The small dwelling loomed out of the forest, surrounded on all sides by the towering walls of the black trees. It was more ruin than house, a ramshackle building that had long since been reclaimed by the forest. The sagging thatched roof was buried beneath years of fallen pine needles, the walls warped and twisted out of shape. And, within the remains of what once might have been a garden, there now lay an impenetrable tangle of thorns.
When James and Leander rejoined the others, they were all stood about in the rain silently observing the house. Fen stood alone before the misshapen outline of the door, her hands pressed firmly against its gnarled surface. Rainwater slewed from the roof to fall heavily upon her head, yet she appeared unmindful of its insistent patter.
‘What’s she doing?’ James asked tiredly. ‘Why doesn’t she just open the door?’
Leander scowled as she strode over to the other woman, the rain slicking her braided hair.
‘For once, just once, would you keep your ignorant mouth shut?’
James flinched at Leander’s unexpected outburst and turned to Tavin, whose trembling brother was once more hoisted across his shoulders. Despite his brother’s grave condition, the finding of the house had raised Tavin’s spirits, bringing a return of his irrepressible enthusiasm.
‘Jame, the house has been empty for many turns,’ he whispered. ‘Fen attempts to awaken it.’
‘Wake it up?’ James frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘The house sleeps,’ Tavin replied patiently. ‘Unless it can be awoken, we will not be entering its walls tonight.’
James glanced back at the ruined house in confusion as the cold rain fell heavily about them. Rather than help Fen open the door, the others were patiently waiting, as though expecting the empty house to miraculously open its door in greeting. Shaking his head in annoyance, he sank his head into his wet hands and tried to control his shivering. Whatever bizarre form of Gelder etiquette prevented them from just walking into the abandoned house was getting them all well and truly soaked.
A loud wooden crack reverberated through the patter of rain.
James jerked upright and peered fearfully into the gloom of the forest. But when the sound came a second time, he drew his eyes from the forest and looked instead upon the ruins of the house. Hurriedly wiping the rain from his face, he watched in disbelief as the house began to transform before his eyes. The change was slow but unmistakable. Accompanied by the creaks and groans of straining wood, the twisted walls began to shift and straighten. The broken roof trembled as the fallen eaves slowly pushed towards the sky, inflating from within as though pushed by unseen hands. In the failing light of the clearing, it might have been possible to discount these changes as tricks of the mind, but then something happened to dispel any possible doubt. For, behind the house’s mottled windows, a feeble golden light began to glow…
At last the door, pressed so tightly to Fen’s flattened palms, popped open with a resounding crack, spilling an outpouring of light into the clearing.
Fen opened her eyes and smiled tiredly, her face a sickly white oval in the growing darkness.
‘It did not wish to wake so quickly,’ she said, as Leander took her arm. ‘But it welcomes us now.’
The women entered the house, followed closely by Tavin and his brother, as James cautiously approached the door. Once again, he realised how foolish he had been to second-guess this new reality in which he was trapped. As crazy as it seemed, it had not been some obscure form of etiquette on the part of his companions that had delayed their entry but the house itself. As Torrinth closed the door behind him, leaving himself and Kirrin to slink back into the forest, James recalled something Bettiny had once told him. It hadn’t made sense at the time, but having witnessed the miracle Fen had just performed, he was now halfway to believing it had been true: the House of Galendar had not been built but grown by Lord Galen.
With shocked disbelief, James craned his head to the undulating ceiling, where a curious trailing plant draped bunches of glowing berries like a grapevine laden with light bulbs. The light was feeble, but compared to the darkness that grew steadily around them, its miraculous glow was nevertheless comforting.
The interior of the house was far larger than its walls had suggested. Roughly semi-circular in shape, its buckled walls supported a sagging roof above a central fire pit. At one time, a number of partitions had divided the house into separate rooms, but these fragile walls had long-since decayed into tatters, leaving behind a large, open space. The air was musty with damp, the floor buckled by roots tracing meandering paths across its once smooth surface. It was by no means a palace, but next to the wilderness beyond its walls, it might as well have been.
James sank to the damp floor and watched Tavin work within an old fire pit strewn with old ash and cobwebs. Before long, a small fire built from a store of the white seed pods blossomed into existence, filling the room with dancing light and the fragrant aroma of wood smoke.
When the fire had gathered enough heat, Leander used her blunt blade to remove the shroud of Wellin’s armour, delicately slicing off each of the overlapping plates before feeding them one by one into the fire. As the firelight played across the man’s pale flesh, it revealed for the first time the frightening extent of the poison’s progress. Where just two days before the purple stain had been no larger than the width of a hand, it was now a darkening blight that consumed half his body. Yet, despite his grave condition, the warmth of the fire seemed at least to lessen his shivering.
As Tavin moved between the few circular windows shuttering them against the dark, James noticed something strange about the walls now illuminated in the flickering light of the fire. He was not surprised to see that they bore carved designs like those that had decorated the walls of Galendar, but something about these was wrong. Here the carvings of wild flowers and curious deer-like creatures were distorted, their forms exaggerated and crude.
When Tavin passed by, James asked if the carvings had perhaps been made by a child. The young warrior chuckled and thoughtfully turned to regard the walls himself.
‘No child could imprint the walls with such designs,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘The distortions you see are a consequence of time.’
Placing his hand upon the undulating wall, he gently probed the smooth grain beneath his fingers.
‘If left untended, the patterns imparted by the melder are eventually lost to the caprice of nature. It is perhaps only ten turns since the melder of this house departed from its door, and yet the design already begins to slip from its walls. Given enough time, Fen could restore the carvings to their true form, but for tonight’s purposes that will not be necessary.’
James glanced to the fire, wondering when Leander was going to put a halt to their conversation. She had turned out her quiver of arrows and was methodically inspecting each in turn; bringing the arrow to her eye before correcting imperfections only she could see. Occasionally, she tossed a broken arrow into the fire, where it burned with a bright, green flame. Leander had always been the first to deny him his many questions, but if she objected to what Tavin was now divulging, she had decided to remain silent.
‘The carvings tell our stories, our history,’ Tavin continued, ‘everything we know and cherish is contained within the walls of our homes.’
Tavin ran his slender hand across the flank of a large stag, its great antlers curling together in a complex pattern above its regal head.
‘This carving tells the story of Derredin, the spirit of the White Wood.’
James frowned, casting his eyes to the glint of dull metal peeking from the top of the young man’s armour.
‘So the designs were made with the blunt blade?’ he asked uncertainly.
Tavin grinned, absently touching the concealed blade at his throat.
‘Perhaps the blunt blade could be used in such a fashion, but it would take many turns to accomplish such an endeavour. No, these patterns were transferred directly to the shell by the melder’s mind. The one who melded this house was by no means an amateur, but compared to Fen’s craft, or indeed that of Lord Galen, it is perhaps somewhat crude in comparison.’
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Tavin turned, his smile broadening.
‘But it is still lovely all the same, do you not think?’
James closed his mouth from where it had hung open and considered the young man’s question.
‘I think it’s… unbelievable.’
‘Perhaps then, it is time for you to start believing,’ Tavin said, slapping him playfully upon the shoulder.
James noticed that Fen appeared to be still within the trance that had begun with the opening of the house. Her eyes were glazed, her hands tracing the carved walls as though searching for something hidden beneath their undulating forms.
‘What’s she doing?’ James asked, sitting beside the fire and warming his cold hands.
Leander sighed loudly, tossing another broken arrow into the flames.
‘Fen searches for the wellspring,’ Tavin replied, anxiously following her progress to the far side of the room. ‘For, where there are Gelder dwellings, a wellspring will never be far away.’
Moments later, Fen came to an abrupt halt. In the gloom, her arms slowly rose from her sides, her hands coming to rest upon the distorted carving of two intertwined trees. There was an expectant pause, before a hollow cracking sound reverberated through the walls of the house.
To James’ astonishment, he saw that another door had miraculously opened in the side of the wall.
Turning to face them, Fen smiled tiredly from the shadows.
‘The wellspring lies beyond,’ she said, nodding her head curtly.
It might have been a trick of the flickering light or merely his own overwrought imagination, but for the briefest of moments James thought he saw Leander smile. The moment was fleeting at best, but its affect upon him was profound. It was a smile of gratitude and relief, a smile that momentarily swept away the veneer of anger and resentment that clung so resolutely to her face. He realised then that he had been granted a rare glimpse of the carefree woman she might once have been, before the cruel scars that covered her body, before the untold hardships she had suffered. The woman he saw before him was no longer cruel or vindictive but warm and sensitive, a beautiful woman that made his heart ache and his breath halt within his chest.
But as quickly as the smile had alighted upon her face, was it gone, replaced by the grim set of her determination. Without conferring, the two women proceeded to remove the rest of Wellin’s damp clothes, before helping each other out of their own. As the shells of wooden armour slipped from their bodies and clattered to the floor, James once more had cause to doubt what he was seeing.
He flinched when a hand alighted upon his shoulder and turned to find Tavin grinning ruefully beside him, wagging his finger in admonishment.
‘Remember where you are,’ he muttered.
Blushing furiously, James watched instead the flickering shadows projected upon the walls. The gentle curves of their naked bodies slipped across the carved walls as they lifted Welling between them and out through the newly-created door.
‘What the hell are they doing?’ James asked, when the door closed behind them. ‘He should be kept by the fire, not taken for a bath!’
‘The vital waters of the wellspring will save my brother’s life,’ Tavin said, drawing a blackened cooking pot from his travel sack. ‘Such miracles are possible in the forests of the Gelding. In time, you will know this to be true.’
***
By the time night had fallen, a bubbling pot of stew was sitting upon the fire.
James looked nervously up at the dark hole of the chimney, remembering the weevil that had slinked down to end his life only two days before. As though reading his thoughts, Tavin spoke softly from where he carefully ladled stew into a small wooden bowl.
‘Fear not, Jame,’ he said, passing him the steaming bowl, ‘weevil fear fire above all else. There will be no uninvited guests this night.’
When Tavin disappeared outside, carrying food for Kirrin and Torrinth, James was left alone beside the fire. In the stillness and quiet he slowly drank the delicious broth, letting his gaze return to the carved walls. After what Tavin had said about the nature of the carvings and the stories they contained, he studied them more intently, trying to read whatever meanings they might hold. But no matter how carefully he explored the distorted shapes and patterns he could discern no path into them.
Finishing the last of the stew, he slowly got to his feet and made his way over to a far corner of the room where a steady trickle of rainwater still found its way inside. Here, one of the old interior walls was still standing, and as he absently rinsed the bowl beneath the makeshift tap, he leaned back against it. The fragile wall groaned under his weight and without warning crumpled to the ground.
James stumbled backwards but remained on his feet as a cloud of dust rose into the damp air. He half expected Leander to poke her head through a window to reprimand him for what he had done, but what he saw instead behind the fallen wall made his breath catch in his throat. He inched backwards, the bowl toppling from his limp fingers. A cold sweat sprang out across his body as the beginnings of a scream crept laboriously up his throat. From out of the gloomy space he had uncovered, the contorted face of a weevil glared back at him. His heel caught upon the twisted roots snaking across the floor and he reeled backwards; his misbegotten scream thumped from his chest as he hit the ground. Scrambling on the floor, his wide eyes sought out the horrible monster that would soon be upon him. But, before he could draw another breath to call for help, the rational part of his mind asked why the monster had yet to move a muscle…
Feeling foolish, but chuckling with relief nonetheless, he picked himself up off the floor and reclaimed the wooden bowl. He thanked his good fortune that he hadn’t raised the alarm, for it hadn’t been a monster lurking in the shadows, but yet another carving, animated by the mischievous flicker of firelight. With a relieved sigh, he made his way back to the fireside and propped himself up against the wall.
For the first time in days he felt the satisfaction of a full stomach and the pleasant warmth of a fire. The sound of rain pattering the roof was calming and as his eyes grew heavy, he stared back at the harmless carving of the weevil. In the firelight, its warped form seemed to shimmer and weave amongst the shadows. He blinked his eyes as his vision blurred, the shapes and patterns seeming to dance before his eyes.
At first, he believed he was finally dropping off to sleep, but as the imaginary forest slowly formed around him, he knew this was something altogether different.
Somehow, he was beginning to read…
It was a strange sensation because it had nothing to do with interpreting the myriad shapes and patterns that covered the wall. Nor did it derive directly from the carvings themselves. Rather, it was as though his mind had plunged into the very depths of the wall itself, leaving his body behind like an empty vessel. Beyond the wall, it was as though he inhabited yet another world; a world rendered in the browns and blacks of the carved walls. He stood on the edge of a vast, dark wood, illuminated by the flickering glow of the fire back inside the room. The distant patter of rain upon the roof still registered upon his senses, but slowly these sounds were replaced by others; the distant call of songbirds, the light rustling of summer leaves.
Although still conscious of his body’s immobility, he realised that with a simple gesture of his mind, he was able to move within the illusory space. Tentatively, he flexed his imaginary legs and began to walk through the forest, reading the story that had been woven between the trees…
It wasn’t long before he realised he knew the story, for it was one that had been told to him before. The story was enchanting, but also disquieting in its vivid depiction of the sorrow that accompanied the fair race’s fall from grace. He watched in wonder as the misshapen weevil emerged from the dark forest of their changing, peering fearfully up at the sun like frightened children. Recalling Bettiny’s telling of the story, James gingerly passed between the fleeing weevil, all of them frozen in poses of fear and self-loathing. If the story held any truth, then something had indeed changed to transform the weevil from the pitiable creatures he saw before him, to the savage and cruel monsters that had sought their lives only days before.
Suddenly, from out of the depths of the forest, the incongruous bang of a slamming door shattered the quiet. The noise echoed through the imaginary world like a clap of thunder, causing the illusion to break into tatters around him. With a disorientating jolt he sprawled backwards, hitting his head on the hard wooden floor. As the dimly-lit room materialised around him, he looked up into Tavin’s incredulous eyes.
‘You were in the walls?’ the young man asked in surprise.
‘What do you mean?’ James said, getting unsteadily back to his feet.
‘You were reading?’
When James slowly nodded, Tavin turned to face the wall of grotesque carvings he had so recently inhabited.
‘Incredible! I had no idea barbarians could read!’
‘I didn’t know I could either,’ James replied in bemusement, absently brushing the dust from his damp robes.
‘It was your first time?’
James nodded and followed Tavin’s eyes back to the distorted walls beside them.
‘Ah, but it is an unfortunate story for your first reading,’ the young man added wistfully. ‘A very sad story indeed.’
James regarded the young man as the fragile threads of the reading lingered in his mind. As incredible as the experience of entering the walls had been, a disquieting thought had accompanied him on his return.
‘Tavin, you’re wrong about the weevil, they do speak,’ he said, gazing distractedly back at the carving as though it might come alive again at any moment. ‘The weevil that tried to kill me back at the village, it spoke to me. It even knew my bloody name!’
Tavin shifted uncomfortably as he tried to comprehend what he had just heard.
‘Perhaps, as you say, they have a tongue of their own, but it is not for understanding,’ Tavin replied, his rain-spattered face no longer displaying as much as a glimmer of a smile.
‘As you said before, I speak perfect Gelding,’ James added, a dull fear bristling the hairs on the nape of his neck. ‘Perhaps I speak perfect weevil too.’
The idea, however repulsive, suddenly made perfect sense. After all, if he continued to maintain that this was all a construct of his own imagination, he should be able to understand everything that was said within it; even if the words spoken were those that issued from the mouths of monsters.
The awkward silence brought about by James’ admission was broken when Leander and Fen suddenly emerged from the arched doorway, supporting Wellin between them.
Tavin’s hand again came to James’ rescue, turning his head to the wall as the naked women led Wellin back to the fire. Miraculously, the man appeared now to be half-conscious and walked between Fen and Leander with only slight assistance.
‘He will recover,’ Fen said, yawning as she pulled her undergarments around her. ‘The poison was removed by the undergrowth, but he will be weak for some days to come.’
Once both women were fully dressed, Tavin threw his arms around Fen and hugged her tightly, his relief and gratitude returning his smile.
Turning to James, he slapped him heartily upon the back.
‘Come, friend, it is our turn to bathe. May the wellspring warm your bones and lighten your heavy heart!’