4 - The Lowlands

A clap of thunder jolted Byron awake. He screamed and pushed himself up from the face-down position where he lay, cold stone beneath his palms. Blind in the dark, panicking, his long legs kicked at nothing as he scrambled forward until his left hand reached empty space and the weight from his backpack tilted him over the edge of whatever it was that he’d been atop. He landed hard and awkwardly onto what seemed to be damp, aromatic soil.

The pedestal. The altar, he remembered as he rolled over with the pack still on him. He sat up and felt his jaw with a tentative hand, ran his tongue across the teeth in his mouth. Nothing apparently wrong, although he'd just been witness to his own death, his entire life flashing before him.

For a moment he had no sense of time or place, and simply sat there, frozen, his eyes tightly closed as he muttered in panicked whimpers and wrestled with a chaotic mind- flashes of his life, of dreams, the two indiscernible. Finally it left him, and he felt himself coming back into being, his senses reawakening to his environment. Two fingers of an unsteady hand searched for the pulse on his neck and he found it after an agonizing moment. He opened his eyes. Still dark.

First, he’d been sure that he was still dead, then was convinced that he'd fallen asleep on that side- that wherever he now was had always been his home, and his life in the City of Yartha had been the dream. It returned, slowly at first. He didn't know how long he lay there. The witch had written that much, at least. She detailed that the body and soul cannot exist in two separate realms at once, and that the soul, what Byron called the 'consciousness,' would have a momentary questioning- a doubt of the self when passing between realms. But she had not mentioned anything about death, and he was positive that death was what he’d just unwillingly experienced.

Still, it hadn't seemed entirely real. Floating, he had been, or his essence had been, somehow, in the earth above the cave in Hundred Trees. He'd watched as his lifeless body dropped face-first to the pedestal. He’d seen the blood pool near his own dirty, busted face and his wide-open, lifeless eyes, and he’d seen it all with the clarity of a broken tooth that leapt from his mouth, the small splatters of blood that followed it on the stone. In that aspect it had not been dream-like. He'd watched as a white fire began to lick at his corpse. The cultists who had followed him there screamed and fled- all but the one called Xander, who sat and watched his charred body shrivel and disappear. Then it was dark, then…

A soft titter escaped him, but it was an unsure laugh, and he rolled his shoulders as a shiver ran through him. His hands shook as he took off and fumbled with the backpack, setting it beside him. There was moisture in the air, and droplets of it fell sporadically from above. Listening, he could hear the soft patter of rain, and a low rumble of thunder. Then, a flickering, prolonged flash of lightning showed a picture of the large chamber he was in- a tall dome of tangled roots that loomed over he and the altar, much of it covered with the same soft moss as that which he knelt on, ahead of him a natural opening- his way out, preposterously, into a realm of magic.

He stood smiling in the silent strobing light as it rose in frequency, fell to darkness and rose again. The rampant moss crawled over everything in the space but the pedestal he awoke on, where it stopped uniformly just at its lip, the surface clean. In the flashes he couldn’t tell if the moss was bright green, pale blue, or some other color, but he knew that it was of the same species which had smothered the cottage of Sara Wyse all those years ago. In daylight he may even be able to see the spirals, he thought.

The moss covered everything, including the statue which rose behind it the pedestal, unbroken in that realm- a tall broad figure of velveteen plant-life, features obscured, silhouetted in the flashing light. Byron listened to the light but steady rain, heart hammering in his chest.

It appeared to be nighttime beyond the chamber, as it had been in Yartha when he'd “left,” and he wondered how much time had passed, or if there was even a relation between the two realms. He bent over to check the pack, to make sure everything was accounted for- Petrastyra's journal and his notes were his main concern. Though he had committed to his memory the directions of his task, he had decided that he would take some quick notes while he was there, to document the things the witch had left out, whatever her reasons being.

His steadying hands felt everything in its place within the pack. The thought occurred to him to use the gas lantern that hung from it, but now that he was actually there, did not particularly want to draw attention to whatever creatures dwelled past the threshold of the root den that held the altar and pedestal. The bright and prolonged flashes of lightning, which brought his environs to stuttering life every few seconds, appeared to illuminate enough. He took a long pull from the waterskin, his mouth suddenly very dry.

Per the scant instructions of the witch, he was to follow the moss to the edge of the Lowlands, to meet with the moon people, as she’d written with little description, of course. According to her, they were the army of Hyne, and friendly to humans. The reasoning behind their name was uncertain, but he supposed it might have something to do with their coloring, always described as bone white with gray features and small black eyes. The details of any of it were sparse. The witch had been no help in that regard, with her rambling and confusing asides, though her instructions for his particular task were thankfully clear enough.

He was to acquire a potion from the moon people, a potion that, when swallowed, would start in him a transformation followed by a magical rebirth. In the region where the rebirth takes place would be a blessing of rain for many seasons. She’d written curiously little about the Lowlands or the supposed moon people, or about anything really besides the river valley in humdrum Gaia where Yartha stood, but it was clear that Petrastyra herself had drank this potion after she’d returned from the Lowlands of Magaia to the old settlement of Yartha, and obviously she had lived to write about it, Byron reasoned and hoped.

The moon people could possibly tell him more. If they still exist, if they ever existed, he thought, and at once he realized the enormity of the risk he was taking on the writings, the scope of this dangerous, haphazard quest. Still, he knew that the biggest doubt had been overcome, and he affirmed himself of that as he put on the backpack.

He thought about the tales he would tell on his return to Yartha should his journey succeed, and daydreamed. I will be the savior of the city. They will celebrate me with parades and feasts. Father will have no choice but to be proud of me, and for the very things he called foolish for prioritizing. It will be a wonderful revenge.

If what the witch wrote was still true, the moon people were not far, less than a day’s travel, and he hoped to not be in Magaia for long. In so many words she had implied that the magical realms have a way of making one forget what they'd visited for. He tightened the straps on his pack, put up the hood of his fine green cloak, and left to tread the otherworldly soil.

***

Within minutes of leaving the altar and root den he was soaked from head to toe by the rain, and was constantly re-routing to bypass the massive bogs that had formed over the spongy earth. He walked for a long time, following the curve of a low ridge. What he could see of the swampland in the dark and irregular flashes of lightning seemed to have a similar flora as that of the lands far south of Yartha, as well as a climate that was typical of a rainy summer night in pre-drought Yartha.

Aside from the moss, he had so far found the land to be very similar to that of the southern marshes of Damursyn, a fact which he found both disappointing but somewhat reassuring. He was grateful that the terrain was as seemingly hospitable as it was, but regretted that it was not as awe-inspiring or fantastical as he had secretly hoped, and he thought that the myth that had come attached to this very real place he found himself traveling in could be far greater than he’d previously believed. For all he knew he was still somewhere on Gaia The witch had written the process for the ritual like one would write directions to a well-known landmark- matter-of-fact if the matter had not been so strange, and he supposed that the unremarkable environs he found himself in reflected that.

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He heard only the distant, entirely recognizable chirping and croaking of frogs, bird-calls, and the patter of rain. He’d traveled in the night for over an hour by his estimation, and the moss he walked on was the only otherworldly thing he’d encountered of which he was aware. It was thick and spongy, and when a gray morning came to the Lowlands, and the sun there rose, he saw that it was far larger than the one with which he was familiar, reddish, and behind a hazy veil that was disorienting to him but delightfully strange. Only then was he able to get a clearer look at everything.

The moss was indeed of the same variety as that he had communed with as a boy. It was fine, lush and it glinted metallic under the sun, despite being soft and sponge-like to the touch. In it were patterns of a darker copper, concentric circles and spirals that seemed to his tired eyes to be in motion. The moss still 'spoke' to him, but it was not the same as when he’d been young- diminished somehow. Now he could not hear words, but still felt a presence in the same way that he could sometimes tell if a room was occupied, even if the occupier were silent or hidden. The witch wrote to follow the paths made by the moss, and that he did, but Byron had a feeling that even if he had strayed from it that he would have been drawn back. There was indeed a strange force at work in that realm. He walked on and became content in his journey, and after a couple of miles his nerves settled.

He followed the moss over brackish water, through the bog and the trees that seemed to him the same weeping willows and birches of his homeland. In the expanse beyond he heard the calls of birds that he, an avid ornithologist, had never heard before. The rain stopped, and he eventually found himself in a heavy morning fog, trudging in his soaked robes through a wooded swamp populated with frogs, or what he assumed to be frogs. They leapt from tree to tree, some thirty feet- vertically, horizontally, every which way, amazingly not colliding with one another. They croaked and called the entire time. He laughed at the sight of them as he entered into their wet and hazy domain. They were large, the size of bullfrogs, but their hind legs were massive, almost twice as big as those of Damursyn. Everywhere they splashed and flew in the rain.

As he made his way across the soft ground, one of them dropped at his feet and sat there blinking at him, unafraid. Byron knelt and looked at it, then lifted it up with some effort. He held it aloft before him with his hands beneath its cold and clammy front legs, gawking at its lumpish white belly and its huge muscled, hanging back limbs. He turned it before him to examine its other side, and as he did, a host of previously camouflaged amphibian eyes suddenly opened across its stomach and back. Byron screamed and tossed it in revulsion.

It splashed into the muddy water, found footing, and disappeared into the fog with a tremendous leap. Byron cried out with a piercing whine and wiped his hands frantically on his filthy robes as he splashed his way across the bog to dry land where he ran haphazardly along a thin snake of dry land that led through the swamp, ignorant with fear. He tried to shake away the image of the thing and could not. He stopped, shivering, looked all around him and whined again, Again a sense of unreality swept over him. Did I imagine it? Is this a dream? I am dead. He smacked his face, hard, and stood there with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily until he composed himself.

***

The land dried out and the rain became a light drizzle. He saw sections of low, moss-covered stone walls, the first sign of a civilization- an old one, crumbled and taken over by the wildlife that closed in on it. The terrain rose as he hiked on, and he began to see taller sections, cornered, shells of what could have previously been dwellings. He passed half-collapsed structures scorched by fire, wood burned to twisted and collapsed cages of charred beams.

A circular well blanketed inside and out with the moss sat between the ruined buildings, and it came to him that he was in what had once been a village, a very human-looking one if he disregarded the plant life that had taken it over. He knew nothing of the other cultures of that world, and thought that they perhaps all lived similarly. For all he knew, it could have once been a settlement of the moon people he sought, but it was long empty, whatever it was. He walked over to and peered over the lip of the uncovered well.

Inside he saw debris, and a spot of white beneath dirt and leaves caught his eye. Brushing it away he saw that it was a jawless human skull, socket peeking from beneath rain-swollen and rotting timber. He swung his head wildly in both directions as his hand rushed to his dagger before reason came to him. Remain calm. This happened long ago, of course.

He hadn’t really given thought to the idea that there could be humans already living in that realm, just as he hadn’t given much thought to many things. How could I have? Byron shook his head in disappointment, mourning all the time that had been lost for him, unaware. A waste of my years of study, he lamented. Understanding this place will consume the rest of my days.

With a grimace, he reached into the well and began to pull out the debris to get a closer look at the bones. He wondered how deep it was, how much of it was human remains, and tensed further as he pulled out the wet, splintered slab of wood and tossed it on the grass, sluggish beetles beneath. There was a toadstool sprouting from the eye socket of another jawless skull, the stalk of it tall and skinny, its cap purple with yellow spots. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before.

He almost reached out to pluck it with his bare hand before he set down the pack and retrieved a handkerchief, wrapped it instead, and stored it away. His mind wandered to possible diseases, infections and the like, perhaps ones unique to Magaia, then decided that it wasn’t worth thinking about. If he brought something back to Yartha that killed them all, such was fate.

Just be cautious, he told himself. He returned to digging through the well, pulling out more bones and finding that they were all human- femurs, spines, ribs, pelvises. Now both disgusted and terrified, jumping at every shadow and noise, he left the well behind him and wandered away from the ruined village to follow the wide path of moss into foothills.

***

The land turned to soft, rolling hills made softer by the moss, and he left the tree cover behind him. He didn’t know when it had happened, but at some juncture he became aware that the moss covered almost the entire landscape- as far as he could see. When he reached the top of the next rise, the disorienting hue of the moss-covered hills and valleys was interrupted by a white tower off in the distance. He saw others either white or black that spotted the landscape, but it was what lay on the horizon beyond them that stopped his sluggish march and caused him to stare slack-jawed in wonder.

He wasn’t even sure if the sun there had fully risen, and he initially mistook it for dark sky, or possibly a storm ahead, until his eyes traveled up and up further past the wrinkled earth to the silhouettes of its crags and points against the proper heavens- an enormous mountain range, larger than any in Damursyn, or any in the entirety of Gaia. It was larger by far. Into the clouds its peaks disappeared. Its lesser heights seemed the size of the Kingdom of Starhall’s tallest summits.

If the frog-creature had not cemented in his mind that he was indeed in Magaia, the mountains did. He would have howled again in triumph if he weren’t now terrified of the lifeforms of that realm, and whispered mutterings instead. His look of astonishment turned to a slow grin, and he spun around to confirm the sight with someone who was not there. “They will never believe me,” he said giddily. “I have walked the walk of the gods. Me. Not father. Not the governors, or the highest of the high scholars. Not Albranth Wyse. Me.”

He climbed to the white tower at the top of the hill, which was nothing but a shallow step compared to those that loomed in the distance. The details of the white tower at its precipice became clearer. It was cylindric and made of brick, painted white, He could see beige and brown where it had chipped away, and the moss crept up the tower’s base for only a few short feet. It was maybe sixty feet tall, with clear, domed glass at its top like a mini-observatory. It sparkled in the after-rain sun. Halfway up the hill he spotted movement there in the blurry translucence, and by the time he approached the wooden, iron-banded door at its base, it had opened with a hulking figure standing before him.

Once the initial shock passed, he was almost positive that it was one of the moon people. The creature was extremely tall and bulky, bipedal, humanoid, but that was where the comparison with Byron’s species ended. Its skin was white as alabaster, pocked with darker flecks of gray. The head was massive and mound shaped, hairless like the rest of the body. It was naked, and had two testicles but no visible penis, Byron noted. The neck of the moon person was almost nonexistent, the tendons grew into his massive shoulders. Chest and stomach were gorilla-like in size and structure, with a heavily muscled torso and arms that hung to the ground. Short but squat legs and feet, just as the feet of the altar’s statue back home were.

The most alien thing about the creature to Byron, however, was its face. The nose was just two tiny holes like perforations from a small dagger. Similar spots, its ears he assumed, on either side of its head. His eyes were small onyx marbles, wide-set, and only slightly larger than the other orifices, brow bald and expressionless like the muscles there were fixed into place. The mouth was incredibly wide, and when it opened with a low guttural rumble like some brass instrument holding its lowest note, Byron saw that it was filled with rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

With an uncannily human-like gesture of his large hand, the creature welcomed Byron into the tower, and the scholar stepped forward with only slight trepidation. He felt drunk, like the breathless courage which had accompanied his few nights of inebriation, celebrations for his accomplishments. Before he knew it he had followed the surprisingly nimble oddity into the tower, and the iron-banded door was closed behind them.