Chapter 16 Gaterock

Gazing upon the lush, close-cropped turf, Roland wondered for a moment if he had fallen back into his own world and stumbled onto a golf course. The long, doglegged fairway sloped gently downhill and opened into a wide swale at the foot of a towering stone. That massive chunk of granite, sanded smooth by eons of wind erosion, glowed red in the fading evening sunlight. Lodged between two sheer rock palisades, a slightly smaller monolith occupied the low spot in a mighty dam that held back the tangled wilderness from encroaching on the groomed grass. The Tishaarans named it the Gaterock, for it barred the only entrance to their secret city.

Thick woods crowded the clearing on all sides like spectators at a theater-in-the-round. Behind this loomed a second deck of mountains and ridges. Above that, small puffs of clouds overflowed the balcony.

Just one thing kept the five weary travelers from skipping down that inviting lawn to the completion of their journey and the promise of rest and safety they so desperately craved: Lapping up against the Gaterock were thousands of Raxxars. Cawing and twittering, they milled about in perpetual motion, like an immense army of bees crawling over a honeycomb.

As the travelers crouched behind a screen of dwarf hemlocks, Windglow stared in forlorn astonishment at his peoples’ traditional nemeses. “Why, look at them all! Every Raxxar in the August Mountains is here to attack Tishaara.”

“No, the Raxxars are just here to kill us," said Digtry. "It’s the Lumberjacks who are coming to burn Tishaara to the ground,” said Digtry.

Seeing Windglow turn white, Roland jumped in quickly. “He’s teasing.

“Not about the Raxxars,” said Digtry.

Windglow scanned the twittering mob in horror and disbelief. “We are finished,” he said.

“Is this the only way in to Tishaara?” asked Delaney.

“I am afraid so.”

“You mean you dragged us through Cloudmire for nothing!” squawked Puddles. Out of a terrified misconception that Lumberjacks had a special affection for roast sherrott (“I do not know where he gets these notions,” said Windglow), Puddles had disappeared into the folds of Windglow’s clothing and had stayed there long after they left the camp. He had emerged in fine form.

Yet even this mean-spirited creature displayed a tiny sense of compassion, or perhaps it was merely prudence. Since the day Berch had been told the truth about the wolf, Puddles had eliminated him as a target of his insults.

The old farmer now staggered in a sullen daze at the rear of the group. Declining either help or kind words, he walked in silence, spitting frequently, as if to wash himself clean of guilt from the inside out. First Delaney, then Windglow, now Berch. Each took their turn in the solitary confinement chamber of torment. Regrettable as it was, Roland could not help but consider this a general improvement. If one person among them had to sit in the penalty box, it may as well be Berch. Hey, he brought it on himself with his stupid gloating.

“I should have known,” said Digtry, eyeing the Raxxar horde. “Our pursuer has no intention of letting us escape.”

Fresh evidence that he was the subject of the most intense manhunt these realms had ever known worked a curious effect on Roland. Along with another jolt of fear came the sensation of finding himself more notorious than he had ever dreamed possible. He could not help but take a touch of pride in his celebrity status. He even felt some kind of romantic compulsion to live up to his reputation as public enemy number one.

“So how do we get by them this time?” he asked, coolly.

All eyes turned automatically to Digtry. He shook his head. “This is Windglow’s domain.”

Digtry’s abdication of responsibility stunned Roland. Any comfort he had felt in recent days rested in the firm conviction that Digtry knew the answer to every question and the way out of every dilemma. Cloudmire may have been dicey but in the end Digtry had pulled them through. Now, Digtry’s passing the buck was calling that into doubt.

“It is and it is not my domain,” said Windglow, reluctantly. “I can tell you that a squadron of my fellow Tishaarans stands guard on the far side of that rock. This mob milling at the gate will put them on high alert.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “There is a concealed entrance at the base of the Gaterock which cannot be opened from the outside. But I must confess I am stumped as to how we get there. Were all of Tishaara to sortie on our behalf, I do not see that we could fight our way past such an army. There are so many of them! We stand so close to home and yet we might as well be astride the moon.”

Roland’s newly acquired sense of importance prompted him to try on the martyr’s robe for size. “You people have put up with me long enough. It’s me they want, after all. Let me just give myself up and then the rest of you could go free.” It was the sort of statement he felt free to make since Digtry had made it clear that all others were in equal peril by virtue of their association with him. As he calculated, no one took his suggestion seriously.

For a long time, no one spoke. Clearly the situation was hopeless. After all that they had endured, it appeared they would never reach Tishaara.

“Is there anywhere else we can go?” asked Delaney.

Silence.

“Anywhere?”

“No,” said Digtry at last. “If we run, they’ll find us. They or the Lumberjacks. We have to get past them or we’re done.”

Windglow gawked at him as if Digtry were insane. “Begging your pardon, but do you see any way in heaven or on earth we can reach the Gaterock alive!”

Digtry spoke, hesitantly, as if still formulating his thoughts. “I need a volunteer.”

“For what?” asked Windglow.

“To approach the Raxxars.”

“What! In the open?!” asked Windglow.

Digtry nodded.

“How close do I have to get?” asked Berch. It was the first sentence Roland had heard him speak since the revelation about the wolves, and the first eye contact he had made with Digtry since then.

“The closer the better.”

“Tell me what to do,” said Berch.

“But to what purpose?” asked Windglow.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I need all the Raxxars looking in the same place at the same time. All of them. The only way to accomplish that is to have one of their quarry walk slowly toward them in plain sight. Slowly--no sudden movements. Attract all eyes to that one person.”

“And then what happens?” asked Delaney.

“I have something in mind that, with luck, will allow the rest of us to sneak past them.”

An awkward silence followed as each tried figure out some rationale for believing such a naive strategy would work. Finally, an incredulous Windglow voiced the consensus. “That is your plan? Use one of us as bait to distract a couple thousand Raxxars from guarding the Gaterock? From doing the one thing they came here to do? Pardon my skepticism, but does this seem reasonable to you?”

“If you’re holding out for reasonable, we might as well surrender right now.”

“You really think this will work?” asked Delaney.

“Stranger things have happened.”

“What happens to the one person--the decoy?” asked Roland suppressing a smile. He wondered what kind of trick Digtry had up his sleeve, but he would bet it was a dandy.

“Hard to say.”

“It seems in some ways a suicide mission,” ventured Windglow.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“Fine. I said I’d do it,” said Berch.

“I appreciate that,” said Digtry. “Problem is, we need quickness and speed. Not your strong points.”

Roland shuddered. If they expected him to stroll by himself up to the middle of a yowling mob of saber-toed, hook-beaked, bloody-clawed savages, they may as well expect a frog to squirt orange juice.

“I shall take on the duty,” said Windglow, to Roland’s enormous relief.

Digtry shook his head. “No. Raxxars will attack any Tishaaran on sight. Won’t buy the time we need.”

“Then I guess it’s me,” said Delaney, jumping to her feet.

It was as if they stood over Roland, dousing him with hot coals of shame by the bucketful. He was the cause of everyone’s predicament, yet all of the others had done what they could to help the cause and then apologized for not doing more. Even Delaney, whom they had carried as a charity case for so long. Roland almost wished she had stayed that way. Now he was the charity case--the most useless member of the bunch. The situation cried out for a quick pair of legs and here he sat ducking while everyone else volunteered for duty. What had he contributed on this entire journey?

Look at Delaney. She couldn’t outrun a glacier. Berch is just an old man with a death wish. He couldn’t move even before his joints rusted up in Cloudmire. Windglow is disqualified and Digtry has to be free to do whatever he is planning to do.

“I’m faster than all of you,” he heard himself saying, as though his voice were a separate entity and he were a neutral outside observer. “I’m the one who has to do it. And it’s no use arguing. That is, unless you can think of a better plan.”

Two hours later, no one had.

Roland tried to steady himself as he stood next to Windglow near the edge of the clearing. But he had to keep shifting his weight and wandering off in tight circles to keep his heart from exploding. Sharks are like that. Have to keep moving or die.

Above him, the open canopy revealed the shadows of clouds sailing across the stars. He could not remember the last time he had taken a moment to look at the stars. Funny how everything looks so new when you haven’t paid any attention to it for so many years. Or when you’re looking at it for the last time.

He turned to Windglow, ashen-faced. “This is either the bravest or the stupidest thing I have ever done,” he said.

The Tishaaran clasped him around the shoulder and pulled him close. “Begging your pardon, Roland, but it is neither. Courage is advancing to meet a powerful enemy without regard to the consequence. Stupidity is stumbling into that enemy unprepared or in false confidence in one’s ability. You are flying toward the enemy on the wings of faith, and that is altogether different. You are putting your life in the care of a promise and a person.”

His green eyes steadied into what appeared to be a look of admiration. (Roland was not sure, not having ever seen such an expression head on.) “Roland, we Tishaarans take matters of the spirit very seriously. Yet, I confess I never knew until this moment what true faith is: a close cousin to both courage and stupidity, yet so far beyond either. There are times when neither courage nor wisdom can save us. Only faith.”

With that he clasped Roland’s hand. “Remember what Digtry said, Roland. Keep your head down. He was very clear on that point. Do not look up for any reason. When you hear the explosion, keep your head down and run for all you are worth to the rock.

Roland gulped hard. “I wish I was a little clearer on my instructions. How am I going to run straight through that mob?”

“Digtry hopes to distract them.”

“I thought I was the one who’s distracting them.”

Windglow's expression of pity did nothing to bolster Roland’s confidence. " wish he had let me do this," said the Tishaarab

The final hug had the feel of a last rite.

I’m going to die! And that’s all there is to it. How’s that for keeping the faith?

He raised one thumb to Windglow in false bravado. Then he turned to do his duty. Curiously buoyed by Windglow’s praise, he crept forward through the thin veil of gooseberry bushes and hemlock, and stepped out onto the short grass in the shadow of a stately spruce. He spit out the sour vomit welling up in his mouth, then took a deep breath. Then another. And another. One more. Another.

At last he clenched his jaw, steeled his resolve, and lit the torch that Digtry had given him. He stepped onto the grass, holding the torch near to his face so that he could be seen clearly. The ground felt soft, yet firm. A breeze swept his overgrown hair out of his eyes. Although terrified beyond feeling, he rode a crest of exhilaration. For once he felt important. Not useless old Roland Stewart sponging off the bounty of the earth and the sweat of his neighbors. He was a man who at this moment was earning the right to walk upright in the company of men. Just my luck to get myself killed just when I’m finally getting things figured out.

The Raxxars spotted him at once. A great cawing arose among the rabble followed by a hush of wary indecision. Roland clenched his fists but heeded Digtry’s warning to make no sudden movement. He could feel their eyes on him, predators locked in on their prey. But they made no move toward him. Yet.

Roland realized he was holding his breath. He forced his feet forward, and exhaled and inhaled sharply in rhythm with his advancing feet.

The host of Raxxars continued to watch him, suspiciously, eagerly preparing for battle. Roland gritted his teeth. He strode forward with his eyes fixed on the ground just ahead of him. Torch-fed shadows of wings and claws stretched out across the clearing almost to his feet. He drew closer and closer, trying hard not to be sick. Don’t look up! Whatever you do, don’t look up!

The Raxxars chirped and yammered like a mob of blackbirds, growing more agitated with every passing second. One step after another. Just a few more. Come on, Digtry. Any time! Any time!

A demonish howl erupted. Fouling the air with their caterwauling, the Raxxars cast aside their puzzlement and suspicion. The entire army rushed at him. Even then, Roland kept staring at the ground, holding fast to Digtry’s order. Any time, Digtry! Any time!

He plodded ahead robotically, head down, counting his steps out loud, until he could bear it no longer. Then his glassy concentration broke and he looked up to see a vision of hell open up in front of him, unleashing all the demented demons and carrion foul that it contained, all funneled right at him. Raxxars were rushing at him leaping, flapping, gliding.

At that moment, a ball of brilliant white flame exploded in the sky. Instinctively, he turned toward the blinding explosion. Shards of flame pierced his eyes. Too late, he squeezed his eyelids shut. The light tore through the skin and ignited the surface of his eyeballs. Roland cried out in pain and tried to rub his eyes but he could not douse the light, nor cool the burning. When he opened his eyes, he could see nothing but blurred, unmoving blotches of light.

His heart sank with the realization that his one moment of indiscretion had doomed him. Digtry had conjured up an intense firework to blind the Raxxars so that the travelers could all slip past them in their blindness. But Roland had foolishly gotten himself caught in the display. He could not see where he was going. He had only the roughest idea of where the Gaterock might be, and no chance of weaving his way through the clawing, fuming Raxxar horde. He suspected the blindness was temporary (at least he hoped to God it was), that it was matter of destroying night vision for a short while. His friends would be lucky to get themselves to the Gaterock before the Raxxars’ sight was restored; they weren’t coming to rescue him. Even if they did, he would be dead long before they reached him. If he waslucky, he would be clawed or slashed to death; if not, he could find himself being shipped in a box back to that sinister torturer with the hideous voice.

He inched forward gingerly toward the din of the Raxxars, arms waving in front to shield him from contact.

“Are you going to tiptoe around like a drunken cow, or are you going to run for the Gaterock, you slibber-sauced daggletail?”

The voice, coming from behind his ear, startled him. Yet there was a familiarity to it that lit a spark of hope. Roland reached back and squeezed the downy fur of a small creature that responded by biting his hand. Puddles! Windglow had secretly tucked the almost weightless fuzzball in the hood of Roland’s tunic.

“Quit pawing me, you snawk-shouldered Sally! Your lukewarm liver may not be worth saving, but mine is! Move it!” yelled Puddles.

“But I can’t see!”

“If you’d learn to follow orders instead of thinking with your blangin liripoop, you wouldn’t have problem. You’ll learn to follow them now! Run for it! Quick, to the right! Go! Watch out on your left! Spin out now to the right, you slobbering snotbiscuit! Look out for this one coming right at you!”

Blindly, Roland followed the sherrott’s orders through the chaos of stumbling, shrieking Raxxars.

A jagged claw swiped at his throat and tore into his shirt. Roland jumped back, feeling as though he had been branded with a hot iron.

“I’ll be gang-teethed if you didn’t get the flerking you deserved. I said ‘Left,’ you mugwallop! The hand you pick your nose with. Get going! Quick! Duck! Now straight. Jump!”

Roland leaped too late and caught his foot on the shoulder of a fallen Raxxars and fell heavily to the ground.

“Get up! Move! Quick, it’s clear to the right. Run! Run!”

Guided by Puddles’ caustic directions, Roland lurched forward in fitful starts and stops. After what seemed like an endless ordeal of twisting and dodging through the boiling sea of howling Raxxars, Puddles grabbed Roland’s ear and pulled.

“Ow!”

“I said `stop!’” scolded the sherrott. “The gaterock’s right in front of you! Two more steps and you’d have lost your teeth. Not that you’d look any worse than you do now.”

Roland stuck his hand out and jammed his fingers into polished rock that turned out to be even closer than Puddles had indicated. He heard what sounded like whips cracking and occasional high-pitched wails of pain. Then strong hands grabbed him and pulled him backward off his feet. Roland was too spent to resist or even cry out. Noting with relief that the fingers holding him had no claws, he yielded to the arms, letting them pull him wherever they wished. The next he knew, he was lying on the ground. The great stone gate scraped shut, muting the shrieks of the Raxxars.