closer to her and gave a high squeak that echoed in the luminous chamber. “Well . . . truthsay is, you diddo muchously wellogood to savehelp my lifetender.” Then, with a glance, at me, he clacked two of his claws. “Thoughnearly you maimkilled mepoorme thenafter.”
“My apologies.” I extended my hand. “If we must part company, then, let’s do so as friends.”
The ballymag watched me cautiously. Suddenly, in one swift motion, he slapped his tail across my cheek, so hard I fell into the wall. Before I regained my balance, he had jumped off Hallia’s lap and vanished down a thin crevasse in the floor. For a few seconds, the sound of his body sliding through moist tunnels came back to us. Then—nothing.
Hallia, her eyes laughing, stroked my cheek. “Something tells me that’s not his usual good-bye.”
I scowled. “He must save that for his dearest friends.”
For a moment, we scanned the glowing surfaces, rippling with shades of green, all around us. When again would we see a place so lush, so alive—yet so near to another place reeking of death and decay? Then, as one, we turned toward the end of the chamber where a large passageway opened. From the movement of light, I could see that it angled upward. “That’s our route, I think. Are you ready?”
“No,” came her hushed reply. “But I’m coming anyway.”
Together, we entered the passageway. Soon the walls drew closer and the ceiling bent downward, forcing us to crouch. And before long, to crawl. In time, the green illumination of the walls began to fade, overpowered by the tentacles of darkness that probed ever nearer. The air grew rancid, heavy with the smells of things rotting.
At one point, Hallia hesitated, wiping her watering eyes with her sleeve. I started to speak, but her severe glance cut me off. An instant later we were crawling again, moving upward into the gloom. All at once, both of our heads bumped into something. Hard yet flexible, its slimy surface bent to our touch, like the peeling bark of a tree. It was, I realized, a slab of peat. Bracing myself against the wall of the passage, I prepared to push the slippery barrier aside.
Hallia, crouching by my side, squeezed my hand. “Wait. Just a moment longer. Before we go out there.”
Under my breath, I cursed, “By the breath of Dagda, I’d rather not leave this place at all.”
“I know. Down there, down deep, it’s so safe and quiet and, well, complete. I haven’t felt that way since . . . long ago, when we sat on that beach together, at the shore of my clan’s ancestors. Do you remember?”
I drew a slow, thoughtful breath. “The shore where the threads of mist were woven together.”
“By the greatest of the spirits himself,” she whispered. “My father used to say that Dagda used as his needle the trail of a falling star. And his weaving became a living, limitless tapestry—containing all the words ever spoken, all the stories ever told. Each thread glowing, richly textured, holding something of words and something else, as well. Something beyond all weaving, beyond all knowing.”
Listening to the echo of her words, I wondered about my own story, my own place in the tapestry. Was I a weaver? Or merely a thread? Or perhaps a kind of light within the thread, able somehow to make it glow?
“One day, Hallia, we’ll go back to that shore. And to others, as well.” I pulled my hand from hers. “Not now, though.”
Pressing my shoulders against the soggy mass of peat, I heaved. A sucking, squelching sound erupted. At the same time, muddy water flowed over us. Plus a new wave of odors, more putrid than ever. Sputtering, Hallia crawled out into the swamp. I followed, dropping the slab behind us with a cold splash.
12: T OO S ILENT
Quiet lay the marshes—strangely quiet, like a heart at the very edge of beating. Gone were all the wails and moans, as well as the backdrop of pipings and creakings, that we had heard before. Hallia and I traded uncertain
“My apologies.” I extended my hand. “If we must part company, then, let’s do so as friends.”
The ballymag watched me cautiously. Suddenly, in one swift motion, he slapped his tail across my cheek, so hard I fell into the wall. Before I regained my balance, he had jumped off Hallia’s lap and vanished down a thin crevasse in the floor. For a few seconds, the sound of his body sliding through moist tunnels came back to us. Then—nothing.
Hallia, her eyes laughing, stroked my cheek. “Something tells me that’s not his usual good-bye.”
I scowled. “He must save that for his dearest friends.”
For a moment, we scanned the glowing surfaces, rippling with shades of green, all around us. When again would we see a place so lush, so alive—yet so near to another place reeking of death and decay? Then, as one, we turned toward the end of the chamber where a large passageway opened. From the movement of light, I could see that it angled upward. “That’s our route, I think. Are you ready?”
“No,” came her hushed reply. “But I’m coming anyway.”
Together, we entered the passageway. Soon the walls drew closer and the ceiling bent downward, forcing us to crouch. And before long, to crawl. In time, the green illumination of the walls began to fade, overpowered by the tentacles of darkness that probed ever nearer. The air grew rancid, heavy with the smells of things rotting.
At one point, Hallia hesitated, wiping her watering eyes with her sleeve. I started to speak, but her severe glance cut me off. An instant later we were crawling again, moving upward into the gloom. All at once, both of our heads bumped into something. Hard yet flexible, its slimy surface bent to our touch, like the peeling bark of a tree. It was, I realized, a slab of peat. Bracing myself against the wall of the passage, I prepared to push the slippery barrier aside.
Hallia, crouching by my side, squeezed my hand. “Wait. Just a moment longer. Before we go out there.”
Under my breath, I cursed, “By the breath of Dagda, I’d rather not leave this place at all.”
“I know. Down there, down deep, it’s so safe and quiet and, well, complete. I haven’t felt that way since . . . long ago, when we sat on that beach together, at the shore of my clan’s ancestors. Do you remember?”
I drew a slow, thoughtful breath. “The shore where the threads of mist were woven together.”
“By the greatest of the spirits himself,” she whispered. “My father used to say that Dagda used as his needle the trail of a falling star. And his weaving became a living, limitless tapestry—containing all the words ever spoken, all the stories ever told. Each thread glowing, richly textured, holding something of words and something else, as well. Something beyond all weaving, beyond all knowing.”
Listening to the echo of her words, I wondered about my own story, my own place in the tapestry. Was I a weaver? Or merely a thread? Or perhaps a kind of light within the thread, able somehow to make it glow?
“One day, Hallia, we’ll go back to that shore. And to others, as well.” I pulled my hand from hers. “Not now, though.”
Pressing my shoulders against the soggy mass of peat, I heaved. A sucking, squelching sound erupted. At the same time, muddy water flowed over us. Plus a new wave of odors, more putrid than ever. Sputtering, Hallia crawled out into the swamp. I followed, dropping the slab behind us with a cold splash.
12: T OO S ILENT
Quiet lay the marshes—strangely quiet, like a heart at the very edge of beating. Gone were all the wails and moans, as well as the backdrop of pipings and creakings, that we had heard before. Hallia and I traded uncertain
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