Mist upon the Marsh: The Story of Nessa and Cassie (12 page)

“What?”

“Hide. In the closet. I’ll tell you when it’s safe.”

There came the sound of a pounding fist on the opposite side of the door. But even with this sound, the previous one of beating footsteps did not cease; and it was as if the caller were marching in place, all the while they knocked. Nessa looked from the door, to the window – and hurried towards the latter. She pulled open one of the twelve-paned casements, and swung herself out onto the side of the house, all the while to the astonished gasps of Cassie. She slid herself down a bit; pulled the window shut; and waved to Cassie, who stared into her face till she disappeared.

She dropped into a row of dead shrubbery, and hunched down for a moment. She cocked an ear to the right, and listened closely to the continuation of sound on the second floor of the house; heard Cassie’s door swing open; heard someone stumble loudly into her bedroom; heard the voice of an older female screech most annoyingly into the otherwise empty silence. She and Cassie made several noisy exchanges; the door slammed shut; and there came the repeated sound of footsteps, thumping down the hall. Cassie was alone in her room again.

Nessa thought of hanging back; for she was certain that the window above her would open again, and that a face would come poking out, searching for her. Yet, in that moment, a strange sort of cold fear seized hold of her heart – and, being not entirely familiar with it, she was perhaps more startled by it than she would have otherwise been. And so she sprang without hesitation from the hedge, and sprinted across the lawn, into the street. She had just been swallowed up by a thick patch of shadow, when she heard the sound of the window swinging open. She looked back, and did indeed catch sight of Cassie’s face, a perfect white oval in the midst of unrelenting darkness. But she ran on.

Chapter XIV:

Qiello

Q
uite unbeknownst to Nessa, as she ran with slapping feet down the asphalt of LeMontagne Boulevard, there was a mind across the night focused intently upon her; and it was not one with which she was acquainted, not one that she would have recognised. Yet its fullness radiated through the distance that separated it from Nessa, transmitting a signal in its potency that was almost like a beacon; and the hairs at the back of Nessa’s neck stood inexplicably on end, while her arms broke out in a fit of gooseflesh. These things occurred, however, just at the edge of her awareness; for her mind was already rather preoccupied with its former fear, which had nothing at all to do with anything other than Cassie MacAdam. So she ran on through the dark, turning and turning until the streets fell away, and she was running alone through soft grass. She removed her Turin, changed her shape, and shed her clothes, thinking nothing at all of the fact that she would never see them again. Then she took up the silver chain in her teeth, careful not to let the Turin itself touch her lips. The effect of the Turin upon the wolfen form was incredibly painful; and resulted in a forced return to human shape, after many long minutes of seizing. Nessa had experienced it once as a child, quite accidentally, and had suffered a hot foaming at the mouth, and a bulging of the eyes which had led almost to their ejection from their sockets, while her teeth clacked together nearly to the point of shattering.

In this more lonely location, the effects of the mind turned upon her became more obvious, more recognisable. She hurried on with the feeling that someone was watching her; and looked constantly over her shoulder, fearing perhaps a messenger of Arol. Yet there was nothing there, no physical shape chasing her through the field – just a mind across the night, full and potent, fixed upon her with all its impressive capacity.

The marshland on which Samuel Clocker lived was vast indeed, forming a sort of mossy bowl into which the cleaner waters of surrounding lands trickled into, and grew quickly defiled. Quite as Nessa had thought, earlier in the evening, none but fetid and slippery creatures dwelt there, slithering to and fro among the weeds; for indeed, what others would have wished to?

The house of old man Clocker was the only one for miles about. Of course, this is the very reason he lived there to begin with; for he wanted not to cross paths with other human beings, wanted not to come across them either intentionally or accidentally.

Yet there was a certain group of creatures which inhabited that swampland also; aside from old man Clocker, and aside from the slippery things which slithered to and fro. These creatures were large ones, much larger than Clocker himself; and indeed, if he were to catch sight of even a single one of them, perhaps his iron resolve would have broken into pieces, and his shotgun would have fallen from his hands: turned quickly from tree roots to twigs.

These creatures, for all intents and purposes, were members of the Ziruk. They were bred, quite like all the others, of the blood of Eparo; and they did at one time match perfectly all physical aspects of the house of Arol. Yet their story is a different one – and this story requires telling, for the part which these creatures will play in our account.

To be true, these swamp-dwellers made their place where they did, quite for the same reason as did Mr Clocker. They wanted not to coexist with anyone, or anything. They desired simply to live out the remainder of their wretched lives in peace, feeding miserably off of those slippery things which slithered to and fro. On occasion, a deer or two would wander accidentally into the marsh; and these occasions were valued by the swamp-dwellers as is gold by any ordinary human, if only for their similar rarity.

Do you remember when it was said, that one of the chief duties of the High Prince of the Voranu was to root out all those of his subjects who did not care as they should for their condition? Well, it is true that this was his duty; and it is true that Arol and each before him always took especial care to understand the hearts of the third race. If those hearts did not bend to their will, and their contents did not reflect beneficially on the whole of the race – well, those hearts (and the bodies which housed them) were gotten rid of. Yet there is a single exception to this maxim; and this exception took place on an evening some ten years ago, just before the founding of Curu-ga.

The last safe-house had just been found out. It was stormed by Morachi himself, and a great host of the Endai. Many Voranu were killed, but as on every other of such occasions, a number of them did manage to flee. These escapees went on, of course, to carve the lair of Curu-ga out of the mountainside; but long before they did any such thing, there was a conflict among them, which had been supposed to result in the deaths of six of their members. This conflict took place on the very night of the storming of the safe-house, and consisted of a high-ranking Voranan standing up against the policies of the High Prince. This Voranan, whose name was Qiello, wished no longer to fight the Endai; and asked, instead, that he and the members of his own family should be given permission to go to their brethren, and to suffer whatever fate should come of such an action.

Yet Arol denied his plea. Qiello was labelled a traitor, and sentenced to death. He and his family were bound; and Gormov was ordered to select a number of the Voranu to assist him in hauling the prisoners away, and executing them, while Arol led all of the others to safety.

Gormov and his accomplices were successful, insofar as removing the prisoners to a remote location; but when it came time to kill them, the prisoners managed to burst their bonds. Now, if even a single member of Gormov’s detail had suffered death at the hands of Qiello, it would have been much more difficult to set forth the lie which was forming already in Gormov’s mind. Yet none were killed, and the prisoners only fled, obviously of the opinion that flight would be much more effectual than fight. Gormov and the others chased after them for some time; but finally Gormov decided that it was time to return to Arol, so as not to arouse his suspicion.

Now, it was only recently than Noros had been killed, and Arol had assumed his place. Even more recently had Gormov been promoted to Low Prince; and of course, he wanted not to jeopardise his position, by alerting Arol to the fact that he had allowed Qiello to escape. So he hurried with his accomplices back to the remainder of the pack, and assured Arol that the job was done. Never did he, or any of the others (fearful as they were for their own lives) reveal the truth of Qiello’s escape.

Qiello knew that neither he nor any of his family could ever again return to Arol. He knew this, and he began to regret the decision he had made, the night of the flight from the safe-house. That night, when he escaped from the clutches of Gormov, he considered returning to the safe-house, and to Morachi. Yet he suspected (and was no doubt right in thinking so) that he and his family would be killed by the Endai on sight; and so he only fled farther away, until he had reached a location so very isolated and unremarkable, that he was quite certain of its safety from Arol. The horrible smell of the place, in addition to its remoteness, would serve him well; for its foulness worked to mask the scent of his family. And so they settled there – at the first, only for a single night, so that they might regain their strength for a greater journey. Yet they remained there some days more, and some days more after that, and found that no one came for them there.

And so the days passed into weeks; and the weeks into months. During this time, Qiello held a faint notion inside his mind, of revenge against Arol – and so worked at the propagation of his family, and its quick expansion, in the hopes that someday it might serve as a worthy opponent of Arol.

As was the way of their race, this growing of his family was rapid and efficient; and before too very long, his clan consisted of one-hundred-and-fifteen. An impressive accomplishment, to be sure – but it seemed, with each day that passed, that a new problem was arising.

Of course, Qiello had always known that this idea of war against Arol was foolish. Even were his numbers to double, or to treble, there was no hope of success! Arol’s numbers were far greater. And then there was the matter of Qiello’s own troubles to begin with – the truth of his heart, which had led him to be separated from his people.

He abhorred what he was! He thought of the Endai, and of what he should have been; and he was filled with rage and bitterness. He looked upon his growing clan, and realised too late that he had done wrong. It had never been his intention to spread such a vicious disease! It had never been the will of his heart!

And so he became filled with sadness; and he ordered for all of the pups that had been only recently born, to be drowned in the nearest stream. Yet still his family was great in size.

He fell again upon his first resolve, his first intention; and told his family that he would go alone to Morachi, in search of his aid. His endeavour was cheered, and there were many good wishes bestowed upon him. He set out immediately, and travelled under the cover of night.

When he arrived at Mindren, he pleaded goodwill, and begged an audience with the King. He only narrowly avoided being killed; but still was eventually granted admittance to the private chamber of Morachi.

Morachi looked upon him with unharnessed disgust, and went even so far as to spit upon his feet. Qiello made no show of anger, though his blood began to boil; and he went on only with the words that he had prepared to deliver to the King.

Now, as is the case in all areas of nature, wolves are not possessive of the ability to speak. Should Morachi have chosen, at that moment, to change his shape, he of course could have said not a word to Qiello. But the Voranu were like the Narken in many ways; and one of these ways was their capability for speech. Their voices were rough, and horrid; but still the words were there.

So Qiello went on, then, to plead with Morachi, and to beseech his assistance. And the question of Morachi, quite naturally, was this: how in the world could he ever hope, or even wish, to assist a creature such as
he?

Qiello rambled through lengthy explanations, which consisted of the processes by which Eparo was first transformed into a Voranan. If he could be transformed into such –
well, was it not possible that certain members of the Voranu could be restored to their original and natural state?

Morachi listened to Qiello with no little interest, although he was repulsed and enraged by the subject of the defiling of Eparo. It could even be said that, by the end of his conversation with Qiello, he felt some amount of sympathy for him; and began truly to wish that he
could
help him. But of course, he knew nothing at all of the science of the house of Ingen, and could not even fathom how to begin such an attempt. And so Qiello asked him, was there any hope at all, that their foreign brethren might be able to lend some sort of aid?

But it was here that Morachi drew the line. He knew full well that even his dialogue with Qiello would be viewed by some as a betrayal; and he refused to make the matter known. He sent Qiello from his chamber, and ordered him never to return. Should he ever attempt to do so, he and his family would be rooted out of their hiding places – and exterminated.

But here is where Morachi did more than he ought, and in so doing did great wrong. There was an Endalin guard, of course, who had answered the knock of Qiello upon the round wooden door of Mindren. Morachi went, after Qiello’s departure, to this guard, with the intention of wringing from him a promise of secrecy, and a vow never to speak of what witness he had borne to the Voranan. The guard gave his word to all this – but still Morachi was not satisfied. It is not to say that the deed was easy for him, or that he ever truly forgave himself for the execution of it; but he killed that guard, and buried his body in the forest, just the same.

We shall speak no more of this matter for a while. But, as with all things, it will have its time, and its proper place.

And so – Qiello returned to the swamp, and delivered the unfortunate news to his clan. There was much weeping and mourning, for the salvation that was almost theirs; the salvation that
could
have been theirs, if only the King of Mindren had been willing to offer up just a little bit more of his heart to them.

But it was not to be. So Qiello turned away from any thoughts of hope or freedom, and bid his family do the same.

In the deepest part of the marshland, where scarcely even the sound of the slithering of those slippery creatures could be heard, they built a permanent home. Made of the surrounding elements, it was, and camouflaged against the eye of any curious passers-by (though certainly there would be either few or none of
those
).

As has been said, Qiello was once rather a prominent member of the Voranu; and therefore knew some crucial details pertaining to the work of the house of Ingen, and the method of transforming an Endalin into a Voranan. Though he knew the consequences could be great, he began with several other of his closest comrades the design of the process’s reversal. Eventually they came to what seemed a sensible conclusion, though it was very difficult for them to put any such thing into effect, as their access to any sort of supplies was extremely limited. Yet they found a way, by much sneaking and stealing, and a certain unlocked door of a nearby university – and began the first trial of the reversal of the science of the house of Ingen, thereby attempting to transform the Voranan nature into the Endalin one.