Year of the Unicorn

11 That Which Runs the Ridges

I was cold, I hungered, both for that which I might take into my mouth and swallow, and that which had been rift from me. And I was caged, for there was no return, nor, it would seem, no going forward from this place.

Down in the Dales I had gone afield with Dame Alousan and some of the village women upon occasion, seeking out herbs, and their roots. And in the summer I had seen webs of field spiders spun between two small bushes or tussocks of grass to form a barrier—

Why did I now have such a memory picture? A web set up between two more solid anchors—? As this wall of light confronting me between stones—

I raised my head, looked more closely at those stones. There was no climbing them—twice my height and a little more, they were sleek and had no handholds. For they were a part of this ancient wall or fortification. Yet those portions between which hung the curtain of light were not a part of the bulk, rather posts of a sort, separate from the rest as the supports of a doorway. Creeping forward I discovered I was able to push fingers knuckle deep between them and the other rocks.

A spider’s web—Eluding the danger of the sticky cords it could be brought to naught by the breaking of its supports. So wild a thought yet my mind fastened on it, perhaps because I could see no other way. I had brought the bone vial out of the bag by will. But these were no light bottle, these were weighty stones, such as many men might labour to dislodge. And how could I be sure that moving one would break the curtain?

I covered my eyes, leaned back against the stone of the wall. Though the fur rug was about me, still I could feel its chill, its denial of what that wild thought urged me to try. And always on me that pull from beyond—

Now I looked again to the curtain pillars. To my sight they seemed equally deep set, not to be tumbled from that planting. So I turned my eyes upon that one which stood to the left, and I called upon my power of will.

Fall! Fall! I beat my desire upon it as I would have beat body, hands, all my physical strength had such been able to serve me. Fall! Tremble and fall! I did not have to think of time as I had in the camp of the Hounds. Time here was meaningless—there was only the pillar—and the curtain—and the need for passing it. Fall-tremble and fall!

World without vanished, fading from me. I saw now only a tall, dark shadow, and against it thrust small spurts of blue. First at its crown, and then, with better aimed determination, at its ground rooting. Soil—loosen, roots tremble—I was wholly the will I used—

Tremble-fall!

The dark pillar wavered. That was it! The foot-work upon its foot. Blue shafts in the murk which was none of my world, yet one I should know. Tremble-fall—

Slowly the stone was nodding—away from me—outwards—

There was a sound—sound which shook through my body—was pain so intense it conquered mind and will—drove me into nothingness.

I turned my head which lay on a hard and punishing surface. On my face was the spatter of cold rain or sleet. I opened my eyes. In my nostrils was a strong smell, one which I did not remember ever having met before. Weakly I raised myself.

Black scars on the stone. One of those pillars askew, leaning well away as if pointing my way on. And between it and its fellow—nothing. I crawled on. My hand touched the blackened portion of the stone. I snatched it back, fingers burned by heat. Waveringly I got to my feet, lurched through the charred space, came into the open.

It was day—but thick clouds made that twilight. And from the overcast poured moisture which was a mixture of rain and snow, the frigid touch of which pierced to the bones. But I could see clearly, there were no more shifting rocks ahead—only the natural stones of the mountains, familiar to me all my life. And also there was something else—a way cut into the rock.

But weariness dragged at me as I staggered on to that road. I had only taken a few steps along it when I needs must sit down again. And this time I allayed my hunger with some of the rations from the Hounds’ supplies.

There were lichens upon the stones about me, whereas among the blue-green walls there had been no growing things. Also, as I breathed deeply I found a taste in the air, a freshness unknown before.

Since I had come from the place of the curtain of light the bond which drew me was stronger, and in a way more urgent. As if the need for uniting was far more important and necessary.

Having swallowed my dry mouthfuls, I arose once more. It was lucky that the forgotten road I followed was a smoother path, for in my present unsteadiness I could not have managed as I had the day before. It was not a wide road, that very ancient cut now paved with splotches of red and pale green lichens. And through some oddity of this country, my sight was limited by a mist, which did not naturally accompany rain in the Dales, but did hang here.

I descended gradually, and now the road was banked with walls of rock. Too narrow for a troop of horses that way. If it had served a vanished fortress, then those who had manned the rubbled walls were all footmen. Stunted trees, wind crippled, grew here and there, with tangles of brush and dried grass in pockets. I turned a curve and came down a last rise into a great open space, how large I could not tell, for about it hung the veils of mist.

The road led under an arch into an area which was walled, but not roofed—nor had it ever been roofed, I believed. And I stood in an oval enclosure. At regular intervals along those walls were niches which had been closed up for three quarters or more of their height, leaving only a small portion at the top still open. On each of those was deep set a symbol carved in the walling stone. Worn they were, and most past any tracing—those at the other end so smooth that only a thin shadow of a design was hinted at, though some, to my right, were more deeply defined. None had any meaning for me.

It was dark within the open portion of those niches. As I paused before the first I staggered. From that space came against me—what? A blow of some unseen force? No—as I swung to face that small opening the sensation was clearer. This was an inquiry, a demanding of who? and what? and why? There was an intelligent presence there.

And I did not find it odd to speak aloud my answer into the silence which held that questioning beneath its surface:

“I am Gillan, out of the Dales of High Hallack, and I come to claim that which is the other part of me. No more—no less, do I seek.”

Outwardly, to my eyes, my ears, there was no change. But I felt a waking of some thing—or things—which had stood guardian here for years past human telling, all of whom now stirred, centred their regard upon me. Perhaps my words meant nothing, perhaps they were not of those who deal in words. But that I was sifted, examined, pondered upon, that I knew. And I moved along the centre way of that place, turning from one niche to its fellow across the way, each in order, facing that which weighed me.

From those niches with the clearer symbols it came no stronger than from those so age worn. These were guardians, and I was perhaps a threat to that which they had been set to guard. How long had it been since they had last been summoned to this duty?

I reached the end of that oval, stood before the arched way which carried on the road. Now I turned to face back along the path I had come. I waited, for what I did not know—Was it recognition of some kind, a permission to go as I would, good will towards the fulfilling of my quest? If I expected aught, I was disappointed. I was free of that questioning, that was all. And perhaps that was all that was necessary. Still I felt a kind of loneliness, wished for more.

Once again the rock chiselled road ran on, to descend another long slope. More trees showed and brown grass. The rain held, but now it was not so cold. I found a pool hollowed in a block beside the road and drank from my cupped hands. The water was very chill, but it held a trace of sweet taste. As the air—it refreshed.

Now my trail led along the side of a rise, with a drop to my right, the depths of which were hidden by the mist, for that I had not left behind. And in all this time the only sounds I heard were born from the activity of the rain. If any animal or bird made home in this land, then it was snug in den or nest against the fall of water.

My limbs seemed weighted; I was afraid that I could not go much farther, yet the sharp pull was now a pain inside me. I came to the end of that cliff-side walk and found a grove of trees. Though they were winter stripped, yet their tangled branches gave some shelter. I settled myself at the foot of one, pulling the rug closely about me. Though the fur was matted with moisture, yet the hide was water proof and kept out the rain. From the place I had chosen I could still look upon the road, coming out of the mist above where lay the plateau of the Guardians, continuing on into more mist and a future I could not hope to read. I curled up, pulled a flap of the rug closer so I was completely covered.

This extreme weariness worried me. I had that cordial in my bag; sips of it could strengthen me for a space. Still if I wasted it at the beginning of what might be a long journey, then later I might discover myself helpless in a time of greater need. If I were no stronger in the morning, then I must risk it. Cold—would I always be so cold?

No—not cold—warm—Sun and warmth, and the scent of flowers. Not ahorse this time—I opened my eyes and looked out of a tent. The light was that of late afternoon—outside a brook made music. This was the green-gold land of that other Gillan. I saw a man come, his face half-averted from me. But no one could hide him—not by any shaping!

“Herrel!”

His head snapped around, he was staring at me with those green eyes. There was that in his face which was steel-hard, closed—and so it was with his eyes at first. Then they changed as they entered deeply into me.

“Herrel!” I did what I had never done before in my life, I asked aid of another, reached out in need—

He came to me, almost with the leap of a hunting cat, was on his knees before me; our eyes locked.

All that I wanted to say was imprisoned in my throat. Only could I utter his name. His hands were on me; he was demanding in a rush of speech answers—yet I could not hear nor speak. Only my need was so great it was an unvoiced screaming in my head.

There was shouting. Men burst in upon us, fell upon Herrel and dragged him away despite his struggles. Again I looked at Halse. His mouth was ugly with hate, his eyes fire—fire burning me. Once more he held between us that which drove me away—back to the woods and the rain—and the knowledge that I was again in exile.

“Herrel!” I whispered slowly, softly. Somehow I had nursed in me—to learn now it was truth—the thought—the hope—that Herrel had not been one with those who had left me alone in the wilderness. Could he, too, have been deceived by that part of Gillan now riding with the company? Halse had brought that Gillan flowers, as if in wooing. Had that Gillan been turned by their sorcery to favour Halse? How—how far could she have turned?

The chill which was never gone from me was an icy sword in my breast. Halse had the power to exile me from that other Gillan, he used it at once when he knew that we were one—to drive me forth again. Halse—or someone—but I thought it Halse—had striven to part me from Herrel by showing me him as his shape change made him. And then he had turned on me readily when the Riders had discovered that I had some power of my own. This being so—why would he now woo me? Fragments of what Herrel had told me made a pattern of sorts.

Herrel had named himself the least of the Riders, one who lacked the fullness of the talents the others shared, and thus was not reckoned of much account in their company. Because of custom he had set his cloak enchantment that it would draw no bride. But it had me—why?

For the first time I thought back to that moment when I had stood at the edge of the wedding dell, looking upon those cloaks, seeing them with the double vision. Why had I taken up Herrel’s? I had not been caught by any enchantment through its beauty. But I had gone to it, passing other cloaks spread there—taken it up in my hands with the same single minded action as displayed by all the other maids of High Hallack.

Thus—Herrel had succeeded where they wished him failure. And I did not know to this moment why I had chosen his cloak—and so him. But Halse had been passed by, came forth from that bridal morn riding alone, and that had bitten into him. It would seem that he alone of those unmated had deemed Herrel fair game, planning to take what was his. Perhaps any more save towards Herrel would have brought retaliation from the pack, and Halse’s determination was greater than the rest.

If—when they had rift that other Gillan from me—Halse had fastened on that other self, dividing her from Herrel—How much life did that other Gillan have? There were old tales in the Dales—good telling for the winter nights, when a small shiver up the back added to one’s feelings of comfort, the hearth fire blazing before, snug company around. I had heard snatches of stories concerning “fetches”—the simulacrum of the living appearing to those away, generally foretelling death. Did a fetch now ride at Halse’s side?

No, that Gillan had more substance, or else the appearance of it. Appearance—hallucination—did Halse actually create—with aid—a bride for himself, or merely the appearance of one to assuage his esteem and deceive those who might be led to question my disappearance—say—Kildas? Or had that other Gillan been used to punish Herrel in some manner, he not knowing her real nature? If so, that short meeting in the tent must have awakened him to the true facts. I did not doubt that Herrel had been made aware in those short moments before the others had come upon us, that there was a difference in Gillans.

Now, with that same urge which I had summoned to topple the pillar, I tried to reach that other Gillan—to be reunited. The cord between us still held, but draw along it to her in this fashion I could not Warned, they must have set up a barrier to that.

The rain had stopped. But there was no lightening of the clouds, and around me the woods were very quiet, save for the drip of water from the branches. But with the coming of night, there were breaks in the silence which had held by day. I heard a cry which might have been the scream of some winged hunter, and farther away, faintly, a baying—

In my belt was the knife I had brought from the Hound camp. Save for that I was weaponless. And even in the Dales there were four footed hunters not to be faced unshielded and alone. For me fear suddenly peopled this wood, this country, with a multitude of moving shadows, owing no allegiance to any stable thing. Almost I might have been plunged back into the nightmare wood of my dreams.

Move on, run—down the road—in the open—cried one part of my mind. Stay hid in the dark, under the rug I was but one more shadow—Stay—go—they buffeted me. Back to the oval of the Guardians—the mere thought of walls was steadying. But that which held me to the forward trail would not allow retreat. And if I broke that tie—and could not find it again—I would have no guide—

Stay—Go—

Weariness made my eyelids heavy, pushed my head down upon my knees. That argument which had no end was lost in sleep.

The scent reached me first, for I came to my senses gasping, choking at the foulness of a fog which came in gathering intensity from the road. The stench was throat-clogging, lung-searing—

This was not the mist which still cloaked the distances from my eyes, but a yellowish cloud of corruption which held a faint phosphorescence in its swirls. I retched, coughed. Nothing so foul had ever polluted any world I knew.

Under my body was the ground, and through that came a vibration. Something moved out there, along that road, with force enough to send those waves through the earth. The time for retreat was gone. I could only hope that stillness, the robe shadow—something—would keep me from discovery. I put my palm flat on the wet and muddy ground, since I dared not so bend my head, hoping that thus I might better read the vibrations. And it seemed to me that it was not the ponderous slow step such as one might assign to some great bulk, but rather a rapid beat as from a company running—

The muddy fog was thick. If it hid the road from me, then certainly it should in turn hide me from what passed that way! But that was only a small hope, such as we are wont to cling to in times of great peril.

That this was such a time, I doubted not. I shrank inside and out from the fog and what it held—so alien to my flesh and spirit that to come even this close to it was befoulment beyond the finding of words.

Now the passage of what the fog hid was not only vibration through the ground to my touch; it was sound for my ears. The beat of steps, and of more than one pair of feet—but whether of beast or things two footed and running in company I could not tell.

The phosphorescent quality of that evil cloud grew stronger, its yellow taking on a sickly, red tinge, as of watered blood. And with that a low droning noise, which one’s ears strained to break down into the tones of many voices chanting together, but which ever eluded that struggle for clarity. It was coming up the road, not down from the place of the Guardians.

I bit hard upon my knuckles, scoring them with my teeth until I tasted blood, so keeping from the outcry my panic held ready in my throat to voice. Was it better to see—or far, far better to be blinded against this runner, or runners in the night? Flecks of darker red in the fog. And the drone so loud it filled my head, shook my body. I think my very terror worked on my behalf to save me that night, for it held me in a mindless, motionless state very close to the end of life itself. Fear can kill, and I had never met such fear as this before. For this did not lurk in any dream, but in the world I had always believed to be sane and understandable.

Blood on my hands and in my mouth, and that stench about me so that I would never feel clean again unless I could flee it. But I no longer saw those red flecks, and the drone was easing—it was past me.

Still I could not move. All strength had seeped out of my body as it might have drained from an open and deadly wound. I sat there, terror bound, under the leafless tree.

Vibrations now, rather than sound, told me it was still on its mysterious way. Where? Up to the place of the Guardians then on to the shifting stones—

With the greatest effort I had forced upon my body since I had ridden out of Norstead, I dragged myself to my feet. To leave the shadow of the trees, go out to the edge of the road, was torture. But neither dared I remain here, to perhaps face the return of that which ran the ridges in the night. I had nigh reached the end of all my strength and beyond that lay death—of that I was sure.

To go out on the road itself I did not dare. I stumbled along under the edge of the trees, heading away from what had passed me. The mist seemed thicker, closing about me at times so I could see only a few steps ahead; there lingered, too, the noisome smell of the fog.

For a while I had the wood on my right hand and the small promise of shelter. Then once again I had to take to the road for the ground fell on one side and climbed on the other. Always must I listen for what might come behind—

The slope of the road grew steeper. I slowed my pace even more. And I was panting heavily as I paused to rest for a few moments. Then—away and afar—behind—came a cry—a screech which, faint as it was, made me gasp and cry out. For the alien malignancy which frightened it was that of some utterly unbelievable nightmare. Faint and far, yes, but that did not mean it was not returning this way—

I began to run down hill, weaving from side to side, blindly, without caution, only knowing that I must as long as I could stand on my feet. Then I must crawl, or roll, or claw my way as long as I continued to live.

This was dream panic relived in reality. I caught at stones, at the cliff side, to steady myself. A mud patch on the road—I slipped, went to my knees. Gasping I was up again, staggering on. Always did I fear to hear that cry repeated—closer—

I had not realized that the mist was thinning until I saw farther ahead. And there was light—light? I pressed my hands to my aching side and stared stupidly as I reeled back against the cliff wall. Light—but no lamp—no star—no fire—nothing I could relate it to. Yellowwhite, streaking here and there as if it flashed at random from widely separated sources. Not beams of light, but small sparks, winging here and there—

Winging! Lights which flew, detached from any source of burning, dancing sometimes together, sometimes racing far apart or circling one after the other—in no set pattern which would suggest any purpose. One settled for a moment on a tree below, gleamed brightly, vanished—In and out, up and down, to watch them made me almost as dizzy as it had to watch the shifting stones.

They did not warn me of danger, and after a moment or two of watching them I went on. One sped apart from its fellows towards me. I flinched and then saw it was well over my head. There was a buzzing and I made out beating wings, many faceted eyes which were also sparks of fire. An insect or flying thing—I did not believe it a bird—perhaps as large as my hand and equipped with a rounded body which glowed brightly—

It continued to fly well above my head, but made no move to draw closer, and I gathered the remnants of my tattered courage to go on. Two more of the lightbearers joined the one who escorted me, and with their combined light I no longer had to pick my way with care. The road became level once again. Here were trees but I could see leaves and smell the scent of growing things. I had come from winter into spring or summer. Was this the green-gold land of the other Gillan?

At least our bond led me forward. And my light bearing companions continued with me. Here the trees grew back from the road, leaving a grassy verge on either side of its surface and there was a welcome which was as soothing as an ointment laid upon a deep burn. I could not conceive that that from which I fled could walk through such a land as this. But it had come from this direction and I dared not allow myself to be so lulled.

The road no longer ran so straight, it curved and dipped and came out at last by a river. There was a bridge, or had been a bridge, for the centrespan was gone. Under that water rushed with some force. To cross here, unless driven, in the night was madness. I dropped down on the entrance to the bridge and half lay, half sat, content for the moment just to have come so far unharmed.

Scent turned my head to the left. One of the light creatures settled on a beflowered branch which swung under its weight. The waxen flowers—those were the kind Halse had offered Gillan on the road. In this much had I come on my journey; I had reached the land behind the gate—that which the Riders had so longed for during their years of exile. Fair it was—but what of that which ran the ridges in the night? Could this land be also greatly foul? I was not spell-entranced, one ensorcelled as that other Gillan and her companions. Would my clear sight here serve to warn and protect—or hinder?