The Land's Whisper (5 page)

“Time to stop my foolishness,” Darse said
suddenly to himself. “This needs to end.”

Even if the cost is high.

He threw his blankets back and leapt from
his pallet. The floor was wooden and bare, but its coolness was
refreshing and familiar as it creaked to life beneath him. He
jumped nimbly into the main room.

A chill fingered his spine and his Adam’s
apple hung heavy in his throat.

A noise. It was familiar—he had noticed it
previously with Brenol—but now he perceived its source. It issued
from the cellar door.

Down there?
With the portal?
He shook his head as if to dispel the sound.

The noise ceased.

Darse smiled sheepishly.
I’m losing my
wits. There’s no one behind that door.

Not entirely convinced, though, he stepped
hesitantly to a shelf, palmed a key from a small box, and returned.
He pushed the worn oak table to the side and swept the ragged blue
rug up so it lay in an awkward curl. The little lock rested in a
nook of the floorboards, cunningly carved to be inconspicuous and
flush with the floor. He fingered the key with a fearful longing
before thrusting its cool silver into the lock.

It was the same as it always had been: his
heart thundering with anticipation. Darse sighed and nearly
returned the key to the box—he had experienced this letdown too
many times—yet his dream had planted a doubt. He knew he could not
uproot the lie without seeing the depressing truth of the closed
portal with his own eyes.

He inhaled.

The clicks of the lock sent a thrill through
him, and he chided himself, “What am I? A child? There is nothing
new here.”

Darse had to yank the door open to combat
the stiff, unused hinges, but then he released it with a pounding
crash as he cowered back in shock. He stumbled and fell, and his
wrists flared in pain from their sharp impact with the floor. He
attempted to scamper backwards in a wild flailing motion.

He was acutely aware of the bare flesh of
his chest.

The wolf from below thrust the slammed—but
now unlocked—door open with an impressive smack from his burly neck
and clambered up effortlessly. He was an enormous creature with
onyx eyes, umber brown fur, and a fearful grin. He filled the small
room with his bulky frame, easily half the height of a man, and
loomed before Darse. He was dripping wet and smelled of nectar and
wet dog.

“I have seal for you,” he said in a rumble.
Drool slid from the side of his mouth and pooled beneath him.

Darse clambered to both his feet, shaking
and shocked. His heart raced as he eyed the monster warily.

“I have seal for you,” the wolf
repeated.

Darse nodded and swallowed, not
understanding.

The wolf snorted at the man’s reaction. He
stretched his muscles as though about to shake free of the dripping
water, but he halted mid-movement as his piercing eyes took in his
surroundings.

“May I offer you anything?” Darse asked
shakily.

“I am no visitor,” the wolf asserted. His
black eyes bore into the man, and Darse caught amusement there. It
did not have a calming effect.

“I have seal for you.”

“Seal?”

The wolf flipped open a white pouch that
hung snugly around his neck. It could have been taken for a collar
at a first glance, but this was an animal unlikely to be owned by
another. He held the pouch under his paw and, with a practiced
flick of his jaw, shook a letter out and adeptly sent it flying in
Darse’s direction. It hit the man’s hand and fell to the ground.
Darse stared, bewildered, before finally crouching down and
retrieving the envelope.

The thin paper was remarkably dry and as
smooth as satin, with a musky scent. He broke the sealed wax—a
clear-gold inscribed with a simple image of a fish’s tail—and slid
the tiny note out into his palm.

Concisely, it read:
Massada invites you
to return.

Darse gaped, stupefied. He looked to the
wolf, but the filthy creature was already retreating down the
stairs. “Wait. When do I go? What am I to do?”

The wolf snapped his head up and stared hard
with savage eyes. As though sensing the fear that flowed fast in
Darse’s blood, the wolf smiled. His lupine teeth curled the
gesture—whether volitionally or not—into a sneer.

“I only deliver through the portals,” he
replied. He shuffled back to make his exit, hesitated, and spoke,
“The canal is open. You’re free to enter Massada at your instinct.”
He bowed his snout and growled.

Darse felt every bone in his spine tingle.
The wolf bounded down the stairway. Darse heard a splash as the
creature took to water.

Darse peered into the dark, but only after a
few minutes of silence did he see the mass of white envelopes
strewn before the cellar door. There were dozens of them. They all
read his name on the outside, just as the one clenched in his fist,
except paw prints and muddied water had soiled the thin letters
below to a mess of pulp. Darse shuddered thinking of the number of
wolves that had been scratching beneath his house.

Not exactly tame. Not exactly wild. Just
like da said.

Darse shivered as a slight breeze stole up
from the stairway and swept upon his bare chest. He closed the door
with a hasty crash, and fumblingly clicked the lock again in place.
He flopped the rug flat and slid the table to its original position
as if the semblance of order might somehow restore his mind. It was
early morning, but he stepped to the stores cupboard and retrieved
a smooth brown bottle. He poured himself a liberal amount and
stared at the mug in a frozen stupor.

A wolf in my house. From the portal
downstairs. From Massada.

His fingers found the mug and he drew it to
his lips. The liquid seared his throat but warmed his belly, and he
felt the heat travel to his limbs and relax them. His breathing
evened from the quick rasps, and he took another sip. He shook
faintly as he peered down at the silver key resting upon the wooden
table. It gleamed up as though it expected answers.

Could Veronia really know Bren? Or is that
still just a dream?

He pushed the cup away, but only after
another hasty gulp. It stung his senses even while it soothed them.
He knew what he must do.

~

Darse sat before the fire, thankful for its
blinding heat. His face seared under the surge of hot air, but his
back still ached and clenched from the greedy chill behind him. He
wrapped his old afghan absently around his shoulders and mused.

His small house creaked as the night air
crept in and the wood settled for the evening. It was nearing
twilight, and Darse had several candles and an oil lantern ready
should he need to leave the blazing light of his fire. Absently, he
stoked the flames. Sparks and smoke jumped and flickered, but he
gave them little notice.

Can I truly think to leave him? Can I live
without him? He is practically my—

“You’re not being fair,” Brenol said again.
His face flushed a crimson that highlighted his freckles and
ruffled red locks.

“It just isn’t that simple, Bren. It’s not
simple at all.”

The conversation was not unfolding how Darse
had foreseen, and now his gut began to tighten and knot.
My past
is tied to this strange other world, but my present is so twined up
in this boy,
Darse thought.
I know I must go, but…

“Then explain it.” Brenol narrowed his eyes
into a glare and fixed it upon the older man. All the boy could
feel was anger, stirring and boiling hotter.

Darse again prodded the logs, wishing his
tongue would find the words. To reveal the truth to Brenol would be
a breach, but to be silent was a tarnishing of love. He could only
choose the former, yet his long-held silence made that path
unfamiliar and excruciating.

“Stop poking it, old man!” Brenol fumed. In
the small home, the shout seemed blaring.

Darse’s sea-blue eyes lifted. The dark jade
of Brenol’s flashed, and the accusing glance wrenched Darse’s
stomach anew. The youth’s thin face appeared almost gaunt in the
shadowy evening.

“If…” Darse began.

“If?”

Darse sighed. “It’s not so easy to speak of
this. I’ve held it inside my whole life.”

When Darse did not continue, Brenol asked
through clenched teeth, “Can you at least tell me
why
you
can’t tell me?” The words felt imbecilic rolling from his lips, but
he could barely control himself in the crashing inner tide of
fury.

The older man glanced thoughtfully at the
crackling flames. “There are several reasons,” he began.

Darse thought back to his own childhood, to
his father revealing the secret of the portal and the other world.
In that moment, the mystery had drawn his mouth open in a soft “oh”
of understanding. Sim had suddenly fit in the young Darse’s mind
like the pieces of a jigsaw smoothing together into a single
picture.

Perhaps I’ll make sense to Bren too now, in
a new way.

And you think he’s as introspective?
Darse, don’t be a fool,
the man chided himself.

Despite his remonstrations, Darse knew he
could be silent no more. He had shared his life with this boy.
Their friendship had grounded them both when all else on Alatrice
had wavered. It was too much to leave with those eyes on him still
harsh and confused. It was a chastening Darse could never bear.

Then do it quickly, you old fool.

He inhaled, and plunged. “Massada isn’t just
a story. I have a portal here. My mother was from Massada. I was
born there.” His open palms swept through the air in hurried
gesture. As the words flowed out, they left him with a bitter
taste; this was not simply his own secret. He now spoke of a hidden
world full of lives and souls, and he had promised his father to
safeguard it with his honor.

“You’re a liar.”

Darse narrowed his eyes at the boy, but
something in that young face softened the man. Darse understood
Brenol and his imperfections. He had known the boy for orbits. He
could see with the practiced eye of the aged that one day Brenol
would be so much more: strong, controlled, honorable, good, kingly.
Something in that small forethought tickled at him, as though there
was a depth to it beyond mere musings, but he let it settle.

“Wait a moment. I’ll show you something,”
Darse said.

He stood from his seat and let the comfort
of the blanket fall to the ground. Cold wrapped him as he
methodically set to lighting his lantern. He then stepped across
the dark room—the lantern’s brass handle creaking beneath each
movement—to the far wall where a trunk lay dusty from disuse.
Brenol had barely ever given notice to the yellowing box; his
friend had never once opened it in his presence. Interest sparked
in his green eyes. He leaned forward, hands upon his knees.

The man extracted a few diggings from his
pockets before selecting a rusted key and feeding it into the dark
hole.

Darse peered at him sideways. “I’ve never
shown this to anyone. You must keep it a secret, you
understand?”

Brenol nodded, hardly breathing.

Darse bent again and pilfered through the
trunk, until he rose hugging a small box the size of one of
Brenol’s lesson books. Darse gingerly set it between them. He
lifted the lid, and dust fell like a sheet before rising in a
cough-inducing cloud. Brenol squinted at the paper Darse held
before him.

“Look,” Darse whispered, unfolding the
yellowing page with reverent care.

Brenol bent to examine the find. It was an
aged map of Massada, beautifully drawn in vivid colors. It was
realistic and intricately detailed. The terrisdans of Massada were
each labeled and had lines to display blue rivers cutting through
the countrysides. The mountains were gorgeous, artfully drawn
purple peaks, with names upon each rise and plateau. The
inks—although the paper had aged into a lemony beige—had remained
intact and vibrant. Brenol’s interest was already keen, but when he
looked through the hand glass Darse laid before him, he gasped. The
glass revealed pictures of creatures in precise areas as the
marking of species’ communities:
umburquin
, juile
,
human,
ignalli,
frawnish
,
maralane
… It was
beyond intriguing.

“The paints and ink for this…they must have
cost a treasure.”

Brenol pored over the paper, and Darse felt
an unforeseen delight ignite within him. He himself had known that
awe; his father Sim had slipped the map between book and small
nose, laughing at his stammering son. Yes, the mystery had once
filled Darse mind like a song. It had long since grown stale with
waiting and disappointment, but now Darse found the amazement from
his youthful friend drawing the secret to life in him with a
renewed awe.

Brenol gaped at Darse. “How did you make it?
Where did you get the supplies?”

Darse smiled, shaking his head. “Don’t you
see? This isn’t mine. All these stories of Massada that I’ve told
you, this map, everything—it is
real
, Bren. It’s not a
trick. This is real. And I’ve been called back.”

Brenol stared hard at the man’s face.
Darse’s eyes pleaded tiredly, his weariness aging him more than the
salted locks littering the brown. Brenol flipped the map with his
fingers. Something stirred within the boy like a dream or a memory
lost in a haze. The sensation was new and almost entirely opposite
to his natural manner of thinking. There was a profoundness to the
moment that made him blink hard, as though somehow that small
action would bring understanding.

Brenol finally spoke, slowly, “But it can’t
be.” His voice lifted at the close as if in question.

Darse rose and crossed over to stare out the
black pane of glass.

Something in the shadowy profile drove the
last doubts from Brenol. “You really
are
telling the
truth?”