Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Chapter - 34 Moth, Wolf, Toad and Daw

Corin shivered. The wind swept over the bleak heights. The tunic clung to his body, staying not the cold. He set off, following the line of the rocky cliffs upon his right hand. It was much as in his vision, an empty plain that dwindled into the distance beneath a clouded sky. He looked down at his feet and the earth he walked upon: it was sand and stone, growthless, lifeless. He cast no shadow over its surface.

He trudged on.

Was it time careering forward? How many days, seasons, did he walk through, he wondered. Why did the sun, the moon and all the stars in the heavens beat and beam and twinkle and glow and dim and radiate, and pound at his head, his face, his eyes? Why did the unbroken solitude pervade his heart, filling him with anguish and an utter loneliness that bowed his spirit until his shoulders shook and tears were rung from his wretchedness?

And when he could cry no more, and these feelings had passed; why did a sense of dread cover him like a pall that washed within and without? Why did he shake with fear and cower, as if some terrific hand; ominous as storm cloud, loom over him, until the thought of hurling himself from the heights seemed a blessing and a release?

On hands and knees, weighted he felt by an invisible millstone, he crawled to the edge and gazed down. Below, jagged fingers of rock reached up, beckoning, luring him; swimming before his eyes. In an instant of sheer terror, he lurched crazily forward.

But now the weight he bore was suddenly transposed, coming directly from above. It pressed him flat so that his face was crushed to the cruel and unrelenting stone. He fought for breath until he thought his heart would burst. The sparks that are the essence, the will to live in all creatures, burst into fire. He struggled to lift his head, to rise, to throw off his burden. No longer did he desire the rocks and the death that waited below. Now he was consumed with fear-turned-to-anger. It did not matter so much what happened to his being. It only mattered that he meet his adversary, though his life be put out. He gained his knees, grappling with unseen forces. Silently, his lips compressed in total effort, he rose against them. In one mighty upheaval that felt as if he had drawn a mountain from its roots, he stood, whilst the wind whirled around him; tearing and buffeting him as he clenched his fists and shook them in naked defiance. He wanted nothing more than to rage and destroy, to meet a solid entity and hurl against it, to make it yield as he had been made to yield. Anger, for a time, crowded all his mind. Then the wind fell to a plaintive whisper, and he lowered his arms. He had no victory, and yet he was not defeated or destroyed.

He was.

He laughed; at first softly, then openly. And as he so did, turned full circle, taking in his glance the spectrum of sight: before, beside, behind, below, above. A joy swelled over him; the air smelt sweet, fresh, invigorating. He lifted his arms and opened the balled fists so that his fingers might stretch and catch, and soak in... what? A doubt tugged at his mind, an uncertainty. Once more he was himself... Corin.

Remorse swept over him, great ocean-combers of remorse and of sadness. Thoughts shot through his mind, pinning his heart within his breast; bitter-sweet thoughts. He remembered. He remembered his life; childhood, youth. Bitterness leaked into his mouth, tasting like an acrid poison. He tasted hatred, guilt, sorrow. No tears would fall this time, he knew. He was dry within, had nothing to give. He felt empty, worn out, spent. He felt age-old. His fingers shook. He gasped. The air was too chill. To his trembling lips he clasped his hands, as if to ward off the cold. Decrepit he felt, his heart seemed to wither. And then he felt saddened; saddened that he could not overcome his fears, his needs, his questions. He stared at his hands, then at the world, and mute the world was. There were no answers.

Only the empty horizon.

No balm for mind or body, no purge for remedy. There was nothing but the him in which he dwelt, and that upon which he stood. He sighed and the wind sighed with him. He watched his feet crossing the treadmill land, and from despair lifted to hope. This time, he felt, his ordeal was over.

Yet it was not.

Many times as he struggled on he was to experience those same battles, the conflicts without and within. But as they swamped him, he grew stronger, more resolute, more enduring. And each time he fought, and did not lose.

The sky had grown grey. Day was sliding toward night. Through his creased eyes he saw it, far in the distance, and he knew it.

Hurrying, he stumbled on, feeling the way with his feet like a blind man, or as good as; for his eyes were set upon the only interruption to that near perfect horizon. He trembled with apprehension, though he kept on, and curiosity drove him. He desired, with all his being, the answers to so many questions and the lifting of the shadow upon his mind.

As he neared the frail shack and saw its timbers rotting and nigh fallen away, and the holes through which the wind slipped, he halted in wonder. He half expected the sky to spit lightning, the earth to rumble; some awesome sign to mark the moment.

Nothing happened.

The sky appeared fixed on the instant; stopped as it were, at late afternoon. Nothing but Corin and the wind moved, and as he slowly, step by step, paced forward, so did the wind, gust by gust, subdue, until he stood before a rude, wooden door; and there the breeze completely died. He waited. Although every fibre of his being urged, compelled him to do more, he waited. He wanted to call out, to knock, to throw open that door and enter; but he forced himself to wait.

Nothing happened.

Corin turned to stare out over the distant cliffs and the expanse of water beyond. A wave of something; relief mingled with disappointment perhaps, overwhelmed him.

Then a voice spoke at his back. ‘Earth, Air, Water, elements not easily tamed or harnessed, beautiful in their wild ways. And all who perceive them are of them, at one with them.’

Corin turned and to his astonishment his gaze fell upon a child, a young girl she was, not older than eight years by her appearance. Her eyes were blue, her hair yellow. A waif she looked, fragile and somehow timeless. She wore a smock of white that exposed her bare feet. Her hands were clasped before her. She looked up at him with her deep, intense blue eyes.

‘Are... are you... a witch?’ Corin stammered.

The child regarded him mildly. ‘I am Clothyl,’ she answered simply.

From within, through the slit of the darkened doorway, flew a large, brown moth which alighted on her long, unbraided tresses; an ornament to her childish beauty. ‘You have had a far journey, passing many years, many ordeals. You have been a swaddling babe, an infant. A simpleton, a dreamer, an innocent, a prisoner; a fugitive, a guest of wondrous folk, a wanderer. You have been a cripple in mind, ugly to some, fair to others. You have been a seer and a searcher, a pilgrim to the unknown. You have learned and taught, been a beacon and a pathfinder. You have touched and you have healed. You have faltered, and you have failed, but you have tried. Now, you have found.’ The face of the child remained passive, only her eyes smiled. ‘Your question,’ she continued, ‘you may call me an enchantress.’

A moment later and she had tripped through the doorway and was gone.

Corin stared after her, ‘Please, I have much to ask: things about visions and prophesies, Voices that have called me all my life, called me here. Why? Why am I as I am? Who are you to draw me to you?’

The wooden door shuddered and fell back. A slender figure, a maiden fetching fair, emerged. Her dark hair glistened about her shoulders, so long that it covered her nakedness, cascading down to her ankles. Her face was serene and composed. Her arms were crossed so that her hands rested on opposite shoulders. Her eyes were downcast. She lifted them: green, allseeing eyes. ‘We are,’ she said in a voice like song, ‘a part of all you have lived. You are called, spoken to, by many. You have heard them. You know.’

Corin made to speak, but she gestured him to silence with a wave.

‘Who are we to draw you to us?’ and something about her dark beauty made him feel that he should bow before her. ‘We are The Unravellers.’ She held out her hand, and in it there lay a single leaf. ‘Eat of this. It will not harm you.’

Corin took the offering and held it up. ‘What will it do to me?’ he asked tremulously.

‘I am Ergris,’ said the maiden. ‘I am the Herb-Leech. You are tested and tired. You hold sustenance and rest. A while and you shall be refreshed.’

He took the leaf into his mouth, chewed at it and swallowed. Almost at once a calm flowed through him, and he felt neither thirst or hunger or fatigue. For an instant he closed his eyes, soaking in the welcome relief, and when he opened them she was gone and in her place sat a wolf. It was not an ordinary wolf, as Corin had known such, though the sight of it made him flex his fingers for the hilt that was not there. No. This animal was combed and brushed, its grey fur kempt, claws polished. The bared teeth were unstained, yet not threatening.

Corin felt this in the fixed stare of the creature, it watched him as guardian, rather than as predator. Wolf sat on hind quarters, fore-feet together, pads splayed; watching, ears peaked. ‘Lang-Shan,’ it said in a curiously aloof, deep tone.

Corin started, then asked, ‘What is Lang-Shan?‘

The wolf hung out its long, red tongue. ‘Lang-Shan is where you last travelled. Wolf-Hill is its name in the Ren speech. I am a Shan, one whom the Hiung-Nu name in their legends. They come not through the ways of your passing, you and your company. The Hiung-Nu know their boundaries; believe the world ends in the Howling Hills. Lang-Shan.’ The grey wolf sniffed the air. ‘The Dog-Faces believe too that their Storm Gods, the Maruts, dwell at world's end. The Maruts-Crushers. They fear to roam into Lang-Shan: edge of doom, abode of Maruts. You, and those who came with you, they would think, have been utterly destroyed here.’ The long tongue curled about the creature's teeth. ‘I am called Bozkirt. My Mistress is the Seeress, Sayga.’ There came a soft rustle behind the wolf and a hand upon his head.

Corin blinked. A woman, ample, and grey adorned in wimple and kirtle stood at Bozkirt's side. ‘After many suns, here you be,’ she began. ‘As was far ago ordained. I knew and called you to us, over all days turnings.’

Corin gulped and almost choked upon his words, ‘Why...Why did You...Am I called?’

The Seeress regarded him with her pale eyes; the wrinkles and creases round them seemed to smile, though the eyes remained unchanged. ‘For this story, you shall sit. It is a tale that begins long beyond your awakenings. Follow.’ She turned and led the way within.

Inside, the wolf stretched out at her feet, where she took seat on a carven chair. The Seeress indicated a stool in a gloomy corner, and as Corin fetched it he thought, ‘Strange. One room, empty but for us. Where are the others?’ He searched the darkness without answer. The interior seemed different to the way it had appeared from outside, no light shone through crack or chink. Instead, as his eyes grew accustomed, he made out markings: patterns and staves, graven into the shadowy walls. Curious scrolleries they were, reminding him of those he had seen in the Towers of Elfame and the Halls of the Tumberimber.

Suddenly, a fire blazed red in the middle of the floor, where before there had been nothing, and by its flickering light Corin glimpsed the outline of a second door in the furthest wall.

‘Sit there with the flame between us, that we may look upon each other's face,’ said the Seeress.

Corin did as she bade him, whilst the fire died down to a mass of glowing coals that warmed his feet and hands.

Then Sayga began, ‘In the days when the world had newly appeared, when the mountains were sprung and the oceans drained full, and the mantle of forests flourished and were filled with bird and beast, there came the World-Wrights and the Ushers; the first, to study and appraise Their work, the second to conduct and guide the folk who would people this earth. The labours of these Exalted Beings were patient and manifold, all had not ever been light or growing as it became. And there was much to alter and set correct: there were things within creation, necessary things, grown wild and wilful. Of those, the most powerful delved deep, making their abodes far from the surface: beneath mountain roots, beneath sea, and there dwelt they in harmony with The Core; the All-Powerful that forges inner strength and heat and growth, the innermost Heart of the World. Since contrived, there beat the Anvils untamed, there swell the furnaces that can only be put out at World's doom. There pumps the molten blood that feeds the Heart and causes life's continuation. And there, unreachable, lies the abode of the Powers: unrelenting, remorseless, and unassailable. Were those Anvils and Furnaces to cease hammering, to extinguish, then the World would falter and ruin.

For the most part, the World-Wrights were pleased at the order of things, the wide, wild world flourished. Birth, life and death assumed their proper place: growth and decay and re-growth. All these events a part of the Great Design. They rested and departed, for Their labours in the world were over. The Ushers, having seen the wild creatures flourish, brought forth the children of the Drotnar: the Æsires, Fathers of the Elloræ, the Elves. And to them, the long lived Æsaldians, They introduced the Geenialdian, Men. Children by a different path, Earth's own path, yet conceived by the same Will. These then, peopled the earth in slow progression, but harmonious with the accordance of Varlar, The World. And all that was Seen and Unseen prospered, though the Unseen prospered in the deep reaches and realms beyond ken of those who crawled or trod or flew this earth. Then did the World Ushers withdraw, having completed Their part in the scheme of things. Thus the Æsires held dominion over all creatures, even Men, until Their offspring the Elloræ flourished. After that, They too passed away, leaving such descendants, the Fanes, to watch over Elves and all folk of the Elloræ.

But Men were left much to themselves, only by chance meeting the Fair Folk. To them, Elves gave speech and knowledge. However, most of that was lost and forgotten, for Men's lives were fleet and their memory short. This disquieted the Elloræ, troubled them, and they were consumed at the sombre truth; for they who knew of Men, taught and loved them as parent does child, were filled with anguish at such mortality, and in time sought them seldom, instead turning to their own pursuits and ways.’

Here, the Seeress bent her gaze into the fire and her eyes flickered in the glow, as if the coals were filled with visions. ‘Yet there came a time when the paths of both crossed, when great events arose and Varlar itself was threatened, as you shall hear.’ Sayga stood before Corin, her hands stretched toward him so that the fire leapt up about them. ‘You have come seeking knowledge, and it will be given you. And when you depart, you shall not be as when you came. Knowledge can be turned to good or evil. The knowledge you take will be both a blessing and a burden. If you have the strength and the courage and the will, you will yet forebear it, and use such for the good of Varlar. If you have not, it will destroy you, and the world itself.’ She said no more, but went away through the far door, which opened as she drew nigh and closed after her.

Corin sat on, wondering at her words, for so far he felt little the wiser than he had been at the beginning. Through the flames he caught sight of Bozkirt's eyes, watching him. They were unblinking, steady as though frozen.

The brown moth spun and looped about the fire, nearer and nearer so that Corin, engrossed, thought it must be consumed; yet it was not, the paper-thin wings eluding the flames and dancing away. Something brushed his foot, and Corin looked down, startled. It was a toad, near the size of a rabbit. It peered up at him and croaked. A sudden gust of wind swept through the room, then abated. Corin heard the flap of wings beating overhead and turned toward the sound. A key fell, rattling to the boards. Bird-like laughter pealed in the shadows.

Corin twisted his head to catch a glimpse of it, and ended at the seat opposite him; but there was no bird. Instead, there sat a hunched form, hooded and clad all in black. Only the sallow face was visible: the beaky nose and gaunt cheekbones, the thin, bloodless lips and flat, ringed eyes. They were eyes that Corin had looked into before, though set now in a crone's face. They were the eyes of a jackdaw.

‘I know you Bili, you who set me free. It is you?’ he asked in amazement.

‘I name myself Hagris. I am the Sorceress,’ replied the other. Then the eyes glinted, smiled, though not the waxen face. ‘I have many powers, shape-changing amongst them.’

‘But why...why did you not reveal yourself to me then, or since the time of my escape?’

‘That was not as was meant to be. You were on trial. Those tests ended only when you arrived here, from whence you were sent forth.’

‘Sent! Sent from here! I do not understand,’ Corin exclaimed.

‘You shall, when you have heard all there is to tell of a long tale.’ The Sorceress cackled, a peculiarly disturbing sound, bird-like, yet ominous. ‘Once,’ she said, ‘the Fanes, Children of the Æsires, watched over the World. Varlar had become Their dominion. And, in the order of things, it came Their turn to depart as the Elves began to flourish. The World-Wrights and Ushers, the Drotnar, the Æsires were all gone, and the Fanes had near completed Their appointed tasks. The call to pass on, to set Themselves free of Their charges or take those who would travel the empty lands and found new havens along the way, came. Thus the migrations began, and the Elvan folk sought and found. Yet the Fanes sought further the west-rising sun, knowing there lay the path of the World Orderers; Their High Kin. It was a slow progression, gradual and patient. The Great Ones were dwindling, as need happen, and the Elloræ were coming of age, as is still happening. Hardship though it was, the High heard the call, and few by few they passed. Now some little of what I tell you, you must already know, for you have spent time with the Elloræ of Elfame; the last of Elves to dwell upon that lost isle, and in that time and your travellings with them they would have told you of their past. And yet their past is only distantly related to those events which took place here in the wide lands of this Northern World. Little rumour could ever have come to them of the mighty saga of the earth whilst in their isolation. Seldom, and then only by chance, did any come to Elfame; and those who departed the shores of that perilous realm returned not. Only much, much later did the Sea-Elves set out, questing for their kindreds, and in the latter part of their searching you, as you are now, came into being.’

Corin wrinkled his brow and rubbed at his chin. ‘I am afraid I do not understand your meaning at all, O Sorceress,’ he muttered, plainly perplexed.

‘You will, you will,’ she cackled. ‘Do not be afraid of your ignorance. Hear what I have to say, and soon all will begin to clear like the sky when the raging storm abates.’ She rested a claw-like hand on the wolf's head and continued, ‘I have told of the coming of the Great Ones and of Their leaving. After Them, out of Elfame, came the Drotnar, Æsires of the Elves, and ever after them came the Fanes; the Lords of the Elves. In those long gone days when first they reached the Northern World, some chose to linger on its shores, seeking high places where they might survey the far new lands before them, and yet still gaze out, back over the vast seas toward Elfame. These lordly folk chose the upreared peaks of the island you know as Ravenmoor. By their labours a mighty bridge was raised that spanned the intervening ocean to join with the mainland, and through its many reared arches flowed still the constant waters between. Then, upon the heights of the Tumberimber mounts, they fashioned their halls, and abade long in supreme peace.’

‘I have myself been there not long ago,’ mused Corin dreamily. ‘I thought then that I glimpsed something, pale images of misty figures.’

The Sorceress nodded. ‘You saw their guardian-shades, those left to watch over Nî-Ellon, the name given that place, until they be summoned into the sun-rising west. Fear not, to Araboth, in future time, they shall be recalled.’ The words of Hagris held such finality that Corin was compelled to look deeply into the black depths of her eyes. ‘Ravenmoor was not always so called. Those folk, the people who reared you and later betrayed you, they whom you stayed your quest to aid, are as infant newcomers to that land. Melolontha, it was named by the Æsires at their coming; Land of the Friendly Singing.

Later, when the first men, wandering south, came to the boundaries of the ocean and in great daring crossed the span and set foot in the caverns of the mountains, the Æsires were aware of them. And they smiled upon them and sent envoys to greet them. These men were innocent and pure, wild and proud as the eagles that soar free. They were not cruel. No greed, or lust to covert had they. They were simple folk, new risen into the world: unbowed, noble. They were both the Lords of Men, and at once the Children of the Earth. The Æsires gave unto them many gifts; true speech, for theirs was still simple and rude, song, laughter, joy and knowledge. As time passed the men wrought the caverns of the mountains into halls of beauty, directed by the Æsires, and in so doing acquired further skills. Then, when the works were nigh complete, the men ventured forth into the land beyond, into a broad forest where birds sang and there was no thing such as evil.

Later, men would call that wondrous forest Philomel; Nightingale.

Later still, it would be known as Forinth's Forest, and after that, the dread Forbidding Forest.

Yet then, it was a place of tranquil wonder. The men begged of the Æsires that they be allowed to remain and prosper in that mountain-locked country, to build and to harvest from the land and sea and the Æsires bade them stay and flourish, for they themselves desired no more than to bide in their domain of Nî-Ellon on the uttermost peaks. There, in the serene gardens of their caring, through the misty dawnings of Varlar, they awaited their own calling to Araboth by those who were The Masters, gone before. Methinks they knew that a part of their task was to begin the works of men; to teach, for the breath of life was well within them, so that the indomitable spirit might burst forth and burn toward the future, when Man shall come of age.’

Hagris bent her cowled head toward the fire, and the flames dwindled as she stared into it. The voice of the Sorceress lowered. ‘Men fail: bud, bloom and fail. Even of their best, they fail. Men die. And yet, Man will not die. Or so it seems. Not yet.’

The flames grew again as she lifted her beaked face. ‘And thus the Æsires saw them live and die, live and die, whilst they did not. The sun and moon rode the sky unending. The call of the west came and the Æsires made ready to leave their lofty home forever. At that time there arose a man, young and courageous, fair of face and figure, sound of life, long of flowing hair, clever and graceful. Often he laughed and sang. He was generous and helpful and good to all about him. He was the son of a man who now might be crowned as a king, though then there was no such royal rank. His father's name was Aldîrbirran, known to his people as The Gentle. It was Themion, Aldîrbirran's son, walking, singing through the Philomel forest one day that the Fane Lady, Loriandir, spied and loved straightway.

Now, this Fair Lady of the Æsires approached Themion and allowed his gaze to fall upon her. And when he beheld her, his voice faltered for a moment or two, and then he sang the louder with sonorous note, and he took her hand and they walked together through the trees, the birds about them whistling.

Smitten though Themion was, he knew her for a Fane-Lady, High and Mighty amongst her kindred, and he wondered at her favour for he was well aware of his own mortal state. He knew too well that, come what may, he would lose her eventually when death claimed him. And Loriandir knew this also but, unbending, she pledged herself to him. Perhaps, betwixt her love, she was aware of his sorrow; the more poignant it made their troth. So was it, they were given to each other, Mortal to Fane.’

The Sorceress gestured with a bony claw, ‘Now that was a very strange thing. It brought both good and bad tidings. To Themion's folk, especially his father Aldîrbirran, it brought elation that one of Mankind could be favoured so by a Daughter of the High Peoples, though perhaps there lurked the shadow of some vague doubt. To the Æsires, that shadow became a solid dread, for they saw no good to come of such alliance. Indeed it filled them with foreboding; a union of Man and Fane, of mortality and brief blooming no matter how glorious, against the nigh immortal, golden powers of the Æsires seemed utterly improper, even dangerous. Sad and pitiful too. The High Folk knew that one day the man would waste away, pale and die. And in this grim truth they comforted themselves; only then would Loriandir be free of her bond, and sorrowing, return to her own. So it came about that Loriandir's people abandoned the Halls of Nî-Ellon and she was left behind, last of them, to live in Melolontha with the man Themion.’

Here Hagris drew her hands slowly over the flames so that they fell away before her, down to a sullen glow, and there remained. She moaned deep within the pit of her shadowed mantle, and the wind outside moaned with her. ‘Moarhh. I have told how the things of the Earth prospered, both the Seen and the Unseen, to whom until now, I have but hinted. There does my tale lead: down into the depths, the vitals of Varlar, down to the white-hot caverns of the Hammer-Smiths, the Furnace-Blowers, the Core-Keepers. Down, beneath the darkest abyss where Chardon plies barge pole. Down beyond root of mountain or deepest, coldest well-spring. Down through adamant stone and molten metal. Down through iron stronghold and golden fastness. Down to where there lies no further meaning of that word. Down to the Netherest World; the realm of the Choths, the Mighty Ones whose heart-beats are the bellows that fan Earth-Heart itself. The Choths; wild kin of the World-Wrights, unruly, untameable, bent only to their own works and satisfactions. Hard at it, without rest, drive those creatures; spawn of flame and flume, turbulence and tremor. And there, even as the wind cries and I speak, toil They now, and ever before, and ever on. Harnessed They were at the beginning; though unbridled, would they, if...’

Hagris paused. The wolf growled deep within its pulsing throat. The brown moth fluttered and settled on the eye-ridge of the unblinking toad.

‘Myriad creatures have sunk,' she continued, 'seeping into the muddied crusts of Varlar: some for safety, to hide. Some for secrecy. Some out of timidity, others out of ignorance. Some for knowledge of the powers which lie hidden to the sun. But none, until the Dhu-Elfer, for domination.’

‘The Dhu-Elfer!’ gasped Corin.

‘Yes,’ replied the Sorceress. ‘The Daræ. The Black Elves.’

The wind howled.

Hagris spat into the fire and it blazed. ‘That is where they went!’

Chapter 35 [next]