Ross Lawhead (31 page)

1

Before . . .

The Wild Caves were certainly wild, but it was hard for Daniel and Freya to think of them as just
caves
. At certain points they would open out into enormous expanses that seemed more like underground landscapes. It was hard to make out features in these areas, since the vast emptiness swallowed their feeble lamplight, but there would sometimes be a glittering seam that would throw their light back at them; or a pale green luminescence swathed against a rock face.

Then, without warning, they would enter another tunnel or turn a corner to find themselves in disturbingly small and claustrophobic passages that might wind on for miles without giving them a chance to stand up straight. The air hung around them, thick with cold and clammy moisture.

Generally Swiðgar led them along whichever path appeared to offer the quickest downward loop. The Slæpismere, they knew, was a long way down, so whenever possible they would follow water—anything from a small trickle to a river. Just about any stream of water would eventually lead to the huge underground lake, they reasoned.

Sooner or later, however, each stream or trickle of water fell into a drain or slipped into a crack in the wall. This was frustrating, yet they always seemed to happen across another ribbon of water they could follow, refreshing themselves and refilling their waterskins.

When they had been walking downwards for what seemed like days, they came to a sharp ridge of slate where they paused. A draft rising from below sent warm waves of heat rolling over them, causing them to sweat. They stayed for a time, sitting on the ridge, opening up their clothing and taking off their shoes—exposing everything that they had to the warm air in order to dry them as much as possible. There was no way of telling where the air came from, but Daniel's mind pictured an open lake of lava beneath them, sending its heat up towards them through a series of vents.

But ever before and after that, the Wild Caves were invariably cold, wet, and miserably dark. The thick, oilcloth traveling cloaks and boots were snug enough, but not completely waterproof.

Finding a place to camp was a constant difficulty. Since there was no way to mark the passage of time below the earth, and they had no watches, it was hard to estimate how long they had been walking or how long they should keep walking. Many times they would hunt around for a bit of dry ground and spend some time setting up camp, only to find sleep still a long way off.

The physical hardships would have been enough, but having no knowledge of how far they had gone or had left to go was what Daniel and Freya found most dispiriting. Only determination kept them from depression. Daniel's desire to get stronger and better at traveling helped him keep putting one foot in front of the other. Freya's thought of how many people depended on their mission kept her feet moving forward, long after they had started to cramp and ache.

Swiðgar was grim and serious. He seldom spoke, walking always in the lead, keeping his eyes open and ears alert for any clue of danger or trouble in the path ahead. Ecgbryt, on the other hand, exalted in the prospect of danger and adventure.

The knights were ideal traveling companions—they seemed to be walking libraries. Ecgbryt would go a ways in silence and then suddenly launch into a tale about a battle he had participated in, usually with King Ælfred against the Vikings. Daniel would always press him with questions about the details of his exploits, but would be forced into silence when his store of questions was exhausted.

Freya found Ecgbryt and Daniel exasperating at times, and preferred walking with Swiðgar up ahead. She was fond of his riddles, and he seemed to know hundreds of them. She only ever guessed a few of them correctly, but a good one would keep her mind turning for hours before she allowed Swiðgar to tell her the answer. She was never disappointed—even when she needed him to explain the answer. She even memorised a couple of her favorites.

Both Daniel and Freya enjoyed the knights' ballads. Both knew long ballads that sometimes took over an hour to recite; some of them were so complex, they had no idea how the warriors kept them all separate in their heads—although one of them would correct the other from time to time. Ecgbryt's songs and poems all seemed to be about battles and heroic deeds; Swiðgar's about journeys and strange experiences and observations.

They had been following the path of a small stream—barely a trickle of water that ran steadily downwards through a narrow, gutter-like tunnel—and this lead them into a larger, open space where the echoes of their movements grew further apart and softer, and a stiff wind blew across them. More significantly, they heard sounds that they did not cause.

“Whisht,”
hissed Swiðgar, motioning them to stop. They all held their breath, crouching to let their ears pick out sounds of shuffling and scraping. The sounds were regular and continuous— not the sounds of people trying not to be heard.

“I think I see something,” said Freya. “Just up ahead. It's a kind of swirling motion—things moving around a light—up there on that rock.”

“
Swa swa
, so it also seems to me,” said Swiðgar. “Let us approach cautiously. There may be danger in the shadows.”

“Let it fall upon us,” Ecgbryt huffed. “It will meet my axe coming up to greet it. The night before Ælfred harried the Viking chieftain Hastein at Appledore and Milton—”

“Hush, broðor,” commanded Swiðgar.

“I am sorry, but my weapon is mighty tired from being carried around like an infant. It longs to stretch itself.”

“I will stretch it across your head if you do not strap your tongue to your teeth,” Swiðgar snapped testily. He halted in front of them but did not turn around. “God's wounds, you are a worse prattler than Asser.”

“Aye, broðor,” said Ecgbryt with a wink at Daniel, who grinned back at him. “Aye, calm yourself, it is well.”

They crept forward, approaching the lit figure. Looking around, Daniel could see that they were entering what seemed to be a confluence of tunnels. The walls were honeycombed with black, twisting holes of various sizes—from tall, black, foreboding ruptures in the walls that spewed cold winds to holes small enough to perhaps only wriggle through, but that were so smooth they may have been sanded out of the stone. The atmosphere was a bewildering confusion of cross breezes and vortexes.

The wide, flat ground stretching before them was about the size and dimension of a football pitch and looked like some sort of abandoned mining site littered with old rickety frames and boards that were slowly rotting next to decaying bits of canvas and string. A dry and crumbling bucket lay beside an old well, and there was the occasional stone ring that encircled a fire-scorched spot of earth.

Freya could now make out the moving shapes more clearly; they were people, all milling slowly around a glowing violet light. She blinked her eyes and shook her head. For a moment she thought there was something wrong with her, but then she figured it out—it was definitely people that she saw, but as she came nearer, she found that they were very, very small.

At first she had assumed them to be far away, but now she saw that they were quite close. The tallest of them could be no more than two feet high. There seemed to be about thirty or forty of them, walking around a shiny, cylindrical object that was nearly as big as they were—a brass lamp that gave off a faint purple light.

Half of them were moving in one direction, and half of them in the other. The lines wove in and out but without any bumping, jostling, or confusion, like bees around a hive, Freya thought. Closer, she could see that the little people were wearing roughly woven clothes of dark and faded colours. Some wore curious felt hats, others had twine belts. Some had tattered shoes, but most were barefoot. The men had long beards, and the women wore long tresses. All were dumpy, with sagging faces, glumly circling the brass lamp, faces to the light, murmuring to each other in low tones.

All except one. On a smallish boulder that nonetheless placed him several heads' height above the others sat a fat figure, much better clothed than the rest, even if just as glum.

“Gnomes,” groaned Swiðgar, shaking his head. “Cuthbert preserve us.”

2

“Gnomes?” repeated Daniel. “Really? What do they do? I mean, what are they? Where are they from?”

“They are a long-lived people—perhaps the smallest of the underground races. They make their homes in the corners unused by the other earth-livers. They are generally happy folk and do not usually intend harm or mischief to any.”

“Not that it would make much difference if they were to,”

Ecgbryt muttered.

“They mimic the actions of other races—of men, elves, dwarfs, and even goblins, I have heard tell. I would guess that the one on the rock is the king or chieftain.”

Ecgbryt snorted. “The dwarfish races sometimes use them as cheap helpmates. They don't ask for money, content only to do what they see the dwarfs doing.” He shrugged.

“Why do they copy others?” Freya asked.

“They are Healfmods,” answered Ecgbryt, “that is, half-spirited, or halfminded—they do not think entirely for themselves.

All of them share their thoughts, such as they are, with the rest.

Apart, each of them is stupid. Together . . . in truth, together they are not much more.”

The gnomes were still moving and muttering to themselves in low voices, just as they had before. The only sign that they had registered the presence of the four newcomers was a quick dart of the eyes towards and away from the strangers, although their faces still remained sad and mournful, not in the least surprised or interested.

The travelers stood and watched for a time. The steady, circling movement and purple light was oddly hypnotic and relaxing. Daniel feared that he might turn into one of those mindless gnomes if he didn't say or do something soon. Stepping forward, he drew a deep breath and called, “Hello!” in a loud voice.

The gnome on the rock jumped, his eyes comically wide. All of the gnomes stopped instantly as their heads spun around from every direction until they stopped at Daniel.

“Who said that?” said one with a bushy beard.

“Who's there?” said another, a woman with a hat.

“Who said what?” asked a third.

“Hello,” answered a fourth.

“Who's there?” asked a fifth.

“What?” said a sixth.

This fit of responses took Daniel by surprise and he stood in silence with the others. The chief had looked at him expectantly, as if he had spoken, though he never said a word.

“Um,” he began again, his eyes going from the chief to the crowd of gnomes and back again. “My name is Daniel and . . . uh, I'm—I mean we—are looking for a tunnel down to the Slæpismere. If any of you, that is, if all of you, er, know of a way down, then that'd be, you know, great. Uh . . . otherwise, if you don't, then that's okay—but if you do, do you think you could . . .”

Daniel could hear himself babbling stupidly but he couldn't stop. About sixty eyes were on him, staring steadily and expectantly. It wasn't until Ecgbryt put a hand on his shoulder that he broke off.

“Best go easy, æðeling,” Ecgbryt said gently. Then he addressed the small crowd. “The Slæpismere. We seek it. Where is it?”

“They seek the Slæpismere!”

“Oh dear, where is it?”

“I say, what is it?”

“Alas! Who wants it?”

“Alack! Who is it?”

“Slæpismere. Oh my.”

“The Slæpismere.”

This time the chieftain closed his eyes and seemed to exert considerable effort before opening his mouth. “Hello,” he managed eventually.

“Hi,” said Freya. “What's your name?”

“Negan,” the gnome answered after a shorter pause and a little less effort. “We are called Negan.”

“Oh.” Freya nodded. “Okay.” The other gnomes were standing quietly, watching the travelers.

“We understand that you seek the Slæpismere . . .”

“Yes, that's right.”

The gnome closed his eyes and nodded his head wisely. “Have you found it?” he asked, opening them again.

Freya faltered and Daniel picked up the conversation again.

“No. Do you know where it is?”

This brought the gnome chorus back again.

“Where is it?”

“The Slæpismere, where's the Slæpismere?”

“The Slæpismere? Forsooth!”

“What's one of those?”

“Who had it last? Oh me.”

“Where is it? Oh my.”

The gnome chieftain closed his eyes and the murmuring stopped. “No,” he said after a time. “We don't know where it is. It may be down one of these tunnels,” he said, gesturing around him.

“Not that we would know.”

“Why not, haven't you been down them?” Freya asked.

“Didn't you make them?” Daniel asked.

“Down them? Ha!” began the chorus.