Where the Path Leads – Chapter 31

 An Uneasy Alliance

                                                    

Emily put her head in her hands, groaning, and sank to the ground.  All her trials and struggles had come to nothing. Sophia had been left to starve, a slow and painful way to die. Tears sprang to her eyes as she blamed herself for what had happened. It was her fault Sophia was imprisoned in the first place, for leaving her work, for talking about personal freedom. She hadn’t returned to the Seneschal in time, hadn’t gotten the cypress branch quickly enough, had failed to help Sophia escape imprisonment.  She had let her down.

            Too late, she recalled Sophia’s angular appearance at the pool of potentiality, her frailty in the apparition with the shadow wight. And what had Sophia said? That she knew there wasn’t much longer? Sophia had tried to smooth her way even when her own death was imminent, and Emily had missed the signs. A still, small voice insisted that she really had tried, that what happened at the manor house was beyond her control. Plus Annamund had cautioned her against despair. But it was hard not to.

            Arthur put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Emilia.”

            She looked up into his face for an explanation, but saw only his strong jaw, sensitive mouth. She couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness but knew their compassion, offering consolation for inexplicable suffering. 

            Later, the forester took something out of a saddlebag and handed it to Arthur.  A fresh loaf of bread, soft and white. Arthur broke off a piece for her. She stared at it for a long moment before taking a bite, but it stuck in her throat.

            Without access to daylight, they lost awareness of time passing. The forester tinkered with the fire, blowing on it to fan the flames, adding more twigs, until Simon irritably told him to stop. Wordlessly, he obeyed, but rather than sitting down, he moved about the small circle cast by the flames and peered into the darkness, his bushy red brows knit together, his lips in a tight line.

            “What is it, Woodsman?”  Arthur finally asked.

            “I have no idea what’s out there, my lord. This is an unholy place.”

            “Peace, Jerome. We’re only resting here until it’s safe to leave. Sit, man.”

            The forester came over towards Emily but before sitting down bumped his booted foot into something. Cautiously, he leaned down and picked up the cypress branch, holding it aloft wonderingly.

            “My lord?  How did this get here?”

            Arthur waited for Emily to respond. Simon looked at her sharply, also waiting.

            “Ah . . . I brought it,” she said, not sure the forester knew what it was, hoping he didn’t toss it into the fire.

            Instead, the Woodsman sat down with an umpf and pulled a knife from the sheath attached around his waist.

            “This will give me something to do,” he said, still addressing himself to Arthur. “May I start whittling it, sir? It would make a fine walking stick.”

            Arthur and Emily exchanged glances. She didn’t care much what became of it now.

            Finally, Arthur nodded. “Why not.”

            As they sat around the small fire, Emily thought what an uneasy alliance they had made. Simon ingratiating himself with Arthur, but glaring at her. Arthur trying to console her but probably longing to ask Simon questions about his mother and the Seneschal. And the forester trying to ignore them all.

            Simon watched keenly as the forester pushed his knife hard against the branch, trying to whittle it smooth.

            “Having difficulty, Woodsman?” Arthur said.

            “Sir, I’ve not encountered wood this hard before.”

            Simon shot her a withering glance.

            When the fire finally died down and the forester could no longer see to whittle, Arthur suggested they get some rest. “Then we’ll see how it fares outside.”

            “Someone should keep watch, don’t you think?” asked Simon.

            “Keep watch? For what?” Arthur removed his cloak and gallantly gave it to Emily to lie on. 

            “Well, if we found this place, someone else might also. I don’t want my throat slit during the night.”

            She fingered the cut he had made along her throat, wondering how to protect herself from him. Plus, he had barely taken his eyes from the cypress branch since the forester had found it. She knew he wanted it, and as much as she tried not to care, still, she didn’t want him to have it.

            “They couldn’tsee to slit your throat, Simon.” If Arthur hadn’t sounded so weary his tone might have been mistaken for amusement. “It’s that dark in here.”

            “But they may have light, sir,” Simon insisted.

            “Now who’s afraid of the bogey man?” he teased. “Woodsman, do you think you can stay awake to keep watch, or keep a listen?” 

            “Aye, sir.”

            Arthur moved around trying to find a comfortable spot. “I could get comfortable if not for all these bumps on the ground. What are they? Some kind of hard plant?”

            “Stalagmites,” Emily answered automatically. When no one responded she went on to explain. “Calcium formations caused by water dripping from the ceiling.”

            Simon snorted. “Probably what the witches call them, sir.”

            “Well, whatever they’re called, they’re damned uncomfortable.”

            “This place is inhabited by the damned, sir,” said the forester.

            They settled down, but Emily was almost too weary to sleep, her mind distracted by images of Sophia with her sunken cheeks and dark circles ringing her eyes. She turned over miserably. It wasn’t even necessary to close her eyes in this darkness, but she finally did anyway.

            When she awoke, she had no sense of whether it was morning or the middle of the night. No sound had awoken her, but, as she lay there, a sound reached her ears. A whooshing sound. Remaining completely still, she listened intently. Was someone in their party snoring or breathing heavily? She wondered if the forester was still awake?

            “Hello?” she said softly. No one answered. She sat up and tried again.

“Hello, Woodsman?” calling him by the name she’d heard the others use. No answer.  She continued to listen hard.

            The whooshing began to sound more like gentle lapping. It sounded like water. There was water somewhere nearby. Odd, Arthur hadn’t mentioned it after his exploration. The longer she listened, the more she wanted to go find out, and she sat up.  She really shouldn’t go wandering in the darkness; she knew that. The ground was uneven and she might get lost. She lay back down, thinking herself crazy even to consider it.

            Still, the lapping continued, its sound, insistent. She felt sure, in a way she couldn’t have explained, that the water had woken her up and wanted her to go find it. She turned over, trying to ignore it and go back to sleep, but the urge to see it was beyond resisting.

            Finally, she got up and glanced around for any remains of their fire. Creeping over to where she thought it had been, she felt around until her hand burned. She drew it back with a sharp intake of breath and blew on her fingertips. The embers were still hot. She needed a rushlight. Recalling some in Simon’s saddlebags, she hesitated, loathe to go near him, but without the rushlight she couldn’t find anything. 

            The low, insistent sound of lapping water almost seemed like it was inside of her.

            With infinite care, she crept over in the direction of where Simon lay. The first thing she encountered was hard and round. The cypress branch! So he had taken it from the forester. She picked it up and kept feeling around. A booted foot made her instantly draw back her hand, not even daring to breathe as she listened to him shift restlessly in his sleep, perhaps in response to her touch. As he turned over, she heard the creak of the leather saddlebag. Stooping, she felt around with a touch as light as a baby bird’s. Hair. Then his cheek. Her hand recoiled again instinctively. Finally, she came upon the smoothness of leather. With horror she realized he was using the saddlebag as a pillow.

            She hesitated for a long moment, debating. She would never get it out from under his head without waking him. But the longer she delayed, the more she realized she must find the water. Suddenly she was terribly thirsty. The water was using all its powers to lure her. There was no denying it.

            Reaching down, she felt the leather for a second layer, where the flap came over the top. There was a circle around which a leather thong was wound. She touched the hanging part of the cord, thin, like a shoelace, and slowly unwound it, peeled back the flap, and slipped her fingers inside. His head made it hard to move her fingers. She couldn’t believe she was doing this.

            Her fingers seemed to touch something greasy, then she felt the hard crunchiness of the rush plant. Now if only she could pull one out without waking him. With infinite slowness, she inched the stiff core of the rush toward the opening of the saddlebag, but as she did, Simon shifted in his sleep again. Her breathing stopped. She expected him at any moment to reach up and grab her arm. Instead, he muttered in his sleep, something about bad air and burning forests.

            She waited, finally sliding out the rushlight without waking him, then crawled back to the embers to light it. That took several attempts. When the little rushlight finally hissed into flame casting its weak light around her, she felt as if it were the sun.

            She tread carefully, bending low every few steps to see the ground with the rushlight. It was mostly dirt, littered with stones, but there were occasional stalagmites, some quite large. Looking down, she almost walked right into one that was taller than she was. Holding the light, she looked up at it, but the formation disappeared into the darkness as it rose to meet the ceiling. She recalled the mnemonic she’d been taught: stalactites hang tight to the ceiling, stalagmites might reach there someday. This one was definitely working that.

            She worried about how much farther the water was and whether her rushlight would hold out. Why hadn’t she thought to remove more than one from the saddlebag? Even though she knew the answer, she wished she had. She needed to gauge how quickly it burned so she’d have enough light to get back.

            Then, not paying attention to the ground, she tripped over a stalagmite, not a very big one, and stubbed her toe. Involuntarily, she cried out and lunged forward, arms flailing to catch herself. The cypress staff and rushlight both went flying out of her hands and she moaned in dismay as the light rolled away from her, fizzling out on the ground. Total darkness again. How far had she gone? Probably not too far, but in the inky blackness, distance seemed endless.

            Feeling on the ground, she located the cypress staff but continued fumbling for the rushlight. She ran her hand along the ground, searching. Even if she could find it, the flame had gone out. How could she find anything without light?

            Then she remembered the owl feather. What had Annamund said?  It will help you see through the darkness. If ever she needed help with that, it was now. Owls had an amazing power to see in the dark. Reaching in her pocket, she pulled it out, wondering how a feather was going to help her? She should’ve known by now the magick of this place, because as she absently stroked the feather, the darkness around her began to resolve into what seemed like–purple? Well, a lighter shade of dark, anyway. She peered ahead. Using the staff to feel her way, she cautiously moved forward, following the sound of lapping water. It was close now. After a dozen or so steps, she felt the staff sink with a plop and she stopped abruptly. 

            In the lightened gloom, she could barely discern the broad dark swath of water gently lapping against the rocks. She couldn’t tell how far it went or how big it was, but it sounded sizable. Immediately, she scrabbled onto the ground, dropping the staff, and cupped some water in her hands to drink. It tasted cold and refreshing. After several more drinks, she sat back on her heels, wondering if there was anything in the lake.  Something must be creating the waves. With a shiver, she recalled zombies coming out of an underground lake like this in one of her favorite fantasy novels. She hoped there was nothing like that here. How deep was it, she wondered. Sinkholes in underground caves could sometimes be quite deep. As she stood contemplating the water, something strange and wonderful began to happen. From its depths, faint at first, came a shining blue light. First one light, then several, then suddenly so many she could hardly take it all in. Pinwheels of blue sparkling light everywhere, moving, circling, writhing in a breathtaking display, like luminous blue smoke. 

            So enthralled was she with the light show in the water that she didn’t hear anyone approaching until he was right behind her.