CHAPTER FOUR
Mick
and the Foss, the latter happily answering to the name of Fred, were making
good progress. Fred certainly knew his way through the maze of tunnels, moving
quickly and surefootedly. “My home is not far now,” Fred called over his
shoulder. ‘My people will make us very welcome and there will be much to eat
and drink.”
“Even in a mountain?” Mick was sceptical.
“The mountains are full of surprises,” said Fred
laughing, “so, too, are Foss.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Fred.” The dwarf flung him
a beaming smile over his shoulder just as a queer noise seemed to bounce
through the gloom at them.
Fred stopped in his tracks. “What can that be?”
“Whatever it is, you can be sure it doesn’t mean us
any good,” Mick muttered grimly. “Wait here while I take a look.”
“But I know the way,” the dwarf protested. “F3 is not
far now. “
“F3?”
“There are several Foss communities within the
mountain. Mine is F3,” a visibly agitated Fred explained.
“Whatever is making that din can’t be far away either
or the echoes wouldn’t be so loud,” Mick pointed out. “Besides, I am bigger
than you. Wait here, and don’t move unless I call you.” Before Fred could argue, he ran ahead,
rounding several bends and only slowing down to a snail’s pace when he could
see flashes of light ahead. It was not
long before he was mopping his brow with a handkerchief, and then holding it to
his nose. It had become unnaturally hot and an awful smell was beginning to
make him feel nauseous.
Something was burning. A sixth sense warned Mick that
whatever awaited him round the next bend would not be a pretty sight. He was about to proceed with extreme caution,
when Fred dashed past him with no thought for his own safety. Although the terrible cry that crashed around
his ears soon afterwards was like that of an injured animal, Mick knew
instinctively what it was.
It was Fred.
Mick braced himself and ran forward. At the end of a
long, sweeping bend, the tunnel opened up, levelled out, and widened. Domestic items and clothing plainly suggested
the area had hosted inhabitants or had so until recently. Flames from a huge
bonfire licked at the cave walls and into a kind of chimney in the rock farther
than the eye could see.
The smell was intolerable.
Close to the bonfire, Mick saw the little Foss. Fred
was squatting in the firelight swaying to and fro, his head in both hands,
making horrible wailing sounds. The
intensity of the firelight, simultaneously splendid and hideous, created a
tableau that only added to the unbearable pathos of the little man’s anguish.
Mick did not need to be told what it was that was
burning.
Having no experience of grief, Mick instinctively went
and knelt beside Fred and gently put an arm around his shoulders. “We can’t
stay here, Fred,” he shouted as gently as he could above the roar of the
flames. “We have to go, now. There is nothing we can do. Perhaps there are
survivors…”
“How can this be? What has happened here?”
“Krills…!” Mick exclaimed, more to himself than to his
distressed companion.
Fred instantly broke free of the comforting arm, leapt
to his feet and confronted the young Motherworlder with a wild-eyed expression
that so transformed his appearance that Mick scarcely recognized him. “Krills…? Why do you say that? Krills have not been
seen in the mountains since The Keeper was taken and the tomb of the Creator
lost.”
“Druids then…?” Mick suggested
“Ri curse them all, but it is not the way of Druids
to…” He glanced towards the fire and broke down in floods of tears, but
remained standing, his small body shaking from head to toe. “Why do you say Krills? Yes, Krills would do this, but they would not
dare return. They would not dare!”” he shrieked hysterically, “The mountains
would not let them…”
Mick, at a loss to know what to do or say, decided
that straight talking was the best policy. Fred deserved an honest answer.
“There were three of us. That is to say, four including Ricci and others joined
us…” he began before realizing this was neither the time nor the place to
confuse poor Fred with details. “Krills were following us,” he said slowly as
memories of that previous visit to the dying planet returned. “We were with
some druids, but…”
“Krills followed you here?” Fred screamed at the young
Motherworlder. “You brought Krills here? What have you done? What have you done?”
“They were following us,” repeated Mick defensively,
“We did not bring them here. They would have come anyway,” he added with a
certainty that came from nowhere.
Fred flung out an arm towards the bonfire. “They were
my people, my family, and my friends. Now they are all dead thanks to you. You
have done this. You, you, you…!!! he continued to scream
“No, Fred, no, it’s not like that!” Mick, incensed by
the accusation while struggling with anger, guilt, and more besides, recovered
his composure long enough to try and reason with the Foss.
“I am not Fred. I am Foss,” the dwarf retorted
furiously and ran out of the fire’s awful glow into the surrounding gloom.
“Fred, wait!” Mick called in vain and ran after the
retreating figure, down a tunnel at the far end of what had once been F3 until
he came to a fork. There was no
phosphorescent moss on the rock walks here, only pitch blackness. He cocked an
ear, but could hear nothing. Once again, he was alone and lost. A flood of
tears remained unchecked as he sank to his knees and sobbed uncontrollably, his
all but crushed spirit left to run the gamut of loneliness, self-pity, and
terror.
Suddenly, he sensed a presence, looked up and all but
choked on a cry of relief and disbelief at the sight of a woman hovering a
short distance along one of the tunnels. In spite of her weird, ghost-like
appearance, he recognized instantly. “Arissa!” he gasped.
The fragile figure ahead quivered frantically before
settling down and approaching him so cautiously that it occurred to Mick that
she was even more frightened of him than he was of her.
“You know me?” the voice was reedy and uncertain, not
in the least as he remembered it. Arissa, he recalled with a wry smile, had
been strong-willed and sure of herself to the extent of arrogance. He had
neither liked nor trusted her. But this, this was a different Arissa
altogether, and he felt curiously drawn to her in a spirit almost of
comradeship as well as immense pity.
“Of course I know you, you’re…”
“No! Do not speak my name again. Never speak it again
or we will both be kikiri, or worse,” she added cryptically. “I do not
understand. How can you know me? I have
not been blessed with my natural form since it was stolen from me.”
It was only then that Mick became aware of a burning
sensation in his jacket the pocket, and instinctively felt for and removed a
tiny egg-shaped stone that was warm against his palm and exuding a yellow-green
glow. It had been a parting gift from La-Ri,
the elf-queen, upon leaving the Forest of Gar for the Purple Mountains. He had
almost forgotten it since a not dissimilar experience in Mal-y-Dros, Place of
the Undead, on his first visit to Mamelon.
The figure that had once been Arissa barely stifled a
gasp of astonishment. It is a malcryst, Dark Crystal, a druid thing. I did not
know any existed but in old, old, stories. How came you by it?”
Mick saw no reason not to tell her.
“A druid thing in a place of elves, these are strange
times indeed.”
“What happened to you?” Mick asked, inexplicably no
longer afraid.
“I am kikiri. There are others such as I. We are
neither alive nor dead. In the Motherworld you would call us zombies, I think.
“Mick nodded, appalled. Arissa went on,
“Our identities have been stolen from us by those who wish to use them for dark
purposes. The one you saw before, she is
dark magic personified and means only ill to any with whom she may appear to
bond as friend or even lover. Oh, yes,” she agreed, correctly interpreting
Mick’s expression alarm, “your friends are in mortal danger.”
“If they are still alive,” Mick felt obliged to say.
“They live, so far,” the kikiri assured him. Mick felt
as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
“You’ve seen them? You’ve seen my brother and Beth?”
“Not Bethan, but I sense she lives,” she assured him,
referring to Beth by the same name as everyone else in Mamelon. “Your brother is safe, for now. He is with
Heron, who is my brother also, and the elf girl, Irina. But we must go now. I will take you to the
Foss. He will take much strength as well as comfort from your presence, and
lead you through the mountains. But remember, you must never speak my name
again here or you may well end up the same as I. As it is, we can only pray to Ri that no one heard.
And tell no one of the malcryst. You have a saying in the Motherworld that
walls have ears. Never has that been more so than here. Now, come, we must
hurry.”
“But…” There was so much that Mick wanted to ask, but
this was clearly neither the time nor the place. He hurried after the quickly
retreating figure, feeling pleasantly light-headed for knowing that Pete and
Beth had survived the avalanche.
Mick’s euphoria, however, was short-lived. Suddenly,
without warning, the kikiri he knew as Arissa disappeared.
There was some dim greenish light to see by, for which
Mick, he was thankful, but he was alone again and it was more than he could
bear. Beth’s words returned to haunt
him. “Damn it, mountain,” Mick cried aloud, “I don’t want to be here either. I mean
you no harm! I only want to help…” he added tearfully.
A curious but not unpleasant rushing noise in his ears
took on a musical sound and he recognised The Okay Song, a lullaby his mother
had once sung to him and Pete what seemed a lifetime ago. It was very reassuring, and in spite of an overwhelming
sensation of homesickness, Mick began to feel more positive. Soon, he was on
his feet again, and staggering a little, made steady progress through the gloomy maze of
tunnels, some natural, others constructed by slaves long ago. At times, the tunnels opened up to expose
huge caverns descending into bottomless pits. These could only be avoided by
walking along ledges barely wide enough for one foot at a time.
Gingerly, carefully placing one foot in front of the
other, his body pressed against the wall of rock, Mick began edging his way
past one such yawning chasm when he heard a plaintive cry.
“Help…!”
Forcing himself to look down, Mick peered into a
hideous emptiness, able to see nothing at first. Breathless, heart performing
somersaults, he leant against the cavern wall for support and a temporary if
deceptive sense of safety.
“Help me!” The cry came again, much weaker now.
Mick leaned over as far as he dared and looked again.
It was a sheer drop, but he could just make out a small, shadowy figure trapped
on a broken ledge.
It was Fred.
“Fred, is that you?” Mick yelled and his voice echoed
eerily all around like a frantic boom, boom, booming sound.
“Yes,” Fred shouted from below, “I am trapped. “
“Are you hurt?”
“Not badly, but I don’t think this ledge will hold for
much longer.”
Mick fell back against the rock wall again to catch
his breath and consider what if anything he could do to help poor Fred. If only I had some rope. But he had no
rope and climbing down the rock face and up again was out of the question. He
guessed the little Foss must have lost his footing. No
surprises there, he brooded grimly. The
mountain is a death trap. “Damn you,
mountain, he yelled aloud, and the resulting cacophony was deafening.
“Mark me well, Motherworlder,” a new voice penetrated
Mick’s swimming consciousness and almost caused him to lose his footing.
Shakily recovering his balance, he looked in the direction from which the voice
had come. At the far end of the ledge, at the mouth of what looked like another
tunnel, stood the tall, imposing figure of the druid, Ygor. Behind him, Mick
could just make out several more robed figures. Ygor was holding what looked
like a coil of wire. Barely had he
registered this fact when Mick became aware of something snake-like writhing
along the ledge toward him to land at his feet. . Instinctively, he bent to
retrieve it.
Rope..!
Rope, yet not rope as Mick knew it, made of a material
that was silky to the touch, but not silk either.
“Tie it around your waist and go to the aid of your
friend. Then swing this way and leave the rest to me.” It was not a suggestion, but a command.
Mick did as he was told, relieved at first that here
was a chance to rescue poor Fred. It was not until he had tied the knot around
his waist and looked down that the enormity of the task ahead struck him like a
savage blow to the head. Could he trust
Ygor? No, of course I can’t. And what if
the rope breaks …? He felt physically sick.
Yet, what choice did he have? No
choice at all.
He turned and began to slowly abseil towards the
trembling, sobbing, Foss. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” wailed the dwarf which
did nothing to alleviate Mick’s terror that the rope might snap at any second.
Finally, Mick was able to get a footing on the ledge.
Foss and Motherworlder embraced each other with genuine affection as well as
relief. It was just as well, for it was while Mick had the little fellow in a
bear hug that the mountain began to shake and roar. In an instant, the ;edge on
which they were so precariously balanced crumbled away.
Hurled into the abyss, screaming and clinging to each
other, both were convinced these were their last moments of life.
