craft’s prow, as if he feared it would
blow away.  He did not question us about Orvuhlt there on the beach, nor later
once we had returned to the Peregrine.  I imagine our faces said enough.

It
was a blistering hot afternoon, made doubly disagreeable by the snow the day
before, and the topside was all but deserted.  We were making good time, the
Peregrine friskily cresting the waves in a strong wind, but as always the
question was to what end.  I tried not to dwell on the possibility of Huspeth
being wrong about our prey.  If they had more reliable means of negotiating
those haunted seas we would never find them.

From
the lightness of Erik’s step as he approached, I could guess what was to come.

“The
crew has been restless since Orvuhlt’s death.”

“We
don't know that he's dead,” I said.  Which was worse still.

“There’s
talk of putting the witch-woman ashore,” he said.  “I told them we do not know
for sure the coast will lead us back, that without the old woman’s magic we might
drift forever.”

“She
is blameless in this.  If the Peregrine is cursed, it is my doing.”

“Fitting
words, since you’re their second choice.  People fear what they don’t
understand, and there’s plenty we don’t understand about this place.  I heard
Ajer talking about reduced rations.  If we’re forced to that on top of
everything else, the crew will turn on you.

“Isaac,”
he concluded after an uncomfortable pause, “we have provisions enough to make
Jundara if we’re careful, if we turn back now.”

“Tomorrow,”
I sighed.

“Tomorrow?”

“If
we don’t see some sign by tomorrow we’ll head back to Jundara.  You’re right, there’s
no other choice.”  I should have been grief stricken, for to stop now would
surely mean losing Isobel, but the thought of ending our quest filled me instead
with numbness.

Erik
put a hand on my shoulder for a brief moment as the next crisis erupted.  Ajer
Akiti surged up from the main hatch, hauling Trout behind him like a puppy.  Ajer
set him on his feet and began to sign, but this time the exact meaning of his gesticulations
escaped me.

I
supposed the boy had been caught shirking –Ajer was as silent on his feet as in
his speech; a circling hawk made more noise– but at this point in our venture a
lazy swab would be of small concern.  If, on the other hand, his crime was filching
from our stores, that would be a disaster.  Theft was typically punished with marooning,
which effectively meant death in one of its slowest and least merciful forms. 
Though perhaps in these parts it would not be as slow as all that.

With
his unfaltering instinct for seeking out strife, Jome appeared as I asked Ajer
to start over.  He ground his teeth and began the motions again.  As far as I
could understand, he had come upon Trout in the aft storage compartment,
staring into a corner and talking, but there was no one else present.

“You’re
not making sense, Ajer.”  Taxed with my own concerns, I could not see why Trout
playing the halfwit should make him so upset.

“Leave
the boy alone, you towering menace,” Erik said, betraying his own frustration. 
“He works his shift like everyone else, but without complaint.  I’d pay him double
just for that.”

“Double
of nothing is still nothing,” Jome interjected.

Ajer
made one further sign, to point at his own two eyes, before vanishing below.  Whatever
had occurred, Trout would have little opportunity for mischief from now on.

* * *

“Heave
to,” I called.  The day had just dawned, in a pleasingly normal fashion, when I
called for us to stop.

Erik
rushed to where I stood near the wheel.  I had given few commands in recent
days.

“What
do you see?” I asked him, unwilling to trust my own eyes.

“A
mountain, right on the coast, and its smaller brother peaking up behind it.  Is
there something special about them?”

“And
in the sky?”

“If
you think I’m in the mood for riddles–”

“What
do you see, damn you?”  I dared not turn my head, fearing the scene would evaporate
if I looked away.

“The
sky shows two stars directly above, the last two in sight.  I imagine they will
fade soon.  So what?”

“Put
us ashore.”

Before
disembarking, I conferred with Huspeth in the captain’s cabin.

“There
is a sign along the shore, mountains and stars I saw first in the frontispiece
of Solomon’s atlas, and later marked on the door of the man who gave me this.” 
I touched the embossed leather of my dagger’s sheath.  “We’ve sighted no
galley, but I believe this is a sign.  What do you say?”

She
sighed.

“In
a land where the course of a river can change from one hour to the next, how
can I advise you?  In Zij I had thought myself full of wisdom and years, but in
the Fantastic Realms there is only the weight of the latter.”

I
left without comment, thinking that for what little she offered I should have
paid the blood debt for her apprentice back in Zij.

We
anchored the Peregrine in the lee of a rocky peninsula and landed in our longboat. 
I had never seen a group of men in such a muddle, delighted to once more have fresh
water, firm land under foot, and what proved to be sweet fruit, yet apprehending
that at any moment some miscreation would step out from the trees.  Once a camp
had been established and more men ferried ashore, I took a few minutes to study
the lay of the land.

What
now?
Ajer asked.

“I
am going to climb that higher peak,” I said.  It looked to me less than a day’s
hike.  “If I find no answers our journey is over.

“Hey,
who goes there?” I said to him, shading my eyes.  Far up the slope, a woman in
peasant skirts negotiated a steep mountain meadow.  Every so often she bent
down as if to study the ground, looking for herbs I supposed.  Though everyone
in earshot looked where I pointed, no one answered.

“There
is a woman up there, you must see her.”  There was a murmur of confusion, and a
few made the sign against evil.  “She looks to be a farmer or berry picker, out
gathering fruit with a basket.”

I
looked to Ajer, whose eyes were keenest.  He shook his head once.

“There
is no one there, Isaac,” Erik said, brow furrowed.

I
said no more about it, and collected my ration of hard tack and salt pork, and
a water skin.  With a hatchet I trimmed a stout stick for walking.

“If
I have not returned by dusk tomorrow, send no party after,” I said to Erik.  “Go
back to known waters and leave this madness behind.”

My
friends’ faces were grim, but no one gainsaid me.

I
followed a well-worn game track, and at first the going was easy.  I lost sight
of the woman whilst scrambling through a shallow gorge, but I needn't have worried. 
Though invisible to my comrades, she stayed in plain view for me, and observing
my approach was content to wait.  An hour later, we were both on the same
precipitous slope, and the woman was no less real.  Though plump with middle-age,
her face was youthful and untroubled.  She wore a peasant frock and the wicker
basket slung over her shoulder was full of wild mushrooms.

“Do
you live on the mountain?” I asked, drinking from my flask.  “Is there fresh water
nearby?”

A
minute or two passed and the great spreading oak at her back creaked in the
breeze, a lonely sound on the open mountainside.  She had parted her lips as if
about to speak, but did not do so.  I felt myself redden in irritation.

“My
friends think you’re a hallucination,” I said.

“He
is at the peak, yes,” she replied nonsensically.

“Is
that so?” I said.

“No
one lives on the mountain.”

“All
right,” I said, moving past her.  “Thank you for your help.”

She
nodded, still smiling vacantly.  I brushed shoulders with her as I went, but
she did not vanish.

“Only
death awaits you,” she said to my back.  “That is not a metaphor, by-the-by.”

* * *

After
the meadow, the ascent grew more arduous, and where no switchback was available
I was forced to use rocky handholds and the thin, scrubby trees for purchase. 
I fancied myself in excellent physical condition, but climbing tired me quickly.
 I stopped often to catch my breath, and eventually realized I could hear no birds
or other fauna.  Not even the buzz of a fly disturbed the mountain’s perfect
stillness.

The
sun was well past its zenith when I sat for a longer rest.  I had finished my
rations hours before, and now my flask was empty as well.  Groaning, I pulled
myself up with the help of my stick, wondering if I had taken ill.  It was
while searching for one of the freshwater pools which dotted the mountainside that
I came upon a goatherd, a young man accompanied by a single animal.   

I opened
my mouth to greet him, but only issued a wheeze, like a leather bladder fatally
punctured.  My body cried for me to sit again but, not wishing to show how weak
I felt, I instead moved towards him, as if I wanted to see him more closely.  I
needed to go closer, for to my tired eyes his features were little more than a tan
blur.  I should have saved myself the trouble.  He was gangly and ill-favoured,
with a port-wine stain covering the left half of his face.  Affecting to have just
noticed my presence, he flashed a yellow-toothed leer in my direction.

“How
do, Old Man,” he said in a flat, backcountry drawl.

“Old
man, am I?” I said, in order to buy a few seconds to come up with something
less foolish.  “Not much of a goatherd I see.  They only trust you with the
one?”

“This
wily beast got away from my flock,” he replied, stroking the animal with rather
more vigour than I thought healthy.  “But I'd never let him get far.  Old Eamon
is my favourite after all.”

“Eamon,
is it?” I croaked.  I felt I should be angry, but the reason escaped me.

He
waited for me to say something more (even his waiting was insolent), but my
thoughts rolled away whenever I tried to grasp them, like a handful of marbles
dropped in the dark.

“Think
you’ll make it?” he asked, nodding upslope.  “I don’t.”

I
worked to separate my tongue from my palate, thinking that instead of bantering
with him I should take my stick to his marred face, but I was powerfully
thirsty and I saw that both of us had stopped by water.  I bent to drink, dipping
my head as well.  The water was exhilarating, cold and pure in a way only found
in the wild, far from ship and city.  After taking my fill, I remained on all
fours to catch my breath, but when my reflection resolved from the ripples I
jumped back, joints creaking painfully in protest.  Dim, sorrowful eyes had
looked up from the water, in a face as withered and grey as the hand I now held
before me.  It was the reflection of a terribly, unnaturally aged Isaac Sloan.

I
sat on the mossy ground as if perched on a ledge over an abyss, while a hateful
sound slowly overtook my panting.  The goatherd was laughing as my palsied
hands shook and, unrealizing, I whimpered.

Without
the stick I could not have levered myself up from the ground, for mortality sat
like a hundredweight on my shoulders.  Though the next rise looked as high as
the entire mountain had that morning, I hobbled towards it, leaving the chortling
boy and his goat behind.  I consoled myself that, like as not, the two of them
were nothing but spectres.

* * *

Shaking
free of a waking daze, I found myself stranded in a moment which knew no
antecedent, nor expectation of the future.  I lifted the skin to my lips and a
little water trickled over tough and empty sockets where my teeth had been, the
rest down my chest.  The soft moss called me to lie down and rest, but to do so
would not bring rejuvenation, but the final peace from which no one rises.

Fumbling
about for a way upward, my mind and vision dim, I was several minutes in
recognizing that the level space I had reached was in fact the top of the
mountain.  A stand of trees, half-consumed by the voracious undergrowth, was
the sole landmark.  Closer examination revealed not a copse, but a haphazard conglomeration
of branches, driftwood, and lumber salvaged from wrecks.  These propped up the
round edge of a roof made of a pale, cream-coloured substance like bone.  As if
by design, a thick tangle of trailing plants held the whole mess together.

I
could see no entrance, but when I moved close enough to touch a vine-choked spar,
it was shifted aside to reveal a man’s face.  He grinned ghoulishly out at me,
or the scar did the grinning, whether he willed it or no.  A deep white groove
began at the left edge of his lips and extended in a crescent all the way to
the hairline.

“Captain
Bromm,” I said.  Slowly I straightened from the crooked hunch to which my climb
had reduced me.  The mountain’s glamour had passed.

“My
friends call me Smiley," he said in a gravelly voice.

I
followed him inside the structure, where sun through the living walls made a
cool green twilight.  He manoeuvred himself slowly, with one hand grasping at
the vinous walls and the other a broken decking plank, for his right leg was
missing from the hip.