Chapter 11 Lost

Only much later did Roland become aware that Delaney was walking behind him instead of in front as before. His other hand had latched onto Digtry instead of Berch, which put him second in line instead of third. The fact that they were no longer in the same order as before caused him to reflect on the matter of orientation. This latest attack had come from underneath rather than any particular direction; it had broken their formation and scattered them. As he retraced every loathsome detail of the incident from the first tickling of the runners to the group’s rather ignoble escape, Roland wondered how even someone as unflappable as Digtry could have maintained his bearings through that chaotic struggle. Longing for assurance from their leader, Roland brought the question to his lips several times. Each time, though, he held back. Instinct warned him not to leak a word of his suspicions. No point in planting seeds of doubt where none existed, especially in such fertile soil as Cloudmire.

But what if Digtry is truly lost?

He simply could not dismiss the question. The guy was human, after all. Or maybe he was not exactly human--Roland did not know where Digtry fit in the complex phylogeny of the realms. At any rate, he wasn't a god. Or if he was, he sure didn't act like it. if he was lost, which was certainly a possibility, how long could they survive in Cloudmire before despair ate through their resolve and consumed their sanity? They had already spent the better part of two days in this hellhole without a moment of true, restorative sleep. Simply trying to keep their balance on a waterlogged, scum-slicked floor of this land thoroughly exhausted them. Surely they were nearing the limit of their endurance, even if they managed to avoid any more attacking plants and whatever other dangers lurked in Cloudmire. Already Berch was hacking his lungs out. How long before pneumonia brought him to his knees completely?

Now Roland felt clearly the trembling in Digtry’s fingers. This, combined with the doubts racing through his mind, set off a chain reaction of greater magnitude in his own body.

“Catching a chill?” Digtry asked.

“Yes, thank you,” agreed Roland. “And yourself?”

“Naw, couldn’t be toastier.”

Roland tried to swallow his anxieties. Digtry is brilliant. A genius. Never makes a mistake. Figures out everything. Even if he were to get lost he would come up with something to pull us out of this.

He had to hold out as long as possible against his fears. If they were lost, he had to give the guy time to figure out a plan. So he slogged behind the leader in silence, shaking uncontrollably in mismatched solitary combat with his own dread.

“Windglow,” Digtry called. “Are there any rivers in here?”

“Why, yes. The Goldmist. It flows south from Big Timber. Judging by the steep drop down into Cloudmire, I suppose it must enter as a rapids or waterfall.”

“An invisible scenic wonder,” quipped Roland, papering over his fears with another attempt at humor.

“What happens to it then?” asked Digtry.

“I suppose it becomes a lake or a swamp,” answered Windglow. “Nothing flows out of Cloudmire.”

“Does it hold together as a river for a time?”

“No one knows. Perhaps it just disperses into this soup.”

Oh, please God, no! The exchange confirmed his suspicion that Digtry was lost. From his knowledge of maps and orienteering, he understood where Digtry’s line of questioning was aimed. If they had stayed anywhere near their original course, they should be drawing close to the point at which the Goldmist entered. The key question was did the river immediately dissolve into this marsh, or did it first flow through Cloudmire for any distance? If there was any current at all, they simply needed to find the river and travel upstream until they were out of Cloudmire. If not, they were dead.

Several hours later, they had yet to come across any water than the slop that swilled about their ankles. Pickled in clammy sweat, Roland plodded silently behind the leader through the impenetrable gray veil, clinging to the hope that his suspicions were the product of fear, stress, and an overactive imagination. Maybe Digtry was in control, like always. Then, again, maybe they would spend the rest of his hopefully brief life trapped in this moldering coffin.

Finally, Berch voiced the suspicion that Roland had been trying to block from his mind. “Seems like quite a while ago you said we would be out of here soon.”

“S-such a nice day, I thought we’d t-take the scenic route.”

"You are cold, aren't you, Digtry," stated Roland.

He barely heard the response above a chorus of crouping from both Berch and Windglow. "Maybe."

Digtry’s cool bravado did not impress Berch. “You’re lost!” he shouted, when he recovered his breath. The accusation, muffled in the fog, shook with anger rather than terror. “What kind of a dolt do you take me for?”

“How many kinds are there?” asked Puddles.

“Shut up, you! Admit it, Digtry, you’ve going around in circles the whole stinkin’ day! Hasn’t he, Windglow? Speak up. None of your gutless mealy-mouthing now! He’s lost, ain’t he? Ain’t he, Windglow?”

Windglow’s silence was the most damning evidence yet. The Tishaaran could not even summon his usual transparent effort to deny the obvious. “I am certain Digtry knows what he is doing,” he said at last, in a wavering voice that contradicted his words.

Roland tried to maintain hope by reminding himself of Digtry’s remarkable escape from the Raxxars on the August Mountains. Surely the little man had another trick to play. One thing for certain: if Digtry could not lead them out of Cloudmire, then they would remain there, rotting for eternity.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Digtry was now shaking like a jackhammer on a trampoline. “But B-Berch, to address your concern: in half-f an hour we shall strike the river. If we d-do not, then I indeed l-l-lost.”

They walked in silence except for the faint splurting of their steps. It might have been a half hour, or just as easily two hours, but water has never brought such relief to a parched throat in the desert as did the splash to Roland’s ear. Like the others, he was too weary even to cheer or clap or dance, but he had never been happier in his life.

Teeth chattering uncontrollably, Digtry waded into thigh-deep water, pulling his chain of companions in with him. Roland could hardly tell the difference between the water and the air. Maybe the water was slightly warmer. But after 20 or so sloshing strides, Digtry stopped.

“How w-wide is the G-Goldmist?”

“It is but a poor excuse for a river,” answered Windglow. “In most places one can easily leap across it.”

Roland’s newly floated hopes came screaming back to earth. Digtry had been depending on the river to lead them out. But what if, after all this time, they had struck not the river but merely a deeper section of swamp? He paced off the distance as they waded further yet into the water. Five paces, ten, fifteen. Each step drove home another nail in the coffin. Twenty paces and no sign of an opposite bank. Twenty-five paces.

Digtry stopped.

Roland no longer had the energy for either hope or despair. Oh, how he longed for just one last sight of something crisp and colorful, for the touch of something soft and dry and warm! If he could only be assured that his corpse would be allowed to decay in dry earth under a sun and an open sky, he would go peacefully to the grave.

“Don’t tell me--”wheezed Berch. But he was cut short by a splash.

“Now what?” asked Roland, wondering why Digtry had let go his hand.

After a long pause, Digtry answered, “F-feels good to have a stream of real w-water f-flowing over me.”

“Flowing? Did you say flowing?” exclaimed Roland.

Digtry splashed like a baby in a tub. “F-faint,” he said. “B-but a current, nonetheless. All we n-n-need to do is w-walk against the p-pull and we are home free.”

“Digtry, you’re crazy,” said Roland, thrilling to the music of Digtry’s joyful splashing. “Here we are soaked to the bone and you decide to get even wetter.”

“Leave him alone,” said Puddles. “There is always the chance that he will drown.”

On impulse, Roland, too, pitched forward into the water. It felt warm, a good deal warmer than the air. No doubt it was a toxic brew of anaerobic fungi and bacteria and vegetation that had washed into Cloudmire from the living regions and been festering for an eternity. Probably worse than a sewer. But he did not care. Rolling over to his back, he floated in the darkness, feeling the subtle pull of the spent river. Repugnant as it undoubtedly was, the water rinsed away all fear and helplessness, all wrongs and mistakes. A moment ago, it had been a Pool of Death. Now, the slightest pulse of a current transformed it into a River of Life.

Digtry stood up, teeth clicking like a telegraph transmitter. “L-let’s f-follow this out. C-can’t be m-more than an hour.”

“Berch, what is wrong?” asked Windglow, as the old man flew into a horrendous fit of coughing. Only after several minutes of gentle prying, interrupted by constant hacking, did the Berch admit he could walk no further on his own.

Digtry apologized for pushing them so hard. “We‘ll slow down. W-we can’t leave the M-mire anyway until dark. Even on this end, the R-Raxxars c-could have scouts p-posted.”

With frequent rest stops and careful pacing, they continued on until the murky grayness dimmed to total darkness. When at last the mist dissolved, light burst upon them as if the gates of heaven had been flung open! So bright and warm and dry was the light that Roland thought they had made a mistake and emerged in daylight. But it was only the whiteness of the stars and a half-moon that flooded the countryside. Windglow sank to his knees in a prayer of thanks.

Just then a rank odor like raw sewage staggered them. They looked around wildly to see what new revulsion they had stumbled into. A moment later, they realized that the stench was coming from themselves. Probably from the mushroom slime, or perhaps the foul stream.

As each began coughing and spitting and retching, Digtry said, “To the water.”

They waded into the icy, clear stream that tumbled down the rocky hillside into Cloudmire. So desperate were they to rid themselves of the stench and filth that they hesitated only a few seconds before plunging into the freezing water. Roland swished his head in the stream several times, gasping at the cold.

“Cloudmire has a compassionate side after all,” said Windglow, as he ran for the shore. “Had it not deadened our senses, I do not know how we could have endured the stink.”

The cold rinse did not purge all of the foul odor but enough so that they could tolerate themselves and each other.

As he stood shivering on the shore, Roland bathed in the fresh light that cast a silver glow over the scrubbed coats of white birch, whose leaves fluttered in a fresh, glorious breeze. Honest, living grasses and flowers with rigid stems that grew upward toward the sky replaced the rotting scum that lay limp on the floor of Cloudmire. He could see every bristle of the twitching tail of a squirrel that scurried down a shagbark hickory. The sky was an ocean much broader and higher than he remembered, brimming with stars.

But the best sight of all was Delaney’s smile. No longer did she cringe beneath the curtains of her oily tresses, hunched against the cruel elements. Her teeth gleamed as she watched the falls pour off the rock ledge, dark and clear as wine, and her eyes shown with tears of joy. As she soaked up the moonlight, she appeared far younger than Roland had first supposed.

As for Berch, Roland looked on him with a grudging admiration, especially when he saw the angry, pus-filled wound on his forearm. A dog’s jaws had made a lucky strike back in the attack. In the poisonous incubation of Cloudmire, the open wound had drawn infectious microbes like blood in a shark tank. Yet the old guy, suffering as well from arthritis and respiratory problems, had never complained. Never even mentioned the wound. Say what you will, the guys a trooper.

Windglow found the gash alarming however, and immediately washed and treated it. He tore a piece of cloth from his shirt and rinsed it many times in the river before wrapping it around the wound.

Berch looked on stoically. “Hah!” he barked hoarsely. “If the Razors themselves swooped down on us now, I wouldn’t care. They would be hauling away a great grinning idiot in the person of Ron Berch! Ha ha!”

“Grinning or otherwise, that’s what they’d be hauling,” said Puddles.

“I know what you mean, Berch,” said Windglow, jumping in quickly to deflect the sherrott’s barb. “Still, I prefer the Raxxars not spoil the moment. I should rest more comfortably if we could put some distance between us and Cloudmire. Let us hurry into the regions where the Lumberjacks hold forth, into the Big Timber, before we settle down for a sleep.”

“Sleep,” repeated Roland, and he moaned in anticipation of soft leaves nestling against his shoulder blades, of lying horizontal, of letting those heavy eyelids fall where they may. All cares shut out until morning.

Delaney stood swaying with her eyes shut, as if standing under a warm, luxurious shower.

“Please. We must move,” urged Windglow.

“I was lost,” said Digtry, as they headed up the ravine.

Berch looked at his toes and blushed as he recalled his shrill accusations against their leader. Delaney burst into laughter. It was the first laugh to work free from her tortured soul in this world of the realms. Clearly, both she and Berch thought Digtry was teasing them.

“Shhhhh! Please!” begged Windglow. “Can you move more quickly? I do not feel we are out of danger yet."

Later that night, they reached the cover of a dense forest. Roland wandered over to where Digtry was sitting on the bank of the stream. “I can never tell when you’re serious,”he whispered. “Were you really lost in there?”

Digtry said nothing for a long time as they watched water tumble down toward the impenetrable mist.

“Roland,” he said, and it was the first time Digtry had ever used his name. “We will speak of this now, but never again.”

Another long pause.

“We were going in circles.”

“For how long?”

“How long were we in there?”

“I see your point. So how did you finally get your bearings?”

“Never did. I was traveling blind, just hoping to strike a river.”

“That’s kind of what I thought.”

“Next time, let’s take our chances with the Raxxars.”

"Good call."

After a few moments, Roland said, "So you were scared spitless, huh?" He tried to imagine what fear would look like on Digtry's impassive face.

“When someone spills their guts to you, do you have to yank away and make sausage out of them?" Digtry snapped. "Conversation over.”

“Sorry. Just wondering.”

Digtry stared into the water for a long time, then shook his head and looked Roland straight in the eye. He spoke slowly and deliberately. “We were lost in Cloudmire. If there is one thing you never want to be in this world, it is lost in Cloudmire.”

Roland nodded. “But we shall speak of it no more.”

Digtry actually smiled.