Into the Raging Mountains Read online

  She mostly felt like a sack of tubers, thrown here and there, with no regard for her person or the condition she would arrive in. Apparently, she was not too important to her abductors, either. Instinctively, she knew this was not going to end well for her. If they cared so little now, why would they care more in the future? Do I even have one?

  Slung over the shoulder of a stranger, even though she was aware and slightly awake, the young woman showed no sign in her body, took no control of the jostling of her head or its lolling as they ran. Listening was all she could do. That was her only hope. Listen well, Laylada, listen well. A moment might come to spare my life, to save my honor. Be ready for that. Be ready for anything. Listen.

  She could not have said how long she traveled partially upside down, a sack of girl, only that her body grew numb from the precarious positions. It allowed her mind to focus on something other than the blur of nightfall. Thinking furiously, she still had no way to leave markers or any clue to be followed. Bound and gagged, Laylada actually fell asleep to the rhythm of her captor's jog. Helpless to effect her rescue, helpless to determine the path her life would take, the young woman decided rest was probably the best option she had.

  Disjointed dreams filled the crevices of her mind. No peace was found in slumber, yet she was determined not to arrive at her destination exhausted, so she settled for a light doze. It was impossible to say how long she traveled, though the light of the sun seemed to creep around the edges of her eyes' binding cloth. She wondered if anyone at the village had even missed her.

  Since there was nothing else to do, nothing else to say, nothing to pass the time, Laylada gathered all of her frayed courage and prayed to the Gods. The way she had been taught as a child, in the manner of proper address learned every Godsday, the captive bent the thoughts of her heart to pity and safety from what was to come at her possession by these uncaring hands.

  Just when it seemed like they would continue traveling forever, when the girl's limbs and her bones were exhausted and bruised, the captive was dumped beside a tree trunk. She welcomed gladly the respite from the constancy of travel. The solidness of the earth beneath her, the scratch of the tree's bark on her skin, the multitude of insects that lightly perused her body, all were welcomed as familiar sensations against the unknown purposes of the present situation.

  It seemed to Laylada's dazed mind that she laid in the dirt against the steady trunk for a small part of a day before curt hands lifted her up and threw water onto her startled face. Removing the gagging around her mouth and hands, the binding on her eyes was only slightly adjusted, not discarded.

  Finally a bit of freedom came and Laylada could only gasp like a fish out of the water. She wanted to scream, cry, or call for help but her voice was dried up and gone. Only a croak came out. It felt like a river toad had taken up residence in her throat, and it sounded like it too.

  Laylada heard a few snatches of her village's lullaby hummed nearby and then the distinct sound of a hard slap across the face. A grunt followed, and then silence was restored. Still, she knew now that she was in the company of a few of her fellow villagers. At least some of them are still alive. That bodes well for me and my less than valuable life, perhaps?

  The light of the sun weakened, and the merry wind that blew over the treetops gained in strength, whistling through the scattered branches of the clearing. She was stacked like corded wood and bundled next to other warm bodies. Left in a pile for the night.

  Braving the nightfall in the midst of people she knew and yet completely isolated, Laylada finally began to cry. The trickle of tears fell, one after the other in a steady stream of sorrow, unanswered. Finally, her eyes could tear no more, the corners ached dully, and the woe-waters ceased. She slept.

  Bound to friends, in the midst of strangers, her life was altered; her purpose was unknown.

  *

  The others had failed, but he would not. The others came with purpose, but left empty handed. I will not.

  The moment the unknown guardian had been removed, almost within the blink of an eyelid, the scholar had known the location of the prize, and he had been on the move. To catch a weapon so worthy, to claim the penultimate victory required preparation and deceit, cunning and bait. There was no mercy given him and so none would be shown.

  A smile lit the gray priest's stern face. The traps are laid. This prize will be mine! A prize to cherish for a lifetime, or destroy in a heartbeat.

  Others had failed. They were nothing to him. They were all dead now anyway. He would take the prize as his own and then decide whether to hand it over or not. Perhaps more could be bargained: a better reward, a sweeter revenge, a cleaner death? It was so hard to choose. Perhaps even the deepest desire of my secret heart?

  Laughing to himself with the glee of a scholar and the ferociousness of a trained hound on the scent, he bayed his pleasure at the discovery to the four corners of the earth, carried by the wind. Lofty though his goals were, the priest knew he would be remembered always for his service if he had success in this one matter.

  Too many resources had already been squandered. And it was easy to see that his commander, his master, was becoming impatient. A few priests gone here and there never really mattered. But the failure of the Lurkers, the failure of the Gods' own Hunters, the return of the rebellious four, all seemed implausible. Yet, an explanation must be made.

  It had been impossible to even find the child until its protector had been displaced. Even he was unclear as to why such a powerful being had stepped aside to the detriment of all it held dear. That singular action alone provided all the information he needed as to the specific locale within which to hunt. Triumph filled him, inflating his withered heart.

  Slowly, so slowly, he sent his minions into the dark byways and hidden corners of the woods. He made slight moves, engaging the stragglers at the edges, but he wanted no sudden changes to the habitat, nothing to alert the isolated mountain people that disaster was encircling their pathetic lives. Within a quarter-cycle's span, he had infiltrated the surrounding lands and had set well-placed spies to watch the village and its sphere of influence. He gathered information and food, using what was needed, purging the rest.

  When it was time to strike, when the traps had all been laid, when victory was tangible, he moved first to feed his pets. Everything else stemmed from their desires. Human flesh was never his preference, but it was theirs. The gray priest smiled and set his shoulders to the work ahead.

  *

  The ancient temple had stood in its place, rock upon rock for a duration of time that drifted back into the forgotten world of myths and legends. The original stones had been carved and shaped with purpose. They had held their forms and their knowledge, and endured. Through the downfalls and the uprisings, through the droughts and the floods, the elements could not wear down the careful construction, done without mortar, carved to perfect specifications.

  The design had been proposed to last for the eternities and the very stones that formed the walls and buildings had made a lasting commitment to endure. Very little changed then. Very little changed. Only the green things, creeping and crawling, scrambling for foothold, perching precariously to grab the sunlight, to reproduce, only they seemed to change and fade. The set stones stood fixed and true. Even if all other plans had failed and been forgotten, still the earth would endure and remember.

  A sonorous bell rang in the second highest tower, a low call that seemed to vibrate in the bones. Sometimes the bell rang. Sometimes it did not. The clang of the bronze clapper, the announcement of arrivals, seemed to fill the air with a sense of gladness, of expectancy. Echoing across the lichen-covered walls, it was as if the craggy trees and stalwart buildings held their breath, waiting for the fulfillment of their purpose.

  Each time the noise sounded across the empty courtyards. Each time there was a renewal of hope and of possibilities. The earth itself surged with them. Strong and hard, the pull of the levered rope sent the notes carrying along, waki
ng the stones to awareness, to the arrival of an offering.

  Just over the edge of the steep and perilous stairs came a weeping woman, plain of height, face, and posture, covered in a cloak that had seen better days, worn and torn in spots with only the barest attempts of repair to be seen. Gathered around the crown of her head, she wore a thick braid of medium-brown hair. Her face could not be seen clearly. Yet, she did not seem old in years.

  “Average, average, average,” whispered the climbing leaves.

  In fact, the only remarkable thing about her was her continuous tears. If any of the priests were left alive, they would have been moved to pity by her sorrow. They would have ushered her in and made her welcomed, giving her succor, seeking to aid her troubled life. The stones only noted the bell clanging. They only felt those vibrations and the slight sound of the woman's steps as she staggered forward.

  Hunchbacked and plain, she moved with purpose even for one so ordinary. She gained the top of the stairway, only once having to adjust her balance. The woman took five deep and precious breaths, and set out again. Passing the towering columns that lined the outer courtyards, wandering beneath the spanning bridges and walkways, she walked to the fountain that was in the center of the simple garden's maze.

  She left a trail of tears that soaked into the cracks and crevices of the shaped stones. Tasting of salt and sorrow, each tear marked her passage. Each step carried her onward. Trees turned their gnarled trunks seeking to touch her as she passed. Leaves fell behind her passage and the echo of her steps seemed to double as if a ghost followed her in her misery.

  Finally, without much ado, the distraught woman gained the carved curb of the fountain's dish and sat heavily on the edge. No plants grew over the stonework at the fountain and the water was clear and bright, merry and beckoning. She spooned water into her mouth, first with her hands and then using her belt cup. Her tears ceased, her misery softened, and her sorrow gradually silenced.

  Sighing, she looked around, taking in the whole of the place. Summoning up courage to act. “We are here!” she said in a carrying voice as if to announce the obvious to no one at all.

  Softly, she repeated, “We are here and it is beautiful.” She paused, “Yet I do not understand. What do you want of me?”

  She filled her cup again and waited, as if the stones would answer.

  A buzzing caught the end of the bell's initial vibration. Instead of disseminating and disbursing, it became concentrated and bounced back to her ears.

  She did not understand the words the first time.

  She bent her ear to listen, concentrating on the water's surface to boost the echo.

  “You must leave him here … ,” came the reply.

  “Leave him?” The tone of her voice filled with the nonsense of the idea. “Who will care for him, if I do not? I can not just leave him! A promise made is a debt unpaid. I will not leave. If he must stay then so will I.”

  The bell clanged again in the second highest tower, though no one was at the entrance door's gate to pull the corded rope. Words came to her, built of the sounds gathered from the walls and paving stones of the deserted temple.

  “You must leave him. Leave him here and go … ,” the leaves whispered.

  Stubbornly, the woman refused. “I cannot! Who will care for him, I ask you?”

  “We will,” said the stalwart stones, the sparkling fountain and the forlorn, light-dappled trees. “We will.”

  Summoning a great amount of trust in the words of her mother and the will of forces mightier than her, the woman undid the sling that had carried the baby so far, far from home, and laid him on the ground under the nearest tree. The hunch on her back was gone, though the tears began again. The baby wailed at leaving the quiet rhythm of her heartbeat and breathing. She wailed in return, then gently sobbed.

  Something sharp scratched her hand as she gently removed it from behind his head. Looking at the cut, concerned for the little one, she plucked out of the earth's skin of grass and mulch a small topaz gemstone with just a trace of her blood on its surface.

  *

  Truly, sun's rise was Alizarin's favorite time of daylight. There was nothing better than the calm of the new day gathering, the hush of the land in the slightly warm embrace. The pushing away of the bracing cold, the renewal of clarity in vision all seemed enhanced by the restored presence of the sun's rays. Rose broke over the horizon, rising upward, pushing the blue and greens further into the sky, coating their tent and the whole of the land in a pinkish hue. Those displays of scattered and playing lights only lasted a breath or two.

  Which was why Alizarin always awoke with the coming of the sun. She didn't want to miss the rising and all the newness that bathed the land as far as the eyes could see. Cycles of training as a baker had ensured that her disposition was locked into habit, rising with the birth of the sun to enjoy the sight and to get to work.

  Only there's no work to do. There were only three people in the whole world to take care of this sun's rising and she was one of them. Stretching her arms widely, pulling her muscles out of their nightfall kinks, she felt rested and at peace for the first time in a long, long while. She stretched again to the other side, and her thoughts began to percolate.

  She looked over to Ilion's tentside. A large lump lay there, slowly rising and falling with only a few stray hairs poking out of the edge of the blankets. The tremendous conflict of two days past stilled weighed heavily on him. Sleep was best.

  Her daybreak ritual began as she started the coals back into a tight little fire. She added water to the metal pitcher and set it in the coals at the edge of the pit. Using a bit of the warming water, two scavenged eggs and some packed flour, she mixed a simple cake batter, adding a bit of spice for flavor. Soon Alizarin had a high pile of hot flipcakes ready to eat, steam still coming off the edges. Taking some of the already-drawn water, she sprinkled her hair and face, wiping away her tiredness with a kitchen cloth she had looped onto her belt.

  A few sips into her second cup of cacao, she heard a grunt and a snort, grumpy like the thaw-waking of a very hungry bear. From the tent came sounds of rising and stretching. Ver made his appearance a few moments later, hair still askew from sleep, the imprint of his pillow's surface across one cheek. With a sudden burst of shyness, Alizarin found herself flustered for no reason at all. Gesturing to the hot drink and warm food, Ver smiled the appreciation his stomach felt and set to eating. It still felt odd to her tongue to call him Ilion.

  Poking at the fire's dimming flames with a long stick, Alizarin had a whole conversation within her own head which she never shared. She just smiled and looked out at the edge of the world, at the trees in the distance, at the grass in the adjacent meadow: anywhere but at him.

  Ver finished off two plates of cakes and two cups of cacao before he spoke. “Did you sleep well, then?'

  She nodded.

  “Then we’d best pack up and be off. Baby will need more milk and clean swaddle-clothes. Finally a good sleep for all of us. Where is he this sunrise, resting in the blankets?”

  She looked blankly at him, shocked. “You have him in your blankets!”

  “No. Not I. I thought you had him? He was crying in the middle of nightfall and I awoke, but he was gone and so were you.”

  “I did not take him. He must be in the tent.” She ran over to their blankets and found no trace of the little one, except a drying spot of clabbered milk. They both looked at each other in worry.

  “Where is Baby?!” They both asked.

  Each was mystified. Alizarin could feel panic rising in her heart. “Baby?” They searched the area, and finally found one set of foot prints leading away from camp: one set of small footprints, obviously not Ver's. He looked at her, seeing her shock as genuine, her lack of understanding clear on her face.

  Both Ilion and Alizarin took a deep breath and tried to be practical about the vanished child. Immediately, they abandoned the campsite and their things and set out on a wide sweeping search. They w
alked along the scattered steps that led away from their encampment. They followed the ragged trail until it led straight into the looming wall of cliff face that formed the tallest hill in the area. Worry bloomed on each forehead. Of baby, there was no trace.

  Alizarin felt sick. The hillock that rose at the end of the trail was impassable. There was a rocky drop on one side, and cut-away layers of dirt on the other. Only a few scraggly trees were even visible over the top edge. The towering pile of earth was useless. But the mysterious footprints led there and not away.

  And, even though they searched, they could find no way to gain the top of the massive pile of broken stones, no vines to hang onto as they attempted to climb, no hidden passageway to tunnels beneath.

  Baby's gone? It was a heavy thought that they could not share. Heart sinking, Alizarin could see the doubt in Ilion's eyes. After all, Alizarin was at the campsite that morning. She was up first. There were no return footprints leading back to the fire's protection.

  Ver spoke quietly while he stood a step back from her, “Alizarin,” he said, “I did not take the child anywhere. I did not. I swear by the Bira Tre!”

  She could only nod at his insistence while her heart was breaking into dust. They were betrayed by someone. The possibility of it being Ilion made her want to sob. It was not me. It wasn't me, so it must have been Ilion! But … Ilion? How could he have done it? Listening intently for Baby's forlorn cries,Ver and Alizarin heard only the wind and the whistle it made of the leaf-filled trees.

  Baby was gone.

  It was only later as Ilion packed the tent and their traveling supplies to journey onward, frustrated after two days of searching the area to no avail, only then did Alizarin's hand reach into her private purse and find three stones clinking together. Two yellow stones and one blue gem winked and sparked in the light of the sun. Two topaz gems? Two? Where did that come from? Alizarin's troubled thoughts wondered.

  Somewhere inside she knew, but Alizarin could not think it consciously, could not imagine doing such a thing. Who would leave a helpless baby in a pile of ruins anyway? What kind of person does that?