Ive been stuck...Alana, Sant, and Faerborn the giant have been anyway...deep inside the cavern beneath the island of Folly. Faerborn is as tall as a tree; woolier than a mammoth, and he guards the caves entrance against the incursion of Jades, who Sant and Alana have barely escaped from a short time ago. 1,500 words into Chapter 30 the three characters sit. And talk. And sit. Yes now what? Are they going to just sit and tell one another stories for the rest of the book, or what? Get them moving again! Yeah, how? I dont know, just pick up the pace again. And so I do... “Good. You seeee, Faerbold first think to step on both of you…as he did them.” He points behind us to a place near the wall at our left. In the dimness, what might have been only vaguely seen as rocks piled up haphazardly, scattered about, takes on a more grisly reality in the flickering light. Bones. Skulls. A small, contained field of crushed and broken ribcages. An ankle attached to a couple of bleached-white feet. I wonder if these are the only remains of intruders into his cave? “Jades, Faerbold think you calls them. Nasty, ugly things. Yes. Spear. Arrow. Sword. But they not hurt Faerbold.” He pats my head—I’m sure he really doesn’t realize his strength—driving it down into my shoulders! “Faerbold believe you. Yes. Not Jade, so he not step on you. Come, Faerbold show you way out.” He lifts me off his lap and sets me on my feet next to Sant, who has been quietly standing all the while. I take hold of his hand, and together we begin the journey, farther into the belly of the cave. * The main corridor winds snakelike for miles, narrow and low passageways intersecting it every few hundred yards like twisted spokes in a twisted wheel. Faerbold walks ahead of us in silence at first, his torch held forward, illuminating the cavern walls and ceiling and floor with flickering images of amber and somber yellow. Upward the broad path leads, and then downward again. Sounds of water dripping and echoing; pools of it gathered in depressions that Faerbold slogs through in great splashes that send tiny storms of it back onto Sant and me, soaking us. We go on and on in silence. Mostly. After a time, at odd intervals, and for no apparent reason, the giant mumbles; thunderclaps bellowing down to the ground from someplace far, far away near an invisible horizon. I am starving, and so thirsty that I am tempted to scoop handfuls of water from one of the pools we pass by, or stop and lean my head backward to catch even a few drops falling from the jagged roof. Sant stumbles twice, and I can see his eyelids drooping painfully low. He needs to rest. He needs precious water and something to eat soon. How much farther? I stop when we come to a turn that leads us upward once again, and use my hands to force Sant to sit. It isn’t hard. He has little strength to resist. He leans back against the rough stone wall, and his head droops sideways onto the uninjured shoulder. I place my hand onto his cheek. It is ice cold. “Sir!” I yell. Faerbold the giant lurches to a halt and turns, swinging the torch like a comet racing through the vast void of the cave. “Sant is too weak to go any farther. Oh please, we need to find something to eat. We desperately need water! He needs to rest or else he will die here in this endless labyrinth. Are we near the exit?” Faerbold clomps back to us and shoves the torch downward. He stares at Sant, or me, or both of us. It is impossible to tell with the hair draping in front of his face once again. At length the mountain speaks, echoes rebounding as if we were back at that spot from which we began this endless journey. “Why you not say? Fra-gile little things…how you thinks to make your ways through here without me? If Faerborn not find you, if he not step on you like thought to do, you die anyway! Here…” He reaches down with the arm that carries the torch and snatches me up. With the other arm, he lifts Sant and cradles him near his broad chest. “Faerborn hurry. It is way yet. Alana sing to her mate. Not let him die. Faerborn run. Yes.” Faerborn run? Oh gods, I imagine myself slipping from his grasp, falling, and being squashed beneath his feet like a bug. THIRTY-ONE I have never ridden on a desert beast, a Singolot or an Afreen, although I have seen pictures of them in books. I do not know whether in their caravans these great animals gallop—they seem too immense to move with any more swiftness than a gigantic slug—or whether their human cargo sits atop them in calm luxury on cushioned seats, under gaily colored umbrellas. I bounce, with my fingers buried as tightly as they will clench in Faerborn’s wool. The outstretched hand holding the torch, it’s flame racing backward like the flag of a ship on the ocean, forces him to carry me only slightly close to his body. Three or four feet away, Sant is lost beneath an arm that barely moves.
Posted on: Sat, 27 Dec 2014 20:08:50 +0000
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