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Mirror This Dethor paused just inside the sheltering trees, his breathing quick from the long, steady climb he had made without rest. Below the terrain fell away in hills and hidden gullies, vivid in the red, gold and green of Autumn under the last slanting rays of sun. Birds settling early to roost warned of an approaching storm. A distant grumbling of thunder made Dethor look up. He had been expecting rain for two days. For a week the landscape had been shifting - a hill would move, a valley become obscured by a sudden growth of trees, a river dry up and disappear overnight. Several times Dethor had come close to plunging to his death over a cliffs edge he had thought was still a good ten paces away. And yet the path had come to him, through the twisting vales and disappearing rivers, like a thread gently ever-pulling, guiding his feet. Now he was close to his goal - very close, for it was said that the gateway to the further-lands was guarded by a warder who spun a beltway of storms to turn away seekers and wanderers alike. Leaning his walkingstick against the trunk of a young birch, he un-slung his pack. The worn leather bulged with various awkwardly shaped items and from it's depth Dethor pulled a leather volume of inordinate size. An inkwell and a poorly-trimmed pen followed. From a crouch Dethor settled to sitting on the ground, his back against the tree that supported his walkingstick. A chill breeze whispered through the wood and leaves drifted from the sheltering branches to alight on the thick vellum page of Dethor's book. With impatient fingers Dethor brushed them aside, leaving smears on the inked paper. After a time Dethor paused in his work, turning to gaze toward the northern mountains, already crowned with darkening clouds. A stillness was settling over the wood. Dethor scribbled two or three lines in a hand made hardly legible for haste and closed the book on still-damp pages, hurriedly stuffing the writing supplies back into his pack. Reaching beneath his cloak he withdrew a small box of polished maple from an inner pocket of his coat. The ornament inside would have been a thing to incite ecstacy in men renown in things scientific and mathematic and to mystify those not. Under the thick glass face, a delicate clock hand swung like a chime in the breeze, one way and then another. It steadied and Dethor held it there, marking his path in his memory. A sudden, heavy gust of wind whipped his cloak around his legs and sent a shower of leaves swirling down to the forest floor. The storm was rising quickly. Dethor closed the wooden box, his smile curling thin lips under a sharp nose. Sharply cut features and angled eyes of startling grey-green gave him the look of a fox; altogether a rather unsettling face, if not downright unpleasant. It had been noted more than once that Dethor's features held an uncanny resemblance to the elusive folk of the further-lands, the fey-folk. A significant and bemusing fact, considering Dethor's remarkable past, for as a babe he had been passed over by the fey-folk.It was therefore known that Dethor was gifted by the divine. And perhaps his unaccountable visage had been part of what strange element he possessed that kept him from death. Left lying in his cradle under a willow tree with a hound set to guard, his nurse had returned to find the dog dead and the cradle showered in wild apricot blossoms, young Dethor unharmed and crooning happily to himself. This incredible occurrence was taken as sure proof of divine gifting. What the fey-folk could not harm was truly special. Word had been sent to the brotherhood of Galthamn. Such a remarkable child deserved their consideration. The brotherhood's interest was caught and the petition was granted without delay. Dethor had been sent away to be raised and schooled at Galthamn cloister. A order of old renown, the brotherhood trained some of the finest minds in science and engineering, their cartographers and astrologers were legendary and their involvement in matters mysterious and famous was fable, their achievements spun into songs. No child could have had a more auspicious upbringing - and certainly the brotherhood believed in Dethor's unique abilities, as his present situation spoke well of. Charged with a commission most renowned, Dethor carried with him the obsession and hope, the life work of generations of Galthamn cartographers, philosophers, astrologers and physicians. The unfathomable rewards of such a discovery as they quested for burned like fire in the blood. Never before in the hundreds of years that men had searched had they been able to mark the path to the gateway of the further-lands, the realm of the fey-folk. Seekers would set off in quest, never to return. The way to the gateway was warped by magic that left men hopelessly lost and guarded by a storms that turned back seasoned warriors. Those few who did return from their searching were battered and broken, failed in the attempt. Tormented by dreams of other lands they would try again and again, as it ate away the years of their life. For decades the brotherhood had sought to open the way to the further-lands, and it was in Dethor they saw hope for success. Dethor had been passed over by the fey-folk, untouched by their macabre play and ever since that day had grown within him the desire to map the way to the fabled lands of the fey-folk. A directive seemed to grow inside him till the pull was almost irresistible. If any one could untangle the weird ways and mark a path to those fabled lands, it was he. The hour of his departure had been a cold spring dawn. In the murky light, to the hiss and snap of a hundred candles burning fretfully in the drafty hall, throwing shifting shadows on walls that disappeared into the expansive gloom overhead, Dethor knelt below the raised alter in waht would be his last observance for many months to come. "The driver is ready, the brothers are waiting." The low voice brought Dethor to his feet. Doctor Lwynell, head of the Galthamn cloister made his way to the foot of the alter. "Come, it is time you were off." He handed Dethor his cloak and beckoned him down the aisle to the wide open doors. The cold night air laid a sheen of frost over the still-bare branches and filmed the puddles that lined the edge of the road. The brothers stood cloaked and muffled to observe his departure. There was a tingling of excitement in the cold grey air, almost a festive mood. Torchlight played hide and seek with their familiar faces as they bid him fare well on his journey. The Doctor Lwynell closed the coach door as Dethor settled into his seat. "Ever the quest," the doctor said, clasping Dethor's hand in farewell and the and horses leaned into their collars, starting the vehicle moving with a lurch. The torchlight grew dim behind, twinkling once through the trees before disappearing altogether. His smile still in place, Dethor started off again, moving further into the young wood. Winding his way in and out between the trees Dethor continued on toward the fast-growing storm. Overhead the branches lashed in the moaning wind; the air filled with Autumn leaves. Dethor did not slow, but pulled his cloak close against the biting wind. A tremendous burst of wind screamed through the trees and all around branches snapped like a magicians fire. Dethor staggered, thrown to his knees. Branches rained down around him, one nearly taking him to the ground with it. Gasping, Dethor crawled toward the sheltering trunk of one of the larger trees. His hands bled from a hundred tiny cuts inflicted by razor-sharp slivers of splintered wood and one leg was numb from where a hefty branch had struck it. For long moments Dethor clung to the base of the shaking tree, till the winds began to abate. Leaving the dubious shelter of his tree, he scrambled over the broken branches, making slow progress against the wind. Like a cat waiting for the mouse a emerge from his hole, the storm shook the forest with renewed violence. Around him trees broke as if under the woodsman's axe and there was the sharp crackle of lightening. Palms flat against the earth, Dethor felt the ground tremble and the thunder deafened him. Two heavy raindrops, cold as a spring river, splashed against his cheek, immediately followed by a deluge of freezing rain. His sodden hair streaming water into his eyes, Dethor pressed onward. For what seemed like an age, he fought his way forward yard by slow yard as the storm wreaked it vengeance upon the forest. The violence was unlike anything Dethor had witness. Every second he was sure would be his last, but somehow he lived. Seeking releaf from the crushing winds that forced his breath back down his throat, Dethor puased in the shelter of a tree. The wood under his palm shivered and that was all the warning Dethor got. The ground under his feet fell away. The many little streams of water winding down through trees had become a flood, sending a piece of the hill sliding away. The ground sunk away and the trees on the edge pitched forward, held by a few grounded roots. Dethor teetered on the edge of the slide, slick mud and rocks rolling away beneath him, working to carry him over. He caught at the surrounding foliage, tearing it from the rain soaked ground, the loose earth sliding away from his feet. Panicked, Dethor lunged digging his fingers into the soft ground. The rain pounded against his face. The earth came away in his hands and Dethor felt himself falling, the heavy mix of mud and rocks rolling over him. Smothered, gagging on thick mud, Dethor felt a terrific blow take him in the side of the head and he lost his hold on consciousness. The slide tore through the forested hillside, piling it's debris against stripped and scarred trees. Dethor's battered body, miraculously still atop the slide, came to rest against a young oak. At last the rain slowed and the lightening strike moved away, thunder echoing in the valleys and hills below the woodland. The rain fell softer; musically through branches and onto soaked ground. Dethor, from his resting place against he oak, stirred, his slight movement sending the accumulative rubbish of the slide rolling. He moaned and coughed, clawing mud from his face and spitting blood from a bitten tongue. He raised his head, taking in his surroundings. The stripped and battered forest was ugly, open to the low grey sky. The rain fell softly, to sooth the wounded land. Dethor rolled onto his stomach with another suppressed moan and drew in his knees in an attempt to rise. His traveler's pack hung awkwardly askew from his shoulders. Cautiously, Dethor rose to standing, clinging to the oak for support. The left leg of his breaches was torn as was the skin underneath. Mud clogged the wound that bled in thick, dark red. Winching, Dethor gingerly lean on the wounded limb and then took a careful step. He paused, adjusting his pack, then faced uphill, his jaw set, a strange smile of pain and pleasure twisting his lips. He had survived the impossible and walked through the warders storm. Truly, the fey-folk could not harm him. Dethor limped from tree to tree, pausing every so often to rest his leg and catch his breath. The rain rolled of the waxed leather of his pack and dripped from his clothing. Soon the ground slanted up in a gentle climb. Under the trees, dusk gathered quickly. The rain continued to fall, pattering softly through the trees, freezing droplets rolling down Dethor's skin beneath his clothes. Dethor hardly noticed. He was in a fever of excitement, each step bringing new exhilaration. Even when he slipped and fell on the soft, wet hillside, his hurt leg giving suddenly, his grimace of pain was a smile of triumphant anticipation; for even now he walked over ground no other mortal man had set foot on. The accomplishment burnt like fire in his veins. Five months, three weeks and four days since he had started on this quest and now he was at it's the end. No time for rest now. Not at this critical moment. The gateway to the further lands had a fixed location, but the land around it twisted and moved, the illusionary enchantments that kept humans from the doorway. One could stop to rest for the night and wake to find the familiar landmarks vanished, the beltway of storms moved off. Ahead the grey light of coming night showed a glen, field grass flattened by the heavy rain, ringed in dripping trees. Dethor paused at the edge of the clearing, searching the landscape with hungry eyes. There! At the edge of the glade, smaller than the rest of the trees, white flowers out of place among deep amber leaves; the scent of apricot blossoms carried on the rain-damp air. Dethor laughed out loud, teeth flashing white in the muted light. No amount of wealth or reward could equal this moment. "I've found you," Dethor said to the silent glen, his blood singing through his veins. "Open the way for me." With gut-wrenching suddenness the landscape shifted, the soft meadow slope rolling away like a rug through a wringer, the trees tilting crazily and bending at odd angles. Dethor staggered and fell, the ground under his feet coming unstable, the trees around him whipping away, the grass streaming past. On his hands and knees, his stomach clenched with nausea and his eyes closed to shut out the swimming landscape Dethor felt warm water lapping at his finger tips. Carefully he raised his head and find himself kneeling at the edge of a river, pebbly sand biting into his skin. A golden mist rolled over the surface of the water, and across the smooth expanse a wall of fur trees rose up, shadowing the bank in deep green. "And wherefore should I open even a cowpen gate for you?" Dethor turned sharply at the voice. A green-eyed child sat a scant five feet away, legs crossed, a tumbling fall of red hair framing a thin, sharply angled face. Her faun's slit-pupiled eyes watched him with mild interest. This was the warder, the great worker of magic, the weaver of storms. "How did you find this place? " She let a handful of white sand trickle through her fingers - slender tapering fingers, not a child's hand and Dethor now she was a mature female, not a child. "Where come you from, human?" Dethor sat up carefully, a knife point of fear touching his gut. "A great distance off, traveling as my kind do." The fey would travel by their webs, slipping between their realm and the human world like a trout through water. "I've traveled for many months to come here." The green eyes flashed gold. The girl laughed, showing even, white teeth, sharp as a foxes. Like most, Dethor had never seen one of the fey. When one did see them it was but a glimpse in the twilight. Those unnatural encounters when one of the fey was reported to have spoken to a human were roundly regarded as myth. To have survived such an meeting was fantastic. Even emboldened by the knowledge of his singular status, Dethor found the creature unsettling. Dethor sat and waited. The girl watched him. Her slender fingers jumped suddenly, pointing to the leather pack. "What do you carry?" "A travelers equipment. And books." The red head tilted in thought. "Books? You are a scholar?" "I am a cartographer." The creatures pupils narrowed, the eyes turning gold. "Let me see," she demanded. Dethor slipped off the pack and settled it in the sand, taking from it the heavy, leather-bound book and placing it in her slender hands. The girl opened it with much interest, her slanted gold-green eyes scanning the pages with care. Dethor sat and watched, each page she turned a sennight of memory for him, the pen strokes and neat scrip familiar even viewed from his awkward angle. The girl frowned, an expression that brought only the faintest lines to her face. Another page was turned and here she paused, one finger lying gently on the vellum. She looked up, uncertain, baffled."You've drawn the way." Her eyes glowed a deep green. "Yes," Dethor said, his voice even, though he could have shouted the words but for the emotions that stopped his breath. The girl turned another page, her progress through the maps now slow and lingering. "How is this?" She looked between Dethor and the maps, the heavy book propped against her knees, slender legs crossed. Dethor shook hi head. "I do not know. Once I was passed over by your folk." The warder eyes flashed gold and she flinched back with a hiss, pushing the book from her lap and jumping to her feet. Her fingers flexed and she faced Dethor like a wary cat. "I see through the shifting." Dethor gestured toward the book of maps. "I draw the way, because it calls me." The girl stared at him. "And do you dream our dreams?" "I do not." In all the years he had longed for the chance to search for the further-lands, Dethor had never had a one of the mind-twisting dreams that drove men mad for longing. Dreams sent by the fey-folk to torment. Dethor's longing had been as bright and clear as new fire, a sure call, as close as his own skin. The creature stood as still as stone, her eyes focused on some vision only seen by her. It was some time before she turned dangerous golden eyes upon Dethor. "And still do you command me to open the way for you, human?" "Yes," Dethor said, his voice ringing out strong and commanding. "Open the way for me." The girl flinched, her pale skin tightening over delicate bones. For a moment she struggled, fighting to resist the command. But that strange element that saved Dethor from the fey as a child seemed to bind her will and her flaming head lowered and she brought both hands to her lips. Breathing upon her palms, she whispered the words of her office. "The way is open to you, Ragaff." Ragaff, the fey word for Trespasser. She laid her ice-cold palms against his forehead, sending a knife-trust of pain down his spine and up his legs. He gasp and blinked his eyes in the sudden, blinding sunlight of midday. He stood on the opposite bank of the river and across the way the beach shone in bright sunlight. But gone were the fur trees, rising up over the water. Around him the beach now sloped up toward a heavy, green wood. Dethor closed the book of maps, the taste of triumph stronger than mead. Only one last piece to fit and the puzzle was complete. His hands trembled, and he thrust the precious concordance back into his pack. "Take me to your people." The warder did not respond. Her silence drew Dethor from his eager perusal of his surroundings. He turned to her, his triumph dulling the unease of her presence. She stared at him, her golden eyes a dull copper, depth-less and vacant. Her skin was sallow, blue and purples veins visible under the transparent surface. "You have called open the way and passed through the gate no other man can pass," she hissed low. "And now see what comes to pass." Dethor stared, suddenly alarmed for his safely. The warder's breath came fast, her eyes burnt like bleeding suns. Behind her the forest-line of trees wrinkled like wet canvas and the river rose and feel, the water shimmering; heat waves over a summer field. The warder swayed, as if her frame too was becoming less than solid matter. She turned sightless eyes upon Dethor. "You have destroyed what you so long sought, Ragaff. You have compelled me to open the way and upon your entering these lands, you have torn them apart. There is no place for your kind in the further-lands. Never was a human to breach the gateway, never to walk in these shores. Now they are merging with your world, dissolving. Our webs are eaten through. You, the only one of your kind able to cross over, the only one of you kind able to bring this death," the warden gasp. She bent forward, arms pulled tight across her belly, shaken from her spell. "Finish your maps, Ragaff; they will you lead nowhere. " Dethor's cry of protest never left his mouth. His hand was reaching - to stop what he knew not - when the wavering plains of the world shivered as fire in the wind. The trees bent inward over the water and for one second, all was still. Dethor caught the faint scent of mulberry mixed with a deep, green, earthy smell. Otherworldly... The tapestry of the world exploded. Dethor's flesh was shredded from his bones, his eyes bulged against closed lids, his breath was crushed from his lungs. The ground was gone from beneath his feet. Whether he stood or fell he could not say. His insides where pulled out through his throat and Dethor heard the screaming of a multitude in torment. Wet gravel and sand gouged his palms and cut through the knees of his trousers. Dethor gulped for air, trying to breath without heaving the contents of his stomach on the ground. Through the painful, desperate haze, sensation: the tail of a whisper slipped past his conscious mind, a touch of alien dark, mystical in it's contours, the color amber a knifes blade though his being. And then it was gone. Dethor lay at the edge of the high forest glen, the rain-wet grass stripped with the long shadows cast by the rising sun. In the cool dusk of the forest, birds woke the wood with their calling. Dethor lay still, the wet ground leaking dew through his shredded garments. Something brushed against his cheek. Amber; veins of red oak, burnished like gold-leaf. Dethor lifted his head, palms leaving heavy impressions in the damp earth. Around his head and shoulders drifted the leaves of the gateway tree, like snowflakes to a drift. The once smooth and glossy bark of the tree was withered and dull, a thousand tiny cracks running through the dead wood. Dethor scrambled to his feet, his stomach clenching with dreadful certainty. He stood listening, searching for a hint of other-world; but the thunder of his pulse, racing with peaked excitement, was all the sound he heard. The solid ground beneath his feet, the cool breeze moving against his skin - all so ordinary, so memorable. The heated thread that had drawn him on through months of searching was gone. |