The Descent to Madness (14 page)

             
“The rug…”

             
“Yes… and?”

             
He focused more. The rug was uncomfortable.

             
“Stones? Dried earth?”

             
“Better.” The shaman’s voice was quiet, patient. “But use more than your flesh. What can you smell? What can you hear? Use it all, form a picture.”

             
Drawing in a deep breath, Stone analysed what he could smell. The sweet wood-smoke of the fire. The unmistakable aroma of roast chicken. No, these weren’t what he needed. Another breath, concentrating harder, trying to weed out the smells of the earth.

             
“I can smell… the rain hitting the stones outside. I can hear the puddles splashing as they form… I…”

             
“Focus…” Almost a whisper.

             
The crackling of the fire receded, leaving only the noise of the rain on the ground and the roof of the hut. The smell of chicken disappeared, replaced with the rich, earthy smell of wet soil and grass. He pictured the rain falling, landing on the hard stones, trickling down, working their way into gaps in the soil. Further, they worked their way down, past the topsoil, winding their way through the roots of nearby trees until they reached layers of rock. The water forced its way into gaps even in this, trickling down, down into the depths. He could smell the rich mineral scent of ancient rock. He could taste the tang of copper on his tongue. The water fell further down, following lines it had travelled for millions of years and would travel for millions more, down, down, down until it reached a vast, flowing underground stream that rushed, bigger, mightier than the river that meandered from the mountains to the plains of the surface world. Downward he journeyed, till he reached the bedrock of this subterranean flow, and further still. The rock was dense now, hard, tempered by unknowable aeons of pressure, time the very scale of which would drive a man insane should he know but a fraction of its expanse.

The stone was cold, but the further down he travelled, the warmer it seemed to get.

             
Stop.

             
Further down now and the stone began to melt, glowing orange, then white, and he could tell that it descended down an unimaginable distance, far greater than that of the solid rock above, dropping away beneath him like a great, endless ocean of burning, liquid rock.

             
Come back.

             
He swam, marvelling in the bright, white light that should have been impossible in the bowel of the earth where no sun could penetrate, but was generated instead by the heat of the rock itself.

             
Come back now!

He recoiled momentarily in shock, as a giant shadow swam past, a predator, living and hunting in the incandescent fury of the earth’s blood.

             
You must return!

He gazed in wonder as a diamond the size of a mountain floated past. He turned his senses further downwards, thousands of miles, sensing a looming mass of impossible density, great even than the diamond, feeling an attraction drawing him in.

             
Enough!

*** 

He opened his eyes, gasping for breath. He could smell burning and it wasn’t the fire. Wrynn stood a distance away, on the other side of the hut. He looked down at his sleeves, once sodden, now singed, long past steaming, beginning to smoke at the edges. The chicken leg, still clutched in his hand, a charred, unrecognisable lump.

             
He looked up.

             
“Wha… what happened?”

             
The tall shaman loomed closer, his eyes glistening with a curious mixture of emotions; caution, respect and most of all, curiosity.

             
“You went in too deep, I had to call you back.”

             
“You mean, I was actually there…?”

             
Wrynn nodded.

             
“In spirit, yes.” Drama over, he sat down again, in his place opposite Stone. “By travelling like so, you channel the essence of your destination back to you. You travel to the earth, you bring back its strength, its nourishment.”

             
Looking down at his gently smoking clothes, Stone gulped.

             
“And I went too far…”

             
A nod.

             
“You need to show more restraint,” he warned. “The heat of the earth’s own blood was pouring into you. If you were there any longer, I would have had to flee.”

             
Hesitating, Stone continued.

             
“There was another realm, even further beyond. I could feel it, heavy, leaden, drawing me in. What if I’d ventured there?”

             
The shaman fixed him with a serious stare.

             
“Then you would have entered the lair of the Elements themselves uninvited. And perished.”

             
Silence for a time, neither talking, both thinking of the events that had just unfolded.

             
After length, Wrynn spoke, Stone confused by the sudden levity in his voice.

             
“However,” he began, a slight and unexpected smile lighting up his face, “the very fact that you have to learn restraint is… quite extraordinary.”

             
Stone looked  confused, so he continued.

             
“Most apprentices struggle even to scratch the surface of the Spirit-World, let alone venture too far. Remember how I told you that to draw strength from the earth was a feat of note? I wasn’t joking.” He paused to allow to import to sink in. “In my years of practicing the Spirit-Craft – and it has been
many
years, young one – I have ventured but once into the realm of rock-fire. You, on the other hand, did it by accident.”

***

He slept soundly that night, despite the drama of the day, and awoke refreshed the following morning in the small hut the village had requisitioned for his use during his stay. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, stretching out his arms and legs; they felt curiously strong and limber for saying the gruelling paces he’d been put through the day before…

             
He walked over to the pot of water hanging on the wall and poured some into his hands, washing his face, noting the lack of swelling about his eye, the perfectly uncut lip, the smooth contours of his forehead where there should be a bump.

             
At first, he was confused, but then he remembered how fast he healed; it seemed so long since his life in the wilds that he’d completely forgotten. He was beginning to feel like a regular human being again, he laughed. Wrynn hadn’t mentioned anything about fast healing during his lessons last night. He resolved to ask him when he next had the chance.

             
He grabbed a bread-roll for his breakfast from a small table by the door and pushed aside the hide to venture out into the light of the morning. He stretched again and looked about, the same villagers performing the same tasks as the morning before and the morning before that. He smiled, enjoying the familiar sense of routine. It had been a long while since he’d had routine. Or so he assumed.

He took a big bite of crusty bread and made his way through the village, as though to head out to the Proving Grounds for yet another arduous day of training, but as he rounded one corner he spied familiar figures and heard heated words. Ducking back out of sight, he watched as Arnoon had Lanah
backed against the wall of a hut, arguing furiously, venom in his words. She slapped him. He stormed off.

Stone backed away again, then rounded the corner nonchalantly as though he was just coming round, oblivious to any
happenings around the corner, almost colliding with Lanah coming the other way. She muttered an apology, moved to pass him, then looked up and realised who it was, her face lighting up in an instant.

“Stone! Good morning! I was just talking about you.”

He smiled. “All good, I hope?”

She threaded her arm through his and they walked, arm in arm towards the centre of the village. He was acutely aware of the softness of her skin on his.

“Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but shouldn’t I be heading over to the Proving Grounds for another day’s torture, sorry, training?”

She laughed. “Not today! Have you forgotten? It’s the feast tonight in honour of your arrival to the village. The Youngbloods are venturing to the foothills today, hunting the boar. You’re going with them.”

He stopped and looked at her, head cocked to one side.

“I’m going with them? I’ve had one day’s training. I hardly think I’ll be any use…”

“Judging by your skill with a bow, I’m tempted to think otherwise,” she smiled.

“How…?”

“Neroo is an old friend of mine. He told me of your efforts yesterday. You riled Arnoon, that’s for sure.” She laughed, adding, “and for that, you have my eternal gratitude.”

She paused, a frown of puzzlement playing across her features.

“Going by what he told me, I expected you to look more of a mess this morning.” She reached up to stroke his cheek, turning him this way and that.

“What can I say? I scrub up nicely.”

“That you do.”

They resumed walking, coming shortly to a village centre thronged with Youngbloods and villagers, the Chief and Wrynn both standing in the middle of the crowd. Surreptitiously, Stone
unlooped Lanah’s arm from his own, spying Arnoon in the midst of the Youngbloods. The leader of the youths didn’t need any more incentive to make his life hell. He glanced sidelong at Lanah, whose eyes showed she understood.

Just say they got to the crowd, Farr began to speak, his voice raised for all to hear.

“Tonight we feast, and so we thank the forests of the Hills for the bounty it yields. We thank our Youngbloods, for their bravery and skill in going out to claim that bounty.” He gestured over to a wizened, old man who stood, inconspicuous to one side. “And we thank our fletcher, Yalen, for giving them the means.”

Yalen walked up to Farr, handing him a long arrow, painted white with red feather flights, different from all the arrows he’d seen up till now. Farr took the arrow, raised it up for all to see.

“Who leads this hunt?”

Arnoon stepped forward from the crowd, his chin high. Stone fancied he could see one cheek redder than the other. Farr handed the arrow to the youth, speaking as he did.

“As leader of this hunt, you have the right to First Kill. With this arrow, you hold the honour of our village and you deliver the thanks of our people to the forest.”

Arnoon lifted the arrow in one fist, high into the air in salute. His Youngbloods cheered his name as before, “Arnoon! Arnoon!” though Stone was sure that certain faces in the crowd called out with less enthusiasm than before.

“Every hunt is a cause for celebration,” continued Farr as the chanting died down. “But today’s even more so, for we do it in readiness for tonight’s feast, in honour of our newest villager.”

The crowd parted, leaving Stone on his own, save for Lanah by his side.

“Err… hi.”

The crowd rippled with laughter and Farr smiled as he spoke.

“You have been here but a short while, but today you venture on your first hunt. It is a noble tradition and I ask that you watch, listen, learn. To be a true member of the Plains-People, you must learn to respect the land, reap its bounty but at the same time give thanks.”

He hadn’t noticed Raine and another young girl of the village coming up to him. They stripped him of his jacket, his chest and midsection in the morning sun seeming
somehow thicker, more muscled and defined than even the day before. Lanah circled around to his front and, in her hands, she held a bowl of green war-paint.

“To match your eyes,” she whispered, as she leant in close. She dipped her fingers in the green pigment, and smeared it in swirls across his chest. Then, using finger tips, she drew a single vertical line down each cheek. She turned and nodded to her father, who nodded in return.

The Youngbloods turned and, to the cheers and encouraging slaps of the villagers, began to march off to the plains on the edge of the village that would, in turn, lead them to the forests in the foothills of the mountains. As Stone turned to leave with them, Lanah stopped him.

“You might need these.”

She handed him a bow and quiver of arrows, to the quiet laughter of those nearby who noticed. He grinned sheepishly.

“Cheers. That would have bee
n embarrassing. Would have been embarrassing to face a boar with my bare fists.”