THE
GODS OF GARRANTHE
GODS OF GARRAN
CHAPTER FIVE
Este traveled light. She had a lot of experience traveling the desert towns between Urrlan and Vorlail, the two largest cities. Loaded down with supplies and dressed as a half-garr (no one would believe her for a full garran), Este rode her yithhe away from town. She was careful on the way not to be seen by the garrans or any of their lowly sort. But she now had a mission to complete and this time, she wouldn't come up empty-handed. She smiled as she rode, knowing that her days scouring the wastelands would soon be over in favor of a fresh start elsewhere. All she needed now was the god-stone. No more chasing rouge Garran outlanders surrounded by mud hovels and smelly Ekes. She'd leave this planet and her self-serving father once and for all.
The sun cast a bronze hue over the sandy ravines as she put her back to civilization and plunged into the wilderness. Her goal was Wanthe, one of the ancient cities, too far out for the convenience of the Chanden colonists, and too near the Eye of Innurlaan, a cursed place according to the Garrans (which even the Chandens found unsettling). It was one of the smallest of the seven ancient cities. The winds there were terrible and only a handful of Garrans chose to live in it. Este had contacts there who might help her make her way into the Clan Tribunal.
Getting into the Tribunal would be difficult but Este had a plan. The clan she pretended to come from was a very old one and scattered. No one could prove her claims one way or the other. But as the smaller clans had few that could win the favor of the Tribunal, Este felt that they would gladly accept her, as she was confident she could get the Tribunal to accept her. She could read and write both Chanden and Garran. And she was an expert fighter, even with primitive Garran weapons.
Este's best weapon was the long bow. Other than that she favored the ooluk, a uniquely curved but deadly sword used by the ancient Borrai. This one had been found in a tomb by Garran raiders who were stopped by a Chanden enforcement unit. The sword had been appropriated and had carefully disappeared from the archeology collection turned over to the museum. It was too fine a sword not to be used. The hilt had unusual symbols--like nothing she had ever seen of the Garran writing system. Almost as though it was another culture or race altogether that had written it.
Years ago, when she first got the sword, which the Garrans she met called Jir'cata, she showed the symbols to a number of experts but no one could read it. It was the language of the gods, they said. Anything they did not understand was "of the gods." Hopelessly superstitious, were the Garrans. The sword gave her some status among the Garrans, as they seems to think it was brave of her to wield is. Such weapons were haunted, they said. No one else would dare touch it.
Oddly enough, when she touched it there was a feeling, almost electric. Her mind felt clearer, her aim more true, even her hatred of the Garrans blurred somewhat. Or perhaps it was all in her mind--due to the rumors about the ooluk. She had a feeling that she was a better swords-woman with it than without it. All their mumbo-jumbo must be getting to her. All the more reason to get off this rock--the sooner the better.
With Jir'cata, though, Este felt sure she could impress the Tribunal and find their confidence.
It took nearly five days travel to reach Wanthe, not a pleasant nor safe road, either. Robbers hid along the road--rogue Garrans, that the Garrans themselves could not control. Not only that but Zancha, wild humanoids--scarcely human in some cases-- roamed the wilderlands farther out. They seemed to have no true speech of their own, only nonsense that conformed to no known language. They were practically animals. Even the robbers feared them. Few traveled that road unless they had to.
Este not only was a good fighter, but she also had one last resort: an internal locator. This is something the agency installed internally so that it can't be removed or detected. If she went more than 30 hours without checking in with at least a code of "Riddich," which signaled that she was okay, the office would use the locator and start a rescue mission. She'd never had to use it but it was comforting to know that if anything went wrong, help would come.
Near Wanthe their was a set of hills called "The Hands of the Gods." They were considered blessed, as water flowed freely from them year round. Still no one would go up there lest they lay eyes on the gods of Garran. Rubbish, of course. More superstition. Anyway, Este was afraid of nothing.
The winds were as bad as she remembered them. She stopped as she entered the valley to secure the baggage on her yithhe and make sure nothing would blow free. The air had that dry, Garran smell that irritated her nose. It seemed worse near Wanthe--the stink of the world of Garran.
As she approached Wanthe, Este was impressed by the poverty and state of decay of the city. She had been here before--twice. Not a journey she liked to make. But this time things seemed worse. People looked thinner, their clothes more ragged (if that was possible), the houses looked more ancient and crumbly, and the air seemed drier, and more difficult to breathe.
Annoyed but determined to make this mission work, Este sought shelter claiming clan-right and was given a dusty, creaky room at one of the less wealthy clan-homes. She ate her own rations, rather than trust the cooking of the Garrans, which she found barely edible. After a bath and a bit of rest, Este was ready to begin her quest.
Several days it took of small talk and poking about the town before she found the clan chiefs that she needed to discuss entrance into the Clan Tribunal. She sometimes worried that her Garran accent was flawed or that they would know her for a Chanden. She got these fears only occasionally, like stage-fright, right before an important meeting such as this.
She'd met Molot, son of one of the tribal clans in Wanthe. He seemed somewhat taken with her, inviting her to dinner, talking almost ceaselessly, attempting to impress her with his appearance and strength. None of it impressed her, of course. He was Garran and she had no attraction for him whatsoever, nor for any Garran. Yes, they could be very muscular but there was something about them, apart from the smell, that she found insurmountable. A barrier. Still he showered her with his attentions, which was to her advantage. She gained entrance via his dinner invitation to his father, Heyvaan, an invitation she had no intention of passing up, no matter how repulsed she was to Molot.
Their clan home was triangular, as were many of the buildings in Urrlan. So once inside the place felt disturbingly familiar, but as though she had transported far into the future, when the structure was much older and decaying. She said little to anyone. The less she said, the less chance there was to give away her identity as a Chanden or to mess up somehow. But this silence made her all the more formidable to them--all the more ominous, she knew. So be it.
Dinner was not completely inedible and she managed to get it down, despite the continuous chitchat provided by Molot. His father, Heyvaan, equally silent as herself, sat across the room and watched her. Once the formally of the dinner was over, there was the usual discussion. She learned some of the town and the people and the area. Though by custom they spoke of nothing too secret, with a stranger present. She needed to break through the politeness, into their confidence. She couldn't ask straight out for their support into the Clan Tribunal. The Garrans were not a direct people.
"Where are you from? You are not from anywhere near here," spoke the chief at last. His first words.
"I am Te'jeste, of the South Arch Clan," she said. "My parents died when I was young. I was raised by my aunt, Miggreth, near Noloon." They nodded vaguely. It made little sense to them. None challenged it. "When I was ten, she died and the Chanden took me to Urrlan and made me go to their schools. This I did for five years. When old enough, I ran from them and found my way back to Noloon." The story went on for a half an hour--about her long lost brother and a plague that hit Noloon, her inheritance of the ooluk Jir'cata and the old man who taught her to use it. This sparked their curiosity, of course, as it always did.
"You must show it to us," said Molot. "Please. It would be an honor."
"Of course," she countered, more than willing. "Anything to please the Greystone Clan." This was half the use of the sword. She pulled it out and showed it to them. They put it to the test, to see it's legendary sharpness. But none would touch it, out of superstition.
"She must be touched by the gods, or they wouldn't let her carry such a weapon. They would destroy her." Such remarks as this she heard whispered around the table. Inwardly she smiled. Superstitious rubbish. If their gods knew how she planned to betray them, they would strike her down in an instant--if they were dead. But they were dead. Or better yet, had only ever been a fable.
Out of courtesy, Este asked about the state of their town, how did it faire. Now impressed by the sword their tongues became a little more free.
"It's the Hands of the Gods," said Molot. "The gods are offended somehow. The water has stopped coming down." The hall got quiet, as though this were not meant for her ears. All eyes were on her.
"The water has dried up?" she asked.
"No," said Molot carefully. "The gods are withholding it from us. It no longer comes down the mountain to us. But it is there."
She had little answer to this. "Have you gone up there, to see if it is blocked. Perhaps you can free it up?"
They stared at her, as though she had told them to fly to the moon. "We cannot," said Molot. "Even our own shahaek dare not try the mountain, nor confront the god's anger."
Este looked around the room at the solemn looks on their faces. She nearly laughed but it was too solemn a moment for that. Grown up men, afraid to climb a mountain on account of superstition. "What will you do then, without water? Isn't that the reason there is a town here? Because of the access to water? It's a desert otherwise, in every direction."
"The reason there is a town here," said Heyvaan, is that gods built it here. It is their desire, their will."
That made no sense--but was a perfect example of Garran thinking. The gods willed it, therefore, it was so.
Este stood and paced away from the table, thinking furiously. This was a chance for her to prove herself and gain entry into the Clan Tribunal. A riddle she could perhaps solve. "I will go the Mountain of the Hands of God," she said, "and discover whether or not it's the gods will for the water to begin flowing again."
Whispering around the table was hushed by a glance from Heyvaan. "This is a dangerous thing you propose, Te'jeste."
"But I have already been touched by the gods," she said. "I will do this for you."
There was an awed silence.
"Very well," said Heyvaan. "You have our blessing."
Este nodded. Probably a tree had fallen to block the water. Surely there was an easy resolution to this problem. She hoped it would be one she could remedy. If not, coming back alive would still impress them. It was, after all, the thought that counted.
At noon the sun shone clearly as Este rode her yithhe towards the Hands of the Gods. The townspeople practically treated her like a hero just for going to the mountains, even though she had not accomplished anything yet. Though the sun shone, Este felt cool. The road at first was a broken cobblestone but as the day went on it became less worn and the further up the mountain she got, the road improved. Soon the road turned red, paved with lava rocks. These stones were didn't appear ancient or crumbly like the city did but were very solid.
The air was quiet here, not much sound of animals or even wind. The road followed the riverbed, which though dry still had some green trees growing near it, though the grass was yellow and shriveled. Este had determined to follow the river, even if she had to part from the road (though the villagers had warned her from leaving the road at all). Still there was no need as the two made their way together. All day Este traveled and still came upon no signs of water in the river.
There was only a few hours of daylight and Este was a little hesitant to camp outdoors in these mountains. She pushed her yithhe to greater speed and kept a sharp lookout for caves or any other sort of shelter. Still she followed the lava path. Then she came upon an odd thing. Two short pillars, maybe knee length, made of a pale blue-white substance. She'd never seen the like, but she'd heard of it--moonstone. The Garrans believed it was enchanted and that no evil could endure it. She stopped to examine it.
It was quite smooth to the touch, almost like it was polished. When she touched it, she felt a slight dizziness that quickly passed, accompanied by a slight ringing of her ears. The rock must be hard, as surely it had stood there for hundreds, maybe thousands of years without decay. Este was fascinated. She wanted to take a sample back with her and found a hammer in her pack. Using that with her knife, she tried to break off a piece but was unsuccessful. Anyway, it would be a shame to mar the pillar. Not only was it ancient, but beautiful also.
Este mounted her yithhe and started back up the trail. There was a slight, gentle breeze--not to warm nor too cold--almost like an invisible hand caressing her face. The evening was pleasant as she traveled up the trail. She saw five more sets of the moonstone pillars. As the light waned, they glowed faintly.
An hour later, the sun nearly gone, Este started as she realized that she had forgotten altogether to look for shelter--so caught up in the pleasant weather she was. She stopped and checked the river, but there was still no sign of water. The air was not dry, however, as though water were not far away. The villagers believed that the mountain was hoarding the water on account of some evil that had been done. She'd nearly laughed at the notion at the time, but now, up here in these hills, she could almost believe it.
There was a high peak just ahead, around a few more bends. Este decided to go a ways farther and look for a place to camp.
She found a seventh set of moonstone pillars. These, however, were much taller, taller even that Este. And on them were curious writings, which were familiar, even though it was no language that Este knew. It was similar to the runes on her ooluk, Jir'cata. An eerie feeling went through Este, as though fate or destiny were playing tricks on her. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. Had the sword accepted her somehow? Would the mountain accept her on some spiritual level? She shook her head to be free of such silly speculations.
Tired and determined to rest soon, Este urged her yithhe forward up the path. The path looked as though it would end at the top of this peak. Around the next bend, Este stopped. There was a huge archway made of moonstone, leading inside the mountain. All around the archway were the carving of those ancient runes. Este stared at it awhile.
Nowhere were there any signs of people nor inhabitants. Este hesitated. She knew no villager would dare camp inside the mountain. But the sun was setting. This was the end of the road. She could sleep outside or venture in. But Este was no villager.
She slid down from her yithhe and grabbed her pack. She saw to the animal, left it grazing, and went up the strange lava stone stairway to the moonstone arch. She had an electric lamp in her bag. She got it out now and turned it on. Carrying the light, as much for comfort as to see, Este entered the mountain.
Inside the mountain the floor was black and very smooth, like obsidian. But runes decorated the floor, in moonstone. These glowed faintly, giving some light. This chamber was large and black and the only remarkable thing in it was a single rounded moonstone doorway, that looked as though it led into the mountain. It was locked however. In fact, Este saw nothing that would open it, no handle, no latch, no keypad or unlocking device anywhere.
She could just sleep there in the outer chamber. It was getting late and it might be safer to travel in the morning when there would be more light. But this chamber was open to the outside and not very safe from animals or people who might find it. Though she doubted people would come this way.
For awhile she paced, thinking how to open the door. Then she went and stood in front of it for a long while. Doing this, she felt a bit of dizziness, as though her mind were weaving in and out of consciousness. She must be more tired than she thought. She stepped forward and touched the door. Something clanged and the door began to open, she had been successful, though she wasn't even sure why. It didn't matter. She picked up her gear and went through the door.
Suddenly the door closed behind her. Este went back and touched it, hoping that would open it. It did not. There was no point staying here. Perhaps the way out lay ahead then. Again Este was glad for her internal locator. If she couldn't get out, the agency would find her. At least, she hoped they could.
The path led up for awhile and Este followed it. She wasn't sure how long she traveled but at least several hours. The tunnel was dark and silent and somewhat forbidding. Her lamp seemed pitiful a source of light, compared to the glow of pale moonstone runes that lined the passage.
Finally she reached the top, and stepped into a large round room. The top was open to the sky, so that she could see the stars, yet the room was warm. Quickly Este realized that this room was domed. Impressive for the primitive society that must have built it. Or was it so primitive. She began to wonder.
Around the room were seven moonstone pillars that glowed blue-white. The sight was beautiful. As Este moved to the center of the room, the light-bulb of her lantern exploded, startling her. Now in the near dark, Este could still see by the light of the pillars and the stars. She was tired and the floor was inviting. Against her better judgment, Este lay down, got out her sleeping gear and went to sleep.
A yellow robed figure walked across the floor. A single rune decorated his chest--bor. For Borrai. God. But it was not the mountain chamber. It was daylight in the Governor's Hall in Urrlan. But it wasn't. At least, it was the same place but a different time. It was decorated with strange Garran statues and carvings. The Garrans of another time inhabited it.
The yellow figure stood in front of them and spoke words that Este couldn't hear.
There was a terrible sandstorm, so fierce that the sand covered everything for miles.
There was hunger.
A strange song wove it's way through this collection of images. A sad, lonely song that filled Este with grief--for the dying. For great loss. Even though she didn't know what was lost.
A large almost endless moonstone stood before her, carved with many runes, intertwined with the song. It was breathtaking. But then a terrible crack broke the moonstone circle. It broke. The song ended.
Este woke with a start and got up. The chamber was quiet, but the sun had risen and light began to fill the chamber. She stood for a moment, trying to understand the dream. But the more she awoke, the less she remembered the dream. It made no sense. Quickly she packed up, eager to be out of this place, find the water and get back to town to manipulate the townspeople to appoint her to the Clan Tribunal. The sooner she did that, the sooner she could get off this rock called Garran.
The water had to be blocked up somewhere. Once her gear was packed, Este examined the room more closely. There was nothing in it, only the pillars, the runes carved on the floor and the sky above. But the wall on the far side held a doorway made of moonstone, which was shut. Este pushed it to no avail. It would not open.
For a long while, Este troubled about the door, pushing it, looking for a way to open it. She sat and stared at it but could not think of how to get past. She ate now and then from the rations in her pack, which didn't need to be cooked, fortunately.
Before long she was surprised to see that the sun was setting again. The day had passed quickly and still she'd learned nothing about the water or how to release it. She thought of returning to the city or leaving the mountain to travel further but she felt compelled to get through the door, as though somehow the answer were on the other side.
Fire came from the sky, the world was enveloped in flames. People scattered, trying to escape destruction. There was anger, a deep festering anger at the Enemy from the Sky.
Balance was lost. Dizzying. Little parts were dying. Plans had failed and now the earth had no protections.
The winds broke lose and tore across the earth, breaking down everything in their path. It felt like the end.
They would die, nothing could stop that. But they could hide the gods.
A triangular structure, made of moonstone, on the top of a mountain. Seven of them gathered. They rebuilt the song, only to silence it again.
Then everything went to darkness.
Waiting.
Once again Este awoke and it was morning. She felt disoriented. For a moment she didn't remember where she was. The sun was beginning to shine down through the dome and Este wanted to get up but she felt tired and there was something about the dream--she wanted to remember it--something important. She lay back down to sleep.
Her dreams were jumbled, long, and elusive. She followed them deeper and deeper into sleep to try and understand them. But she couldn't quite grasp them. Dark surrounded her and she woke suddenly. The pale light of the pillars showed her the shadowy shape of the room and she remembered where she was. She had slept overly long. Quickly she got to her feet--too quickly--as she felt a sudden dizziness that soon passed. She tried her light but still it didn't work. In the dim light, she packed up her gear again, determined this time not to sleep another night in this chamber--as deeply refreshed as she might feel.
Again Este went over to the moonstone door. After staring at it for a long while, she reached her hand out and touched it. A wave of dizziness passed over her and she felt her consciousness slip for a moment. When it returned, she heard a sound as the door began to open. She wasn’t sure how she did it, which was disturbing—but at least it was opening.
Though the hall inside was dark, it was illuminated by occasional moonstone pillars. Este took her gear and went through the door. She made her way down the hall, startled a few minutes later when she heard the door shut again. Quickly she went back and found the door locked again. She’d have to go forward.
Now the path wound down deeper into the mountain without any doorways or turns. Hours passed. Este wasn’t sure how many, as there was no way to tell time in here. The journey felt dreamlike and several times she thought she heard whisperings but there was no one here but her. The villagers had believed the place to be haunted—she could understand now how they could feel that way. It was an eerie place.
Several times during the journey, Este felt the dizziness and wondered if she had caught some disease on this trip. She wished she was allowed to carry a Chanden medikit with her, but that could give away her true identity and if anyone realized she was Chanden, her life could be in danger. The Garrans could be violent and this far from the city—no one would ever find out what happened to her.
Finally, Este arrived at another door. It felt like she’d walked all day, but she had no way of knowing if that were true. This door was like the first and it was locked shut. She set her pack down and again touched the door, as she had the first. For awhile nothing happened, then the dizziness returned and when it passed, the door was beginning to open.
Once the door was opened, Este went through and found herself in a wider passage that led upward. This one was lighter, as though she were near the outside. Before long she came to a large entryway with a black obsidian floor, similar to the one at the other entrance, again with moonstone pillars, seven of them.
Este hurried across the room and to the archway. Daylight streamed through it. Please, Este went outside onto a large terrace, wondering whether there would be a path from here that would connect up to the one she had come on before.
What she saw when she got outside astounded her—it was a huge lake, placid and beautiful. Near the terrace, the lake ended in a large dam. She almost laughed. That was the mysterious will of the gods that the villagers all feared—a dam. She doubted that any of them knew it was here. A reservoir of water that could sustain a city a thousand times as large as Wanthe. All they needed was to release the water.
Relieved and happy now to be out of the mountain, and away from the dizziness and whispering, Este put her mind to this problem: where were the controls for the dam?
On the terrace, in a small alcove, was a single moonstone pillar slightly shorter than a man’s height. The top was rounded, so that it looked like some kind of crystal ball, except that it was made of moonstone. The surface was plain with a single rune on it—“bor”. God. Este wasn’t sure where she knew that from and the thought gave her a chill.
The lake was nearly a hundred feet below and the cliffs were shear on either side. Therefore, there was no way down from here nor any visible path. Sure that there was a control somewhere, Este searched inside the entry chamber.
The search turned up nothing, no other doorways, no panels, no controls anywhere. Confused, Este sat down to rest. There had to be a way. This was the most likely point to control the dam, as it was closest to it. It seemed unlikely that this dam or the building was built by the Chandens—they simply weren’t advanced enough. They couldn’t even build cities of their own. The seven God-cities were rumored not to have been built by the Garrans either, but by the Borrai, whom they claimed as their gods. But these Borrai must have been another race, one now dead, perhaps. No one else in this sector knew anything about a race such as the Borrai.
Perhaps the Borrai were native to Garran but died out. The Garrans had accused the Chanden of killing their gods. But there were only seven of them. Surely there were more of the Borrai than that—if they were a separate race. Or had the Chanden truly killed off an entire advanced race when they landed here a hundred years ago? The thought was disturbing.
Distantly, Este heard singing, a high pitched familiar tune. It was from her dream. She stood, slowly. The song brought back the fragment of a dream to her, but it danced just outside of her memory, elusive, like this place--mysterious. She went back outside to the terrace and stared at the moonstone globe. It was the only thing here of any significance--the only thing that could be a controller.
Este went over to the moonstone globe and placed her hand over it. As she did, she felt a little chill go up her spine and the little dizziness. She put the other hand over the controller. The dream that had eluded her became clearer, took shape. It made sense--it was a dream about the gods of Garran, about the Borrai. It was their song--a song of art and beauty, of loyalty, of the earth, of betrayal and doom. Este closed her eyes and for awhile was lost again in the dream. The whispering grew louder. Almost she could hear it.
Were the Chanden wrong?
Este found herself sitting on a stone just off the lava path outside of the first chamber she had entered a day ago, or was it two? She felt disoriented and stood up. She had been dreaming but again it was forgotten. Suddenly she realized where she was and stood up. The terrace. The water. What happened? She had no memory of leaving that place, nor of what happened.
She ran over to the river. It was flowing. She felt a surge of joy, for the villagers, that they'd have water again. Then her logical mind began to take control again. She had no explanation as to how she had gotten back or how the water had been turned on. Had she done it? Was she teleported back here when it was done? Or had she spent the whole day walking back in some trance, only to wake once she'd arrived here?
The more she puzzled about it, the more it disturbed her. The song, which was still faint in her mind, faded into silence.
CHAPTER SIX
The wind whipped Moorhen's hat around furiously. His whole face was covered with cloth with barely an opening for his eyes. He was blind, between the sand and wind and the slit he had to look out from. Fortunately the yithhe he road had a double eyelid that helped shield against the sand. Would that Moorhen had such at thing. It was nearly nightfall again. They had reached the Dead Knolls, a place which hundreds of years ago was a forest, but no longer. Nothing was visible. The wind had blown terribly all day.
Moorhen's wounds still hurt but he said nothing to his father, not wanting to be thought to be weak. Nor did Moorhen want his father to think that he was trying to curry his favor by pointing out how he'd defended Rollech. His father ignored him now. And when he gaze happened to come Moorhen's way, it was an unfriendly glare. Nothing Moorhen ever did was right, and all the accomplishments in the world, short of dying in battle, would not please his father. Moorhen chided himself for his self-pity.
It was a shame the wind made it impossible to see. They were still a few days from the Upper Steppes and the Dead Knolls were a famous place. Once covered with trees, all that was now left were the charred stumps for miles. He'd never heard why it happened, not due the Chanden invasion, since it was before them. But since that time, nothing had ever grown back. It was a cursed place, the Dead Knolls.
A signal came back from the front of the line. They'd found shelter--for that Moorhen was grateful. Soon they made their way down a slope into a lava cave opening. Moorhen stayed in the upper cave to see to the animals as the others came in, relieved finally to be out of the sand.
Food was getting low for the yithhe. There'd been nothing to graze on all day, and the grain was in low supply. Moorhen's water was also running low and he feared with this storm that it might be difficult to find more. It was possible that they'd find some in the caves. But these caves were very old and had not been used in a long while, if ever. Perhaps only for travelers such as them, caught in a storm.
Once Moorhen finished he went on down to find the others. He had no light and so had to find his way in the dark. But Garrans were used to stumbling about in lava caves in the dark. He had grown up in such a place as this as had no fear of it. He could hear the group further on ahead and could tell he was getting closer.
The passage then took a turn downward and before long the voices of his clan were getting more distant. Moorhen realized it was a wrong turn and started back up but he must have ended up in a side passage because this one, after awhile, also started to go down. He stopped, confused. It was warmer down here, almost uncomfortably warm and the air was very dry.
Moorhen turned and made his way back, trying to find the original tunnel. He found one that he thought was the original but soon found himself going down again. He did not often get lost this way, not even in a strange cave. He cursed and turned back but this passage only went straight ahead. The sound of his clansmen were gone now.
Moorhen was lost.
Frustrated he turned and tried to retrace his steps, to no avail. Soon, he saw a faint glow ahead. Hoping it was the heatwell of his clan, Moorhen headed for it. At least it was light. The path he followed began to lead downward and the glow got brighter and the air warmer. Moorhen became less sure that he should follow this path but wanted to see the end of it. Something was near down below.
The path went down longer and farther than he had guessed it would. This made Moorhen nervous. He was already lost. If one went too deep, one could be lost for days in a lava cave. Yet the glow got brighter still and he could see the path end up ahead. Perhaps he could get his bearings somehow.
He arrived at the bottom and was astonished to see a lake of brimstone. The heat was scorching. Moorhen had never seen a lake such as this. The caves they used on the plains had been dead for hundreds of years. But up here near the Northern Cones, the caves were not dead. This lake seethed with fire, as though it could erupt at any time. Throughout the cavern there were occasional rumblings that warned of danger. This place looked as though the lava pool used to be smaller or not there at all. This lava lake had grown and there was no telling how quickly the lava had come up this far, from down below, as there was another path that led right down into the brimstone.
The path he was on led over a bridge that climbed upward, over the lake to a small cavern above it. Moorhen stood there looking at the lake. He should head back to his clan; this was not a safe place to stay. In fact, the whole cave would not be safe if the fire were active like this. Yet he didn’t know the way back and he could see something shining up in the upper cavern. Could it be a way out?
With a sudden decision, Moorhen hurried up the bridge towards the cavern. He stopped when he felt the blast of heat from below—then he started running. The heat was nearly unbearable. Finally he reached the top and ran inside the cavern. The heat vanished once he was inside and fell back to just being uncomfortably hot.
This cavern was not large but it was lit with strange moonstones along the walls. There was an altar, ringing by moonstones with odd symbols on them, none of which Moorhen could read. On the altar lay a flat stone with more writings on it, again in an ancient language. Moorhen stared at it.
Whatever this was—it was important. It looked like a god-thing, a god-tablet of some kind. Surely this was valuable and something not to be left in a lava cave which could erupt. Moorhen was no priest and didn’t know the rituals or ways of the gods. He wanted to take it back to his father and give it to him so that, if it was important, perhaps it could help them.
A rumbling from below brought Moorhen out of his thoughts. If he left the god-tablet here, it could be lost forever. The lake was growing, he was sure of it. Moorhen hesitated in front of the tablet, muttered a quick prayer to the gods for forgiveness and took the tablet.
After a deep breathe, Moorhen readied himself to run back down the bridge and hopefully find the tunnel leading out. Then he ran as quick as he could down the ramp, through the searing heat, then stopped suddenly after a loud rumble. The bottom of the ramp was already covered in lava. The way was cut off. He turned and ran back up to the cavern.
Now Moorhen panicked. He couldn’t escape. Perhaps it was the anger of the gods. He put the god-tablet back and prayed an apology. But he didn’t know the ways of the gods and whether his prayers would be heard by then. Only priests knew how to pray properly.
Moorhen ran back out to the ramp but could see that the lava was rising. He turned and ran back to the cavern. There was no escape. He took a deep breath. Soon the lava would enter this cavern, if not within the hour, surely within the night. He took deep breaths and tried to calm himself. Maybe there was a way out.
Moorhen began searching this cavern. The edges were dark and perhaps there was a passage he had not seen. Soon he found one. It had a gentle upward slope. That was good enough. He made sure that there were no other passages—this was the only one. Hoping it was a way out, he started up it. Again he heard a loud rumble. He feared that the lava would follow before long.
Then he remembered the tablets. Should he bring them? Otherwise they would be consumed by the fire. Surely that wasn’t the will of the gods. Or had he offended them by touching the stones in the first place? But the lava had already formed a lake before he came. Perhaps he could save the tablets and please the gods by it. Moorhen turned back and ran into the chamber.
The heat had intensified. Surely the lava was closer. Moorhen grabbed the tablet and ran back up the passage, tucking it in his pack. For a long time he ran, stumbling in the dark, turning corners and winding upward. But there were no other passages that he could detect. Eventually the heat grew less and he no longer heard the rumbling. Were the gods pleased with him or had he just gotten ahead of the disaster?
It was an hour perhaps that he made his way through the tunnel before finding himself back outside in the sand storm. He wasn’t sure how long he searched through the blinding storm to find the entrance to the caves. There he was greeted by a cousin who showed him the way down to the clan.
When Moorhen arrived, he found them all sleeping, except for the watch. Moorhen quickly found his father and woke him. “Father,” he began.
“Moorhen?” asked Ashtan, shaking himself awake. “Where have you been?”
“I took a wrong turn down a passage that led underground.”
“Lost in a lava cave? At your age?”
“Father, this cave is active. There is brimstone fire in it, rising even now.”
“What? Nonsense. Perhaps you are mistaken.”
Ashtan didn’t bother to lower his voice now and some of the others were stirring. Ashtan began to rise. Moorhen stood with him.
“No, this cave is active, I tell you. I saw it—a lake of fire and terrible rumblings. There was a god-cavern and—“
“You entered a god-cavern?”
“Yes, it was—“
Ashtan slapped him. “You fool! Is there no end to your stupidity?”
Moorhen stared at his father in surprise. “I meant no harm but—“
“You meant no harm? These are not matters to trifle with! We are not a priest-clan! How can we know the significance of these things?”
Moorhen shook his head. Now the tablet he had taken filled him with sudden guilt and he said nothing of it—ashamed. He should never had taken it.
“I am sorry, Father.”
“The gods take no apologies,” quipped his father, looking around the cave.
“The fire rises,” said Moorhen. They had to get out.
“I know.” Still his father looked hesitant. “This was our best shelter. This wrath is your doing, Moorhen.” His father walked past him and began waking the others, urging them to pack up to leave.
Moorhen stood there a long while, watching. He felt guilty for getting lost; guilty for entering the cavern; and guilty for the lie he just told his father by not mentioning the god-tablet. Could he take it back? No, surely the lava would have covered it by now. He doubted he could even find the opening in this storm. There was no hope—only the small hope that the gods would not be as angry as they thought.
As the others left, Moorhen followed them.
They searched for a new place to camp but with the storm it was difficult. It was important to get to higher ground, in case of an eruption of fire, and also to put distance between them and the Dead Knolls, where the brimstone could overflow. They traveled for hours through the night before the storm let up enough that they found partial shelter under a cliff rock. Everyone was downcast and in an irritable mood, and a lot of the anger was aimed at Moorhen, as though he had caused the lake of fire to rise. Perhaps he had. He was too tired to think anymore, by the time he fell asleep in the little bit of shelter they found.
"The Gods of Garran" by Lareena Smith, (c)2004