Eight Era, cycle 1721, season of Unkh day 224
They rested for a while, and Ember awoke naturally. When they continued, the ground started to become damp, and the rocks and compacted dirt of their path became squashy and more like marshland.
‘It really is another world down here,’ Ember said, eyeing a vine. Roots that could have made a comfortably sized canoe needed to be scrambled over, insects called to one another, they were wading through previously undisturbed sludge, and more than once a rotten, pungent smell followed them.
‘There is a delicate ecosystem even underground,’ Lyre explained.
‘Giroffidale!’ Ennolk cried, pointing.
Ember turned to look and noticed a strange creature; it was like an okapi, but with longer legs, wider feet and a deep-blue hide.
‘Oh wow, I always wanted to see one!’ Ennolk said as it scampered away.
‘I’m cold,’ Ember complained, shivering.
‘The temperature has cooled significantly. We should wrap Clang up in something warmer,’ Alban agreed.
‘Lyre, Alban, does one of you have a warming potion?’ Zyol asked.
‘I do, but you can’t have it yet. It’s in case of snow and ice conditions,’ stated Lyre.
‘Do you know how hard they are to brew? Here, drink this,’ Alban offered, and he handed over a bottle made from brown glass.
‘What is it?’ Ember questioned; she was fast discovering that she loved how prepared the dwarfs were.
‘Brandy,’ Alban replied simply.
Flynn bounded past, biting at butterflies and dragonflies, and getting coated in muck.
‘At least someone is enjoying themselves,’ Ember said darkly.
‘If you head west, you will leave the marshland before true night sets in,’ announced a voice.
The group stopped and looked around.
‘Who’s there?’ Zyol asked.
‘If you head west, you will leave the marshland before true night sets in,’ the voice repeated.
‘We have come to speak to the Sage of Waning,’ Zyol called out.
‘But he does not seek you,’ responded the voice.
‘We bring a gift,’ Ennolk said rummaging in his satchel, ‘A grit and moss rock cake. It used to be his favourite.’
There was a pause before the voice replied. ‘I shall pass the message along.’
‘How long is this going to take? My feet are rotting,’ Ember announced huffily.
‘Ennolk, how do you know what the Sage of Waning likes in his cakes?’ Zyol enquired.
‘I know his family; it’s a pity as I was saving the cake for celebrating when we got the proof about Zyol’s uncle’s claim to his lands,’ Ennolk replied.
‘Oh no, and it sounds so appetising,’ Ember said, rolling her eyes.
‘He will speak with you; follow the marsh gas,’ came the voice, and a soft light appeared in the marsh.
They followed it for a few minutes until they arrived at a thick tree with questing roots and drooping branches. A ladder hung from the canopy, and it led to a small, flat step and a thick layer of leaves. Pushing the leaves away, they moved inside something that looked an igloo but made from foliage. They entered a large room with flickering light and merciful warmth.
‘It feels like my nose has been running for the last three hours,’ Ember chuntered to none in particular.
‘First, let me see this so-called cake,’ requested a man who stepped from a nook in which sat a comfy-looking, red chesterfield chair. The man was short, but taller than a dwarf, had a thick, glorious beard that reached his navel, hair that flowed down to his buttocks, and a gnarled build that made him look made from teak.
Ennolk held out the cake, which was a good 10-inches in diameter at least and had a thick layer of frosting. The man took it and weighed it solemnly before sniffing it reverently. He brushed things aside to make room on a table cluttered with wax candles, leathery books and a few bronze implements of indeterminable use.
‘If it’s as good as it smells, then we have a deal. There’s a copper bath tub I use to bathe in, a bucket on a rope for water, and the fire to heat it,’ the man confirmed, waving idly.
‘You are the Sage of Waning, aren’t you? You’re not like his understudy,’ Alban probed.
‘I am indeed he, but I do also respond to the Tranquil Vigil, or, as you seem to know my mother, Arsène.’
‘I was expecting a dwarf,’ Ember stated.
‘I am a half-dwarf, if that helps,’ Arsène verified.
‘What made you want to become a sage?’ Ember asked.
Arsène elaborated, ‘I can spend hours simply contemplating the horizon, I think about what it is to be a self-aware and I came to the conclusion that it is to facilitate the best that we each have to offer. And that was before I earned my robe, as the common expression goes. So it seems I was destined to be a sage; philosophy is in my blood. Also, no one is particularly welcoming to those who are mixed race, so a life of solitude suits me well.’
‘And what do the names “the Sage of Waning” and “the Tranquil Vigil” mean?’ queried Ember.
‘That I cannot freely tell you; some knowledge must be earned,” declared Arsène. “But surely you did not come all this way to ask me these simple pleasantries?’
‘Well, we’re headed to the Sealed Path, and we were hoping you could direct us,’ Alban said.
‘That’s a fair way,’ Arsène remarked placidly.
‘Indeed. Do you know when to expect the next storm, so that we may pass?’ Alban questioned.
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‘Ah, that’s how you intend to cross? Certainly. I keep a list of the charts,’ Arsène replied, looking around confused. ‘Let me have a look for them whilst you lot clean up.’
The dwarfs were surprisingly bashful; after washing and leaving their clothes in the bath tub to be magically cleaned, they re-dressed and were handed a bowl of steaming and fragrant vegetables mixed with rice and a pot of yak butter tea, steaming gently.
‘I don’t get a meat delivery for another week, unfortunately,’ Arsène said.
‘There’s nothing like warm breast straps on a cold day,’ Ember uttered with a sigh.
They settled in for a long stay, watching as Arsène flicked through the books on his bookshelf and threw the odd scroll onto a pile. Individually, they fell asleep, and, when they woke, they found another pot of butter tea, and three bowls with dried fruits, nuts and cheese.
‘I have pulled out the scrolls and run the calculations,’ Arsène confirmed, pulling out a metal plate, which he opened to reveal fresh flat bread. He placed the bread on the table, and then pointed to a scattered collection of scrolls with drawings and strange writings scribbled over them. ‘The next opening will, in fact, be tomorrow, and it’ll be open for 47 minutes.’
‘Does the path stay open or does it oscillate?’ Alban asked.
‘It stays open for the duration; how big is your party?’
‘Only those you see here.’
‘Oh, well, then you’ll have plenty of time,’ Arsène announced, smiling.
‘What does any of this mean?’ Ember asked Ennolk, who happened to be sitting next to her.
He explained, ‘The hermits hold all records of anything ever signed by a dwarf, so we wanted them to be safe. And whilst all dwarfs are allowed to look at them, we don’t want to actually encourage visitors. So, when a glade was discovered that would only open during the eye of a storm, it was agreed that this would be the best place to hold the records for our kind.’
‘What do you mean “open”?’
‘If there isn’t a storm, and if the storm’s eye isn’t over the glade, then the path leads nowhere. But when there’s a storm, a waterfall appears, which, if you pass through it, leads to the hidden glade.’
‘Don’t the books and things get wet?’
‘No, the glade itself is pleasantly dry and warm; the storm doesn’t reach it.’
*
‘The fire licked and teased the thickening, breathing fog, burning it when it came too close, forcing the fog to recede, and creating a shallow dome of heat and visibility. It spat and hissed as the greener branches caught; the yellow, almost golden, glow flickered and bounced in the night air, almost territorially. The fog outside their recess was so thick that any sound inside reverberated back off it; this dulled the sounds of the outside world as if guarded jealously.
‘A lone critter crept cautiously into the camp; it paused as it spotted the three figures and it waited. When they showed no sign of aggressive movement, it scurried to the fire and curled up. A trickle of fog bled through the wall of heat and light, but it froze like a startled deer; surrounded and isolated, the sliver was taken and whisked away instantly. The fire crackled and broke into a green sapling in triumph.
‘The fire spluttered as it bit into a green branch that refused to burn. The fog pounced, and the warm dome crumbled in an instant; cold air infused the once-warm spaces, and, with a deep exhale, the fog poured in through the opening. The fire spat and hissed determinedly; exploratory flames danced and licked the branch but failed to dominate it. The invasive cold closed in and a shiver ran through the group.
‘The fire was built around a large, flat stone on which was placed a heavy pot that steamed slowly. Next to it were a few shrivelled pieces of meat, burning to a charcoal black; as he pulled the blackened meat from the stone, the flames leaped up and licked his calloused fingers.
‘The dwarf sat staring heavily into the dancing flames, tearing off a strip of steaming meat with his fingers and bringing it steadily into his mouth without heed to the heat. He masticated slowly before placing a second piece into his mouth, then a third, without making a sound, or even showing a flicker of movement or emotion from his eyes.
‘He wiped his chops and curled his tongue along the outside of his teeth, searching for a sliver of meat that had got trapped and irritated his gums. He threw the remnants of his supper into the fire, and brushed his hands before taking a swig from his water bottle. He then reached for his sword, took out a whetstone from his satchel and methodically sharpened then cleaned his massive claymore.’
Arsène paused in his reading and looked up at Ember, who’d been fidgeting for a while.
‘Problem?’
‘Well, it’s just that, whilst it is all very poetic and sorbent… sombient… sober… well, very atmospheric, it doesn’t exactly go anywhere. It’s like listening to Clang talk:, lots of words but very little meaning.’
‘This poem is thousands of years old – as old as your human tales of Gilgamesh.’
‘Yes, and whilst it is impressive that such a story has survived, and it’s great to see how our forefathers thought and stuff – it isn’t exactly gripping. I like a bit of blood and sex in my books.’
‘This is the story of how the first dwarfs learned to harness the rocks and soil, and the bringing together of the first dwarven city and laws. It’s a 10,000-page epic!’ Arsène insisted.
‘Yes, but might it have only been a 10-page epic? That’s all I’m saying,’ Ember replied sweetly.
‘There are readings of this story that have lasted five years!’
‘Yes, and how many of those five years were dedicated to this fire?’
‘Philistine.’
‘Quite possibly, yes, but it’s just a camp fire.’
‘It isn’t “just a camp fire”; it is fire. A simple flame – a thing that turns wood to charcoal.’ Arsène’s voice raised an octave.
‘You just said it was a simple fire!’ Ember accused, standing up and pointing at him.
‘It is a metaphor!’ Arsène cried, clutching at his head. ‘The fire here is just a simple flame; it was left here by pure chance. One of the gods made a fire and forgot to put it out, and therefore it will burn for eternity.’
‘It doesn’t sound like that simple of a fire then. Which god?’
‘To know that, you’ll need to hear the full story, but what I mean by fire is that, later in the story, a dwarf bravely steals fire from the gods.’
‘But you already have fire,’ Ember interjected.
‘Let me finish! We steal fire, but what we are stealing is a metaphor as well. The fire we steal is the fire of inspiration, the fire of resilience and resoluteness, and the fire of the heart, see?’
‘No.’
‘That is because you haven’t heard the epic. How can I explain in one sentence what the most gifted dwarven scholar dedicated thousands of pages too?’
‘Somnambulant! That was the word I was thinking of!’ Ember exclaimed, clicking her fingers.
‘Why? That means resembling a sleepwalker.’
‘Oh.’
‘Before we leave, what do we owe you for your hospitality?’ Zyol asked taking a slice of cake and using his axe to cut his piece in half.
‘Oh nothing, nothing. All dwarfs are welcome to visit the glade; visitors aren’t required to make offerings. The glade belongs to all dwarfs, after all. I am honour-bound to help you; we just don’t like the idea of people making a habit out of it. If you read the words too often, they may wear out,’ responded Arsène.
‘But, when we arrived, you told us you didn’t want to see us; that was discouraging us,’ Ennolk replied.
‘Oh that; that had nothing to do with the glade,’ Arsène commented. He rummaged through the pile of scrolls and books on the table, pulling out a scroll eventually and holding it up. ‘This is the latest in the Inspector Omwar series, I’m kind of an addict and I’d just reached a good bit.’
‘Well, thanks for your help; perhaps we’ll meet again?’ Alban said, nodding goodbye.
‘It was a pleasure,’ Arsène stated.
‘What about Clang?’ Ember questioned.
‘Hmm? Oh, we have an ill member of our group, do you have any knowledge of uranium poisoning?’ Alban asked.
‘You forgot about Clang?’ Ember declared, somewhat incredulously.
‘Well, it’s been so peaceful,’ Lyre replied.
Arsène approached Clang and inspected him. ‘This is advanced radiation poisoning; I can cure him, but it will take many weeks.’
‘Well, that’s good. We’ll pick him up on our return,’ Zyol confirmed, slapping Arsène on the back.