Mist upon the Marsh: The Story of Nessa and Cassie (35 page)

Chapter XLIII:

The Veil

L
ong before the fighting ended in the swamp, the lone wanderer (who strayed away, if you recall, just before the Voranu turned their attentions upon the Endai) reached the end of his trail. His presence here is very important; but the thing will not be told, just as it never has been, from his own point of view.

The night was very dark, at this time, and the waves were rollicking heavily upon the sea, falling inclemently down upon the jetty – where Cassie had leant down over Nessa’s still form, for a very long while now, doing her utmost to shield her unconscious body from the wrath of the sea. She had tried, only once, to drag Nessa towards the beach; but had been forced to abandon the attempt, for her strength was not great, and she was nearly blown several times clear off of the jetty, by exceptionally brutal waves.

It was in this condition that the lone wanderer (no less than Orin himself) caught sight of the pair, as he bounded almost as a tetherless spirit, with neither weight nor bond, across the sand. In the briefest instant, he cleared the distance to the jetty, and mounted it with sure feet. He arrived at the spot where the two women lay stranded; took Nessa upon his back, and invited Cassie to wrap her arms about his neck, as she struggled along beside him. In this way they came to the beach.

Orin laid Nessa down upon the sand; but knew that he could do nothing for her. He cried great tears, that ran shining down his face, and fell to mingle with the salt of the surf. He could see the blood dripping down from Nessa’s wound, staining the sand with red, in spite of Cassie’s earlier efforts to wrap her middle with a length of fabric, torn from her own shirt.

“The return journey must be begun right away,” he said to Cassie. “But I cannot carry you both. So stay here, and rest yourself –” (he looked concernedly at Cassie’s white face, and her wasted flesh) “– until someone comes for you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Cassie. “Take care of Nessa.”

“That is exactly what I intend to do,” said Orin. He reached out, and shook Cassie’s hand; and it seemed, in that moment, that he recognised in her the one who truly vied for – or rather, had fully usurped – Nessa’s affections, and any chance at all of a future with her. Orin saw all this, writ in Cassie’s eyes: so dim with grief, weakness and hunger; but so bright, too, with the ferocity of her heart’s movement. Yet he did not hate her. He looked upon her, and felt only a kind of honest resignation. Also he felt almost a genuine affection, for the taker of the substance of his soul – for he could see Nessa’s own soul, within
her
– and he could not but love any such thing. So he put a gentle hand to her shoulder, and helped to lower her down to the ground, where she could lie still, without further aggravating the hurts of her flesh. But then he dropped back down on all fours, and took Nessa again upon his back.

As he leapt into the darkness – which seemed to lay as a dark green tinge of the air and sky, there beside the sea – Cassie kept her eyes upon him. But when she could see him no more, she dropped down to the sand, and laid her head upon its softest pillow. She looked back at the lighthouse, and wondered for a moment; but knew that she could not make for it. So she only closed her eyes, and breathed deeply of the cold air, as the spray of the sea fell down all over her.

~

Presently, many different things took place. As Cassie lay in a sort of painful half-sleep at the foot of the sea, and Orin hurried with Nessa through the night, the battle went on in the marshland. Orin thought of taking Nessa on to Mindren; for although they would not come to the swamp to save her, still he knew that they would do what they could to save her life. Yet he was weary, unbearably weary, and could not make it so far. It was very fortunate, too – for even as he considered his choice, Arol was sending his company on towards Mindren.

So Orin came to Dog’s Hill, a little before the fighting in the swamp began to wind down. He waited patiently by Nessa’s side, as she lay gasping, and bleeding; and he prayed that his own people would return home. He sighed, and shook his head sadly at the sight of Leyra, dead upon the floor; and moved her reverently to lie upon her own bed, upstairs, while she awaited her rites.

As the Endai took their dead upon their backs, and turned solemnly away from their fallen enemies, Arol’s beasts invaded Mindren. They broke through the clean and quiet passages, streaking great amounts of fear and filth along the floors and the walls; broke down each and every closed door, locked or no; and fell to savagery against those of the Endai who had remained that night at home.

And this fight, it was not like the fight which had taken place in the swamp. Here, the Endai did not prevail; but the ferocious Voranu, who had naught left to lose, and everything to gain, fell upon them like fire. Some of them were killed, surely; but not all. And it was those who survived, who slayed every last of the one-and-seventy inhabitants left to Mindren. They had chosen, that night, to keep from battle; but the battle came to them, and sadly they fell.

Now, when the Endai finished with their fight, they went first to the encampment of Qiello’s people, and sought for Nessa there. But she was not to be found; and neither was Orin. Therefore they determined that he had come upon her somehow, and absconded with her from the marsh; whereafter they struck out themselves, mostly in the direction of Mindren. By the time they arrived, however, loaded down as they were with their wounded and dead, all of Arol’s people were gone; and there was naught left, but a house of cold and bloody stone.

What a welcome it must have felt!

And you might ask, where did Arol’s people run? Well, into the night, of course. None can stop each and every fearsome thing which flees to such a great dark place; and therefore none are ever entirely sure, exactly what does lurk in such a great, dark place.

But again we turn aside.

As the Endai fled the swamp, and turned as a main body towards the fortress, several of them took a different route, and directed themselves towards Dog’s Hill. They judged rightly that Orin would have brought Nessa there; and so it was there they went themselves. These were Nessa’s parents, and all the other members of the house of Dahro, who were present there with their sire. Indeed, all of those who had accompanied him to the swamp remained alive. They were one-and-twenty who had fallen; and with those who died at Mindren, this means that the Endai lost nearly half of their numbers, in that single fateful night. And the dead included, the great Endalin King himself. This we tell, with neither a look nor a judgment passed between us. We say nothing of his past
deeds, good or ill – but number him only with the Endai who died this night in valiant battle against the Voranu.

And so the swamp was filled with nothing but dead; the macabre halls of Mindren were awaked with movement; and the house at Dog’s Hill was filled once again with life.

Life. She with her hold upon the object most tenuous, and most uncertain, was Nessa. Ceir bent down over her, unwilling to believe that her second child would meet the same end as her first (even though so many, that night, had already met that very end); and Dahro sobbed above her head, unable to be moved even an inch from the place. He ordered all others but Orin from the room.

As for Orin, he had not forgotten his promise, even in the wake of such turmoil; and he ordered Dechtire (mightily cut and bruised, and fit hardly for anything at present) to fetch Cassie from the cove. Dechtire made no fuss, and no argument, but only took the keys to Baer’s car (strangely, upon his own directions) and sped along quite as quickly as she was able. Ara accompanied her; for a night after such battles as these, is not a night to spend alone, in the rushing darkness.

But we remind you to remember – for have you forgotten, already, of Arol and his son, Aramort? They went not with the others to Mindren; so what became of them? Well, that you shall find out – this very instant.

There went up a scream from Ima, who was hovering about in the foyer, having been pushed from Ceir’s frustrated assistance some time before. Next moment there entered the father and son, the Voranan and the Endalin, directly through the front door.

Even for such a thing as this, Ceir would not abandon her work. She pushed on doggedly, without a look towards the purpose of the scream, and said not a word as Dahro left her side.

Dahro came into the kitchen, where all the others were gathered, with their eyes fixed upon Arol. Even Baer’s own countenance was filled with a kind of instinctive fear.

But Dahro came slowly, and calmly, and looked without emotion into Arol’s face. He did not notice, at first, the smaller figure there beside him – but when he did, quite his entire mood seemed to change. He stared in astonishment at Aramort: known to him still as Faevin, with eyes burning coal-like beneath his thick brows, and wild hair standing out all over his head.

“Hello, Dahro,” he said. “You seem so surprised to see me!”

“Quiet, Aramort!” barked Arol. Aramort scurried behind him, closed his lips and lowered his eyes.

“What do you do here, Arol?” asked Ayo wearily. “Have we not all had enough?”

“Quite to the contrary!” exclaimed Arol. “I myself have had hardly anything at all. Through no fault of my own, of course – but just the same.”

Still Dahro said nothing. He could only look upon Aramort, for his anger was such, that he could see nothing else. He thought of the night of Caramon’s death; and envisioned Faevin, standing with all the rest of the house, receiving the words of love and farewell offered by Caramon.

Indeed, before Dahro spoke – he struck out. He laid hands easily upon Aramort, and dragged him from the protection of his father.

“So your name is Aramort – is it?” demanded Dahro.

“Yes,” the boy spluttered – for he could do little more, tight as was Dahro’s hold upon his throat.

“You align yourself with this beast?” continued Dahro, jerking his head towards Arol.

“He is my father,” said Aramort.

Dahro looked for a long moment down into his eyes. No longer like coals; but rather like small, dark pools of fear. There is no telling, exactly what Dahro may have thought in that instant – for his visage was blank and white. Yet he ended by forcing his hand against the underside of Aramort’s chin, and snapping his neck; and thereafter allowing the body to drop down from his arms. Then he rose up; acknowledged Arol with not a glance; and returned to the parlour.

And so, never mind how long it has plotted and thrived, shall wickedness always end. Surely the same would come one day to Arol; but it was not to be this day. He fought in the foyer with Baer, Ayo and Orin, and was forced from the house – whereupon he fell on all fours, and loped off into the night. So he escaped, as did all those others from Mindren; but their evil is no more a part of this story. There is too much, far too much evil in this world, to allow it to dominate our words and thoughts. In such a way, our story would never be finished.

And yet every story must have its end. Ceir and Dahro lingered over Nessa, all through the succeeding hours; but it seemed she was not breathing. The others wandered the house restlessly, Orin most especially so, for he broke many things during this time, and put his fists through many parts of the wall. Dechtire and Ara found Cassie upon the beach, hardly alive; stowed her gently into the car, and turned back for home. The aforementioned events persisted, as long as they drove, and there was nothing at all new to be found, when they came to Dog’s Hill.

Finally Ceir allowed all the others back into the parlour, and they sat circled round the couch where Nessa lay. It was the same upon which her brother had died; for her mother had been unable to part with it, despite the hideous blood splashes all staining it. Instead she could only fix a dark cover over it, to hide from offence those miserable markings.

But now Nessa lay on that cover, with her own blood soaking through it, running down to mingle with that of her brother. Still, her chest could barely be seen to rise. Her skin seemed made of wax, and her lips were pale and dry. The lids that covered her eyes were bruised purple. Now and then her right fist seemed to clench. Of course, none but she could know this: but it furled and unfurled, again and again, seeking for Cassie’s hand in her own. She had held it, all the time she lay on Cassie’s knees upon the jetty, and had lost the last bit of her consciousness, with the feel of it pressing her palm. She came a little awake for the first time, at an especially sharp tug of the sutures at her side; and the very first thing she realised, was that her hand was empty.

She lay in a sort of half-world, fixed firmly betwixt the realms of sleeping and waking. Sometimes, when she looked, it seemed that she could see the veil of death, fluttering very near to her – but on the proper side of her, so as to give hope of waking completely. But then a moment would pass (or some hours, rather), and she would look again; and she would see instead the opposite side of the veil, which is the veil of life, sliding shut as her spirit passed through the mouth of a black cave. Whether now it was eternally shut, she did not yet know.

More hours passed. Each time she opened her eyes to see, it seemed that she looked upon a different side of the veil. She feared, each time she looked upon the wrong
side of it, that this glance would be her last, and she would be swept forever into the depths of the black cave.