Mythago Wood - 1 (32 page)

Another day's sailing, another day of watching ruins, shapes and the signs of
primitive activity on the enclosing cliffs. At one point we passed below a cave
community. The scrubby trees had been cleared, exposing the cliff face, and
there were nearly twenty caverns carved, or fashioned, in that vertiginous wall.
Faces peered down at us as we sailed past, but I could see no more detail than
that.

It was on the third day that Sorthalan cried out cheerfully, and pointed
ahead. I peered over the side, squinting against the bright sun, and saw that
the river was spanned by a high, crumbling bridge, which extended from cliff top
to cliff top.

Sorthalan guided the boat to the inward shore, furled the sail, and let the
little vessel coast on the current until it was below the huge stone edifice. A
great shadow passed over us. The immensity of that bridge was breathtaking.
Bizarre faces and animal forms had been carved on the span. The supporting
pillars were shaped from the cliff itself. The whole bridge was falling into
decay, and even as we were clambering ashore a huge stone, twice my height,
detached itself noisily from the arch above us and curled silently and
terrifyingly down to the water, where its splash nearly swamped the three of us.

We began to climb almost at once. What was a daunting prospect proved to be
far easier than I had expected, since there were ample hand and footholds in the
crudely-carved supporting pillars. The tenuous shapes of Sortha-lan's entourage
were clearly visible around us, and I realized they were actually
helping
us,
for my pack and spear seemed lighter than I'd expected.

I risked only one glance down. The boat was so tiny, and the river so
distant, that my stomach gave way and I groaned aloud.

'Hang on,' called Keeton, and I looked up, and took reassurance from his
grin.

'They were helping us,' I said as I hauled myself after him.

Tied to the boat,' he said. 'Limited distance they can move, no doubt. Never
mind. Nearly there. Only about half a mile to go . . .'

For the last hundred yards we climbed up the vertical face of the bridge
itself. The wind tugged and teased at me, as if hands were pulling at my pack,
trying to dislodge me from the great structure. We climbed over one of the
grinning gargoyle faces, using its nostrils, eyes and lips as handholds.
Eventually I felt Sorthalan's strong hands clutching at my arms, dragging me to
safety.

We walked briskly to the plateau, over the crumbling bridge gate and through
the trees beyond. The land sloped up, and then down, and we emerged on to a
rocky knoll from where we could see across the wide, winter landscape of the
inner realm.

This, clearly, was as far as Sorthalan would accompany us. His legend, his
purpose, bound him to the river. In our time of need he had come to our aid, and
now he had shown me the way to Guiwenneth, the shortest way.

We were closer to the stone than he was.

Sorthalan's last gesture was an interesting one. He drew my flint-bladed
spear from where I had secured it in my pack and made the mark of an eye upon
the shaft, about two feet from the stone blade. Through the eye he scratched a
rune like an inverted 'V, with a squiggle on one tail. Then he stood between the
two of us, a hand on each of our shoulders, and propelled us gently towards the
winter land.

The last I saw of him, he was crouched on the bare rock, staring into the far
distance. As I waved so he waved back, then rose and vanished into the trees
behind him, making his way back to the bridge.

I have lost track of time, so this is DAY X. The cold is growing more severe.
Both of us concerned that we may not be equipped for an intensely cold
environment. Twice during the last four days, snow has fallen. On each occasion
only flurries, which drifted through the bare branches of the winter wood and
hardly settled. But an ominous portent of what is to come. From higher ground,
where the forest thins, the mountains look uninviting and sinister. We are
getting closer to them, certainly, but the days go past and we seem to make no
real ground.

Steven is becoming more on edge. Sometimes he is sullenly silent, at others
he shouts angrily, blaming Sorthalan for what he sees as an interminable delay.
He is growing so strange. He looks more like his brother. I had a fleeting
glimpse of C in the garden, and while S is younger, his hair is wild, his beard
thick, now. He walks in the same swaggering manner. He is increasingly adept
with sword and spear, while my own facility with a spear or knives is
non-existent. I have seven rounds left for the pistol.

For my part I find it continually fascinating to think that Steven has become
a myth character himself! He is the mythago realm's mythago. When he kills C the
decay of the landscape will reverse. And since I am with him, I suppose I am
part of the myth myself. Will there be stories told one day of the Kinsman and
his companion, the stigmatized Kee, or Kitten, or however the names get changed?
Kitten, who had once been able to fly above the land, now accompanying the
Kinsman through strange landscapes, ascending a giant bridge, adventuring
against strange beasts. If we
do
become legends to the various historical
peoples scattered throughout this realm . . . what would that
mean?
Will
we somehow have become a
real
part of history? Will the
real
world
have distorted tales of Steven and myself, and our quest to avenge the
Outsider's abduction? I cannot remember my folklore well enough, but it
intrigues me to think that tales -of Arthur and his Knights, perhaps (Sir Kay?)
- are elaborate versions of
what we are undertaking now
!

Names change with time and culture. Peregu, Peredur, Perci-val? And the
Urscumug - also called Urshucum. I have been thinking a lot about the
fragmentary legend associated with the Urscumug. Sent into exile in a very
far-off land, but that land was England, and an England at the very end of the
Ice Age. So who sent them? And from where? I keep thinking of the Lord of Power,
who could change the weather, whose voice echoed around the stars. Sion. Lord
Sion. I think of names, words, half remembered. Ursh. Sion. Earth, perhaps.
Science, perhaps. Earth watchers exiled by Science?

Do the earliest of folk-heroes, or legendary characters, come not from the
past
but from . . .

Whimsy! Simple whimsy. And there is the rational man in me again. I am
hundreds of miles into a realm outside the normal laws of space and time, but I
have come to accept the strangeness as normal. That said, I
still
cannot
accept what I
believe
to be abnormal.

What happened, I wonder, to the Kinsman's friend? What has legend told of
faithful Kitten? What will happen to me if I do not find the Avatar?

Keeton was becoming superstitious. At some point in the last few days he had
managed to lose all but seven bullets. These he guarded with his life. I found
him examining them. He had marked one with his initials. 'This is mine,' he
said. 'But one of the others . . .'

'One of the others what?'

He looked at me, hollow-eyed and haunted. 'We can't
take
from the
realm without sacrifice,' he said. He looked down at the other six bullets in
his hand. 'One of these belongs to the Huntsman. One is his, and he'll destroy
something precious if I should use it by mistake.'

Perhaps he was thinking of the legend of the Jagad. I don't know. But he
would no longer use the pistol. We had taken too much from the realm. There had
to be a time of repaying favour.

'So you'll force us to starve,' I said angrily, 'through a silly whim!'

His breath frosted, moisture forming on the sparse hair of his moustache. The
burned skin of his chin and jaw was quite pale. 'We won't starve,' he said
quietly. "There are villages along the way. Sorthalan showed us that.'

We stood, tense and angry in the frozen forest, watching as a fall of light
snow drifted from the grey heavens.

'I smelled wood smoke a few minutes ago,' he said suddenly. 'We can't be
far.'

'Let's see, shall we?' I replied, and pushed past him, walking briskly on the
hard forest floor.

My face was suffering badly from the cold, despite my growth of beard.
Keeton's enclosing leathers kept him warm. But my oilskin cape, though a good
waterproof, was not good thermal wear. I needed an animal skin, and a thick fur
hat.

They were an early Scandinavian community - I can't say 'Viking', although
their original legend must surely have included
some
elements of
warriorhood. Three long houses, warmed by large open fires, peered out into a
yard overrun with animals and children. But the signs of past destruction were
evident, for a fourth house was burned to a ruin, and outside the village was an
earth mound of a different sort from the charcoal maker - a tumulus in which, we
were told, eighty kinsfolk lay, slaughtered some years before by ...

Well, of course.

The Outsider.

They fed us well, although eating food from human crania was unnerving. They
sat around us, tall, fair-haired men in great furs; tall, angular women in
patterned cloaks; tall, bright-eyed children, their hair, boy and girl alike,
braided over the crown. They supplied us with dried meat and vegetables, and a
flagon of sour ale that we would jettison as soon as we were beyond the
stockade. They offered us weapons, which was astonishing, since a sword to
any
early culture represented not just
wealth,
but possession of an
implement that was normally very difficult to obtain. We refused. We did accept,
though, their gifts of heavy reindeer-hide cloaks, which I substituted for my
own cape. The cloak was hooded. Warm at last!

The fog lifted later in the day, though the temperature dropped still
further. The wood was a bleak, grey place, stretching endlessly around us; the
sky was overcast and sombre. I frequently shinned up the taller trees to look
for the twin peaks ahead of us, for reassurance.

The wood, too, was increasingly primitive, thick stands of hazel and elm, and
an increasing preponderance of birch on the higher ground, but the comforting
oak seemed almost gone, except that occasionally there would be a brooding stand
of the trees, around a clear, cold glade. Rather than being afraid of these
clearings, Keeton and I found them to be sanctuaries, hearteasing and welcoming.
Towards each dusk, the moment of finding such a dell was the moment of camping.

For a week we trekked across the icy land. Lakes were frozen. Icicles hung
from the exposed branches of trees at the edge of clearings, or open land. When
it rained we huddled, miserable and depressed. The rain froze, and the landscape
glittered.

Soon the mountains were a lot closer. There was a smell of snow on the air.
The woodland thinned, and we peered along ridges where old tracks would once
have passed. And from this high land we saw the smoke of fires in the distance,
a village haven. Keeton became very quiet, but also very agitated. When I asked
him what was wrong he couldn't say, except that he felt very lonely, that the
time of parting was coming.