Rhapsody: Child of Blood

8

Immediately there had been a problem.

Just below the rip Grunthor had torn in the wall of the root was a tiny ledge. It was more than likely a lichenous growth of a size that matched the mammoth proportions of the Tree, jutting out from the root wall. Rhapsody had lowered herself onto it without difficulty and peered over into the tunnel below, where the two men were rapidly disappearing, along with the weak, flickering light of the torch.

“Wait,” she called, her voice shaking a little. “You’re going too fast.” Shadows danced on the tunnel walls around and above her, leaving her dizzy and sweating.

“Funny,” replied the sandy voice from below, exaggerated and echoing. “One might rather think you’re not going fast enough.”

“Please,” she called again, choking back the panic that was filling her throat.

There was silence, then the ledge shivered. Two enormous hands appeared at the edge of the bulbous growth, and Grunthor hoisted his upper body into view, his face damp from the moisture of the root. Even in the dark Rhapsody could see him grin.

“What’s the matter, Yer Ladyship?”

“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, hating herself for the admission of weakness.

“O’ course you can, darlin’. Just take your time.”

“I’m Lirin—”

The Firbolg giant chuckled. “’Ey, don’t remind me. Oi ain’t eaten recently.”

“—we don’t do well underground.”

“Oi can see that. Well, ’ow about Oi give you a lit’le lesson ’ere? Come on, Oi’ll show you.” He beckoned her forward with the wave of one hand while maintaining his hold on the fibrous rope with the other.

Tentatively Rhapsody crept to the rim of the ledge, swallowed hard, and peered over the side again.

“Now, there’s your first mistake. Don’t look down. Close your eyes and turn around.” Awkwardly she obeyed. The vambraces of Grunthor’s armor squeaked as a thick, muscular arm encircled her waist and drew her backward off the ledge. Rhapsody stifled a gasp.

“Right. Now, keep your eyes closed, spread your arms wide, and hug the root. When you’re full around it, feel for an ’and’old.”

Within the circle of Grunthor’s arms Rhapsody reached both hands forward, running them along the surface of the root wall until her chest almost rested against the skin of the root itself. She shuddered as Grunthor shifted his weight to bring her even closer to it, the heavy, metallic odor of armor and sweat and the humid, earthy smell of the root filling her nostrils. After a moment she found a small indentation beneath her left hand, a thick root branch with her right. She gripped both firmly.

“Now the feet. Good. All right, now, open your eyes.”

Rhapsody obeyed. Before her loomed the exterior skin of the trunk root, a thick, mottled hide scarred with rhizomes and lichenous growths, as jagged and rough as the interior had been smooth. She rested her ear against it and inhaled, breathing in the rich, sharp scent of it, listening to the humming pulse that vibrated in her skin and the edge of her scalp. There was solace in its song, even here within the dark tomb of earth.

“Ya all right?”

Rhapsody nodded, still resting her head against the root’s sunless skin, ghostly pale in the blackness. The last of the feeble shadows fluttered, and the torch in the tunnel below flared out with a hiss.

“Now, ya see, you’re doin’ just fine. Don’t look down, and take your time. Oi’ll most likely catch you if you slip.” The giant patted her awkwardly, then began to descend once again.

“Thank you,” Rhapsody murmured. Carefully she felt for more handholds below. Upon finding them, she cautiously slid her foot down until she found another knot on the root. Her shoulders were on fire, her hands stung, her knees already felt the strain—and she hadn’t even started yet.

How long they climbed down into the darkness was impossible to tell—hours, certainly, though it seemed more like days. Each time Rhapsody found another large growth or rhizome on the trunk root’s fleshy skin she took the opportunity to stop and rest, allowing the screaming muscles in her shoulders and legs a moment’s respite from the grueling routine.

She could no longer see her companions for the darkness and the distance between them. Achmed had staggered the climb so that each of them could take advantage of the resting spots. As he came to each outcropping he called out its location, and she and Grunthor would hang in place, waiting for their turns to descend onto the new ledge.

It was during one of these momentary rests, with her feet wedged into a scarred crevice in the root, her arms entwined in a desperate embrace about it, that the panic resurged.

The tunnel that sheathed the root had been wide at the Tree’s base, stretching to unseen edges in the darkness around it. It had been carved out over centuries of the Tree’s growth and the swollen rains from hundreds of springtimes, and as a result had seemed a vast and endless cave when they first began the long climb down.

The farther along the root they went, however, the more narrow the tunnel became. The body of the root itself had grown thinner, with more radix and branch rootlets sprouting from it. The Earth itself was closing in around them, and the closer the tunnel walls came in, the louder Rhapsody’s heart pounded. She was part Lirin, a child of the sky and open spaces of the world, not made to travel deep within the earth as the Firbolg, Grunthor’s race, were. Each breath was bringing dirty heaviness to her lungs and torment to her soul.

Her head began to spin. Separated from the sky, she was buried alive within the Earth, in a living grave so far down that she could never be found. Even in death, Lirin never entombed one of their race within the ground, but rather committed their bodies to the wind and stars through the fire of the funeral pyre. The awareness of the depths to which they had tunneled dawned on her, leaving her terrified. Deep; they had gone so deep. Too deep.

Suddenly it was as if every grain of dirt, every clod of clay in the ground above her had settled on her shoulders, dragging the air from her lungs. Her grip on the trunk root tightened as she grew dizzy and hot.

The song of the Tree, so comforting and ever-present at the onset of the climb, had dwindled to a bare whisper, taking what little courage she had left with it. The sound of her breathing and the painful thudding of her heart filled her ears, making her feel as if she were drowning. She began to gasp for breath. Too deep. It’s too deep.

In her memory she heard her father’s voice, stern but not angry.

Stop flailing.

Rhapsody closed her eyes, concentrating with the last of her will on her Naming note. Ela, the sixth note of the scale. It was among the first things she had learned when studying to be a Singer, the mental tuning fork that helped her discern the truth of a given vibration. It would help her remember clearly, even in her terror. She took a deep breath and began to softly hum the note.

The water of the pond had been cold and green scum floated on the surface. She could not see the bottom.

Father?

I’m here, child. Move your arms slowly. That’s better.

It’s so cold, Father. I can’t stay above it. It’s too deep. Help me.

Be at ease. I’ll hold you up.

Rhapsody took another breath, and felt the tightness in her lungs slacken a little. The memory of her father’s smiling face, his beard and eyebrows dripping, rivulets of water rolling down his cheeks, rose up before her mind’s eye as it had from the surface of the pond so long ago.

The water won’t hurt you, it’s the panic that will. Stay calm.

She nodded, as she had that day, and could feel the droplets of anxious sweat shake off her hair, much like the pond water had.

It’s so deep, Father.

A spray of water as he spat it out. Depth doesn’t matter, as long as your head is above it. Can you breathe ?

Ye-e-ss.

Then never mind how deep it is. Concentrate on breathing; you’ll be fine. And don’t panic. Panic will kill you, even when nothing else wants to.

The next breath was even easier. Memories are the first stories you learn, Heiles, her mentor, had said. They are your own lore. There is more power in them than you will ever find in all your studies, because you wrote them. Draw on them first. Twice now she had reached back into the Past, and it had given her exactly what she needed.

Depth doesn’t matter. Concentrate on breathing; you’ll be fine. And don’t panic. Slowly Rhapsody opened her eyes.

“Miss?”

The voice from below caught her by surprise, and the fear roared back. Rhapsody started, then lost her footing. She made a wild grab for the bark again and stumbled, sliding without purchase along the pale, slippery flesh of the root.

Rootlets and branches snapped beneath her arms as she slid, bruising her body and slapping against her face. The bark of the root’s skin bit deep into her neck and hands as she fell along it, plunging down until she was suddenly, violently stopped by Grunthor’s enormous mass. His body absorbed the shock of the impact without moving. Rhapsody looked up, her neck throbbing sickeningly, to see the great gray-green face wreathed in a cheerful smile.

“Well, ’allo, Duchess! Oi was ’opin you’d drop in! Care for a spot o’ tea?”

The tension she had been lugging with her for a fortnight shattered, and, in spite of herself, Rhapsody laughed. The giant joined in.

“Grunthor.” The dry voice from below choked off the merriment. The giant looked down into the darkness. “We’ll be changing course here, following a different path.”

“Wait ’ere, darlin’, eh?” Rhapsody nodded. Grunthor helped her find purchase on the root skin again, after which he took out a small flask and gave her a drink. Then he climbed down to confer with Achmed. A moment later he was back.

“There’s a fairly wide shelf in the root down a lit’le ways,” he said. “We’ll sleep there. If you want to hold on, Oi can carry you down.”

Rhapsody shook her head. “No, thank you. If it’s not too far I think I can make it.”

“Suit yourself,” replied the giant. “It’s enough just to know that you fell for me.” He descended the root, Rhapsody’s soft laughter following him out of sight.

They ate their meal in silence and semi-light. Achmed had lit another torch and stuck it into a shallow fissure above them. Rhapsody basked in the illumination and warmth of the small flame. She had been too busy fighting the feeling of the walls caving in to notice the dark and the cold.

Achmed had gathered a number of different mold spores and growths from the skin of the root, and was testing their use as a source of fuel and light. One type of dense, sponge-like fungi held the flame well, and would glow for some time after being extinguished. Satisfied, he harvested a substantial number of them from the skin of the giant root and stored them in his pack.

“Got the light source,” he said to Grunthor. “Should provide some minimal heat as well.” The Firbolg looked up over a piece of the dried meat he had found in the provisions of Michael’s men and nodded. “Water is no problem, obviously.” In illustration, he wrung out a corner of his cloak, sodden from the climb along the damp root. A tiny stream of liquid splashed his boot.

Rhapsody finished her rations in silence. Suspended here, safe for the moment, she had had time to think about what they had undertaken. It was taking all of her concentration just to keep from losing the battle against the panic that lurked, ever-present, at the edges of her consciousness. She had not noticed when Achmed held out a sliver of green vegetable matter. He shook it closer to her face, finally drawing her attention.

“Eat.”

Rhapsody accepted the food with a withering stare, then took several deep breaths, focusing on staying calm. She took a bite, then made a face. The vegetable was bland, with tough fibers running through it. Rhapsody chewed, then swallowed hard.

“Bleah. What was that?”

“The root.” Achmed smiled, then looked away in amusement at the sight of the expression on her face.

“The root? You’re eating Sagia?”

“Actually, you’re eating Sagia.” He held out his forearm to stop her from rising. “Before you vomit it up, consider again. We are down here indefinitely. We don’t have enough food to last nearly that long. When the supplies run out, what do you suggest we eat?” He ignored the furious glance that had replaced the first expression in her eyes. “Or would you prefer I put that question to Grunthor?”

“Not to worry, miss,” said the Firbolg giant, chewing on his supper. “Oi don’t think you’d make much of a meal. You’re on the bony side, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so. Apt to be tough and gamy.”

“The amount of root we will take for food in any given place won’t even be noticed by the Tree’s parasites, let alone the Tree. You won’t be doing it any damage, and you may actually live as a result. You’ll just be taking that allegory of the Tree being the nurturer of the Lirin a little farther than most.”

Rhapsody had opened her mouth to try and explain to the miscreant before her that Sagia was a living entity, it had a soul, but one word choked off her diatribe.

“Parasites?”

Grunthor snorted. “Come on, now, ’aven’t you noticed the ’oles?”

Rhapsody’s eyes darted around the darkness. She had been too busy trying to keep from plummeting down into the abyss below her to look for details in the scenery, and even now all she saw was the great, shaggy green-white wall behind them and the rocky tunnel around them. The size of the root and the cavern that sheathed it was monstrous, and had succeeded in intimidating her completely.

“No.”

“You’re in the ground, Rhapsody,” said Achmed, his voice unnaturally patient. “Worms and insects live in the ground as well. They feed off roots—you have managed to notice that there are roots here, haven’t you?” He saw the panic glazing her intense green eyes once more, and took her by the shoulders.

“Listen to me. Grunthor and I know what we are doing, at least for the most part. If you stay up with us, and follow directions, you may make it out of here. If you panic, you’ll die. Do you understand?” She nodded. “Well, that’s a start. Now, if I recall, one of the things you told us you could do as a Singer was to prolong sleep, is that correct?”

“Sometimes.”

“That may prove to be important. Now, after we’ve rested, we’re changing course. The root branches out on the other side, goes horizontal for a bit. We’ll be following that. Get some sleep.” He settled back against the root wall, his pocked face disappearing into the darkness of his hood.

Rhapsody moved closer to the torch, hoping the light would last at least until she fell asleep. She closed her eyes, but still could not escape the image of being covered with the unseen vermin that fed off Sagia’s root.

The song of the Tree, so distant while they were traveling, swelled in the silence and filled her ears, then her heart, gently lulling her to sleep. With her last conscious thought, she hummed her Naming note, attuning herself to Sagia’s song. It would sustain her in this place of living nightmares.

Far away, in a realm even deeper than Rhapsody had fallen in her darkest dreams, the great sleeping serpent stretched infinitesimally, immense coils unspooling in its slumber. Wound around the vestigial roots of the great Tree within ancient tunnels from the Before-Time, the beast lay in frozen darkness in the bowels of the Earth, awaiting the call. Soon war would rage, the door to the upworld would be opened, and its long-awaited feed would begin.