“Your frame seems too small to contain such a furious anger.”
“Anger?”
“You’re
angrier than you think, young Kevin. It erupts from time to time like the boiling geysers of
Mamrê Daln
in the eastern Rhomb territory.”
“I’ve heard of those,”
Kevin mused, failing to reconcile his pathetic debilities with Snatcher’s volatile vision. He thought aloud, “I have noticed recently, I suppose, a certain inability to control my tongue, good Snatcher, and an impulsiveness from time to time that is quite out of character, I assure you. Most unusual.”
“Such as when you healed the Faun?”
“Indeed.”
“Do you miss the X’gäthi?”
“What? Why?”
“Didn’t they call you ‘Mighty High Wizard’ and–”
His ire peaked at once. Kevin cried weakly, “Don’t you dare, Snatcher! Don’t you dare for a second! I am no wiz-” And then he groaned, clapped his hand to his forehead, and addressed the Lurk with finger-wagging exasperation. “Oh, fiddlesticks and pigswill, I walked straight into that! Snatcher, you’ve made your point admirably and I’m more the fool. I’ll have you know I never had any trouble with anger before Driadorn. Before meeting
you!
”
“I was not the first creature you met in Driadorn,” said the Lurk.
“It was one of the Honeybears, I think,” Kevin rushed on, remembering the agony of waking after his strange journey. “Bock, and then Zephyr and Alliathiune.”
Snatcher looked to the false dawn with a deep “
Hmm!
” rumbling within his chest. After a moment’s thought, he seemed to come to a decision. “I found you in Mistral Bog, in an area known as the Deep Bogs. There, Lurks go to bury their dead.” He made a sign against evil with his left paw. “I may safely advise that yours is the first Human foot ever to touch those murky paths, which are haunted by creatures so powerful and ancient that even Lurks tread softly and fearfully for fear of meeting an untimely end. The Deep Bogs are arguably the most perilous place in Driadorn, short of leaping off a cliff or stepping into the fiery fissures of Farfire Peak. It was there that I stumbled upon you.”
“
I never thanked you, noble Lurk,” said Kevin. “But why were you there, may I ask?”
A sharp intake of breath presaged a sob of profound anguish.
The huge Lurk curled inwards like a wilting flower, whispering to himself in his own language. But there was a phrase, or a name, repeated over and over like a mantra of wretchedness, that caught Kevin’s attention and caused his mind to leap ahead to a conclusion. He needed no translation of the Lurkish to understand. He was grieving for a loved one–one he had buried in the Deep Bogs. He had been visiting a grave.
“Her name meant ‘Fragrant’,” Snatcher whispered, reluctantly yet tenderly, “although it is much more beautiful when said in Lurkish.” And he warbled the syllables
Kevin had picked out, with a sound like a stream bubbling between rocks as it runs swiftly downhill in its youthful exuberance. “She was my mate–my beloved. We Lurks mate for life, good Kevin. We walked out together for the traditional twelve seasons before the time of feasting, and we made our union vows the following Budding season. That was frowned upon by some as overly hasty, for Lurks are cautious to a fault, but we saw no reason to delay longer than a strict minimum. Our love was consuming.” He cracked his knuckles sharply, making Kevin jump. “We dreamed and talked of many things. Fragrant was fascinated with the legend of the Greymorral Lurks–a sad tale if ever there was one.”
“You mentioned them before. Tell me.”
“Once upon a time, my thin-skinned Human friend, there were two distinct tribes of Lurks dwelling in the vast territories of Mistral Bog–those who called themselves the Greater Lurks, such as I, and the Greymorral Lurks, who were smaller and more nimble, and skilled in the ancient lore known as
inkrêldak
–that is, the cunning artifice of stone working using Lurkish skills of manipulating the essence of things–to shape beautiful and seamless stone homes for their kind, and tools and sculptures for trade. Men used to employ the Greymorral Lurks in their city building projects, and there was much commerce in those times. Great and beautiful were the products of their skill, and the Men were well pleased. They became wealthy, wherein lay the root of their downfall.”
“Why’s that?”
Snatcher replied, “They were sold out by my ancestors. They were sold into slavery in a land beyond the sea, and those who were left in Mistral Bog were slain in inter-tribal fighting. We Greater Lurks were too powerful for our kin.”
“And what has become of them now?”
“There is a legend that they dwell in the land of Utharia,” he said, “in a place called ‘the Wet’.”
“The Wet?”
“A swamp, surprisingly enough.” He chuckled mirthlessly.
“An
d Fragrant?”
The silence stretched so long that
Kevin feared the Lurk had fallen asleep. But at length, he whispered, “She wished to right the wrongs done to the Greys. She thought we should find them and secure their return to Mistral Bog. She offended the elders of our tribe. She never returned.”
“I’m
so desperately sorry, old fellow.”
He made a soft, keening wail through his nostrils. “I grieve, good
Kevin.”
Kevin
scratched his head. “There’s something I don’t understand, though. Why destroy the Men of Ramoth?”
“It was they who carried the Greymorral Lurks away to their slavery–and they to whom my beloved was given. They slew her.”
“Oh dear, Snatcher! How do you know that?”
“Must you drag it out with hooks and knives?” snapped Snatcher, losing his calm. “Must you force me to re-live those sorrows?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
The Lurk threw back his head to study the stars, his chest heaving with ragged breaths as he fought for control. His teeth ground together audibly. To
Kevin, who had touched off such powerful emotions, it was a terrifying moment. But at length, the Lurk growled, “Outlander, your appetite for the truth is appalling! Hear this now. The Men of Ramoth are skilled in the ways of torture and regard it fondly as a kind of sport. I came across the place where they had been encamped, where I found a man–one of them–staked out across a nest of red ants. Though he had been half eaten he was yet alive, and he spoke of how they tortured her the previous evening by the campfire. They sank a great metal pole into the earth and chained her to it, then built a great pyre fire around her feet. Lurk hide is invulnerable to fire, but sustained heat will cook one from the inside.”
“Hellfire an
d–”
“Then they hacked her into little pieces with axes and fed their dogs. That’s what he told me. There, amidst the ashes of the fire, I found her
rêk-rêkal
, which is a gift given to one’s betrothed–you understand I am using terms common to the peoples of Driadorn, which have different connotations amongst my people …?”
Kevin
nodded, feeling sick. “Go on.”
“A Lurk would rather give up her life than lose her
rêk-rêkal
. It symbolises all that is committed in the union vows. It
is
those vows. So I go to the Deep Bogs to mourn for my beloved, perished these two hundred and thirty-five seasons hence. I go each season. There–are you satisfied now?”
Nearly fifty-nine years,
Kevin translated in his mind. Had the Lurk mourned her faithfully all that time? It beggared belief, such a confession. He felt humbled, and somehow, in a mysterious and illogical way, uplifted. There was a hidden presence of greatness about the Lurk that he had sensed, hearing his story, like the discovery of a rare jewel in the dark depths of a mine.
Snatcher sighed, laying his paw upon the outlander’s shoulder. “This recollection is bittersweet, good
Kevin. I apologise for laying such a burden upon you, and thank you for listening. I apologise for my anger.”
“No. No, I did want to know. I forced you t
o speak. I refused to let it go.”
“You know my secrets now. When I saw again the Men of Ramoth, the madness of grief came upon me. My dishonour is unbearable.”
“Shall I tell you one of my secrets?”
“If you wish.”
Not for the first time, Kevin wished he had kept his trap firmly shut. “I … uh, well, it’s frivolous in comparison–”
“Kê, good Kevin, is it another secret like your father and brother beating and abusing you? This I know.”
He gave a nervous laugh. “When I was young, I used to make up stories about how I would escape from my dreary life in Pitterdown Manor and ride off on a grand adventure somewhere. I used to dream up fairy-tale lands where I could be the hero, slaying Dragons and winning the fair lady’s hand. Swords, wizardry, daring deeds, scurrilous villains–it sounds so childish now.”
“Hmm.”
“I never imagined anything like this, Snatcher! I’ve been nearly killed a dozen times in the past couple of weeks, and I’m starting to wonder if despite the filthy weather and a certain predilection for falling into trouble, if I’m not actually
enjoying
this adventure! How perfectly daft is that? Well, I would be but for what happened back at the Well. I don’t think Alliathiune will ever forgive me.”
“The noble Dryad is not as ill-disposed to you as you imagine, good Kevin.”
“I think she’d prefer to turn me into a glüalla plant.”
The Lurk shifted uneasily.
“And this is something I fear to tell you, good Kevin.”
To cover his own disquiet, Kevin said, “I simply must water this bush, good Lurk.”
Snatcher said, “Two darktimes ago, I overheard our friends the Unicorn and the Dryad arguing. Zephyr must have told her at some point of your terrible past. They both spoke with great sympathy. But then Zephyr claimed the Dark Apprentice
recognised
you, there at the Well.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Indeed so, except that I recall a moment, just before he teleported away … the way he looked at you …”
“Snatcher, please.” Kevin stilled the shaking of his hands. “Who would recognise me in Driadorn? Who?”
“Impossible, I know,” rumbled the Lurk, making a soothing gesture with his hands. “Zephyr speculated that you might be a spy, or a traitor, or a sending of the Dark One. He was most adamant on what he believed he saw, and declared himself deeply troubled. Was the vision wrong? Alliathiune defended you, good Kevin, most vigorously–not only claiming her Seeing was accurate, but that you were good, that she knew your heart. She grew visibly agitated.”
Kevin hissed through his teeth. “Snatcher,
she thinks I’m a lowlife, a cretin, an inveterate wet blanket–”
Quite unexpectedly, Snatcher caught the Human up by the arms and boosted him up to eye level.
Kevin gave a small squeal of surprise before subsiding beneath the Lurk’s luminous scrutiny. “One thing,” he rumbled. “One question, young outlander, that you must answer for yourself. No one else in all the Hills, nor Feynard, nor back in your past, can answer this question, save for you.” He shook Kevin. “Save for
you
. The question is: ‘Will you win her?’”
“Huh?”
The Lurk shook him again–more firmly this time. “Are you willing to win your beloved? Is she worth it? Do you have what it takes? In here?”
Kevin
’s mind reeled as Snatcher’s huge thumb thumped his chest. Would he
win
her? To him, life had always been about receiving. The victim was always on the receiving end. Room and board, medical help, and abuse. Volition counted for nothing. Never had he gone to his own aid; never had he considered himself capable.
He had pursued Great-Grandmother’s bequest, however.
“Because if your beloved is worth winning, good Kevin, then she must be won fairly, with daring, courage, and honour. You must gird your utmost courage and put it to the test–for it will be tested, by all the truth of the Hills. Will you win her? Only you can answer that question. Only you can fight that battle.”
Did he want to? Did he dare? Or did the prospect turn his bowels into
chicken soup? Snatcher’s question had deep implications, for he realised the fantastic tangle obscuring his feelings whenever he thought about the fascinating Dryad–feelings that he could neither identify nor comprehend, not yet and perhaps not ever, unless he found the kind of courage Snatcher was talking about.
“I–I confess I hadn’t seen it quite that way, Snatcher. But it make
s a kind of sense. I guess I planned to lie low for a while.”
“Kê!”
Kevin’s teeth rattled in his head as the Lurk shook him roughly. “Ouch!”
“We Lurks have a figure of speech, good
Kevin: ‘to take a Kalladon’s charge on the chest.’ A Kalladon is a four-footed plant eater which dwells in the shallow northern regions of Mistral Bog. They weigh as much as seven full-grown Lurks. In the mating season, the males test their strength by charging headlong at their rivals and striking them with the bony armour of their skulls–you can hear the clashes for miles about. That is the kind of courage you will need.”