The World and Thorinn

2 How Thorinn lost his sword in a lake, and became a stonemason to get it back.

It was the distant, thunderous roaring of the water that brought him up out of darkness. He was sprawled on wet stone, retching feebly. His legs were still in the water, which lapped at his middle rhythmically and insistently, over and over in the same place. When he tried to crawl out of its reach, he found his legs too heavy to move. He belched up a watery surge of vomit against the stone. After a while, groaning, he managed to drag himself an ell or so away from the water, and rolled onto his back. The light-box was still bound to his arm, but its glow was so feeble that he could barely see it. When he looked up, the darkness pressed close against his eyes. The sound of the water roared endlessly, off in the darkness. He could remember the water plunging up over his head, the helpless motion, the falling...

There had been an unaccustomed freedom when he rolled over on the stone; something was missing. He felt for the scabbard at his belt; it was there, but it was limp; the sword was gone. After an interval, some faint sound in the darkness brought him struggling up on one elbow. He listened, but the sound was not repeated: he heard only the steady, tumultuous roaring of the water. On his right cheekbone there was a thumb-sized lump, still welling blood, and his shoulder felt as if someone had clubbed it.

A touch told him that the light-box was ruined. One end was split, the mica missing and all the sky-stuff washed out of the compartment except for a few shreds clinging to the soaked wood. The dim glow came from these.

The knots in the wet thong were too much for his fingers, and at last he attacked them with his teeth, jerking at them stubbornly until they loosened enough to slip the light-box free. Holding it with care in both hands, he pried the wooden cap off the other end. The mica there was still whole. He unlatched the lid, raised it, and probed delicately in the second compartment. It was half full of chill water, in which he could feel the sodden sky-stuff afloat.

Thorinn let out the breath he had been holding. He fumbled over the stone with his free hand until he found a hollow place, then tilted the box over it, pressing the sky-stuff against the inside of the compartment and straining the water out between his fingers.

He remembered that he must put aside a portion of the dark sky-stuff. He unfastened his wallet and tipped the water out of it, then pinched up a good lump of sky-stuff between thumb and finger, and laid it carefully at the bottom of the wallet.

Now, if there was enough of the bright sky-stuff left... Thorinn scraped the inside of the ruined compartment with his forefinger, brought it up with the fingernail dimly glowing, and touched it to the sodden mass in the other half of the box. The sky-stuff bloomed into pale light, dim but beautiful to his eyes.

He shut the lid carefully upon it, then aimed the mica end of the box this way and that around him. He was sitting on a smooth flat rock that sloped gently to the water, and ran away featureless into the darkness on every other side.

Now that he had light, his first care was to recover the few strands of sky-stuff that had escaped between his fingers when he poured the water out. He dipped them up out of the puddle one by one, dried them as best he could by shaking them gently, and deposited them in the box again. Next he thought of his hurts. Dark sky-stuff, moistened and bound to a wound, was said to be healing; but he had none to spare, nor any other simples. As for magic, he knew none; he could cast runes, and find lost objects sometimes, but that was all.

He climbed stiffly erect. His sopping garments clung to him, his shoes squelched when he took a step; even his hair dripped cold down the back of his neck. He turned toward the distant roaring sound and slowly began to hop along the edge of the water, holding the light-box before him. After ten steps a black wall of rock gleamed out of the darkness. It went nearly to the water and rose overhead farther than his little light would reach. He turned away from the water, up the slope. After a few steps the stone on which he had been walking ended and gave way to other slabs, more uneven, higher and of a smaller size, while the wall curved gradually back, away from the roaring sound, until it ran parallel with the water.

In thirty paces more, Thorinn came to a head-high shelf on which some leathery fans of fungus grew. He pulled them down, found them white and doughy inside, with a strong stale odor. He nibbled at one, found it palatable, then ate all the rest and looked for more. But he found no others of that size, only a mass of larger ones joined together in long rows, dead and as hard as spearwood. He turned away in disappointment, but after a moment, thinking better of it, went back and broke loose some of the dead fungus. It came away in a long staff, like a loaf of bread. He examined the inner surface closely in the glow of the light-box: it was porous and tinder-dry. Insects had tunneled through it, leaving portions of the mass so eaten away that they collapsed under his thumb. Thorinn knelt on the cold stone, opened his wallet and got out his fire stick. The tinder was a sodden mass of fiber. Thorinn untied it and spread it out on the stone: it might dry enough to be of use, he supposed, but that would take days.

He dried his hands as well as he could by rubbing them along the rock, then picked up the staff of fungus again and began to break off small pieces. But his touch dampened them in spite of all he could do, and at last he broke the staff into two parts and began rubbing the ends together to grind off chunks and fragments. When he had a pile of these, he laid the rest of the fungus aside and picked up his fire stick. It was wet, but the plunger still slid freely enough in the cylinder. Thorinn took it apart, shook a few drops of moisture out of it, then, holding it braced against the stone between his legs, sat patiently driving the plunger in, over and over, until the cylinder grew warm to the touch and the inside was dry. He opened the fire stick then, wedged the cylinder upright into a crack in the stone, and used the shreds of fungus to pick up other shreds, preserving their dryness, and drop them into the fire stick. He put the plunger in, drove it down smartly, removed it: the shreds of fungus were glowing bright orange. He tipped them out carefully into a pile of the finest fragments and dust of the fungus; they glowed for a moment more, then went out.

On the third try, the little fire caught. Thorinn protected it with his cupped hands, blew gently on it, fed it sparingly with tiny splinters, then with bigger ones, and at last had whole chunks and staves of fungus blazing.

The yellow light danced high, reflecting glints from the rock wall for a distance of five or six ells, before it vanished into shadow. Peering up between his hands, Thorinn thought he could make out a vague glimmer that might be the ceiling.

He crouched to the fire, soaking up the warmth with hands and face, then stripped off his soaked clothing and stood near the flames, turning himself like meat on a spit until at length he was dry and warm. The blood that welled slowly from the wounds in his cheek and shoulder began to clot. Feeling stronger, Thorinn walked along the wall of rock collecting more staves of fungus, which he piled near the fire; then he turned his shirt and breeks inside out and sat down to dry them. He emptied his wallet, putting the lump of sky-moss carefully aside in a cranny of the rock, and examining the rest of his belongings for the first time to make sure they were safe. He laid his possessions out carefully on the rock, and propped the wallet open to dry along with his shoes.

The leather of his shirt steamed, turned a lighter brown. He pulled it right side out again and put it on, then the breeks. They were not thoroughly dry, but they were warm inside, and would do. He chose a long, heavy staff of fungus, laid one end of it in the heart of the fire. His shoes were as wet as ever, but he put them on, gathered his possessions into the wallet and hung it from his belt. By this time the end of the fungus staff was blazing; he lifted it out of the fire. Yellow flames continued to curl around its tip, and when he held it overhead, shading his eyes, it cast a ruddy light that made the cavern visible for a dozen ells or more on every side.

The rock wall rose in one receding shelf after another back into the shadows. Tipping his head back now, Thorinn could make out the broken rock surface of the cavern ceiling. But although he walked down to the edge of the water and held the torch high, he could not see the other side—only the dark, glassy, faintly moving surface of the water and the dim slope of the bottom under it, shelving down into darkness.

He turned away from the roaring sound and followed the edge of the water in the other direction. The rock wall curved closer, became broken and covered with gray nodules of fungus; the stone shelf underfoot narrowed until there was barely room to walk, then gave way to heaped boulders. The thunderous roaring receded behind him, but another water-sound rose ahead. Holding his light out over the water, he saw the gleam of a swift current.

Now the ceiling began to dip lower. Thorinn was picking his way from one water-rounded boulder to another at the foot of the sheer face of rock. The ceiling curved down, the shelf broadened out again into two flat stones... and between them the water ran in a curved dark torrent, brilliant as glass, into a narrow slot of darkness under the wall.

On the other side of the outlet the shelf broadened again, and behind it was a tumbled mass of boulders. Thorinn leaped, landed safely.

As well as he could judge, the cavern at this end was some twenty or thirty ells broad, and the ceiling might be as much as thirty ells high in the center. On this side, the ceiling slanted sharply down to the talus slope of boulders at the base of which he stood. Fungi grew here and there on the stones. Thorinn picked all the smaller ones he saw, ate some and put the rest into his wallet. He found another long staff of dead fungus and tore it down for a spare torch.

The roaring grew louder as he circled the lake. Out across the dark water, an orange spark leaped into view: it was his fire, on the other side. He watched it for what seemed a long time, until it abruptly winked out again, and he realized he had passed the wall of rock that jutted out to the water. His torch was burning low. He paused to light the second one, and in its brighter flare, something white and vast rose out of the darkness. The roaring filled the cavern now as he moved closer; it stuffed his ears with noise. He shouted and could not hear himself. The air was full of flying droplets, drifting in faery arcs, winking and vanishing. The white water dropped thunderously into the lake and burst into white mounds of spray. Thorinn could dimly make out the shapes of rocks like giants' skulls behind the curtain of water. He could not see the top of it, and his torch was smoking and dimming now as he tried to move nearer; the wet air was putting it out. Thorinn retreated until the torch burned brightly again, then began to climb the heaped boulders, working his way toward the waterfall.

The air was less damp at this height, and he was able to approach within twenty ells or so of the cataract. He was halfway up the cavern wall now; the boulders would take him no higher. He raised the torch. The dim light glimmered back from a hole in the rocky ceiling, from which the torrent sprang out greenish-white and curved into space.

One look confirmed what he already knew: he could never get back up the way he had come down. As he sat on a boulder, his eye was caught by a tiny glimmer of brightness under the dark water, far off toward the middle of the lake. He stared at it under his hand, and in a moment was almost sure that it was his lost sword: but it might as well have been at a thousand leagues' distance for all the good it was to him.

Weariness took him as he sat, and he began to think how good it would be to lie and rest, near the fire for comfort, though indeed, except for his wet shoes and breeks, he was comfortable enough. The air in this cavern was cool and fresh; there was no wind... Here he began confusedly to imagine that the cavern had the ceaseless wind of Hovenskar blowing through it, and that the gray-maned horses were lifting their heads beyond Goryat's stone-roofed house, which somehow was all mingled with the wall of the cavern, and the smoke as it rose from the smokehole leaning crooked in the air... He came to himself with a start, to realize that he had all but dropped the smoldering torch. The torch was half out, a black stub crawling with fire-worms, and the thin, acrid smoke drifted aslant. Thorinn's head rose to follow it. Since the air was fresh, there must be some way for it to come and go. The two holes that he knew of were both filled by the moving water.

Stung to wakefulness, he rose and began to climb, following the motion of the air and the dim path of the smoke from his torch. In a few minutes, questing along the top of the heap of boulders, he found a crevice in the wall into which a faint current of air was moving. But the crevice was no bigger than his fist. At the lower end of the cavern, where great slabs of the ceiling had fallen and lay heaped all anyhow, the thin smoke of his torch eddied and drifted. Stooping to peer between two slabs, Thorinn felt cool air breathing on him. He held the torch nearer, singeing his hair in his excitement. Behind the rock slabs, an irregular passage ran away into the earth; it was two ells high at the opening, and seemed to grow larger as it went. Thorinn put one arm in, tried to follow it with his head, but could not.

He drew back and examined the boulders. The smaller of the two was half buried by a clutter of other stones; the larger lay almost free on the slope, supported at its lower end by another slab. Thorinn got his fingers around the edge of the large stone, braced himself and pulled, without effect. He tried again, nearer the top, but it was no use; the stone weighed as much as a horse. He rested, feeling weak from hunger and exertion. If he only had a lever, a pole, anything, to pry the larger slab up and out, away from its support at the bottom!

A picture came into his head, but he pushed it aside. Never mind: where there was one such passage there must be others. He blackened the stone with the stub of his old torch to mark it, and went on. He leaped the gap at the lake's outlet, circled back to his starting point. His fire was gray ash and embers. He built it up again, then began to climb the terraces that sloped away behind. The rock wall here was full of promising oval hollows, but every one turned out to be no more than a niche in the rock. He made the whole circuit of the cavern once more before he was sure: there was no other exit from the cavern.

Into his mind came the image of the sword, dim yellow under the water. If he could only get it back, that would be his lever. But it was impossible.

He prowled aimlessly around the heap of boulders awhile, then went down to the water's edge and stared out over the black surface.

Even to find the sword in the water was out of the question. If he could fly in the air, then the thing would be easier. He saw the lake as if spread out below him, with the sword gleaming in its depths; and on the shore he put two white stones for markers, pointing the direction. Well, there were no white stones, and even if there were, they could not be seen in the dim light of his torch. Then he saw how it could be done. After a moment he turned and walked toward the cataract, gathering dead fungus as he went. When the white mountains of spray showed in the light of his torch, he turned aside and began to climb.

At the place where the sword gleamed up at him from the bottom of the lake, he made a fire on the flat top of a boulder. He climbed up the slope a few ells, and made another fire; then he climbed again to verify that the two fires, one behind another, pointed toward the sword. He climbed down the slope and stood looking at the lake. The water was as shallow here as on the other side, but it shelved away rapidly until within a few ells the light of his torch could no longer reach the bottom.

Thorinn took off his shoes and breeks, then his belt and wallet, and laid them on a stone. The air was cool on his bare skin. He hopped into the water, wincing. The stone was slippery. Crouching to support himself with one hand, he moved forward another step and was ankle-deep; another, calf-deep; another, cautiously, and his leg went in to the knee.

He staggered back, trying to turn; his bad foot went out from under him and the cold water choked off his yell.

Smothered, gasping, he floundered up to shore again. He had tried to hold the torch above water as he fell, but the splash had put it out. He was wet all over, as wet as he had been before. Some while later, hugging his misery, he sat staring out over the dark water. The sword lay on the bottom, not more than fifteen ells from where he sat. But the lake was too deep for wading; he could not swim; there was no boat, or anything to build one. If only the lake were solid rock... Thorinn sat up. In his mind he saw a level road of stones under the water, straight to where the sword lay. His heart bounded; he turned, scanning the slope in the dim firelight for stones of a proper size. There were plenty of them, slabs level on top and bottom, about half an ell in thickness. The first three went easily enough; he laid them in a straight line out into the water. The fourth was harder to carry; the fifth, though it was no bigger than the others, he could not even lift higher than his shanks. He staggered out with it nevertheless, dropped it in place, lurched back to shore. He rested, built up his two fires above on the slope, and went back to work. As the causeway lengthened, instead of one stone he must put down two, one atop the other, to bring the topmost to the surface. His first stones he had laid a hand-span apart, but since he had begun to pile them one on another, each column must lean against the one before it, lest it fall. Even so, more than once the second stone slid off the first.

Then the bottom grew deeper still, and three stones in each column were needed. Three times he tried to build a column of three stones, and three times it collapsed. Thorinn splashed back to the shore cursing, and flung himself down on the cold stone trembling with weariness. But he got up again, and laid two stones side by side for a foundation, then one above, and a fourth stone on that. In this way he built another column, and another.

Time passed. The fires burnt low and he built them up again. Looking down from the height, he could see his stone path straggling out into the water, less than halfway toward its goal. He lay down again to rest, dropped into exhausted sleep, and woke from dreams of eyeless goblins to find himself cold and in the dark. His fires had gone out. He collected fungus to build them again, drank a little water from the lake, eased himself behind a boulder.

The columns now must be four stones tall: two stones, then two more above, then one, then one more. When he had built one such column of six stones, his arms were like lead, his breath burning his chest. It was impossible to go on. He lay cursing himself feebly, then got up and began another column. Now time had stopped, and there was only the pain of his labor. He counted the columns and there were nineteen. The twentieth must be five stones high: he built it in courses of three stones, then two, then two, then one, and one. So with the next, and the next. Each time he climbed the slope for more stones, he could look down at the causeway and judge whether it was holding to the right direction or not. He slept and ate again.

The twenty-sixth column was six courses tall—four stones, then three, three, two, two, and one: fifteen stones, to advance his causeway the width of one stone. After another dazed interval, he counted the columns again, and there were twenty-nine.

Thorinn pulled his torch out of a crevice, waded back out across the tops of the columns. He held the torch trembling over his head, peered down. There it was, deep down, straight ahead, glimmering golden under the water.

He went back, wedged the torch into its crevice again, climbed the slope for more stones. He built his last column carefully—four stones, then four more, then three, three, three, two and two. The final course came above the surface of the water. He went back for a torch, wedged it in between the two topmost stones.

The sword gleamed up at him out of darkness, looking near enough to touch. He could see the wooden handle carved for a close grip, the dull place where the tang went into the hand-guard, the bright double edge. It lay on the smooth rock bottom among a few pebbles, waiting.

Thorinn tied one end of his thong around one of the topmost stones, the other around his waist. His hands were like wood. He climbed gingerly down and around the last column, groping for footholds. The cold water stung his wounds. The water surged, lifted at his body, trying to upend and drown him. He clung to the end of the causeway, pressed his cheek hard against the stone. What remained was such a little thing—to climb down another ell or so, take the sword, climb up again into the air. Thorinn filled his lungs, squeezed his eyes shut, lowered himself into the water. Water was in his eyes, his ears, blinding and deafening; the water lifted him, swung him helplessly while he struggled for his life. His hands found the thong; he pulled, came up choking and gasping.

The trouble was, perhaps, that he had tried to climb down the wall of stones as if it were in air; but the unfamiliar lift of the water had tricked him, thrown him off balance. Caution, then, was his enemy. He must plunge boldly into the water, let himself sink to the bottom, take the sword, and pull himself back to safety.

It was harder to do it than to think of it. Twice he tried to throw himself off, twice his muscles refused him. At last he climbed down until the water was up to his chest, then closed his eyes as before and lunged forward.

At once he found himself choked, floundering, turning. He could neither sink nor rise. He pulled himself out again, coughing, spewing up water.

He sat on his causeway and looked back at the length of it, dimly shining under water in the torchlight. What bitterness to be defeated after such labors! But without the art of swimming, he could not move under water; the treacherous stuff would not even let him sink.

A thought came to him, and he stood up wearily, looking down at the stones of the causeway. He bent, seized one of them half under water and hoisted it out, groaning with effort. The wet stone weighed nearly as much as he did, and in his weakness he could barely hold it. Surely, if he threw himself into the water again, carrying such a stone in his arms, he must sink.

He gave himself no time to consider. As he climbed awkwardly around the last column, he slipped, felt himself falling. The water plunged past him. The stone was dragging him down; water was in his eyes, nose, ears... He felt a blow against his knuckles, knew he was on the bottom. His grip loosened and his body floated backward, but he seized the stone again. His lungs were bursting. He forced his eyes open, saw a stinging blur, a gleam... Holding the stone with one hand, he reached out desperately, felt his fingers close around wood and metal.

Somehow he found the thong with his other hand, pulled, rose. He burst into air—he was alive. The sword, the sword—His heavy arm came up, and in his hand, streaming water, was the bright metal.

Levered upward, the slab trembled, moved a finger's breadth, then began to slide. Thorinn pulled the sword out of the way, leaped back. Turning majestically, the slab rumbled down the slope in a dancing cloud of smaller stones. It struck a boulder halfway down, tilted, came to rest. Stones pattered, fell silent. A haze of dust particles hung in the air.

Thorinn examined his sword anxiously, but the hard Yen-metal had taken no hurt. The point was as sharp and straight as ever; the double edge was not even nicked.

Cool air breathed past him into the exposed passageway. In the light of the torch, it was curved, lusterless, smooth-walled, unequal in its cross section—tapering almost to a point at ceiling and floor. It sloped gently upward out of sight.

Thorinn turned for one last look out into the darkness of the cavern. He had slept, rested, eaten all he could hold of the young fungus he had gathered. The rest—there was little enough—was in his wallet.

He discarded the torch, which was too smoky to be used in a small space; for convenience, he strapped the light-box to his arm as he had done before. He entered the passage and gingerly began to work his way down it in the yellow glow. For the first twenty ells or so it was not bad; then the passage narrowed so sharply that he had to crawl, dragging his wallet behind. The passage turned and twisted like a serpent, this way and that, now left, now right. With each upward turn Thorinn waited for the voice to speak in his head, but it did not, and his spirits rose; but at last the passage took a definite downward slope and widened again.

Thorinn crawled out into a black echoing space—another cavern, much smaller than the last. The opposite wall gleamed in the light, streaked and knobbed with some glassy substance that seemed to have melted like tallow and hardened again on the stone. But when he touched it, it was the stone itself. A trickle of water came from somewhere above and dripped from the bottommost knob with a melancholy sound. Thorinn cupped his palm under it and drank a sip, but it was bitter. At the far end of the cavern he found two level passageways, one opposite the other, as if they were parts of a single tunnel that happened to intersect the cavern. Thorinn took the left-hand branch. Almost at once the passage widened, the ceiling rose and became a dome three ells high. In the middle of the passage lay something enormous, circular and dark.

Thorinn stared at it suspiciously. It made no move; neither did it have any eyes or limbs, so far as he could see. It had the chill hardness of iron; it was wrought metal, the largest piece he had ever seen—like a giant's shield, ten spans across, having a circular hole pierced in it of three spans'

width. This hole was not in the center of the shield but to one side; through it he could see the brown, scuffed floor of the passage.

He knelt and laid his palm curiously on the metal near the rim of the hole: and the massive shield turned under his hand as if it were afloat.

Thorinn sprang back, hand to his sword. But the shield was slowly rotating upon some hidden pivot, returning to its former place. When the hole was where it had been before, it stopped. A second time Thorinn bent forward, put his hand on the shield and felt it turn. When he took his hand away, it swung slowly back to rest. What could be the use of such a thing, here under the earth, unless it was some springe or man-trap?

As he hesitated, a sound came to his ears—the faintest of whispering or rustling noises; it seemed to come from beneath the shield. The sound died away, then returned: a sound like that of some small creature crawling, scraping along in the space under the shield... no, not like that, but like some sound that he knew. Then he had it: wind in the grasses.

The thing was impossible, yet the more he listened, the more certain he became. Using the tip of his scabbard, he prodded the shield. Under the circular hole, brown rock moved past, then a sudden glint of brightness. The wind sound grew louder; a warm breath of air arose. The bright lozenge expanded to a cramped circle, then filled the hole in the shield.

Thorinn's breath had stopped. He was looking down into depths of silver light and brown-green shadow. There were stripes of darker brown, diminishing in a curiously painful way; at last he realized that they were tree-trunks, gnarled and huge, that dropped darkening through space until they were tiny as needles' ends at the bottom.

He could not doubt his senses. Somehow he had got above the Midworld, for there it lay below him. Go down, said the voice in his mind.