1
Now . . .
Alex moved carefully among the loose rocks and stones that formed the base of Morven’s northern slope. Its name could be translated from Gaelic as either Big Mountain or Big Hill. Its technical classification was a “graham,” but its name fit either way. At over seven hundred meters in height, it was certainly a big hill, though on the small side for a mountain. However, in contrast to the otherwise level plain of Caithness, it seemed enormous, being the only feature in an otherwise completely flat landscape.
The ascent was relatively gentle. Alex walked beside Reverend Maccanish, who had insisted on accompanying him and being his guide to the area once Alex had more fully explained what he expected to find, and what he would have to do once he found it. It took the reverend little time to change into hiking clothes and rubber boots. Alex changed into some heavier gear—motorcycle gear, actually. Tough, padded leather trousers and a padded leather jacket, reinforced in the forearms, upper arms, chest, and back with metal plates. He also grabbed a rucksack with different sorts of emergency provisions and a long black object, which he slung on his back. He finished by lacing up a pair of army-issue, steel-toe boots. And they set off.
They had walked only about forty-five minutes and had made it about halfway around the graham. It was a little after noon, so they stopped for a break.
“Are you sure it’s a cave you’re looking for here? I know of none around here.”
“There will be . . . something,” Alex answered. “But incidentally, do you know of any caves or other rock formations in the area?”
“No, nothing like that. Why, do you think it more likely we’ll find the . . . creature there?”
“No, it’s probably here,” Alex said, offering another oatcake to Maccanish. “We just have to keep our eyes open. And our ears.
Even our—” Alex paused. Even as he was about to say it, he caught a whiff of something rotten on the wind.
“What is it?” Maccanish asked, slightly alarmed, twisting around. “Do you see—?”
“No, it’s alright,” Alex assured him. “Finish up,” he said, taking a long drink from his bottle of water. He packed his things together and brushed his hand over the long rectangular object wrapped in black that lay in his lap.
“Do you mind if I see it?” Maccanish asked, gesturing.
Alex thought for a moment and raised the black object— almost four feet long—and handed it to him.
Maccanish fumbled with it for a few moments and then found its rubberized handle and withdrew it from its scabbard.
“It’s like no sword I’ve ever seen,” Maccanish said, holding it upwards. It had just one cutting edge, which sloped and tapered at the top so that the blunt end was completely straight to the tip. It had a grey, brushed finish, which meant it didn’t shine or glimmer, except along the sharpened side. It was nearly five inches thick at its widest point and would have been heavy because of this, except that it had three irregularly spaced oblong holes to cut down on mass. A rivulet ran parallel to the cutting edge.
“It’s the latest modern design,” Alex said with an ironic air. “I had it custom-made and designed, as well as stress-tested. I told them I was being commissioned by a Hollywood movie studio. I said I was making a vampire movie. It’s high-strength, low-alloy steel that’s been subzero treated and coated with a synthetic fluoropolymer. It cost a bloody fortune.”
“I can imagine,” Maccanish said, sheathing the sword once more. “And you’ve actually used this thing?”
“Just a couple times. When circumstance warranted it.”
“Would not a rifle or machine gun do better?”
Alex shook his head. “Not for what we’re hunting.”
“My uncle has my great-grandfather’s old Claymore, but I wouldn’t put that up against this,” Maccanish said, handing it back to Alex.
“Ready?” Alex asked, standing up.
The reverend gathered his things together and stood. “Ready. Lead on.”
They set off again along the side of the mountain where the ground became firmer and covered with heather and ferns. The stench that Alex had smelt was still in the air and getting thicker.
“Do you know what that is?” he asked Maccanish. It was obvious what he was referring to.
“Something died. Maybe several things. Is it what we’re looking for?”
“Could be. What’s this crevice up here?”
It seemed as if there were a fold in the mountain, running from the peak to the foot. It showed bare rock where rainwater washed the plants away.
“It’s just a burn. It fills to no more than a trickle when it rains.
There couldn’t be anything there.”
“Listen, do you hear that?”
Maccanish tilted his head. “It’s a sort of . . . buzzing. What does it mean?”
“It means it’s worth a look.”
They started down the smooth, embedded rocks. The smell was almost overpowering now, the sick, sweet stench of rotting flesh—it felt like it was sitting in their throats. Bones, still yellow with brown decaying flesh on them were wedged in between the rocks, which a mass of flies were feeding and breeding off of.
“Disgusting,” Maccanish said.
Alex unslung his rucksack and flung it to the side. He kept his sword hitched up on his back. He was getting close, he could feel it. He tried to focus his mind as he descended farther; he tried to clear away any unnecessary thoughts from his consciousness.
It was the body of a cow that indicated the cave. It was sticking out, head and forelegs, from a clump of ferns, still mostly covered in skin but with bits of bone showing around the crown of the skull and the joints. On closer, and more gruesome, inspection, it was revealed not to be just half of a carcass but a whole one that was sticking out of a cave mouth, about four-by-five-feet wide and tall.
“You should stay here,” Alex told Maccanish, “if you’re uncomfortable.”
The reverend didn’t say anything; he came and stood closer to Alex.
“Well, in any case,” Alex said, drawing his sword and tossing the scabbard to the side, “stand a little farther off.”
Maccanish nodded and hung back as Alex advanced. It was good the reverend was here to see this. Someone in the village should see this being done, even if no one would believe his account—that is, if he even told anyone. Someone needed to bear witness.
Alex pulled a glow-stick from his pocket, snapped it, and hung it from his coat’s lapel. The green, iridescent glow was eaten by the walls and reflected on a floor covered with skeletal remains and desiccated corpses of animals. The bones bore regular gashes along them, clustering on the knobby ends. “See that?” Alex said, indicating them. “Tooth marks.”
“Teeth of what?”
“At a guess? I’d say troll.”
“You’re kidding. What, billy goat’s gruff an’ that?”
“Close enough to.”
“Are they . . . big?”
“Like you wouldn’t imagine. Massive arms and hands. But slow at least. Stay out of reach and you’ll do fine.” Alex shifted his weight on the uneven ground and kept his sword in front of him. He was sweating. He willed his heart to slow its humming pace. The cave continued and bore to the right. As Alex banked to the left to see down as far as possible, he noticed something was slumped up against the bend that he had mistaken for an outcropping.
“Wait,” he said, motioning. He stepped closer to it. It was as still as a stone, and as cold. Its bullet head was slumped forward onto its barrel-like chest. Arms the size of tree trunks were splayed outwards, palms up, fingers curled inwards. It had laughably small bowed legs and large flipper feet. But where its potbelly should have been was a gaping, sticky void. Dried entrails hung out of it, torn out and torn apart, gutted. Something had made a meal of it.
“It’s dead,” Alex said, straightening. “Go on, take a look.”
“I wouldnae ha’e believed it,” Maccanish said, a thicker accent creeping into his voice. “How long has it been here? It couldnae have been here the whole time. Where did it come from?”
“It’s odd, but I honestly don’t know. There’s some as say they grow from the rocks or that the peaty bogs birth them from the skulls of thieves and murderers. It’s possible that they burrow up here, but from where, I have no idea. They like solid rock, though, that’s true enough. They’re related to the giants, you know.”
“Incredible. So is that it? It’s dead—are we finished?”
“Unfortunately not. See, it’s been killed, probably by something bigger. They usually go in pairs so it’s poss— Oh, wait. Here we are.”
Alex had stood and was creeping farther into the tunnel.
Around the corner and slumped on the opposite end of the tunnel was the body of another troll. Not bigger this time, but smaller. It was likewise eviscerated, but its massive trunk-like neck was also torn up, nearly cut through completely.
“Another one?” Maccanish asked, moving around.
“This doesn’t make sense . . . They look as if they been here for, oh, over a week. I don’t . . .”
Alex peered deeper into the tunnel. His ears strained for a sound, his eyes for a movement. He caught a glimmer of something shiny piled a few feet beyond the second troll. He moved forward slowly, his feet crunching bone beneath him.
The shiny object was completely circular and reflective.
“What is it? What do you see?” asked Maccanish.
“It’s CDs—dozens of them. All chucked together, just the discs.”
Alex turned his body, shifting the light he wore. “And the boxes are over here—DVD cases, album cases . . . discarded like spent nutshells. They just wanted the discs. I wonder . . .” He bent and prodded around in the pile and found other objects—necklaces, rings, metallic crisp wrappers, a few silver forks. Some of it was valuable, some of it was rubbish, but all of it was shiny.
“Oh no,” Alex said, horror descending on him.
“What?”
“I’ve made a mistake.” He sprang up and stared into the black emptiness of the tunnel before him. “Get out of here, quickly!” he hissed.
“What is it?”
“I’m not prepared for this,” he said, gripping his sword with both hands. He turned to Maccanish. “Did you not hear me? I said run!” he yelled, and turned just as the dragon came swooping towards him, screeching out of the darkness.
In the dim light, Alex caught only a brief flash of long, sharp, reptilian muzzle and an angry flash of red eyes before he was on the ground, winded and pinned beneath a dragon almost six feet in length.
As he fell, he instinctively brought his sword up in front of him. It hit between the beast’s shoulder and arm but did not bite— merely glided along the tough, slick scales. As they both fell, the sword twisted out of his hand and clattered to the ground. Luckily, his left arm had been in front of him and was now between him and the creature. He pushed it upwards just in time to fend off the sharp beak that was coming down to meet his head. It struck the ground just beside Alex’s right ear. It had been a weak effort on the dragon’s part; otherwise he wouldn’t have been so lucky.
The close quarters were proving difficult for the dragon, as it was not able to maneuver its long, bat-winged arms to either gouge at his sides or even take flight. Its legs, however, it could use, and he felt one massive, clawed foot gripping the inside of his thigh, the other trying unsuccessfully to gain purchase just above his hip, but succeeding very ably in tearing away layers of clothing, and then skin.
As the dragon brought its head back up, Alex found he had some breathing space. Almost quicker than he could think it, he brought both hands up and clutched at the monster’s throat. His hands couldn’t meet around it. His thumbs embedded themselves in the soft, leathery gullet and his fingers fought for purchase on cold scales, no bigger than robin’s eggs, but slick and hard as marble.
Its arms still not being able to gain purchase in the cave, the dragon was unable to leverage itself in order to attack with its mouth.
It was a small advantage for Alex, but not one that afforded him escape or a clear way to defeat his attacker. Instead, he looked into the cold, red eyes in fear and horror as thin wisps of white smoke flowed from the dragon’s mouth between its dagger-like teeth.
Alex felt his hands around the thing’s neck grow warm, then hot. The white smoke was tinged with grey and black now.
Frantically, Alex kicked and writhed beneath the animal, which was easily twice his own weight. Strange, choking sounds came from the dragon’s gullet, and Alex closed his eyes for what was going to happen next.
“Alex, lower your hands, now!” came a quick command.
Alex let go of the thing’s throat and covered his head. Between his arms, he saw his sword whiz past him in an upward stroke and sink into the dragon’s head, entering just below the jaw. The sword’s tip looked to be lodged in the base of the brain, or in its spine.
The dragon did a back flip off of Alex and started thrashing against the walls like a floundering fish, first against one wall and then the other. Alex tried to raise himself and was knocked away from the dying creature by its powerful tail. He landed in the arms of Maccanish, who pulled him farther away.
The dragon flailed awhile longer and then calmed. It made motions as if it was trying to wretch, but its mouth was shut firm.
Black blood and bile dripped from its wound and, with a final few spasms, it fell to the ground and lay dead.
Alex and Maccanish stood looking at it for a time.
“Dragons don’t go in pairs, do they?” Maccanish asked eventually.
“No, never,” Alex replied. “Thank God.”
“Amen.”
2
Daniel awoke several times in the night. He was accustomed to sleeping in hard and uncomfortable places, and allowed himself to wake up fully enough to feed the fire a couple times, then settled back onto his leaf bed, pulled the cloak tighter, and went back to sleep.
But eventually his body had taken all the rest it had needed and he opened his eyes, wide awake.
And as far as he could tell, it was still the dead of night. What was it called when you crossed time zones and your body hadn’t adjusted yet? Jet lag? What was this, then—world lag? How long would it take his body to adapt to forty-eight-hour days?
He tended to the fire again. There was a good pile of hot coals that he swept closer together. He fed more wood into it to get some flames going again and picked at some of the leftover fish he had cooked. He didn’t eat too much since he wanted to save some for when he had to get going again, but there had been quite a lot.
Allowing himself to become mesmerised by the flames, he grew reflective. He dug around in his backpack for something that he always kept at the bottom of it, always wrapped in several plastic bags. He found it and unfolded it—a heavy, long piece of blue cloth that no longer fit him. He let his fingers caress the patterns. He lifted it to his nose, but it had lost its scent. But he didn’t need to smell it to remember.
Very gradually, it became brighter and he felt that soon he would be able to make a move. He wrapped the uneaten fish in one of the plastic bags and stuck them in his backpack. Using his feet, he spread and stamped out the glowing embers of the fire, which he had allowed to die down. Then he turned to face the wood.
“Forest, for all that you gave me last night I thank you without exception—but, Now that it’s morning and getting quite light Please show me the path to the wood-burner’s hut.”
And then, uncertain what to do next, since no path instantly appeared at his feet, he left the clearing. He counted his footsteps and hadn’t reached one hundred before he found himself on a small ledge above a beaten dirt path. Shaking his head and laughing in spite of himself, he set his shoulders and resolved himself to a long trek.
He kept his pace steady, but stopped and rested after a couple hours. There was a rock by the roadside and he settled himself onto it. The birds were flitting through the trees opposite him, pausing every once in a while on a thin branch. He didn’t know much about birds. These were small, brown, and there seemed to be a lot of them. They would twist their heads and look at him, give a little peep of exclamation, and then flutter away to another branch to look at him from another angle.
He contemplated the strangeness of being in another place that was so different, and so similar to his own world.
He walked on, losing track of the hours, losing track of himself in the forest. When he grew hungry, he asked the forest for food and he would come across a bush full of berries or a clump of large white mushrooms. When he got thirsty and his water container was empty, he asked for water and would walk until a small spring or stream crossed his path. What he couldn’t understand was whether the forest was creating these things for him on request or if they existed already and was just moving them into his path. Or if it was all just a coincidence.
The light was starting to get dimmer, and Daniel wondered if he would have to stop and make camp for another night when he noticed the sharp tang of burning wood in the air. As he continued along the path, it grew stronger, eventually getting to the point where his eyes stung slightly.
Anticipation grew within him as he noticed thick white smoke wafting through the trees up ahead. He must be getting close. Slowing his pace, he continued around a bend in the road, and then he was there.
Before him was a sight that was strange to his eyes—a large dirt mound, as wide as a house and about two stories in height. It was cylindrical but tapered towards the top where an open hole billowed smoke.
Standing near the large structure, leaning on a spade, was a tall, gnarled man who was nearly as knotted and twisted as the trees encircling the clearing. He had thick, corded forearms and large-knuckled hands. His hair was grey and his face was tanned and weathered. He wore a shirt and leggings of coarse green cloth and his shoes were carved out of wood.
Daniel edged nearer, stopping a good few yards off. “Hello,” he said hoarsely.
The old man didn’t turn right away, but when he did, it was only to cast a disinterested eye in his direction.
Daniel cleared his throat. “Are you the wood-burner?”
The other did not respond immediately. “You speak a strange tongue,” the man said after a time.
“I’m not from here.”
The elf’s eyes flicked up and down him. “You are one of the heavy people,” he stated.
Daniel looked down at himself apologetically. He didn’t know how to reply to this.
“Make yourself useful,” the man said abruptly. “Go and close the south flue. Take the pole over there.” He gestured to a small rack of tools set into a tree.
Daniel went over and selected a stick about his height that had a crude bronze hook inserted into one end. Then he walked around the large structure—which was giving off a fair amount of heat—until he found a small metal door sticking out of the baked mud. Inside a vertical stack of logs could be seen burning with a bright yellow glow.
He used the pole to nudge the flue closed. There was a latch that he lifted and let fall with a clack. Then he walked back and replaced the hook on the rack. He returned to stand near the woodburner and joined him in looking at the furnace in what he hoped was companionable silence.
“Kay Marrey sent me here,” Daniel said after a suitable interval. He didn’t get a reply or even as much as a twitch from the man. “He’s one of the Elves in Exile.”
“I know who Marrey is,” the man said slowly, evenly. “Young, excitable. Always running hither and thither.” He made a to-and-fro motion with one of his hands. “Where are you from?”
“I—don’t know what to call it, but it’s another world entirely.
Can you help me get back?”
“In some weeks there is a market where many tradesmen and travelers congregate. No doubt someone will point you the right way. Travel between worlds used to be very common, after all.”
“Is there any way I could find one sooner?”
The tall person shook his head. “It would take you longer to track one down. Best let them come here. Are you fit? Can you lift, chop, carry, climb?”
“I am as you see me,” Daniel responded, holding his arms out slightly. “And I will lift, chop, and carry as much and for as long as I am able. Climb, I’m not so sure, but I’ll give it a go.”
“May be possible to get a second mound up, then, before the trade.” The man straightened to what must have been eight feet in height. “We’ll see. I use what the forest gives me, and it’s given me you, so we’ll put you to work, won’t we?”
3
Freya came out of her sleep slowly, gradually becoming aware that she was slumped forward on a table. She hoisted herself upwards and looked around. She was in her office, sitting at her desk that was littered with page after page of complex numerical equations, all of them in her own handwriting. That was odd; she thought she was . . . somewhere else. It had become so easy for her to throw herself into her work, and she went so deep into it that sometimes she literally forgot where she was.
She sighed. When did she become a mathematician?
A large book lay open in front of her, propped against the windowsill. On the two facing pages were tables of letters and numbers listed in pairs, triplets, and quadruplets—in total about a hundred rows and a dozen columns. It was headed AKV STRINGS—NOMINATIVE.
There was a smaller but much older book also open in front of her that contained very small type. The right-hand page was in Greek and the left-hand page was in English. Her eyes went to the first paragraph and read:
Now, (the) wisdom belonging to afterthought, which is an aeon, thought a thought derived from herself, (from) the thinking of the invisible spirit, and (from) prior acquaintance. She wanted to show forth within herself an image without the spirit’s [will]; and her consort did not consent. And (she wished to do so) without his pondering: for the person of her maleness did not join in the consent; for she had not discovered that being which was in harmony with her . . .
Freya rubbed her eyes and tried to remember what the text was referring to. She had gotten so involved in decoding and recoding all the nominations that she had lost perspective on the context of the words. Or maybe it was best to keep going through the text mechanically and focus on the meaning of the uncoded text.
“How’s it coming?”
Freya jumped. The reverend was standing behind her, looking at her work.
“Oh, Peter—I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”
He smiled. “Perfectly alright. At least I know I’m not being a nuisance if you forget I’m even here. How is it coming?”
“Fine,” said Freya. “I’ve just finished breaking down and gridding the third chapter. Now I just have to look for patterns—that is the easiest part for me—and then retranslate. I should have the whole book done by the end of the month.”
“Good, good,” the reverend said, smiling. She could never tell how much he took in; he was always so sweet-natured.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked.
“No, no. I was just thinking that I should leave. You carry on.
I’ll see myself out.”
Freya went back to her work. She glanced over the different papers but found it difficult to see where she had left off. Why, exactly, was she doing this?
She looked at the clock. When was he getting back? It was starting to get dark. She knew she shouldn’t worry, but she couldn’t help it.
There was the sound of a key turning in the door. It opened and closed.
“Felix?”
“Hello, darling.”
She got up from the desk and went into the hallway. “How was your day?” she asked.
“Not bad, all things considered. Yours?”
“I think I’m losing my mind. I was breaking down the Secret Book of John—”
“Beautiful book.”
“Yes. Well, I was breaking it down and it all just suddenly became page upon page of meaningless numbers . . .”
“Those numbers aren’t meaningless,” Stowe stressed.
“I know. I just mean, it all became so abstract—like I lost perspective.”
“Ah. Well, perhaps it’s time to finish for the night. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll cook something.”
“No, don’t,” Freya said, putting her arms around Professor Stowe’s middle. “You’ve had just as long a day as I’ve had.”
“Perhaps, but my work is far less important than yours. Go into the lounge and I’ll bring some wine in to you.”
“Okay.” Freya gave him a peck on the cheek and went into the sitting room. On the way, she passed her office and, without even looking into the room, snaked her hand through the doorway and flicked the light off. Then she settled into the sofa and closed her eyes, just for a moment . . .
“Sweetie?”
Freya opened her eyes. Felix was standing over her, gently patting her shoulder.
“Hello,” he said, grinning.
She sat up and looked around her. “Where am—? Oh.” She was on the sofa, coffee table in front of her, with several used plates, glasses, and an empty bottle of wine on it.
“You just drifted off, you silly goose.”
“’M still hungry,” she said sleepily.
“No, you’re not—you’re just exhausted. Here, lie still, I’ll carry you to bed.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. I can—”
“No, I insist!”
“I’m far too heavy.”
“Not yet, you aren’t. There—see?”
Freya clung to his neck as he straightened up and then carried her through to the bedroom.
“My gallant knight,” she said as he lowered her down and arranged the covers over her. “Are you going to join me?”
“My darling wife. I have an appointment with the lieutenant, remember?”
“Oh yes, of course.”
“But I’ve got a few minutes. Shall I tell you a story? Something that happened to me today?”
Freya smiled and snuggled closer. “M’kay, that’d be nice.”
“I was walking along the river when I ran into a friend of mine who I thought had seen me but proceeded to walk right past me. I turned around and caught up with him and asked if anything was wrong. He said no, he was fine, but he’d just been told the most puzzling and confusing story in his life. I asked him if it would help if he shared it with me, and he said it might. As we stood there in the street, this is what he said:
“I was with a group of friends in a pub when one of our lecturers wandered in and walked directly to the bar. We waved to him, but he seemed wrapped in his own thoughts, which was odd since he wasn’t one of those absentminded academics, but a young and witty man who we all loved. He ordered a whiskey and stood staring at it, not even taking a sniff of it. I left my friends and went up to him to ask him what was the matter. This was what he said:
“I’ve just come from the hospital bed of a friend of mine. We’ve known each other since university, where he studied law. He was a very diligent soul who eventually became a high court judge, and was known for his clear-minded, evenhanded judgments. I had lost touch with him in the last ten years or so, but a week ago I heard from his wife, who informed me that he had fallen ill and that he had been troubled of late with a moral quandary that was doing him no favours due to his illness and would I mind paying him a visit to help thrash it out? I agreed, of course. When I saw my friend in his hospital bed, I knew that there was no real cause for alarm; he was still as strong and as vital as ever, but his mind seemed to be absent—he was not the sharp, incisive man I had known. At length, I managed to tease out of him the cause for his distraction. Clearing his throat and casting his eyes around the room, he replied:
“Three years ago I sat a case, which, at the time, was no more interesting than any other I’d heard during my career. The specifics of it are hazy to me, but the case itself isn’t important. Suffice to say, my judgment effected a fine and eight months in prison for a young woman with no dependents. I thought no more about the matter. It was a year later that a letter—just one sheet of paper—was delivered to my office, written by the defendant. This is what it said, verbatim:
“Dear sir—you may remember me from a case twelve months ago. It was a charge of driving under the influence—my third offence—made more serious by a possession of class B drugs—my first offence. My impression was that you were lenient with me, dismissing the drugs charge, and instead sentenced me with the full weight of the driving charge. This struck me as generous, even kind, and that made me think that a man like you would be good in a difficult situation. I hope you won’t mind, therefore, if I impose upon you to relate a story that I heard while I was detained ‘at Her Majesty’s pleasure’ that was told to me by one of the guards. Usually alert and on the ball, I one day noticed her to be confused and somewhat distant. I asked her what was he matter and this was her answer:
“I have four children, two sons and two daughters, all healthy and happy, except for the last one, my son, and that only during the last ten days. He’s a priest, by trade, in a Catholic church in a village in Norwich. We, that is, my husband and I, were visiting him last Thursday, and we were aware that he was totally distracted. It took us a solid hour of coaxing and cajoling for us to get the reason out of him. At length, he told us:
“Five days ago I was in the confessional and a person entered with the most queer story. I’m not breaking any vows or confidences— for he confessed no sins—to relate it. I will not tell you his name, all I will say is that he is a local businessman of great success. This is what he said:
“Every Thursday I volunteer at a shelter that serves meals to the homeless. We take turns at different tasks, and this day it was my turn to socialise with the guests. Just before we shut up—as we were clearing away and clearing out—an old man who was a regular there, grabbed my sleeve and pulled me into the seat next to him. He told me that he had something to tell me . . .”
Freya began to doze, slipping in and out of consciousness, trying as hard as she could to concentrate.
“I was sitting on a street corner,” Felix was saying, “when I saw a man reading a book. He had the strangest expression on his face. I went over and asked him what he was reading, and he said it was the weirdest story he’d ever come across. I asked him what it was, and this is what he said . . .”
4
Daniel found the routine of charcoal-making satisfying and an easy style of living to fall into. It was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job—or however many hours there were in this new place, Daniel still wasn’t sure. At first he found it hot and sweaty work, then he found it strenuous and exhausting work.
When he had met the collier—the name, Daniel found, for charcoal-makers—he had been entering the final stages of the process, intently studying the smoke issuing from the top of the mound, waiting for the right moment, when the smoke was thin and started to turn blue. As soon as this happened, he went around the mound and closed the ventilation holes. Then he climbed up the side of the mound and told Daniel to hand him some more thick sections of turf, which he piled onto the top. The air supply completely cut off, they waited for the furnace to cool.
He welcomed Daniel into his hut, which was spare but comfortable— no more than a wooden room dug partway into the ground with earth piled on top of it. But it was good shelter. It contained no bed or bedding material, only a ring of stones in the centre, creating a fire pit, and a hole in the ceiling to let the smoke out. There was a wooden box pantry of stores adjoined to a small stable that contained one massive horse that stood patiently, thoughtfully chewing oats.
The collier drew a pan of water from a small wooden cistern and washed, splashing water on his face and forearms, and then allowed Daniel to do the same. Then he opened the store cupboard. Peering around him, Daniel saw that it was filled with stoppered bottles and jars, all of different sizes. He pulled out a tall beaker-shaped jar and pulled out a wooden cork. He took a drink, paused, and then took another. He handed it to Daniel. “Drink,” he instructed.
Daniel paused. “I was told not to take anything that I didn’t ask to be given to me.”
The collier gave him a nod. “Good advice. Though while you work for me, you won’t need to ask, for you act under my authority.”
“What authority is that?” he asked, curious.
“My own authority,” the collier said simply.
Daniel took a sip from the flask and tasted a rich, spicy, cinnamony drink that was thick and sweet. “It is very good,” he said.
“It is nourishing, that is all.”
Daniel handed the drink back to the collier. “Do you have anything to eat?”
“Food?” the other returned. “Like animal flesh?”
“That, or bread or fruit or something.”
The collier shook his head. “I am not used to entertaining those of the heavy races here.”
“You don’t eat?” Daniel asked.
“Not eat very often—only during festivals and feast days. Try to live on this—if it pains you, I will try to procure other fare.”
Daniel nodded, as if that made sense. “What world is this, exactly?”
“This world is our world, we don’t give it a name. But you stand on a continent that we call Elfland.”
“And so you’re an elf?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And everyone who lives here is an elf?”
The collier nodded.
“I met an elf once, a long time ago. Do you have a king?”
“As you are here, you should learn to speak our language,” replied the collier after a pause. “What was your question again?”
“Do you have a king?”
“Our word for ‘king’ is reesh. In our language, names come first, so you would ask me reesh y’ka?”
He looked at Daniel expectantly. “Reesh y’ka?” Daniel said to him.
“Filliu sa ennym oo reesh.” The collier answered. “That means:
Filliu is the name of our king.”
Propped up against the side of the collier’s hut as its owner sat on a stool, Daniel received his first lesson in the elf language.
Then they rose and went to the wood furnace. Under the collier’s direction, Daniel helped to peel back the layers of baked dirt to reveal the rich, black charcoal underneath. Once done, they started to sift the charcoal, removing bits of wood that hadn’t burned entirely and putting the rest of the black, sooty material into some of a dozen large barrels that the collier wheeled out one by one from behind his hut. The charcoal lumps were sorted, roughly according to size, by the collier himself.
“Filliu,” the collier said abruptly, tossing a double handful of burnt coal into a barrel, “is our king in name only. His father was Ghrian, and he was the last good Elfin king of our land.”
“What happened to him?”
“Ghrian died, and his younger brother, whose name was Aarnieu, took control of the throne in defiance of the king’s son, Filliu, who was away at the time, hunting. The usurping king had nine sons, capricious men who reveled in submitting themselves to every perverted whim. They decreed the beginning of a new era, a new house of royalty. He and his sons styled themselves ‘The Fær Folk of the Fated House.’ ”
The collier spat and then did not speak again. They worked in silence and by the time it grew quite dark, they had done a good deal of sorting, but still had over a third left to do.
“What happened to Filliu, the king’s son?” Daniel asked during the evening meal. Their conversations were in the collier’s native tongue, with halts and pauses for the explanation of words.
“Aarnieu held the funeral banquet for King Ghrian near the king’s burial ground in a magnificent tent that he erected for the occasion. All of the nobles and warrior chiefs attended the feast, no less in love for the fact that honour commanded it. None were armed, except for the nine sons, and the banquet’s servers, who were really Aarnieu’s soldiers. They had knives concealed in their boots.
At a certain moment in the evening, the command was given, and the servers drew their knives and plunged them into the throats of the Elfin lords Aarnieu knew to be loyal to young Prince Filliu.”
There was another long pause as the collier continued with his meal. He finished his food, then took a swig of wine, wiping his lips on his sleeve.
“As it happened, there was a certain lord at the feast, by the name of Nock. He caught a gleam of a knife across the table, and this alerted him to Aarnieu’s plan. He rose to defend Prince Filliu—whose assassin hesitated, perhaps due to conscience or the weight of the moment. This gave Nock the opportunity to defend the prince, and the blade intended for the boy returned to its master, sheathing itself in his bone and breaking. In a rage, Nock reached for a pole that was helping to prop up the tent wall and wrenched it from the ground. With this weapon, he was able to club off the other attackers who came at him only with knives. He broke many arms, legs, and skulls that night, dispatching many evildoers to their final judgment. In this way, he was able to save Prince Filliu. They were the only two of the old regime to escape.”
“What happened to them?” Daniel asked.
“Aarnieu had not counted on any of the lords leaving the table, let alone the tent, and so was unprepared for pursuit, and the two were able to depart without much chase. The next day Aarnieu announced himself the first Faerie king and his sons regents to the throne who would, upon his death, jointly control the kingdom, now called Færieland.”
For the only time Daniel knew him, the collier smiled. “That night, ‘King’ Aarnieu was found dead, stabbed nine times in the chest.”
Daniel, fascinated though he was at this story, couldn’t keep a yawn from escaping.
“You are weary. Do you need to . . . sleep?” This last word was in English.
Daniel nodded his head. “Yes, I’d better. Aren’t you tired?”
“Elves do not sleep. Our bodies are light—not so leaden as yours. Your essences are always sinking, like earth and stone; ours mingle in the air. We tire and rest but do not close our eyes. Do what you may to make yourself comfortable and come and find me again when you”—he thought for a moment—“stop sleeping.”
And so it was that the evening of Daniel’s second day in Elfland found him in another pile of leaves and wrapped in his new cloak, but in the corner of the coal-maker’s hut and not in the elements.
It was another very long night, punctuated by hours of silent thought where Daniel was able to meditate on his situation and the new language he was learning. Outside he could hear the collier still working, sorting through the charcoal and occasionally going into the forest. It was quite dark, even outside, but Daniel supposed that elfish eyes were better than human eyes. No doubt due to their “airy essences.”
At length Daniel rose, before it was still quite light outside, to find that the collier had finished sorting the charcoal into barrels and was now sharpening two axes with a smooth stone.
He greeted him and handed him a drinking skin, which apparently held the day’s breakfast. Living on the streets, Daniel was used to an irregular diet but wondered how long he could go with no solids.
“Come with me,” the woodcollier instructed, handing Daniel one of the axes. “If you are a good worker, we may be able to start a second pit.”
Daniel followed him eagerly into the wood, walking behind as he pointed out the trees that needed felling. These were usually trees that were damaged or diseased, or ones that posed a threat to other plants around them.
“This is why the forest allows me to take from it,” the woodcollier explained. “I remove what is harmful to the forest—what is dead and decaying. The forest thanks me for this and allows me to stay.”
“What would it do to you if it didn’t want you to stay?” Daniel asked.
The woodcollier didn’t answer. He was looking up instead at the treetops where a large limb of a tree had splintered away and was caught in the upper branches.
As easy as anything, the collier went over to a tree and started scaling it, as fast as walking, and with one hand still holding an axe.
“Are you coming?” the collier asked Daniel when he was already halfway up the tree.
“I don’t think so,” Daniel said. He tapped his chest. “Heavy, remember?”
He thought he heard the collier grunt and continue up to the branch. Daniel tried to see what he was doing. There were chopping noises and some creaks.
There was a call for him to look out, and then the sound of branches creaking and giving way. Daniel took several leaps back as the large tree limb landed before him with a loud crunk.
The collier descended and went to the branch, straddling it.
“Watch what I do,” he said, raising the tool above his head and bringing it down at the base of a large branch. He did this a few times, placing one cut over another, until the branch gave way completely.
“Now you,” the collier said, dragging the branch away and gesturing to a branch of the same size on the other side of the tree.
Daniel moved into position and hefted his axe.
“Stop,” the collier commanded. “Already wrong. Stand here.
Cut upwards with the grain. Strike here.” He pointed across the branch.
Daniel did as he was directed. The head of the axe lodged in the wood and sent a rough vibration up his arm.
“Good, but don’t push the head into the wood—put some force into it and let the axe fall of its own. Use a strong, steady hand with a gentle touch. Continue.”
Daniel made more strokes, some of which went embarrassingly wide of his mark, and finally, after about fifteen blows, managed to cut the branch away while the collier looked on.
“Good, keep going,” he said, and then started working the other side of the tree, laying into a particularly large branch.
After a while Daniel asked, “Do the nine sons of Aarnieu rule Elfland now? Or Færieland, rather?”
“The Faerie Princelings, yes, they do. They used the death of their father and the disappearance of Filliu as an excuse to hunt down and kill the remaining supporters of the late King Ghrian. It was plain to anyone with half a brain what had happened, but the populace decided to play along with a comfortable lie rather than fight for a difficult truth. This has opened the royal court up to any number of flatterers and extorters. There is one I’ve had several run-ins with—Agrid Fiall, who is particularly devious.”
Daniel had managed to remove two more branches and started on the third when the collier said, “Stop, you are weary. Never swing an axe in that state. Rest a moment.”
In truth, Daniel’s arms, particularly his shoulders, were nearly falling off. Daniel laid his axe on the ground and moved off to lean against a tree.
“Wait,” the collier commanded. “Never leave any tool just lying around. That is dangerous, disrespectful of both the instrument and your craft, and speaks badly of the craftsman. Always keep it with you. If you must leave it anywhere, for any reason, leave it like this . . .” He raised his axe and struck the fallen tree with it where the trunk was thickest. The handle stuck out at a 45-degree angle.
Daniel crouched against a tree, out of the way. He rested there, sweating hard and studying the collier’s form as he attacked the tree with a smooth and graceful confidence born out of experience.
“The Faerie rule is vast and now encompasses all the Elfin cities and villages. Only the farthest territories and hardest-to-reach places remain beyond their rule. At least, beyond their interest.
Unfortunately, I cannot say that of this forest. The Faerie territories are ruled by the nine princes, who have all degenerated into frivolous perversities. Two hundred years ago, on a whim, each of them wed nine sisters who they pass around among them, with as little sense of proprietorship—not to say love—as dumb beasts.”
When Daniel felt that he had cooled and rested enough, he rose and started working the tree again, at the woodsman’s side.
“What about the Elves in Exile?” he asked.
“We don’t speak of them here,” the collier said curtly. And that was the end of the conversation for another couple hours, until the tree was fully stripped and they made their way back to the hut.
“The Elves in Exile,” the collier said, as they ate lunch in the shade of his hut, “is the name of the court of the true king of Elfland—they preserve the royal line, unbroken for over eight thousand years. They believe that one day, when the people most desire it, they will storm the Elfin palace and reclaim the throne.”
By now Daniel was tired and exhausted. Daniel explained about his own time and the length of days, and the collier let him sleep some of the afternoon at the hut. He felt sure that he had been awake a full day, but the sun was still high in the sky.
When Daniel awoke he found another pile of branches, but no collier. He set about stripping them again. Then, as it was getting towards evening, the collier returned with the actual tree trunk itself, which had now been cut into three sections.
The collier taught Daniel how to saw and split the wood in the proper lengths, and he did this until it was too dark to work. They took dinner then and Daniel dozed off as they sat outside the hut together, in silence, under the stars. That was Daniel’s third day in Elfland.
The days after that continued much the same way—long periods of work that involved going into the forest to fetch wood and then cutting it into lengths appropriate for the charring pit. Daniel steadily improved his skill at talking to the collier in his own language and was pleased at his growing fluency.
After two more days they had gathered enough wood to be able to build the pits. This was done by first scraping the current pit, then uncovering an old one in the same clearing but on the other side of the hut. Grass had grown over that one, which was to become useful later. The collier cut the turf into rectangular sections with a thin, flat shovel, and Daniel helped to lift these sections up and set them to one side. The bottom of it was then raked flat, and a thin base of the powdered charcoal was laid down on both sites. The two pits were carefully and cleverly piled with logs of various shapes and sizes, arranged in a circle, with a round gap or chimney at the centre. The collier took a thousand pains to ensure that the pits were built to a perfect standard, often giving logs just a minute turn so that the space between them was exactly so.
Then they set about covering the woodpiles with the cut turf, tightly packing it close together everywhere except the very top, which was for the chimney. Dry soil was spread over where the turf did not extend.
It was getting late in the evening when the collier was satisfied enough to light them both. He made a small fire with charcoal from the previous batch, and once that was burning nicely, he divided up the coals with his shovel and, with orange sparks dancing high into the night sky, tipped them into both of the bonfire’s chimneys, where with a quiet crackle and a rich, musty smell, they started to kindle the rest of the wood. Then they sat back and watched.
It was vitally important that the piles burnt steadily, evenly, and not too hot. The collier took constant turns around the piles, laying his hands upon the turf walls, checking the vents, and gazing into the smoke that had started to billow from the two chimney holes. Daniel followed him around. There were a few energetic moments when fire broke through the turf wall and they had to hurry to repair the breach.
After these first few hours, the collier judged that the stacks were burning well enough that they could relax and take dinner— which was from a different bottle this time.
They drank and watched the piles. Daniel gazed up at the stars, which were strange and unfamiliar. None of the constellations he learned when he was young were there, which was disturbing but also exciting.
He had to get back to Freya.
Exhaustion overcame Daniel then, and he fell into a deep and well-earned sleep.