The Sword of Sighs (The Age of the Flame: Book One) (3 page)

This place was very old. Aeons old. Ancient even.

She could feel it.

“How did I get here?”

Silence weighed heavily upon the forest, and Sarah knew she would get no answers sitting on a tree root in the dark. She got to her feet, brushed herself down. She fought the urge to cry, to shout, to scream, and run in fear through the dismal place.

She walked on into the forest.

The going was not easy, nor pleasant. The damp and cold of the forest made her dirty clothes cling to her. Her feet and ankles were soon soaking from squelching through mud, mulch, and puddles of bog-water. Brambles, branches and twigs nicked her face and snagged her sleeves and pants until she was sure she looked like a scarecrow. She followed the light that pierced the leaves, hoping that if she kept going long enough, there would be something else for her to follow. An animal crawling out of the undergrowth, perhaps. A night-bird taking flight. Something to lead her to the edge of the forest and to the outside world. There was no other way for her to find out how she had got there. Or where, exactly, she was. Her stomach rumbled, and despite the dampness, her mouth was growing very dry. But there was no clean water in this place; she would have to keep going.

Something has to happen soon
, she thought.

Something has to show me the way.

~ ~ ~

It was not so much a house as a hut that she came to. It squatted low on a mossy bank of piled earth and the windows were small, grubby squares. It was made from white wooden logs partially plastered over with grey clay. Light streamed from the windows and smoke from the chimney. Sarah was very tired and hungry, so she walked away from the path of moonbeams she had been following through the forest, climbed the squelching bank of earth, and knocked at the stunted door. The door opened to reveal an old woman clad in loose hessian clothes that had seen better days. She was stooped at the shoulders, and her features were long, pinched, and narrow. Pearl-like eyes peered from the many wrinkles that made up her face. In her hands was a broom of silver birch, which she set aside as soon as she laid eyes upon Sarah. She smiled and stood away from the threshold, spreading out one arm.

“Please, child, do come and warm yourself by my hearth. It is cold and wet in the forest, and you look hungry. I have warmth, water, and food for you. Please, child, come in. Do come in.”

Sarah hesitated, eyeing the old woman and the way she smiled as if she were suddenly the hungry one. Then the odour of roasting meat wafted out to her, and she stepped inside. The old woman closed the door behind her. Sarah heard the sound of a crude bolt being driven home but didn’t much care. She saw a plain bed by a fireplace, over which a steaming pot of stew was coming to the boil, and a small table with two chairs. There were books on the table, old and leather-bound, as well as scattered bundles of herbs and flora. The old woman must have been doing something with the bundles when Sarah disturbed her.

“Sit. Sit. Please, sit. Welcome to my humble home, child. Won’t you tell me your name?”

“Sarah Bean.”

“I am Yagga. Have you heard of me?”

Sarah shook her head, hoping she had not offended the old woman.

Yagga shrugged. “Some in the Thirteen Worlds have, some haven’t. It doesn’t matter.”

“The Thirteen Worlds? What do you mean?”

“The Thirteen Worlds. Each one of which hangs above our heads, resting on the bows and branches of this place, where the roots of all Worlds grow and the Paths to and from them all lead. This is the Wood Beneath the Worlds. Which World did you come from?”

This is like a dream, Sarah thought.

“America ... Earth.”

"Earth-Earth-Earth ... ah, yes, the Twelfth World, I think, or maybe Eleventh. Have you been to the Thirteenth? No, no, you can’t have done. It’s dark and lonely out there, and those who go to the Thirteenth never come back. Not very nice there. No, it’s not very nice at all.”

“Do you come from ... a World?”

“Me? No-no-no-no. The Wood Beneath, this is my home. I look after the trees, care for them and tend their roots. And now I have someone to help me, which is
wonderful!
”

“Help you…? No, look, I’m sorry, you’re very kind, but I need to get out of here. Get back home. I don’t know how I got here, but I need to get back home ... to Earth.”

“There is no getting back.”

“But you just said there were Paths.”

“And there are, but you will not tread them because you are staying here with me.” Yagga’s voice became hard. “You have crossed over my threshold, and you may not cross back out without my blessing, which I will not give. I could do with a maid, someone to keep the place in good order, clean and tidy for me. You will do well enough.”

“But I can’t. My Mom and sister will be worried about me.”

“Then they can worry.”

Whoever she was, Sarah thought, she must have gone mad living alone down here. Sarah went to the door, opened it and took a step forward. Pain surged up from her foot as it hung in mid-air, a fierce sensation of pins and needles that soon became blistering agony. She collapsed to the floor, gasping. Cold sweat broke out all over her body, and she hugged herself tight as the pain subsided in gradual waves.

Yagga's shadow fell over her. “I’m sorry, dear, but I can’t let you leave. Whatever sent you here to me, sent a blessing, and I mean to keep you, whether you like it or not.”

~ ~ ~

The days and nights that passed were sad, slow things. Yagga put Sarah to work. She slept on a thin mattress woven from straw and reeds and was awoken each morning by Yagga rapping her across the shoulders with her walking stick.

“Up, up, up. Get up. Morning is here. Time for your chores if you want food and water today.”

Each day, the tasks were different but depressingly familiar: scrubbing out the fireplace, mopping the floor, picking bad grains from the rice and meal that Yagga brought home.
Never meat,
Sarah thought,
just thin rice gruel and bland porridge to subsist on, along with tepid water. That smell of roasting meat was an illusion to entice me in.

“There are no animals in the Wood, child. Only the trees and a few things that fall through to us from the Worlds, just like you did to me,” Yagga said with a smile.

Only I didn’t fall
, thought Sarah,
I was taken. Brought here. Somehow. For some strange reason.

She cried at night, keeping as quiet as she could. She missed Mom; her sister, Kiley; and her boxer pup, Malarkey. She missed kisses, comfort, and loving hugs. There was none of that here, just Yagga’s crazed mumbling, guttural snoring, and that stick smacking across her shoulders every morning until she was sure she could feel bruises blossoming. She cried at night, and when Yagga left the hut to forage, she cried again, though it was so dark outside it might as well have been night still.

She only knew the difference between day and night because Yagga said it was so, in the beginning.

Then, one day, Sarah saw the White Rider for the first time. She had been outside, sweeping leaves, moss, and mould away from the hut with a broom that had seen better days,
much
better days, when she heard the thunder of hooves. She stopped and turned in the direction of the sound. There was a light, dim but growing steadily more brilliant with every second. Out of the dark of the Wood it came, blazing like a small sun, and Sarah thought of being in its path. Images of racing trains, speeding cars, and the shriek of brakes hit too late by the driver flooded her mind as the light resolved into the form of a man on horseback. A knight in armour fashioned from the essence of fire. No smoke or fumes rose from him, only flickering iridescent tongues that did not seem to touch the wood of the trees or to ignite it.

“… O Flame, so softly bound, thy Fire is rising …”

He is burning
, she thought,
just like I did, this knight is made of the same Flame.

He was passing her—intent on his Path, streaming with glimmering trails of gold—when he turned his head to her. She felt his unseen eyes appraising her. A pleasant warmth passed through her as he moved on, burning then glowing, and then finally dwindling into the distance, following his Path.

But for a moment, he had stolen a glance at her.

Why?

Maybe he recognised something in me,
she thought, as she bent back to her sweeping.
Maybe we are the same because we burn with the same Flame.

~ ~ ~

The next day, when she swept the hut, Sarah found a doll in a corner.

A small doll stitched of old sacking, wedged inside a crevice. She set her broom down, took the doll out, and brushed it down. It had a chipped button for an eye and traces of thread holding it together. There were felt stumps where cloth ears had once been. She could feel that it was stuffed with grain of some kind, probably the bad ones Yagga had her pick out until she couldn’t tell white from black. Though she was sure she could feel something sturdier in there, like a length of knotty root.
Someone’s attempt to give the doll a crude skeleton?
she wondered.

It wasn’t much, but it was something she could call a friend.

It’s like the bear I won at the rifle range when Dad was still alive,
she thought.

She hid the doll away under her mattress and went back to sweeping, but her mind was on the doll. There was something about it. Had that root inside moved when she’d touched it?

No. It couldn't be.

But then a great many things that she thought couldn’t be now could be.

Thirteen Worlds,
she thought.
I wonder what’s out there?

~ ~ ~

That night, as Yagga slept snuffling and snoring, Sarah took the doll out from under her mattress and spoke to it. She told it about her day, about how much she missed home, Mom, and her sister, Kiley. And Dad. Everything that she knew was gone. She’d lost it all somehow by running into the Hall of Mirrors. Everything had changed then. She cried hard while she talked to the doll, but she later fell asleep a little lighter in her heart.

Then, the next night when she took it out, the doll spoke to her.

Chapter Four

Sarah’s tongue was still with shock as she heard a voice; crisp, dry, and rustling like old autumn leaves, coming from the doll.

“Hello, Sarah.”

“Who are you?”

“Call me Gorra.”

“Gorra ... okay ... how come you can talk?”

“Because this is not your World, and I am not a doll. I am Yagga’s prisoner as much as you are. She trapped me in this body a long time ago. She took the Wood Beneath the Worlds away from me.”

“But she said she tends the trees and looks after their roots.”

“No. She lies, always. I am Gorra. I am the Wood Beneath the Worlds: its heart and soul, its bole and sap. Without me, it has grown dark and dangerous. Yagga’s touch is making it fall into decay.”

“But—”

“Do you think a woman who keeps you as her slave tells the truth, Sarah?"

“Do you think I should believe a doll that talks? How do I know you aren’t lying to me too? You could be as bad as she is.”

"I could, but do I talk to you in the same way as Yagga? Do I command, starve, and beat you? And can I harm you now, such as I am?”

“I don’t know but things are different here to home. You might hurt me.”

“I might, but you need a friend, Sarah.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I listen when you speak and cry at night. I can help you if you help me. There are Paths out of the Wood Beneath the Worlds, and the White Rider can take you with him along such a Path. I can ask the trees to guide him to us.”

“I’ve seen him. He still seemed to be able to find his way out of here.”

“Not even Yagga can stop the White Rider, but he will not stop or pause unless the Wood is made well again.”

That’s what you think,
thought Sarah, remembering the Rider favouring her with a glance.
I wonder what it means that he paused for me, then?

“... the Burning One ... carries the Fire ... Keeper of the Flame ...”

“Sarah?”

She snapped out of her reverie and looked at the doll. The Rider had paused for her, but would he stop? Did she know how to make him stop?

She knew Yagga would not teach her, even if there were a way.

She had to trust this doll, for better or worse.

“Okay, Gorra. I will help you. What you need me to do?”

“Feed me. Just a little every day, not so much that she notices what you’re doing. It’ll take time, but feed me enough grain and oats and I will get us out of here.”

Sarah smiled despite herself and kissed the doll on its sack-cloth cheek.

~ ~ ~

Sarah did as she was told.

Each day, when she was picking the bad grains and oats out, she kept a little aside, less than a thimbleful. And when Yagga slept, she took out the doll and fed it. It was only a very little every day, but days turned into weeks and then into months. Life became a haze, and Sarah became so thin and weak that she barely protested when Yagga struck her across the shoulders in the morning with the stick. But still she stole pinches of food to feed her friend. And Gorra thanked her and stayed hidden beneath Sarah’s mattress. He became no fatter, as she might have expected, and he said no more about what he was going to do to save her.

Perhaps he lied,
she thought.
Perhaps he is like a rat, like vermin feeding on what I steal for him. Spirit of the Wood? That little doll? I’m so stupid.

Then, one morning, Yagga awoke her with a vicious beating. Sarah threw her arms up to defend herself against the blows raining down. She cried out and shouted. Eventually, Yagga relented and smiled at her. “Well done, dear. You did well. Stealing food from me for this long without my noticing.”