The remembering place

Few experiences can compare to waking up, well rested, on a grassy hill, with the tree filtered sun warming your face, only to have that sun blocked by the giant head of a mammoth mere inches from yours. Its breath comes in long, heaving draws and the exhale from its bulbous nose is like a windstorm. Its giant eyes on the sides of its head are large, brown, and radiate a complete absence of intelligence, but also kindness. The mammoth is truly a gentle giant. Just don’t scare one, or get between a mother and her calf.

Runt awoke to just this scene. He froze but then relaxed when he saw the teacher perched atop the beast. Gingerly, he reached out and stroked its bulbous nose and then scratched the thick fur under its chin. The mammoth grumbled in appreciation. Runt felt his teeth vibrate in harmony with the deep baritone sound.

“You look less dead. That is good.” The teacher said. Runt rolled over and stood up. The wolfskins were already loaded and strapped to the mammoth. Runt gathered his things and found his pouch had been filled with fruit. Runt looked up at the teacher inquisitively.

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t do it. The young harpy, the one you call Patch, was responsible. But I am glad because you demons are always hungry, and we must leave now if we are to visit the remembering place and return before dusk.” The teacher swung the mammoth around and plunged into the lake. The creature left a V-shaped wake across the water as it swam to the far side, away from the port and the city, and towards the mountains of the Dragon’s Tail. Runt called Stripes and they rushed to catch up.

They pushed through dense scrub in single file for most of the trip but, occasionally, Runt rode side by side with the teacher.

“Where are the others?” Runt asked, one such time.

“Asleep, of course. Harpies are only active at night.”

“You’re awake, though.”

“Ah, and I wish I were not. I am becoming an ancient. I am older than many of these trees, here. My bones ache for sleep. At my age, I should be resting all day and for most of the night, apart from when the young harpies wake me to feed my eggs.”

“But,” Runt said, looking at the teacher’s belly, “you don’t even look like you have any eggs in there.”

The teacher looked across at him sharply.

“If you were a harpy, you would know that what you just said was extremely rude. But you speak the truth. It is the curse of the great teacher. The eggs grow when we feed them what they need. The harpies need a great teacher to teach the young ones the secret ways. To train the next great teachers. So I do not feed my eggs what they need. Not yet. Not yet.” The teacher said these last words while solemnly looking down at its belly.

“That doesn’t explain how you stay awake, though, teacher.”

“Magic.” The teacher replied. “You have seen the stardust cauldron in the belly of the great mother. Each colour of the stardust has its own special properties. The dust with no colour keeps me awake during the daylight. But it is not good food for tummy eggs. One day I will feed you what you need,” the teacher said, still looking down at its belly, “I promise.”

The scrub grew thicker again forcing Runt and Stripes to drop behind but, while they paced along, he saw the teacher more than once rub its tummy, and whisper to it.

The remembering place was a cave cut halfway up the side of the mountain. Runt stared at it hesitantly. It reminded him very much of the gorgon tunnel by the quarry, only this cave did not have cleverly crafted stone doors to keep its presence a secret. The mouth of the cave gaped in much the same way, though, and the interior rapidly faded into darkness.

“Did the gorgons make this?” Runt whispered.

“These fingers are not much good for digging.” The teacher said, holding up those brown, wrinkled palms. “The gorgons crafted it a long time ago, at the beginning of our remembering. You will see.”

“Is it safe?”

“Ah, Wolf-ghost, it is the safest place on the island. Demons do not know of it. Gorgons dare not return to it. Only the harpies, those remaining, hold on to the memories and hope for a return to the way things were.”

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They walked inside together. Runt carried the wolfskins under one arm. The cave was wide, tall, and continued on further than Runt could see. The floor was well worn and mostly smooth. The tunnel turned to the left and, soon enough, they walked in near darkness.

“Should we have brought a lantern?” Runt asked, still whispering. His could see quite well in the dark of night, but this was darker than anything in his experience.

“Trail your fingers against the rock, if you are bothered by the dark, and worried about bumping into a wall. The cave grows lighter further in.”

Rather than use his hands, Runt simply listened for obstacles. The echoes from their footfalls and their breathing both bounced off the walls. Even in the pitch darkness Runt could imagine the size and shape of the tunnel around them.

The teacher was right. Up ahead Runt saw an eerie glow. He couldn’t place the colour at first. A sickly yellow. Then, with the force of a falling tree, he remembered.

The tunnel turned the corner and opened into a large cavern. Unlike the tunnel, this area seemed natural, not cut by gorgons. Vast stalactites hung from the ceiling, with their partner stalagmites slowly growing beneath them on the ground. In patches all over the walls, floor, and ceiling grew large bulbous toadstools and it was these fungi that created the chamber’s light. Each of the fungi glowed, not brightly, but with a dull, sickly, yellow glow. The effect of so many combined, though, meant the cavern was well lit.

“It’s the same colour as the gorgon eyes.” Runt said, in wonder, as he walked past a cluster of the glowing fungi.

The teacher said nothing, and Runt realised the harpy had stopped a few paces back. Strange markings covered the wall there.

“It doesn’t look like much, Wolf-ghost, but these paintings mark the beginning of our remembering. They hold the memories of the ancients, those who came here first and found the cavern.”

The teacher was right. It didn’t look like much. The “paint”, clearly the multi-hued pollen of the fey-trees, was sprayed over the walls here in patches. By the looks, it was probably spat onto the walls in a great huff, one mouthful after another. It left a starburst cloud of pollen there for all time. Only, there were gaps in the pollen spray that made a shape. The same basic shape, over and over. Runt put his hand up to the wall. The handprints were either much larger, or much smaller, than his.

“Gorgons and harpies, side by side,” the teacher spoke softly, “sitting in the cave with mouthfuls of stardust. One by one, they put their hand to the wall and yelled out to the gods ‘We are here, remember us!’ Those creatures are gone. But their memory remains.”

Runt shivered at the thought of it. The teacher moved on. Further down the cave were paintings. Proper paintings, now, showing scenes from the island. They walked past depictions of mammoths, kiddners, hoppers, and wolves. They paused at the image of a fey-tree. A gorgon stood before it, facing away, with a snarling face. A drop-bear cowered in front of it. In the branches of the tree, a harpy sat, smiling.

The paintings became more complex as they walked further along the wall. The teacher began chatting again.

“In times long past this cave was our refuge, Wolf-ghost. A place of safety.” They pointed at a scene showing the island covered with blue pollen in watery swirls. “We sheltered here during the great floods, harpies and gorgons alike. The rain poured down for days upon days until everything seemed drowned. Some of us thought it was the end of the world. But the floods receded, and the lands were born again.” They walked on. The next painting used a lot of browns, blacks, and reds.

“We sheltered here when the rains never came, and the land turned brown. We watched the thunderclouds build up and some of us cheered for the breaking of the drought. But instead, the clouds only poured down lightning, and roared thunder. We sheltered here while the island burned. Some of us thought it was the end of the world. But the fire starved and died. The rains came. And the land was born again.” They walked on. The next painting used a lot of yellows, oranges, and greys. It showed a mountain exploding.

“We sheltered here when the dragon awakened. The mountain belched orange smoke for weeks and then, this. The entire island shook with terror, for the anger of the dragon knows no bounds. Trees fell, the earth split, and half the mountain was torn apart in one giant roar. We sheltered here and, I must admit, even I thought the world was coming to an end. But the dragon returned to sleep and the land healed. Still, the dragon had awoken, and from that day forth, the gorgons would march to the lake of tears to sing whenever the orange smoke returned.”

Runt stared at the teacher in wonder. “How old are you?” he whispered. The teacher sighed.

“I was picked to be a teacher early in my life. But I was a slow learner. It is hard to say how old I am. We do not count years like you demons do. But,” the teacher said, staring deep into Runt’s eyes, “I have seen many things.” The harpy turned and hobbled on. As they approached the next set of paintings its shoulders seemed to slump as if a great weight was being loaded onto their tiny frame. One of the teacher’s feet began to drag as if paralysed. Runt watched the transformation and suddenly, desperately, wanted to leave. But he followed just the same.

“Leave the wolfskins there.” the teacher said softly, pointing to a pile. There were other things lying there: trinkets and coins, odds and ends. Runt couldn’t make sense of them. He lay the skins down gently by the others and turned to the painting.

“Before I help you remember these times,” the teacher said, looking at Runt solemnly, “I want to apologise. The harpies have decided that you are not a demon, although you very much look like one. You must understand something. As one of the teachers in training, I was elected to speak to the demons. I learned, the hard way, that demons are liars and oath breakers. You, though, have proven otherwise. You have earned my trust. And I did not give it freely. If only we had been more untrusting, the first time the demons came. Look here!”

The painting showed the exploded mountain, the head of the dragon, with a sailing boat caught in its teeth.